Of the usual human

reaction, that is, there was no slightest trace; she neither chided nor

implored; she did not weep. The exact opposite of what I might have

expected took place before my very eyes.

For she turned and faced me, empty as I was. The soul

in her, realizing the truth, stood erect to meet the misery of lonely

pain that inevitably lay ahead—in some sense as though she welcomed it

already; and, strangest of all, she blossomed, physically as well as

mentally, into a fuller revelation of gracious loveliness than before,

sweeter and more exquisite, indeed, than anything life had yet shown to

me. Moreover, having captured me, she changed; the grossness I had

discerned, that which had led me to my own undoing, vanished completely

as though it were transmuted into desires and emotions of a loftier

kind. Some purpose, some intention, a hope immensely resolute shone out

of her, and of such spiritual loveliness, it seemed to me, that I

watched it in a kind of dumb amazement.

I watched it—unaware at first of my own shame,

emptied of any emotion whatsoever, I think, but that of a startled

worship before the grandeur of her generosity. It seemed she listened

breathlessly for the beating of my heart, and hearing none, resolved

that she would pour her own life into it, regardless of pain, of loss,

of sacrifice, that she might make it live. She undertook her mission,

that is to say, and this mission, in some mysterious way, and according

to some code of conduct undivined by me, yet passionately honoured, was

to give—regardless of herself or of response. I caught myself

sometimes thinking of a child who would instinctively undo some

earlier grievous wrong. She loved me marvellously.

I know not how to describe to you the lavish wealth

of selfless devotion she bathed me in during the brief torturing and

unfulfilled period before the end. It made me aware of new depths and

heights in human nature. It taught me a new beauty that even my finest

dreams had left unmentioned. Into the region that great souls inhabit a

glimpse was given me. My own dreadful weakness was laid bare. And an

eternal hunger woke in me—that I might love.

That hunger remained unsatisfied. I prayed, I

yearned, I suffered; I could have decreed myself a deservedly cruel

death; it seemed I stretched my little nature to unendurable limits in

the fierce hope that the Gift of the Gods might be bestowed upon me,

and that her divine emotion might waken a response within my leaden

soul. But all in vain. My attitude, in spite of every prayer, of every

effort, remained no more than a searching and unavailing pity, but a

pity that held no seed of a mere positive emotion, least of all, of

love. The heart in me lay unredeemed; it knew ashamed and very tender

gratitude; but it did not beat for her. I could not love.

I have told you bluntly, frankly, of my physical

feelings towards Marion and her beauty. It is a confession that I give

into my own safe keeping. I think, perhaps, that you, though cast in a

finer mould, may not despise them utterly, nor too contemptuously

misinterpret them. The legend that twins may share a single soul has

always seemed to me grotesque and unpoetic nonsense, a cruel and

unnecessary notion too: a man is sufficiently imperfect without

suffering this further subtraction from his potentialities. And yet it

is true, in our own case, that you have exclusive monopoly of the

ethereal qualities, while to me are given chiefly the physical

attributes of the vigorous and healthy male—the animal: my six feet

three, my muscular system, my inartistic and pedestrian temperament.

Fairly clean-minded, I hope I may be, but beyond all question I am the

male animal incarnate. It was, indeed, the thousand slaveries of the

senses, individually so negligible, collectively so overwhelming, that

forced me upon my knees before her physical loveliness. I must tell you

now that this potent spell, alternating between fiery desire and the

sincerest of repugnance, continued to operate. I complete the

confession by adding briefly, that after marriage she resented and

repelled all my advances. A deep sadness came upon her; she wept; and I

desisted. It was my soul that she desired with the fire of her mighty

love, and not my body…. And again, since it is to myself and

to you alone I tell it, I would add this vital fact: it was this “new

beauty which my finest dreams have left unmentioned” that made it

somehow possible for me to desist, both against my animal will, yet

willingly.

I have told you that, when dying, she revealed to me

a portion of her “secret.” This portion of a sacred confidence lies so

safe within my everlasting pity that I may share it with you without

the remorse of a betrayal.