“I sought an occupation at the Hague. I travelled a good deal, and yet I felt myself unhappy. It is all my own fault, you see; I have thrown away my own happiness.”
She began to cry, her head resting in her hands.
“Tell me, cannot I do something for you?” he insisted.
“Nothing at all, thank you. No one can do anything for me.”
“But it is really not right to bury oneself in one’s grief, and to think of nothing else. You may not do so. You must rouse yourself from your sorrows. Every one has his troubles. Come, promise me that in future you will think otherwise.”
“I cannot,” she sobbed, “I am so weak. I am broken down, broken down utterly.”
In her words there sounded such a hopelessness that he did not know what to say, but he brimmed over with pity—a pity that was mingled with despair at the thought that he could do nothing for her—and he would solace and comfort her, whatever it might cost.
“No,” said he with determination, “you are not broken down—that is a mere idea! You are young, and have a life before you. Break with your past, forget it completely.”
“Oh! how can I do that?” she sobbed. “How is it possible?”
He knew he was wrong himself. He knew that the sorrowful memories of the past were all but indelible.