Ecstasy (11 page)

“Yes, but now we are no longer,” she said, smiling; and her eyes, grown big, looked into the darkness that was Light.

“Once we were human, suffering and desiring, in a world where certainly much was beautiful, but much also was ugly.”

“Why speak of that now?” she asked, and her voice sounded to herself as coming from very far and low beneath her.

“I remembered it …”

“I wish to forget it.”

“Then I will also. But may I thank you in human speech that you have lifted me above humanity?”

“Have I done so?”

“Yes; may I thank you for that … on my knees?”

He knelt down and reverently took her hands. He could just distinguish the silhouette of her figure, still,
seated motionless upon the bench; above them was a pearl-grey twilight of stars, between the black boughs. She felt her hands in his, and his mouth, a kiss, upon her hand. Gently she released herself; and then, with a great soul of modesty, full of desireless happiness, she very gently bent her arms about his neck, took his head against her, and kissed his forehead.

“And I, I thank you too!” she whispered, rapturously.

He was still, and she held him fast in her embrace.

“I thank you,” she said, “that you have taught me this and how to be happy as we are, and not otherwise. You see, when I still lived, and was human, a woman, I thought I had already lived before I met you, for I had had a husband, and children of whom I was very fond. But from you I first learnt to live, to live without egoism and without desire; I learnt that from you this evening or … this day, which is it? You have given me life, and happiness, and everything. And I thank you, I thank you! You see, you are so great and so strong and so clear, and you have borne me towards your own Happiness, which should also be mine, but it was so far above me that without you I should never have attained it! For there was a barrier for me which did not exist for you. You see, when I was still human,” – and she laughed, clasping him more tightly – “I had a sister, and she too felt there was a barrier between her happiness and herself; and she felt she could not surmount this barrier, and was so unhappy because of
it that she feared lest she should go mad. But I, I do not know: I dreamed, I thought, I hoped, I waited, oh! I waited, and then you came, and you made me understand at once that you could be no man, no husband for me, but that you could be more for me: my angel, O my deliverer, who should take me in his arms and bear me up over the barrier into his own heaven, where he himself was master, and make me his queen. Oh, I thank you, I thank you! I do not know how to thank you; I can only say that I love you, that I adore you, that I lay myself at your feet. Remain so, and let me adore you, while you kneel where you are. I may adore you, may I not, while you yourself kneel? You see, I too must confess, as you used to do,” she continued, for now she could not but confess. “I have not always been straightforward with you; I have sometimes pretended to be the madonna, knowing all the time I was but an ordinary woman, a woman who frankly loved you. But I deceived you for you own happiness, did I not? You wished me so, you were happy when I was so and not otherwise.

“And now, now too you must forgive me, because now I need no longer pretend, because that is past and gone away, because I myself have died away from myself, because now I am no longer a woman, no longer human for myself, but only what you wish me to be: a madonna and your creature, an atom of your own essence and divinity. Do you then forgive me the past? … May I
thank you for my happiness, for my heaven, my light, O my master, for my joy, my great, my immeasurably great joy?”

He rose and sat by her, taking her gently in his arms.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder in a giddiness of light. “And you?”

“Yes,” he answered, and he asked again: “And do you desire … nothing more?”

“Nothing!” she stammered. “I want nothing but this, nothing but what is mine, oh, nothing, nothing more!”

“Swear it to me then … by something sacred!”

“I swear it to you … by yourself!”

He pressed her head to his shoulder again. He smiled, and she did not see that there was melancholy in his laugh, for she was blind with light.

They were long silent, sitting there. She knew she had said many things but she no longer knew what. About her she saw that it was dark, with only that pearl-grey twilight of stars above their heads, between the black boughs. She felt that she lay with her head on his shoulder; she heard his breath. A sort of chill ran down her shoulders, notwithstanding the warmth of his embrace; she drew the lace closer about her throat, and felt that the bench on which they sat was moist with dew.

“I thank you, I love you so, you make me so happy,” she repeated.

He was silent; he pressed her to him very gently, with simple tenderness. Her last words still sounded in her ears after she had spoken them. Then she was bound to acknowledge to herself that they had not been spontaneous, like all that she had told him before, as he lay kneeling before her with his head at her breast. She had spoken them to break the silence: formerly that silence had never troubled her, why should it now?

“Come!” he said gently, and even yet she did not hear the melancholy in his voice, in this single word.

They rose, and walked on. It came to him that it was late, that they must return by the same path; beyond that his thought was sad with things he could not have
uttered; a poor twilight had come about him after the blinding Light of their heaven of just before. He had to be cautious: it was very dark, and he could barely see the path, hesitating, very pale at their feet; they brushed the trunks of the trees as they passed.

“I can see nothing,” said Cecile, laughing. “Can you see the way?”

“Rely upon me; I can see quite well in the dark,” he replied. “I am lynx-eyed …”

Step by step they went on; she felt a sweet joy in being guided by him; she clasped his arm more closely, saying laughingly that she was afraid, and that she would be terrified if he were suddenly to leave hold of her.

“And supposing I were suddenly to run away and leave you alone?” said Quaerts.

She laughed; she besought him not to do so. Then she was silent, angry with herself for laughing; a weight of melancholy bore her down because of her jesting and laughter. She felt as if she were unworthy of that to which, in radiant light, she had just been received.

And in him, too, there was melancholy: the melancholy that he had to lead her through the darkness, by invisible paths, by rows of invisible tree-trunks which might graze and wound her; that he had to lead her through a dark wood, through a black sea, through an ink-dark sphere, returning from a heaven where all had been light and all happiness, without melancholy, or any darkness.

And so they were silent in their melancholy until they reached the high road, the old Scheveningen Road.

They approached the villa. A tram went by; two or three people passed on foot; it was a fine evening. He brought her back and waited until the door opened to his ring. The door remained unopened; meantime he pressed her hand tightly, and involuntarily he hurt her a little. Greta had no doubt fallen asleep.

“Ring again, would you?”

He rang again, louder; after a moment the door opened. She gave him her hand for a second time, with a smile.

“Goodnight, Mevrouw,” he said, taking her fingers respectfully, and raising his hat.

Now, now she could hear the sound of his voice, the note in it of melancholy …

S
he knew, the next day, when she sat alone in reflection, that the sphere of happiness, the highest and brightest, may not be trod; that it may only beam upon us as a sun, and that we may not enter into it, into the holy sun-centre. They had done that …

Listless she sat, her children by her side, Christie looking pale and languid. Yes, she spoiled them, but how could she change herself?

Weeks passed, and Cecile heard nothing from Quaerts. It was always so: after he had been with her, weeks would drag by without her ever seeing him. He was much too happy with her, it was too much for him. He looked upon her society as a rare pleasure to be very jealously indulged in. And she, she loved him simply, with the devoutest essence of her soul, loved him frankly, as a woman loves a man … She always wanted him, every day, every hour, at every pulse of her life.

Then she met him by chance at Scheveningen, one evening when she went down there with Amélie and Suzette. Then once again at a reception at Mrs Hoze’s. He seemed shy with her, and a certain pride in her forbade her asking him to call. Yes, some change had come
over what had been woven between them. But she suffered sorely, because of that foolish pride, because she had not humbly begged him to come to her. But was he not her idol? What he did was good.

So she did not see him for weeks, weeks. Life went on; each day she had her little occupations, in her household, with her children; Mrs Hoze reproached her for her sequestration from society, and she began to think more about her friends, to please Mrs Hoze. There were vistas in her memory; in those vistas she saw the dinner-party, their conversations and walks, all their love, all his aspiration to her he called madonna; their last evening of light and ecstasy. Then she smiled, and the smile itself beamed over her anguish; her anguish that she no longer saw him, that she felt proud and had bitterness within her. Yet all things must be well, as he wished them.

Oh, the evenings, the summer evenings, cooling after the warm days, the evenings when she sat alone, peering out from her room, where the onyx lamp burnt with a half flame, peering out of the open windows at the trams which, tinkling their bells, came and went to Scheveningen, full, full of people. Waiting, the endless, long waiting, evening after evening in solitude, after the children had gone to bed. Waiting, when she simply sat still, staring fixedly before her, looking at the trams, the tedious, everlasting trams. Where was her former evenness of dreaming happiness? And where, where was
her supreme happiness? Where was her struggle within herself between what she was and what he thought she was? This struggle no longer existed; this had been overcome; she no longer felt the force of passion; she only longed for him as he had always come, as he now no longer came. Why did he not come? Happiness palled, people spoke about them … It was not right that they should see so much of one another – he had said so the evening before that highest happiness – not good for him and not good for her.

So she sat and thought, and great, quiet tears fell from her eyes, for she knew that although he remained away partly on his own account, it was above all on hers that he did not come to her. What had she not said to him that evening on the bench in the woods, when her arms were about his neck? Oh! she should have been silent, she knew that now. She should not have uttered her rapture, but have enjoyed it secretly within herself; she should have let him utter himself; she herself should have remained his madonna. But she had been too full, too happy, and in that overbrimming of happiness she had been unable to be other than true and clear as a bright mirror. He had glanced into her and comprehended her entirely: she knew that, she was certain of that.

He knew now in what manner she loved him; she herself had revealed it to him. But, at the same time, she had made known to him all that was past, that now she
was what he wished her to be. And this had been true at that moment, clear at that moment, and true. But now? Does ecstasy endure only for one moment then, and did he know it? Did he know that her soul’s flight had reached its limit, and must now descend again to a commoner sphere? Did he know that she loved him again now, quite ordinarily, with all her being, wholly and entirely, no longer as widely as the heavens, only as widely as her arms could stretch out and embrace? And could he not return her this love, so petty, and was that why he did not come to her?

Then she received his letter:

“Forgive me that I put off from day to day coming to see you; forgive me that even today I cannot decide to do so, and that I write to you instead. Forgive me if I even venture to ask you whether it may not be necessary that we see each other no more. If I hurt you and offend you, if I – God spare me – cause you to suffer, forgive me, forgive me. Perhaps I procrastinated a little from indecision, but much more because I thought I had no other choice.

“There has been between our two lives, between our two souls, a rare moment of happiness which was a special blessedness, a special grace. Do you not think so too? Oh, if only I had words to tell you how thankful I am in my innermost soul for that happiness. If later I ever look back upon my life, I shall always continue to see that happiness gleaming in between the ugliness and the blackness – a star of light. We received it as such – a gift of light. And I venture to ask you if that gift is not a thing to be kept sacred?

“Shall we be able to do so if I continue to see you? You, yes, I have no doubt of you; you will be strong to keep it sacred, our blessed happiness, especially as you have already done battle, as you confided to me,
that holy evening. But I, shall I too be able to be strong, especially now that I know that you have gone through the struggle? I doubt myself, I doubt my own force; I am afraid of myself. There is cruelty in me, the love of destruction, something of the savage. As a boy I took pleasure in destroying beautiful things, in breaking and soiling them.

“The other day Jules brought me some roses to my room; in the evening, as I sat alone, thinking upon you and upon our happiness – yes, at that very moment – my fingers began to fumble with a rose whose petals were loose, and when I saw that one rose dis-petalled there came a rage within me to tear and destroy them all, and I rumpled every one of them. I only give you small instances, I do not wish to give a larger instance, from vanity, lest you should know how bad I am. I am afraid of myself. If I saw you again, and again, and again, what should I begin to feel and think and wish, unconsciously? Which would be the stronger within me, my soul or the beast that is in me?

“Forgive me that I lay bare my dread before you, and do not despise me for it. Up to now I have not done battle in the blessed world of our happiness. I saw you, I saw you often before I knew you; I imagined you as you were; I was allowed to speak to you; it was given me to love you with my soul alone: I beseech you let it remain so. Let me continue to guard my happiness like this, to keep it sacred, a thousand times
sacred. I think it worth while to have lived now that I have known that: happiness, the highest. I am afraid of the battle which would probably come and pollute that sacred thing.

“Will you believe me when I swear to you that I have reflected deeply on all this? Will you believe me when I swear to you that I suffer at the thought of never being permitted to see you again? Above all, will you forgive me when I swear to you that I am acting in this way because I think I am doing right? Oh! I am thankful to you, and I love you as a soul of light alone, only light!

“Perhaps I do wrong to send you this letter. I do not know. Perhaps I will presently destroy what I have written …”

Yet he had sent the letter.

There was bitterness within her. She had done battle once, had conquered herself, and in a sacred moment had confessed both battle and conquest; she knew that fate had compelled her to do so; she now knew that through this confession she would lose him. For a short moment, a single evening perhaps, she had been worthy of her god, and his equal. Now she was so no longer; for that reason too she felt bitter; and bitterest of all because the thought dared to rise within her:

“A god! Is he a god? Is a god afraid of battle?”

Then her threefold bitterness changed to despair,
black despair, a night which her eyes sought to penetrate in order to see where they saw nothing, nothing, and she moaned low, and wrung her hands, sunk into a heap before the window, and peered at the trams which, with the tinkling of their bells, ran pitilessly to and fro.

She shut herself up; she saw little of her children; she told her friends that she was ill. She was at home to no visitors. She guessed intuitively that in their respective circles people spoke of Quaerts and herself. Life hung dull about her, a closely woven web of tiresome meshes, and she remained motionless in her corner, to avoid entangling herself in those meshes. Once Jules forced his way to her; he went up to her in spite of Greta’s protests; he sought her in the little boudoir, and, not finding her, went resolutely to her bedroom. He knocked without receiving any reply, but entered nevertheless. The room was half in darkness, for she kept the blinds lowered; in the shadow of the canopy which rose above the bedstead, with its hangings of old blue brocade, Cecile lay sleeping. Her dressing-gown was open over her breast, the train fell from the bed and lay creased over the carpet; her hair trailed over the pillows; one of her hands clutched nervously at the tulle bed-curtain.

“Auntie!” cried Jules. “Auntie!”

He shook her by the arm, and she waked heavily, with heavy, blue-encircled eyes. She did not recognise him at first, and thought that he was little Dolf.

“It is I, Auntie; Jules …”

She recognised him, asked him how he came there,
what was the matter, whether he did not know that she was ill.

“I knew, but I wanted to speak to you. I came to speak to you about … him …”

“Him?”

“About Taco. He asked me to tell you. He could not write to you. He is going on a long journey with his friend from Brussels; he will be away a long time, and he would like … he would like to take leave of you.”

“To take leave?”

“Yes, and he told me to ask you whether he might see you once more?”

She had half risen up, and looked at Jules stupidly. In an instant the memory ran through her brain of a long look which Jules directed on her so strangely when she saw Quaerts for the first time and spoke to him coolly and distantly: “Have you many relations in the Hague? You have no occupation I believe? Sport?” The memory of Jules playing on the piano, of Rubinstein’s
Romance in E
, of the ecstasy of his fantasia: the glittering rainbows and the souls turning to angels.

“To take leave?” she repeated.

Jules nodded. “Yes, Auntie, he is going away for a long, long time.”

He could have shed tears himself, and there were tears in his voice, but he would not, and his eyes were moist.

“He told me to ask you,” he repeated with difficulty.

“Whether he can come and take leave?”

“Yes, Auntie.”

She made no reply, but lay staring before her. An emptiness began to measure itself out before her, in endless perspective, a silhouette of their evening of rapture, but no light beamed out of the shadow.

“Emptiness …” she muttered through closed lips.

“What, Auntie?”

She would have liked to ask Jules whether he was still, as formerly, afraid of the emptiness within himself; but a gentleness of pity, a soft feeling, a sweetening of the bitterness which so filled her being, stayed her.

“To take leave?” she repeated, with a smile of melancholy, and the big tears fell heavily, drop by drop, upon her fingers wrung together.

“Yes, Auntie …”

He could no longer restrain himself: a single sob convulsed his throat, but he gave a cough to conceal it. Cecile threw her arm round his neck.

“You are very fond of Taco … are you not?” she asked; and it struck Cecile that this was the first time she had pronounced the name, for she had never called Quaerts by it: she had never called him by any name.

He did not answer at first, but nestled in her arm, in her embrace, and began to cry.

“Yes, I cannot tell you how much,” he said.

“I know,” she said, and she thought of the rainbows and the angels; he had played as out of her own soul.

“May he come?” asked Jules, faithfully thoughtful of his instructions.

“Yes.”

“He asks whether he may come this evening?”

“Very well.”

“Auntie, he is going away, because … because …”

“Because what, Jules?”

“Because of you; because you do not like him, and will not marry him. Mamma says so …”

She made no reply; she lay sobbing, her head on Jules’ head.

“Is it true, Auntie? No, it is not true, is it … ?”

“No.”

“Why, then?”

She raised herself suddenly, conquering herself, and looked at him fixedly.

“He is going away because he must, Jules. I cannot tell you why. But what he does is right. All that he does is right.”

The boy looked at her, motionless, with large, wet eyes, full of astonishment.

“Is right?” he repeated.

“Yes. He is better than any of us. If you continue to love him, Jules, it will bring you happiness, even if … if you never see him again.”

“Do you think so?” he asked. “Does he bring happiness? Even in that case …”

“Even in that case …”

She listened to her words as she spoke them: it was to her as if another was speaking; another who consoled not only Jules but herself as well, and who would perhaps give her strength to take leave from Taco as would be seemly – without despair.

“So you are going a long journey?” she asked.

He sat facing her, motionless, with anguish on his face. Outwardly she was very calm, only there was melancholy in her look and in her voice. In her white dress, with the girdle falling before her feet, she lay back among the three cushions of the rose-moiré
chaise-longue
; the points of her little slippers were lost in the sheepskin rug. On the little table before her lay a great bouquet of loose roses, pink, white, and yellow, bound together with a broad ribbon. He had brought them for her, and she had not yet placed them. There was great calm about her; the “exquisite” atmosphere of the boudoir seemed unchanged.