For here was Isabel dissolved in my arms and how could I
continue this futile demonstration? But why also desist? The sweat began
to stand out on my forehead. What should I say? Uncle Tom no longer
stood between us. Isabel was my bride. There were no barriers to break
down, no protests to overcome. We were both of an age and of an
experience where formalities lose their significance. The goddess had
descended to me and here was I a witless fool. Finally there flashed
into my mind what she had said to me in Rome: "My friend, for this once
be Orpheus--Orpheus was once Dionysius. Orpheus, tranquil and inspired,
touched the quiet lyre surrounded by the Muses. Orpheus had been
Dionysius drinking wine, beating cymbals. Be Orpheus, my friend, and
take into your being these beauties of the mind which are given
us--these flowers of friendship attend and keep for our garden."
These words ran through my tortured brain. They completed my enervation.
But I could utter none of them to Isabel. What fear that hatred was
budding in the heart of this woman at my side! I pressed her hands every
now and then to see what was moving in her; for as my mind would not
cease to analyze, analysis became keener. Always she returned the
pressure. Her kisses at first given with ardent emotion were now lisped
softly against my cheek.
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