A circle of spectres rose from these
drawers and whirled around him, stretching white arms toward him and
fixing upon him tearful or glowing eyes. All these cheeks had flushed
beneath his kisses, all these bosoms had been pressed to his own, all
these tresses his trembling fingers had smoothed, surely he might call
himself happier than most mortals, since so much of love's bliss had
filled all the hours of his existence.
Doubtless he did say this to himself after such revelling in the past,
but in his inmost heart he did not believe it. Don Juan does not peruse
the list of the thousand and three himself. He leaves it to Leporello
while he, without a glance at the older names, increases the succession.
The day when the cavalier begins to study his list, his wisest course
would be to burn it, for then it will no longer be a triumph, but a
humiliation.
Robert von Linden felt this, but he would not admit it. On the contrary,
he intentionally endeavoured to deceive himself. He who had been a Grand
Seigneur of love, became a snob of love. He sank to the level of the
irresistible travelling salesman who tells the tale of his successes in
foreign taverns.
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