Then he guffawed, in spite of himself, though an obscure self whispered to him that he had every reason to weep. Then he wept, although another self, which seemed to nourish a personal hatred toward the previous one, explained to him at length, even though in a single instant, that this was the time to roar with laughter. Next he rolled on the ground, the whole length of the hall. His naked body came into contact with a little, hairy, velvety rectangle on the stone floor. He thought he had gone mad, so astounded was he that the bearskin that served as a rug should seem so minute to him.

It was Ellen’s mask, which had fallen off during her agony.

The Discovery of Woman

THE DISCOVERY OF WOMAN

Her mask had fallen. . .

Ellen was now quite naked.

Except for her mask, he had possessed her entirely for the last two days.

Without her mask, he had seen her frequently before those two days, but time is measured by the number of events that fill and distend it. The minute during which she had awaited him, all pink, her right arm raised, leaning against the doorjamb, must have been back in the beginning of time. . .

. . . in the days when something Superhuman created woman.

“Is it possible?” they used to say, in that past time.

Her mask had fallen, and it appeared absolutely clear to the Supermale that, although he had possessed Ellen entirely naked for the past two days, he had never really seen her, even without her mask.

He would never have seen her, if she had not been dead.

Prodigals usually turn miser at the very moment when they realize that their treasure has been squandered.

The Supermale would never see Ellen again, and her form was about to return, by the muscular contractions that precede decomposition, to what had existed before there was any form. He had never even wondered whether he had loved her, or whether she were beautiful.

The phrase from which their prodigious adventure had been born came back into his mind again, just as it had been when, choosing to be grotesque and vulgar, he had capriciously uttered it:

“The act of love is of no importance, since it can be performed indefinitely.”

Indefinitely. . .

Yet there was an end.

An end to the Woman.

An end to Love.

“The Indian so celebrated by Theophrastus” fully knew that there would come an end to the woman, but he supposed that this pretty, fragile, and futile creature would give up voluptuousness if it were no longer the immediate goal, if it were only the means to a yet deeper and more heroic voluptuousness nearer to the limits of pain. He had put seven women in the gallery, in reserve, not otherwise than Arthur Gough would have brought seven spare automobiles. . . in case of a breakdown.

He laughed again, but wept nervously when he looked at Ellen.

She was very beautiful.