And so we went
in different ways, with anger I fear, and at least with sore hearts and
misunderstanding.'
He spoke with an accent of finality, and so sadly that in a sudden rush of
pity I was moved to protest.
'But, surely you meet sometimes; surely this woman, who was as your own
child--'
He stopped me with a solemn, appealing gesture.
'You are young, and you do not altogether understand. You must not judge
her; you must not believe, that she forgets, that she does not care. Only,
it is better like this, because it could never be as before. I could not
help her. I want nothing that she can give me, no not anything; I have my
memories! I hear of her, from time to time; I hear what the world says of
her, the imbecile world, and I smile. Do I not know best? I, who carried
her in my arms, when she was that high!'
And in effect the old violinist smiled, it was as though he had surprised
my secret of dissatisfaction, and found it, like the malice of the world,
too ignorant to resent. The edge of his old, passionate adoration had
remained bright and keen through the years; and it imparted a strange
brilliancy to his eyes, which half convinced me, as presently, with a
resumption of his usual air of diffident courtesy, he ushered me out into
the vague, spring dawn.
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