“What do words matter? Slava, slava, under the moon! Words are but symbols of needs––your need and Ilse’s and mine––and Jack’s and Vanya’s––and the master-word differs as differ our several needs. And if I say Christ and Buddha and I are one, let me so 339 believe, if that be my need. Or if, from some high minarette, I lift my voice proclaiming the unity of God!––or if I confess the Trinity!––or if, for me, the god-fire smoulders only within my own accepted soul––what does it matter? Slava, slava––the word and the need spell Love––whatever the deed, Palla––my Palla!––whatever the deed, and despite it.”
As they came, together, to Palla’s house and entered the empty drawing-room, Ilse said:
“In mysticism there seems to be no reasoning––nothing definite save only an occult and overwhelming restlessness.... Marya may take the veil ... or nurse lepers ... or she may become a famous courtesan.... I do not mean it cruelly. But, in the mystic, the spiritual, the intellectual and the physical seem to be interchangeable, and become gradually indistinguishable.”
“That is a frightful analysis,” murmured Palla. A little shiver passed over her and she laid the rosebud against her lips.
Ilse said: “Marya is right: love is the world’s overwhelming need. The way to love is to serve; and if we serve we must renounce something.”
They locked arms and began to pace the empty room.
“What should I renounce?” asked Palla faintly.
Ilse smiled that wise, wholesome smile of hers:
“Suppose you renounce your own omniscience, darling,” she suggested.