. For some years I had thought of nothing
but my child, and how to make a man of him; then, when my son was
growing up and about to leave me, I grew afraid of my loneliness. Love
was a necessity of my existence; this need for affection had never been
satisfied, and only grew stronger with years. I was in every way capable
of a real attachment; I had been tried and proved. I knew all that
a steadfast love means, the love that delights to find a pleasure in
self-sacrifice; in everything I did my first thought would always be
for the woman I loved. In imagination I was fain to dwell on the serene
heights far above doubt and uncertainty, where love so fills two beings
that happiness flows quietly and evenly into their life, their looks,
and words. Such love is to a life what religion is to the soul; a vital
force, a power that enlightens and upholds. I understood the love of
husband and wife in nowise as most people do; for me its full beauty and
magnificence began precisely at the point where love perishes in many a
household. I deeply felt the moral grandeur of a life so closely shared
by two souls that the trivialities of everyday existence should be
powerless against such lasting love as theirs. But where will the hearts
be found whose beats are so nearly _isochronous_ (let the scientific
term pass) that they may attain to this beatific union? If they exist,
nature and chance have set them far apart, so that they cannot come
together; they find each other too late, or death comes too soon to
separate them. There must be some good reasons for these dispensations
of fate, but I have never sought to discover them. I cannot make a
study of my wound, because I suffer too much from it. Perhaps perfect
happiness is a monster which our species should not perpetuate. There
were other causes for my fervent desire for such a marriage as this. I
had no friends, the world for me was a desert. There is something in me
that repels friendship. More than one person has sought me out, but, in
spite of efforts on my part, it came to nothing. With many men I have
been careful to show no sign of something that is called 'superiority;'
I have adapted my mind to theirs; I have placed myself at their point of
view, joined in their laughter, and overlooked their defects; any fame I
might have gained, I would have bartered for a little kindly affection.
They parted from me without regret. If you seek for real feeling in
Paris, snares await you eve