"
On her face, pink with exercise, there was no trace of tears. I
remained alone, and a mad, indescribable joy got hold of me, hope
filled my heart, and there was one thought dominating everything: "She
loves me, she fights against it, does not yield, deludes herself--but
loves." At times, the most self-possessed of men, in the
super-abundance of some emotion, comes near the brink of madness. I
was so near it then that I felt a wild desire to hide myself in the
deepest recess of the woods, tear the grass, and shout at the top of
my voice, "She loves me!" At present, when I am able to think more
calmly of this joy, I find it was composed of various active forces.
There was the joy of the artist who sees that a masterpiece he has
begun is progressing satisfactorily; maybe also the satisfaction
of the spider when the fly comes near the web; but there was also
kindness, pity, great tenderness, and all that over which angels
rejoice, as the poet has it. I felt sorry the defenceless little thing
should fall into my hands; and that pity increased the love, and the
desire to conquer Aniela. I felt also a sting of conscience that I had
deceived her, and yet I had the consciousness that I had spoken the
truth when I asked for her sympathy and friendship. I want it as I
want my health. But I did not confess to all my desires, because the
time for it has not yet come.
Pages:
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292