It was you that said that, Irene, not I.
[Continuing.] —then I had my knife out. I wanted to stab you in the back with it.
[Darkly.] And why did you hold your hand?
Because it flashed upon me with a sudden horror that you were dead already—long ago.
Dead?
Dead. Dead, you as well as I. We sat there by the Lake of Taunitz, we two clay-cold bodies—and played with each other.
I do not call that being dead. But you do not understand me.
Then where is the burning desire for me that you fought and battled against when I stood freely forth before you as the woman arisen from the dead?
Our love is assuredly not dead, Irene.
The love that belongs to the life of earth—the beautiful, miraculous earth-life—the inscrutable earth-life—that is dead in both of us.