The Rainbow

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.