persuaded my hands away from my face, and forced me to look on him. 'How
dark and splendid you are, Magda!' he said, still holding my hands. 'How
humid and flashing your eyes! And those eyelashes, and that hair--dark,
dark! And that bosom, with its rise and fall! And that low, rich voice,
that is like dark wine! And that dress--dark, and full of mysterious
shadows, like our souls! Magda, we must have known each other in a
previous life. There can be no other explanation. And this moment is the
fulfilment of that other life, which was not aroused. You were to be
mine. You are mine, Magda!'

There is a fatalism in love. I felt it then. I had been called by destiny
to give happiness, perhaps for a lifetime, but perhaps only for a brief
instant, to this noble and glorious creature, on whom the gods had
showered all gifts. Could I shrink back from my fate? And had he not
already given me far more than I could ever return? The conventions of
society seemed then like sand, foolishly raised to imprison the
resistless tide of ocean. Nature, after all, is eternal and unchangeable,
and everywhere the same. The great and solemn fact for me was that we
were together, and he held me while our burning pulses throbbed in
contact. He held me; he clasped me, and, despite my innocence, I knew at
once that those hands were as expert to caress as to make music. I was
proud and glad that he was not clumsy, that he was a master. And at that
point I ceased to have volition....




IV