PARTISAN REVIEW
267
since no lasting relationship is in question? - she is deeply in love,
she has, so far, resisted their importunings. Unfortunately, as a re–
sult, they devote more of their time to securing this favor and being,
by now, heartily sick of the business, she has yet another reason for
complying. Her best bet is to accede and yet remain detached, to
analyze, at these closest possible quarters, her fellow men, their feel–
ings and behavior. She is unable to find joy in the sexual act for its
own sake. An English
girl
in love, she is inhibited by guilt. And as
she is an intellectual the idea of abandoning herself without reserve
fills her with distaste. Though driven toward the promiscuous bed
she would die rather than enjoy it. Such a woman would be wise,
I submit, to cultivate bad faith like buggery." He grimaced: "Are
you speaking of yourself?" "Why?" I asked. "What would you do
if I were?" "Do!" he screeched. "I'd throw you down the stairwell."
He looked at his watch, stuffed books and papers into his
holdall, rummaged about for his jacket and we embraced almost
perfunctorily running out the door. But as we turned toward the
station he stroked each of my fingers, brushing them with his own
in a quick nervous manner as if he feared what was to come. I
caught the sense of urgency and stared at his solemn face. "When–
ever I see you," he began hurriedly, "I am afraid that it must be
a great disappointment for two reasons. We both feel these meetings
to be so important that there's bound to be something of an anti–
climax." And, more quietly, "I'm afraid too that I'm a much duller
person than you think, less admirable. This is why I fear always
that you are being deceived even if you are an accomplice in your
own deception."
The paving stones were dry and warm. Offices and buses car–
ried fiery mullions where beams of light smote them. He'd been
preoccupied with himself as he picked over the books, his share in
this complicity. I no less. And where he had striven to assess our
meetings I had studied the intervals. I shrugged my shoulders. He
knew how life was lived. We'd believed that we held each other to
all eternity in the heart of being. The joy of our meetings had
spilled over into the wastes between them. I was his touchstone and
he mine. Out of the fullest realization that my freedom was ever to
have I had assented to our love. And now - our absences were
marshaling. I smelled them in the sweetness of the streets. For him
