t poets alone who dare descend into the abyss of infernal regions, or
even who dream of such a descent. The most inexpressive of human beings
must have said to himself, at one time or another: "Anything but this!"
. . .

We all have our instants of clairvoyance. They are not very helpful.
The character of the scheme does not permit that or anything else to
be helpful. Properly speaking its character, judged by the standards
established by its victims, is infamous. It excuses every violence of
protest and at the same time never fails to crush it, just as it
crushes the blindest assent. The so-called wickedness must be, like the
so-called virtue, its own reward--to be anything at all . . .

Clairvoyance or no clairvoyance, men love their captivity. To the
unknown force of negation they prefer the miserably tumbled bed of their
servitude. Man alone can give one the disgust of pity; yet I find it
easier to believe in the misfortune of mankind than in its wickedness.

These were the last words. Heyst lowered the book to his knees. Lena's
voice spoke above his drooping head:

"You sit there as if you were unhappy."

"I thought you were asleep," he said.

"I was lying down right enough, but I never closed my eyes."

"The rest would have done you good after our walk. Didn't you try?"

"I was lying down, I tell you, but sleep I couldn't."

"And you made no sound! What want of sincerity. Or did you want to be
alone for a time?"

"I--alone?" she murmured.

He noticed her eyeing the book, and got up to put it back in the
bookcase. When he turned round, he saw that she had dropped into the
chair--it was the one she always used--and looked as if her strength had
suddenly gone from her, leaving her only her youth, which seemed very
pathetic, very much at his mercy. He moved quickly towards the chair.

"Tired, are you? It's my fault, taking you up so high and keeping you
out so long. Such a windless day, too!"

She watched his concern, her pose languid, her eyes raised to him,
but as unreadable as ever. He avoided looking into them for that very
reason. He forgot himself in the contemplation of those passive arms, of
these defenceless lips, and--yes, one had to go back to them--of these
wide-open eyes. Something wild in their grey stare made him think of
sea-birds in the cold murkiness of high latitudes. He started when she
spoke, all the charm of physical intimacy revealed suddenly in that
voice.

"You should try to l