breast of unfailing milk; the rocker of the cradle of the newborn world,

and wings are incompatible with the bosom of woman. Virginity is but the

hope of maternity. Still, in Gwynplaine's dreams, Dea, until now, had

been enthroned above flesh. Now, however, he made wild efforts in

thought to draw her downwards by that thread, sex, which ties every girl

to earth. Not one of those birds is free. Dea, like all the rest, was

within this law; and Gwynplaine, though he scarcely acknowledged it,

felt a vague desire that she should submit to it. This desire possessed

him in spite of himself, and with an ever-recurring relapse. He pictured

Dea as woman. He came to the point of regarding her under a hitherto

unheard-of form; as a creature no longer of ecstasy only, but of

voluptuousness; as Dea, with her head resting on the pillow. He was

ashamed of this visionary desecration. It was like an attempt at

profanation. He resisted its assault. He turned from it, but it returned

again. He felt as if he were committing a criminal assault. To him Dea

was encompassed by a cloud. Cleaving that cloud, he shuddered, as though

he were raising her chemise. It was in April. The spine has its dreams.

He rambled at random with the uncertain step caused by solitude. To have

no one by is a provocative to wander. Whither flew his thoughts? He

would not have dared to own it to himself. To heaven? No. To a bed. You

were looking down upon him, O ye stars.

Why talk of a man in love? Rather say a man possessed. To be possessed

by the devil, is the exception; to be possessed by a woman, the rule.

Every man has to bear this alienation of himself. What a sorceress is a

pretty woman! The true name of love is captivity.

549

The Man Who Laughs