“Who are that man and woman?”
“God only knows, and that is why it is so interesting. You need not bother yourself about what their relations have been. I find them together just like you and I here. There is something interesting, don’t you see, just for the occasion?”
“As you please. They seem to be in a boat.”
“On land or in water, it is just as it is written. You will make a detective of yourself, if you press for ‘why’.”
“Ho, ho, ho, I will not ask you then.”
“Ordinary novels are all inventions of detectives and denuded of unhumanity they are all so insipid.”
“Good, then, tell me more of unhumanity. What follows next, please?”
“‘Venice is sinking, sinking to a faint single streak of line. The line dwindles into dots. Here and there pillars stand in an opal sky, last of all the highest towering belfry sinks. It has sunk, says the friend. The woman, who has come away from Venice is free like the wind of the sky in her heart. But the thought that she must come back to Venice, which has disappeared, fills her heart with the anguish of bondage. The man and woman direct their eyes toward the darkening bay. The stars are increasing. The sea is softly undulating without any foam. The man took the woman’s hand in his, feeling like one holding a bow-string that has not yet stopped vibrating.’”
“That does not seem to sound very unhuman.”
“But you can hear it as unhuman. If you don’t like it, I shall skip a little.”