“We must go on, now, Mildred. We dare not stop. You and I together
with truth at our command, to create Beauty. To make Beauty live....
Mildred, will you save me?”
Still she did not speak. She watched me from her place below me as I
stood. But she watched my eyes. And her eyes were limpid again, and
warm; their glaze had melted.
“I have learned that Truth is cold. It is a cold that burns: terribly
and relentless. Truth cares not for man, and man in love with it is
like a moth who would possess the sun. Oh, have I learned too late! Man
cannot live with Truth. And yet he loves it. So by a miracle, he turns
it into Beauty. And he dwells with Beauty. Save me! Save me!”
Her face broke, and her hands covered it. She wept.
“My love, my love,” I said, “do you not understand? I want to be a man.
And I have glimpsed the terrible face of truth. That is the curse of my
will. Love, I want to be a man again ... to live ... to live in your
love ... to live in Beauty. Save me!”
She wept silently. Little waves of anguish welled with her breast, rose
to her neck and her arms.
She wept long. I knelt beside her. She knew me there. I did not touch
her, but she knew me there. Would her weeping cease, and would her
hands come to mine?
She lifted her head. She did not look at me. She rose. I, kneeling,
waited. Then, her eyes came down.