While he was saying this, he stood in front of the painting and regarded it with a doting, sad look. Andrea observed him with the deepest compassion. His face was not handsome, he only seemed attractive by means of the combination of the youthful softness of his physique and the male sincerity and fire of the expressions of his features. The movements of his tall body also revealed nobility and energy. Andrea could not help but exclaim: "How can you, you too, love this woman, who is so unworthy of you!" "Love?" replied the German in a strangely gloomy tone. "Who told you that I would love her as I used to love in Germany and which is the only love worthy of that name? Say that I'm obsessed by her, that I'm wearing her shackles while gnashing my teeth and moaning, and accept my confession that I'm ashamed of this weakness and yet savour it. Never before, I've felt how meaningless all earthly bliss is compared to the feeling of having one's back burdened by a yoke of one's own choosing, until it bleeds, and to cast all male pride into the dust for a smile of such eyes." His face had turned red; only now, he noticed that Andrea had, for some time, turned away from the painting and was listening to him with deep concern. "I'm boring you," said Rosenberg. "Let's talk about something else. What has happened to you in the meantime? Why have you left Brescia?" "You haven't told me about your mother yet," Andrea changed the subject. "What a woman! The most complete stranger would feel the desire to venerate her like a mother."