It was his belief too that one must not reject such visions: they were fragments of a whole: an entire vision, shattered into innumerable pieces. Did Marya understand? No? Yes? Well, perhaps she was too young and too innocent at the present time to understand.

After Fein’s discharge from the hospital in Cairo he spent a convalescence in Munich, during which time his vision partly returned. For the remainder of his life, however, he would have to wear tinted glasses; and it was inadvisable for him, even with these glasses, to venture out into bright sunshine. His head would ache ferociously, the terrible vertigo might return. He felt the need—it was spiritual as well as physiological—to retreat from the world periodically, to “descend” once again into the depths of his own consciousness: he would remain in his study for days at a stretch, sleeping on a couch there, reading very little, eating virtually nothing, the room darkened, silent, his thoughts turned inward—absolutely inward. His study was ideally suited for such meditation since it had only one window, facing the river; it was at the rear of the house; of course it had no telephone. At such times Else protected him from all interruptions though he also locked the door against her.

For it was true, Fein said passionately, that Hell is ourselves, nor are we out of it; but most people shrink from acknowledging the fact. They prefer to think that Hell is other, alien. They prefer to think that this twilight of the soul—this inevitable fact of the soul—can be successfully eluded.

Marya, who loved him, believed anything he said—anything he said. But for all her intelligent sympathy she could not make her belief quite credible to him.

No, Fein concluded, with a fatherly sort of patience, she was too young, too innocent, she struck him as supremely American; a creature of health and daylight.

“I’m not young,” Marya protested, “not really.”

Her voice was so soft, so hesitant, Fein had to ask her to repeat what she’d said.

WHY DO YOU drive yourself so hard? Ernest asked.

I want to be perfect, Marya said, showing her teeth in a semblance of a smile. To indicate that of course she was being ironic, self-mocking.

To be, or to seem?

Marya was puzzled, not understanding. To be, or to seem?

To be perfect will get you nowhere, Ernest said, if you don’t also seem perfect. In this part of the world reality counts for very little apart from its appropriate appearances. As Wilde so sharply observed. . . .