1
Cecile had passed those three weeks in a state of ignorance which had
filled her with pain. She had, it is true, heard through Dolf that
Quaerts was away shooting, but beyond that nothing. A thrill of joy
electrified her when the door behind the screen opened and she saw
him enter the room. He was standing in front of her before she could
recover herself; and, as she was trembling, she did not rise, but,
still sitting, reached out her hand to him, her fingers quivering
imperceptibly.
"I have been out of town," he began.
"So I heard."
"Have you been well all this time?"
"Quite well, thank you."
He noticed that she was somewhat pale, that she had a light blue shadow
under her eyes and that there was lassitude in all her movements. But
he came to the conclusion that there was nothing extraordinary in
this, or that perhaps she merely looked pale in the creamy whiteness
of her soft, white dress, like silky wool, even as her figure became
yet slighter in the constraint of the scarf about her waist, with
its long white fringe falling to her feet. She was sitting alone with
Christie, the child upon his footstool with his head in her lap and
a picture-book on his knees.
"You two are a perfect Madonna and Child," said Quaerts.
"Little Dolf has gone out to walk with his god-father," she said,
looking fondly upon her child and motioning to him gently.
At this bidding the boy stood up and shyly approached Quaerts,
offering him a hand. Quaerts lifted him up and set him on his knee:
"How light he is!"
"He is not strong," said Cecile.
"You coddle him too much."
She laughed:
"Pedagogue!" she laughed. "How do I coddle him?"
"I always find him nestling against your skirts. He must come with
me one of these days: I should make him do some gymnastics."
"Jules horse-riding and Christie gymnastics!" she exclaimed.
"Yes ... sport, in fact!" he answered, with a meaning look of fun.
She glanced back at him; and sympathy smiled from the depths of her
gold-grey eyes. He felt thoroughly happy and, with the child still
upon his knees, said:
"I have come to confess to you ... Madonna!"
Then, as though startled, he put the child away from him.
"To confess?"
"Yes.... There, Christie, go back to Mamma; I mustn't keep you by me
any longer."
"Very well," said Christie, with great, wondering eyes, and caught
hold of the cord of Quaerts' eyeglass.
"The Child would forgive too easily," said Quaerts.
"And I, have I anything to forgive you?" she asked.
"I shall be only too happy if you will see it in that light."
"Then begin your confession."
"But the Child ..." he hesitated.
Cecile stood up; she took the child, kissed him and sat him on a stool
by the window with his picture-book. Then she came back to the sofa:
"He will not hear...."
And Quaerts began the story, choosing his words: he spoke of the
shooting, of the ragging-parties and the peasant-woman and of
Brussels. She listened attentively, with dread in her eyes at the
violence of such a life, the echo of which reverberated in his words,
even though the echo was softened by his reverence.
"And is all this a sin calling for absolution?" she asked, when he
had finished.
"Is it not?"
"I am no Madonna, but ... a woman with fairly emancipated views. If
you were happy in what you did, it was no sin, for happiness is
good.... Were you happy, I ask you? For in that case what you did
was ... good."
"Happy?" he asked.
"Yes."
"No.... Therefore I have sinned, sinned against myself, have I
not? Forgive me ... Madonna."
She was troubled at the sound of his voice, which, gently broken,
wrapped her about as with a spell; she was troubled to see him sitting
there, filling with his body, his personality, his existence a place
in her room, beside her. In a single second she lived through hours,
feeling her calm love lying heavy within her, like a sweet weight;
feeling a longing to throw her arms about him and tell him that she
worshipped him; feeling also an intense sorrow at what he had admitted,
that once again he had been unhappy. Hardly able to control herself
in her compassion, she rose, moved towards him and laid her hand upon
his shoulder:
"Tell me, do you mean all this? Is it all true? Is it true that you
have been living as you say and yet have not been happy?"
"Perfectly true, on my soul."
"Then why did you do it?"
"I couldn't help it."
"You were unable to force yourself to be more moderate?"
"Absolutely."
"Then I should like to teach you."
"And I should not like to learn, from you. For it is and always will
be my best happiness to be immoderate also where you are concerned,
immoderate in the life of my real self, my soul, just as I have now
been immoderate in the life of my apparent self."
Her eyes grew dim; she shook her head, her hand still upon his
shoulder:
"That is not right," she said, in deep distress.
"It is a joy ... for both those beings. I have to be like that,
I have to be immoderate: they both demand it."
"But that is not right," she insisted. "Pure enjoyment ..."
"The lowest, but also the highest...."
A shiver passed through her, a deadly fear for him.
"No, no," she persisted. "Don't think that. Don't do it. Neither the
one nor the other. Really, it is all wrong. Pure joy, unbridled joy,
even the highest, is not good. In that way you force your life. When
you speak so, I am afraid for your sake. Try to recover moderation. You
have so many possibilities of being happy."
"Oh, yes!..."
"Yes, but what I mean is that you must not be fanatical. And ... and
also, for the love of God, don't run quite so madly after pleasure."
He looked up at her; he saw her beseeching him with her eyes, with
the expression of her face, with her whole attitude, as she stood
bending slightly forward. He saw her beseeching him, even as he
heard her; and then he knew that she loved him. A feeling of bright
rapture came upon him, as though something high were descending upon
him to guide him. He did not stir--he felt her hand thrilling at his
shoulder--afraid lest with the smallest movement he should drive that
rapture away. It did not occur to him for a moment to speak a word
of tenderness to her or to take her in his arms and press her to him:
she was so profoundly transfigured in his eyes that any such profane
desire remained far removed from him. And yet he felt at that moment
that he loved her, but as he had never yet loved any one before,
so completely and exclusively, with the noblest elements that lie
hidden away in the soul, often unknown even to itself. He felt that
he loved her with new-born feelings of frank youth and fresh vigour
and pure unselfishness. And it seemed to him that it was all a dream
of something which did not exist, a dream lightly woven about him,
a web of sunbeams.
"Madonna!" he whispered. "Forgive me...."
"Promise then...."
"Willingly, but I shall not be able to keep my promise. I am weak...."
"No."
"Ah, I am! But I give you my promise; and I promise also to try my
utmost to keep it. Will you forgive me now?"
She nodded to him; her smile fell on him like a ray of sunlight. Then
she went to the child, took it in her arms and brought it to Quaerts:
"Put your arms round his neck, Christie, and give him a kiss."
He took the child from her; it threw its little arms about his neck
and kissed him on the forehead.
"The Madonna forgives me ... and the Child!" he whispered.
2
They stayed long talking to each other; and no one came to disturb
them. The child had gone back to sit by the window. Twilight began to
strew pale ashes in the room. He saw Cecile sitting there, sweetly
white; the kindly melody of her half-breathed words came rippling
towards him. They talked of many things: of Emerson; of Van Eeden's
new poem in the Nieuwe Gids; of their respective views of life. He
accepted a cup of tea, only for the pleasure of seeing her move with
the yielding lines of her graciousness, standing before the tea-table
in the corner. In her white dress, she had something about her of
marble grown lissom with inspiration and warm life. He sat motionless,
listening reverently, swathed in a still rapture of delight. It was a
mood which defied analysis, without a visible origin, springing from
their sympathetic fellowship as a flower springs from an invisible seed
after a drop of rain and a kiss of the sunshine. She too was happy;
she no longer felt the pain which his reverence had caused her. True,
she was a little sad by reason of what he had told her, but she was
happy for the sake of this speck of the present. Nor did she any longer
see that dark stream, that inky sky, that night landscape: everything
that she now saw was bright and calm. And happiness breathed about
her, a tangible happiness, like a living caress. Sometimes they ceased
speaking and both of them looked towards the child, as it sat reading;
or Christie would ask them something and they would answer. Then they
smiled one to the other, because the child was so good and did not
disturb them.
"If only this could continue for ever," he ventured to say, though
still fearing lest a word might break the crystalline transparency of
their happiness. "If you could only see into me now, how all in me is
peace. I don't know why, but that is how I feel. Perhaps because of
your forgiveness. Really the Catholic religion is delightful, with its
absolution. What a comfort that must be for people of weak character!"
"But I cannot think your character weak. And it is not. You tell me
that you sometimes know how to place yourself above ordinary life,
whence you can look down upon its grief as on a comedy which makes
one laugh sadly for a minute, but which is not true. I too believe
that life, as we see it, is no more than a symbol of a truer life,
concealed beneath it, which we do not see. But I cannot rise beyond
the symbol, while you can. Therefore you are very strong and feel
yourself very great."
"How strange, when I just think myself weak and you great and
powerful. You dare to be what you are, in all your harmony; and I am
always hiding and am afraid of people individually, though sometimes I
am able to rise above life in the mass. But these are riddles which it
is vain for me to attempt to solve; and, though I have not the power
to solve them, at this moment I feel nothing but happiness. Surely
I may say that once aloud, may I not, quite aloud?"
She smiled to him in the bliss which she felt of making him happy.
It is the first time I have felt happiness in this way," he
continued. "Indeed it is the first time I have felt it at all...."
"Then don't analyse it."
"There is no need. It is standing before me in all its simplicity. Do
you know why I am happy?"
"Don't analyse, don't analyse," she repeated in alarm.
"No," he said, "but may I tell you, without analysing?"
"No, don't," she stammered, "because ... because I know...."
She besought him, very pale, with folded, trembling hands. The child
looked at them; it had closed its book, and come to sit down on its
stool by its mother, with a look of gay sagacity in its pale-blue eyes.
"Then I obey you," said Quaerts, with some difficulty.
And they were both silent, their eyes expanded as with the lustre of
a vision. It seemed to be gently beaming about them through the pale
ashen twilight.