ask it,” Cecile went on jestingly.
“I dare not,” he said again. “I should not know how to put my request into words.”
She looked at him earnestly, into his eyes gazing steadily upon her, and then she said:
“I know what you want to ask me, but I will not say it.
You
must do that: so seek your words.”
“If you know, will you permit me then to say it?”
“Yes, for if my surmise is correct, it is nothing that you may not ask.”
“And yet it would be a great favour … But let me warn you beforehand that I look upon myself as someone of a much lower order than you.”
A shadow passed across her face, her mouth had a little contraction of pain, and she pressed him, a little unnerved:
“I beg you, ask. Just ask me simply.”
“It is a wish, then, that sympathy were sealed between you and me. Would you allow me to come to you when I am unhappy? I always feel so happy in your presence, so soothed, so different from the state of ordinary life, for with you I live only my better, my true self – you know what I mean.”
Everything melted again within her into weakness and heaviness; he placed her upon too high a pedestal; she was happy, because of what he asked her, but sad that he felt himself less than she.
“Very well,” she said, nevertheless, with a clear voice. “It is as you wish.”
And she gave him her hand, her beautiful, long, white hand, where on one white finger gleamed the sparks of jewels, white and blue. A moment, very reverently, he pressed her finger-tips between his own.
“Thank you,” he said in a hushed voice, a voice that was a little broken.
“Are you often unhappy?” asked Cecile.
“Always …” he replied, almost humbly, and as though embarrassed at having to confess it. “I do not know what it means, only that it has always been so. And yet from my childhood I have enjoyed much that people call happiness. But yet, yet … I suffer through myself. It is I who do myself the most hurt. And after that the world … and I must always hide myself. To the world I only show the individual who rides and fences and hunts, who goes into society and is dangerous for young married women …”
He laughed with his bad, low laugh, looking aslant into her eyes; she remained calmly gazing at him.
“Beyond that I give them nothing. I hate them; I have nothing in common with them, thank God!”
“You are too proud,” said Cecile. “Each of those people has his own sorrow, just as you have; the one suffers a little more coarsely; but they all suffer. And in that they all resemble yourself.”
“Each taken by himself, perhaps! But that is not how I take them; I take them in the lump, and I hate them. Do not you?”
“No,” she said calmly. “I do not believe I am capable of hating.”
“You are strong within yourself. You are sufficient to yourself.”
“No, no, not that, really not; but you … you are unjust towards the world.”
“Possibly: why does it always give me pain? Alone with you I forget that it exists, the outside world. Do you understand now why I was so sorry to see you at Mrs Hoze’s? You seemed to me to have lowered yourself. And it was because … because of this peculiarity I saw in you that I did not seek your acquaintance earlier. This acquaintance was fatally bound to come, and so I waited …”
Fate, what would it bring her? thought Cecile. But she could not think deeply; she seemed to herself to be dreaming of beautiful and subtle things which did not exist for other people, which only floated between them two.
There was no longer need to look upon them as illusions, it was as if she had overtaken the future! One short moment only did this endure as happiness; then again she felt pain, on account of his reverence.
VI
He was gone and she was alone, waiting for the children. She neglected to ring for the lamp to be lighted, and the twilight of the late afternoon darkened in the room. She sat motionless, and looked out before her at the
“I dare not,” he said again. “I should not know how to put my request into words.”
She looked at him earnestly, into his eyes gazing steadily upon her, and then she said:
“I know what you want to ask me, but I will not say it.
You
must do that: so seek your words.”
“If you know, will you permit me then to say it?”
“Yes, for if my surmise is correct, it is nothing that you may not ask.”
“And yet it would be a great favour … But let me warn you beforehand that I look upon myself as someone of a much lower order than you.”
A shadow passed across her face, her mouth had a little contraction of pain, and she pressed him, a little unnerved:
“I beg you, ask. Just ask me simply.”
“It is a wish, then, that sympathy were sealed between you and me. Would you allow me to come to you when I am unhappy? I always feel so happy in your presence, so soothed, so different from the state of ordinary life, for with you I live only my better, my true self – you know what I mean.”
Everything melted again within her into weakness and heaviness; he placed her upon too high a pedestal; she was happy, because of what he asked her, but sad that he felt himself less than she.
“Very well,” she said, nevertheless, with a clear voice. “It is as you wish.”
And she gave him her hand, her beautiful, long, white hand, where on one white finger gleamed the sparks of jewels, white and blue. A moment, very reverently, he pressed her finger-tips between his own.
“Thank you,” he said in a hushed voice, a voice that was a little broken.
“Are you often unhappy?” asked Cecile.
“Always …” he replied, almost humbly, and as though embarrassed at having to confess it. “I do not know what it means, only that it has always been so. And yet from my childhood I have enjoyed much that people call happiness. But yet, yet … I suffer through myself. It is I who do myself the most hurt. And after that the world … and I must always hide myself. To the world I only show the individual who rides and fences and hunts, who goes into society and is dangerous for young married women …”
He laughed with his bad, low laugh, looking aslant into her eyes; she remained calmly gazing at him.
“Beyond that I give them nothing. I hate them; I have nothing in common with them, thank God!”
“You are too proud,” said Cecile. “Each of those people has his own sorrow, just as you have; the one suffers a little more coarsely; but they all suffer. And in that they all resemble yourself.”
“Each taken by himself, perhaps! But that is not how I take them; I take them in the lump, and I hate them. Do not you?”
“No,” she said calmly. “I do not believe I am capable of hating.”
“You are strong within yourself. You are sufficient to yourself.”
“No, no, not that, really not; but you … you are unjust towards the world.”
“Possibly: why does it always give me pain? Alone with you I forget that it exists, the outside world. Do you understand now why I was so sorry to see you at Mrs Hoze’s? You seemed to me to have lowered yourself. And it was because … because of this peculiarity I saw in you that I did not seek your acquaintance earlier. This acquaintance was fatally bound to come, and so I waited …”
Fate, what would it bring her? thought Cecile. But she could not think deeply; she seemed to herself to be dreaming of beautiful and subtle things which did not exist for other people, which only floated between them two.
There was no longer need to look upon them as illusions, it was as if she had overtaken the future! One short moment only did this endure as happiness; then again she felt pain, on account of his reverence.
VI
He was gone and she was alone, waiting for the children. She neglected to ring for the lamp to be lighted, and the twilight of the late afternoon darkened in the room. She sat motionless, and looked out before her at the
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