you cause me, you are matter and I am the idea; you are the thing and I am the mind; you are the clay and I am the artisan.  Do not complain of this.  Near the perfect amphora, surrounded with garlands, what is the rude and humble potter?  The amphora is tranquil and beautiful; he is wretched; he is tormented; he wills; he suffers; for to will is to suffer.  Yes, I am jealous.  I know what there is in my jealousy.  When I examine it, I find in it hereditary prejudices, savage conceit, sickly susceptibility, a mingling of rudest violence and cruel feebleness, imbecile and wicked revolt against the laws of life and of society.  But it does not matter that I know it for what it is:  it exists and it torments me.  I am the chemist who, studying the properties of an acid which he has drunk, knows how it was combined and what salts form it.  Nevertheless the acid burns him, and will burn him to the bone.”

“My love, you are absurd.”

“Yes, I am absurd.  I feel it better than you feel it yourself.  To desire a woman in all the brilliancy of her beauty and her wit, mistress of herself, who knows and who dares; more beautiful in that and more desirable, and whose choice is free, voluntary, deliberate; to desire her, to love her for what she is, and to suffer because she is not puerile candor nor pale innocence, which would be shocking in her if it were possible to find them there; to ask her at the same time that she be herself and not be herself; to adore her as life has made her, and regret bitterly that life, which has made her so beautiful, has touched her—­Oh, this is absurd!  I love you!  I love you with all that you bring to me of sensations, of habits, with all that comes of your experiences, with all that comes from him-perhaps, from them-how do I know?  These things are my delight and they are my torture.  There must be a profound sense in the public idiocy which says that love like ours is guilty.  Joy is guilty when it is immense.  That is the reason why I suffer, my beloved.”

She knelt before him, took his hands, and drew him to her.

“I do not wish you to suffer; I will not have it.  It would be folly.  I love you, and never have loved any one but you.  You may believe me; I do not lie.”

He kissed her forehead.

“If you deceived me, my dear, I should not reproach you for that; on the contrary, I should be grateful to you.  Nothing is so legitimate, so human, as to deceive pain.  What would become of us if women had not for us the pity of untruth?  Lie, my beloved, lie for the sake of charity.  Give me the dream that colors black sorrow.  Lie; have no scruples.  You will only add another illusion to the illusion of love and beauty.”

He sighed: 

“Oh, common-sense, common wisdom!”

She asked him what he meant, and what common wisdom was.  He said it was a sensible proverb, but brutal, which it was better not to repeat.

“Repeat it all the same.”