Nem. Very poetical, very poetical—don’t fall off.
Juan. Slowly the crimson globe ascended. I opened my eyes wide, and I saw the sun. I saw it from between the interwoven tresses of the Tarifeña—it inundated me with its light, and I stretched forth my hand instinctively to grasp it. Something of a new kind of love, a new desire agitated me. Great brightness, much azure, very broad spheres, vague yet burning aspirations—for something very beautiful. For a minute I understood that there is something higher than the pleasure of the senses: for a minute I felt myself another being. I wafted a kiss to the sun, and pulled aside in anger the girl’s hair. One lock clung about my lips—it touched my palate and gave me nausea. I flung away the tress—I awoke the Tarifeña—and vice dawned through the remains of the orgie, like the sun through the vapours of the night, its mists and its fire-coloured clouds.
Tim. Good for Juanito. We are moved, profoundly moved.
Nem. Unfathomably moved. (Drinks.)
Tim. But with what object have you told us all that I don’t remember.
Juan. To prove to you that there have existed within me noble aspirations.
Tim. Ah! yes, sublime desires.
Nem. Superhuman longings.
Juan. Quite so: and that everything which was deprived of the opportunity of making itself known in me, or which ran to waste through other channels will revive in my Lazarus in the forms of talent, inspiration, genius, wing that flutter, creations that spring forth, applause, glory, immorality. Ah! you’ll see—you’ll see.