as his vision of life without her, was too much
for him. He clung to her fiercely and abjectly.

And she beat him off, she beat him off. Where could he turn,
like a swimmer in a dark sea, beaten off from his hold, whither
could he turn? He wanted to leave her, he wanted to be able to
leave her. For his soul's sake, for his manhood's sake, he must
be able to leave her.

But for what? She was the ark, and the rest of the world was
flood. The only tangible, secure thing was the woman. He could
leave her only for another woman. And where was the other woman,
and who was the other woman? Besides, he would be just in the
same state. Another woman would be woman, the case would be the
same.

Why was she the all, the everything, why must he live only
through her, why must he sink if he were detached from her? Why
must he cleave to her in a frenzy as for his very life?

The only other way to leave her was to die. The only straight
way to leave her was to die. His dark, raging soul knew that.
But he had no desire for death.

Why could he not leave her? Why could he not throw himself
into the hidden water to live or die, as might be? He could not,
he could not. But supposing he went away, right away, and found
work, and had a lodging again. He could be again as he had been
before.

But he knew he could not. A woman, he must have a woman. And
having a woman, he must be free of her. It would be the same
position. For he could not be free of her.

For how can a man stand, unless he have something sure under
his feet. Can a man tread the unstable water all his life, and
call that standing? Better give in and drown at once.

And upon what could he stand, save upon a woman? Was he then
like the old man of the seas, impotent to move save upon the
back of another life? Was he impotent, or a cripple, or a
defective, or a fragment?

It was black, mad, shameful torture, the frenzy of fear, the
frenzy of desire, and the horrible, grasping back-wash of
shame.

What was he afraid of? Why did life, without Anna, seem to
him just a horrible welter, everything jostling in a
meaningless, dark, fathomless flood? Why, if Anna left him even
for a week, did he seem to be clinging like a madman to the edge
of reality, and slipping surely, surely into the flood of
unreality that would drown him. This horrible slipping into
unreality drove him mad, his soul screamed with fear and
agony.

Yet she was pushing him off from her, pushing him