She gave expression to what I myself had felt on my way to her.
Her voice and her words were like those of her son, and yet quite different.
Everything was more mature, warmer, more assured. But just as Max in years past had made on no one the impression of being a mere boy,
so his mother did not look like the mother of a grown-up son,
so young and sweet was the breath of her face and hair, so smooth her golden skin, so blossoming her mouth.
More queenly still than in my dream she stood before me. Her presence was love’s happiness, her look was fulfillment.
This, then, was the new picture, in which my fate displayed itself, no longer severe, no longer isolating, but mature and full of promise.
I took no resolutions, I made no vows. I had attained an end, I had reached a point of vantage on the way,
from which the further road displayed itself, broad and lovely, leading on to lands of promise,
shaded by treetops of happiness near at hand, cooled by gardens of delight.
Come what might, I was happy to know of this woman’s existence in the world, to drink in her voice, to sense her presence.
Whether she would be to me mother, mistress, goddess—what mattered it as long as she was present!
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