“No, no,” she persisted. “Don’t think that. Don’t do it. Neither the one nor the other. Really, it is all wrong. Pure joy, unbridled joy, even the highest, is not good. In that way you force your life. When you speak so, I am afraid for your sake. Try to recover moderation. You have so many possibilities of being happy.”
“Oh, yes!...”
“Yes, but what I mean is that you must not be fanatical. And ... and also, for the love of God, don’t run quite so madly after pleasure.”
He looked up at her; he saw her beseeching him with her eyes, with the expression of her face, with her whole attitude, as she stood bending slightly forward. He saw her beseeching him, even as he heard her; and then he knew that she loved him. A feeling of bright rapture came upon him, as though something high were descending upon him to guide him. He did not stir—he felt her hand thrilling at his shoulder—afraid lest with the smallest movement he should drive that rapture away. It did not occur to him for a moment to speak a word of tenderness to her or to take her in his arms and press her to him: she was so profoundly transfigured in his eyes that any such profane desire remained far removed from him. And yet he felt at that moment that he loved her, but as he had never yet loved any one before, so completely and exclusively, with the noblest elements that lie hidden away in the soul, often unknown even to itself. He felt that he loved her with new-born feelings of frank youth and fresh vigour and pure unselfishness. And it seemed to him that it was all a dream of something which did not exist, a dream lightly woven about him, a web of sunbeams.
“Madonna!” he whispered. “Forgive me....”
“Promise then....”
“Willingly, but I shall not be able to keep my promise. I am weak....”
“No.”
“Ah, I am! But I give you my promise; and I promise also to try my utmost to keep it. Will you forgive me now?”
She nodded to him; her smile fell on him like a ray of sunlight. Then she went to the child, took it in her arms and brought it to Quaerts: