Four Phases of Love

by Paul Heyse

"No," said the girl, in a low voice. How could she confess that the description of her officious tale-bearer brought a picture vividly before her mind, which had once before caused her an anxious day? The day after Theodore had told her about the dance in the osteria, she had walked arm-in-arm with him through the town. From out a lowly window looked a lovely face, which she pointed out to her friend. He had been unable to repress a sudden start, and the girl, too, seemed to recognize him. "It is the girl from Albano of last night," he said, and then turned the conversation suddenly to another subject. But the face had impressed itself feature by feature upon her memory.

"Do not be down-hearted, my child," said Miss Betsy, passing her hand over Mary's hair, "and don't fret. Human beings, and men in particular, are not angels. Dear me! who has not had to bear the like. Do you talk seriously to him, and all will come right. Good night, my child; I will come and see you to-morrow. Heaven bless you!"

She left hastily. Without she met Theodore, who nearly ran against her. "Pardon me," he said; "a bridegroom who is hastening to his bride may be excused for being in a hurry. Is it not so, dear Miss Betsy?" He did not remark the cold expression with which she greeted him. "You will find Mary----indeed she was not expecting you." He greeted her hastily again, and rushed into the room.

For the first time he found her alone, standing at the window, in the darkness, her hair loosened about her face. In his heart he fervently blessed the good fortune that seemed so willing to pave the way for a perfect reconciliation. Gently he approached her. She did not move. He passed his arm around her waist, and called her by her name. She started and turned round, and he saw her eyes, gleaming wet with tears. "You are weeping, Mary, my own love--you are weeping," he cried, and would have pressed her closer to his heart. She resisted him without speaking. She closed her eyes and repressed her tears, and shook her head. "No!" she said, at last, "I am not weeping. It is passed! It is well!"

He took a turn up and down the room. He knew not how it happened, but in one moment all his joyousness had gone. "What is the grief." he said, at last, after a pause, "which I may not know! If you but knew with what a feeling of happiness I stepped over this threshold, what a gleam of joy passed through me at finding you at last alone! And now you are so distant, and more reserved than under all the restraints of society. You know not what amount of sorrow you heap upon both of us."

She remained silent, and kept her eyes firmly closed. She compared within herself the words he spoke, with those that had but just before so chilled her heart, his glances with those which her old friend had described, and which had been directed to another. She felt something within her which would gladly have pleaded for him, but too many voices cried against it. She had listened to Miss Betsy's tale as if it related neither to herself nor to him, like something incomprehensible, which she possessed no power of appreciating. But yet it was the last straw upon the burden, which she had borne for weeks past. Theodore deceived himself when he fancied that he alone had suffered from his miserable overexcited dreamings. That he was altered, that the first glow of love had paled, that his heart was no longer sure of itself had not escaped Mary's penetration. Whilst he was present she controlled herself for his sake, for the world she would not have let him see that she doubted him; and when she was alone she blamed herself, and said that she had seen falsely, and seen more than existed; that a man had thoughts sometimes that absorbed him, and followed him even into the presence of his love. And she knew too that the restraint her mother imposed annoyed him more day by day. And yet just at this moment a feeling of the deepest agony burst through all, and closed her lips and heart at the very time when words were so much wanted. She hoped for nothing from questionings, and of reproaches she would not suffer herself to think. She felt no acute pain, but as if paralyzed, so that she felt not that he was near her, and yet would have received a deathblow had he left her.

So they stood in miserable self-deception opposite each other. He had already taken his hat, intending to put an end to this unbearable situation, when her mother entered. He must remain. Lights were brought. The women seated themselves, whilst he stood, answering in monosyllables, and cursing a thousand times both himself and his miserable fate. And, as everything disagreeable invariably heaps itself together at such moments, the mother began to talk of Edward's monument. He could not conceal that he had seen it that day for the first time, and was obliged to describe the feeling and execution of the work.

He roused himself a little. "It is incomparable," he said; "I cannot express how it affected me. Edward himself, living but at the same time, glorified. And most marvellous, revealed through some strange inspiration of art, his very attitude, that peculiar, kindly way he had of bending his head forward, a peculiarity of which I never said a word to Bianchi."

"What you tell us may be perfectly true, dearest Theodore," said the mother, after some reflection; "I must confess, however, that the additional figures, as you describe them, are so utterly repugnant to me, that I feel that I could never pray at my son's grave whilst the stone presented to me these strange fabulous forms, which horrify instead of elevating the mind."

"They are symbols, mother, symbols of the most exquisite feelings, not foreign to your own when once you appreciate their meaning. Would you not have been affected had an Italian poet written a poem on Edward in his own language, even though it was not your own mother tongue?"