"I am nervous and frightened, as if I were going to expose my hands to some nameless ordeal.
"Night. It has begun, the slow, sweet, unspeakable torture.
"He drew with red and black chalk. My right hand lay on a piece of velvet; near me on the table stood a Corean vase, yellow and spotted like the skin of a python, and in the vase was a group of orchids, those grotesque flowers for which Francesca has so curious a predilection.
"When I felt that I could no longer bear the ordeal, I looked at the flowers to distract my thoughts, and their strange, distorted shapes carried me to the distant countries of their birth, giving me a moment"s respite from my haunting grief. He went on drawing in silence; his eyes pa.s.sing continually from the paper to my hand. Two or three times he looked at the vase; at last, rising from his chair, he said--"Excuse me"--and lifting the vase, he carried it away and placed it on another table. I do not know why.
"After that, he resumed his drawing with much greater freedom, as if relieved of an annoyance.
"I cannot describe the sensation produced in me by his eyes. I felt as if not my hand, but a part of my soul were laid bare to his scrutinising gaze, that his eyes pierced to its very depths, exploring its most secret recesses. Never had my hand felt so alive, so expressive, so responsive to my heart, revealing so much that I would fain have kept secret. Under his gaze I felt it quiver imperceptibly but continuously, and the tremor spread to my innermost veins. When his gaze grew too intense, I was seized with an instinctive desire to withdraw my hand altogether, arising from a sense of shame.
"Now and then, he would stop drawing and sit for quite an appreciable time with his eyes fixed, and then I had the impression that he was absorbing something of me through his pupils, or that he was caressing me with a touch that was softer than the velvet beneath my hand. At other times, while he bent over the drawing, transferring maybe into the lines what he had taken from me, a faint smile played round his mouth, so faint that I only just caught it. I do not know why, but that smile sent a pang of delight thrilling through my heart. Once or twice, I saw the image of a kiss appear again upon his lips.
"At last, curiosity got the better of me and I said--"Well--what is it?"
"Francesca was at the piano with her back turned to us, her fingers wandering over the keys, trying to remember Rameau"s Gavotte _of the Yellow Ladies_ that I have played so often, and which will always be connected in my mind with my stay at Schifanoja. She m.u.f.fled the notes with the soft pedal and broke off frequently. These interruptions and gaps in the melody which was so familiar to me and which my ear filled up each time, in advance, added immeasurably to my distress. All at once, she struck one note hard several times in succession as if under the spur of some nervous irritation; then she started up and came and bent over the drawing.
"I looked at her--I understood it all.
"This last drop was wanting in my cup of bitterness. G.o.d had still this last and cruelest trial of all reserved for me.--His will be done!
"_October 7th._--I have now but one thought, one desire--to fly from here--to escape.
"I have come to the end of my strength. This love is crushing me, is killing me, and the unexpected discovery I have made increases my wretchedness a thousand-fold. What are her feelings towards me? What does she think? So she loves him too?--and since when? Does he know it?
Or has he no suspicion of the fact?
"_Mio Dio! Mio Dio!_ I believe I am going out of my mind--all my strength of will is forsaking me. At long intervals there comes a pause in my torment, as when the wild elements of the tempest hold their breath for a moment, only to break forth again with redoubled fury. I sit then in a kind of stupor, with heavy head and my limbs feeling as bruised and tired as if I had been beaten, and while my pain gathers itself up for a fresh onslaught, I do not succeed in collecting sufficient strength to resist it.
"What does she think of me? What does she think? How much does she know?
"Oh, to be misjudged by her--my best, my dearest friend--the one to whom I have always been able to open my heart! This is my crowning grief, my bitterest trial--
"I must speak to her before I go. She must know all from me, I must know all from her--that is only right and just.
"Night. About five o"clock she proposed a drive along the Rovigliano road. We two went alone in the open carriage. I was trembling with agitation as I said to myself--"Here is my opportunity for speaking to her." But my nervousness deprived me of every vestige of courage. Did she expect me to confide in her? I cannot tell.
"We sat silent for a long while, listening to the steady trot of the horses, looking at the trees and the meadows by the side of the road.
From time to time, by a brief remark or a sign, she drew my attention to some detail of the autumnal landscape.
"All the witchery of the Autumn concentrated itself into this hour. The slanting rays of the evening sun lit up the rich and sombre harmonies of the dying foliage. Gold, amber, saffron, violet, purple, sea-green--tints the most faded and the most violent mingled in one deep strain, not to be surpa.s.sed by any melody of Spring, however sweet.
""Look," she said, pointing to the acacias, "would you not say they were in flower?"
"At last, after an interval of silence, to make a beginning I said: "Manuel is sure to be here by Sat.u.r.day. I expect a telegram from him to-morrow, and we shall leave by the early train on Sunday. You have been very good to me while I have been with you--I am deeply grateful to you."
"My voice broke, a flood of tenderness swelled my heart. She took my hand and clasped it tight without speaking or looking at me. We remained silent for a long time, holding one another by the hand.
"Presently she asked--"How long will you be with your mother?"
""Till the end of the year, I hope--perhaps longer."
""As long as that?"
"We fell silent again. By this time, I felt I should never have the courage to face an explanation; besides which, I felt that it was less necessary now. Francesca seemed to have come back to me, to understand me, to be once more the sweet kind sister of old. My sorrow drew out her sadness as the moon attracts the waters of the ocean.
""Listen!" she said.
"The sound of women"s voices, singing, floated over to us from the fields, a slow song, full and solemn as a Gregorian chant. Further on, we came in sight of the singers. They were coming away from a field of dried sunflowers; walking in single file like a religious procession, and the sunflowers on their long leafless stalks, their great discs stripped of their halo of petals and their wealth of seed, were like liturgic emblems or monstrances of pale gold.
"My emotion waxed greater. The song spread wide through the evening air.
We pa.s.sed through Rovigliano, where the lamps were beginning to twinkle, and came out again upon the high road. The church bells rang softly behind us. A moist breeze rustled in the trees that cast a faint blue shadow on the white road, and in the air a shadow as liquid as water.
""Are you not cold?" she asked me, and she ordered the footman to spread a rug over us, and told the coachman to turn homewards.
"In the belfry at Rovigliano, a bell tolled with deep slow strokes as for some solemn rite, and the wave of sound seemed to send a wave of cold through the air. With a simultaneous movement, we drew closer to one another, settling the rug more warmly over our knees, and a shiver ran through us both. The carriage entered the town at a walk.
""What can that bell be ringing for?" she murmured in a voice that hardly seemed like her own.
"I answered--"I fancy it must be for the Viatic.u.m."
"And in fact, a little further on we saw the priest just entering a door while a clerk held the canopy over him, and two others stood upon the threshold, straight as candelabra, holding up lighted lanterns. A single window of the house was lighted up, the one behind which the dying Christian was awaiting Extreme Unction. Faint shadows flitted across the brightness of that pale yellow square on which was outlined the whole mysterious drama of Death.
"The footman bent down from the box and asked in a low voice--"Who is it?"
"The person addressed answered in dialect and mentioned a woman"s name.
"I would have liked to m.u.f.fle the sound of the carriage wheels upon the stones, to have made our pa.s.sage a silent one past the spot where a soul was about to take flight. Francesca, I am sure, shared my feeling.
"The carriage turned into the road to Schifanoja and the horses set off at a brisk trot. The moon, ringed by a halo, shone like an opal in the milk-white sky. A train of cloud rose out of the sea and stretched away by degrees in spiral form, like a trail of smoke. The somewhat stormy sea drowned all other sounds with its roar. Never, I think, did a heavier sadness weigh upon two spirits.
"I felt something wet upon my cold cheek, and turning to Francesca to see if she noticed that I was crying, I met her eyes--they were full of tears. And so we sat, side by side, with mute, convulsively closed lips, clasping one another"s hand, the tears rolling silently drop by drop over our cheeks, both knowing that they were for him.
"As we neared Schifanoja I dried my eyes, and she did the same, each striving to hide her own weakness.
"He was standing in the hall with Delfina and Muriella looking out for us. Why did I feel a sudden vague distrust of him, as if some instinct warned me of hidden danger? What troubles are in store for me in the future? Shall I be able to escape from the pa.s.sion that attracts and blinds me?
"And yet, those few tears have given me much relief! I feel less broken, less scorched, more self-confident; and it affords me an indescribable fond pleasure to retrace again, for myself alone, that last drive, while Delfina sleeps, made happy by the storm of kisses I rained upon her face, and while the moon that so lately saw me weep smiles sadly through the window panes.
"_October 8th._--Did I sleep last night--did I wake? I could not say.
Through my brain, like thick dark shadows, flitted terrifying thoughts, insupportable images of torment; and my heart gave sudden throbs and bounds, and I would find myself staring wide-eyed into the darkness, not knowing whether I had just awakened from a dream or whether I had never been asleep at all. And this state of semi-consciousness--infinitely more unbearable than real sleeplessness--continued throughout the night.
"Nevertheless, when I heard my little girl"s morning call, I did not answer, but pretended to be sound asleep, so that I need not rise, so that I might remain a few minutes longer in bed and thus r.e.t.a.r.d for a while the inexorable certainty of the realities of life. The torments of thought and imagination seemed to me less cruel than those, so impossible to foresee, which awaited me in these last two days.
"A little while later, Delfina came in on tip-toe, holding her breath.
She looked at me and then whispered to Dorothy, with a little fond tremor in her voice--
""She is fast asleep! We will not wake her!"
"Night. I do not believe I have a spark of life left in me. As I came upstairs I felt, at each step, as if every drop of blood had left my veins. I am as weak as one at the point of death.