been but narrow and forlorn – her children gone from her, her loneliness wrapping her about like a night – and now, now she saw before her a long road, a wide horizon, glittering the whole way in light; nothing but light …
That
was
, all that
was
! It was no fine poet’s dream; it existed, it gleamed in her heart like a sacred jewel, like a mystic rose with stamina of light! A freshness as of dew fell over her, over her whole life; over the life of her senses; over the life of outward appearances; over the life of her soul; over the life of the truth indwelling. The world was new, fresh with young dew, the very Eden of Genesis, and her soul was a soul of newness, born anew in a metempsychosis of greater perfection, of closer approach to the ideal, that distant Goal – there, far away, hidden like a god in the sanctity of its ecstasy of light, in the radiance of its own being.
V
Cecile did not go out for a few days; she saw nobody. One morning she received a note; it ran:
“ MEVROUW ,
“I do not know if you were offended at my mystical utterances. I cannot recall distinctly what I said, but I remember that you told me that I was going too far. I hope you have not taken my indiscretion amiss. It would be a great pleasure to me to come to see you. May I hope that you will permit me to call on you this afternoon?
“With most respectful regards,
“ QUAERERTS .”
As the bearer was waiting for a reply, she responded:
“ DEAR SIR,
“I shall be pleased to see you this afternoon.
“ CECILE VAN EVEN .”
When she was left alone she read the note over and over again; she looked at the paper with a smile, looked at the handwriting.
“How strange,” she thought. “This note, and everything that happens. How strange everything is!”
She remained dreaming a long time, with the note in her hand. Then she carefully folded it up, rose, walked up and down the room, sought in a bowl full of visiting cards, taking out two which she looked at for a long time. “Quaerts …” The name sounded differently from before … How strange it all was! And finally she locked away the letter and the two cards in a little empty drawer of her writing-table.
She stayed at home, and sent the children out with the nurse. She hoped that no one else would call, neither Mrs Hoze nor the Van Attemas. And staring before her she reflected a long, long time. There was so much she did not understand: properly speaking she understood nothing. As far as she was concerned, she had fallen in love; there was no analysing that, it must simply be accepted. But he, what did he feel, what were his emotions?
Her earlier antipathy? Sport … he was fond of sport ,she remembered … His visit, which was an impertinence … He seemed to wish now to atone, not to call again without her permission. His mystical conversation at the dinner-party … And Mrs Hijdrecht …
“How strange he is,” she reflected. “I cannot understand him; but I love him, I cannot help it. Love, love … how strange that it should exist! I never realised that it existed! I am no longer myself: I am becoming someone else? Why does he wish to see me? … And how singular: I have been married, I have two children!I feel just as if I had none. And yet, I am so fond of my little boys! But the other thing is so beautiful, so bright, so transparent, as if that alone were truth. Perhaps love is the only truths … It is as if everything in and about me were turning to crystal!”
She looked around her, surprised and troubled that her surroundings should have remained the same: the rosewood furniture, the folds of the curtains, the withered landscape of the Scheveningen Road outside. But it snowed, still and softly, with great slow flakes which fell heavily, as if they would purify the world. The snow was fresh and new, but yet the snow was not real nature to her, who always saw her distant landscape quivering in pure incandescence of light.
At four o’clock he came.
That
was
, all that
was
! It was no fine poet’s dream; it existed, it gleamed in her heart like a sacred jewel, like a mystic rose with stamina of light! A freshness as of dew fell over her, over her whole life; over the life of her senses; over the life of outward appearances; over the life of her soul; over the life of the truth indwelling. The world was new, fresh with young dew, the very Eden of Genesis, and her soul was a soul of newness, born anew in a metempsychosis of greater perfection, of closer approach to the ideal, that distant Goal – there, far away, hidden like a god in the sanctity of its ecstasy of light, in the radiance of its own being.
V
Cecile did not go out for a few days; she saw nobody. One morning she received a note; it ran:
“ MEVROUW ,
“I do not know if you were offended at my mystical utterances. I cannot recall distinctly what I said, but I remember that you told me that I was going too far. I hope you have not taken my indiscretion amiss. It would be a great pleasure to me to come to see you. May I hope that you will permit me to call on you this afternoon?
“With most respectful regards,
“ QUAERERTS .”
As the bearer was waiting for a reply, she responded:
“ DEAR SIR,
“I shall be pleased to see you this afternoon.
“ CECILE VAN EVEN .”
When she was left alone she read the note over and over again; she looked at the paper with a smile, looked at the handwriting.
“How strange,” she thought. “This note, and everything that happens. How strange everything is!”
She remained dreaming a long time, with the note in her hand. Then she carefully folded it up, rose, walked up and down the room, sought in a bowl full of visiting cards, taking out two which she looked at for a long time. “Quaerts …” The name sounded differently from before … How strange it all was! And finally she locked away the letter and the two cards in a little empty drawer of her writing-table.
She stayed at home, and sent the children out with the nurse. She hoped that no one else would call, neither Mrs Hoze nor the Van Attemas. And staring before her she reflected a long, long time. There was so much she did not understand: properly speaking she understood nothing. As far as she was concerned, she had fallen in love; there was no analysing that, it must simply be accepted. But he, what did he feel, what were his emotions?
Her earlier antipathy? Sport … he was fond of sport ,she remembered … His visit, which was an impertinence … He seemed to wish now to atone, not to call again without her permission. His mystical conversation at the dinner-party … And Mrs Hijdrecht …
“How strange he is,” she reflected. “I cannot understand him; but I love him, I cannot help it. Love, love … how strange that it should exist! I never realised that it existed! I am no longer myself: I am becoming someone else? Why does he wish to see me? … And how singular: I have been married, I have two children!I feel just as if I had none. And yet, I am so fond of my little boys! But the other thing is so beautiful, so bright, so transparent, as if that alone were truth. Perhaps love is the only truths … It is as if everything in and about me were turning to crystal!”
She looked around her, surprised and troubled that her surroundings should have remained the same: the rosewood furniture, the folds of the curtains, the withered landscape of the Scheveningen Road outside. But it snowed, still and softly, with great slow flakes which fell heavily, as if they would purify the world. The snow was fresh and new, but yet the snow was not real nature to her, who always saw her distant landscape quivering in pure incandescence of light.
At four o’clock he came.
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