“We will live together,” she continued, “share our daily life, so that
we may find out whether we are really fitted for each other. _I grant
you all the rights of a husband, of a lover, of a friend._ Are you
satisfied?”
“I suppose, I’ll have to be?”
“You don’t have to.”
“Well then, I want to—”
“Splendid. That is how a man speaks. Here is my hand.”
* * * * *
For ten days I have been with her every hour, except at night. All the
time I was allowed to look into her eyes, hold her hands, listen to
what she said, accompany her wherever she went.
My love seems to me like a deep, bottomless abyss, into which I subside
deeper and deeper. There is nothing now which could save me from it.
This afternoon we were resting on the meadow at the foot of the
Venus-statue. I plucked flowers and tossed them into her lap; she wound
them into wreaths with which we adorned our goddess.
Suddenly Wanda looked at me so strangely that my senses became confused
and passion swept over my head like a conflagration. Losing command
over myself, I threw my arms about her and clung to her lips, and
she—she drew me close to her heaving breast.
“Are you angry?” I then asked her.
“I am never angry at anything that is natural—” she replied, “but _I_
am afraid you suffer.”
“Oh, I am suffering frightfully.”
“Poor friend!” she brushed my disordered hair back from my fore-head.
“I hope it isn’t through any fault of mine.”
“No—” I replied,—“and yet my love for you has become a sort of madness.
The thought that I might lose you, perhaps actually lose you, torments
me day and night.”
“But you don’t yet possess me,” said Wanda, and again she looked at me
with that vibrant, consuming expression, which had already once before
carried me away. Then she rose, and with her small transparent hands
placed a wreath of blue anemones upon the ringletted white head of
Venus. Half against my will I threw my arm around her body.
“I can no longer live without you, oh wonderful woman,” I said.
“Believe me, believe only this once, that this time it is not a phrase,
not a thing of dreams. I feel deep down in my innermost soul, that my
life belongs inseparably with yours. If you leave me, I shall perish,
go to pieces.”
“That will hardly be necessary, for I love you,” she took hold of my
chin, “you foolish man!”
“But you will be mine only under conditions, while I belong to you
unconditionally—”
“That isn’t wise, Severin,” she replied almost with a start. “Don’t you
know me yet, do you absolutely refuse to know me? I am good when I am
treated seriously and reasonably, but when you abandon yourself too
absolutely to me, I grow arrogant—”
“So be it, be arrogant, be despotic,” I cried in the fulness of
exaltation, “only be mine, mine forever.” I lay at her feet, embracing
her knees.
“Things will end badly, my friend,” she said soberly, without moving.
“It shall never end,” I cried excitedly, almost violently. “Only death
shall part us. If you cannot be mine, all mine and for always, then _I
want to be your slave_, serve you, suffer everything from you, if only
you won’t drive me away.”
“Calm yourself,” she said, bending down and kissing my forehead, “I am
really very fond of you, but your way is not the way to win and hold
me.”
“I want to do everything, absolutely everything, that you want, only
not to lose you,” I cried, “only not that, I cannot bear the thought.”
“Do get up.”