1
Then she knew, next day, when she sat alone, wrapped in reflection,
that the sphere of happiness, the highest and brightest, may not be
trod; that it may only beam upon us as a sun; and that we may not
enter into it, into the sacred sun-centre. They had done that....
Listless she sat, with her children by her side, Christie looking pale
and languid. Yes, she spoiled them; but how could she change herself?
Weeks passed; and Cecile heard nothing from Quaerts. It was always
so: after he had been with her, weeks would drag by without her ever
seeing him. For he was much too happy with her, it was more than he
could bear. He looked upon her society as a rare pleasure to be very
jealously indulged. And she, she loved him simply, with the innermost
essence of her soul, loved him frankly, as a woman loves a man.... She
always wanted him, every day, every hour, at every pulse of her life.
Then she met him by chance, at Scheveningen, where she had gone
one evening with Amelie and Suzette. Then once again at a reception
at Mrs. Hoze's. He seemed shy with her; and a certain pride in her
kept her from asking him to call. Yes, something was changed in what
had been woven between them. But she suffered sorely, suffered also
because of that foolish pride, because she had not humbly begged him
to come to her. Was he not her god? Whatever he did was good.
So she did not see him for weeks and weeks. Life went on: each day
she had her little occupations, in her household, with her children;
Mrs. Hoze reproached her for her withdrawal from society and she
began to think more about her friends, to please Mrs. Hoze, who had
asked this of her. There were flashes in her memory; in those flashes
she saw the dinner-party, their conversations and walks, all her love
for him, all his reverence for her whom he called Madonna; their last
evening of light and ecstasy. Then she smiled; and the smile itself
beamed over her anguish, her anguish in that she no longer saw him,
in that she felt proud and cherished a little inward bitterness. Yet
all things must be well, as he wished them to be.
Oh, the evenings, the summer evenings, cooling after the warm days,
the evenings when she sat alone, staring out from her room, where
the onyx lamp burnt with a subdued flame, staring out of the open
windows at the trams which, with their tinkling bells, came and went to
Scheveningen, full, full of people! Waiting, the endless long waiting,
evening after evening in solitude, after the children had gone to
bed! Waiting, when she simply sat still, staring fixedly before
her, looking at the trams, the tedious, everlasting trams! Where
was her modulated joy of dreaming happiness? And where, where was
her radiant happiness? Where was her struggle within herself between
what she was and what he saw in her? This struggle no longer existed,
this struggle also had been overcome; she no longer felt the force
of passion; she only longed to see him come as he had always come,
as he no longer came. Why did he not come? Happiness palled; people
were talking about them.... It was not right that they should see
much of each other--he had said so the evening before that highest
happiness--not good for him and not good for her.
So she sat and thought; and great silent tears fell from her eyes,
for she knew that, though he remained away partly for his own sake,
it was above all for hers that he did not come. What had she not
said to him that evening on the bench in the Woods, when her arms
were about his neck! Oh, she should have been silent, she felt it
now! She should not have uttered her rapture, but have enjoyed it
secretly within herself; she should have let him utter himself: she
herself should have remained his Madonna. But she had been too full,
too happy; and in that over-brimming happiness she had been unable
to be other than true and clear as a bright mirror.
He had glanced into her and read her entirely: she knew that, she
was certain of it.
He knew now in what manner she loved him; she herself had revealed it
to him. But, at the same time, she had made known to him that this
was all past, that she was now what he wished her to be. And this
had been true then, clear at that time and true.... But now? Does
ecstasy endure only for one moment and did he know it? Did he know
that her soul's flight had reached its limit and must now descend
again to a commoner sphere? Did he know that she loved him again now,
quite ordinarily, with all her being, wholly and entirely, no longer
as widely as the heavens, only as widely as her arms could reach out
and embrace? And could he not return this love, this so petty love
of hers, and was that why he did not come to her?
2
Then she received his letter:
"Forgive me if I put off from day to day coming to see you; forgive
me if even to-day I cannot decide to come and if I write to you
instead. Forgive me if I even venture to ask you whether it may
not be necessary that we see each other no more. If I hurt you and
offend you, if I--which may God forbid--cause you pain, forgive me,
forgive me! Perhaps I procrastinated a little from indecision, but
much more because I considered that I had no other choice.
"There has been between our two lives, between our two souls, a
rare moment of happiness which was a special boon, a special grace
of heaven. Do you not think so too? Oh, if only I had the words to
tell you how grateful I am in my innermost soul for that happiness! If
later I ever look back upon my life, I shall always see that happiness
gleaming in between the ugliness and the blackness, like a star of
light. We received it as such, as a gift of light. And I venture to
ask you if that gift is not a thing for you and me to keep sacred?
"Can we do that if I continue to see you? You, yes, I have no doubt
of you: you will be strong to keep it sacred, our sacred happiness,
especially because you have already had your struggle, as you confided
to me on that sacred evening. But I, can I too be strong, especially
now that I know that you have been through the struggle? I doubt
myself, I doubt my own force; I am afraid of myself. There is cruelty
in me, a love of destruction, something of a savage. As a boy I took
pleasure in destroying beautiful things, in breaking and soiling
them. The other day, Jules brought me some roses to my room; in the
evening, as I sat alone, thinking of you and of our happiness--yes, at
that very moment--my fingers began to fumble with a rose whose petals
were loose; and, when I saw that one rose dispetalled, there came a
cruel frenzy within me to tear and destroy them all; and I rumpled
every one of them. I only give you a small instance, because I do
not wish to give you larger instances, from vanity, lest you should
know how bad I am. I am afraid of myself. If I saw you again and
again and yet again, what should I begin to feel and think and wish,
unconsciously? Which would be the stronger, my soul or the beast that
is in me? Forgive me for laying bare my dread before you and do not
despise me for it. Up to the present I have not attempted a struggle,
in the sacred world of our happiness. I saw you, I saw you often before
I knew you; I guessed you as you were; I was permitted to speak to you;
it was given me to love you with my soul alone: I beseech you, let it
remain so. Let me continue to keep my happiness like this, to keep it
sacred, a thousand times sacred. I think it worth while to have lived,
now that I have known that: happiness, the highest. And I am afraid of
the struggle which would probably come and pollute that sacred thing.
"Will you believe me when I swear to you that I have reflected deeply
on all this? Will you believe me when I swear to you that I suffer at
the thought of never being permitted to see you again? And, above all,
will you forgive me when I swear to you that I am acting in this way
because I think that I am doing right? Oh, I am grateful to you and
I love you as a soul of light alone, of nothing but light!
"Perhaps I am wrong to send you this letter. I do not know. Perhaps
presently I will tear up what I have written...."
Yet he had sent her the letter.
There was great bitterness within her. She had struggled once,
had conquered herself and, in a sacred moment, had confessed both
struggle and conquest; she knew that fate had compelled her to do so;
she now knew what she would lose through her confession. For a short
moment, a single evening perhaps, she had been worthy of her god and
his equal. Now she was so no longer; for this reason also she felt
bitter. And she felt bitterest of all because the thought dared to
rise within her:
"A god! Is he a god? Is a god afraid of the struggle?"
Then her threefold bitterness changed to despair, black despair, a
night which her eyes sought to penetrate in order to see something
where they saw nothing, nothing; and she moaned low and wrung her
hands, sinking into a heap before the window and staring at the trams
which, with the tinkling of their bells, ran pitilessly to and fro.