I put it rather brutally.
What they can touch, what they can kiss, what they can hold in their arms
is all to them. They are unconscious of the distant, untameable woman,
the lawless woman who may be free in the body that is captive, who may be
unknown in the body that is familiar, who may even be pure in the body
that is defiled as she is immortal though her body is mortal. These men
love the flesh only. But there are at least some men who love the spirit.
They love the flesh, too, because it manifests the spirit, but to them
the spirit is the real thing. They are always stretching out their arms
to that. The hearth can't satisfy them. They demand the fire. The fire,
the fire!" he repeated, as if the word warmed him. "I've so often thought
of this, imagined this. It's as if I'd actually foreseen it."
He spoke with gathering excitement.
"What?" she murmured.
"That some day the woman men--those men I've spoken of--loved would be
struck down, and the real woman, the woman of the true beauty, the
mystic, the spirit woman, would be set free. If this had not happened you
could perhaps never have known who was the man that really loved
you--that loved the real you, the you that lies so far beyond the flesh,
the you that has sung and suffered--"
"Ah, suffered!" she said.
But there was a note of something that was not sorrow in her voice.
"If you want to know the man I mean," Robin said, "lift up your veil,
Viola.
Pages:
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309