第61部分(第1/7 頁)

struck　back　into　its　old；　accustomed；　mild　reality。　Gradually

she　realized　that　the　night　was　mon　and　ordinary；　that　the

great；　blistering；　transcendent　night　did　not　really　exist。　She

was　overe　with　slow　horror。　Where　was　she？　What　was　this

nothingness　she　felt？　The　nothingness　was　Skrebensky。　Was　he

really　there？……who　was　he？　He　was　silent；　he　was　not　there。

What　had　happened？　Had　she　been　mad：　what　horrible　thing　had

possessed　her？　She　was　filled　with　overpowering　fear　of　herself；

overpowering　desire　that　it　should　not　be；　that　other　burning；

corrosive　self。　She　was　seized　with　a　frenzied　desire　that　what

had　been　should　never　be　remembered；　never　be　thought　of；　never

be　for　one　moment　allowed　possible。　She　denied　it　with　all　her

might。　With　all　her　might　she　turned　away　from　it。　She　was　good；

she　was　loving。　Her　heart　was　warm；　her　blood　was　dark　and　warm

and　soft。　She　laid　her　hand　caressively　on　Anton's　shoulder。

〃Isn't　it　lovely？〃　she　said；　softly；　coaxingly；　caressingly。

And　she　began　to　caress　him　to　life　again。　For　he　was　dead。　And

she　intended　that　he　should　never　know；　never　bee　aware　of

what　had　been。　She　would　bring　him　back　from　the　dead　without

leaving　him　one　trace　of　fact　to　remember　his　annihilation

by。

She　exerted　all　her　ordinary；　warm　self；　she　touched　him；　she

did　him　homage　of　loving　awareness。　And　gradually　he　came　back

to　her；　another　man。　She　was　soft　and　winning　and　caressing。　She

was　his　servant；　his　adoring　slave。　And　she　restored　the　whole

shell　of　him。　She　restored　the　whole　form　and　figure　of　him。　But

the　core　was　gone。　His　pride　was　bolstered　up；　his　blo