hem saw that first time when their hands
had found each other.

"I knew that some day all that emotion would die, and, in spite of our
promises, I wanted time to stand still.

"But time did not stand still, and now we scarcely love each other."

He made a gesture as of denial.

"It is not only you, my dear, who are drifting away," she continued.
"I am, too. At first I thought it was only you. But then I understood
my poor heart and realised that in spite of you, I could do nothing
against time."

She went on slowly, now with her eyes turned away, now looking at him.

"Alas, some day, I may say to you, 'I no longer love you.' Alas, alas,
some day I may say to you, 'I have never loved you!'

"This is the wound--time, which passes and changes us. The separation
of human beings that deceive themselves is nothing in comparison. One
can live even so. But the passage of time! To grow old, to think
differently, to die. I am growing old and I am dying, I. It has taken
me a long time to understand it. I am growing old. I /am/ not old,
but I am growing old. I have a few grey hairs already. The first grey
hair, what a blow!

"Oh, this blotting out of the colour of your hair. It gives you the
feeling of being covered with your shroud, of dry bones, and
tombstones."

She rose and cried out into the void:

"Oh, to escape the network of wrinkles!"

. . . . .

She continued:

"I said to myself, 'By slow degrees you will get there. Your skin will
wither. Your eyes, which smile even in repose, will always be
watering. Your breasts will shrink and hang on your skeleton like loose
rags. Your lower jaw will sag from the tiredness of living. You will
be in a constant shiver of cold, and your appearance will be
cadaverous. Your voice will be cracked, and people who now find it
charming to listen to you will be repelled. The dress that hides you
too much now from men's eyes will not sufficiently hide your monstrous
nudity, and people will turn their eyes away and not even dare to think
of you.'"

She choked and put her hands to her mouth, overcome by the truth, as if
she had too much to say. It was magnificent and terrifying.

He caught her in his arms, in dismay. But she was as in a delirium,
transported by a universal grief. You would have thought that this
funereal truth had just come to her like a sudden piece of bad news.

"I love you, but I love the past even more. I long for it, I long for
it