"No, don't get up, stay where you are; it is I.
"You told me you were not going to work this evening, so I came. I want to talk to you.
"I am going to sit beside you, if you don't mind, on the cushion on the floor under the window, where I like to sit when it is as light as it is now.
"I hesitate, not because it's hard to say. On the contrary, it's too simple, and things too simple are beyond words to express.
"I really have nothing to tell you. You understood. You know. But it is right for me to come and right that the confession I want to make should revert to our love, for it has to do with our love.
"How you look at me.... Your eyes probe to the depths.... Yes. That is it.... You do see, don't you? I love him.
"Perhaps the confession, which is so long, so long in beginning and has weighed so heavily, is already finished?... No. Since my eyes are overflowing, I have not yet made it. Well, listen, I have no idea any more of what I am going to tell you, but don't interrupt, let me say everything....
"Oh, I wanted to speak in orderly sequence, and I promised myself I should not be moved but would talk to you quite simply. When I came in, I felt I was growing and rising. I heard my own words stirring like live things.... But they are trivial; they hurt me so I wish I could find others.
"To think that here at this window we have so often talked of love, not of our love, but of all love. You remember? You used to say--I think it was you: 'What is beautiful is not the face you love so dearly, it is the need to love it dearly. What matters is not the delirium in which two people lose themselves, but the truth they discover.' And when you and I evoked those two rays of light which are one, love and truth, our words were so vast that we had to stop talking.
"This evening--do you know why?--instead of telling their splendid secret my words are mere splinters ripping my throat.... Yet when we used to talk here, I did not know love was so beautiful; we did not say it was.
"You certainly saw the change in me, and you guessed. The morning when you stopped in front of me and restrained the exclamation in your breast, I was sure you knew. Perhaps it was very apparent. I came and went in a radiance; the house grew chilly, everything in the house was conscious of it and unnatural. Evenings I worked later and later, as if I were afraid of falling asleep, and when we discussed things, it was I who explained, I who knew. You must have seen, too, how often I buried myself in silence, content in it sometimes, then tortured.