He took
spirit and matter, and flung them into his crucible, and found
--Nothing. Thenceforward he became DON JUAN.
At the outset of his life, in the prime of youth and the beauty
of youth, he knew the illusions of life for what they were; he
despised the world, and made the utmost of the world. His
felicity could not have been of the bourgeois kind, rejoicing in
periodically recurrent _bouilli_, in the comforts of a warming-pan,
a lamp of a night, and a new pair of slippers once a quarter.
Nay, rather he seized upon existence as a monkey snatches a nut,
and after no long toying with it, proceeds deftly to strip off
the mere husks to reach the savory kernel within.
Poetry and the sublime transports of passion scarcely reached
ankle-depth with him now. He in nowise fell into the error of
strong natures who flatter themselves now and again that little
souls will believe in a great soul, and are willing to barter
their own lofty thoughts of the future for the small change of
our life-annuity ideas. He, even as they, had he chosen, might
well have walked with his feet on the earth and his head in the
skies; but he liked better to sit on earth, to wither the soft,
fresh, fragrant lips of a woman with kisses, for like Death, he
devoured everything without scruple as he passed; he would have
full fruition; he was an Oriental lover, seeking prolonged
pleasures easily obtained.
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