Her first love...
One wonders! Was all this... for those reasons, those complexes, that stubborn repression?!
Or was it because she truly loved him, from that very hour,
and with love in its primal simplicity.
For she loved nothing, afterward, except by the first glimmerings of that passion.
And she cared for nothing except this radiance, which spread through her inmost self the warmth of goodness and beauty and love?!
But... but what has she to do with all this now; nothing of it concerns her except that she responded to him.
Because he laid before her his infatuation with her, with that spontaneity she had never known in any other lover, among those she had read of, or heard of, or taken in...
She responded to him, but not as girls respond to a first love that consoles their innocent hearts.
Rather, to think of him — a wondrous thinking, with a happy calm in it,
gazing toward him from the ferment of her well-watered imagination as the mermaids of the sea gaze — toward their fishermen — with no defiled rapture,
but in a devout absorption, in which there is tenderness and loftiness and rapture.
And in it: giving without taking, and a freshness she feared for even from a fleeting whisper, in the purest and deepest image of chaste love.
And so she began to gaze upon him,
and she would find him, with his gaunt, towering frame and his endearing bashfulness, like one of the righteous hermits of the caves, who had cut himself off from the world to turn toward her alone, night and day, gazing at her from the depths of his lovesick heart, as though life had been effaced before him and nothing remained but her... her alone, that sweet little one.
But when she met him in the world of reality, she would soon turn away from him. Her withdrawn nature would get the better of her.
And her pure character would get the better of her too, so that she found in the innocent flirtation, which went no further than a word, or a glance —
she found in it a sin... and she would set about accusing herself: how had she allowed herself to gaze at him with the ardor of the smitten and the longing of the lover.
And she would accuse him in her secret heart: why did he permit himself this give and take in the conversations of love.
It was enough for him to know that she loved him.
And it was enough for her that she knew it likewise. Let them commune, then, from behind a curtain,
where he would hear her only in the world of imagination, and she would hear him only there.
XXXX
But he is a man like all men.
He has his clamorous senses and his importunate nature.
Her imagination went to extremes in embellishing his ideal image and adorning his merits,
and her naive soul and her pampered nature went to extremes
in setting him, with total reverence, in the temple prepared for the first who should prove worthy.
So she worshipped him with her eyes closed.
Westmore
WESTMORE
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