He forwarded the letter as soon as he had finished it and indulged in
speculations, sweet speculations. Would she come tomorrow at four? No,
she might not. Women were never as impulsive as men but more subtle.
Women possessed greater self-control; at least, they were not as
demonstrative as men; they knew how to hide their feelings. Indeed, he
had known the whims and caprices of women since he was sixteen! Women
loved to make men beg on their knees for that which they would eagerly
give without asking. Is it possible that this pretty young Swabian was
in love with him?—with him who was no longer a man but a spirit? He was
not even an aged Faust rejuvenated by love. What comedy life was playing
with him!
His dual vision—of experiencing sensations and contemplating them at
the same time—had never left him, since his impressionable youth.
Feverish youth was in his blood again. He recalled the touch of her
hand—how clinging her hand was, when he clasped it in his!—he had
experienced the same feeling as when he first touched the hand of—of
Hedwiga, of Hilda, or Eugenie, of Miriam, of—no, he could not think of
Marguerite now.
The next moment he grew self-analytical and serious. He was always
analyzing himself. Love did not change, he said to himself. The fire
that burned in his veins when he first met Marguerite was out. Yes, that
fire was now dead. As far as Marguerite was concerned there was winter
in his heart; white flakes had fallen on the sweet blossoms of yesterday
and blighted them. In their place new flowers had sprung, new perfumes,
the beginning of a new spring. Ah, he must seize his lyre and serenade
his awakened joys and sorrows! Indeed, joys and sorrows always went
together, like the rose and the thorn, like the sun and the clouds. His
harpstrings quivered with sweet, sad tones. The moonbeams again played
with the flower petals of verdant spring; the departed nightingales had
come floating from afar and were singing as sweetly as ever. Love was
dead, long live love!
Ah, he was young again! Songs flowed from his heart. He must not
philosophize. Love was eternal.
He would not think of his shrunken body, he would not dwell on his
wasted strength, new blood flowed in his veins.