He felt as if the goodness of all created things
was being poured out upon him and mingling with all he possessed of
goodness into one jubilant stream.
'Can it be that I love her?' he asked himself. But he dared not look
closely into his soul, lest the delicate enchantment should disperse and
vanish like a dream at break of day.
'Do I love her? And what does she think? And if she comes alone, shall I
tell her that I love her?' He took pleasure in thus asking himself
questions which he did not answer, intercepting the reply of his heart
by another question, prolonging his uncertainty--at once so tormenting
and so sweet. 'No, no--I shall not tell her that I love her. She is far
above all the others.'
Arrived at the lowest terrace, he turned round and looked up, and there
in the loggia, in the full blaze of the sun, he could just make out the
indistinct outline of a woman's form. Had she followed him with her eyes
and her thoughts down the long flights of steps? A childish impulse made
him suddenly pronounce her name aloud on the deserted terrace. 'Maria!
Maria!' he repeated, listening to his own voice. No word, no name had
ever seemed to him so sweet, so melodious so caressing. How happy he
would be if she would only allow him to call her Maria, like a sister.
This woman--so spiritual, so soulful--inspired him with the highest
sentiment of devotion and humility.
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