“No,” he said, outspoken with anger. “I want you to drop your assertive will, your frightened apprehensive self-insistence, that is what I want. I want you to trust yourself so implicitly, that you can let yourself go.”
“Let myself go!” she re-echoed in mockery. “I can let myself go, easily enough. It is you who can’t let yourself go, it is you who hang on to yourself as if it were your only treasure. You—you are the Sunday school teacher—You—you preacher.”
The amount of truth that was in this made him stiff and unheeding of her.
“I don’t mean let yourself go in the Dionysic ecstatic way,” he said. “I know you can do that. But I hate ecstasy, Dionysic or any other. It’s like going round in a squirrel cage. I want you not to care about yourself, just to be there and not to care about yourself, not to insist—be glad and sure and indifferent.”
“Who insists?” she mocked. “Who is it that keeps on insisting? It isn’t me!”
There was a weary, mocking bitterness in her voice. He was silent for some time.
“I know,” he said. “While ever either of us insists to the other, we are all wrong. But there we are, the accord doesn’t come.”
They sat in stillness under the shadow of the trees by the bank. The night was white around them, they were in the darkness, barely conscious.
Gradually, the stillness and peace came over them. She put her hand tentatively on his. Their hands clasped softly and silently, in peace.
“Do you really love me?” she said.