“I am at your service,” replied Georg, and went out into the street with the young wife.
For a time both walked side by side in silence, each fancying he or she could hear the beating of the other’s heart. At last Georg, drawing a long breath, said:
“Three long, long months have passed since my arrival here. Have I been brave, Maria?”
“Yes, Georg.”
“But you cannot imagine what it has cost me to fetter this poor heart, stifle my words, and blind my eyes. Maria, it must once be said—”
“Never, never,” she interrupted in a tone of earnest entreaty. “I know that you have struggled honestly, do not rob yourself of the victory now.”
“Oh! hear me, Maria, this once hear me.”
“What will it avail, if you oppress my soul with ardent words? I must not hear from any man that he loves me, and what I must not hear, you must not speak.”
“Must not?” he asked in a tone of gentle reproach, then in a gloomy, bitter mood, continued: “You are right, perfectly right. Even speech is denied me. So life may run on like a leaden stream, and everything that grows and blossoms on its banks remain scentless and grey. The golden sunshine has hidden itself behind a mist, joy lies fainting in my heart, and all that once pleased me has grown stale and charmless. Do you recognize the happy youth of former days?”
“Seek cheerfulness again, seek it for my sake.”