'Which
woman is it to be?'
'You can find her,' I said. 'There are many women.'
Again he shook his head in the stony, final fashion.
'Not for me. I have known too much.'
'But does that prevent you from marrying?'
He looked at me steadily, finally. And I could see it was impossible for
us to understand each other, or for me to understand him. I could not
understand the strange white gleam of his eyes, where it came from.
Also I knew he liked me very much, almost loved me, which again was
strange and puzzling. It was as if he were a fairy, a faun, and had no
soul. But he gave me a feeling of vivid sadness, a sadness that gleamed
like phosphorescence. He himself was not sad. There was a completeness
about him, about the pallid otherworld he inhabited, which excluded
sadness. It was too complete, too final, too defined. There was no
yearning, no vague merging off into mistiness.... He was clear and fine
as semi-transparent rock, as a substance in moonlight. He seemed like a
crystal that has achieved its final shape and has nothing more
to achieve.
That night he slept on the floor of the sitting-room.
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