11. XI.
The advice of Albert was good, but how unreasonable.
How is it possible for man, unless denied
to hope, to be content with his condition?
How much less possible for woman! To be content
with existing things is to desire no change —
to hope for nothing better — to live without a
thought of heaven. The requisition of Albert
sank deep into the mind of Anastasia, but not to
produce the effect which he desired. It came to
her as a restraint, and not a direction — as a controller,
and not a guide. Was he to suffer, and
was she to be denied to share with him in his
griefs, to console him under his torments? Love
itself rose in rebellion against such a requisition.
And when she beheld his sadness visibly increase
with each successive hour, her fond heart — her
sleepless affections — could no longer remain pacified
and silent.
“Albert, dear Albert, you do me injustice. I
am strong to share with you — ay, to endure all
your afflictions. I feel that I love you too well
not to rejoice in pain when I know that every
added sting to my heart takes from that which is
preying upon yours. Unfold to me your griefs —
say what afflicts you. Let me hear the worst,
and you will see how I can smile to place my hand
with yours in the flame, and, looking into your
eyes of love the while, feel and fear none of its
searching fires.”
It was thus she implored him for his secret —
her arms twining about his neck in the fondest
embrace — her dark, sweet eyes, looking with the
warmest devotion at the same instant into his
own.
“You know not what you ask,” was his reply.
“You ask for wo — for eternal wo — for a doom
for which you were never destined. Why, oh!
why will you be dissatisfied? Have you not my
love — all my love — my heart, truly and entirely
yours? The love of the unselfish and unexacting
man — of one who is above meanness or its reproach
— is the richest possession ever yet given
to the woman heart. Wherefore would you seek
for more?”
“You do not give me your heart — you will
not give me its sorrows. It is for these I ask.”
“You have them, Anastasia — it is only the
name you desire to know. You have them already.”
“How?”
“Your present care — your anxiety to know
them — is your sorrow now. You see that I am
grieved — and you grieve to see it. That is
enough for me, and should be enough for you.
You give me your sympathy when you grieve at
my suffering. You prove to me your love for me
when you wish to see me glad. I am satisfied
with thus much in the way of proof — be you satisfied,
dearest Anastasia, with the degree of confidence
I have already shown you. Seek not to
hear more. I, who know how much you can console,
and how greatly you ought of right to suffer
with me, deny you any farther knowledge of my
griefs than this. I would not have you even see
so much. But, at least, I desire that you should
seek to know no more.”
