"What is the use of it all? What is the use of working hard? Why am I leading this life? To earn money, and perhaps applause--some time. Well, and when I have got it--even supposing, which is extremely improbable, that I win it while I am young and can enjoy it--what good will it do me? I don't believe it will make me very happy. I don't know that I long for it very much. I don't know why I am working for it, except because Herr von Francius has a stronger will than I have, and rather compels me to it. Otherwise--
"Well, what should I like? What do I wish for?" At the moment I seemed to feel myself free from all prejudice and all influence, and surveying with a calm, impartial eye possibilities and prospects, I could not discover that there was anything I particularly wished for. Had something within me changed during the last night?
I had been so eager before; I felt so apathetic now. I looked across the way. I dimly saw Courvoisier snatch up his boy, hold him in the air, and then, gathering him to him, cover him with kisses. I smiled. At the moment I felt neutral--experienced neither pleasure nor pain from the sight. I had loved the man so eagerly and intensely--with such warmth, fervor, and humility. It seemed as if now a pause had come (only for a time, I knew, but still a pause) in the warm current of delusion, and I contemplated facts with a dry, unmoved eye. After all--what was he? A man who seemed quite content with his station--not a particularly good or noble man that I could see; with some musical talent which he turned to account to earn his bread. He had a fine figure, a handsome face, a winning smile, plenty of presence of mind, and an excellent opinion of himself.
Stay! Let me be fair--he had only asserted his right to be treated as a gentleman by one whom he had treated in every respect as a lady. He did not want me--nor to know anything about me--else, why could he laugh for very glee as his boy's eyes met his? Want me? No! he was rich already. What he had was sufficient for him, and no wonder, I thought, with a jealous pang.
Who would want to have anything to do with grown-up people, with their larger selfishnesses, more developed self-seeking--robust jealousies and full-grown exactions and sophistications, when they had a beautiful little one like that? A child of one's own--not any child, but that very child to love in that ideal way. It was a relation that one scarcely sees out of a romance; it was the most beautiful thing I ever saw.