Meanwhile, I was no sooner in Bertha’s society again than I was as completely under her sway as before.  What if I saw into the heart of Bertha, the matured woman—­Bertha, my wife?  Bertha, the girl, was a fascinating secret to me still:  I trembled under her touch; I felt the witchery of her presence; I yearned to be assured of her love.  The fear of poison is feeble against the sense of thirst.  Nay, I was just as jealous of my brother as before—­just as much irritated by his small patronizing ways; for my pride, my diseased sensibility, were there as they had always been, and winced as inevitably under every offence as my eye winced from an intruding mote.  The future, even when brought within the compass of feeling by a vision that made me shudder, had still no more than the force of an idea, compared with the force of present emotion—­of my love for Bertha, of my dislike and jealousy towards my brother.

It is an old story, that men sell themselves to the tempter, and sign a bond with their blood, because it is only to take effect at a distant day; then rush on to snatch the cup their souls thirst after with an impulse not the less savage because there is a dark shadow beside them for evermore.  There is no short cut, no patent tram-road, to wisdom:  after all the centuries of invention, the soul’s path lies through the thorny wilderness which must be still trodden in solitude, with bleeding feet, with sobs for help, as it was trodden by them of old time.

My mind speculated eagerly on the means by which I should become my brother’s successful rival, for I was still too timid, in my ignorance of Bertha’s actual feeling, to venture on any step that would urge from her an avowal of it.  I thought I should gain confidence even for this, if my vision of Prague proved to have been veracious; and yet, the horror of that certitude!  Behind the slim girl Bertha, whose words and looks I watched for, whose touch was bliss, there stood continually that Bertha with the fuller form, the harder eyes, the more rigid mouth—­with the barren, selfish soul laid bare; no longer a fascinating secret, but a measured fact, urging itself perpetually on my unwilling sight.  Are you unable to give me your sympathy—­you who react this?  Are you unable to imagine this double consciousness at work within me, flowing on like two parallel streams which never mingle their waters and blend into a common hue?  Yet you must have known something of the presentiments that spring from an insight at war with passion; and my visions were only like presentiments intensified to horror.  You have known the powerlessness of ideas before the might of impulse; and my visions, when once they had passed into memory, were mere ideas—­pale shadows that beckoned in vain, while my hand was grasped by the living and the loved.