Chapter 8
But he stumbled towards her, knelt down by the couch, burying his head in her lap, clasping his arms round her waist.
“And I _love_ you—I love you; the humiliation of it—I adore you. Don’t—don’t—just a minute let me stay here—just a moment in a whole life—Elsa! Elsa!”
She leant back and pressed her head into the pillows.
Then his muffled voice: “I feel like a savage. I want your whole body. I want to carry you away to a cave and love you until I kill you—you can’t understand how a man feels. I kill myself when I see you—I’m sick of my own strength that turns in upon itself, and dies, and rises new born like a Phœnix out of the ashes of that horrible death. Love me just this once, tell me a lie, _say_ that you do—you are always lying.”
Instead, she pushed him away—frightened.
“Get up,” she said; “suppose the servant came in with the tea?”
“Oh, ye gods!” He stumbled to his feet and stood staring down at her.
“You’re rotten to the core and so am I. But you’re heathenishly beautiful.”
The woman went over to the piano—stood there—striking one note—her brows drawn together. Then she shrugged her shoulders and smiled.
“I’ll make a confession. Every word you have said is true. I can’t help it. I can’t help seeking admiration any more than a cat can help going to people to be stroked. It’s my nature. I’m born out of my time. And yet, you know, I’m not a _common_ woman. I like men to adore me—to flatter me—even to make love to me—but I would never give myself to any man. I would never let a man kiss me... even.”
“It’s immeasurably worse—you’ve no legitimate excuse. Why, even a prostitute has a greater sense of generosity!”
“I know,” she said, “I know perfectly well—but I can’t help the way I’m built.... Are you going?”
He put on his gloves.
“Well,” he said, “what’s going to happen to us now?”
Again she shrugged her shoulders.
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I never have—just let things occur.”
“All alone?” cried Victor. “Has Max been here?”
“He only stayed a moment, and wouldn’t even have tea. I sent him home to change his clothes.... He was frightfully boring.”
“You poor darling, your hair’s coming down. I’ll fix it, stand still a moment... so you were bored?”
“Um-m—frightfully.... Oh, you’ve run a hairpin right into your wife’s head—you naughty boy!”
She flung her arms round his neck and looked up at him, half laughing, like a beautiful, loving child.
“God! What a woman you are,” said the man. “You make me so infernally proud—dearest, that I... I tell you!”