Or mad, just as the captain had said so many times. She turned to the stage, and Tristan was wounded in Kurvenal’s arms, with Isolde at his feet, and King Mark, the incarnation of masculine force and obligation, the masculine creditor of love and beauty, stood over him, and the second climax was ending in wreaths and reek of melodies; and then the curtain was coming down in a series of short rushes, the music had ended, and the people were stirring and breaking out into applause, and the lights of the auditorium were resuming. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. The immense disillusionment that awaited him! The devastating disillusionment! She had a vague desire to run after him, to state her case to him, to wring some understanding from him of what life was to her. Still —there you are!” He paused. She gave her lips to his without resistance. I have been dreaming of your body and you night after night.
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