Gradually she began to come to herself. Gradually a sort of
daytime consciousness came back to her. Suddenly the night was
struck back into its old, accustomed, mild reality. Gradually
she realized that the night was common and ordinary, that the
great, blistering, transcendent night did not really exist. She
was overcome with slow horror. Where was she? What was this
nothingness she felt? The nothingness was Skrebensky. Was he
really there?--who was he? He was silent, he was not there.
What had happened? Had she been mad: what horrible thing had
possessed her? She was filled with overpowering fear of herself,
overpowering desire that it should not be, that other burning,
corrosive self. She was seized with a frenzied desire that what
had been should never be remembered, never be thought of, never
be for one moment allowed possible. She denied it with all her
might. With all her might she turned away from it. She was good,
she was loving. Her heart was warm, her blood was dark and warm
and soft. She laid her hand caressively on Anton's shoulder.
"Isn't it lovely?" she said, softly, coaxingly, caressingly.
And she began to caress him to life again. For he was dead. And
she intended that he should never know, never become aware of
what had been. She would bring him back from the dead without
leaving him one trace of fact to remember his annihilation
by.
She exerted all her ordinary, warm self, she touched him, she
did him homage of loving awareness. And gradually he came back
to her, another man. She was soft and winning and caressing. She
was his servant, his adoring slave. And she restored the whole
shell of him. She restored the whole form and figure of him. But
the core was gone. His pride was bolstered up, his blood ran
once more in pride. But there was no core to him: as a distinct
male he had no core. His triumphant, flaming, overweening heart
of the intrinsic male would never beat again. He would be
subject now, reciprocal, never the indomitable thing with a core
of overweening, unabateable fire. She had abated that fire, she
had broken him.
But she caressed him. She would not have him remember what
had been. She would not remember herself.
"Kiss me, Anton, kiss me," she pleaded.
He kissed her, but she knew he could not touch her. His arms
were round her, but they had not got her. She could feel his
mouth upon her, but she was not at all compelled by it.
"Kiss me," she whispered, in acute distress, "kiss me."
And he kissed her as she bade him, but his heart was hollow.
She took his kisses, outwardly. But her soul was empty and
finished.
Looking away, she saw the delicate glint of oats dangling
from the side of the stack, in the moonlight, something proud
and royal, and quite impersonal. She had been proud with them,
where they were, she had been also. But in this temporary warm
world of the commonplace, she was a kind, good girl. She reached
out yearningly for goodness and affection. She wanted to be kind
and good.