Ecstasy by Louis Couperus

beaming over all; all things liquid in everlasting light; nothing but light, the sounds sing the light, the sounds are the light, there is nothing now but the Light, everlasting …
    “Jules!”
    He looked up vacantly. He smiled now, as if awakened from a dream; he rose, went to her, to Cecile. She stood in the doorway; she had remained standing there while he played; it had seemed to her that he was playing a part of herself.
    “What were you playing, Jules?” she asked.
    He was quite awake now, and distressed, fearing he must have made a terrible noise in the house …
    “I don’t know, Auntie,” he said.
    She hugged him, suddenly, violently, in gratitude … To him she owed It, the great Mystery, since the day when he had broken out in anger against her …

CHAPTER IV
I
    “ O h, for that which cannot be told, because words are so few, always the same, varying combinations of a few letters and sounds; oh, for that which cannot be thought of in the narrow limits of comprehension; that which at best can only be groped for with the antennae of the soul; essence of the essences of the ultimate elements of our being …”
    She wrote no more, she knew no more: why write that she had no words, and still seek them?
    She was waiting for him, and she looked out of the open window to see if he came. She remained looking a long time; then she felt that he would come immediately, and so he did; she saw him approaching along the Scheveningen Road; he pushed open the iron gate of the villa, and smiled to her as he raised his hat in greeting.
    “Wait!” she cried. “Stay where you are!”
    She ran down the steps, into the garden, where he stood. She came towards him, beaming with happiness,and so lovely, so delicately frail: her blonde head so seemly in the fresh green of May; her figure – a young girl’s – in the palest grey gown, with black velvet ribbon, and silver lace here and there.
    “I am glad you have come. You have not been to see me for so long!” she said, giving her hand.
    He did not answer at once.
    “Let us sit in the garden, the weather is so fine.”
    They walked into the garden, by the mesh of the garden paths, the jasmine vines starring white as they passed. In an adjoining villa a piano was playing; the sounds came to them of Rubinstein’s
Romance in E
.
    “Listen!” said Cecile, starting up. “What is that?”
    “What?” he asked.
    “What they are playing.”
    “Something of Rubinstein’s, I believe,” he replied.
    “Rubinstein … ?” she repeated, emptily. “Yes …”
    And she relapsed into the wealth of memories of … what? Once before, in this way, she had walked along these same paths, past these jasmine vines, so long, so long ago; had walked with him, with him … Why? Was the past repeating itself after centuries … ?
    “It is three weeks since you came to see me,” she said, simply, recovering herself.
    “Forgive me,” he replied.
    “What was the reason?”
    He hesitated, seeking an excuse.
    “I don’t know,” he answered, softly. “You forgive me,do you not? One day it was this, another day that. And then … I don’t know. Many reasons together. It is not good that I should see you often. Not good for you, nor for me.”
    “Begin with the second. Why isn’t it good for you?”
    “No, let us begin with the first: with what concerns you. People …”
    “People?”
    “People are talking about us. I am looked upon as an irretrievable rake. I will not have your name linked profanely with mine.”
    “And is it?”
    “Yes …”
    She smiled.
    “I do not mind.”
    “But you must mind; if not for your own sake …”
    He stopped. She knew he was thinking of her boys; she shrugged her shoulders.
    “And now, why is it not good for you?”
    “One should not be happy too often.”
    “What a sophism! Why not?”
    “I do not know; but I feel I am right. It spoils one; it blunts the appetite.”
    “Are you happy here, then?”
    He smiled, and nodded yes. They were