"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.




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