The máscaras are arriving in luxurious carriages drawn by fine horses, and they fill the garden. There are young and gay Pierrots and Columbines and mischievous Harlequins and old serious Polichinelas and sullen Dominoes. Most of the famous characters in history are also assembled there, and even heaven and hell are represented by angels of indefinite sex and fearful red devils. The whole world has come to rejoice and wish Rojelia a happy birthday.
Fernando and Trini are dressed as two members of the Borgia family. Jorge appears as a clown and Lolita displays her substantial limbs in the tights of a page’s costume.
There is a little theater at the other side of the garden where a pantomime will be presented, and it is also gaily illuminated. Everybody talks and laughs and all eyes glitter and scintillate behind black masks. The pale bluish light from the moon and the warm light from the lanterns make a fascinating contrast and create fantastic effects. What a night!
Cheer loud! Cheer long! It is Rojelia’s birthday and she is the most beautiful maiden in Spain.
Rojelia comes out of the house to greet her friends and all are taken aback by her splendid beauty. She wears a white pompadour costume and carries a tremendous white fan, but she wears not the wig and her red hair flames like a bonfire in the night.
How many men would gladly jump into the crater of burning passions that woman must conceal! But perhaps this is only the glamour of the night when one dreams infernal fantasies which fade with dawn.
A clown tinkling with bells approaches Rojelia, makes a deep bow and, saying a funny rhyme, stumbles purposely and everybody laughs. Then a melancholy Pierrot kneels before her and sings her praise, fingering a lute, and an old Polichinela kisses her hand and pays her a compliment showing that his heart has not cooled with the years or else has revived in the proximity of her glowing womanhood. A jumping devil then tells her that a look from her eyes has redeemed him, and a colorless angel exclaims in heavenly transport that if fire in hell is like her hair, he will gladly seek eternal condemnation.
The whole world is at her feet in admiration. There are Nero and Julius Caesar, the Great Captain, Columbus and Napoleon, to say nothing of half a dozen other kings and emperors, all wanting to be nearest her.
But no one commands more than her polite attention. All these great figures with their historical background, glory, titles and power cannot move her. They are only máscaras, colorful, empty rags that live while the wind blows on them, that shine only for a night.
Who will attain this magnificent woman? Who will pass over her unyielding feelings, breaking them loose like a squall? Only one being can arouse her and cause her deep emotions to fall at his feet like the petals of a flower, one by one. Only one man of flesh and bone, only her lover. Only for one are all her thoughts, only for one is all her beauty, only for one she lives tonight, only for one. For that free poet who belongs to no time, for that eternal poet who knows no law, who with a burning hand has reached and crushed her heart, who has caressed her soul with melodious words, luminous and perfumed words like flowers at dusk.
Cheer loud! Cheer long! It is Rojelia’s birthday and she is the most beautiful maiden in Spain.
She is twice as beautiful tonight, because it is her birthday and she is happy to live. She is happy to live because she is in love and that makes her three times as beautiful. Her poet is coming in disguise, under cover of the night, and she alone knows it. He is coming to tell her how he blesses the day that she was born.
Everyone is growing happier and noisier. The abundant libations have kindled a flame in every heart. They all sing and dance madly. The men have grown bolder and their faces glow like the faces of satyrs. The maidens are no longer afraid and are generous with their favors, and the garden blazes in the pagan night
Cheer long! Cheer loud! It is Rojelia’s birthday and she is the most beautiful maiden in Spain.
Lolita appeared on the stage. She had exchanged her page’s costume for a bright shawl which she draped about her semi-naked figure and had taken a pair of castanets. The small orchestra played seguidillas for her and Lolita began to dance.
She undulated slowly, rhythmically, and moved from one side of the stage to the other like a wave. Her castanets rattled evenly and smoothly, fading like a distant echo and then increasing like the approaching drums of a conquering army.
The shawl opened up about her like the cloak of a torero, exposing her exorbitant limbs, or closed about her displaying curves that caused one’s heart to sink. Her black hair brushed her face in which the red full lips glowed with maddening lust. The men looked at her and their nostrils dilated and their eyes grew dull.
Jorge was standing in a dark corner of the garden and a girl dressed as an infanta clung to his arm, but he did not notice her. He was looking at Lolita with a strange expression in his eyes and his breath was coming fast.
The infanta said: “You should not look at your sister that way.”
“I like the way she dances.”
Oh dusky and voluptuous Lolita! How far will you go? Poisoning feelings and trampling instincts, awakening things which if latent had better be left undisclosed. But you arouse the most dangerous emotions. You lure them to the surface and they emerge gaping, appealing, like hungry sharks in the sea. Do you not fear, Lolita? Do you not think it is wiser to stop?
But Lolita went on in the mad swirl of her dance. She knew what she was arousing and enjoyed it with infernal delight, with thirsty curiosity. Oh tempting, perverse Lolita! She danced like a witch in a Saturday’s dream. Jorge looked as if held in a spell; he looked and he sank in her abyss; he looked and was burnt in her hell.
But perhaps these are but deceiving fantasies of the moment. What a night!
Cheer long! Cheer loud! It is Rojelia’s birthday and she is the most beautiful maiden in Spain.
They are playing the pantomime in the little theater, but no one pays much attention to it and least of all Rojelia. She is thinking of her poet, who at this moment is probably jumping the back fence and with his face hidden by a mask will mix with the others unnoticed and tease her by letting her guess which one he is. Rojelia is so distracted scrutinizing every máscara that they have to fetch her when her number is called.
Rojelia was on the stage. She was singing a beautiful song and playing the harp and now they all realized how beautiful her voice was. On that stage she looked like something that does not belong in this world. The men looked at her and their brows grew smooth and they became peaceful. The women looked at her speculatively and pressed their men’s arms. And she sang wonderfully because she was singing for him.
Suddenly a potent voice answered her song, a deep, rich voice. They all beheld the svelte and somber figure of Mephistopheles with a black mask, coming from nowhere as if he had emerged from the ground.
Who was this unexpected visitor from the infernal regions? Who was this intruder who had cast a spell of surprise upon the audience with something that was not in the program?
Like a dark cloud, the stranger had invaded the small stage where Rojelia sat, almost covering it with his great black cloak. He continued to sing beautiful verses with a powerful voice and Rojelia, entranced, accompanied him on the harp.
Kneeling before her with his weird horns, he was the devil himself tempting an angel.
Rojelia was pale and trembling. She had recognized in that sinister figure her lover, her poet, the undaunted conqueror of all conventions who broke all laws and came to her ruled by love only, who came like a hurricane of fresh and youthful romance, to enthrall her and to mock the stupefied audience, to frighten that historical and fantastic array of masqueraders without reality.