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known—the boy’s father too. You have talked and talked
with them about all you have been thinking, and there was no
response to your words even when you tried to make them realize
what you felt, because they could not understand your mind.
But I know it—all you have been telling me today and what
you said to me that day in Warnemünde you could not have
told to anybody else. Only to me, because I understand—is
it not so?"
She bent her head in surprised assent. It was true.
"I know that I alone understand you thoroughly. I know
exactly what you are, and I love you as you are. If your mind
were full of stains and bleeding wounds, I would love and kiss
them until you were clean and well again. My love has no
other purpose but to see you become what you always wanted
to be and must be to feel happy. If you did ever so foolish a
thing, I would only think you were ill or that some strange
influence had poisoned your mind. If you deceived me or if I
found you lying drunk in the road, you would be my own
darling Jenny just the same.
"Will you not be mine—give yourself to me? Will you
not come into my arms and let me hold you and make you happy
and whole? I don’t know now quite how to set about it, but
my love will teach me, and every morning you will wake up
less sad—every day will seem a little brighter and warmer
than the day before, and your sorrow less great. Let us go to
Viterbo or anywhere you like. Give yourself to me, and I will
nurse you as if you were a sick child. When you are well again
you will have learnt to love me and to know that we two cannot
live without each other.
"You are ill; you cannot look after yourself. Close your
eyes and give me your hands; I will love you and make you
well—I know I can do it."
Jenny was leaning against a pillar. She turned her white
face to him, smiling sadly:
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