“In Paris your sister appeared to me to be a charming student of frivolity. ‘And I wouldn’t be no sort of a man if I’d heard what I heard, and gone off and left you. She turned to the stage, and Tristan was wounded in Kurvenal’s arms, with Isolde at his feet, and King Mark, the incarnation of masculine force and obligation, the masculine creditor of love and beauty, stood over him, and the second climax was ending in wreaths and reek of melodies; and then the curtain was coming down in a series of short rushes, the music had ended, and the people were stirring and breaking out into applause, and the lights of the auditorium were resuming. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. But escape to where? She thought of the ships that sailed from the peninsulas to hot deserts where spices were traded.
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