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Strauch, Dora; Brockmann, Walter / Satan came to Eden
(1936)

Chapter III: We find our Eden,   pp. 34-49


Page 40

 
Satan Came to Eden 
were alone, that if I sensed the presence of others, it was illusion. 
Illusion like Frederick's love. Like a cold wind the knowledge 
had passed over my heart that Frederick did not love me. Ever 
since the early morning of this day which had begun so magically, 
I had been conscious of a change in him. But until an hour ago 
I had ascribed the strangeness of his manner to his concentration 
on the circumstances of our new life, the finding of a new site to 
settle on, the many preoccupations of the male about to found 
his abode, whether it be a castle or a rude shelter in the wilderness. 
Now something told me that he had banished love from his new 
life, and that I must learn to do without it. 
  Putting this dismaying thought out of my mind as best I could, 
I chatted with little Hugo, child of nature, who seemed so well 
adapted to the wild landscape with his animal grace, his wanton- 
ness, his simple mind, cunning with the cunning of an animal, and 
cheerful with an animal's unthinking acceptance of its life's con- 
ditions. In my pleasure at watching and talking to Hugo, I had 
not noticed Frederick's taciturnity, for he was often taciturn. But 
all at once I became aware of it. It seemed as if a dark cloud 
enveloped him, he hardly answered when I spoke to him. I went 
on for a while in silence, trying to guess what it was that had 
come over my dear companion. I knew that it would not do to 
ask him. Then all at once I caught a glance which flashed from 
his eyes to the nimble figure of Hugo, running along ahead of us 
with his dogs like the very spirit of that wild place. Frederick 
was jealous. The man of intellect, the disillusioned heir of all the 
centuries of civilization and culture, was jealous of a little Indio 
savage with his native skill, his oneness with the world he had 
been born into. It was resentment of the problem-ridden mind 
towards the problem solved. 
  I felt deeply hurt, but could not have told whether my pain 
was for the pain I knew that Frederick was suffering or for myself 
at glimpsing, as we all must glimpse at times, the feet of clay on 
which even the most exalted human gods must walk. I felt that 
Frederick's smouldering rage was chiefly that of sheer wounded 
masculine conceit, and the fear that I was silently comparing him 
with the wild grace and beauty of the young Indio boy, to his own 
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