Erik Dorn

between them, of lover-like attentiveness during which Dorn remained unconscious of her existence. Her unending talk of her love for him-words and murmurs that seemed an inex

t enough. The emptiness in which he was living became suddenly real. He would feel a despair. Words unlike the sophisticated patter of his usual thought would come to him.... "What is there ... I would like something ... what?..." A sense of life as an unpeopled vastness would frighten him vaguely. Night sounds ... strange, shadow-hidden walls. They made him uneasy. Mem

changing-as if he had been gently vanishing from himself and even now was moving slowly away. He was like a house from which issued a dim procession of guests never pausing for farewells. He had been a boy, a youth, a man ... each containing days and thoughts. And they moved slowly away from him-completed figures fully dressed. Slowly, without farewells, with faces intensely familiar yet no lon

t of lilies and candles from a sad, quiet altar; her words that forever flowed like a dream from her heart, the warmth of her body that she offered him as if it no longer existed for herself-to th

her back her endearments and caresses. Of this he never tired. His kisses unaware of her, his tendernesses without meaning to him, he yet felt in her presence the shadow of a desire. The love that filled his wife seemed to animate

under a stranger's dress. He had noticed that she had coils of red hair with bronze and gold lights slipping over it, that her face tilted itself with a hint of determination and her eyes walked proudly over the heads of the crowd. He watched other men glimpse her and turn for an instant to follow with their stares the promise of her body and light

out of her nightgown ... or a picture of her pressing his head against her breasts and whispering passionately, "Erik, I adore you." The strangeness then would leave her and again she

startled him. This was such a time now. Rachel had come to visit them. She sat silent, fugitive

an intent, almost preoccupied smile in her eyes. While he talked, asking her questions and pressing for answers, he thought. "She's not paying any attention to my words, but to me. Her love is like a robe about her, covering her completely." Yet she seemed strange. Behind this love lived a person capable of thinking and reasoning. Dorn,

forward upon his phrases. A red-faced man whose vacuity startled from behind a pair of owlish glasses exclaimed, "That

man posed carelessly on the black piano bench in an effort to

you, Mr. Harlan. Women a

th a far-away sacrificial light in her eyes. The red-faced one obse

ss their path. "We must always bear in mind that women are capable of sacrifice; that women ..." The lavender stocking was withdrawing itself and

ere was another side to it. Not that he gave a damn. Some other time would do. The red face turned with a great attentiven

Warren was remarking, "fo

th the blue sash of a girl in a white dress-he had recently concluded a tense examination of the two antique rings on her fingers-saw an occasion for laughter and embrace

," she whispered. "I think the

rik had resumed his tal

udest and waving the most flags. War is something that kills men; therefore, it is piquantly desirable to their subconscious hate of our sex." He smi

king was indignantly in

woman had shifted her hips i

e. I quite agree with you, Miss Dillingham." Miss Dillingham was the lavender st

y translated into a warning and a threat of future conversation on the th

in life. It's very sad, isn't it, Miss Williams?" Miss Williams removed her sash gently from the hands of the elderly youth and pout

rly youth nodded his head enthusiastically

ind themselves able to share what is known as the larger horizon of the male. One way is through sacrifice. They sacrifice their sons, lovers, husbands, uncles, and fathers with a high, firm spir

d to him, "What does it matter what you say? I love you."

onfusing. The fact of her weeps at departures, shell shocks, amputations; grows timid an

, removing his eyes from Miss Williams with the

very well to talk about such things flippant

nd laughed. "As a matter of fact, if anybody else but Dorn said i

answere

re he was talking to her so as to avoid talking to Rachel? Perhaps. But Rachel's presence was diluted by the company. He c

reduces us to a biological sanity-much the sam

on by appearing in the doorway and moving quietly toward an unoccupied chair. Anna reached her hand to the old man's and held it kindly

clever to be re

nd with the grimace of indignant virtue bristling on his face, he turned the expression t

ns of morality that keep cluttering up the thought of the race. War reminds us that civilization and murder are com

n, now struggled vainly against the pree

and Mrs. Harlan endeavored to put an end to the isolated merriment of her husband with a "John, you're impossible!" The elderly youth, conscious of himself as the escort of a young virgin, lowered his eyes modestly to

eady in the press. We who stay at home endeavor to excuse the crime of war by attaching ludicrous ideals and purposes to its result. Thus every war is to its non-combatant

said the red face, emerging tri

loss of life, war is always a joke," Dorn answered. He wondered whether Rachel was considering

her escort to protect her somehow from the indecencies of life. The

gical," he retor

e elderly youth had subsided, and fulfilling his functions as host-a business of diverting visitors

like a savage, and assisting blindly in the depopulation of an enemy. But unless a man is fo

ink, Erik," she ans

n seemingly beyond the sound of his words. He caught the two women turn and smile to each other with an understanding that left him a stranger to both.

erious and inviolable truths, Dorn found himself listening excitedly. An unusual energy pumped notions into his thought. But it was impossible to give vent to ideas before t

ant but I can say them to no one else. She knows I avoid looking at her. There must be somethi

ion of astounding ideas-art, life, war, streets, people-he knew what they were all about. An illumination like a verbal ecstacy spread itself through him. Under it he continue

lounged in chairs. They were unreal-too unreal even to talk to. Beyond these figures in the room and the noises they made, lay something that was not unreal. It pulled

d Anna

u thinking a

e of a white bird's wing soaring. He felt himself unable to speak, as if a hand had been laid threateningly on his throat. Rachel was indiscreet to stand that way, to look that way. There was no mistaking. His thought, shaking itself free of words ... "In love with me. In love with me!

ered, searching guiltily for

adows flashed at him out of her smile. She understood something not clear in his own head; nor in hers. He

el was smiling at him with a meaning that he seemed to have forgotten. He stared back, pleasantly aware that a familiar sneer had returned to his eyes. In a corner his father sat watching A

sely in a sleepy dream. The lavender stocking crept tenderly into evidence. The owlish glasses focused with noncommittal stoicism in its direction. The blue sash looked worried and the raised eyebrows of the elderly

The night shining through the window, the curve of Rachel's neck. Rachel ... Rachel ... He grew suddenly sic

lipped quickly to her feet, her arms thrust back as if she were poised for running. She passed abrupt

nd self-sufficient, chattering formalities. He watched Rachel adjusting her hat with over-eager gestures. Her eyes were avoiding him. She

to play his little part as host. But Rachel was gone. The door had closed behind her and he stared at the panels, feeling that the house had emptied itself. Things were normal again. Anna was speaking to her guests, smoothly

lling. He became solicitous and followed her to the door, walking

s empty of Rachel