ABSTRACT
In his hand was a manuscript, and we were supping on ‘Salomé.’ As the banquet proceeded, I experienced that sense of sacred terror which his friends, the Greeks, knew so
well. For this thing could have been conceived only by genius wedded to insanity and, at the end, when the tetrarch, rising and bundling his robes about him, cries: ‘Kill that woman!’ the mysterious divinity whom the poet may have evoked, deigned perhaps to visit me. For, as I applauded, I shuddered, and told him that I had.
