"I don't want to send you away. I want to sleep
with you. But I can't sleep, you don't let me sleep."
His blood turned black in his veins.
"What do you mean by such a thing? It's an arrant lie. I
don't let you sleep----"
"But you don't. I sleep so well when I'm alone. And I can't
sleep when you're there. You do something to me, you put a
pressure on my head. And I must sleep, now the child is
coming."
"It's something in yourself," he replied, "something wrong in
you."
Horrible in the extreme were these nocturnal combats, when
all the world was asleep, and they two were alone, alone in the
world, and repelling each other. It was hardly to be borne.
He went and lay down alone. And at length, after a grey and
livid and ghastly period, he relaxed, something gave way in him.
He let go, he did not care what became of him. Strange and dim
he became to himself, to her, to everybody. A vagueness had come
over everything, like a drowning. And it was an infinite relief
to drown, a relief, a great, great relief.
He would insist no more, he would force her no more. He would
force himself upon her no more. He would let go, relax, lapse,
and what would be, should be.
Yet he wanted her still, he always, always wanted her. In his
soul, he was desolate as a child, he was so helpless. Like a
child on its mother, he depended on her for his living. He knew
it, and he knew he could hardly help it.
Yet he must be able to be alone. He must be able to lie down
alongside the empty space, and let be. He must be able to leave
himself to the flood, to sink or live as might be. For he
recognized at length his own limitation, and the limitation of
his power. He had to give in.
There was a stillness, a wanness between them. Half at least
of the battle was over. Sometimes she wept as she went about,
her heart was very heavy. But the child was always warm in her
womb.
They were friends again, new, subdued friends. But there was
a wanness between them. They slept together once more, very
quietly, and distinct, not one together as before. And she was
intimate with him as at first. But he was very quiet, and not
intimate. He was glad in his soul, but for the time being he was
not alive.
He could sleep with her, and let her be. He could be alone
now. He had just learned what it was to be able to be alone. It
was right and peaceful. She had given him a new, deeper freedom.
The world might be a welter of uncertainty, but he was himself
now. He had come into his own existence. He was born for a
second time, born at last unto himself, out of the vast body of
humanity. Now at last he had a separate identity, he existed
alone, even if he were not quite alone. Before he had only
existed in so far as he had relations with another being. Now he
had an absolute self--as well as a relative self.