And in him, too, there was melancholy: the melancholy that he had to lead her through the darkness, by invisible paths, by rows of invisible tree-trunks which might graze and wound her; that he had to lead her through a dark wood, through a black sea, through an ink-dark sphere, returning from a heaven where all had been light and all happiness, without melancholy, or any darkness.
And so they were silent in their melancholy until they reached the high road, the old Scheveningen Road.
They approached the villa. A tram went by; two or three people passed on foot; it was a fine evening. He brought her back and waited until the door opened to his ring. The door remained unopened; meantime he pressed her hand tightly, and involuntarily he hurt her a little. Greta had no doubt fallen asleep.
“Ring again, would you?”
He rang again, louder; after a moment the door opened. She gave him her hand for a second time, with a smile.
“Goodnight, Mevrouw,” he said, taking her fingers respectfully, and raising his hat.
Now, now she could hear the sound of his voice, the note in it of melancholy …
CHAPTER V
She knew, the next day, when she sat alone 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 holy sun-centre. They had done that …
Listless she sat, 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. He was much too happy with her, it was too much for him. He looked upon her society as a rare pleasure to be very jealously indulged in. And she, she loved him simply, with the devoutest 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, one evening when she went down there with Amélie and Suzette. Then once again at a reception at Mrs Hoze’s. He seemed shy with her, and a certain pride in her forbade her asking him to call. Yes, some change had come over what had been woven between them. But she suffered sorely, because of that foolish pride, because she had not humbly begged him to come to her. But was he not her idol? What he did was good.
So she did not see him for weeks, weeks. Life went on; each day she had her little occupations, in her household, with her children; Mrs Hoze reproached her for her sequestration from society, and she began to think more about her friends, to please Mrs Hoze. There were vistas in her memory; in those vistas she saw the dinner-party, their conversations and walks, all their love, all his aspiration to her he called madonna; their last evening of light and ecstasy. Then she smiled, and the smile itself beamed over her anguish; her anguish that she no longer saw him, that she felt proud and had bitterness within her. Yet all things must be well, as he wished them.
Oh, the evenings, the summer evenings, cooling after the warm days, the evenings when she sat alone, peering out from her room, where the onyx lamp burnt with a half flame, peering out of the open windows at the trams which, tinkling their 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 former evenness of dreaming happiness? And where, where was her supreme happiness? Where was her struggle within herself between what she was and what he thought she was? This struggle no longer existed; this had been overcome; she no longer felt the force of passion; she only longed for him as he had always come, as he now no longer came. Why did he not come? Happiness palled, people spoke about them … It was not right that they should see so much of one another – 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, quiet tears fell from her eyes, for she knew that although he remained away partly on his own account, it was above all on hers that he did not come to her. 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 knew that 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 overbrimming of happiness she had been unable to be other than true and clear as a bright mirror. He had glanced into her and comprehended her entirely: she knew that, she was certain of that.
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 all that was past, that now she was what he wished her to be. And this had been true at that moment, clear at that moment, and true. But now? Does ecstasy endure only for one moment then, 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 stretch out and embrace? And could he not return her this love, so petty, and was that why he did not come to her?
II
Then she received his letter:
“Forgive me that I put off from day to day coming to see you; forgive me that even today I cannot decide to do so, and that 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 – God spare me – cause you to suffer, forgive me, forgive me. Perhaps I procrastinated a little from indecision, but much more because I thought 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 blessedness, a special grace. Do you not think so too? Oh, if only I had words to tell you how thankful I am in my innermost soul for that happiness. If later I ever look back upon my life, I shall always continue to see that happiness gleaming in between the ugliness and the blackness – a star of light. We received it as such – a gift of light. And I venture to ask you if that gift is not a thing to be kept sacred?
“Shall we be able to do so if I continue to see you? You, yes, I have no doubt of you; you will be strong to keep it sacred, our blessed happiness, especially as you have already done battle, as you confided to me, that holy evening. But I, shall I too be able to be strong, especially now that I know that you have gone through the struggle? I doubt myself, I doubt my own force; I am afraid of myself. There is cruelty in me, the love of destruction, something of the 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 upon you and upon 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 dis-petalled there came a rage within me to tear and destroy them all, and I rumpled every one of them. I only give you small instances, I do not wish to give a larger instance, from vanity, lest you should know how bad I am. I am afraid of myself. If I saw you again, and again, and again, what should I begin to feel and think and wish, unconsciously? Which would be the stronger within me, my soul or the beast that is in me?
“Forgive me that I lay bare my dread before you, and do not despise me for it. Up to now I have not done battle in the blessed world of our happiness. I saw you, I saw you often before I knew you; I imagined you as you were; I was allowed 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 guard 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. I am afraid of the battle which would probably come and pollute that sacred thing.