"What is love? Desire, of course," the young Count answered his old
preceptor, as they both sat below in the cabin and beguiled the time by
talking while waiting off Elfsnabben for a favourable wind for their
journey to the University of Prague.
"No, young sir," answered Magister Franciscus Olai. "Love is something
quite different and something more, which neither high theology nor
deep philosophy have been able to express. Our over-wise time believes
too little, but that is because our fathers believed too much. I was
present at the beginning of this period, young sir; I helped to pull
down old venerable buildings, ancient, decayed temples of pride and
selfishness; I tore pages out of the holy books and pictures from the
walls of the churches; I was present, young sir, and helped to shut
up the convents, and to announce the abolition of the old faith, but,
sir, there are things which all-powerful Nature herself has founded,
and which we had better not attempt to pull down. I wish to speak now
of Amor or Love, whose fire burns unquenchably when it is rightly
bestowed, but when wrongly, can soon be quenched, or even turn to hate
when things go quite wrong."
"When then is it rightly bestowed? It cannot be so very often,"
answered the Count, settling himself more comfortably on the couch.
"Often or not, love is like a flash from heaven when it comes, and
then it surpasses all our will and all our understanding, but it is
different with different people, whether it lasts or not. For in this
respect men are born with different dispositions and characters, like
birds or other creatures. Some are like the wood grouse and black cock
who must have a whole seraglio like the grand Turk; why it is so we
know not, but it is so, and that is their nature. Others are like the
small birds which take a mate for each year and then change. Others
again are amiable like doves and build their nests together for life,
and when one of them dies, the other no longer desires to live."
"Have you seen any human beings corresponding to doves?" asked the
Count doubtfully.
"I have seen many, dear sir. I have seen wood cocks who have paired
with doves, and the doves have been very unhappy; I have seen male
doves who have wedded a cuckoo, and the cuckoo is the worst of all
birds, for it likes the pleasure of love, but not the trouble of
children, and therefore turns its children out of the nest; but I have
also seen wedded doves, sir."
"Who never pecked each other?"
"Yes, I have seen them peck when the nest was narrow, and there was
trouble about food, but still they were good friends, and that is love.
There is also a sea-bird called 'svärt,' sir, which always flies in
pairs. If you shoot one, the other descends and lets itself be shot
too, and therefore the 'svärt' is called the stupidest of all birds."
"That is in the pairing time, venerable preceptor."
"No, young sir, they keep together the whole year round and their
pairing time is in spring. In the winter when they have no young ones
with them, but are alone, they eat together, hunt together, and sleep
together. That is not desire, but love, and if this charming feeling
can exist among soulless creatures, why can it not among men?"
"Yes, I have heard of its being found among men, but that it departs
after marriage."
"That is mere sensual pleasure, which partly goes, but then love comes."
"That is only friendship when there is any."
"Quite right, noble sir, but friendship between those of opposite
sex is just love. But there are so many things and so many sides to
everything. If you like, I will relate a story which I have seen
myself, and from which you may learn something or other. It happened
in my youth, forty years ago, but I remember every detail as though it
happened yesterday. Shall I relate it?"
"Certainly, preceptor. Time goes slowly when one waits for a favourable
wind. But bring a light and wine before you begin, for I think your
story will not keep one awake."
"Very likely not you, sir, but it has kept me awake many nights,"
answered Franciscus, and went to fetch what was required. When he had
returned and they sat down again on their berths, he began as follows:
"This is the story of Herr Bengt's wife. She was born of noble
parentage at the beginning of this century. She was strictly brought
up, and, when her parents died, her guardian placed her in a convent.
There she distinguished herself by her intense religious zeal; she
scourged herself on Fridays and fasted on all the greater saint's
days. When she reached the age of puberty, her condition became more
serious, and she actually attempted to starve herself to death,
believing it consistent with the duty of a Christian to kill the flesh
and to live with God in Christ. Then two circumstances contributed to
bring about a crisis in her life. Her guardian fled the country after
having squandered her property, and the convent authorities changed
their behaviour towards her, for it was a worldly institution which did
not at all open its gates for the poor and wretched. When she saw that,
she began to be assailed by doubts. Doubt was the disease of that time
and she had a strong attack of it. Her fellow-nuns believed nothing and
her superiors not much.
"One day she was sent from the convent to visit a sick person. On the
way, a beautiful lonely forest path, she met a Knight, young, strong,
and handsome. She stood and stared at him as though he had been a
vision; he was the first man she had seen for five years, and the first
man she had seen since she was a woman. He stopped his horse for a
moment, greeted her, and rode on. After that day she was tired of the
convent, and life enticed her. Life with its beauty and attraction drew
her away from Christ; she had attacks of temptation and outbreaks,
and had to spend most of her time in the punishment cell. One day she
received a letter smuggled in by the gardener. It was from the Knight.
He lived on the other side of the lake and she could see his castle
from the window of the cell. The correspondence continued. Faint
rumours began to be circulated that a great change in ecclesiastical
affairs was about to take place and that even the convents were about
to be abolished and the nuns released from their vows.
"Then hope awoke in her, but at the same time that she learnt that one
could be released from vows, she lost faith in the sanctity of the vow
itself, and at one stroke all restraint gave way. She believed now
rather in the everlasting rights of her instincts in the face of all
social and ecclesiastical laws!
"At last she was betrayed by a false friend, and the discovery of the
correspondence led to her being condemned to corporal punishment. But
Fate had ordered otherwise, and on the day that the punishment was to
be carried out a messenger came from the King and estates of the realm
with the command that the convent was to be closed. The messenger was
no other than the Knight. He opened for her the doors of the convent in
order to offer her freedom and his hand. That closed the first part of
her career."
"The first?" remarked the Count, as he lifted the jar of Rhine wine.
"Isn't the story over? They were married."
"No, sir. That is how stories usually end, but the real beginning is
just there. And I remember the day after the marriage. I had married
them and was her domestic chaplain. The breakfast-table was laid and
she came out of her room, beaming as though the whole earth danced on
her account, and the sun was only set in the sky to give them light.
He was full of courage and felt capable of bearing the whole world on
his shoulders. All his thoughts were intent on making life as kind and
beautiful for her as he could; and she was so happy that she could
neither eat nor drink; she wished only to forget, the existence of the
sinful earth. Well! she had her fancies, springing from the old time
when heaven was all, and earth was nothing; he was a child of the new
age who knew that one must live on earth in order to be able to enter
heaven afterwards."
"And so things came to a crisis?" interrupted the Count.
"They came to a crisis, as you say. I remember how he ate at the
breakfast-table like a hungry man, and she only sat and watched him;
but when she talked of birds' songs he talked of roast veal. Then he
noticed how she had thrown her clothes the evening before on a chair in
the dining-room, and reminded her that one must be orderly in a house."
"Then of course there was hell in the house."
"No, it was not so dangerous as that. But it brought a cloud over her
sun, and she felt that a breach was opened between them. Still she shut
her eyes in order not to see it, as one does when near a precipice.
Then the sky clouded over again. He had secret, melancholy thoughts
for his harvest-sheaves were on the field, and he knew that his income
depended on them. He wished to take her out to see them, but she begged
him to stay at home and not to talk of earth on that day."
"Earth! What an idiot!"
"Yes, yes! She was brought up like that; it was the fault of the
convent which had taught her to despise God's creation. So her husband
remained with her, and proposed that they should go hunting; she
accepted the proposal with joy."
"A proposal to kill! That was nice!"
"Yes, according to the views of the period, sir; every period has
its own views. But the sky clouded over once more, for this day was
not a lucky one for the young Knight. The King's bailiff called and
desired a special interview with him. The interview was granted and
the Knight was informed that he would lose his rank as a noble if he
did not supply the quota of arms due from him as the King's vassal,
which he had neglected to do for five years. The Knight had no means of
meeting this demand but the bailiff offered to procure him an advance
in money in exchange for a mortgage on his estate. So the matter was
arranged. But then the question arose how far he should take his wife
into his confidence with regard to this matter. He summoned me in order
to hear my advice. I thought it was a pity that the young wife should
be torn so suddenly out of her dreams of happiness and joy, and I was
short-sighted enough to advise that she should not be told the real
state of affairs till the first year was over."
"In that you were right! Why should women mix in business? It would
only lead to trouble and confusion and their poor husbands would never
have peace."
"No, sir, I was wrong, for in a true marriage husband and wife should
have full confidence in each other and be one. And what was the result
in this case? During the year they grew apart from one another. She
lived in her rose-garden and he in the fields; he had secrets concealed
from her and worked desperately without having her as his adviser;
he lived his own life apart and she, hers. When they met, he had to
pretend to be cheerful, and so their whole life became false. Finally
he became tired and withdrew into himself and so did she."
"And so it was all over with their love."
"No, sir; it might have been so, but true love goes through worse fires
than these. They loved each other still and that was destined to be
proved by the tests which they were to pass through.
"Her child came, and with it commenced a new stage of their life
journey. She needed her husband less now for her time was occupied
by looking after the child, and her husband felt freer, for so many
claims were not made on his tenderness as before. She threw herself
heart and soul into the new occupations which absorbed her; she watched
through the nights and toiled through the days and would never give up
the child to a nurse The contact with reality and the little affairs
of life seemed at first to have an intoxicating effect upon her empty
soul and she began to find a certain satisfaction in talking with her
husband about his fields and their cultivation. But this could not
last long. Education lies behind us like the seeds of weeds which may
remain in the ground for a year or two, but which only need proper
cultivation in order to spring up again. One day she looked in the
glass and found that she had become pale, thin, and ugly. She saw that
the bloom of her youth was past, and her charms decayed. Then the woman
awoke in her or rather one side of the mysterious being which is called
a woman: and then came the longing to be beautiful, to please, to feel
herself ruling through her beauty. She was now no longer so eagerly
occupied with the child as before, and she began to spend more care
on her own person. Her husband saw this change with joy, for strange
to say although he had at first been glad to observe her desperate
zeal about the child and the house, yet when he saw his heart's queen
dressed negligently, and marked how pale and wretched she looked, it
cut him to the heart. He wished to have back again the charming fairy
who had waited with longing at the window for his return home, and at
whose feet he wished to worship. So strange is man's heart, and so much
leaven does it still retain from the old times of chivalry when woman
was regarded as a Madonna.
"But now came something else. During the first period of her
confinement he had become a little tired and careless in his habits; he
came and went with his hat on, ate his meals at a corner of the table,
and took no pains about his dress. And when his wife began to return
to the ways of everyday life he forgot to follow her, and to alter his
habits. His wife, who was still somewhat sickly, thought she saw in the
relaxing of these courtesies a want of love, and an unfortunate chance
afforded her an apparent proof that he was tired of her.
"It was an unlucky day! The year was approaching its end when the chief
payments would be made. The harvest promised to be bountiful but its
overplus could not cover everything. The Knight had to find other means
of raising money, and he found them. He ordered some fine timber-trees
round the courtyard to be cut down, but in so doing, they came too near
the house, so that his wife's favourite lime-tree was also cut down.
The Knight did not know that she had a special liking for it, and the
act was quite unintentional. His wife had been ill for a week or two,
and when she came into the dining-room she saw that the lime-tree had
disappeared; she at once believed that it had been cut down to annoy
her. She also noticed that her rose-bushes had withered, for no one
had had time to think of such trifles amid all the bustle of bringing
in the harvest. This seemed to her another act of unkindness and she
sent all the available horses and oxen to fetch water.
"Now there intervened a new circumstance to hasten the coming
misfortune. The bailiff had come to the castle to wait for the bringing
in of the harvest, and had an interview with the Knight's wife just
after she had made the two above-mentioned discoveries. They found
that they had known each other as children, and a confidential chat
followed, which afforded her some amusement. She liked her visitor's
rustic but courteous manners, and the comparison she made between his
politeness and her husband's boorishness, was not to the advantage
of the latter. She forgot that her husband could be as polite as the
bailiff when paying a formal visit, and that the bailiff could be as
brusque as he in everyday business.
"Thus everything was in train for what should happen when her husband
came home. The bailiff had gone and left her alone with her thoughts.
When her husband came in, he was cheerful, being pleased to see his
wife up again, and because the continued dry weather was good for
the harvest, which was all now ready cut and could be brought in in
a single day. But his wife, depressed by her thoughts, felt annoyed
by his cheerfulness, and now the shots went off, one after the other.
She asked about her lime-tree, and he said he had cut it down because
he required timber; she then asked why he must cut down 'just' the
lime-tree which shaded her window; he answered that he had not cut down
just that one, but all of them together.
"Then she began about the rose-bushes. He replied that he had never
promised to water them. She, having no answer to this, discovered that
he was wearing greased boots, and immediately remarked upon it. He
acknowledged his inadvertence and was about to repair it on the spot by
drawing them off, but she became furious at such an act of discourtesy.
Hard words passed between them and she declared that he loved her no
more. Then the Knight answered somewhat in this way: 'I don't love
you, you say, because I work for you and don't sit and gossip by
your embroidery frame; I don't love you because I am hungry through
neglecting food; I don't love you because I don't change my boots when
I come for a minute into the room. I don't love you, you say! Oh, if
you only knew how much I loved you!'
"To this his wife replied: 'before we married you loved me and at the
same time gossiped by my embroidery frame, took off your boots when you
came in, and showed me politeness. What has happened then, to make you
change your behaviour?'
"Her husband answered: 'We are married now.' His wife thought he meant
that marriage had given him a proprietary right over her, and that he
wished to show this by his free-and-easy demeanour, but this last was
simply due to his unshakeable trust in her vow to love him through joy
and sorrow, and in her forbearance, if, in order to avoid loss of time,
he dropped a number of little empty ceremonies. He was on the point of
telling her that it was in order to stave off ruin that he worked in
the fields, thought only of crops, tramped in the mud, and brought dirt
into the house, but he kept silence, for he thought that in her weak
state, she could not bear the shock, and he knew that in twenty-four
hours all danger would be passed and the house would be saved. He
asked her to forgive him, and they forgave one another, and spoke
gently together again. But then came a shock! The steward rushed in and
announced that a storm was approaching. The Knight's wife was glad that
the roses would get rain, but he was not. It seemed to him like the
finger of God, and he told his wife everything but bade her at the same
time be of good courage. He then gave orders that all the oxen should
be yoked and the harvest brought in at once. He was told that they had
been sent to fetch water. Who had sent them? 'I did,' answered his
wife. 'I wanted water for my flowers, which you allowed to be dried up,
while I was ill.'
"'Aren't you ashamed to say you did?' asked the Knight.
"She answered: 'You plume yourself on having deceived me for a whole
year. I have no need to be ashamed of telling the truth, since I have
committed no fault, but only met with a misfortune.' Then he became
furious, went to her with upraised hand, and struck her."
"And served her devilish right!" said the Count.
"Fie! Fie! young sir! To strike a weak woman!"
"Why should one not strike a woman, when one strikes children?"
"Because woman is weaker, sir."
"Another reason! One cannot get at the stronger, and one must not
strike the weaker: Whom shall one strike then?"
"One should not strike at all, my friend. Fie! Fie! What sentiments
you utter, and you wish to be a soldier!"
"Yes! What happens in war? The stronger strikes and the weaker is
struck. Isn't that logic?"
"It may be logic, but it is not morality. But do you want to hear the
continuation?"
"Wasn't it over then, with their love at any rate?"
"No, sir! not by a long way! Love does not depart so easily. Well!
she believed now just as you do, that it was all over with love, and
she asked the bailiff, who came in just then, to make an appeal for
separation in her name to the King."
"And she wanted to leave her child?"
"No, she thought she could take it with her. Her pride was wounded to
the quick, and she felt crushed under the ruins of her beautiful castle
in the air."
"And her husband?"
"He was pulverised! His dream of wedded love was over, and he was
ruined besides, for the rainstorm had carried away and destroyed the
whole of his harvest. And when he saw that it was she whom he loved who
was the cause of his misfortune he felt resentment in his heart against
her, but he loved her still? when his anger had been allayed."
"Still?"
"Yes, sir, for love does not ask why. It only knows that it is so. The
Knight was ruined, and left his house to look after itself while he
rode about in the woods and fields. His wife, on the contrary, awoke to
a life of energy and diligence and took in hand the whole management
of the house; necessity made the little, tender being who never had
worked, strong; she sewed clothes for herself and the children; she
made payments and looked after the servants, and this last was not
the easiest, for the latter had grown accustomed to regard the little
spoilt lady as only a guest, but she took hold of affairs with an
energetic hand and kept them in order. When money was insufficient she
pawned her jewels, and by that means paid wages and cleared off debts.
One day when the Knight awoke to reflection and came home anxiously to
look after the condition of affairs which he regarded as hopeless, he
found everything in proper order. When he made inquiries, he was told
that his wife had saved everything. Then remorse and shame awoke in
him and he went to ask her on his knees to forgive him for not having
understood and valued her. She forgave him and declared that she had
not formerly deserved to be more highly valued, since she did not
then possess the qualities which she afterwards acquired. They were
reconciled as friends, but she declared that her love was dead, and
that she did not intend to be his wife for the future.
"Their conversation was interrupted by the bailiff, who during this
time had lived in the house and helped the wife by his advice and
service. Her husband felt himself put aside and his place occupied by
another; jealousy raged in him, and he forbade his wife to receive
a stranger in her rooms. His wife thereupon declared that she would
visit the bailiff in his rooms but her husband reminded her that he had
rights over her person, since she was still his wife according to the
law. But she had that day received by post the decree of separation
and told him that she was free and could go where she liked. Then when
he saw that it was all over, he collapsed and begged her on his knees
to remain. When she saw the proud Knight crawling on the ground like
a slave she lost the last remnants of respect for him, and when she
remembered how once in her weakness and misery, she had looked up to
him as the one who could carry her in his arms over thorns and stones,
she wished to fly from this spectacle. Being no more able to find in
him, what he had once been to her, she simply went away."
"Well now," interrupted the Count, who began to be bored, "it really
was over."
"No, no, young sir, it only looked so, but was not. But here I must
make a confession. I saw everything with my own eyes, sir, for I was
her friend and honoured her in my heart. How foolish I was, I will
also confess. We of the old school, who were brought up at the end of
the age of chivalry, had learnt to see in woman a creature above the
ordinary level of humanity; we revered the outward part, and that which
was beautiful and useless; in our ideas that which pleased the eye took
the first place. You can well imagine that I, though a seeker of the
truth, was so misled by these old ideas, that I thought she was sinking
just when she showed the greatest energy and courage. Yes, on the very
day that the decree of separation came, I had a conversation with her
which I can remember as clearly as though I had written it down. I
said: 'If you knew how idolatrously high you once stood in my sight.
And I saw the angel let her white wings fall, I saw the fairy lose her
golden shoe. I saw you the morning after the marriage when you rode on
your white horse through the wood, it carried you so lightly over the
damp grass and lifted you so high over the mud of the marsh without a
spot coming on your silver-bright clothing. For a moment I thought as
I stood behind a tree; "Suppose she fell!" and my thought turned into a
vision. I saw you sink in the mire; the black water spirited over you;
your yellow hair lay like sunshine over the white blossoms of the bog
of myrtle; you sank and sank till I only saw your little hand; then I
heard a falcon scream up in the air and mount up on its wrings till it
was lost in the clouds.' But then she answered me so well. 'You said
once long ago that reality with all its dirt and sordidness was given
us by God, and that we should not curse it, but take it as it is. Very
well! But now you hint that I have sunk because I am on the way to
reconcile myself with this life; I have changed the garment of the rich
for that of the poor, since I am poor; I lost my youth when I obeyed
the law of nature and became a mother; the beauty of my hands is spoilt
by sewing, my eyes are dim with care, the burden of life presses me to
the earth but my soul mounts--mounts like the falcon towards the sky
and freedom, while my earthly body sinks in the mud amid evil-smelling
weeds.'
"Then I asked if she really believed she could keep the soul above
while the body sank, and she answered 'No!' This was because she, like
myself, had the delusion that something sank. The body, however,
did not sink through work; on the contrary, it was hardened and
strengthened; it improved and mounted but did not sink. However,
we were both so foolish that we both imagined it did, having been
indoctrinated with this view from our youth upwards. We considered
white hands, though they might be weak and sickly as more beautiful
than those which were hardened and embrowned by toil. So perverse were
people's ideas in my youth, sir, and so they are still, here and there.
But in my perversity I went farther and advised her to commit a crime 6
Loose the falcon and let it mount, I said.'
"'I have already thought of that,' she answered, understanding my
thought, 'but the chain is strong.'
"'I have the key to it,' I replied.
"She asked me to give it her, and received from me a bottle of poison.
"Now I return to the story where I left it off. It was where she had
left her husband's room to seek the bailiff in the upper story. When
she came there she had to wait, for the bailiff had visitors. She also
received a lesson, for none of her married friends would greet her,
because she had dissolved her marriage. One of these friends had been
unfaithful to her husband and had a lover but she thought herself
too good to take Frau Margit's hand. What is one to say to that? At
that time it was considered one of the greatest crimes to dissolve a
marriage, but now, thank Heaven! our ideas have changed. She came, as
I have said, to the bailiff to ask his advice as she had done all the
time when difficulties arose.
"Did she love him? Probably not; but the heart is never so likely to
deceive itself as in such cases. She imagined that she did, because she
thought she had lost her husband and by birth and upbringing she was
not adapted to stand alone.
"But the bailiff was another sort of man. He was like one of those
birds with a seraglio which I spoke of, and if he had not been so
cowardly, he would have already enticed the Knight's wife. But he did
not do it, for he saw that this fruit would drop when it was ripe
enough. Therefore he waited. But he had another characteristic; he was
as vain as a cock in a hen-house, and thought that he was a terrible
fellow whom no woman could resist. So when he overheard Frau Margit
say that she intended visiting him in his room, he believed that the
time had come, and made elaborate preparations to receive her. She came
quite unsuspiciously, for she trusted his friendship and devotion to
her interests. She wished to speak of the serious prospect which lay
before her; he spoke of his love and she did not wish to listen. She
was legally free but still felt herself bound. The might of memory
held her and perhaps the old love had a word to say in the matter. The
bailiff became bolder and begged for her love on his knees. Then she
despised him. His vanity was wounded, he forgot himself, threw the mask
aside, and wished to use force. I came accidentally there and was able
to give him the _coup de grâce_ by telling Frau Margit that he was
engaged to be married. There was nothing left for him but to withdraw.
"But she had already, when her last hope collapsed and her last dream
vanished, used the key to open the gate of eternity; I who knew that
the poison required an hour to produce its effect, used the opportunity
to speak to her, as one speaks to the dying. Ah! certainly the love of
mortals for this wretched life is great, and at such moments the human
soul is turned upside down; what lies at the bottom comes uppermost,
old memories revive; old beliefs, however absurd and however rightly
they may have been rejected, arise again, and I woke up in her the old
ideas of duty, foolish perhaps, but necessary now. I brought her so
far that she wished to live and commence again a life of renunciation
and reflection in the convent. But since the convent no longer existed
I persuaded her to be willing to exchange it for the imprisonment
of home, where there is plenty of opportunity for penance in mutual
self-denial, for devotion in the fulfilment of duties and in obedience.
She fought against her pride and regretted her surrender, she raged
against life, which had deceived her, and against men who had lied and
said that life was a pleasure-garden. In this matter I agreed with her,
for the unhappiness in most marriages arises from the fact that people
persuade the married pair that they will find absolute happiness in
marriage, whereas happiness is not to be found in life at all.
"She was frantic, but an accident came to my aid. Her child, whose room
was underneath us, began to cry. She was shaken to her depths, and
said that she was willing to live for her child's sake, in order to
teach it that life is not what people describe it to be. She did not
wish to leave it to the same fate which she had escaped. She did not
speak of her husband; whether she thought of him or not, I cannot say.
I who had given her the poison, knew where the antidote was; but as I
still wished to keep her in fear, I gave her less hope than I myself
possessed.
"I went away, and when I returned, I found her in her husband's arms.
He had found her on the stairs, where she had fallen down in a swoon.
All was forgiven and all was forgotten. You think that strange? But
have you not forgiven your mother although she chastised you, and
does not your mother love you, although you have deceived her, and
caused her grief and anxiety. This last agitation had convulsed her
soul so that the old love lay uppermost like a clear pearl, which has
been fished up from the miry bottom of the sea where it lay hidden
in a dirty mollusc. But she still struggled with her pride and said
she would not love him, although she did love him. I never forget his
answer, which contains the whole riddle, 'You did not wish to love me,
Margit,' he said, 'for your pride forbade it, but you love me still.
You love me, although I raised my hand against you, and although I
was shamefully cowardly when the trouble came. I wished to hate you
when you left me; I wished to kill you, because you were willing to
sacrifice your child, and still I love you. Do you not now believe in
the power of love over our evil wills?'
"So he said; and I say now like the fabulist: this fable teaches that
love is a great power which passes all understanding and against which
our wills can do nothing. Love bears all things, gives up all things,
and of faith, hope, and love, sir, love is the greatest."
"Well, how did they go on afterwards?" asked the Count.
"I was no longer with them."
"They probably continued to quarrel."
"I know that they have disagreements sometimes, for these must happen
when there are different opinions, but I know also that neither wishes
to domineer over the other. They go their way, making less demands on
life than before and therefore they are as happy as one can be when
one takes life as it is. That was what the old period with its claim
of being able to make a heaven on earth could not do, but what the new
period has learnt."