appiness can be nothing but to sacrifice ourselves without losing
ourselves, because we find ourselves again in something better than we
are; to forget self in another, without fear of being ashamed of it,
because that other at the same moment is thinking only of what we
ourselves forget. You'll not understand me, and no matter if you don't.
I'll light the lamp."

"You speak of love," he said quietly. "I understand you, because the
same happiness you hope to find in earthly love, opens before us
children of God in the bliss of eternity. Did I not tell you just now,
that you must forget yourself to find yourself again in God, that there
was no other redemption? Now you come to meet me half way."

"But I shall never be able to traverse the other half," she said
bitterly. "Pray don't let us recur to that conversation. Once
more--it's late. I've work to do."

Still he did not move from his crouching position on the sofa.

"Don't be narrow-minded," he said quietly. "It doesn't suit you. You
have a larger nature than ordinary women; what's the use of these half
allusions, this shame-faced, prudish reserve, where the point in
question is the happiness of your life? If I could only really help
you?"

"You? No one can help me."

"Except God, and he who leads you to Him."

"I do not understand you. Have I not told you plainly enough, that I
feel no longing for your God and his pardoning grace? All I can do for
him, is not to hate him; though he has placed me in this world as I
am."

"As you are? And how are you?"

"You've just said it yourself: I'm no ordinary woman. I don't know what
could be more sad for a girl. And really: ever since the tale of a dear
God became improbable, ever since it dawned upon me that we poor human
animals only move about in the great throng of creation and have no
more claim to any special tenderness, than the thistles in the field,
which the donkey gnaws, or the donkey that the miller's boy cudgels,
I've become somewhat calmer. No one is to blame because I'm a joyless,
ugly, lonely woman, with a man's face, except perhaps my parents, who
died long ago and couldn't atone for it; the good people certainly did
not know what they were doing, when they gave _me_ life."

She poured forth these words in harsh, scornful tones, as one relates
something that has long angered one, busying herself, while so doing,
in lighting the little lamp with the green shade which she now placed
on the table.