'She will ultimately be the mistress of Othmar, or of the world,' he thought. 'I prefer the world. I will do what I can that she shall give herself to it instead of to him. To throwaway genius on one human life is to take a planet out of the skies and bury it like a diamond between two human breasts.'
It was in pursuance of the same belief in what was best for her which had made him wish her the heart of Rachel, not the heart of Desclée. Rosselin had surveyed human nature in all its aspects, and his survey of it had convinced him of one fact, that all the higher and more delicate qualities of the soul are but so much penalty-weight to carry in the race of life. The weight is of gold without alloy; but, nevertheless, whoso carries it loses the race.
He with his fine penetration perceived that in her was that greater nature which will lose itself in a great love, and throw away all ambition and all possessions, as though they were but a dead leaf or a broken crust. In a little while such a love, now strong in her, but scarcely conscious of itself, would become wholly conscious, and would take its empire over her whole existence. He wished to oppose to it the only rival with any chance of success—the world.
CHAPTER XLII.
A few days later Rosselin, going to Les Hameaux for his usual recitation with her, found Damaris feverish, restless and despondent. She had lost, for the time at least, that buoyancy and enthusiasm which were the most prominent qualities of her nature; she seemed to him listless and taciturn, her eyes had a brooding pain in them, and she took little interest in the studies of the day.
Rosselin heard from the woman of the house that Othmar had been there that week.
'It will end as such things always end,' he thought impatiently. 'All the fine sentiments on his side will not enable him to cast nature out of him; and to her, of course, he must seem an angel from another world. He has stood between her and all the misery of life. A dog which he had saved in such a way would adore him. He is a man, too, made to charm a poetic nature, because there is so much of the poet in him, and a melancholy which is in pathetic contrast with his wealth and power. One can always understand that women love Othmar; what one cannot understand is that his wife cares for him so little. And yet, why should I say so? All the world over one sees familiarity bring indifference, security create neglect.'
Aloud he said, with anger to her:
'What has come to you? If you do not mean to become an artist, and a great artist, adieu! My hours are not likely to be so many on earth that I can afford to waste them. What ails you? Your voice is dull; your face is no mirror for your words. You are not listening. If you have tame moments like this, do not dream of ever moving the world. It is a block of stone; you cannot stir it without putting out all your strength. And even then it will roll back and roll on to you if you relax your efforts. If you give yourself to art you may be great in it, I think; but if you love anything—any person—better than art, do not touch it. Go, and be an ordinary woman like the rest.'