Diana
the Huntress is spreading her net for the game! But what does it
matter to me? what is there for me to lose? As nearly every man, I am
that kind of game which allows itself to be hunted for the purpose of
turning at a given moment against the hunter. In such circumstances
we all have energy enough. In a hand-to-hand fight, like this, the
victory rests always with us. I know perfectly well that Mrs. Davis
does not love me, any more than I love her. We simply react upon each
other through our pagan nature, our sensuous and artistic instincts.
With her it is also a question of vanity,--the worse for her, as it
may lead her whither love leads. I shall not go too far. In my feeling
for her there is neither affection nor tenderness,--nothing but
rapture at the sight of nature's masterwork, and the attraction
natural in a man when that masterwork is a woman. My father said that
the height of victory would be to change an angel into a woman; I
maintain that it is no less a triumph to feel around one's neck the
arms, palpitating with life, of a Florentine Venus.
As far as beauty goes she is the highest expression of whatever the
most exalted imagination is able to conceive. She is a Phryne. It
would turn most men's heads to see her in a tight-fitting riding-habit
that shows the outline of her figure as beautiful as that of a statue.
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