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diff --git a/old/54619-8.txt b/old/54619-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index a29fa77..0000000 --- a/old/54619-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9490 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Farewell Love!, by Matilde Serao - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Farewell Love! - A Novel - -Author: Matilde Serao - -Translator: Mrs. Henry Harland - -Release Date: April 28, 2017 [EBook #54619] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAREWELL LOVE! *** - - - - -Produced by Andrés V. Galia, Chris Curnow and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - FAREWELL LOVE! - - - - - British Library - - of - - Continental Fiction. - - - Guy de Maupassant. - _PIERRE AND JEAN._ - - Matilde Serao. - _FAREWELL, LOVE._ - - Jonas Lie. - _NIOBE._ - - Count Lyon Tolstoi. - _WORK WHILE YE HAVE THE LIGHT._ - - Juan Valera. - _DOÑA LUZ._ - - Don Armando Palacio Valdés. - _THE GRANDEE._ - - Gemma Ferruggia. - _WOMAN'S FOLLY._ - - Karl Emil Franzos. - _THE CHIEF JUSTICE._ - - Matilde Serao. - _FANTASY._ - - Rudolf Golm. - _THE OLD ADAM AND THE NEW EVE._ - - Ivan Gontcharoff. - _A COMMON STORY._ - - J. P. Jacobsen. - _SIREN VOICES._ - - Joseph Ignatius Kraszewski. - _THE JEW._ - - Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson. - _IN GOD'S WAY._ - -[Illustration: MATILDE SERAO] - - - - -[Illustration] - - MATILDE SERAO - - FAREWELL LOVE! - - A Novel - - BY - - MATILDE SERAO - - TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN - - BY - - Mrs. HENRY HARLAND - - LONDON: - LONDON BOOK CO. - 1906 - - (ALL RIGHTS RESERVED) - - - - - _SPECIAL LIMITED SUBSCRIPTION EDITION._ - - - - - _To - MY DEAD FRIEND - ... et ultra?_ - - _M. S._ - - - - - INTRODUCTION - - -The most prominent imaginative writer of the latest generation in -Italy is a woman. What little is known of the private life of Matilde -Serao (Mme. Scarfoglio) adds, as forcibly as what may be divined from -the tenour and material of her books, to the impression that every -student of literary history must have formed of the difficulties -which hem in the intellectual development of an ambitious girl. -Without unusual neglect, unusual misfortune, it seems impossible -for a woman to arrive at that experience which is essential to the -production of work which shall be able to compete with the work of -the best men. It is known that the elements of hardship and enforced -adventure have not been absent from the career of the distinguished -Italian novelist. Madame Serao has learned in the fierce school of -privation what she teaches to us with so much beauty and passion in -her stories. - -Matilde Serao was born on the 17th of March 1856, in the little town -of Patras, on the western coast of Greece. Her father, Francisco -Serao, was a Neapolitan political exile, her mother a Greek princess, -the last survivor of an ancient noble family. I know not under what -circumstances she came to the Italian home of her father, but it was -probably in 1861 or soon afterwards that the unification of Italy -permitted his return. At an early age, however, she seems to have -been left without resources. She received a rough education at the -Scuola Normale in Naples, and she obtained a small clerkship in the -telegraph office at Rome. - -Literature, however, was the profession she designed to excel in, and -she showed herself a realist at once. Her earliest story, if I do not -mistake, was that minute picture of the vicissitudes of a post-office -which is named _Telegraphi dello Stato_ ("State Telegraphs"). She -worked with extreme energy, she taught herself shorthand, and in 1878 -she quitted the post-office to become a reporter and a journalist. To -give herself full scope in this new employment, she, as I have been -assured, cut short her curly crop of hair, and adopted on occasion -male costume. She soon gained a great proficiency in reporting, -and advanced to the writing of short sketches and stories for -the newspapers. The power and originality of these attempts were -acknowledged, and the name of Matilde Serao gradually became one -of those which irresistibly attracted public attention. The writer -of these lines may be permitted to record the impression which more -than ten years ago was made upon him by reading a Neapolitan sketch, -signed by that then wholly obscure name, in a chance number of the -Roman _Fanfulla_. - -The short stories were first collected in a little volume in 1879. -In 1880 Matilde Serao became suddenly famous by the publication of -the charming story _Fantasia_ ("Fantasy"), which has already been -presented to an English public in the present series of translations. -It was followed by a much weaker study of Neapolitan life, _Cuore -Infermo_ ("A Heart Diseased"). In 1881 she published "The Life and -Adventures of Riccardo Joanna," to which she added a continuation in -1885. It is not possible to enumerate all Madame Serao's successive -publications, but the powerful romance, _La Conquista di Roma_ -("The Conquest of Rome"), 1882, must not be omitted. This is a very -careful and highly finished study of bureaucratic ambition, admirably -characterised. Since then she has written in rapid succession several -volumes of collected short stories, dealing with the oddities of -Neapolitan life, and a curious novel, "The Virtue of Cecchina," 1884. -Her latest romances, most of them short, have been _Terno Secco_ ("A -Dry Third"), a very charming episode of Italian life, illustrating -the frenzied interest taken in the public lotteries, 1887; _Addio -Amore_ ("Farewell Love!"), 1887, which is here, for the first time, -published in English; _La Granda Fiamma_, 1889; and _Sogno di una -notte d'estate_ ("A Summer Night's Dream"), 1890. - -The method of Matilde Serao's work, its qualities and its defects, -can only be comprehended by those who realise that she came to -literature through journalism. When she began life, in 1878, it was -as a reporter, a paragraph-writer, a woman of all work on any Roman -or Neapolitan newspaper which would give her employment. Later on, -she founded and carried on a newspaper of her own, the _Corriere -di Roma_. After publishing this lively sheet for a few years, she -passed to Naples, and became the editor of _Le Corriere di Napoli_, -the paper which enjoys the largest circulation of any journal in the -south of Italy. She has married a journalist, Eduardo Scarfoglio, and -all her life has been spent in ministering to the appetites of the -vast, rough crowd that buys cheap Italian newspapers. Her novels have -been the employment of her rare and broken leisure; they bear the -stamp of the more constant business of her life. - -The naturalism of Matilde Serao deserves to be distinguished from -that of the French contemporaries with whom she is commonly classed. -She has a fiercer passion, more of the true ardour of the South, than -Zola or Maupassant, but her temperament is distinctly related to -that of Daudet. She is an idealist working in the school of realism; -she climbs, on scaffolding of minute prosaic observation, to heights -which' are emotional and often lyrical. But her most obvious merit is -the acuteness with which she has learned to collect and arrange in -artistic form the elements of the town life of Southern Italy. She -still retains in her nature something of the newspaper reporter's -quicksilver, but it is sublimated by the genius of a poet. - - EDMUND GOSSE. - - - - - CONTENTS - - CHAPTER PAGE - PART I 1 - I. 3 - II. 19 - III. 46 - IV. 70 - V. 86 - VI. 114 - VII. 128 - PART II 149 - I. 151 - II. 170 - III. 188 - IV. 215 - V. 249 - - - - - PART I - - - I. - -Motionless under the white coverlet of her bed, Anna appeared to have -been sleeping soundly for the past two hours. - -Her sister Laura, who occupied a little cot at the other end of the -big room, had that evening much prolonged her customary reading, -which followed the last gossip of the day between the girls. But no -sooner had she put out her candle than Anna opened her eyes and fixed -them upon Laura's bed, which glimmered vaguely white in the distance. - -Anna was wide awake. - -She dared not move, she dared not even sigh; and all her life was in -her gaze, trying to penetrate the secret of the dusk--trying to see -whether really her sister was asleep. It was a winter's night, and as -the hour advanced the room became colder and colder; but Anna did not -feel it. - -The moment the light had been extinguished a flame had leapt from -her heart to her brain, diffusing itself through all her members, -scalding her veins, scorching her flesh, quickening the beating of -her pulses. As in the height of fever, she felt herself burning up; -her tongue was dry, her head was hot; and the icy air that entered -her lungs could not quench the fire in her, could not subdue the -tumultuous irruption of her young blood. - -Often, to relieve herself, she had longed to cry out, to moan; but -the fear of waking Laura held her silent. It was not, however, so -much from the great heat throbbing at her temples that she suffered, -as from her inability to know for certain whether her sister was -asleep. - -Sometimes she thought of moving noisily, so that her bed should -creak; then if Laura was awake, she would move in hers, and thus Anna -could make sure. But the fear of thereby still further lengthening -this time of waiting, kept her from letting the thought become an -action. She lay as motionless as if her limbs were bound down by a -thousand chains. - -She had lost all track of time, too; she had forgotten to count the -last strokes of the clock--the clock that could be heard from the -sitting-room adjoining. It seemed to her that she had been lying like -this for years, that she had been waiting for years, burning with -this maddening fire for years, that she had spent years trying to -pierce the darkness with her eyes. - -And then the horrible thought crossed her mind--What if the hour had -passed? Perhaps it had passed without her noticing it; she who had -waited for it so impatiently had let it escape. - -But no. Presently, deadened by the distance and the doors closed -between, she heard the clock ring out. - -The hour had come. - -Thereupon, with an infinite caution, born of infinite fear, slowly, -trembling, holding her breath at every sound, pausing, starting back, -going on, she sat up in bed, and at last slipped out of it. - -That vague spot of whiteness in the distance, where her sister lay, -still fascinated her; she kept her head turned in its direction, -while with her hands she felt for her shoes and stockings and -clothes. They were all there, placed conveniently near; but every -little difficulty she had to overcome in dressing, so as not to make -the slightest noise, represented a world of precautions, of pauses, -and of paralysing fears. - -When at last she had got on her frock of white serge, which shone out -in the darkness, "Perhaps Laura sees me," she thought. - -But she had made ready a big heavy black shawl, and in this she now -wrapped herself from head to foot, and the whiteness of her frock was -hidden. - -Then, having accomplished the miracle of dressing herself, she stood -still at her bedside; she had not dared to take a step as yet, sure -that by doing so she would wake Laura. - -"A little strength--Heaven send me a little strength," she prayed -inwardly. - -Then she set forth stealthily across the room. In the middle of it, -seized by a sudden audacious impulse, she called her sister's name, -in a whisper, "Laura, Laura," listening intensely. - -No answer. She went on, past the door, through the sitting-room, -the drawing-room, feeling her way amidst the chairs and tables. -She struck her shoulder against the frame of the door between the -sitting-room and the drawing-room, and halted for a moment, with a -beating heart. - -"_Madonna mia! Madonna mia!_" she murmured in an agony of terror. - -Then she had to pass before the room of her governess, Stella -Martini; but the poor, good lady was a sound sleeper, and Anna knew -it. - -When she reached the dining-room, it seemed to her that she must have -traversed a hundred separate chambers, a hundred entire apartments, -an endless chain of chambers and apartments. - -At last she opened the door that gave upon the terrace, and ran out -into the night, the cold, the blackness. She crossed the terrace to -the low dividing-wall between it and the next. - -"Giustino--Giustino," she called. - -Suddenly the shadow of a man appeared on the other terrace, very -near, very close to the wall of division. - -A voice answered: "Here I am, Anna." - -But she, taking his hand, drew him towards her, saying: "Come, come." - -He leapt over the little wall. - -Covered by her black mantle, without speaking, Anna bent her head and -broke into sobs. - -"What is it? What is wrong?" he asked, trying to see her face. - -Anna wept without answering. - -"Don't cry, don't cry. Tell me what's troubling you," he murmured -earnestly, with a caress in his words and in his voice. - -"Nothing, nothing. I was so frightened," she stammered. - -"Dearest, dearest, dearest!" he whispered. - -"Oh, I'm a poor creature--a poor thing," said she, with a desolate -gesture. - -"I love you so," said Giustino, simply, in a low voice. - -"Oh, say that again," she begged, ceasing to weep. - -"I love you so, Anna." - -"I adore you--my soul, my darling." - -"If you love me, you must be calm." - -"I adore you, my dearest one." - -"Promise me that you won't cry any more, then." - -"I adore you, I adore you, I adore you!" she repeated, her voice -heavy with emotion. - -He did not speak. It seemed as if he could find no words fit for -responding to such a passion. A cold gust of wind swept over them. - -"Are you cold?" he asked. - -"No: feel." And she gave him her hand. - -Her little hand, between those of Giustino, was indeed not cold; it -was burning. - -"That is love," said she. - -He lifted the hand gently to his lips, and kissed it lightly. And -thereupon, her eyes glowed in the darkness, like human stars of -passion. - -"My love is consuming me," she went on, as if speaking to herself. "I -can feel nothing else; neither cold, nor night, nor danger--nothing. -I can only feel _you_. I want nothing but your love. I only want -to live near you always--till death, and after death--always with -you--always, always." - -"Ah me!" sighed he, under his breath. - -"What did you say?" she cried, eagerly. - -"It was a sigh, dear one; a sigh over our dream." - -"Don't talk like that; don't say that," she exclaimed. - -"Why shouldn't I say it, Anna? The sweet dream that we have been -dreaming together--any day we may have to wake from it. They aren't -willing that we should live together." - -"Who--they?" - -"He who can dispose of you as he wishes, Cesare Dias." - -"Have you seen him?" - -"Yes; to-day." - -"And he won't consent?" - -"He won't consent." - -"Why not?" - -"Because you have money, and I have none. Because you are noble, and -I'm not." - -"But I adore you, Giustino." - -"That matters little to your guardian." - -"He's a bad man." - -"He's a man," said Giustino, shortly. - -"But it's an act of cruelty that he's committing," she cried, lifting -her hands towards heaven. - -Giustino did not speak. - -"What did you answer? What did you plead? Didn't you tell him again -that you love me, that I adore you, that I shall die if we are -separated? Didn't you describe our despair to him?" - -"It was useless," replied Giustino, sadly. - -"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! You didn't tell him of our love, of our -happiness? You didn't implore him, weeping? You didn't try to move -his hard old heart? But what sort of man are you; what sort of soul -have you, that you let them sentence us to death like this? O Lord! O -Lord!--what man have I been loving?" - -"Anna, Anna!" he said, softly. - -"Why didn't you defy him? Why didn't you rebel? You're young; you're -brave. How could Cesare Dias, almost an old man, with ice in his -veins, how could he frighten you?" - -"Because Cesare Dias was right, Anna," he answered quietly. - -"Oh, horror! Horrible sacrilege of love!" cried Anna, starting back. - -In her despair she had unconsciously allowed her shawl to drop from -her shoulders; it had fallen to the ground, at her feet. And now -she stood up before him like a white, desolate phantom, impelled by -sorrow to wander the earth on a quest that can never have an end. - -But he had a desperate courage, though it forced him to break with -the only woman he had ever loved. - -"Cesare Dias was right, my dearest Anna. I couldn't answer him. I'm a -poor young fellow, without a farthing." - -"Love is stronger than money." - -"I am a commoner, I have no title to give you." - -"Love is stronger than a title." - -"Everything is against our union, Anna." - -"Love is stronger than everything; stronger even than death." - -After this there befell a silence. But he felt that he must go to the -bottom of the subject. He saw his duty, and overcame his pain. - -"Think a little, Anna. Our souls were made for each other; but our -persons are placed in such different circumstances, separated by so -many things, such great distances, that not even a miracle could -unite them. You accuse me of being a traitor to our love, which is -our strength; but is it unworthy of us to conquer ourselves in such -a pass? Anna, Anna, it is I who lose everything; and yet I advise -you to forget this youthful fancy. You are young; you are beautiful; -you are rich; you are noble, and you love me; yet it is my duty to -say to you, forget me--forget me. Consider how great the sacrifice -is, and see if it is not our duty, as two good people, to make it -courageously. Anna, you will be loved again, better still, by a -better man. You deserve the purest and the noblest love. You won't -be unhappy long. Life is still sweet for you. You weep, yes; you -suffer; because you love me, because you are a dear, loving woman. -But afterwards, afterwards you will find your path broad and flowery. -It is I who will have nothing left; the light of my life will go out, -the fire in my heart. But what does it matter? You will forget me, -Anna." - -Anna, motionless, listened to him, uttering no word. - -"Speak," he said, anxiously. - -"I can't forget you," she answered. - -"Try--make the effort. Let us try not to see each other." - -"No, no; it's useless," she said, her voice dying on her lips. - -"What do you wish us to do?" - -"I don't know. I don't know." - -A great impulse of pity, greater than his own sorrow, assailed him. -He took her hands; they were cold now. - -"What is the matter with you? Are you ill?" - -She did not answer. She leant her head on his shoulder, and he -caressed her rich, brown hair. - -"Anna, what is it?" he whispered, thrilled by a wild emotion. - -"You don't love me." - -"How can you doubt it?" - -"If you loved me," she began, sobbing, "you would not propose our -separation. If you loved me you would not think such a separation -possible. If you loved me it would be like death to you to forget -and be forgotten. Giustino, you don't love me." - -"Anna, Anna!" - -"Judge by me," she went on, softly. "I'm a poor, weak woman; yet I -resist, I struggle. And we would conquer, we would conquer, if you -loved me." - -"Anna!" - -"Ah, don't call my name; don't speak my name. All this -tenderness--what's the use of it? It is good; it is wise; it is -comforting. But it is only tenderness; it isn't love. You can think, -reflect, determine. That isn't love. You speak of duty, of being -worthy--worthy of her who adores you, who sees nothing but you in -the whole wide world. I know nothing of all that. I love you. I know -nothing. And only now I realise that your love isn't love. You are -silent. I don't understand you. You can't understand me. Good-bye, -love!" - -She turned away from him, to move off. But he detained her. - -"What do you want to do?" he whispered. - -"If I can't live with you, I must die," she said, quietly, with her -eyes closed, as if she were thus awaiting death. - -"Don't speak of dying, Anna. Don't make my regret worse than it is. -It's I who have spoiled your life." - -"It doesn't matter." - -"It's I who have put bitterness into your sweet youth." - -"It doesn't matter." - -"It's I who have stirred you up to rebel against Cesare Dias, against -your sister Laura, against the wish of your parents and all your -friends." - -"It doesn't matter." - -"It is I who have called you from your sleep, who have exposed you to -a thousand dangers. Think, if you were discovered here you would be -lost." - -"It doesn't matter. Take me away." - -And Giustino, in spite of the darkness, could see her fond eyes -glowing. - -"If you would only take me away," she sighed. - -"But where?" - -"Anywhere--to any country. You will be my country." - -"Elope? A noble young girl--elope like an adventuress?" - -"Love will secure my pardon." - -"I will pardon you; no others will." - -"You will be my family, my all. Take me away." - -"Anna, Anna, where should we find refuge? Without means, without -friends, having committed a great fault, our life would be most -unhappy." - -"No, no, no! Take me away. We'll have a little time of poverty, after -which I shall get possession of my fortune. Take me away." - -"And I shall be accused of having made a good speculation. No, no, -Anna, it's impossible. I couldn't bear such a shame." - -She started away from him, pushing him back with a movement of horror. - -"What?" she cried. "What? You would be ashamed? It's your shame that -preoccupies you? And mine? Honoured, esteemed, loved, I care nothing -for this honour, this love, and am willing to lose all, the respect -of people, the affection of my relations--and you think of yourself! -I could have chosen any one of a multitude of young men of my own -rank, my own set, and I have chosen you because you were good and -honest and clever. And you are ashamed of what bad people and stupid -people may say of you! I--I brave everything. I lie, I deceive. I -leave my bed at the dead of night, steal out during my sister's -sleep--out of my room, out of my house, like a guilty servant, so -that they might call me the lowest of the low. I do all this to come -to you; and you are thinking of speculations, of what the world will -say about you. Oh, how strong you are, you men! How well you know -your way; how straight you march, never listening to the voices that -call to you, never feeling the hands that try to stop you--nothing, -nothing, nothing! You are men, and have your honour to look after, -your dignity to preserve, your delicate reputation to safeguard. You -are right, you are reasonable. And so we are fools; we are mad, who -step out of the path of honour and dignity for the love of you--we -poor silly creatures of our hearts!" - -Giustino had not attempted to protest against this outburst of -violent language; but every word of it, hot with wrath, vibrant -with sorrowful anger, stirred him to the quick, held him silenced, -frightened, shaken by her voice, by the tumult of her passion. Now -the fire which he had rashly kindled burnt up the whole beautiful, -simple, stable edifice of his planning, and all he could see left of -it was a smoking ruin. He loved her--she loved him; and though he -knew it was wild and unreasonable. "Forgive me," he said; "let us go -away." - -She put her hand upon his head, and he heard her murmur, under her -voice, "O God!" - -They both felt that their life was decided, that they had played the -grand stake of their existence. - -There was a long pause; she was the first to break it. - -"Listen, Giustino. Before we fly let me make one last attempt. You -have spoken to Cesare Dias; you have told him that you love me, that -I adore you; but he didn't believe you----" - -"It is true. He smiled incredulously." - -"He is a man who has seen a great deal of the world, who has been -loved, who has loved; but of all that nothing is left to him. He is -cold and solitary. He never speaks of his scepticism, but he believes -in nothing. He's a miserable, arid creature. I know that he despises -me, thinking me silly and enthusiastic. I pity him as I pity every -one who has no love in his heart. And yet--I will speak to Cesare -Dias. The truth will well up from me with such impetus that he cannot -refuse to believe me. I'll tell him everything. In spite of his -forty years, in spite of the corruption of his mind, in spite of all -his scorn, all his irony, true love will find convincing words. He'll -give his consent." - -"Can't you first persuade your sister? There we'd have an -affectionate ally," said Giustino, tentatively. - -"My sister is worse than Cesare Dias," she answered, with a slight -tremor of the voice; "I should never dare to depend on her." - -"You are afraid of her?" - -"Pray don't speak of her, don't speak of her. It's a subject which -pains me." - -"And yet----" - -"No, no. Laura knows nothing; she must know nothing; it would be -dreadful if she knew. I'd a thousand times rather speak to him. He -will remember his past; Laura has no past--she has nothing--she's a -dead soul. I will speak with him; he will believe me." - -"And if he shouldn't believe you?" - -"He _will_ believe me." - -"But, Anna, Anna, if he shouldn't?" - -"Then--we will elope. But I ought to make this last attempt. Heaven -will give me strength. Afterwards--I will write to you, I will tell -you everything. I daren't come here any more. It's too dangerous. If -any one should see me it would be the ruin of all our hopes. I'll -write to you. You'll arrange your own affairs in the meantime--as if -you were at the point of death, as if you were going to leave this -country never to return. You must be ready at any instant." - -"I'll be ready." - -"Surely?" - -"Surely." - -"Without a regret?" - -"Without a regret." But his voice died on his lips. - -"Thank you; you love me. We shall be so happy! You will see. Happier -than any one in the world!" - -"So happy!" murmured Giustino, faithful but sad. - -"And may Heaven help us," she concluded, fervently, putting out her -hand to leave him. - -He took her hand, and his pressure of it was a silent vow; but it was -the vow of a friend, of a brother, simple and austere. - -She moved slowly away, as if tired. He remained where he was, waiting -a little before returning to his own terrace. Not until some ten -minutes had passed, during which he heard no sound, no movement, -could he feel satisfied that Anna had safely reached her room. - -Once at home, he found himself used up, exhausted, without ideas, -without emotions. And speedily he fell asleep. - -She also was exhausted by the great moral crisis through which she -had passed. An immense burden seemed to bow her down, to make heavy -her footsteps, as she groped her way through the silent house. - -When she reached the sitting-room she stopped with sudden terror. A -light was burning in the bedroom. Laura would be awake, would have -remarked her absence, would be waiting for her. - -She stood still a long while. She could hear a sound as of the pages -of a book being turned. Laura was reading. - -At last she pushed open the door, and crossed the threshold. - -Laura looked at her, smiled haughtily, and did not speak. - -Anna fell on her knees before her, crying, "Forgive me. For pity's -sake, Laura, forgive me. Laura, Laura, Laura!" - -But the child remained silent, white and cold and virginal, never -ceasing to smile scornfully. - -Anna lay on the floor, weeping. And the winter dawn found her there, -weeping, weeping; while her sister slept peacefully. - - - - - II. - -The letter ran thus: - - "DEAREST LOVE,--I have had my interview with Cesare - Dias. What a man! His mere presence seemed to freeze me; it - was enough if he looked at me, with his big clear blue eyes, - for speech to fail me. There is something in his silence - which frightens me; and when he speaks, his sharp voice - quells me by its tone as well as by the hard things he says. - - "And yet this morning when he came for his usual visit, I - was bold enough to speak to him of my marriage. I spoke - simply, briefly, without trembling, though I could see that - the courtesy with which he listened was ironical. Laura was - present, taciturn and absent-minded as usual. She shrugged - her shoulders indifferently, disdainfully, and then, getting - up, left the room with that light footstep of hers which - scarcely seems to touch the earth. - - "Cesare Dias smiled without looking at me, and his smile - disconcerted me horribly, putting all my thoughts into - confusion. But I felt that I ought - to make the attempt--I ought. I had promised it to you, my - darling, and to myself. My life had become insupportable; - the more so because of my sister, who knew my secret, who - tortured me with her contempt--the contempt of a person who - has never loved for one who does--who might at any moment - betray me, and tell the story of that wintry night. - - "Cesare Dias smiled, and didn't seem to care in the least - to hear what I had to say. However, in spite of my emotion, - in spite of the fact that I was talking to a man who cared - nothing for me and for whom I cared nothing, in spite of the - gulf that divides a character like mine from that of Cesare - Dias, I had the courage to tell him that I adored you, that - I wished to live and die with you, that my fortune would - suffice for our needs, that I would never marry any one but - you; and finally, that, humbly, earnestly, I besought him, as - my guardian, my nearest relation, my wisest friend, to give - his consent to our marriage. - - "He had listened, with his eyes cast down, giving no sign of - interest. And now at the end he simply uttered a dry little - 'No.' - - "And then took place a dreadful scene. I implored, I wept, I - rebelled, I declared that my heart was free, that my person - was free; and always I found that I was addressing a man of - stone, hard and dry, with a will of iron, an utterly false - point of view, a conventional standard based upon the opinion - of the world, and a total lack of - good feeling. Cesare Dias denied that I loved you, denied - that you loved me, denied that any such thing as real love - could exist--real love for which people live and die! He - denied that love was a thing not to be forgotten; denied that - love is the only thing that makes life worth while. His one - word was No--no, no, no, from the beginning to the end of our - talk. He made the most specious, extravagant, and cynical - arguments to convince me that I was deceiving myself, that we - were deceiving ourselves, and that it was his duty to oppose - himself to our folly. Oh, how I wept! How I abased my spirit - before that man, who reasoned in this cold strain! and how - it hurts me now to think of the way I humiliated myself! I - remember that while my love for you, dearest, was breaking - out in wild utterance, I saw that he was looking admiringly - at me, as in a theatre he might admire an actor who was - cleverly feigning passion. He did not believe me; and two or - three times my anger rose to such a point that I stooped to - threaten him; I threatened to make a public scandal. - - "'The scandal will fall on the person who makes it,' he said - severely, getting up, to cut short the conversation. - - "He went away. In the drawing-room I heard him talking - quietly with Laura, as if nothing had happened, as if he - hadn't left me broken-hearted, as if he didn't know that I - was on my knees, in despair, calling upon the names of the - Madonna and the Saints for help. But that man has no - soul; and I am surrounded by people who think me a mad - enthusiast. - - "My love, my darling love, my constant thought--it is then - decided: we must fly. We must fly. Here, like this, I should - die. Anything will be better than this house; it is a prison. - Anything is better than the galleys. - - "I know that what I propose is very grave. According to - the common judgment of mankind a young girl who elopes is - everlastingly dishonoured. In spite of the sanctity of - marriage, suspicion never leaves her. I know that I am - throwing away a great deal for a dream of love. But that is - my strange and cruel destiny--the destiny which has given me - a fortune and taken away my father; given me a heart eager - for affection and cut me off from all affection; given me the - dearest and at the same time the least loving sister! - - "For whom ought I to sacrifice myself, since those who loved me are - dead, and those who live with me do not love me? I need love; I have - found it; I will attach myself to it; I will not let it go. Who will - weep for me here? No one. Whose hands will be stretched out to call - me back? No one's. What memories will I carry away with me? None. - I am lonely and misunderstood; I am flying from ice and snow to - the warm sunlight of love. You are the sun, you are my love. Don't - think ill of me. I am not like other girls, girls who have a home, - a family, a nest. I am a poor pilgrim, seeking a home, a family, a - nest. I will be your wife, your sweetheart, your servant; I love - you. A life passed in the holy atmosphere of your love will be an - absolution for this fault that I am committing. I know, the world - will not forgive me. But I despise people who can't understand one's - sacrificing everything for love. And those who do not understand - it will pity me. I shall care for nothing but your love; you will - forgive me because you love me. - - "So, it is decided. On the third day after you receive - this letter--that is, on Friday--leave your house as if - you were going for a walk, without luggage, and take a cab - to the railway station. Take the train that leaves Naples - for Salerno at one o'clock, and arrives at Pompeii at two. - I shan't be at the station at Pompeii--that might arouse - suspicions; but I shall be in the streets of the dead city, - looking at the ruins. Find me there--come as swiftly as - you can--to the Street of Tombs, leading to the Villa of - Diomedes, near to the grave of Nevoleia Tyche, 'a sweet - Pompeiian child,' according to her epitaph. We will meet - there, and then we will leave for Metaponto or Brindisi, and - sail for the East. I have money. You know, Cesare Dias, to - save himself trouble, has allowed me to receive my entire - income for the past two years. Afterwards--when this money is - spent--well, we will work for our living until I come of age. - - "You understand? You needn't worry about me. I shall get - out of the house, go to the station, and arrive at Pompeii - without being surprised. I have a bold and simple plan, - which I can't explain to you. It would not do for us to meet here - in town, the risk would be too great. But leaving for Pompeii - by separate trains, how can any one suspect us? Does my clearness - of mind astonish you? My calmness, my precision? For twenty days - I have been thinking of this matter; I have lain awake at night - studying it in detail. - - "Remember, remember: Friday, at noon, leave your house. At - one, leave the station. At half-past two come to me at the - grave of Nevoleia Tyche. Don't forget, for mercy's sake. If - you shouldn't arrive at the right time, what would become of - me, alone, at Pompeii, in anguish, devoured by anxiety? - - "My sweetest love, this is the last letter you will receive - from me. Why, as I write these words, does a feeling of - sorrow come upon me, making me bow my head? The word _last_ - is always sad, whenever it is spoken. Will you always love - me, even though far from your country, even though poor, even - though unhappy? You won't accuse me of having wronged you? - You will protect me and sustain me with your love? You will - be kind, honest, loyal. You will be all that I care for in - the world. - - "This is my last letter, it is true, but soon now our - wondrous future will begin--our life together. Remember, - remember where I shall wait for you. - - "ANNA." - -Alone in his little house, Giustino Morelli read Anna's letter twice -through, slowly, slowly. Then his head fell upon his breast. He felt -that he was lost, ruined; that Anna was lost and ruined. - - * * * * * - -At that early morning hour the Church of Santa Chiara, white with -stucco, rich with gold ornamentation, with softly carved marbles and -old pictures, was almost empty. A few pious old women moved vaguely -here and there, wrapped in black shawls; a few knelt praying before -the altar. Anna Acquaviva and her governess, Stella Martini, were -seated in the middle of the church, with their eyes bent on their -prayer-books. Stella Martini had a worn, sunken face, that must have -once been delicately pretty, with that sort of prettiness which -fades before thirty. Anna wore a dark serge frock, with a jacket in -the English fashion; and her black hair was held in place by a comb -of yellow tortoise-shell. The warm pallor of her face was broken by -no trace of colour. Every now and then she bit her lips nervously. -She had held her prayer-book open for a long while without turning -a page. But Stella Martini had not noticed this; she was praying -fervently. - -Presently the young girl rose. - -"I am going to confession," she said, standing still, holding on to -the back of her chair. - -The governess did not seek to detain her. With a light step she -crossed the church and entered a confessional. - -There the good priest, with the round, childlike face and the crown -of snow-white hair, asked his usual questions quietly, not surprised -by the tremor in the voice that answered him. He knew the character -of his penitent. - -But Anna answered incoherently; often not understanding the sense of -the simple words the priest addressed to her. Sometimes she did not -answer at all, but only sighed behind the grating. - -At last her confessor asked with some anxiety: "What is it that -troubles you?" - -"Father, I am in great danger," she said in a low voice. - -But when he sought to learn what her danger was she would give him no -details. He begged her to speak frankly, to tell him everything; she -only murmured: - -"Father, I am threatened with disgrace." - -Then he became severe, reminding her that it was a great sin to -come thus and trifle with a sacrament of the church, to come to the -confessional and refuse to confess. He could not give her absolution. - -"I will come another time," she said rising. - -But now, instead of returning to her governess, who was still praying -with her eyes cast down, Anna stole swiftly out of the church into -the street, where she hailed a cab, and bade the cabman drive to the -railway station. She drew down the blinds of the carriage windows, -and there in the darkness she could scarcely suppress a cry of -mingled joy and pain to find herself at last alone and free. - -The cab rolled on and on; it was like the movement of a dream. The -only thing she could think of was this beautiful and terrible idea, -that she, Anna Acquaviva, had abandoned for ever her home and her -family, carrying away only so much of her fortune as the purse in -her pocket could hold, to throw herself into the arms of Giustino -Morelli. No feeling of fear held her back. Her entire past life was -ended, she could never take it up again; it was over, it was over. - -In that sort of somnambulism which accompanies a decisive action, she -was as exact and rigid in everything she had to do as an automaton. -At the station she paid her cabman, and mechanically asked for a -ticket to Pompeii at the booking-office. - -"Single or return?" inquired the clerk. - -"Single," she answered. - -As almost every one who went to Pompeii took a return ticket, the -clerk thought he had to do with an Englishwoman or an impassioned -antiquary. - -She put the ticket into the opening of her glove, and went into the -first-class waiting-room. She looked about her quite indifferently, -as if it was impossible that Cesare Dias or indeed any one of her -acquaintance should see her there. She was conscious of nothing save -a great need to go on, to go on; nothing else. It was the first time -in her life that she had been out alone like this, yet she felt no -surprise. It seemed to her that she had been travelling alone for -years; that Cesare Dias, Laura Acquaviva, and Stella Martini were -pale shadows of an infinitely distant past, a past anterior to her -present existence; that they were people she had known in another -world. She kept repeating to herself, like a child trying to remember -a word, - -"Pompeii, Pompeii, Pompeii." - -But when she was climbing into the first-class compartment of the -train, it seemed suddenly as if a force held her back, as if a -mysterious hand forbade her going on. She trembled, and had to make -a violent effort to enter the carriage, as if to brush aside an -invisible obstacle. And, from that moment, a voice within her seemed -to be murmuring confusedly to her conscience, warning her of the -great moral crisis she was approaching; while before her eyes the -blue Neapolitan coast was passing rapidly, where the wintry cold had -given way to a warm scirocco. On, on, the morning train hurried her, -over the land, by the sea, between the white houses of Portici, the -pink houses of Torre del Greco, the houses, pink, white, and yellow, -of Torre Annunziata--on, on. And Anna, motionless in her corner, -gazing out of the window, beheld a vague, delicious vision of flowers -and stars and kisses and caresses; and an icy terror, a sense of -imminent peril, lay upon her heart. Oh, yes! In a brilliant vision -she saw a future of love, of passion and tenderness, a fire-hued -vision of all that soul and body could desire; yet constantly that -still, small voice kept whispering to her conscience: "Don't go, -don't go. If you go, you are lost." - -And this presently became so unbearable that, when the train entered -the brown, burnt-up country at the foot of Vesuvius, the country -that surrounds the great ruin of Pompeii, despair was making her -twist the handle of her purse violently with her fingers. The green -vines and the laughing villages had disappeared from the landscape; -the blue sea, with its dancing white waves, had disappeared; she was -crossing a wide, desolate plain; and the volcano, with its eternal -wreath of smoke, rose before her. And also had disappeared for ever -the phantasms of her happiness! Anna was travelling alone, through a -sterile land, where fire had passed, devastating all life, killing -the flowers, destroying the people, their homes, their pleasures, -their loves. And the voice within her cried: "This is a symbol of -Passion, which destroys all things, and then dies itself." - -And then she thought that she had chosen ominously in coming to -Pompeii--a city of love, destroyed by fire, an everlasting reminder -to those who saw it of the tragedy of life--Pompeii, with its hard -heart of lava! - -She descended from the carriage when the train stopped, and followed -a family of Germans and two English clergymen out of the tiny station. - -She went on, looking neither to right nor left, up the narrow, dusty -lane that leads from the railway to the inn at the city's gate. -Neither the Germans nor the clergymen noticed her; the solitary young -woman, with the warm, pale face, and the great brown-black eyes -that gazed straight forward, without interest in what they saw, the -eyes of a soul consumed by an emotion. When they had all entered the -house, she ensconced herself in a corner near a window, and looked -out upon the path she had followed, as if waiting for somebody, or as -if wishing to turn back. - -And Anna was praying for the safe coming of Giustino. If she could -but see him, if she could but hear his voice, all her doubts, all her -pains, would fly away. - -"I adore him! I adore him!" she thought, and tried thus to find -strength with which to combat her conscience. Her heart was filled -with a single wish--to see Giustino; he would give her strength; he -was the reason for her life--he and love. She looked at her little -child's watch, the only jewel she had brought away; she had a long -time still to wait before two o'clock. - -An old guide approached her, and offered to show her the ruins. She -followed him mechanically. They traversed the Street of Hope, the -Street of Fortune, where there are the deep marks of carriage wheels -in the stone pavement; they entered houses and shops and squares; she -looked at everything with vacant eyes. Twice the guide said: "Now let -us visit the Street of Tombs and the Villa of Diomedes." Twice she -had answered: "Later on; by-and-by." - -Two or three times she had sat down on a stone to rest; and then her -poor old guide had sat down also, at a distance, and let his head -fall forward on his breast, and dozed. She was strangely fatigued; -she had exhausted her forces in making the journey hither; the tumult -of emotion she had gone through had prostrated her. Now she felt -utterly alone and abandoned--a poor, unfortunate creature bearing -through this dead city a heavy burden of solitude and weariness: and -when, after a long rest, she got up to go on again, a great sigh -broke from her lips. - -But somehow she must pass the time, and so she went on. She climbed -to the top of the Amphitheatre, seeking to devour the minutes that -separated her from two o'clock. - -Presently the old man said, for the third time: "Now let us visit the -Street of Tombs and the Villa of Diomedes." - -"Let us go," she responded. - -The hours had passed at last; only one more remained. With her watch -in her hand, as the guide pointed out to her the magnificence of -the Villa of Diomedes, she was saying to herself, "Now Giustino is -leaving Naples." - -Impatient, no longer able to endure the voice or presence of the -old man, no longer able to hide her own perturbation, she paid and -dismissed him. He hesitated, reluctant to leave her, telling her that -it was forbidden to make sketches, and, above all, to carry anything -away; but he said it timidly, humbly, knowing very well that it was -needless to fear any such infractions from this pale girl with the -dreamy eyes. And he moved off, slowly, slowly, turning back every now -and then to see what she was doing. She sat down on a stone in front -of the tomb of the "sweet freed-woman," Nevoleia Tyche, and waited -there, her hands in her lap, her head bent; nor did she look up when -a party of English passed her, accompanied by a guide. This last hour -seemed interminable to her; it seemed covered by a great shadow, in -which all things were obscured. The name of Giustino, constantly -repeated, was like a single ray of light. She neither heard nor saw -what was going on round about her; her consciousness of the external -world was put out. - -Suddenly a shadow fell between her and the grey tomb of the -freed-woman. She looked up, and saw Giustino standing before her, -gazing down on her with an infinite despairing tenderness. - -Anna, unable to speak, gave him her hand, and rose. And a smile of -happiness, like a great light, shone from her eyes, and a warm colour -mantled her cheeks. Giustino had never seen her so beautiful. In -an ecstasy of joy, feeling all her doubts die within her, feeling -all the glory of her love spring to full life again, Anna could not -understand why there was an expression of sorrow on Giustino's face. - -"Do you love me--a great deal?" - -"A great deal." - -"You will always care for me?" - -"Always." - -It was like a sad, soft echo, but the girl did not notice that; a -veil of passion dimmed her perceptions. They walked on together, she -close to him, so happy that her feet scarcely touched the earth, -enjoying this minute of intense love with all the force of feeling -that she possessed, with all the self-surrender of which human nature -is capable. They walked on through the streets of Pompeii, without -seeing, without looking. Only again and again she said softly: "Tell -me that you love me--tell me that you love me!" - -Two or three times he had answered simply, "Yes," then he was silent. - -Suddenly, Anna, not hearing his answer, stood still, and taking his -arms in her hands, looked deep into his honest eyes, and asked, "What -is the matter?" - -Her voice trembled. He lowered his eyes. - -"Nothing," he said. - -"Why are you so sad?" - -"I'm not sad," he answered with an effort. - -"You're telling the truth?" - -"I'm telling the truth." - -"Swear that you love me." - -"Do you need me to swear it?" he exclaimed with such sincerity and -such pain that she was convinced, perceiving the sincerity, but not -the pain. - -But she was still troubled; there was still a bitterness in her joy. -They were near the Street of the Sea, which leads out of the dead -city. - -"Let us go away, let us go away," she said impatiently. - -"The train for Metaponto doesn't leave till six o'clock; we've plenty -of time." - -"Let us go away! I don't want to stay here any longer. I beg of you, -let us go." - -He obeyed her passively and was silent. They entered the inn on their -way to the station, at the same time as the two English clergymen. -Anna was frightened; she didn't care to talk of love to Giustino -before such witnesses, but she looked at him with fond, supplicating -eyes. The two clergymen seated themselves at the table which is -always laid in the chief room of the inn, and while they ate their -dinner one of them read his Bible, the other his Baedeker. The two -lovers were near the window, looking through the glass at the road -that leads to the station; and Anna was holding on to Giustino's arm, -and he, confused, nervous, asked her if she would not like to dine, -taking refuge from his embarrassment in the commonplace. "No; she did -not wish to dine, she wasn't hungry. Afterwards, by-and-by." And her -voice failed her as she looked at the two ecclesiastics. - -"I wish----" she began, whispering into Giustino's ear. - -"What do you wish?" - -"Take me away somewhere else, where I can say something to you." - -He hesitated; she blushed; then he left the room to speak to the -landlord; returning presently, "Come," he said. - -"Where are we going?" - -"Upstairs." - -"Upstairs?" - -"You will see." - -They went upstairs to the first floor, where the waiter who conducted -them opened the door of an apartment consisting of a bedroom and -sitting-room--a big bedroom, a tiny sitting-room--both having -balconies that looked off over the country, and there the waiter left -them alone. - -Each of them was pale, silent, confused. - -She looked round. The sitting-room was vulgarly furnished with a -green sofa, two green easy-chairs, a centre-table covered with a -nut-coloured jute tablecloth, and a marble console. The thought of -the many strangers who had inhabited it inspired her with a sort of -shame. Then she glanced into the bedroom. It was very large, with two -beds at the farther end, a dressing-table, a sofa, and a wardrobe. -These pieces of furniture seemed lost in the vast bare-looking -chamber. It gave her a shudder merely to look into it; and yet again -she blushed. - -She raised her eyes to Giustino's, and she noticed anew that he was -gazing at her with an expression of great sadness. - -"What is the matter?" she asked. - -He did not answer. He sat down and buried his face in his hands. - -"Tell me what it is," she insisted, trembling with anger and anguish. - -He remained silent. Perhaps he was weeping behind his hands. - -"If you don't tell me what it is, I'll go back to Naples," she said. - -He did not speak. - -"You despise me because I have left my home." - -"No, Anna," he murmured. - -"You think I'm dreadful--you think of me as an abandoned creature." - -"No, dear one--no." - -"Perhaps--you--love another woman." - -"You can't think that." - -"Perhaps--you have--another tie--without love." - -"None; I am bound to no one." - -"You have promised yourself to no one?" - -"To no one." - -"Then why are you so sad? Why do you weep? Why do you tremble? It is -I who ought to weep and tremble, and yet I don't weep unless to see -you weep. Your weeping breaks my heart, makes me desperate." - -"Anna, listen to me. By the memory of your mother I implore you -to listen, to understand. I am miserable because of you, on your -account--in thinking of what I have allowed you to do, of how you -are throwing away your future, of the unhappiness that awaits you; -without a home, without a name, persecuted by your family----" - -"If you loved me, you wouldn't think these things; you wouldn't say -them." - -"I have always said them, Anna; I have always repeated them. I have -ruined you. For three days I have been in an agony of remorse; it is -the same to-day. Though you are the light of my life, I must say it -to you. To-day I can't forgive myself; to-morrow you will be unable -to forgive me. Oh, my love! I am a gentleman, I am a Christian; and -yet I have been weak enough to allow you and me to commit this sin, -this fault." - -Speaking thus, with an infinite earnestness, all the honesty of his -noble soul showed itself, a soul bowed down by remorse. She looked at -him and listened to him with stupefaction, amazed at this spectacle -of a rectitude, of a virtue that was greater than love, for she -believed only in love. - -"I don't understand you," she said. - -"And yet you must--you must. If you don't see the reasons for my -conduct you will despise me, you will hate me. You must try, with -all your heart, with all your mind, to understand. You mustn't let -yourself be carried away by your love. You must be calm, you must be -cool." - -"I can't." - -"O God!" he said in despair. - -Again he was silent. She mechanically, to overcome the trembling -of her hands, pulled at the fringe of the tablecloth. She tried to -reflect, to understand. And always, always, she had the same feeling, -the same idea, and she could not help trying to express it in words: -"You don't love me enough." She looked into his eyes as she spoke, -concentrating her whole soul in her voice and in her gaze. - -"It is true, I don't love you enough," he answered. - -She made no sound: she was cut to the heart. The little sitting-room, -the inn, Pompeii, the whole world appeared to go whirling round her -dizzily. She had a feeling as if her temples would burst open, and -pressed her hands to them instinctively. - -"Ah, then," she said, after a long pause, in a broken voice--"ah, -then, you have deceived me?" - -"I have deceived you," he murmured humbly. - -"You haven't loved me?" - -"Not enough to forget everything else. I have already said so." - -"I understand. What was the use of lying?" - -"Because you were beautiful and good, and you loved me, and I didn't -see this danger. I didn't dream that you would wish to give up -everything in this way, that I should be unable to prevent you----" - -"Words, words. The essential is, you don't love me." - -"As you wish to be loved, as you deserve to be loved--no." - -"That is, without blind passion?" - -"Without blind passion." - -"That is, without fire, without enthusiasm?" - -"Without fire, without enthusiasm." - -"Then, with what?" - -"With tenderness, with affection, with devotion." - -"It is not enough, not enough, not enough," she said monotonously, -as if talking in her sleep. "Don't you know how to love differently. -More--as I love----?" - -"No, I don't know how." - -"Do you think you never can? Perhaps you can to-morrow, or in the -future?" - -"No, I never can, Anna. I shall always prefer duty to happiness." - -"Poor, weak creature," she murmured with immense scorn. - -He lifted his eyes towards heaven, as if seeking strength to endure -his martyrdom. - -"So," Anna went on, slowly, "if we were to live together, you would -be unhappy?" - -"We should both be unhappy, and the sight of your unhappiness, of -which I should be the cause, would kill me." - -"Well, then?" - -"It's for you to say what you wish." - -The cruel, the terrible reality was clear to her; there was only one -thing to be said, and that was so unexpectedly dreadful that she -hesitated to say it. The truth was so horrible, she could not bear to -give it shape in speech. She looked at him--at this man who, to save -her, inflicted such inexpressible pain upon her. And he understood -that Anna could not pronounce the last words. He himself, in spite -of his great courage, could not speak them, those last words, for he -loved the girl wildly. The terrible truth appalled them both. - -She got up stiffly and went to the window and leaned her forehead -against the glass, looking out over the country and down the lane -that led to the little station. Twice before that day she had looked -at the same silent landscape; but in the morning, when she was alone, -waiting, thrilling with hope, and again, only an hour ago, leaning on -Giustino's arm, she had possessed entire the priceless treasure of -a great love. Now, now all was over; nevermore, nevermore would she -know the delight of love: all was over, all, all. - -Giustino had not moved from where he sat with his face buried in his -hands. Suddenly Anna seized him by the shoulders, forced him to raise -his head, and began to speak, so close to him that he could feel her -warm breath on his cheek. - -"And yet you did love me," she said, passionately. "You can't deny -it; I know it. I have seen you turn pale when you met me, as pale as -I myself. If I spoke to you my voice made your eyes brighten, as your -voice made my heart leap. You looked for me everywhere, as I looked -for you, feeling that the world would be colourless without love. -And your letters bore the imprint of a great tenderness. But that is -love, true love, passionate love, which isn't forgotten in a day or -in a year, for which a whole life-time is not sufficient. It isn't -possible that you don't love me any more. You do love me; you are -deceiving me when you say you don't. I don't know why. But speak the -truth--tell me that it is impossible for you to have got over such a -passion." - -He felt all his courage leaving him under this tumult of words. - -"Giustino, Giustino, think of what you are doing in denying our love. -Think of the two lives you are ruining; for you yourself will be as -miserable as I. Giustino, you will kill me; if you leave me here, I -shall kill myself. Let us go away; let us go away together. Take me -away. You love me. Let us start at once; now is the time." - -It seemed for a moment as if he were on the point of giving way. He -was a man with a man's nerves, a man's senses, a man's heart; and he -loved her ardently. But when again she begged him to fly with her, -and he felt himself almost yielding, he made a great effort to resist -her. - -"I can't, Anna; I cannot," he said in a low voice. - -"Then you wish me to die?" - -"You won't die. You are young. You will live to be happy again." - -"All is over for me, Giustino. This is death." - -"No, it's not death, Anna." - -"You talk like Cesare Dias," she cried, moving away from him. "You -speak like a sceptic who has neither love nor faith. You are like -him--corrupt, cynical----" - -"You insult me; but you're right." - -"I am dishonoured: do you realise that? I am a fugitive from my -people; I am alone here with you in an hotel. I am dishonoured, -dishonoured, coward that you are. You can go home quietly, having had -an amusing adventure; but I--I have no home any more. I was a good -girl; now I am lost." - -"Your people know where you are and what you have done--that you have -done nothing wrong. They know that you have done it in response to -a generous impulse for one who was not worthy of you, but who has -respected you." - -"And who told them?" - -"I." - -"When?" - -"This morning." - -"To whom did you tell it?" - -"To your sister and your guardian." - -"Did they come to ask you?" - -"No, I went to them." - -"And what did you agree upon amongst you?" - -"That I should come here and meet you." - -"And then?" - -"That I should leave you." - -"When?" - -"When Cesare Dias was ready to come and fetch you." - -"It's a beautiful plan," she said, icily. "The plan of calm, -practical men. Bravo, bravo! You--you ran to my people, to exculpate -yourself, to accuse me, to reassure them. Good, good! I am a mad -child, guilty of a youthful escapade, which fortunately hasn't -touched my reputation. You denounced me, told them that I wanted to -elope with you; and you are a gentleman! Good! The whole thing was -wonderfully well combined. I am to return home with Cesare Dias as -if I had made a harmless little excursion, and what's done is done. -You're right, of course; Cesare Dias is right; Laura Acquaviva, who -has never loved and who despises those who love, Laura is right; -you are all right. I alone am wrong. Oh, the laughable adventure! -To attempt an elopement, and to fail in it, because the man won't -elope. To return home because your lover has denounced you to your -family! What a comedy! You are right. There has been no catastrophe. -The solution is immensely humorous: I know it. I am like a suicide -who didn't kill herself. You are right. I am wrong. You--you----" -And she looked him full in the face, withering him with her glance. -"Begone! I despise you. Begone!" - -"Anna, Anna, don't send me away like this." - -"Begone! The cowardly way in which you have behaved is past contempt. -Begone!" - -"We mustn't part like this." - -"We are already parted, utterly separated. We have always been -separated. Go away." - -"Anna, what I have done I have done for your sake, for your good. -Now you send me away. Afterwards you will do me justice. I am an -honourable man--that is my sin." - -"I don't know you. Good-day." - -"But what will you do alone here?" - -"That doesn't concern you. Good-day." - -"Let me wait for Cesare Dias." - -"If you don't go at once I'll open the window and throw myself from -the balcony," she said, with so much firmness that he believed her. - -"Good-bye, then." - -"Good-bye." - -She stood in the middle of the room, a small red spot burning in -each of her cheeks, and watched him go out, heard him descend the -staircase, slowly, with the heavy step of one bearing a great -burden. She leaned from the window and saw the shadow of a man issue -from the door of the inn--it was Giustino. He stood still for a -moment, and then turned into the high road that leads to Pompeii from -Torre Annunziata, and again stood still, as if to wait for somebody -there. Anna saw him turn towards the windows of the hotel, and gaze -up at them earnestly. At last he moved slowly away and disappeared. - -Anna came back into the room, and threw herself upon the sofa, biting -its cushions to keep herself from screaming. Her head was on fire, -but she couldn't weep--not a tear, not a single tear. - -And in the midst of her trouble, constantly--whether, as at one -moment, she was pitying herself as a poor child to whom a monstrous -wrong had been done, or as, at the next, burning with scorn as a -great lady offended in her pride; or again, blushing with shame as -she thought of the imminent arrival of Cesare Dias--in the midst of -it all, through it all, constantly, one little agonising, implacable -phrase kept repeating itself: "All is over, all is over, all is over!" - -Presently a servant brought in a light. - -"Please, madam, do you mean to stay the night?" he asked. - -"No." - -"The last train for Naples has already left. You can go back by way -of Torre Annunziata in a carriage." - -"Some one is coming for me," she said. - -The servant left the room. - -By-and-by she heard her name called: "Anna! Anna!" - -She fell on her knees before Cesare Dias, sobbing: "Forgive me, -forgive me." - -He, with a tremor in his voice, murmured, "My poor child." - -And at home, in her own house, she said to her sister: "Laura, -forgive me." - -"My poor Anna." - - - - - III. - -For three weeks Anna lay at the point of death, prey to a violent -attack of scarlet fever, alternating between delirium and stupor, and -always moaning in her pain; while Laura, Stella Martini, and a Sister -of Charity watched at her bedside. - -But she did not die. The fever reached its crisis, and then, little -by little, day by day, abated. - -At last her struggle with death was finished, but Anna had lost in -it the best part of her youth. Thus a valorous warrior survives the -battle indeed, but returns to his friends the phantom of himself--an -object of pity to those who saw him set forth, strong and gallant. - -When the early Neapolitan spring began to show itself, at the end of -February, she was convalescent, but so weak that she could scarcely -support the weight of her thick black hair. Stella Martini tried very -patiently to comb it so gently that Anna should not have to move, -braiding it in two long plaits; in this way it would seem less heavy. -From time to time a big tear would roll down the invalid's cheek. - -She was weeping silently, slowly; and when Laura or Stella Martini, -or Sister Crocifissa would ask her: "What is it; what can we do for -you?" Anna would answer with a sign which seemed to say: "Let me -weep; perhaps it will do me good to weep." - -"Let her weep, it will do her good to weep," was what the great -doctor Antonio Amati had said also. "Let her do whatever pleases her; -refuse her nothing if you can help it." - -So her nurses, obedient to the doctor, did not try to prevent her -weeping, did not even try to speak comforting words to her. Perhaps -it was not so much an active sorrow that made her shed these tears, -as a sort of sad relief. - -Cesare Dias during this anxious time put aside his occupations of -a gay bachelor, and called two or three times a day at the palace -in Piazza Gerolomini to inquire how Anna was. The two girls had no -nearer relative than he; and he, indeed, was not a relative: he was -their guardian, an old friend of their father's, a companion of the -youthful sports of Francesco Acquaviva. The young wife of Francesco -had died five years after the birth of her second daughter, Laura, -who resembled her closely: and thereupon her husband had proceeded to -shorten his own life by throwing himself into every form of worldly -dissipation. The two children, growing up in the house, motherless -in the midst of profuse luxury, could exert no restraining influence -upon their father, who seemed bent upon enjoying every minute of his -existence as if he realised that its end was near. His constant -companion was the cold, calm, sceptical Cesare Dias, a man who -appeared to despise the very pleasures it was his one business to -pursue. And when Francesco Acquaviva fell ill, and was about to die, -he could think of nothing better than to make the partner of his -follies the guardian of his children. - -Cesare Dias had discharged his duties, not without some secret -annoyance, with a gentlemanlike correctness; never treating his wards -with much familiarity, rarely showing himself in public with them, -keeping them at a distance, indeed, and feeling very little interest -in them. He was their guardian--he, a man who, of all things, had -least desired to have a family, who spent the whole of his income -upon himself, who hated sentiment, who had no ideal of friendship. -Cesare Dias, a man without tenderness, without affection, without -sympathy, was the guardian of two young girls. He was this by the -freak of Francesco Acquaviva. Dias would be glad enough when the day -came for the girls to marry. When people congratulated him upon his -situation as a rich bachelor with no obligations, he responded with a -somewhat sarcastic smile: "Pity me rather; I've got two children--a -legacy from Francesco Acquaviva." - -"Oh, they'll soon be married." - -"I hope so," he murmured devoutly. - -As he watched the girls grow up, the character of Laura, haughty, -and reserved, and silent, as if she had already known a thousand -disillusions, began vaguely to please him, as if he saw obscurely -in a looking-glass a face that distantly resembled his own: -a faint admiration which was really but reflex admiration of -himself. The character of Anna, on the contrary, open, loyal, -impressionable and impulsive, a character full of strong likes and -dislikes--imaginative, enthusiastic, generous--had always roused in -him a certain antipathy. - -In her presence he seemed even colder and more indifferent than -elsewhere; merciless for all human weakness, disdainful of all human -interests. - -It would have been a miracle if two such incompatible natures, each -so positive, had not repelled each other. Sometimes, though, Anna -could not help feeling a certain secret respect for this man, who -perhaps had good reasons--reasons born of suffering--for the contempt -with which he regarded his fellow-beings; and sometimes Dias told -himself that it was ridiculous to be angry with this strange child, -for she was a worthy daughter of Francesco Acquaviva, a man who -had tossed his life to the winds of pleasure. Dias asked himself -scornfully, "What does it matter?" - -And so, when he learned that his ward had fallen in love with an -obscure and penniless youth, he shrugged his shoulders, murmuring, -"Rhetoric!" He deemed it wiser not to speak to her about the matter, -for he knew that the flame of love is only fanned by the wind of -contradiction; besides, it is always useless to talk sensibly to a -silly girl. - -When Giustino Morelli had called upon him and humbly asked for Anna's -hand, Dias opposed to the ingenuous eloquence of love the cynical -philosophy of the world, and thought his trouble ended when he saw -the young man go away, pale and resigned. "Rhetoric, rhetoric!" -was his mental commentary; and he had a theory that what he called -rhetoric could be trusted to die a natural death. So he went back to -his usual occupation, giving the affair no further thought. - -But chemical analysis cannot explain spontaneous generation; -criticism cannot explain genius; and no more can cold reason explain -or understand youthful passion. - -When it came to the knowledge of Cesare Dias that Anna had left -her home to give herself into the keeping of a poor nobody, he was -for a moment stupefied; he seemed for a moment to have a vision of -that force whose existence he had hitherto doubted, which can lift -hearts up to dizzy heights, and human beings far above convention. He -was a man of few words, a man of action, but now he was staggered, -nonplussed. A child who could play her reputation and her future -like this, inspired him with a sort of vague respect, a respect for -the power that moved her. Ah, there was a convulsion in the soul of -Cesare Dias, the man of fixed ideas and easy aphorisms, who suddenly -found himself face to face with a moral crisis in which the life of -his young ward might be wrecked. And he felt a pang of self-reproach. -He ought to have watched more carefully over her; he ought to have -been kinder to her; he ought not to have left her to walk unguided -in the dangerous path of youth and love. - -He felt a certain pity for the poor weak creature, who had gone, -as it were, headlong over a precipice without calling for help. -He thought that, if she had been his own daughter, he would have -endeavoured to cultivate her common sense, to show her that it was -impossible for people to live constantly at concert pitch. He had, -therefore, failed in his duty towards her, in his office of protector -and friend; and yet what faith her dead father, Francesco Acquaviva, -had had in him, in his wisdom, in his affection! Anna, who had -hitherto inspired him only with that disdain which practical men feel -for sentimentalists, now moved him to compassion, as a defenceless -being exposed to all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. -And during his drive from Naples to Pompeii he promised himself that -he would be very kind to her, very gentle. If she had flown from her -home, it was doubtless because the love that Giustino Morelli bore -her had appeared greater to her than the love of her own people; -and doubtless, too, there are hearts to whom love is as necessary -as bread is to the body. Never before had Cesare Dias felt such an -emotion as beset him now during that long drive to Pompeii; for years -he had been on his guard against such emotions. - -And, accordingly, after that fatal day on which he brought her back -to her house, he and Laura and Stella Martini all tried to create -round Anna a peaceful atmosphere of kindness and indulgence, as if -she had committed a grave but generous error, by whose consequences -she alone was hurt. Laura--silent, thoughtful, with her dreamy grey -eyes, her placid face--nursed Anna through her fever with quiet -sisterly devotion. Cesare Dias called every morning, entering the -room on tiptoe, inquiring with a glance how the sufferer was doing, -then seating himself at a distance from the bed, without speaking. If -Anna looked up, if he felt her big sorrowful black eyes turned upon -his face, he would ask in a gentle voice, the voice of _that day_, -how she felt; she would answer with a faint smile, "Better," and -would shut her eyes again, and go back to her interior contemplations. - -Cesare Dias, after that, would get up noiselessly and go away, to -come again in the afternoon, and still again in the evening, perhaps -for a longer visit. - -Laura, always dressed in white, would meet him in the sitting-room; -and he would ask, "Is she better?" - -"She seems to be." - -"Has she been asleep to-day?" - -"No, I don't think she has been asleep." - -"Has she said anything." - -"Not a word." - -"Who is to watch with her to-night." - -"I." - -"You will wear yourself out." - -"No, no." - -Nothing else passed between them. - -Often he would arrive in the evening wearing his dress-suit; he had -dined at his club, and was off for a card-party or a first night at -a theatre. Then he would remain standing, with his overcoat open, -his hat in his hand. At such a time, a little warmed up by the -dinner he had eaten, or the amusements that awaited him, Cesare Dias -was still a handsome man; his dull eyes shone with some of their -forgotten brightness; his cheeks had a little colour in them; and his -smooth black hair gave him almost an appearance of youth. One who -had seen him in the morning, pale and exhausted, would scarcely have -recognised him. Laura would meet him and part with him, never asking -whence he came or whither he was bound; when he had said good-night -she would return to Anna, slowly, with her light footsteps that -merely brushed the carpet. - -Cesare Dias told himself that if he wished to make his sick ward over -morally, now was the time to begin, while her body was weak and her -soul malleable. It would be impossible to transform her spirit after -she had once got back her strength. Anna was completely prostrated, -passing the entire day without moving, her arms stretched out at full -length, her hands pale and cold, her face turned on the side, her -two rich plaits of black hair extended on her pillow; bloodless her -cheeks, her lips, her brow; lifeless the glance of her eyes. When -spoken to, she answered with a slight movement of the head, or, at -most, one or two words--always the same. - -"How do you feel?" - -"Better." - -"Do you wish for anything?" - -"Nothing." - -"Is there nothing you would like?" - -"No, thanks." - -Whereupon she would close her eyes again, exhausted. Nothing more -would be said by those round her, but Anna knew that they were there, -silent, talking together by means of significant glances. - -One day, Cesare Dias and Laura Acquaviva felt that they could mark a -progress in Anna's convalescence, because two or three times she had -looked at them with an expression of such earnest penitence, with -such an eager prayer for pardon, in her sad dark eyes, that words -were not necessary to tell what she felt. Soon afterwards she seemed -to wish to be left alone with Dias, as if she had a secret to confide -to him; but he cautiously thought it best to defer any private talk. -However, one morning it so happened that he found himself alone in -her room. He was reading a newspaper when a soft voice said: - -"Listen." - -Cesare Dias looked at her. Her black eyes were again beseeching -forgiveness, and Anna stammered: - -"What must you have thought--what must you have said of me!" - -"You must not excite yourself, my dear," he said kindly. - -"I was so wicked," she sobbed. - -"Don't talk like that, dear Anna; you were guilty of nothing more -than a girlish folly." - -"A sin, a sin." - -"You must call things by their right names, and not let your -imagination get the better of you," he answered, somewhat coldly. "A -youthful folly." - -"Well, be it as you wish," she said, humbly; "but if you knew----" - -"There, there," murmured Cesare Dias with the shadow of a smile, -"calm yourself; we'll speak of this another day." - -Laura had come back into the room, and her presence cut short their -talk. - -That evening, by the faint light of a little lamp that hung before -an image of the Virgin at her bedside, Anna saw the big grey eyes of -Laura gazing at her inquiringly; and therewith she raised herself a -little on her pillow and called her sister to her. - -"You are good; you don't know----" - -"You mustn't excite yourself." - -"You are innocent, Laura, but you are my sister. Don't judge me -harshly." - -"I don't judge you, Anna." - -"Laura, Laura----" - -"Be quiet, Anna." - -Laura's tone was a little hard, but with her hand she gently caressed -her sister's cheek; and Anna said nothing more. - -As her recovery progressed, an expression of humility, of -contrition, seemed to become more and more constant upon her face -when she had to do with Laura or with Dias. - -They were very kind to her, with that pitying kindness which we show -to invalids, to old people, and to children--a kindness in marked -contrast to their former indifference, which awoke in her an ever -sharper and sharper remorse. She felt a great difference between -herself and them: they were sane in body and mind, their blood flowed -tranquilly in their veins, their consciences were untroubled; while -she was broken in health, disturbed in spirit, and miserable in -thinking of her past, its deceits, its errors, its thousand shameful -aberrations, its lack of maidenly decorum--and for whom? for whom? -For a fool, a simpleton, a fellow who had neither heart nor courage, -who had never loved her, who was cruel and inept. When she drew a -mental comparison between Giustino Morelli and these two persons -whom she had wished to desert for him--between Giustino, so timid, -so poor in all right feeling, so bankrupt in passion, and them, so -magnanimous, so forgetful of her fault--her repentance grew apace. -It was the exaggerated repentance of a noble nature, which magnifies -the moral gravity of its own transgressions. She felt herself to -be quite undeserving of the sympathy and affection with which they -treated her. Their kindness was an act of gratuitous charity beyond -her merits. - -She would look from Laura to Cesare Dias and murmur: "You are good; -you are good." And then at the sound of her own voice she would be -so moved that she would weep; and pale, with great dark circles under -her eyes, she would repeat, "So good, so good." - -Her sole desire was to show herself absolutely obedient to whatever -her guardian demanded, to whatever her sister advised. - -She gave herself over, bound hand and foot, to these two beings whom -she had so cruelly forgotten on the day of her mad adventure; in her -convalescence she found a great joy in throwing herself absolutely -upon their wisdom and their goodness. - -Little by little it seemed to her that she was being born again to -a new life, quiet, placid, irresponsible; a life in which she would -have no will of her own, in which, passively, gladly, she would -be guided and controlled by them. So, whenever they spoke to her, -whenever they asked for her opinion--whether a window should be -opened or closed, whether a bouquet of flowers should be left in the -room or carried out, whether a note should be written to a friend who -had called to inquire how she was--she always said, "Yes," or "As you -think best," emphasising her answer with a gesture and a glance. - -"Yes" to whatever Cesare Dias suggested to her; Cesare Dias who had -grown in her imagination to the proportions of a superior being, far -removed from human littleness, invincible, dwelling in the highest -spheres of abstract intellect; and "Yes" to whatever Laura Acquaviva -suggested, Laura the pure, the impeccable, who had never had the -weakness to fall in love, who would die rather than be wanting to -her ideal of herself. "Yes" even to whatever her poor governess, -Stella Martini, suggested; Stella so kind, so faithful, whom in the -past she had so heartlessly deceived. "Yes" to the good Sister of -Charity, Maria del Crocifisso, who passed her life in self-sacrifice, -in self-abnegation, in loving devotion to others. "Yes" to everybody. -Anna said nothing but "Yes," because she had been wrong, and they had -all been right. - -She was getting well. Nothing remained of her illness except a mortal -weakness, a heaviness of the head, an inability to concentrate her -mind upon one idea, a desire to rest where she was, not to move from -her bed, from her room, not to lift her hands, to keep her eyes -closed, her cheek buried in her pillow. Cesare Dias called daily -after luncheon, at two o'clock, an hour when men of the world have -absolutely nothing to do, for visits are not in order till four. -The girls waited for him every afternoon; Laura with her appearance -of being above all earthly trifles, showing neither curiosity nor -eagerness; Anna with a secret anxiety because he would bring her -a sense of calmness and strength, a breath of the world's air, -and especially because he seemed so firm, so imperturbable, that -she found it restorative merely to look at him, as weaklings find -restorative the sight of those who are robust. He would chat a -little, giving the latest gossip, telling where last night's ball -had been held, who had gone upon a journey, who had got married, but -always with that tone of disdain, that tone of the superior being -who sees but is not moved, and yet who seeks to conceal his boredom, -which was characteristic of him. - -Sometimes, though, he would laugh outright at the society he moved -in, at its pleasures, at its people, burlesquing and caricaturing -them, and ridiculing himself for being led by them. - -"Oh, you!" cried Anna, with an indescribable intonation of respect. - -She listened eagerly to everything he said. Her fragile soul was -like a butterfly that lights on every tiniest flower. These elegant -and meaningless frivolities, these experiences without depth or -significance, these axioms of a social code that turned appearances -into idols, all this worthless baggage delighted her enfeebled -imagination. Her heart seemed to care for nothing but little things. -She admired Cesare Dias as a splendid and austere man whom destiny -had thrown amidst inferior surroundings, and who adapted himself to -them without losing any of his nobler qualities. She told herself -that his was a great soul that had been born too soon, perhaps too -late; he was immeasurably above his times, yet with quiet fortitude -he took them in good part. When he displayed his scorn for all human -ambitions, speaking of how transitory everything pertaining to -this world is in its nature; when he derided human folly and human -beings who in the pursuit of follies lose their fortunes and their -reputations; when he said that the only human thing deserving of -respect was success; when he said that all generosity was born of -some secret motive of selfishness, that all virtue was the result -of some weakness of character or of temperament--she, immensely -impressed, having forgotten during her fever the emotional reasons -to be opposed to such effete and corrupt theories, bowed her head, -answering sadly, "You are right." - -Now that she was able to sit up they were often alone together. Laura -would leave them to go and read in the sitting-room, or to receive -callers in the drawing-room, or to walk out with Stella Martini. She -could always find some pretext for taking herself off. She was a -reserved, silent girl, who knew neither how to live nor how to love -as others did. It was best to leave her to her taste for silence, for -self-absorption. Cesare Dias, a little anxious about her, asked Anna: - -"What is the matter with Laura?" - -"She is good--she is the best girl alive," Anna answered, with the -feeling she always showed when she named her sister. - -Cesare Dias looked at her fixedly. He looked at her like this -whenever her voice betrayed emotion. It seemed to him that it was -her old nature revealing itself again; he wished to stamp it out, -to suffocate it. Her heart was defenceless, too impressionable, the -heart of a child: he wished to turn it into a heart of bronze, which -would be unaffected by the breath of passion. Always, therefore, -when Anna allowed her soul to vibrate in her voice, Cesare Dias, -naturally serious and composed enough, seemed to become more serious, -more austere; his eye hardened into glass, and Anna felt that she had -displeased him. She knew that she displeased him as often as anything -in her manner could recall that wild adventure which had sullied the -innocence of her girlhood: as often as she gave any sign of being -deeply moved: if she turned pale, if she bowed her head, if she wept. -Cesare Dias hated all such manifestations of sentimental weakness. -Sometimes, when Anna could no longer control herself, and her emotion -could not be prevented from shining in her eyes, he would pretend not -to notice it. Sometimes he would demand, "What is the matter?" - -"Nothing," said she, timidly conscious that by her timidity she but -displeased him the more. - -"Always the same--incorrigible," he murmured, shaking his head -hopelessly. - -"Forgive me; I can't help it," she besought him with an imploring -glance. - -"You shouldn't say of anything that you can't help it. You should be -strong enough to govern yourself in all circumstances," was the axiom -of Cesare Dias. - -"I will try." - -One day in April, Stella Martini, coming home from a walk with -Laura, brought her some flowers--some beautiful wild rosebuds, -which in Naples blossom so early in the year. Anna was seated in an -easy-chair near the window, through which entered the soft spring -air; and when she saw Laura and Stella come into the house--Laura -dressed in white, breathing peace and youth from every line of -her figure--Stella with her face that seemed to have been scalded -and shrivelled up by tears shed long ago, both bearing great -quantities of fresh sweet roses, the poor girl's heart swelled with -indescribable tenderness. - -Holding the roses in her hand, she caressed them, touched them with -her face, buried her lips in them, and said under her voice: "Thank -you, thank you," as if in her weakness she could find no other words -to express her pleasure. - -Cesare Dias, arriving a little later, found her in rapt contemplation -over her flowers, her great fond eyes glowing with joy. A shadow -crossed his face. - -"See, they have brought me these flowers," she said. "Aren't they -lovely?" - -"I see them," he said, drily. - -"Aren't you fond of flowers? They're so fresh and fragrant. I hope -you're fond of them; I adore them." - -And in the fervour of her last phrase she closed her eyes. - -It occurred to him that she had doubtless not so very long ago -spoken the same words of a man; and he realised that, in spite of -her illness, in spite of her repentance, she was ever the same Anna -Acquaviva who had once flown from her home and people. He lifted his -eyebrows, and his ebony walking-stick beat rather nervously against -his chair. - -"Would you like a rose?" she asked, to placate him. - -"No." - -"Why not?" - -"Because I don't care for flowers." - -"What! Not even to wear in your button-hole when you go into -society?" she asked, trying to jest. - -"They're not _de rigueur_. Flowers are pretty enough in their way; -but I assure you I have never had the weakness to weep over them, or -to say that I adore them." - -"I was wrong, I said too much." - -"You always say too much. You lack a sense of proportion. There are a -great many things a girl shouldn't say, lest, if she begins by saying -them, she should end by doing them, The woman who says too much is -lost." - -Anna turned as white as the collar of her frock. It had come at last, -the reproof she had so long been waiting for, and secretly dreading. -He had put it in a single brief sentence. The woman who says too much -is lost. Once upon a time, six months ago for instance, she would -have endured such a reproof from no one, such a bitter reference to -her past; she would have retorted hotly, especially if the speaker -had been Cesare Dias. But now! So weakened was she by her illness and -her sorrow, there was not a fibre in her that resented it; her blood -slept in her veins; her heart contained nothing but penitence. "The -woman who says too much is lost!" Cesare Dias was right. - -"It is true," she said. - -And yet, as she said it, a new grief was born within her, as if she -had renounced some precious possession of her soul, broken some holy -vow. - -Cesare's face cleared. He had won a victory. - -"Anna," he went on, "every time that you allow yourself to be carried -away by sentimentalism, that you employ exaggerated expressions, -that you indulge in emotional rhetoric, I assure you, you displease -me greatly. How ridiculous if life were to be passed in saying of -people, houses, landscapes, flowers, 'I adore them!' Don't you see -what a convulsive, hysterical frame of mind that is? As if life were -nothing but a smile, a tear, a kiss! Do you know to what this sort of -thing inevitably leads? You know----" - -"Spare me, I entreat you." - -"I can't, dear. First you must agree with me that your attitude -towards life, though a generous one if you like, is not a wise one, -and that it leads to the gravest errors. Am I right?" - -"You are right." - -"You must agree with me that that sort of thing can only make -ourselves and others miserable, whereas our duty is to be as happy -and to make others as happy as we can. Everything else is rhetoric. -Am I right?" - -"You are right. You are always right." - -"Finally, you must agree that it is better to be reasonable than to -be sentimental; better to be arid than to be rhetorical, better to be -silent than to speak out everything that is in one's heart; better -to be strong than to be weak. Am I not right?" - -"You are right, always right." - -"Anna, do you know what life is?" - -"No, I don't know what it really is." - -"Life is a thing which is serious and absurd at the same time." - -She made no answer; she was silent and pensive. - -"It is serious because it is the only thing we know anything about; -because every man and every woman, in whatever rank or condition, is -bound to be honest, well-behaved, worthy and proper; because if one -is rich and noble it is one's duty to be moral in a given way; if one -is poor and humble, it is one's duty to be moral in another way." - -He saw that she was listening to him eagerly; he saw that he might -hazard a great stroke. - -"Giustino Morelli----" he began softly. - -"No!" she cried, pressing her hands to her temples, her face -convulsed with terror. - -"Giustino Morelli----" he repeated calmly. - -"For Heaven's sake, don't speak of him." - -Cesare Dias appeared neither to see nor hear her. He wished to go to -the bottom of the matter, courageously, pitilessly. - -"--was a serious person, an honest man," he concluded. - -"He was an infamous traitor," said Anna, in a low voice, as if -speaking to herself. - -"Anna, he was an honest man. You ought to believe it. You will -believe it." - -"Never, never." - -"Yes, you will. You ought to do him justice. I, who am a man, I must -do him justice. He might have issued from his obscurity; he might -have had money, a beautiful wife, a wife whom he loved, for he loved -you----" - -"No, no." - -"Everybody loves in his own way, my dear," retorted Cesare, -icily. "He loved you. But because he did not wish to be thought -self-interested, because he did not wish the world to say of him -that he had loved you for your money, because he did not wish to -hear you, Anna, some day say the same thing; because he could not -endure the accusation of having seduced a young girl for her fortune; -because he was not willing to let you suffer, as for some years, at -any rate, you would have had to suffer, from poverty and obscurity, -he renounced you. Do you understand? He renounced you because he was -honest. He renounced you, though in doing so he had to face your -anger and your scorn. My dear, that man was a martyr to duty, to use -one of your own phrases. Will you allow me to say something which may -appear ungracious, but which is really friendly?" - -Anna consented with a sign. - -"Well, you have no just notion of the seriousness of life. All -its responsibilities can be scattered by a caprice, by a passion, -to quote what you yourself have said. You would brush aside all -obstacles; and you would run the risk of losing all respect, all -honour, all peace, all health, thereby. Life, Anna, is a very serious -affair." - -With a bowed head, she could only answer by a gesture, a gesture that -said "Yes." - -"And, at the same time, it's a trifling matter, Anna." - -It was the corrupt, effete nobleman who now re-appeared, the _viveur_ -who had drunk at every fountain, who was always bored and always -curious; it was he who now took the place of the moral teacher. Anna -looked up, surprised and shocked. - -"Life is absurd, ridiculous, contemptible. The world is full of cruel -parents, of false friends, of wives who betray their husbands, of -husbands who maltreat their wives, of well-dressed swindlers, of -thieving bankers. All of them in turn are judges and criminals. All -appearances are deceitful; all faces lie. If by chance there turns up -a man who seems really honest, nobody believes in him; or, if people -believe in him, they despise him. The man who sacrifices himself, -who makes some great renunciation--poor Morelli--gets nothing but -disdain." - -"But--if all this is true?" cried Anna sadly. - -"Then, one must have the strength to keep one's own real feelings -hidden; one must wear a mask; one must take other men and women at -their proper value; one must march straight forward." - -"Whether happy or miserable?" - -She put this question with great anxiety, for she felt that when it -was answered her soul's point of interrogation would be changed to a -full stop. - -"The strong are happy; the weak are miserable. Only the strong can -triumph." - -She was silent, oppressed and pained by his philosophy, by its -bitterness, its sterile pride, its egotism and cruelty. It seemed as -if he had built a sepulchre from the ruins of her illusions. She felt -that she no longer understood either her own nature or the external -world; a sense of fear and of confusion had taken the place of her -old principles and aspirations. And there was a great home-sickness -in her heart for love, for devotion, for tenderness, for enthusiasm; -a great melancholy at the thought that she would never thrill with -them again, that she would never weep again. She felt a great -indefinable longing, not for the past, not for the present, not -for the future, a longing that related itself to nothing. And -she realised that what Cesare Dias had said was true--horribly, -dreadfully, certainly true. She could be sure of nothing after this, -she had lost her pole-star, she was being swept round and round in a -spiritual whirlpool. And he who had led her into it inspired her with -fear, respect, and a vague admiration. He himself had got beyond the -whirlpool, he was safe in port. Perhaps, in despair, he had thrown -overboard into the furious waves the most precious part of his cargo; -perhaps he was little better than a wreck; but what did it matter? He -was safe in harbour. - -She was not sure whether it was better to brave out the tempest, to -lose everything nobly and generously for the sake of love, or to -save appearances, make for still waters, and in them enjoy a selfish -tranquillity. - -"You are strong?" she said. - -"Yes," he assented. - -"And are you happy--really?" - -"Very happy. As happy as one can be." - -By-and-by she asked: "Have you always been happy?" - -Cesare Dias did not answer. - -"Tell me, tell me, have you always been happy?" - -"What does the past matter? Nothing." - -"And--have you ever loved?" - -"The person who says too much is lost; the person who wants to know -too much suffers. Don't ask." - -She chose a rose and offered it to him. He took it and put it into -his button-hole. - -At that instant Laura Acquaviva entered the room. - - - - - IV. - -At the opening of the San Carlo theatre on Christmas night the opera -was "The Huguenots." - -A first night at the San Carlo is always an event for the Neapolitan -public, no matter what opera, old or new, is given; but when the work -happens to be a favourite the excitement becomes tremendous. - -The two thousand persons, male and female, who constitute society -in that town of half a million inhabitants, go about for a week -beforehand, from house to house, from café to café, predicting that -the evening will be a success. The chief rôles in "The Huguenots" -were to be taken by De Giuli Borsi and Roberto Stagno, rôles in which -the public was to hear these artists for the first time, though they -were already known to everybody, either by reputation or from having -been heard in other operas. - -So, on that Christmas Day, the two thousand members of Neapolitan -society put aside their usual occupations and arranged their time -in such wise as to be ready promptly at eight o'clock, the men in -their dress-suits, the women in rich and beautiful evening toilets. -Everybody gave up something--a walk, a call, a luncheon, a nap--for -the sake of getting betimes to the theatre. - -By half-past seven the approaches to San Carlo, its portico, its big -and little entrances, all brilliantly lighted by gas, were swarming -like an ant-hill with eager people. Some came on foot, the collars of -their overcoats turned up, showing freshly shaven faces under their -tall silk opera-hats, or freshly waxed moustaches and beards newly -pointed; others came in cabs; and before the central door, under the -portico, which was draped with flags, passed a constant stream of -private carriages, depositing ladies muffled in opera-cloaks of red -velvet or white embroidery. - -By a quarter past eight the house was full. - -Anna and Laura Acquaviva, dressed in white silk, and accompanied by -Stella Martini, occupied Box No. 19 of the second tier. - -Cesare Dias had a place in Box No. 4 of the first tier. - -Anna kept her eyes fixed upon him. He glanced up at her, but did not -bow. He only turned and spoke a few words to the young man next to -him, who thereupon aimed his opera-glass, at the girls' box; he was -a young gentleman of medium height, with a blonde beard, and blonde -hair brushed straight back from his forehead. His brown eyes had an -expression of great kindness. - -Anna kept her gaze fixed upon Cesare Dias; if now and then she -turned it towards the stage it would only be for a brief moment. - -"That is Luigi Caracciolo," said Laura. - -"Who?" asked Anna. - -"Luigi Caracciolo, the man next to Dias." - -"Ah." - -And again, Anna turned her face towards Box No. 4, where Cesare Dias -sat with Luigi Caracciolo. The rest of the theatre hung round her -in a sort of coloured mist; the only thing she clearly saw was the -narrow space where those two men sat together. - -Did they feel the magnetism of her gaze? - -Cesare Dias, leaning forward, with his arm on the red velvet of the -railing, was listening to the music of Meyerbeer; now and then he -cast an absent-minded glance round the audience, the glance of a man -who knows beforehand that he will find the usual people in the usual -places. - -Luigi Caracciolo appeared to give little heed to the music. He was -pulling his blonde beard, and studying the ladies in the house -through his opera-glass, while a slight smile played upon his -lips. Presently he fixed his glass on Anna's box. Had he felt that -magnetism? At any rate, he kept his glass fixed upon Anna's box. - -The curtain fell on the first act. - -Cesare Dias spoke a word or two to Luigi, and the two men rose and -left their places. - -Suddenly it seemed to Anna as if all the lights in the theatre had -been put out. - -"Stagno sang divinely," said Stella Martini. - -"Yes," responded Laura. "But didn't it strike you that he rather -exaggerated?" - -"No, I can't say it did." - -Anna did not hear; her eyes were closed. - -There was a rumour in the house of moving people; there was a sound -of opening and closing doors. Fans fluttered, men changed their -seats, people went and came, many of the stalls were empty. The round -of visits had begun. Husbands and brothers left their boxes to make -place for other men beside their wives and sisters; to pay their -respects to other men's wives and sisters. There was a babble of many -voices idly chatting. It began in the first and second tiers, and -it rose to the galleries, the stronghold of students, workmen, and -clerks. - -Anna gazed sadly at that deserted box below her. - -All at once she heard Laura say, "Luigi Caracciolo and Cesare Dias -are with the Contessa d'Alemagna." - -Anna turned round, and raised her opera-glass. - -They were there indeed, visiting the beautiful Countess; Anna could -see the pale and noble face of Cesare Dias, the youthful face of -Caracciolo. The Contessa d'Alemagna was an Austrian, very clever, -very witty. She wore a costume of red silk, and kept waving a fan of -red feathers, as she talked vivaciously with the two men. She must -have been saying something extremely interesting, to judge by the -close attention with which they listened to her and by the smiles -with which they responded. - -When Anna put down her opera-glass, her face had become deathly pale. - -"Are you feeling ill?" asked Stella Martini. - -"No," the child replied, paler than ever. - -"Perhaps it's too hot here for you. Shall I open the door of the -box?" suggested the governess. - -"Laura, will you change seats with me?" said Anna. - -Laura took Anna's place, and Anna retired to the back of the box, -where she closed her eyes. - -"Do you feel better, dear?" - -"Thanks. Much better. It was the heat." - -And she made as if to return to the front of the box, but Stella -detained her, fearing that the heat there might again disturb her. So -Anna stopped where she was, breathing the fresh air that came through -the open door. - -"Do you like 'The Huguenots,' Stella?" she asked, for the sake of -saying something, in the hope, perhaps, of thus forgetting her desire -to see what was going on in the box of the Contessa d'Alemagna. - -"Very much. And you?" - -"I like it immensely." - -"I am afraid--I am afraid that later on you may find it too exciting. -You know the fourth act is very terrible. Don't you dread the -impression it may make upon you?" - -"It won't matter, Stella," she said, with a faint smile. - -"Perhaps you would like to go home before the fourth act begins. If -you feel nervous about it----" - -"I am not nervous," she murmured, as if speaking to herself. "Or, if -I am, I'd rather suffer this way than otherwise." - -"We were wrong to come," said Stella, shaking her head. - -"No, no, Stella. Let us stay. I am all right; I am enjoying it. Don't -take me home yet." - -And she went back to the front of the box, to the seat next to -Laura's. - -"Cesare Dias and Luigi Caracciolo have left the Contessa d'Alemagna," -said Laura. - -"Already?" - -"Perhaps they will come here," suggested Stella Martini. - -"I don't think so. There won't be time," said Laura. - -"There won't be time," assented Anna. - -The house had become silent again, in anticipation of the second act. -Here and there some one who had delayed too long in a box where he -was visiting, would say good-bye quietly, and return to his place. -A few such visitors, better acquainted with their hosts, remained -seated, determined not to move. Among the latter were, of course, the -lovers of the ladies, the intimate friends of the husbands. - -From her present station Anna Acquaviva could not look so directly -down upon Box No. 4 of the first tier as from her former; she had to -turn round a little in order to see it, and thus her interest in -it was made manifest. Cesare Dias and Luigi Caracciolo, after their -visit to the Contessa d'Alemagna, had taken a turn in the corridor -to smoke a cigarette, and had then returned to their places. Anna, -the creature of her hopes and her desires, could not resist the -temptation to gaze steadily at her guardian, though she felt that -thereby she was drawing upon herself the attention of all observers, -and exposing her deepest feelings to ridicule and misconstruction. - -And now the divine music of Meyerbeer surged up and filled the hall, -and Anna was conscious of nothing else--of nothing but the music and -the face of Cesare Dias shining through it, like a star through the -mist. How much time passed? She did not know. Twice her sister spoke -to her; she neither heard nor answered. - -When the curtain fell again, and Anna issued from her trance, Laura -said, "There is Giustino Morelli." - -"Ah!" cried Anna, unable to control a contraction of her features. - -But she had self-constraint enough not to ask "_where?_" Falling -suddenly from a heaven of rapture to the hard reality of her life, -where traces of her old folly still lingered; hating her past, and -wishing to obliterate it from her memory, as the motives for it were -already obliterated from her heart, she did not ask where he was. She -covered her face with her fan, and two big tears rolled slowly down -her cheeks. - -Stella Martini looked at her, desiring to speak, but fearing lest -thereby she might only make matters worse. - -At last: "We were wrong to come here, Anna," she said. - -"No, no," responded Anna. "I am very well--I am very happy," she -added, enigmatically. - -The door of the box was slowly pushed open. Cesare Dias and Luigi -Caracciolo entered. With a word or two their guardian presented the -young man to the sisters. The men sat down, Cesare Dias next to Anna, -Luigi Caracciolo next to Laura. They began at once to talk in a light -vein about the performance. Overcoming the tumult of her heart, Anna -alone answered them. Stella Martini was silent, and Laura, with her -eyes half shut, listened without speaking. - -"Stagno is a great artist; he is immensely talented," observed Luigi -Caracciolo, with a bland smile, passing his fingers slowly through -his blonde beard. - -"And so much feeling--so much sentiment," added Anna. - -"To say that he is talented, that he is an artist, is enough," -replied Cesare Dias, with an accent in which severity was tempered by -politeness. - -Anna assented, bowing her head. - -"For the rest, the number of decent opera singers on the modern stage -is becoming less and less. We have a multitude of mediocrities, with -here and there a star," continued Luigi Caracciolo. - -"Ah, I have heard the great ones," sighed Cesare Dias. - -"Yes, yes. You must have heard Fraschini, Negrini, and Nourrit in -their time," Luigi Caracciolo said, smiling with the fatuity of a -fellow of twenty who imagines that his youth will last for ever. - -"You were a boy when I heard them, that's a fact--which doesn't -prevent my being an old man now," rejoined Cesare Dias, with that -shadow of melancholy in his voice which seemed so inconsistent with -his character. - -"What do years matter?" asked Anna, suddenly. "Other things matter -much more; other things affect us more profoundly, more intimately, -than years. Years are mere external, insignificant facts." - -"Thanks for that kindly defence, my dear," Cesare Dias exclaimed, -laughing; "but it only springs from the goodness of your heart." - -"From the radiance of youth," said Luigi Caracciolo, bowing, to -underline his compliment. - -Anna was silent and agitated. Nothing so easily upset her equilibrium -as light wordly conversation, based upon personalities and frivolous -gallantry. - -"Not enough, not enough," said Cesare Dias, wishing to cap the -compliment, and at the same time to bring his own philosophy into -relief. "As often as I find myself in the presence of these two -girls, Luigi, who are two flowers of youthfulness, I seem to feel -older than ever. I feel that I must be a hundred at least. How many -changes of Government have I seen? Eight or nine, perhaps. Yes, I'm -certainly more than a hundred, dear Anna." - -And he turned towards her with a light ironical smile. - -"Why do you say such things--such sad things?" murmured Anna. - -"Indeed they are sad--indeed they are. Youth is the only treasure -whose loss one may weep for the whole of one's life." - -"But don't feel badly about it, dear Cesare. Consider. Isn't -knowledge better than ignorance? Isn't the calm of autumn better than -the storms of spring? You are our master--the master of us all. We -all revere him, don't we, _Signorina_?" said Luigi, turning to Anna. - -A shadow crossed Anna's face, and she let the conversation drop. - -"And you, who say nothing, reasonable and placid Laura?" asked Cesare -Dias. "Which is better--youth or age? Which is better--knowledge or -ignorance? Here are knotty problems submitted to your wisdom, dear -Minerva. You are a young girl, but you are also Minerva. Illuminate -us. Who should be the happier--I, the master, or Caracciolo, my -pupil?" - -Laura thought for a moment, with an intent expression in her -beautiful eyes, and then answered: - -"It is best to combine the two--to have youth and wisdom together." - -"The problem is solved!" cried Cesare Dias. - -"And the _entr'acte_ is over; everything in its time. Good evening, -good evening; good-bye, Cesare," said Luigi. - -So Caracciolo took his leave, very correctly, without shaking hands -with Dias. Dias had risen, but Luigi seemed to understand that he -meant to stay in the girls' box. - -Anna, who had been looking up anxiously, waiting, looked down again -now, reassured. The door closed noiselessly upon the young man. - -"A pleasant fellow," observed Cesare Dias. - -"Very pleasant," agreed Stella Martini, for politeness' sake, or -perhaps because she desired to state her opinion. - -"In my quality of centenarian I feel at liberty to stop where I am," -said Cesare Dias, reseating himself behind Anna, while beside him, -behind Laura, sat Stella Martini. - -"You won't get a good view of the stage from there," said Stella. - -"I don't care to see. It will be enough to hear it, this fourth act." - -Anna said nothing. Courtesy forbade her looking directly at the -scene, for thus she must have turned her back upon Cesare Dias. It -embarrassed her a little to feel him there behind her. She did not -move. Their two chairs were close together; and their two costumes -made a striking contrast: his black dress-suit, the modern and -elegant uniform of the man of the world, so austere and so handsome -in its soberness; and her gown of white silk, the ceremonial robe of -a young girl in society. - -She was afraid her arm might touch Cesare's. He held his opera-hat in -his hand. She forbore to fan herself, lest he might have to change -his position. Now and then she raised her handkerchief to her lips, -as if to refresh them with the cool linen. - -While Saint-Bris, stirred by fanaticism, was telling the Catholic -lords of the excesses of the Huguenots, and exciting them by his -eloquence to share his fury; while the noble Nevers, the husband -of Valentina, was protesting against the massacre; while, through -the silence of the theatre, the grand musical poem of hatred, of -wrath, of generosity, of love, and of piety, was surging up to the -fascinated audience, Anna was thrilling at the thought that Cesare -Dias was looking at her, at her hair, at her lips, at her person; she -felt that she was badly dressed, pale, awkward, stupid. Wasn't the -Contessa d'Alemagna a thousand times more beautiful than she? The -Contessa d'Alemagna, with her dark complexion and her blue eyes, and -her expression of girlish ingenuousness deliciously contrasted with -womanly charm; the Contessa d'Alemagna, whom Cesare Dias had visited -before coming to his ward's box. Weren't there a hundred women of -their set present in the theatre this evening, each of them lovelier -than she? Young girls, smiling brides, and ladies to whom maturity -lent a richer attraction, all of them acquaintances of Cesare Dias, -who, from time to time, looked at them through his opera-glass. And, -indeed, her own sister, the wise Minerva, was she not more beautiful, -more maidenly, more poetical than Anna? Was it not because of her -beauty, her pure profile, her calm smile, that Cesare had called her -by that gracious name, Minerva? - -Anna bowed her head, as if oppressed by the heat and by the music, -but really from a sense of self-contempt and humiliation. There was a -looking-glass behind her. She was sorry now that she hadn't made an -inspection of herself in it, on entering the box. She had forgotten -her own face. Fantastically, she imagined it as brown and scarred, -and hideously pallid. Her white frock made it worse. She registered -a silent vow that she would always hereafter wear black. Only blonde -women could afford to dress in white. - -"You have dropped your fan," said Cesare Dias, stooping to recover it. - -He smiled as he handed it to her. - -"Thank you," said she, taking the fan. - -Presently she put it down on an empty chair next to her. Cesare Dias -picked it up, and began to fan himself. Then he pressed it to his -face. - -"What is it perfumed with?" he asked. - -"Heliotrope." - -"I like it," he said, and put the fan down. - -She was burning with a desire to take it, to touch what he had -touched, but she dared not. - -Cesare Dias leaned forward a little, to look at the stage. He was so -close to her, it seemed to Anna that she could hear him breathe. - -For her own part, a sort of intoxication, due no doubt in some -measure to the passionate art of the great composer, whose music -surged like a flood about her, had mounted from her heart to her -brain; she was conscious of nothing save a great world of love, save -the near presence of Cesare Dias. Her soul held a new and precious -treasure, a new joy. She delighted herself with the illusion that -the beating of her own heart was the beating of Cesare's. She forgot -everything--the place, the time, the future, youth, age, beauty, -everything; motionless, with her eyes cast down, she seemed to float -in a wave of soft warm light, aware of one single sweet sensation, -his nearness to her. She had forgotten the stage, the people round -her, Stella Martini, her sister Laura; the music itself was only a -distant echo; her whole being was concentrated in an ecstasy, which -she hoped might never end. She did not dare to move or speak, lest -she might thereby wake from her heavenly dream. She had again entered -anew into the land of passion. She was one of those natures which, -having ceased to love, begin again to love. - -"I could die like this," she thought. - -She felt that she could die thus, in a divine moment, when new love, -young and strong, has not yet learned the lessons of sorrow, of -shame, of worldly wickedness, that await it; it would be sweet to die -with one's illusions undisturbed, to die in the fulness of youth, -before one's ideals have begun to decay; to die loving, rather than -to live to see love die. - -So, on the stage, Raoul and Valentina, victims of an irrepressible -but impossible passion, were calling upon Heaven for death, praying -to be allowed to die in their divine moment of love. Anna, recoiling -from the thought of the future, with its inevitable vicissitudes, -struggles, tears, and disappointments, realised the fascination of -death. Involuntarily, she looked at Cesare. He smiled upon her, and -thereat she too smiled, like his faithful image in a mirror. And her -sublime longing to die, disappeared before the reality of his smile. - -She looked at him again, but this time he was intent upon the scene. -Anna felt that her love was being sung for her by the artists there, -by Raoul and Valentina. - -Cesare said to her, "How beautiful it is!" - -"It is beautiful," she murmured, bowing her head. - -It seemed to her that his voice had been unusually soft. What was -the reason? What commotion was taking place in his heart? She asked -herself these questions, but could not answer them. She loved him. -That was enough. She loved him; she could not hope to be loved by him. - -The music ceased. The curtain fell. - -"Have you ordered the carriage?" Cesare Dias asked of Stella Martini. - -"Yes, for twelve o clock. - -"If you'll wait for me a moment I'll go and get my overcoat." - -The ladies were putting on their cloaks, when Cesare came back, -wearing his hat and overcoat. He helped Stella on with hers, then -Laura, then Anna. - -And looking at the sisters, he said, "You ought to have your -portraits painted, dressed like this. I assure you, you're looking -extremely handsome. I speak as a centenarian." - -Laura smiled; Anna looked down, embarrassed. Her trouble was -increased when she saw Cesare politely offer his arm to Stella -Martini. Had she hoped that he would offer it to _her_? He motioned -to the girls to take the lead in leaving the box. Anna put her arm -through Laura's and went out slowly. - -He conducted them to their carriage, and when they were safely in it, -"I shall walk," he said, "It's such a fine evening. Good-night." - -In the darkness, as they drove home, Laura asked, "Did you see -Giustino Morelli?" - -"No, he wasn't there." - -"What do you mean? He _was_ there." - -"For me, he wasn't there. Giustino Morelli is dead." - - - - - V. - -Cesare Dias encouraged the attentions which his young friend Luigi -Caracciolo was paying to his ward Anna Acquaviva. He encouraged them -quietly, with the temperance which he showed in all things, not -with the undisguised eagerness of a father anxious to marry off his -daughter. - -And yet he was certainly anxious to marry her off. He was anxious to -hand his responsibilities over to a husband, to confide to the care -of another the safeguarding of that ardent and fragile soul, which -threatened at any moment to fall into emotional errors. A thousand -symptoms that could not escape his observant eye, kept him in a -state of secret nervousness about her. It was true, nevertheless, -that she had greatly changed for the better. Thanks to his constant -watchfulness, to his habit of reproving her whenever she betrayed the -impulsive side of her nature, to his sarcasm, to his biting speech, -she had indeed greatly changed in manner. - -A desire to obey him, to please him, a painless resignation, a loving -humility, showed themselves in everything she said and did. - -He saw that she was making mighty efforts to dominate the -impetuousness of her character; he saw that she listened with close -attention to his talk, trying to reconcile herself to those perverse -theories of his which pained her mortally. That was what he called -giving her a heart of bronze, strengthening her against the snares -and delusions of the world. If he could but deprive her of all -capacity for enthusiasm he would thereby deprive her of all capacity -for suffering, as well. - -Cesare Dias congratulated himself upon this labour of his, glorifying -himself as a sort of creator, who had known how to make over the most -refractory of all metals, human nature. And yet his mind was not -quite at ease. - -Her docility, her obedience, her self-control, roused his suspicions. -He began to ask himself whether the girl might not be a monster of -hypocrisy, whether under her tranquil surface she might not still be -on fire within. - -But had she not always been a model of sincerity? Her very faults, -had they not sprung from the truthfulness and generosity of her -nature? - -No; the hypothesis of hypocrisy was untenable. Cesare Dias was far -too intelligent to believe that the intimate essence of a soul can -undergo alteration. It was impossible that a soul so essentially -truthful as Anna's should suddenly become hypocritical. - -And yet he was not easy in his mind. - -What profound reason, what occult motive, could be at the bottom of -Anna's change of front? What was it that enabled her and persuaded -her to withhold her tears, suppress her sobs, and master the ardour -of her temperament? - -Ah, no! Cesare Dias was not easy in his mind. He knew the strength -of his own will, he understood his own power to rule people and to -impose his wishes upon them; but that was not enough to account for -the conditions that puzzled him. There must be something else. - -He was not anxious about Laura. The wise and beautiful Minerva -he could marry whenever he liked, to whomsoever he liked. He was -sure that Laura would be able to take care of herself. He held the -opinion, common to men of forty, that marriage was the only destiny -proper for a young girl. And it was only by means of a marriage that -he would be able to relieve himself of his weight of responsibility -in respect of Anna Acquaviva. - -So, as often as he decently could, he brought meetings to pass -between Luigi Caracciolo and his wards: sometimes at the theatre, -sometimes in the Villa Nazionale, sometimes at parties and dances; -indeed, it would seldom happen that Cesare would speak to the girls -in public, without the handsome young Luigi Caracciolo appearing a -few minutes later. - -There was probably a tacit understanding between the two men. - -Anna seemed to be unconscious of what was going on. Whenever her -guardian approached her, presenting himself with that elegant manner -which was one of his charms, she welcomed him with a luminous smile, -giving him her hand, gazing at him with brilliant, joyful eyes, -listening eagerly to what he had to say, and by every action showing -him her good-will. And when, in turn, Luigi Caracciolo followed, she -gave him a formal handshake, and exchanged a few words with him, -distantly, coldly. He would try his hardest to shine before her, to -bring the talk round to subjects with which he was familiar; but -their interviews were always so short! At the theatre, between the -acts; at the Villa, walking together for ten minutes at the utmost; -at a ball, during a quadrille; and always in the presence of Laura, -or Stella, or the Marchesa Scibilla, the girls' distant cousin, who -often chaperoned them; and always watched from afar by their guardian -Cesare Dias. - -The relations between Luigi Caracciolo and Anna Acquaviva were such -as, save in rare exceptional cases, always exist between people of -the aristocracy. They were founded upon conventionality tempered by a -certain amount of sympathy. The rigorous code of our nobility forbids -anything approaching intimacy. Luigi Caracciolo's courtship of Anna -was precisely like that of every other young man of his world. During -the Carnival, it became a little more pressing, perhaps; he began to -take on the appearance of a man in love. It seemed as if he invented -pretexts for seeing her every day. - -Willingly or unwillingly, Cesare Dias was his accomplice. Luigi was -becoming more and more attentive. If Anna mentioned a book, he would -send it to her, with a note; he would underline the sentimental -passages, and when he met her again would ask her opinion upon -it. If she mentioned a friend of her childhood, he would interest -himself in all the particulars of the friendship. He was burning to -know something about her first love affair; he had heard it vaguely -rumoured that she had had one, that it had ended unhappily, and been -followed by a violent illness. - -And, indeed, from the way in which she would sometimes suddenly turn -pale, from certain intonations of her voice, from her habit of going -off into day-dreams when something said or done seemed to suggest old -memories to her, it was easy for him to see that she must have passed -through some immense emotional experience, and suffered from some -terrible shock. She had a secret! Behind her great black eyes, behind -her trembling lips, behind her silence, she hid a secret. - -Luigi was in love with her, in his own way; not very deeply in love, -but in love. - -If Cesare Dias, in Anna's hearing, spoke of love, of the folly of -passion, of the futility of hope, the girl bowed her head, listening -without replying, as if she considered Cesare the infallible judge of -all things. - -Luigi Caracciolo saw this, and it tormented him with curiosity. Once -he openly asked Dias if Anna had not already been in love. Dias, with -the air of a man of the world, answered: - -"Yes, she was interested in a young man, a decent young fellow, who -behaved very well." - -"Why didn't they marry?" - -"The young man was poor." - -"Was she very fond of him?" - -"A mere girlish fancy." - -"And now she has quite forgotten him?" - -"Absolutely, absolutely." - -This dialogue relieved Luigi for a moment; but he soon felt that it -could not have contained the whole truth. He felt that the whole -truth could only be told by Anna Acquaviva herself. And when he was -alone with her he longed to question her on the subject, but his -questions died unspoken on his lips. - -Luigi's attentions to her had by this time become so apparent, and -Cesare's manner was so much that of a father desirous of giving his -consent to the betrothal of his daughter, that Anna could no longer -pretend not to understand. Sometimes, when Cesare would come up to -her, arm in arm with his young friend, she would look into his eyes -with an expression which seemed to ask, "Oh, why are you doing this?" - -He would appear not to notice this silent appeal. He knew very well -that to attain his object he would have to overcome tremendous -obstacles; that to persuade Anna Acquaviva to marry Luigi Caracciolo -would be like taking a strong fortress. But he was a determined man, -and he had determined to succeed. He saw her humility, he saw how she -lowered her eyes before him, he felt that in most things she would -be wax under his hand. But he was not at all sure that she would obey -him when it came to a question of love, when it came to a question of -her marriage. She might again rebel, as she had already rebelled. - -Anna felt a latent irritation at perceiving Luigi's intentions and -Cesare's approval of them, and she revenged herself by adopting -towards the young man a demeanour of haughty politeness, against -which he was defenceless. She took pleasure in contradicting him. If -he seemed sentimental--and he was often sentimental in his way, which -involved an element of sensuality--she became ironical, uttering -paradoxes against sentiment in general; her voice grew hard; she -seemed almost cynical. From sheer amiability Luigi Caracciolo always -ended by agreeing with her, but it was easy to see that in doing so -he was obeying his affection for her; he had quite the air of saying -that she was right, not because he was convinced, but because she was -a charming woman of whom he was devotedly fond. - -"You agree with me for politeness' sake. What weakness!" she said -angrily, with the impatience that women take no pains to conceal from -men whom they don't like. - -The slight smile with which Luigi assented to this proposition, and -implied, moreover, that weakness born of a desire to please a loved -one, was not altogether reprehensible, annoyed her more than ever. -Anna wished the whole exterior world to keep tune to her own ruling -thought, and anybody who by any means prevented such a harmony became -odious to her. Such an one was Luigi Caracciolo. - -Cesare Dias, with his acute insight, watched the couple rather -closely. And when he saw Anna trying to avoid a conversation with -Luigi, refusing to dance with him, or receiving him with scant -courtesy, a slight elevation of his eyebrows testified to his -discontent. - -One day, when she had turned her back upon the young man at a -concert, Cesare Dias, coming up, said to her, "You appear to be -treating Caracciolo rather badly, Anna." - -"I don't think so," she replied, trembling at his harsh tone. - -"I think so," he insisted. "And I beg you to be more civil to him." - -"I will obey you," she answered. - -For several days after that she seemed very melancholy. Laura, who -continued to sleep in the same room with her, often heard her sighing -at night in her bed. Two or three times she had asked a little -anxiously, "What is the matter?" - -"Nothing, nothing. Go to sleep," Anna replied. - -On the next occasion of her meeting Caracciolo, she treated him -with exaggerated gentleness, in which, however, the effort was very -apparent. He took it as so much to the good. She persevered in this -behaviour during their next few interviews, and then she asked Dias, -triumphantly: "Am I doing as you wish?" - -"In what respect?" - -"In respect of Caracciolo." - -"Do you need my approbation?" he asked, in surprise. "For politeness' -sake alone you should be civil to the young man." - -"But it was you who told me to be so," she stammered meekly. - -"I merely told you what a young lady's duty is--that's all." - -She bent her head contritely. She had made a great effort to please -Cesare Dias, and this was all the recognition she got. However, she -could not feel towards him the least particle of anger; and the -result was that her dislike of Luigi Caracciolo took a giant's stride. - -Luigi Caracciolo's name was in everybody's mouth; everybody talked -about him to her--Laura, Stella Martini, the Marchesa Scibilla. She -shrugged her shoulders, without answering. Her silence seemed like a -consent; but it is easy to guess that it was really only a means of -concealing her unpleasant thoughts. - -When, however, it was her guardian who mentioned Caracciolo, vaunting -not only his charm, but also the seriousness of his character, she -became excessively nervous. She looked at him in surprise, wondering -that he could speak thus of such a disagreeable and vulgar person, -and smiling ironically. - -One day, overcome by impatience, she asked: "But do you really take -him so seriously?" - -"Who?--Caracciolo?" - -"Of course--Caracciolo." - -"I take every man seriously, who deserves it; and he does, I assure -you." - -"I don't want to contradict you," she said, softly; "but that is not -my opinion." - -"Have you really an opinion on the subject?" he responded, with a -slight inflexion of contempt. - -"Yes, indeed, I have an opinion." - -"And why?" - -"Why, because----" - -"The opinions of young girls don't count, my dear. You are very -intelligent; there's no doubt of that. But you know absolutely -nothing." - -"But, after all," she exclaimed, "do you really wish to persuade me -that Caracciolo is a clever man?" - -"Certainly." - -"That he has a heart?" - -"Certainly," he answered, curtly. - -"That he is sympathetic?" - -"Certainly," he repeated for the third time. - -"Well, well," she said, disconcerted. "I find him arid in mind, hard -of heart, and often absurd in his manners. No one will ever convince -me of the contrary. He's a doll, not a man. Such a creature a man! It -doesn't require much knowledge to see through _him_!" - -"It is quite unnecessary to discuss it, my dear," said Cesare Dias, -icily. "We won't discuss it farther. I'm not anxious to convince you, -and it doesn't matter. Think what you like of anybody. It's not my -affair to correct your fancies. I have unlimited indulgence still at -your disposal for your extravagances; but there's one thing I can't -tolerate--ingratitude. Do you understand--I hate ingratitude?" - -"But what do you mean?" she cried, in anguish. - -"Nothing more. Good night." - -He turned on his heel and went away. For ten days he did not reappear -in the Acquaviva household. He had never before let so long an -interval pass without calling, unless he was out of town. Stella -Martini, not seeing him, ingenuously sent to ask how he was. He -replied, through his servant, that his health was perfect and that he -thanked her for her concern. - -In reality, he was furious because in his first skirmish with Anna on -the subject of Luigi Caracciolo she had beaten him; furious, not only -because of the wounds his _amour-propre_ had received, but because -his schemes for the girl's marriage were delayed. His anger was -mixed with certain very lively suspicions, lively, though as yet not -altogether clear in substance. It was impossible that Anna's conduct -should not be due to some secret motive. He began at last to wonder -whether she was still in love with Giustino Morelli. - -Meanwhile, he refrained from calling upon her, well aware that in -dealing with women no method is more efficacious than to let them -alone. And, indeed, Anna was already sorry for what she had said, not -because it wasn't true, but because she felt that she had thereby -offended Cesare Dias, perhaps very deeply. But what could she do, -what could she do? That Cesare Dias should plead with her for another -man! It was too much. She felt that she must no longer trust to time; -she must take decisive action at once. - -Cesare's absence caused her great bitterness. Her regret for what -she had said was exceedingly sharp during the first few days. She -realised that she had been wrong, at least in manner. She ought to -have held her tongue when she saw his face darken, and heard his -voice tremble with scorn. Instead, in her foolish pride, she had held -up her head, and spoken, and offended him. For two days, and during -the long watches of two nights, stifling her sobs so that Laura -should not hear them, she had longed to write him a little note to -ask his pardon; but then she had feared that that might increase his -irritation. Mentally, she was constantly on her knees before him, -begging to be forgiven, as a child begs, weeping. She believed, she -hoped he would come back; on his entrance she would press his hand -and whisper a submissive word of excuse. She had not yet understood -what a serious thing his silent vengeance could be. - -He did not call. And now a dumb grief began to take the place of -Anna's contrition, a dumb, aching grief that nothing could assuage, -because everything reminded her of its cause, his absence. Whenever -she heard a door opened, or the sound of a carriage stopping in the -street before the house, she trembled. She had no peace. She accused -him of injustice. Why was he so unjust towards her, towards _her_ who -ever since that fatal day at Pompeii had only lived to obey him? Why -did he punish her like this, when her only fault had been that she -saw the insignificance, the nullity, of Luigi Caracciolo? Every hour -that passed intensified her pain. In her reserve she never spoke of -him. Stella Martini said now and again, "Signor Dias hasn't called -for a long time. He must be busy." - -"No doubt," replied Laura, absently. - -"No doubt," assented Anna, in a weak voice. - -She was burning up with anxiety, with heartache, with suspicion, and -with jealousy. Yes, with jealousy. It had never occurred to her that -Cesare might have some secret love in his life, as other men have -their secret loves, and as he would be especially likely to have -his, for he was rich and idle. In her ingenuousness and ignorance, -it had never occurred to her. It was as if other women didn't exist, -or as if, existing, they were quite unworthy of his interest. But -now it did occur to her. In the darkness of his absence the thought -came to her, and took possession of her; and sometimes it seemed so -infinitely likely, that she could scarcely endure it. - -It was more than probable that amongst all the beautiful women of his -acquaintance there was one whom he loved. It was with her that he -passed his hours--his entire days, perhaps. That was why Anna never -saw him! At the end of a week her distress had become so turbulent, -that her head reeled, as it used to reel when she thought of flying -with Giustino Morelli. As it used to reel then? Nay, more, worse than -then. - -In those days she had not felt the consuming fires of jealousy, fires -that destroy for ever the purest joys of love. In those days the man -she cared for was so absolute in his devotion to her, she had not -tasted the bitterness of jealousy, a bitterness beyond the bitterness -of gall and wormwood, a poison from whose effects those who truly -love never recover. - -But who was she, the woman that so powerfully attracted Cesare as -to make him forget his child! The Contessa d'Alemagna, perhaps. -Yes, it must be she--that dark lady, with the blue eyes, the -wonderful toilets, the youthful colour, the vivacious manner; she -was indeed an irresistible enchantress. Poor Anna! During Cesare's -absence she learned all the phases of hope and fear, of torturing -jealousy, of wretched loneliness. He did not come he did not come; -perhaps he would never come again. What had he said? That he -detested ingratitude, that he despised people who were ungrateful. -Ungrateful--she! But how could he expect her to thank him for wishing -to marry her to Luigi Caracciolo? Was she really ungrateful? - -Three or four times she had written to him, begging him to come; -now a simple little note; now a long passionate letter, full of -contradictions, wherein, to be sure, the word "love" never appeared, -but where it could be read between the lines; now a frank, short -love-letter: but each in turn had struck her as worse than the -others, as more trivial, more ineffectual; and she had ended by -tearing them to pieces. - -It was she who had put it into Stella Martini's head to send to -inquire how he was; his curt response to that inquiry struck a chill -to her heart: he was in town, and he was well. Then she would go out -for long walks with Stella, in the hope of meeting him. - -One afternoon in February, at last, she did meet him, thus, in the -street. - -"How do you do?" she said, nervously. - -"Very well," he answered, with a smile. - -"It's a long while since we have seen you," said Stella Martini. - -"I hadn't noticed it." - -"You haven't called for many days," said Anna, looking into his eyes. - -"Many?" - -"Eight days." - -"Eight. Really? Are you sure?" - -"I have counted them," she said, turning away her head, as if to look -at the sea. - -"I'm sure that's a great compliment." And he bowed gallantly. - -"It wasn't a compliment. It was affection, it was gratitude." - -"Good. I see you're in a better frame of mind. I'll call to-morrow." - -When he had left them, Anna and Stella went on towards the -Mergellina, walking more rapidly than before. Anna kept looking at -the sea, with a slight smile upon her lips, a new colour in her -cheeks. She buried her hands in her muff. Had he not pressed one -of those hands at parting with her? Now and then she would look -backwards, as if expecting to see him again; it was the hour of the -promenade. She did see him again, indeed; but this time he was in a -carriage, a smart trap of the Viennese pattern, driven dashingly by -Luigi Caracciolo. - -She saw them approaching from afar, swiftly. She bowed and smiled -to both of them. Her smile was luminous with happiness; and Luigi -Caracciolo imagined himself the cause of it, and drove more slowly; -and Cesare Dias was pleased by it, for he took it as an earnest of -her better frame of mind. - -When Stella Martini asked her, "Shall we continue our walk or go -home?" she answered, "Let us go home." - -She had seen him; she had told him how anxiously she had counted the -days of his absence; he had promised that he would call to-morrow. -She had seen him again, and had smiled upon him. That was enough. She -mustn't ask too much of Providence in a single day. - -Anna went home as happy as if she had recovered a lost treasure. And -yet Cesare Dias had been cold and distant. But what did that matter -to Anna? She had got back her treasure; that was all. Again she would -enjoy his dear presence, she would hear his voice, she would sit near -to him, she would speak with him, answer him; he would come again -every day, at his accustomed hour; she could please herself with the -fancy that that hour was sacred to him, as it was to her. Nothing -else mattered. It was true that she had met him by the merest chance; -it was true, that had chance ordered otherwise, a fortnight might -have passed without her seeing him. It was true, that he had taken no -pains to bring about their meeting. It was true, also, that she and -Stella had as much as begged him to call upon them. But in all this -he had been so like himself, his conduct had been so characteristic, -that Anna was glad of it. It was a great thing to have made her peace -with him, without having had to write to him. - -"Signor Dias was looking very well," said Stella Martini, "we shall -see him to-morrow." - -"Yes, to-morrow," said Anna, smiling. - -"I missed him immensely during his long absence." - -"So did I." - -"You're very fond of him, aren't you?" Stella inquired ingenuously. - -"Yes," answered Anna, after a little hesitation. - -"He's so good--in spite of the things he says," observed the -governess. - -"He is as he is," murmured Anna, with a gesture. - -When they got home, Laura noticed Anna's air of radiant joy. Anna -moved about the room, without putting by her hat or muff. - -At last she said, "You know, we met Dias." - -"Ah?" responded Laura, without interest. - -"He's very well." - -"That's nothing extraordinary." - -"He's coming to-morrow." - -"Good." - -But when he arrived the next day, it was Laura who received him. -Anna, at the sound of the bell, had taken refuge in her own room. - -"Oh, wise Minerva!" cried Dias, pressing her little white hand. "You -are well. You are natural. You know no weakness. You, I am sure, -haven't been counting the days of my absence. I understand. I am -wise, too. We are like the Seven Sages of Greece." - -She responded with a smile. Cesare Dias looked at her admiringly. -Then Anna came. She was embarrassed; and red and white alternated in -her cheek. She spoke nervously, and kept her eyes inquiringly fixed -upon Cesare's face. He, on the other hand, was calm and superior. He -behaved as if he had never been away. He had the good sense not to -mention Luigi Caracciolo; and Anna, who was waiting for that name -as for an occasion to show her submissiveness, was disconcerted. -Dias appeared to have forgotten the ingratitude with which he had -reproached her. He had the countenance of a man too magnanimous -to bear a grudge. And Anna was more than ever disconcerted by -such unmerited generosity. For several days he did not speak of -Caracciolo; then, noticing how Anna said yes to every remark he made, -little by little he began to reintroduce the subject. Little by -little Caracciolo regained his position, became a new, an important -member of their group. He returned to the attack, encouraged by -the smile he had received that day in the Mergellina. His manner -was more devoted than ever. He treated the girl as a loved object -before whom he could pass his life kneeling. She could not control a -movement of dislike at first seeing him, because it was he who had -occasioned her quarrel with Cesare Dias; but Luigi did not notice it; -and she soon got herself in hand, determined to treat him as kindly -as she possibly could. It was a sacrifice she was making to please -Cesare Dias. She closed her eyes to shut out the vision of the peril -towards which she was advancing. She compromised herself with Luigi -Caracciolo day after day. She compromised herself as a girl does -only with the man she means to marry; accepting flowers from him, -answering his notes, listening to his compliments; and at night, when -she was alone, she would tremble with anger and with self-contempt, -counting the steps she had made during the afternoon towards the -great danger! But the fear of seeing Cesare Dias again absent himself -for eight days, the fear that he might again pass eight days at the -feet of the Contessa d'Alemagna, or at those of some other beautiful -woman--this fear rendered her so weak that she went on, not knowing -where she might stop, feeling that she was approaching the most -terrible crisis of her life. - -Cesare Dias, somewhat easier in his mind about the girl appeared to -be pleased in a fatherly way by her conduct; it seemed as if he was -watching his chance to speak the decisive word. Anna, dreading that -word, had got into an overwrought nervous condition, where her humour -changed from minute to minute. Now she would cry, now she would -laugh, now she would blush, now she would turn pale. - -"What's the matter?" asked Dias. - -"Nothing," she answered, passing her hand over her eyes. - -But at his question she smiled radiantly, and he felt that he had -worked a little miracle. - -He was a clever man, and he knew that he must strike while the iron -was hot. He must attack Anna in one of her moments of meekness, or -not at all. Luigi Caracciolo became more and more pressing; he loved -the girl, and he told her so in every look he gave her. And time was -flying. Everybody who met Anna congratulated her upon her engagement; -and when she replied: "No, I'm not engaged," people shook their -heads, smiling sceptically. - -One afternoon, angry with Caracciolo because of a letter he had -written to her, and which he insisted upon her answering, she said to -Dias, who was talking with Laura: - -"I want to speak to you." - -"Good. And I want to speak to you." - -"Then--will you call to-morrow?" - -"Yes. In the morning." - -He returned to his conversation with Laura. - -All night long she prayed for strength and courage. - -And when, the next morning, she was alone with him, too frightened to -speak, she simply handed him Caracciolo's letter. He took it, read -it, and silently returned it. - -"What do you think of it?" she asked. - -"Ah!" he exclaimed, as if he did not wish to express an opinion. - -"Does it strike you as a serious letter?" - -"Yes, it's serious." - -"I may easily be mistaken," she said. "That is why I want to ask your -advice. You--you know so much." - -"A little," he assented, smiling. - -They spoke very quietly, seated side by side, without looking at each -other. - -"Doesn't he strike you as bold?" she asked. - -"Who? Caracciolo? For having written that letter?" - -"Yes." - -"No. People in love are always writing letters. They don't always -send them, but they always write them." - -"Ah, is that so?" - -"He loves you, therefore he writes to you." - -"He loves me?" she inquired, trembling. - -"Of course." - -"Are you sure?" - -"Certainly." - -"Has he told you so?" - -"He has told me so." - -"And what did you answer?" - -"I? Nothing. He asked me nothing. He merely announced a fact. It's -from you that he expects an answer." - -"From me?" she exclaimed. - -"Every letter calls for an answer." - -"I shan't answer this one." - -"Why not?" - -"Because I have nothing to say to him." - -"Don't you love him?" - -"No." - -"Not even a little? Don't you like him?" - -"No, I don't love him, I don't even like him." - -"I can't believe it," he said, very gravely, as if he saw before him -an insurmountable obstacle. - -"You deceive yourself then," said she. - -"I see that you receive him kindly, that you speak to him politely, -that you listen to his compliments, apparently with pleasure. That's -a great deal for a young girl to do." And he lifted his eyebrows. - -"I have done it to please you--because he is a friend of yours," she -cried. - -"Thank you," he cried, curtly. - -Then befell a silence. She played with an antique coin attached to -her watch-chain, and kept her eyes cast down. - -"So," he began presently, "so you won't marry Luigi Caracciolo?" - -"No. Never." - -"He's a splendid fellow, though. He has a noble name, a handsome -fortune. And he loves you." - -"I don't love him, and I won't marry him." - -"Love isn't necessary in marriage," said Cesare coldly. - -"Not for others, perhaps. For me it is necessary," she cried, pained -in the bottom of her heart by this apothegm. - -"You know nothing about life, my dear. A marriage for love and a -marriage for convenience are equally likely to turn out happily or -unhappily. And of what use is passion? Of none." - -She bowed her head, not convinced, obstinate in her faith, but -respecting the man who spoke to her. - -"If you don't care for Luigi Caracciolo, you ought to try not to see -him." - -"I will avoid him." - -"But he will seek you." - -"I'll stay in the house." - -"He'll write to you." - -"I have already said I won't answer him." - -"He will persevere; I know him. The prize at stake is important. He -will persevere." - -"You will tell him that the marriage is impossible." - -"Ah, no, my dear. I shan't be the bearer of any such ungracious -message." - -"Aren't you--aren't you my guardian?" - -"Yes, I am your guardian. But I heartily wish Francesco Acquaviva had -not chosen me. Frankly, I would prefer to be nothing to you." - -"Am I--so bad?" she pleaded, with tears in her eyes. - -"I don't know whether you are good or bad. I don't waste my time -trying to make such distinctions. I only know that he's a fine young -fellow, handsome and rich, who loves you, and that you, without a -single earthly reason, refuse him. I know that he is anxious to marry -you, in spite of the fact that you don't care for him, in spite -of--pass me the word--in spite of the extravagance of your character. -Excuse me, dear Anna, but I want to ask you whether you think it will -be easy to find another husband?" - -"How can I tell?" - -"I ask, do you think another will be likely to ask you for your hand?" - -"Excuse me. I don't understand," she said, turning pale, because she -did understand. - -"My dear, have you forgotten the past?" - -"What past?" she demanded, proudly. - -"Nothing but a flight from home, my dear. A day passed at Pompeii -with a young man. Nothing else." - -"Oh, heavens!" she sobbed, burying her face in her hands. - -"Don't cry out, Anna. This is a serious moment. You must control -yourself. Remember that what you did respectable girls don't do. -Luigi Caracciolo knows nothing about it, or nothing definite. But a -man who did know about it, wouldn't marry you, my dear. It's hard; -it's cruel; but it's my duty to tell it to you. Marry him; marry -Luigi. That is the advice of a friend, of a true friend, Anna. Marry -Luigi Caracciolo." - -"I committed a great fault," she said, in a dull voice, "but haven't -you forgiven me, you and Laura?" - -"Yes, yes. But husbands--but young men about to marry, don't pardon -such faults. With what jealous care I have kept that secret! I have -guarded it as if I were your father. And now you let a chance like -this slip away! Not realising that such a chance may never come -again! But another man, an equal of Caracciolo, where is he to be -found?" - -"It is true that I committed a great fault," she said, returning -always to the same idea; "but my honour was untouched." - -"I am the only person who knows that." - -"It is enough for me that you know it." - -"Anna, Anna, you're a foolish child; that's what you are. You fall -in love with a penniless nobody, you escape from your home, you risk -your honour, and you are saved by a miracle. Afterwards, you are -ill, you get well, you forget the young beggar; and then when a fine -fellow like Caracciolo falls in love with you, you refuse him. You're -mad, Anna. Marry Luigi Caracciolo. I beg you to marry him." - -"You can't ask me that," she murmured. - -"Love is a fancy. Marry Caracciolo." - -"I can't." - -"But why not? It's not a sufficient reason to say that you don't love -him." - -"Look for another reason, then," she said. - -"I'll find it." - -Cesare Dias had spoken these words in a threatening tone, unusual to -him. He rarely lost his temper. - -After a long pause he asked, smiling sarcastically, "You are in love -with some one else, I suppose?" - -Anna did not answer. She wrung her hands and hid her eyes. - -"Why don't you answer? You've fallen in love again, have you not?" - -"Again? What do you mean?" she exclaimed. - -"I mean that to explain your refusal of Luigi Caracciolo, you must be -in love with some other man. You little girls believe that passion is -everlasting. You believe in faithfulness that lasts, if not beyond -the grave, at least up to its brink. Are you still in love with -Giustino Morelli?" - -"Oh, don't insult me like that," she cried, in a convulsion of sobs. - -"Calm yourself," said he, studying her with cold curiosity, while she -wept. - -"For pity's sake, don't think that of me," she besought him; "Say -anything that I deserve, but not that, not that." - -"Calm yourself," repeated Dias. "We will speak of this another day." - -"Listen, listen," she cried. "Don't go away yet. Forgive me, first, -for having interfered with one of your plans. But marry Luigi -Caracciolo--I can't, indeed I can't. I never can. You smile at my -word _never_. You are right, the human heart is such a fickle thing. -Forgive me. But you will see that I am not wrong. You will never -never have any more trouble with me. I will be so obedient, so meek. -I will do everything you wish. Compared to you I am such a little, -poor, worthless thing." - -She was weeping. Giustino Morelli and Luigi Caracciolo had -disappeared from the conversation; only Cesare Dias and Anna -Acquaviva remained in it. He listened with growing curiosity. If in -one sense he had lost a battle, in another his vanity had gained a -victory. A smile passed over his face. - -"Don't cry," he said. - -"Oh, let me cry. I am so unhappy, so miserable. I have played away -my life so foolishly. But I didn't know. I swear to you, I didn't -understand. Now all is over. I am a lost woman----" - -"Don't exaggerate." - -"Oh, you yourself said it. You are right. A respectable girl, who -holds dear her honour, who is jealous of her reputation, doesn't fly -from her home, doesn't throw herself into the arms of a man. You are -right--you only--you are always right--you who are so wise. But if -you knew--if you knew what it is like, this madness that springs up -from my heart to my brain--if you knew how I lose my head, when my -feelings get the better of me--you would be sorry for me." - -"Don't cry any more," he said, very low. - -"Ah, if tears could only wash out the past," she sighed. - -"Good-bye, Anna," he said, rising. - -"Don't go away." And she took his hand. "I haven't said anything to -you yet. I haven't explained. You are going away angry with me. But -you are right. The sooner it is finished the better. To-day I have no -strength. I irritate you. Women who make scenes are always tiresome. -But you ought to know, you ought. I will write to you--I will write -everything. You permit me to, don't you? Say that you permit me. I -can't live unless you let me write and tell you everything." - -"Write," he said, softly. - -"And you forgive me?" - -"I have nothing to forgive. Write. Good-bye, Anna." - -She sat down. Dias went away. Laura and Stella came into the room. - -"Well, is the marriage arranged?" asked Stella, not noticing Anna's -red eyes and pale cheeks. - -"No. It will never be arranged." - -An hour later Laura asked: "Are you in love with Cesare Dias?" - -"Yes," answered Anna, simply. - - - - - VI. - -Anna's letter to Cesare Dias ran thus: - -"I don't know what name to call you by, whether by your own name, so -soft and proud, or whether by that of Friend, which says so much, and -yet says nothing. I don't know whether I should write here the word -that my respect for you imposes upon me, or the word that my heart -inspires. Perhaps I had better call you by no name at all; perhaps -I ought not to struggle against the unconquerable superior will -that dominates me. I am so poor a creature, I am so devoid of moral -strength, that the best part of my soul is unconscious of what it -does, and when I attempt to act, I am defeated from the outset; is it -not true? Ah, there is never an hour of noble and fruitful battle in -my heart! Only an utter ignorance of things, of feelings, a complete -surrender to the sweetness of love, and, thereby, the loss of all -peace, all hope! - -"How you must despise me. You are just and wise. You can't help -despising a poor weak thing like me, a woman whose heart is always -open, whose imagination is always ready to take fire, whose -changeable mind is never fixed, whose veins, though cured of their -great fever, are still burning, as if her rebellious blood could do -nothing but burn, burn, burn. If you despise me--and your eyes, your -voice, your manner, all tell me that you do--you are quite right. I -never seem to be doing wrong, yet I am always doing it; and then, -when I see it, it is too late to make good my error, to recover my -own happiness, or to restore that of others. Ah, despise me, despise -me; you are right to despise me. I bend to every wind that blows, -like a broken reed. I am overturned and rent by the tempest, for I -know neither how to defend myself nor how to die. Despise me; no one -can despise me as you can, no one has so good a right to do it. - -"When you are away from me, I can think of you with a certain amount -of courage, trusting to your kindness, to your charity, to forgive me -my lack of strength. When you are away from me, I feel myself more a -woman, braver; I can dream of being something to you, not an equal, -no, but a humble follower in the things of the soul. Dreams, dreams! -When you are with me, all my faith in myself disappears; I recognise -how feeble I am, how extravagant, how incoherent; no more, never -more, can I hope for your indulgence. - -"I think of my past--justly and cruelly you reproached me with -it--and I find in it such a multitude of childish illusions, such -an entirely false standard of life and love, such a monstrous -abandonment of all right womanly traditions, that my shame rushes in -a flame to my face. Have you not noticed it? - -"Before that fatal day at Pompeii--the first day of my real -existence--I had a treasury of feelings, of impressions, of ideas, my -own personal ones, by which my life was regulated, or rather by which -it was disturbed; they were swept away, they were destroyed, they -disappeared from my soul on that day. To you, who showed me how great -my fault was, to you, who trampled down all that I had cared for, I -bow my head, I bow my spirit. You were right. You are right. You only -are right. You are always right. I want to convince you that I see -the truth clearly now. Let me walk behind you, let me follow you, as -a servant follows her master. Ah, give me a little strength you who -are strong, you who have never erred, you who have conquered yourself -and the world. Give me strength, you who seem to me the model of -calmness and justice--above all hazards, because you have known how -to suffer in silence, above all human joy, because you understand -its emptiness; and yet so kind, so indulgent, so quick to forgive, -because you are a man and never forget to be a man. - -"You despise me, that is certain; for all strong natures must despise -weakness. But it is also certain that you pity me, because I am -buffeted about by the storms of life, without a compass, without a -star. I have already once been wrecked; in that wreck I left behind -me years of health and hope, the best part of my youthful faith. And -now I am in danger of being wrecked again, utterly and for ever, -unless you save me. - -"Say what you will to me; do what you will with me. Insult me, after -having despised me. But don't leave me to my weakness, don't withdraw -your support from me. It is my only help. - -"What shall I call you? Friend? - -"Friend, I shall be lost if you do not save me, if you refuse to -allow my soul to follow yours, strengthened by your strength, if you -cast me out from your spiritual presence, if you do not give me the -support that my life finds in yours. Friend, friend, friend, don't -cast me off. Say what you will, do what you will, but don't separate -me from you. If you do, I shall die. I, a beggar, knock at your door." - -The letter continued-- - -"You wounded me profoundly when you said that it was perhaps Giustino -Morelli, the man for whose sake I refused to marry Luigi Caracciolo. -I can't hear the bare name of Morelli, without shuddering with -contempt. It isn't that I am angry with him, no, no. It is that he -does not exist for me; he is the vain shadow of a dead man. On the -evening of "The Huguenots,"--ah me! that music sings constantly in my -soul, I shall never forget it--he was there, and I didn't see him, I -wouldn't see him. I don't hate him. He was a poor, weak fool; honest -perhaps, for you have said so; but small in heart and mind! And thus -my contempt for him is really contempt for myself, who made an idol -of him. How was I ever able to be so blind? When I think of it, I -wring my hands in desperation, for it was before him that I burned -the first pure incense of my heart. I shall never forgive myself." - -Cesare Dias read this letter twice through. Then he left his house -to go about his affairs and his pleasures. Returning home, he read -it for a third time. Thereupon he wrote the following note, which he -immediately sent off. - -"Dear Anna,--All that you say is very well; but I don't know yet who -the man is that you love.--Very cordially, Cesare Dias." - -She read it, and answered with one line: "I love you.--Anna -Acquaviva." - -Cesare Dias waited a day before he replied: "Dear Anna,--Very well. -And what then?--Cesare Dias." - -In the exaltation of her passion she had taken a step whereby she -risked her entire future happiness; and she knew it. She had taken -the humiliating step of declaring her love. Would Dias hate her? She -had expected an angry letter from him, a letter saying that he would -never see her again; instead of which she had received a colourless -little note, neither warm nor cold, treating her declaration as he -might have treated any most ordinary incident of his day. - -That was the unkindest cut of all. Cesare Dias was simply -indifferent. For her, love was a tragedy; for him, it was an ordinary -incident of his day. - -What to do now? She could not think. What to do? What to do? Had -he himself not asked, with light curiosity: "And what then?" He -had asked it with the sort of curiosity one might show for the -continuation of a novel one was reading. - -All night long she sobbed upon her pillow. - -"What is the matter?" asked Laura, waking up. - -"Nothing. Go to sleep." - -In the morning she wrote to him again: - -"Why do you ask me _what then_? I don't know; I cannot answer. God -has allowed me to love a second time. I know nothing of 'then.' I -only know one thing--I love you. Perhaps you have known it too, this -long while. My eyes, my voice, my words wherein my soul knelt before -you, must have told you that I loved you. Have you not seen me bow -my proud head daily in humility before you? I began to love you that -evening when we came home together from Pompeii, when my fever was -beginning. Afterwards, my whole nature was transformed by my love -of you. I don't ask you to love me. Perhaps you are bound by other -loves, past loves. Perhaps you have never loved, and wish never to -love. Perhaps I don't please you, either spiritually or bodily. What -is passing in your mind? Who knows? I only know that you are strong -and wise, that you never turn aside, that you follow your noble path -tranquilly, in the triumphant calm of your greatness. Have you loved? -Will you love? Who knows? All I ask is that you will let me love -you, without being separated from you. I ask that you will promise -to wish me well, not as your ward, not as your sister, but as a poor -girl who loves you with all her soul and life. I don't ask you to -change your habits in any way; the least of your habits, the least -of your desires, is sacred to me. Live as you have always lived, -only remember that in a corner of Naples there is a heart that finds -its only reason for existence in your existence, and continue from -time to time to give it a minute of your presence. My love will be a -silent companion to you. - -"Are you not the same man who said to me, with a voice that trembled -with pity, in that dark, empty room at the inn in Pompeii, while I -felt that I was dying--are you not the same man who said, _My poor -child, my poor child_? - -"You pitied me. You do pity me. You will pity me. I know it, I know -it. And that is the 'then' of my love. - -"Don't write to me. I should be afraid to read what you might write. - -"Ah, how I love you! How I love you! - - "ANNA ACQUAVIVA." - -Cesare Dias was very thoughtful after he had read this letter. His -vanity, the vanity of a man of forty, was flattered by it. And Anna's -love, for the present, at any rate, seemed to be entirely obedient -and submissive. But would it remain so? Cesare Dias had had a good -deal of experience. Anna's he knew to be a proud and self-willed -character; would it always remain on its knees, like this? Some day -she would not be content only to love, she would demand to be loved -in return. - -He did not answer the letter. He was an enemy to letter writing in -general, to the writing of love letters in particular; and, anyhow, -what could he say? - -For two days he did not call upon her. On the third day, he arrived -as usual, at two o'clock. - -Anna, during these days, had lived in a state of miserable suspense -and nervousness. - -"What is the matter with her?" Stella Martini asked of Laura. - -"I don't know." - -But the governess tormented her with questions, and at last she -answered impatiently: "I think she is in love." - -"Again?" - -"Yes, again." - -"And with whom?" - -"She has never told me to tell you," cried Laura, leaving the room. - -"What is the matter with you?" Stella asked of Anna. "You are -suffering. Why do you conceal your sorrow from me?" - -"If I am suffering, it's my own fault," said Anna. "Only God can help -me." - -"Can't I help you? You are in deep grief." - -"Deep grief." - -"You have placed your hopes where they can't be realised? Again?" - -"Again." - -"Why, dear? Explain it to me." - -"Because it is my destiny, perhaps." - -"You are young, beautiful, and rich. You ought to be the mistress of -your destiny. It is only poor solitary people who have to submit to -destiny." - -"I am poorer than the poorest beggar that asks for alms in the -street." - -"Don't talk like that," said Stella, gently, taking her hand. "Tell -me about it." - -"I can't tell you about it, I can't. It is stronger than I am," said -Anna, and her anguish seemed to suffocate her. - -"Tell me nothing, then, darling. I understand. I'm only a poor -servant; but I love you so. And I want to tell you, Anna, that there -are no sorrows that can't be outlived." - -"If Heaven doesn't help me, my sorrow will kill me." - -"The only irremediable sorrow in this world is the death of some one -whom we love," said Stella, shaking her head. "You will see." - -"I would rather die than live like this." - -"But is the case quite desperate? Is there no ray of light?" - -"Perhaps." - -"Is it a man on whom your hope depends?" - -"Yes." - -"Do I know him?" - -But Anna put her fingers on her lips, to silence Stella. The bell had -rung. And, at the sound of it, Stella heard a great sigh escape from -Anna's breast. - -"What is it?" she asked. - -"Nothing, nothing," said Anna, passing her pocket-handkerchief over -her face. "Go to the drawing-room." - -"Must I leave you alone?" - -"I beg you to. I am so upset. I want a minute of peace." - -"And you will come afterwards?" - -"I'll come when I can--when I am calm again." - -Stella went slowly away. In the drawing-room she found Dias, who was -showing a copy of the illustrated _Figaro_ to Laura. Dias bowed and -asked, "And Anna?" - -"She will come presently." - -"Is she well?" - -"Not ill." - -"Then she is not well?" - -"I don't think so. But you will see for yourself." - -He and Laura returned to the engravings in the _Figaro_, which were -very good. Stella left them. - -Anna entered the room. Her heart was beating wildly. She did not -speak. She sat down at the opposite side of the table on which the -newspaper was spread out. - -Dias said, referring to the pictures, "They're very clever." - -"Very clever," agreed Laura. - -Dias bowed to Anna, smiling, and asking, "How do you do?" - -"Well," she answered. - -"Signora Martini told me that she feared you were not very well." - -"It's her affection for me, that imagines things. I am quite well." -In his tone she could feel nothing more than pity for her. "I am only -a little nervous." - -"It's the weather, the sirocco," said Dias. - -"Yes, the sirocco," repeated Anna. - -"You'll be all right when the sun shines," said he. - -"When the sun shines, perhaps," she repeated mechanically. - -Laura rose, and left the room. - -After a silence, Cesare Dias said, "It is true, then, that you love -me?" - -Anna looked at him. She could not speak. She made a gesture that said -yes. - -"I should like to know why," he remarked, playing with his -watch-chain. - -She looked her surprise, but did not speak. - -"Yes, why," he went on. "You must have a reason. There must be a -reason if a woman loves one man and not another. Tell me. Perhaps I -have virtues whose existence I have never suspected." - -Anna, confused and pale, looked at him in silence. He was laughing at -her; and she besought him with her gaze to have pity upon her. - -"Forgive me, Anna. But you know it is my bad habit not to take -seriously things that appear very serious to others. My raillery -hurts you. But some day you must really try to tell me why you care -for me." - -"Because you are you," she said softly. - -"That's a very profound reason," he answered smiling. "But it would -require many hours of meditation to be understood. And, of course, -you will always love me?" - -"Always." - -"May I say something that will pain you?" - -"Say it," she sighed. - -"It seems to me, then, that you are slightly changeable. A year ago -you thought you loved another, and would love him always. Confess -that you have utterly forgotten him. And in another year--what will -my place be?" - -But he checked himself. She had become livid, and her eyes were full -of tears. - -"I have pained you too much. Nothing gives pain like the truth," -he said. "But there, smile a little. Don't you think smiles are as -interesting as tears? You're very lovely when you smile." - -And obediently she smiled. - -"Well, then, this eternal love," he went on, "what are we to do about -it?" - -"Nothing. I only love you." - -"Does that suffice?" - -"I must make it suffice." - -"You are easily satisfied. Will you always be so modest in your -hopes?" - -"The future is in the hands of God," said she, not having the courage -to lie. - -"Ah! that is what I want to talk about--the future. You are hoping -something from the future. Otherwise you would not be satisfied. The -future, indeed! You are twenty. You have never thought of my age, -have you?" - -"It doesn't matter. For me you are young." - -"And I will come to love you? That is your hope?" - -"I have asked for nothing. Don't humiliate me." - -He bowed, slightly disconcerted. - -He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a little portfolio in red -leather, which he opened, drawing forth two or three letters. - -"I have brought your letters with me. Letters are so easily lost, and -other people read them. So, having learned their contents, I return -them to you." - -She did not take them. - -"What!" he cried, "aren't you glad to get them back? But there's -nothing women wish so much as to get back the letters they have -written." - -"Tear them up--you," she murmured. - -"It's not nice to tear up letters." - -"Tear them, tear them." - -"As you like," he said, tearing them up. - -She closed her eyes while he was doing it. Then she said with a sad -smile: - -"So, it is certain, you don't care for me?" - -"I mustn't contradict you," he answered gallantly. - -He took her hand to bid her good-bye. - -Slowly she went back to her bedroom. - -There she found Stella Martini. - -"Do you remember, Stella, that day I left you in the Church of Santa -Chiara?" - -"Yes; I remember." - -"Well, now I tell you this--never forget it. On that day I signed my -own death-sentence." - - - - - VII. - -The Villa Caterina was embowered amongst the flowering orange-trees -of Sorrento. On the side towards the town the villa had a beautiful -Italian garden, where white statues gleamed amidst green leaves, -and where all day long one could listen to the laughing waters -of fountains. From the garden a door led directly into a big -drawing-room. On the other side of the house a broad terrace looked -over the sea. - -This was the summer home of the Acquaviva family. It was bigger -and handsomer than the house in Naples. There was greater freedom, -greater luxury, greater cheerfulness here, than in the gloomy palace -of the Piazza dei Gerolomini. The girls were very fond of Villa -Caterina, and their father, Francesco Acquaviva, had been very fond -of it. He had named it for his wife. It was here that the couple -had passed all the summers of their married life; it was here that -Caterina Acquaviva had died. The girls had a sweet, far-away memory -of their mother; in her room at the Villa she was almost like a -living presence to them. - -When the spring came Anna began to speak of going to Sorrento. She -felt that if she could get away from Naples she might experience a -change of soul. The broad light and ceaseless murmur of the sea would -calm her and strengthen her. When Laura or Stella asked her, "What is -the matter?" she would answer, "I don't like being _here_." - -She said nothing of her great sorrow. She shut it into her heart, -and felt that it was killing her by inches. She passed long hours in -silent meditation, her eyes fixed vaguely upon the air; when spoken -to, she would start nervously, and look at her interlocutor as if she -had suddenly been called back from a distant land of dreams. - -Those who loved her saw her moral and physical trouble. She stayed -in the house day after day; she gave up her walks; she went no more -to the theatre. She had lost her interest in the things that used to -please her. She was very gentle, very kind to everybody. To Cesare -Dias she showed an unfailing tenderness. She was often silent before -him. When he spoke to her, she would reply with a look, a look of -such deep melancholy that even his hard heart was touched. She was -very different to the impetuous creature of former times. - -When the spring came, with its languorous warmth, her weakness -increased. In spite of all her efforts to conquer her desire to do -so, she would spend long hours writing to Cesare. It was her only -way of showing the love that was consuming her. It was a great -comfort, and, at the same time, a great pain. She wrote at great -length, confusedly, with the disorder and the monotony of a spirit -in distress; and as she wrote she would repeat her written phrases -aloud, as if he were present, and could respond. She wrote thrilling -with passion, and her cheeks burned. But, after she had committed her -letters to the post, she would wish them back, they seemed so cold, -so absurd, so grotesque, and she cursed the moment in which she had -put pen to paper. - -Cesare Dias never answered her. How could she expect him to, indeed? -Had he not torn her first letters up, under her eyes? - -Whenever his servant brought him one of Anna's letters he received -it with a movement of impatience. He was not altogether displeased, -however. He read them with a calm judicial mind, amused at their -"rhetoric," and forbore to answer them. He went less frequently to -her house than formerly. They were rarely alone together now. But -sometimes it happened that they were; and then, observing her pale -face, her eyes red from weeping, he asked: "What is it? Why do you go -on like this?" - -"What do you wish me to do?" she returned. - -"I want you to be merry, to laugh." - -"That--that is impossible," she said, drooping her eyes to hide the -tears in them. - -And Dias, fearing a scene, was silent. - -He was a man of much self-control, but he confessed to himself that -he would not be able, as she was, to bear an unrequited love with -patience. - -Anna was a woman, a woman in the full sense of the word. She had -hoped to win his heart; but now she relinquished hope. And one day, -in May, she wrote him a letter of farewell; she would never write -again; it was useless, useless. She bade him farewell; she said she -would like to go away, go away from Naples to Sorrento, to the Villa -Caterina, where her mother had loved and died. - -She begged Laura and Stella to take her to Sorrento. And Stella wrote -to Dias to ask his permission. He replied at once, saying he thought -the change of air would be capital for Anna. They had best leave at -once. He could not call to bid them good-bye, but he would soon come -to see his dear girls at the Villa. - -Stella said: "Dias has written to me." - -"When?" asked Anna. - -"Yesterday. He says he can't come to bid us good-bye, he's too busy." - -"Of course--too busy. Will you give me the letter?" - -"It's a very kind letter," said Stella. She saw that Anna's hand was -trembling as it held the white paper. Anna did not return it. - -"Dias is very kind," said Anna. - -They left Naples on the last day of May. - -When they reached the villa, the two girls went directly to their -mother's room. Laura opened the two windows that looked out upon -the sea and let in the sunlight, and she moved from corner to -corner, taking note of the dust on the furniture. Anna knelt at the -praying-desk, above which hung a cross, an image of the Virgin, and a -miniature of her mother. - -Laura asked: - -"Are you going to stay here?" - -Anna did not answer. - -"When you come away bring me the key," said the wise Minerva, and -went off, softly closing the door behind her. - -"Where is Anna?" asked Stella. - -"She is still up there," said Laura. - -"What is she doing?" - -"Weeping, or praying, or thinking. I don't know." - -"Poor Anna," sighed Stella. - -How long did Anna remain on her knees before the image of the Virgin -and the portrait of her mother? No one disturbed her. She kept -murmuring: "Oh, Holy Virgin! Oh, my mother!" alternately. - -When she came away, having closed the windows and locked the door, -she was so pale that Stella said: - -"You have stayed up there too long. It has done you harm." - -"No, no," Anna answered; "I am very well; I am so much better. I am -glad we have come here. I should like to live here always." - -But Stella was not reassured. And at night the thought of her pupil -troubled her and would not let her sleep. Sometimes she would get up -and go to the door of Anna's room. There was always a light burning -within. Two or three times she had entered; Anna lay motionless on -her bed, with her eyes closed. Then Stella had put out the light. - -"Why do you leave your light burning at night?" she asked Anna one -day. - -"Because I am afraid of the dark." - -Thereupon Stella had prepared a little lamp for her, with a shade of -opalescent crystal that softened its light; and almost every night -Stella would go to Anna's room to see whether she was asleep. Her -pale face in the green rays of the lamp had the semblance of a wreck -slumbering at the bottom of the sea. Sometimes, hearing Stella's -footsteps, Anna opened her eyes and smiled upon her; then relapsed -into her stupor. For it was not sleep; it was a sort of bodily -and mental torpor that kept her motionless and speechless. Stella -returned to her own room, in no wise reassured. And what most worried -this good woman was the long visit which Anna made every day to the -room of her dead mother. - -The villa was delightful during these first weeks of the summer, with -its fragrant garden, its big, airy, cheerful, luxurious apartments, -its splendid view of the sea. In the cool and perfumed mornings, in -the evenings that palpitated with starlight, every window and balcony -had its special fascination. But Anna saw and felt nothing of all -this; her mother's room alone attracted her. There she passed long -hours kneeling beside the bed, or seated at a window, silent, gazing -off at the sea, with a white expressionless face. Sometimes Stella -came to the door and called: - -"Anna--Anna!" - -"Here I am," she answered, starting out of her reverie. - -"Come away; it is late." - -"I am coming." - -But she did not move; it was necessary to call her again and again. - -Her stations there exhausted her. She would return from them with -dark circles under her eyes, her lips colourless, the line of her -profile sharpened and accentuated. - -Stella felt a great pity for her, a great longing to be of help -to her. She tried to persuade her to cut short her vigils in her -mother's room. - -"You ought not to stay so long. It is bad for you." - -"No, no," Anna answered. "If you knew the peace I find there." - -"But a young girl like you ought to wish for the excitements of life, -not the peace." - -"There are no more flowers for Margaret," quoted Anna, going to the -window and looking towards the sea. - -During the whole month of June, a lovely month at Sorrento, where the -mornings are warm and the evenings fresh, Anna fell away visibly in -health and spirits. Laura and Stella did not interfere with her, but -it saddened them to witness her decline. Stella's anxiety was almost -motherly. When she saw Anna's pale, peaked face, when she noticed -her transparent hands, a voice from within called to her that she -must do something for the poor girl. - -One day she said, "Signor Dias has promised to come here for a visit. -But he's delaying a little. Perhaps he'll come for the bathing -season." - -"You will see. He'll not come at all," replied Anna, her eyes -suddenly filling with tears. - -"He's so kind, and he has promised. He will come." - -"I don't believe it," Anna answered sadly. - -Indeed, he neither came nor wrote. The first fortnight of July had -passed; the bathing season had already begun. Sorrento was full -of people. In the evening, till late into the night, from every -window, from every balcony, and from the big brilliantly lighted -drawing-rooms of the hotels, came the sounds of singing and dancing, -the tinkling of mandolines, the laughter of women--a gay, passionate, -summer music. The villas were protected from the sun by blue and -white striped awnings, which fluttered in the afternoon breeze like -the sails of ships. At night the moon bathed houses, country, and -sea in a radiance dazzling as snow. Anna, in the midst of all this -merriment, this health and beauty, felt only the more profoundly a -great longing to end her life. It was seldom now that she so much as -moved from one room to another. In the evening, when Stella and Laura -would go out to call upon their friends, Anna would seat herself in -an easy-chair on the terrace of the Villa, and fix her eyes upon the -sky, where the Milky Way trembled in light. And on the sea beyond -her, people were singing in boats, or sending up fireworks from -yachts. Round about her sounded the thousand voices of the glorious -summer night, voices of joy, voices of passion. Anna neither saw nor -heard. - -But in Stella's face she could not help noticing an expression of -sympathy which seemed to say, "I have divined--I have guessed." And -in the kiss which Stella gave her, before going out, on the evening -of the 17th of July, Anna felt an even deeper affection than usual. -Laura and Stella were going to a dance at the Villa Victoria. - -"Be strong and you will be happy," Stella said, and her kiss seemed -meant as a promise of good news. - -But the poor child did not understand. She took Stella's words as one -of those vague efforts at consolation which people make for those who -are inconsolable, and shook her head, smiling sadly. Lovely in her -white frock, Laura too came and kissed her. And then she heard the -carriage drive away. Anna left the drawing-room and went out upon -the terrace. There was a full moon; its light was so brilliant one -might have read by it. There was something divinely beautiful in the -view--from the horizon to the arch of the sky, from the hills behind -her, covered with olives and oranges, to the sea before her. And she -felt all the more intensely the sorrow of her broken life. - -She lay back in her easy-chair, with her eyes closed. - -"Good evening," said Cesare Dias. - -She opened her eyes, but she could not speak. She could only look at -him, and she did so with such an expression of desolate joy that he -told himself: "This woman really loves me." - -He appeared to be very thoughtful. He drew up a chair, and sat down -next to her. - -"Are you surprised to see me, Anna? Didn't I promise to come?" - -"I thought--that you had forgotten. It is so easy to forget." - -"I always keep my promise," he declared. - -When had she heard him speak like this before, with this voice, this -inflexion--when? Ah, she remembered: when she was ill, when they -thought she was going to die. So it was pity for one threatened with -death that had brought him to Sorrento; it was pity that banished its -habitual irony from his voice. - -"The air of Sorrento hasn't cured you," he said, bending a little to -look at her. - -"It hasn't cured me. It has cured me of nothing. I think I shall -never be cured. There is no country in the world that can cure me." - -"There is only one doctor who can do you any good--that doctor is -yourself." - -He opened his silver cigarette-case, took out a cigarette, and lit it. - -She watched the vacillating flame of his match, and for a moment did -not speak. - -"It is easy to say that," she went on finally, with a feeble voice. -"But you know I am a weak creature. That is why you have so much -compassion for me. I shall never be cured, Cesare." - -"Are you sure?" - -"I am sure. I have tried. My love has proved itself stronger than I. -It is destroying me. My heart can no longer endure it." - -He looked off into the clear air of the night, watching the spiral of -his cigarette smoke. - -"And all those beautiful spiritual promises," he said, "that -wonderful structure of abnegation, of sacrifice, of unrequited love, -has come to nothing! Those plans for the future, which you conceived -in such lofty unselfishness, have failed?" - -"Failed, failed," she exclaimed, with a sigh, gazing up at the starry -sky, as if to reproach it with her own unhappiness. "All that I -wrote to you was absurd, a passing illusion. All my plans were based -upon absurdities. Perhaps there are people in the world who are so -perfectly made that they can be contented to love and not be loved -in return; they are fortunate, they are noble; they live only for -others; they are purity incarnate. But I am a miserable, selfish -woman, nothing else; I have expected too much; and I am dying of my -selfishness, of my pride." - -She raised herself in her chair, grasping its arms nervously with her -hands, and shaking her beautiful head, wasted by grief. - -He was silent. He threw away his cigarette, which had gone out. - -The soft moonlight covered all things. - -"I am so earthly," she went on. "I have prayed for a better nature, -for an angelic heart, raised above all human desires, that I might -simply love you, and wish for nothing else. I have exhausted myself -with prayers and tears, trying thus to forget that you could not -care for me. I have forbidden myself the great comfort of writing -to you. I left Naples, and came here, far from you--from you who -were, who are my light, my life. In vain, I have passed whole days -here, praying to my mother and to the Madonna to free me from these -terrible, heavy, earthly chains that bind me to that longing to be -loved, and that are killing me. No use, no use! My prayers have not -been answered. I have come away from them with a greater ardour, -a more intense longing, than ever. I am a woman. I am a woman -who doesn't know how to lift herself above womanly things, who, -womanlike, longs to be loved, and who will never, never be consoled -for the love she cannot have." - -After a long pause, he asked, "And what do you wish me to do, Anna?" - -"Nothing." - -"Nothing?" - -"There is nothing to be done. All is ended; all is over. Or, rather, -nothing has ever been begun." - -"Anna, I assure you, it grieves me to see you suffer." - -"Thank you. But what can you do for me? It is all due to my own -folly. I admit that I am unbalanced, extravagant. I know it. I am -paying dearly for my folly; ah, the expiation is hard. It is all due -to my one mistake, my one fault. Everybody is very kind to me, more -than kind. But I have sinned, and I must expiate my sin." - -"But how is it all to end?" he cried. - -"Do you know what the simplest solution would be?" - -"What?" - -"My death. Ah, to rest! to rest for ever, under the earth, in a dark -grave!" - -"Don't say that. People don't die of love." - -"Yes that is true. There is indeed no recognised disease called -_love_. Neither ancient nor modern doctors are acquainted with it; -they have never discovered it in making their autopsies. But love is -such a subtle deceiver! It is at the bottom of all mortal illnesses. -It is at the bottom of those wasting declines from which people -suffer for years, people who have loved too much, who have not been -loved enough. It is in those maladies of the heart, where the heart -bursts with emotion or dries up with despair. It is in those long -anæmias which destroy the body fibre by fibre, sapping its energies. -It is in that nervousness which makes people shiver with cold and -burn with insupportable heat. Oh, no one dies suddenly of love. We -die slowly, slowly, of troubles that have so many names, but are -really all just this--that we can endure to love no longer, and that -we are not loved. Who will ever know the right name of the illness -from which I shall die? The doctor will write a scientific word on -paper, to account for my death to you, to Laura, to Stella. But you -know, you at least, that I shall die because you do not love me." - -"Calm yourself, Anna." - -"I am calm. I have no longer the shadow of a hope. But I am calm, -believe me. I have to tell you these things because they well up from -my soul of their own accord. I am an absolutely desperate woman, but -I am calm, I shall always be calm. Don't answer me. Everything that -you can say I have already said to myself. All is ended. Why should I -not be calm?" - -"But, if you no longer hope for anything, then you have hoped for -something. For what?" he asked, with a certain curiosity. - -"Oh, heavens!" she cried. "That you should ask me that!" - -"Tell me, Anna. You see that I ask it with sympathy, with lively -sympathy." - -"But you must have forgotten what love is like, if you ask me to tell -you what its hopes are," she exclaimed. "One hopes for everything -when one loves. From the moment when I first trembled at the sound -of your voice, from the moment when first the touch of your hand on -mine thrilled me with delight, from the moment when first the words -you spoke, whether they were hard or kind, scornful or friendly, -seemed to engrave themselves upon my spirit, from the moment when I -first realised that I was yours--yours for life, from that moment I -have hoped that you might love me. From that moment it has been my -dream that you might love me, with a love equal to my own, with a -self-surrender equal to my own, with an absolute concentration of all -your heart and soul, as I love you. That has been the sublime hope -that my love has cherished." - -"It was an illusion," he said softly, looking off upon the broad -shining sea, bathed in the moonlight. - -"I know it. Why do you remind me of it? Why are we talking of it? My -soul had fallen into a torpor. But now you rouse me from it. My heart -throbs as if you had reopened its wound. Don't tell me again that you -don't care for me. I know it, I know it." - -"Anna, Anna, why do you torment yourself like this?" - -"Ah, yes, I have known it a long while now. My great hope died -little by little, day by day, as I saw how unlike me you were, how -far from me; as I understood your contempt for me, your pity; as -I realised that there were secrets in your life which I could not -know; as I perceived that the differences of our ages and tastes -had bred differences of feeling. In a hundred ways, voluntarily and -involuntarily, you showed me that love did not exist for you, either -that you would never love, or, at any rate, that you would never love -me. I read my sentence written in letters of flame on my horizon. -And yet, you see, in spite of the blows that fate had overwhelmed -me with, I was not resigned. I told myself that a young and ardent -woman could not thus miserably lose herself and her love. I thought -that there was a way of saving herself which ought to be tried, a -humble way, but one that I could pursue in patience. Shall I tell you -my other dream?" - -"Yes, tell me." - -"Well, I dreamed that you would let me unite my weak and stormy youth -to your warm and serene maturity, in such a manner as to complete -more profoundly and more intimately the work of protection that -Francesco Acquaviva had confided to you at his death. You saved me -at Pompeii. That seemed to sanction a supreme act of devotion on my -part. My dream was simple and modest. I would love you with all my -strength, but in silence; I would live with you, loving and following -you like a fond shadow. Every hour, every minute, I would be able to -offer you unspoken, but eloquent proofs of my love. I would be your -satellite, circling round you, drinking in the light of my sun. I -would watch my chance to do for you, to serve you, to make you happy. -And in this way, never asking for gratitude, asking for nothing, I -would spend my life, to its last day, blessing you, worshipping you, -for your kindness in letting me be near you, in letting me love you. -Ah, what a vision! It would be worthy of me, to make such a sacrifice -of every personal desire; and worthy of you to lift a poor girl up to -the happiness of seeing you every day, of sharing your home and your -name." - -"You would like me to marry you?" asked Dias. - -"Your wife, your mistress, your friend, your servant--whatever you -wish will suffice for me. To be where you are, to live my life out -near to you----" - -"I am old," he said, coldly, bitterly. - -"I am young, but I am dying, Cesare." - -"Old age is a sad thing, Anna. It freezes one's blood and one's -heart." - -"What does it matter? I don't ask you to love me. I only want to love -you." - -"Will you never ask it of me?" - -"Never." - -"Promise." - -"I promise." - -"By whatever you hold most sacred, will you promise it?" - -"By Heaven that hears me, by the blessed souls of my mother and -father who watch over me; by my affection for my sister Laura; by the -holiest thing in my heart, that is, by my love for you, I promise it, -I swear it, I will never ask you to love me." - -"You won't complain of me, and of my coldness?" - -"I will never complain. I will regard you as my greatest benefactor." - -"You will let me live as I like?" - -"You will be the master. You shall dispose of your life and of mine." - -"You will let me go and come, come and go, without finding fault, -without recriminations?" - -"When you go out I will await in patience the happy hour of your -return." - -He was silent for a moment. There was another question on his mind, -and he hesitated to ask it. But with burning eyes, with hands clasped -imploringly, she waited for him to go on. - -"You won't torment me with jealousy?" he asked at last. - -"Oh, heavens!" she cried, stretching out her arms and beating her -brow with her hands; "must I endure that also?" - -"As you wish," he said, coldly. "I see that I displease and offend -you. I am making demands that are beyond your strength. Well, let us -drop the subject." - -And he rose as if to go away. She moved towards him and took his hand. - -"No, no; don't leave me. For pity's sake stay a little longer. Let -us talk--listen to me. You ask me not to be jealous; I'll not be -jealous. At least, you'll not see my jealousy. Do you wish me to -visit the woman you're in love with, or have been in love with, or -the woman who's in love with you? Do you wish me to receive the women -who are your friends? I'll do it--I'll do everything. Put me to the -most dreadful trial--I'll endure it. Ask me to go to the furthest -pass a soul and body can reach--I'll do it for you." - -"I wish to be free, heart-free, that is all," he said, firmly. - -"As you are to-day, so you will always be--free in heart," she -responded. - -"Listen to me, Anna, and understand me clearly. For a moment try -to escape from your own personality, forget that you are you, and -that you love me. For a moment consider calmly and carefully the -present and the future. Anna, I am old, and you are young; and the -discrepancy of our ages which now seems trifling to you, in ten -years' time will seem terrible, for I can only decline, while you -will grow to maturity. In your imagination you have conceived an -ideal of me which doesn't correspond to the truth, and which the -future will certainly correct, to your sorrow. Between our characters -and our temperaments there is a profound gulf; we have no reason to -believe that the future can close it up. If I am making a sacrifice, -as I confess I am, in speaking to you thus, it is certain that you -would make a more painful and a more lasting one in living with me. -Think of it, think of it. Think of my age, of your illusions which -must inevitably be destroyed, of our mutual sacrifice. Anna, there is -still time." - -She looked at him, surprised to hear him speak in this earnest way, -the man who was accustomed to dominate all his own emotions. He was -really moved; his brow was knitted; and on it, for the first time, -Anna could read a secret distress. There was something almost like -shyness in his eyes; he seemed less distant, less strong perhaps, -than he had ever seemed to her before, but more human, more like -other people, who suffer and weep. - -"Anna, Anna," he went on, "put aside all selfishness, and be -yourself the judge. Judge whether I ought to consent to what you -wish. I have told you cruelly, brutally, what I shall expect from you -in return from my sacrifice. I have repeated to you again and again -what a grave step it is that you propose. Now, my dear child be calm, -and judge for yourself." - -She was leaning with her two hands on the parapet of the terrace, and -kept her eyes cast down. - -"But why," she asked slowly, in a low voice, "why are you -willing--you who are so wise, so cold, who despise all passion, as -you do--why are you willing to make this sacrifice? Who has persuaded -you? Who has won you?" - -"I am willing because you have told me that there is no other way of -saving you; because Stella Martini has written to me saying that I -ought to save you; because I myself feel that I ought to save you." - -"It is for pity then that you are willing to do this thing?" - -"You have said it," he replied, not wishing to repeat the unkind word. - -"God bless you for your pity," she said humbly, crossing her hands as -in prayer. - -There was a deep silence. He stood with his head bowed, thinking, and -waiting for her to speak. She was looking at the sky as if she wished -to read there the word of her destiny. But in her heart and in her -mind, from the sky, and from the glorious landscape, only one word -could she, would she, hear. - -"Well, Anna, what have you to say?" - -"Why do you ask? I love you, and without you I should die. Anything -is better than death. You are my life." - -"Then you will be my wife and my friend," he said resolutely. - -"Thank you, love," and she knelt before him. - - * * * * * - -When he had gone away, she bent down and kissed devotedly the wall of -the terrace, where he had leaned, speaking to her. - -And then she went to each of the big vases that stood in a row along -the terrace, and picked all the flowers that grew in them, the roses, -the geraniums, the jasmine-buds, and pressed them to her bosom in -a mass, because they had listened to her talk with him. And before -re-entering the house, she looked again, with brilliant eyes full of -happiness, upon the sea and the sky and the wide moonlit landscape. - -Within the house every one was asleep. The servant who was sitting -up for Laura and Stella nodded in the anti-chamber. Anna was quite -alone, and her heart danced for joy. - -Silently she passed through the house, and entered her mother's room. - -"Oh, Mamma, Mamma, it is you who have done this," she said. - - - END OF PART I. - - - - - PART II - - - - - I. - -Anna wore a pink dressing-gown of soft wool, with a low-cut sailor's -collar and monk's-sleeves, so that her throat and wrists, round and -pale with the warm pallor of ivory, were left uncovered. Her hair was -drawn up in a rich mass on the top of her head, and confined by two -or three pins of yellow tortoise-shell. Her black eyes were radiant -with youth and love. - -She opened the door of her room. - -She had a little clock in a case of blue velvet lightly ornamented -with silver; Cesare had given it to her during their honeymoon, and -she always kept it by her. She looked at this, and saw that it was -already eleven. The April sunshine poured merrily into the room, -brightening the light colours of the upholsteries, touching with fire -her bronze jewel-case, her hanging lamp of ancient Venetian wrought -iron, and the silver frame of her looking-glass, and giving life to -the blue forget-me-nots on the white ground of her carpet. - -It was eleven. And from the other end of the apartment (where, with -Stella Martini she occupied two or three rooms) Laura had sent to ask -at what hour they were to start for the Campo di Marte. Anna had -told the servant to answer that they would start soon after noon, and -that she was getting ready. - -For a moment she stood still in the middle of her room, undecided -whether or not to move in the direction that her feet seemed inclined -to take of their own will--pretty little feet, in black slippers -embroidered with pearls. - -Then she opened the door. - -A short passage separated her room from her husband's. Her husband's -room had a second door, letting into a small hall, whence he could -leave the house without Anna's knowing it, without her hearing so -much as a footstep. - -She crossed the passage slowly, and leaned against the door, not to -listen, but as if she lacked courage to knock. At last, very softly, -she gave two quick raps with her knuckles. - -There was a minute of silence. - -She would never have dared to knock a second time, already penitent -for having ventured to disturb her lord and master. - -A cold quiet voice from within inquired, "Who is it?" - -"It's I, Cesare," she said, bending down, as if to send the words -through the keyhole. - -"Wait a moment, please." - -Patiently, with her bejewelled hand on the knob, and the train of -her pink dressing-gown heaped about her feet, she waited. He never -allowed her to come in at once, when she knocked at his door, he -seemed to take a pleasure in prolonging and subduing her impatience. - -Presently he opened the door. He was already dressed for the Campo di -Marte, in the appropriate costume of a lover of horse-racing. - -"Ah, my dear lady," he said, bowing with that fine gallantry which he -always showed to women, "aren't you dressed yet?" - -And as he spoke he looked at her with admiring eyes. She was so -young and fresh, and living, with her beautiful round throat, her -flower-like arms issuing from her wide monk's sleeves, and her tiny -feet in their black slippers, that he took her hand, drew her to him, -and kissed her on the lips. A single kiss; but her eyes lightened -softly, and her red lips remained parted. - -He stretched himself in an easy-chair, near his writing-desk, and -puffed a cigarette. All the solid and simple yet elegant furniture -of the big room which he occupied, was impregnated with that odour -of tobacco, which solitary smokers create round themselves like an -atmosphere. - -Anna sat down, balancing herself on the arm of a chair covered with -Spanish leather. One of her feet played with the train of her gown. -She looked about, marvelling as she always did, at the vast room -a little bleak with its olive plush, its arms, its bookcase, its -handful of books in brown bindings, and here and there a bit of -carved ivory or a bright-coloured neck-tie, and everywhere the smell -of cigarette-smoke. His bed was long and narrow, with a head-piece -of carved wood; its coverlet of old brocade fell to the floor in -folds, and mixed itself with the antique Smyrna carpets that Cesare -Dias had brought home from a journey in the East. Attached to the -brown head-piece there was a big ivory crucifix, a specimen of -Cinquecento sculpture, yellow with age. The whole room had a certain -severe appearance, as if here the gallant man of the world gave -himself to solitary and austere reflections, while his conscience -took the upper hand and reminded him of the seriousness of life. - -The big drawers of his writing desk surely contained many deep and -strange secrets. Anna had often looked at them with burning, eager -eyes, the eyes of one anxious to penetrate the essence of things; but -she had never approached them, fearing their mysteries. Only, every -day, after breakfast, when her husband was away, she had put a bunch -of fresh, fragrant flowers in a vase of Satsuma, whose yellow surface -was crossed by threads of gold, and placed them on the dark old desk, -which thereby gained a quality of youth and poetry. He treated the -flowers with characteristic indifference. Now and then he would wear -one of them in his button-hole; oftener he seemed unconscious of -their existence. For a week at a time jonquils would follow violets -and roses would take the place of mignonette in the Satsuma vase, but -Cesare would not deign to give them a look. This morning, though, he -had a tea-rose bud in his button-hole, a slightly faded one that he -had plucked from the accustomed nosegay; and Anna smiled at seeing -it there. - -"At what time are we going to the races?" she asked, remembering the -business that had brought her to his room. - -"In about an hour," he answered, looking up from a memorandum-book in -which he was setting down certain figures with a pencil. - -"You are coming with us, aren't you?" - -"Yes. And yet--we shall look like a Noah's ark. Perhaps I'd better go -with Giulio on the four-in-hand." - -"No, no; come with us. When we are there you can go where you like." - -"Naturally," he said, making another entry in his note-book. - -She looked at him with shining eyes; but he continued his -calculations, and paid her no attention. Only presently he asked: - -"Aren't you going to dress?" - -"Yes, yes," she answered softly. - -And slowly she went away. - -While her maid was helping her to put on her English costume of -nut-coloured wool, she was wondering whether her husband would like -it; she never dared to ask him what his tastes were in such matters; -she tried to divine them. Before dressing, she secured round her -throat by a chain an antique silver reliquary, which enclosed, -however, instead of the relics of a saint, the only love letters -that he had ever written to her, two little notes that had given her -unspeakable pain when she had received them. And as she moved about -her room at her toilet, she cast repeated glances at his portrait, -which hung over her writing-table. Round her right arm she wore six -little golden bracelets with pearls suspended from them; and graven -upon each bracelet was one letter of his name, Cesare. Her right hand -gleamed with many rings set with precious stones; but on her left -hand her wedding-ring shone alone. - -When she had adjusted her veil over her English felt hat, trimmed -with swallows' wings, she looked at herself in the glass, and -hesitated. She was afraid she wouldn't please him; her dress was too -simple; it was an ordinary morning street costume. - -Suddenly the door opened, and Laura appeared. As usual, she wore -white, a frock of soft white wool, exquisitely delicate and graceful. -Her hat was covered with white feathers, that waved with every -breath of air. And in her hands she held a bunch of beautiful fresh -tea-roses. - -"Oh, how pretty you are!" cried Anna. "And who gave you those lovely -roses?" - -"Cesare." - -"Give me one--give me one." And she put out her hand. - -She put it into her button-hole, inexpressibly happy to possess a -flower that he had brought to the house and presented to her sister. - -"When did you see Cesare?" she asked, taking up her purse, across -which _Anna Dias_ was stamped, and her sunshade. - -"I haven't seen him. He sent these flowers to my room." - -"How kind he is." - -"Very kind," repeated her sister, like an echo. - -They went into the drawing-room and waited for Cesare. He came -presently, drawing on his gloves. He was somewhat annoyed at having -to go to the races with his family--he who had hitherto always gone -as a bachelor, on a friend's four-in-hand, or alone in his own -phæton. His bad humour was only partially concealed. - -"Ah, here is the charming Minerva!" he cried, perceiving Laura. "How -smart we are! A proper spring toilet, indeed. Good, good! Well, let's -be off." - -Anna had hoped for a word from him too, but she got none. Cesare -had seen her dress of nut-coloured wool, and he deemed it unworthy -of remark. For a moment all the beauty of the April day was -extinguished, and she descended the stairs with heavy steps. But -out of doors the air was full of light and gaiety; the streets were -crowded with carriages and with pedestrians; on every balcony there -were ladies in light colours, with red parasols; and a million -scintillating atoms danced in every ray of sunshine. Anna told -herself she must bear in patience the consequences of the error she -had made in putting on that ugly brown frock. Laura's face was lovely -as a rose under her white hat; and Anna rejoiced in her sister's -beauty, and in the admiring glances that everybody gave her. - -"It's going to be beastly hot," said Cesare, as they drove into -the Toledo, where a crowd had gathered to watch the procession of -carriages. - -"The Grand Stand will be covered. We'll find a good place," said Anna. - -"Oh, I'm to leave you when we get there," he reminded her. He was -determined to put an end to this family scene as soon as he could. "I -must leave a clear field for Laura's adorers. I give place to them -because I am old." - -Laura smiled. - -"So, Anna, I'll leave you to your maternal duties. I recommend you to -keep an especial eye upon Luigi Caracciolo--upon him in particular." - -"What do you mean?" Anna asked absently. - -"Nothing, dear." - -"I thought----" she began, without finishing her sentence. - -Bows and smiles and words of greeting were reaching them from every -side. They passed or overtook numberless people whom they knew, -some in carriages, some on foot. Cesare was inwardly mortified by -the conjugal exhibition of himself that he was obliged to make, and -looked with secret envy at his bachelor friends. - -But his regret was sharpest when a handsome four-in-hand dashed past, -with Giulio Carafa on the box and the Contessa d'Alemagna beside him. -That dark, vivacious, blue-eyed lady wore a costume of pale yellow -silk, and a broad straw hat trimmed with cream-coloured feathers. -She carried a bunch of lilac in her hands, lilac that lives but -a single day in our ardent climate, and is rich with intoxicating -fragrance. All the men on Carafa's coach bowed to Dias, and the -Contessa d'Alemagna smiled upon him and waved her flowers; and his -heart was bitten by a great desire to be there, with them, instead of -here, in this stupid domestic party. - -He was silent; and Anna's eyes filled with tears, for she understood -what his silence meant. At the sight of her tears his irritation -increased. - -"Well, what is it?" he asked, looking at her with his dominating -coldness. - -"Nothing," she said, turning her head away, to hide her emotion. - -That question and answer were equivalent to one of the long and -stormy discussions that are usual between husbands and wives. Between -them such discussions never took place. Their life was regulated -according to the compact they had made on that moonlit night at -Sorrento; she realised now that what had then seemed to her a way -of being saved was only a way of dying more slowly; but he had kept -his word, and she must keep hers. He had married her; she must not -reproach him. Only sometimes her sorrow appeared too plainly; then he -never failed to find a word or a glance to remind her of her promise. - -To-day, for the thousandth time, he regretted the sacrifice he had -made, and cursed his generosity. - -The whole distance from the Toledo to the Campo di Marte was passed -in silence. As they approached the Reclusorio, Luigi Caracciolo -drove by them with his tandem. He bowed cordially to them. Anna -dropped her eyes; Laura smiled upon him. - -"What a handsome fellow!" exclaimed Dias, with the sincere admiration -of one man of the world for another. - -"Very handsome," said Laura, who was accustomed to speak her girlish -mind with sufficient freedom. - -"He pleases you, eh?" inquired Cesare, with a smile. - -"He pleases me," she said, with her habitual freedom and her habitual -indifference. - -"It's a pity he was never able to take Anna's fancy," Cesare added, -with enigmatical irony. - -"I hate handsome youths," said Anna, proudly. - -"You wouldn't be the impetuous woman that you are, my dear, if you -didn't hate everything that other people like. We've got a creature -of passion in the family, Laura," he said, with a frank expression of -scorn. - -"Yes," assented the cruel sister. - -Anna smiled faintly in disdain. Again the beauty of the day was -extinguished for her; the warm April afternoon was like a dark -winter's evening. - -The rose that Laura had given her had fallen to pieces, shedding its -petals on the carriage floor. Anna would have liked to gather them -all up and preserve them. The most she could do, however, was to take -a single one that lay in her lap, and put it into the opening of her -glove, against the palm of her hand. - -At the entrance of the racing-grounds they met the Contessa -d'Alemagna again. She smiled graciously upon Anna and Laura. Anna -tried to smile in return; Laura bowed coldly. - -"Don't you like the Contessa d'Alemagna?" asked Cesare, as he -conducted his wife and sister-in-law to their places in the members' -stand. - -"No," said Laura. - -"You're wrong," said he. - -"That may be. But she's antipathetic to me." - -"I like her," said Anna, feebly. - -Cesare found places for them, and gave them each an opera-glass. Then -he stood up and said to Anna: - -"You will be all right here?" - -"Perfectly." - -"Nothing I can do for you?" - -"Nothing." - -"I'll come back for the third race. I'm going now to bet. Good-bye." - -And he went off with the light step of a liberated man. Anna watched -him as he crossed the turf towards the weighing-stand. - -She was surrounded by acquaintances, and they were all talking -together. Being a bride, she received a good deal of attention; Dias -was popular, and his popularity reflected itself upon her. Besides, -people found her interesting, with her black, passionate eyes, the -pure oval of her face, and her fresh red lips. - -Luigi Caracciolo came up to where the sisters were seated. - -"Cesare has deserted you?" he asked, jestingly. - -"He's gone to bet. He'll soon come back," said Anna. - -"He's betting with the Contessa d'Alemagna," suggested Laura, with -one of those perverse smiles which contrasted so oddly with the -purity of her face. - -"Then he'll not come back so soon," said Luigi, sitting down. - -"Have you never seen the races before?" he asked. - -"No, I have never seen them," said Anna. - -"It's rather a tiresome sight," said he, pulling his blonde -moustaches. - -"It's interesting to see the people," said Anna. - -"It's the crowd that always gives its interest to a scene," said he, -with an intonation of profound thought. - -Laura was looking through her opera-glass. "There's Cesare," she -cried suddenly. - -Cesare was walking and talking with the beautiful Contessa -d'Alemagna, and two other men, who walked in front of them, -occasionally turned and took part in the conversation. As he passed -his wife and sister, he looked up and bowed. Anna responded, smiling, -but her smile was a forced and weary one. - -Luigi Caracciolo, feigning not to have noticed this incident, said to -her: "That's a charming dress you're wearing. It's an inspiration." - -"Do you like it?" she asked, with a thankful look. - -"Yes. I admire these English fashions. I think our women are wrong to -go to a horse-race dressed as if for a garden-party. It's not smart." - -He took her sunshade and toyed with it, reading the inscription, -engraved on its silver handle. - -"'_Attendre pour atteindre._'[A] Is that your motto?" he inquired. - -"Yes." - -"Have you never had another?" - -"Never." - -"It's a wise one," he remarked. "It's a fact that everything comes at -last to those who know how to wait." - -"Alas! not everything, not everything," she murmured, sadly. - -There was a burst of applause from the multitude. The second race was -over, and the favourite had won, a Naples-bred horse. People crowded -about the bookmakers, to receive the value of their bets. - -"Perhaps Cesare has won," said Laura. "He was always talking about -_Amarilli_." - -"Cesare always wins," said Luigi. - -"He is not named Cesare[B] for nothing," said Anna, proudly. - -"And like the great Julius all his victories were -won after he had turned forty--especially those in Germany."[C] - -But Anna did not hear this malicious pleasantry. She was thinking of -other things. - -By and by her husband came to her. - -"Are you enjoying it, Anna?" he asked. - -"Yes, I am enjoying it." - -"And you, Laura?" - -"Oh, immensely," she answered, coldly. - -"Would you like to see the weighing ground?" - -"Yes," she said, taking her shawl and her sunshade. - -"I can't take _you_," said Cesare to his wife, who was gazing -imploringly at him. "We should look ridiculous." - -But she did not appear resigned. - -"We should be ridiculous," he repeated imperiously. "Thank goodness, -we're not perpetually on our wedding journey." - -They went away, leaving her with a pain in her heart which she felt -was killing her. She half closed her eyes, and only one idea was -clear in the sorrowful confusion of her mind--that her husband was -right. She had broken their agreement; she had promised never to -entreat him, never to reproach him. It was weak and wicked of her, -she told herself, to have consented to such an agreement--a compact -by which her love, her pride, and her dignity were alike bound to -suffer. She had made another great mistake when she did that, -and this time an irreparable mistake. - -"Ah, you are alone?" said Luigi Caracciolo, coming up again. - -"Alone." - -"Something is troubling you. What is it?" - -"I am bored; and a person who is bored bores others." - -"Let us bore ourselves together, Signora Dias. That will be -diverting. I have always wished to bore myself with you, you know." - -She shook her head, to forbid his referring to the past. - -"Ah, you won't consent? You're very cruel." - -She put her opera-glass to her eyes, and looked off across the course. - -"If you're going to treat me as badly as this, you'd better send me -away," he said, with some feeling. - -"The stand is free to all the world," she answered, tormented by the -thought that if her husband should come back, he might imagine that -she was glad to talk with Caracciolo. - -"You are a Domitian in woman's clothes," he cried. "Ah, you women! -When you don't like a man you destroy him straightway." - -She did not hear him; or, hearing, she did not understand. - -"You are too high up for me," he went on. "To descend to my level -would be impossible for you and unworthy of you. It's equally -impossible for me to rise to yours." - -"You are quite mistaken. I'm anything rather than a superior being. -I'm a human earthly woman, like all others--more than others." - -"Then why do you suffer?" - -"Because love is very bitter." - -"What love?" - -"All love. It is bitterer than aloes, bitterer than gall, bitter in -life and in death." - -There was another outburst of applause, and the crowd began to move. -The races of the first day were over. - -Anna looked for her husband. He appeared presently, with Laura on his -arm. - -"You leave your wife to the most melancholy solitude," said -Caracciolo, laughing. - -"I was sure you would keep her company, you're such a true friend to -me," laughed Cesare. - -Caracciolo gave his arm to Anna. - -"In any case, it wasn't to render you a service," said Luigi. - -"I know your fidelity," said Dias. - -"You are my master." - -Neither of the ladies spoke. Anna gave herself up to the happiness -of having recovered her husband, of going away with him, of taking -him home. He seemed excited and pleased, as if he had enjoyed the -events of the afternoon without stopping to analyse their frivolity -and emptiness. He had amused himself in his usual way, forgetting for -the moment the subtle but constant annoyance of his marriage. He was -merry, and he showed his merriment by joking with Caracciolo, with -Laura, even with his wife. - -Anna was very happy. The long day had tired her. But now she felt -the warmth and comfort of his presence, and that compensated her for -her hours of abandonment. They had some difficulty finding their -carriage, but Cesare was not impatient. Caracciolo, meanwhile, was -looking for his own tranquilly, never for a moment neglecting his -chivalric duties. - -When their carriage was discovered, the two men helped the ladies -into it; and Cesare, standing beside it, disposed of their shawls and -their opera-glasses with the carefulness of a model husband, at the -same time exchanging a passing word or two with Caracciolo. - -Suddenly Cesare closed the carriage-door, and said to the -coachman--"Home." - -"Aren't you coming with us?" Anna asked in a low voice. - -"No. There's a place for me on Giulio Carafa's four-in-hand. I shall -get to Naples sooner than you will. The four-in-hand can go outside -the line." - -"Four-in-hands are very amusing," said Caracciolo, shaking hands with -the two women. - -"Shall we have a late dinner?" asked Anna. - -"Don't wait dinner for me. I am going to dine at the Contessa -d'Alemagna's, with Giulio Carafa and Marco Paliano." - -"Very well," said Anna. - -She watched Cesare and Luigi as they moved away, puffing their -cigarettes. Then she said to the coachman, "Drive home." - -During the long drive the sisters scarcely spoke. They were -accustomed to respect each other's hours of silence. A soft breeze -was blowing from the north. They were both a little pale. Perhaps it -was the spectacle of the return from the Campo di Marte, which made -them thoughtful; the many carriages, full of people who bore on their -faces the signs of happiness due to a fine day of sunshine, passed -in the open air, amid the thousand flattering coquetries of love and -fancy; the beautiful women, wrapped in their cloaks; the sort of -spiritual intoxication that glowed in the eyes of everybody. - -The streets were lined by an immense crowd of shop-keepers and -working-people, who made a holiday pleasure of watching the stream of -carriages; and another crowd looked down from the balconies of the -houses. - -Presently Anna leaned forward and took her shawl and wrapped it round -her shoulders. - -"Are you cold?" asked Laura, helping her. - -"Yes." - -Laura also put on her shawl; she, too, was cold. - -Luigi Caracciolo's tandem passed them. Anna did not see him. Laura -bowed. - -When they had reached the Piazza San Ferdinando, Anna asked: "Would -you like to drive about a little?" - -"No, let us go home." - -And when they were in the house, "We must go in to dinner," Laura -said. - -"I'm not going to dine. I have a headache," said Anna. - -At last she was alone. In her own room she threw aside her hat and -veil, her sunshade, her purse, her pocket-handkerchief; she fell into -an arm-chair, and was shaken by a storm of sobs and tears. - -From above her little writing-table Cesare's portrait seemed to smile -upon the flowers that were placed under it. - -She raised her eyes, and looked at his beautiful and noble face, -which appeared to glow with love and life. A great impulse of passion -rose in her heart; she took the portrait and kissed it, and bathed it -in her tears, murmuring, "my love, my love, why do you treat me like -this? Ah, I can only love you, love you; and you are killing me." - -Hours passed unnoticed by her. Some one came to her door and asked -whether she wished for a lamp; she answered, "No." - -By-and-bye she saw a white figure standing before her. She recognised -Laura. And she saw that Laura was weeping. She had never seen her -weep before. - -"You are crying. What are you crying for?" she asked. - -"Yes," answered Laura, vaguely, with a gesture. - -And they wept together. - -FOOTNOTES: - -[A] "Wait to win." In French in the original. - -[B] Cæsar. - -[C] Alemagna. A punning reference to the Contessa. - - - - - II. - -Cesare Dias came home one day towards six o'clock, in great good -humour. At dinner he found everything excellent, though it was his -habit to find everything bad. He ate with a hearty appetite, and -told countless amusing stories, of the sort that he reserved for -his agreeable moments. He joked with Laura, and with Anna; he even -complimented his wife upon her dress, a new one that she had to-day -put on for the first time. He succeeded in communicating his gaiety -to the two women. Anna looked at him with meek and tender eyes; and -as often as he smiled she smiled too. - -Laura, it is true, spoke little, but in her face shone that -expression of vivacity, of animation, which had characterised it for -some time past. She agreed with everything Cesare said, bowing her -head. - -After dinner they all passed into Anna's drawing-room. It was her -evening at home; and noticing that there were flowers in all the -vases--it was in June, just a year after their talk at Sorrento--and -seeing the silver samovar on the table, Cesare asked: "Are you -expecting people to-night, Anna?" - -"A few. Perhaps no one will come." - -"Ah, that's why you've got yourself up so smartly." - -"Did you fancy it was for you, that she had put on her new frock, -Cesare?" Laura asked, jestingly. - -"I was presumptuous enough to do so; and all presumptions are -delusions. I'll bet that Luigi Caracciolo is coming--the ever -faithful one." - -"I'm sure I don't know," said Anna, indifferently. - -"Oh, you hypocrite, Anna!" laughed Laura. - -"Hypocrite, hypocrite!" repeated Cesare, also laughing. "Come, I'll -warrant that the obstinate fidelity of Caracciolo has at last made -an impression. Admirable! He's been in love with you for a hundred -years." - -"Oh, Cesare, don't joke about such subjects," Anna begged, in pain. - -"You see, Laura, she is troubled." - -"She's troubled, it's true," affirmed Laura. - -"You're both of you heartless," Anna murmured. - -Cesare opened his cigarette case, and playfully offered a cigarette -to each of the ladies. - -"I don't smoke," said Laura. - -"Why don't you learn to?" - -"Smoke is bad for the teeth;" and she showed her own, shining like -those of Beatrice in the tale by Edgar Poe. - -"You're right, fair Minerva. Will you smoke, Anna?" - -"I don't smoke, either," she said, with a soft smile. - -"You ought to learn. It would be becoming to you. You're dark, you -have the Spanish type, and a _papelito_[D] would complete your charm." - -"I will learn, Cesare," she assented. - -"And what's more, smoke calms the nerves. You can't imagine the -soothing effect it has. Nothing is better to relieve our little -sorrows." - -"Give me a cigarette, then," she said at once. - -"Ah, you have little sorrows?" - -"Who knows!" she sighed, putting aside her cigarette. - -"You have no little sorrows, Laura?" asked Cesare. - -"Neither little ones nor big ones." - -"Who can boast of having never wept?" said Anna, with a melancholy -accent. - -"If we become sentimental, I shall take myself off," said Cesare. - -"No, no, don't go away," Anna prayed him. - -"I would remind you that we've got to pass our whole life-time -together," said he, ironically, knocking off the ash of his cigarette. - -"All our life-time, and more beyond it," said Anna, pensively. - -"And more beyond! It's a grave affair. I will think of it while I am -dressing, this evening." - -"Where are you going?" - -"To take a walk," he answered, rising. - -"Why don't you stay here?" she ventured to ask. - -"I can't. I'm obliged to go out." - -"Come home early, won't you?" - -"Early--yes," he consented, after a short hesitation. - -"I'll wait for you, Cesare." - -"Yes, yes. Good-night." - -He went off. - -Laura, according to her recent habit, had listened to this dialogue -with her eyes half closed, and biting her lips; she said nothing. -Whenever her sister and her brother-in-law exchanged a few -affectionate words (and, indeed, Cesare did no more than respond to -the affection of Anna), she assumed the countenance of a statue, -which neither feels nor hears nor sees; or else, she got up and left -the room noiselessly. Often Anna surprised on Laura's face a cynical -smile that appeared the antithesis of its extreme purity, the irony -of an icy virgin who is aware of the falsity and hollowness of love. - -This evening, when Cesare had left them, the sisters remained -together for a few minutes. But apparently both their minds -were absorbed in deep thought; at any rate they could not keep -up a conversation. Anna, in her lilac-coloured frock, lay in an -easy-chair, leaning her head on her hands, over which her black hair -seemed like a warrior's helmet. Laura was pulling and playing with -the fringe of her white dress. - -"I'm going; good night," she said suddenly. - -"Why do you go, Laura?" asked Anna, issuing from her reverie. - -"There's no use staying. People will be arriving." - -"But stay for that very reason. You will help me to endure their -visits." - -"Oh, that's a task above my strength," said the blonde and beautiful -Minerva. "Then, anyhow, it's you they come to see, my dear." - -"You'll be married some day yourself," said Anna, laughing. - -She was still in a pleasant mood--a reflection of Cesare's gaiety; -and then he had promised to come home early. - -"Who knows! Good night," and Laura rose to go away. - -"But what are you going to do?" - -"Read a little; then sleep." - -"What are you reading?" - -"'_Le mot de l'énigme_,'[E] by Madame Pauline Craven." - -"A mystical romance? Do you want to become a nun?" - -"Who knows! Good night." - -Anna herself took up a book after Laura's departure. It was -_Adolphe_, by Benjamin Constant; she had found it one day on her -husband's writing-desk. In its cool yet ardent pages one feels the -charm of a truthful story, surging up from the heart in a single, -vibrant cry of pain. Anna had read it two or three times; now she began -it again, absent-mindedly. But she did not read long. A few callers -came; the Marchesa Scibilia, her relative, accompanied by Gaetano -Althan, who always liked to go about with old ladies; Commander -Gabriele Mari, a man of seventy; and then the Prince of Gioiosa, a -handsome, witty, and intelligent Calabrian. - -The conversation, of course, was a mixture of frivolity and -seriousness, as conversations are apt to be in a small gathering like -the present, where nobody cares to appear too much in earnest, and -everybody tries to speak in paradoxes. - -The Prince di Gioiosa was the last to leave; it was then past eleven. - -"No one else will come," she thought. - -But she was mistaken. Acquaintances passing in the street, and seeing -her windows alight, came up to pay their respects. When the last of -these had gone, "It is late; no one else will come," she thought -again. - -But again she was mistaken. The servant announced Luigi Caracciolo; -and the handsome young fellow entered, with that English correctness -of bearing which somewhat tempered the vivacity of his blonde -youthfulness. He was in evening dress, and wore a spray of lilies of -the valley in his button-hole. - -Anna gave him her hand amicably. Her rings glittered in the lamplight. - -"Starry hand," he said, bowing, and pressing it softly. - -"Where do you come from?" she asked, with that polite curiosity which -implies no real interest. - -"From the opera," he said, seating himself beside her. - -"What were they giving?" - -"'The Huguenots'--always the same." - -"It is always beautiful." - -"Do you remember?" he asked with a tender, caressing voice. "They -were singing 'The Huguenots' on the evening when I was introduced to -you." - -"Yes, yes; I remember that evening," she said, with sudden melancholy. - -"How horribly I displeased you that night, didn't I? The only thing -to approach it was the tremendously delightful impression you made on -me." - -"What nonsense!" she protested kindly. - -"And your first impression of me has never changed--confess it," he -said. - -"Even if that were true, it wouldn't make you very unhappy." - -"What can you know about that? You beautiful women, admired and -loved--what do you know?" - -"You're right. Indeed, we know nothing." - -But he saw that her mind was away in a land of dreams, far from him. -He felt all at once the distance that divided them. - -"When you come back from your travels let me know, that I may welcome -you," he said, with his smooth, caressing voice. - -"What travels?" - -"Ah! If I knew! If I knew where your thoughts are wandering while -I talk to you, I could go with you, I could follow you in your -fantasies. Instead, I speak, and you don't listen to me. I say -serious things to you in a jesting tone, and you understand neither -the seriousness nor the joke. You leave me here alone, whilst you -roam--who knows where? And I, a humble mortal, without visions, -without imagination, I can only wait for your return, my dear lady." - -If, indeed, there was a certain poetic quality in what he said, there -was a deeper poetry still in the tenderness and sweetness of his -voice. He sat in front of her, gazing into her face, as if he could -not tear himself from that contemplation. She sometimes lowered her -eyes, sometimes turned them away, sometimes fixed them upon a page of -_Adolphe_, which she had kept in her hands. If his gaze embarrassed -her, however, his soft voice seemed to calm her nerves. She listened -to it, scarcely understanding his words, as one listens to a vague -pleasant music. - -"Doesn't it bore you to wait?" she asked. - -"I am never bored here. When I have this lovely sight before my eyes." - -"What sight?" she inquired, ingenuously. - -"Your person, my dear lady." - -"But you can't always be looking at me," she said, laughing, trying -to turn the conversation to a jest. - -"That's a fatal misfortune, as they say in novels. I should like -to pass my whole life near to you. Instead, I'm obliged to pass it -among a lot of people who are utterly indifferent to me. A great -misfortune!" - -"It's not your fault," she said, with a faint smile. - -"It certainly isn't. But that doesn't console me. Shall we try -it--passing our lives together? One can overcome misfortunes. Our -whole lives--that will mean many years." - -"But I am married," she said, feeling that the talk was becoming -dangerous. - -"Oh, that's nothing," he cried emphatically. - -"Caracciolo, I believe you've found the means to see me no more. What -do you want from me?" - -"Nothing, dear lady, nothing," he answered, with genuine grief in his -face and voice. - -"Then you ought not to risk destroying one of your friendships. What -would Cesare have said if he had heard you for the last half hour?" - -"Oh, nothing. He couldn't have heard me, you know, because he's never -here." - -"Sometimes he is," she said, with sudden emotion. - -"Never, never. Don't tell pious fibs." - -"He's always here." - -"In your heart. I know it. It's an agreeable home for him, the more -so because he can find others of the same sort wherever he goes." - -"What are you saying?" - -"One of my usual vulgarities. I'm speaking ill of your husband." - -"Then be quiet." - -But to soften the severity of this command, she offered him a box of -cigarettes. - -"Thanks for your charity," he said. - -And he began to smoke, looking at one of her slippers of lilac satin -embroidered with silver, which escaped from beneath her train. She -sat with her elbow on the table, thinking. It was midnight. In a few -minutes Caracciolo would be gone; and Cesare couldn't delay much -longer about coming home. - -Luigi Caracciolo seemed to divine her thoughts. - -"After this cigarette, I will leave you. I'm afraid I've given you no -great idea of my wit." - -"I detest witty men." - -"Small harm! I hope you believe, though, that I have a heart." - -"I believe it." - -"All the better. One day or another you will remember what I have -said to you this evening, and understand it." - -"Perhaps," she said, vaguely. - -"You had a very happy inspiration, to dress in lilac. It's such a -tender colour. That's the tint one sees in the sunsets at Venice. -Have you ever been at Venice?" - -"Never." - -"That's a pity. It's a place full of soft tears. One can make a -provision of them there, to last a life-time. Trifling loves become -deep at Venice, and deep loves become indestructible. Good-night." - -"Good-night." - -She gave him her hand, like a white flower issuing from the satin of -her sleeve. He touched it lightly with his lips, and went away. - -Not for a moment during her conversation with Luigi Caracciolo had -her husband been absent from Anna's mind. And all that the young man -said, which constantly implied if it did not directly mention love, -had but intensified her one eternal thought. - -It was now half-past twelve. She rose and rang the bell; and her maid -appeared. - -They left the drawing-room and went into Anna's bedroom, which was -lighted by a big lamp with a shade of pink silk. - -Her maid helped her to undress, thinking that she was going to bed; -but presently Anna asked for her tea-gown of cream-coloured crape, -and put it on, as if she meant to sit up. She had loosened her hair, -and it fell down her back in a single rich black tress. - -The maid asked if she might go to bed. Anna said, "Yes." Cesare had -given orders that no servant should ever sit up for him; he had a -curiously wrought little key, a master-key, which he wore on his -watch-chain, and which opened every door in his house. Thus he could -come in at any hour of the night he liked, without being seen or -heard. The maid went softly away, closing the door behind her. - -Anna sat down in an easy chair, beside her bed. She still had the -volume of _Adolphe_ in her hand. She sat still there, while she -heard the servant moving about the apartment, shutting the windows. -Then all was silent. - -Anna got up, and opened the doors between her room and her husband's. -So she would be able to hear him when he returned. He could not delay -much longer. He had promised her to come home early; he knew that -she would wait for him. And, as she had been doing through the whole -evening, but with greater intensity than ever, she longed for the -presence of her loved one. Was not every thing empty and colourless -when he was away? And this evening he had been so merry and so kind. -His promise resounded in her soul like a solemn vow. She thrilled -with tremulous emotion. The softness of the spring night entered into -her and exhilarated her. - -She lay back in her easy-chair, with closed eyes, and dreamed of his -coming. She felt an immense need of him, to have him there beside -her, to hold his hand in hers, to lean her head upon his shoulder in -sweet, deep peace, listening to the beating of his heart, supported -by his arms, while his breath fell upon her hair, her eyelids, her -lips. A dream of love; vivid and languid, full of delicate ardour and -melancholy desire. - -She surprised herself murmuring his name. "Cesare, Cesare," she said, -trembling with love at the sound of her own voice. - -Suddenly it seemed to her that she heard a noise in her husband's -room. Then he had come! - -Swiftly, like a flying shadow, she crossed the passage, and looked -in. Only silence and darkness! She had been mistaken. She leaned on -the frame of the door, and remained thus for a long moment. - -Slowly she returned to her own room, thinking that "early" must mean -for a man of late habits like Cesare two o'clock in the morning. That -was it! He would arrive at two. - -She took up _Adolphe_, thinking to divert herself with reading, and -thus to moderate her impatience. She opened the book towards the -middle, where the passionate struggle between Ellenore and Adolphe -is shown in all its sorrowful intensity. And from the dry, precise -words, the hard, effective style, the brief and austere narrative, -which was like the cry of a soul destroyed by scepticism, Anna -derived an impression of fright. Ah, in her sincere, youthful faith, -what a horror she had of that modern malady which corrupts the mind, -depraves the conscience, and kills whatever is most noble in the -soul! What could she know, poor, simple, ignorant woman, whose only -belief, whose only law, whose only hope was love--what could she know -of the spiritual diseases of those who have seen too much, who have -loved too much, who have squandered the purest treasures of their -feelings? What could she know of the desolating torture of those -souls who can no longer believe in anything, not even in themselves, -and who have lost their last ideal? She could know nothing; and -yet a terror assailed her. Perhaps Cesare, her husband, was like -_Adolphe_, who could never more be happy, who could never more give -happiness to others. She shuddered, and threw the book aside, in -great distress. - -She got up mechanically, and took from a table a rosary of sandal -wood, which a Missionary Friar had brought from Jerusalem. - -She had never been regular in her devotions; her imagination was -too fervid. But religious feelings seemed sometimes to sweep in -upon her in great waves of divine love. A child of the South, she -only prayed when moved by some strong pain, for which she could -find no earthly relief. She forgot to pray when she was happy. Now -she pressed her rosary to her lips, and began to repeat the long -and poetical Litany, which Domenico de Guzman has dedicated to the -Virgin. Ingenuously enough, she thought that in this way the time -would pass more rapidly, two o'clock would strike, and Cesare would -arrive. But she endeavoured in vain to fix her mind upon her orisons; -it flew away, before her, to her meeting with her Beloved; and though -her lips pronounced the words of the _Ave_ and the _Pater_, their -sense escaped her. Once or twice she paused for a few minutes, and -then went on, confused, beseeching Heaven's pardon for her slight -attention. - -When her rosary was finished, it was two precisely. Now Cesare would -come. - -She could not control her nervousness. She took her lamp and went -into her husband's room: she placed the lamp on the writing-desk, -and seated herself in one of the leather arm-chairs. She felt easier -here; the austerity of the big chamber, with its dark furniture, -told her that her husband's soul was above the sterile and frivolous -pleasures in which he had already lost the best part of the night. - -The air still smelt of cigarette smoke. Here and there a point of -metal gleamed in the lamplight. On a table lay a pair of gloves; they -had been worn that day, and they retained the form of his hands. She -kissed them, and put them into the bosom of her gown. - -But where was Cesare? - -She began to pace backwards and forwards, the train of her dress -following her like a white wave. Why did he not come home? It was -late, very late. There were no balls on for that night; no social -function could detain him till this hour. - -Where was Cesare? Ah, Cesare, Cesare, Cesare, her dear love, where -was he? She passed her hands over her burning forehead. - -All at once, looking out into the night, she noticed in the distance -the windows of Cesare's club, brilliantly lighted. Then a sudden -peace came to her. He would be there, playing, talking, enjoying the -company of his friends, forgetful of the time. It was an old habit of -his, and old habits are so hard to break. She remained at the window -of his room, with her eyes fixed upon the windows of his club; the -light that shone from them was the pole-star of her heart. - -She opened the window and went out upon the balcony. - -Presently two men issued from the club-house, stood for a moment -chatting together at the entrance, and then moved off towards the -Chiaia. Ah, she thought, the company at the Club was beginning to -break up; at last Cesare would come. At the end of ten minutes, four -men came out together. These also chatted together for a minute, -then separated, two going towards the Riviera, two entering the Via -Vittoria. By-and-by one man came out alone, and advanced directly -towards Dias' house. This, this surely would be he. - -The man was looking up, towards the balcony. - -"Good-night, Signora Anna," said the voice of Luigi Caracciolo. - -"Good-night," she murmured, faint with disappointment. - -Caracciolo had stopped, and was leaning on the railing, gazing up at -her. Anna drew back out of sight. - -"Good-night, Anna," he repeated, very softly. - -She did not answer. - -Caracciolo went off, slowly, slowly; stopping now and then to look -back. - -She turned her eyes again upon the windows of the club, but they were -quite dark; the lights had been extinguished. - -So Caracciolo had been the last to leave; and Cesare was not there! - -She felt terribly cold, all at once. Her teeth chattered. She went -back into the room, shivering, and had scarcely strength enough to -shut the window. She fell upon a chair, exhausted. The clock struck. -It was half-past three. - -And now a hideous suspicion began to torture her. There were no balls -to-night, no receptions, no functions. The club was shut up. The -cafés were shut up. All talking, eating, drinking, gambling, were -over for the night. The life of the night was spent. Everybody had -gone home to bed. Then where was Cesare? Cesare, her husband, was -with a woman! And jealousy began to gnaw her heart. With a woman; -that was certain. The truth burned her soul. He could be nowhere else -than with a woman. The truth rang in her heart like a trumpet-blast. -Mechanically she put her fingers to her ears to shut out the -words--_with a woman, with a woman_. - -But what woman? - -She knew nothing of her husband's secrets, nothing of his past or -present loves. - -She was a mere stranger whom he tolerated, not a friend, not a -confidant. She was a troublesome bond upon him, an obstacle to his -pleasures, an interference with his habits. No doubt there were older -bonds, stronger ties, that kept him from her; or it might be the mere -force of a passing fancy. But for what woman, for what woman? In vain -she tried to give the woman a name, a living form. - -Oh, certainly not a lady, not a woman of honourable rank and -reputation; not the Contessa d'Alemagna. - -Who then? Who then? - -How much time passed, while she sat there, in a convulsion of tears -and sobs, prey to all the anguish of jealousy? - -The day broke; a greenish, livid light entered the room. - -The handle of the door turned. Cesare came in. He was very pale, with -dull, weary eyes. He had a cigarette in his mouth; his lips were -blue. The collar of his overcoat was turned up; his hands were in his -pockets. He looked at his wife indifferently, coldly, as if he did -not recognise her. - -She rose. Her face was ashen. Her capacity for feeling was exhausted. - -"What are you doing here?" he asked. - -He threw away his cigarette, and took off his hat. How old and used -up he looked, with his hair in disorder, his cheeks sunken from lack -of sleep. - -"I was waiting for you," she said. - -"All night?" - -"All night." - -"You have great patience." - -He opened the door. - -"Good-bye, Anna." - -"Good-bye, Cesare." - -And she returned to her own room. - -FOOTNOTES: - -[D] Spanish in the original. - -[E] The key to the riddle. - - - - - III. - -About the middle of June, in the first summer of his marriage, -Cesare Dias brought his wife and his sister-in-law to the Villa -Caterina at Sorrento. He would leave them there, while he went to -take the baths at Vichy. Afterwards he was going to Saint-Moritz -in the Engadine, whither betake themselves such persons as desire -to be cold in summer, the same who, desiring to be hot in winter, -hibernate at Nice. Anna had secretly wished to accompany her husband -upon this journey, longing to be alone with him, far from their usual -surroundings; but she was to be left behind. - -Ever since that night when she had sat up till dawn waiting for him, -tormented, disillusioned, her faith destroyed, her moral strength -exhausted, there had been a coldness between the couple. Cesare had -lost no time in asserting his independence of her, and had vouchsafed -but the vaguest explanations, saying in general terms that a man -might pass a night out of his house, chatting with friends or playing -cards, for any one of a multitude of reasons. Anna had listened -without answering. She dreaded above all things having a quarrel -with her husband. She closed her eyes and listened. He flung his -explanation at her with an air of contempt. She was silent but not -satisfied. - -She could never forget the hours of that night, when, for the first -time, she had drained her cup of bitterness to its dregs, and looked -into the bottom depths of human wickedness. The sweetness of her love -had then been poisoned. - -As for Cesare, he had been exceedingly annoyed by her waiting for -him, which seemed to him an altogether extravagant manifestation of -her fondness. It annoyed him to have been surprised in the early -morning light looking old and ugly; it annoyed him to have to explain -his absence; and it annoyed him finally to think that similar -scenes might occur again. Oh, how he loathed these tragic women and -their tragedies! After having hated them his whole life long, them -and their tears and their vapourings, behold! he had been trapped -into marrying one of them--for his sins; and his rancour at the -inconceivable folly he had committed vented itself upon Anna. She, -sad in the essence of her soul, humble, disheartened, understood -her husband's feelings; and by means of her devotion and tenderness -sought to procure his pardon for her offence--the offence of having -waited for him that night! One day, when Anna had been even more -penitent and more affectionate than usual, he had indeed made some -show of forgiving her, with the pretentious indulgence of a superior -being; she had taken his forgiveness as a slave takes a kind word -after a beating, smiling with tears in her eyes, happy that he had -not punished her more heavily for her fault. - -But the truth is, he was a man and not an angel. He had forgiven -her; yet he still wished to punish her. On no consideration would -he take her with him to Vichy and Saint-Moritz. He gave her to -understand that their wedding-journey was finished; that it would -never do to leave her sister Laura alone for two months with no other -chaperone than Stella Martini; that it wasn't his wish to play Joseph -Prudhomme, and travel in the bosom of his family; in short, he gave -her to understand in a thousand ways that he wished to go alone; and -she resigned herself to staying behind in preference to forcing her -company upon him. She flattered herself, poor thing, that this act of -submission, so hard for her to make, would restore her to her lord's -good graces. He went away, indeed in great good temper. He seemed -rejuvenated. The idea of the absolute liberty he was about to enjoy -filled him with enthusiasm. He recommended his ladies (as he jokingly -called the sisters) not to be too nun-like, but to go out, to -receive, to amuse themselves as they wished. Anna heard this advice, -pale with downcast eyes; Laura listened to it with an odd smile on -her lips, looking straight into her brother-in-law's face. She too -was pale and mute. - -After his departure a great, sad silence seemed to invade the villa. -Each of the sisters was pensive and reserved; they spoke but little -together; they even appeared to avoid each other. For the rest, the -charming youthful serenity of the blonde Minerva had vanished; her -white brow was clouded with thought. They were in the same house, but -for some time they rarely met. - -Anna wrote to Cesare twice a day; she told him everything that -happened; she opened to him her every fancy, her every dream; she -wrote with the effusiveness of a passionate woman, who, too timid -to express herself by spoken words, finds her outlet in letters. -Writing, she could tell him how she loved him, that she was his in -body and soul. Cesare wrote to her once or twice a week, and not at -length; but in each of his notes there would be, if not a word of -love, at least some kindly phrase; and upon that Anna would live for -three or four days--until his next letter arrived. He was enjoying -himself; he was feeling better; he would return soon. Sometimes -he even expressed a wish for her presence, that she might share -his pleasure in a landscape or laugh with him at some original -fellow-traveller. He always sent his remembrances to Laura; and Anna -would read them out to her. - -"Thank you," was all that Laura responded. - -Laura herself wrote a good deal in these days. What was she writing? -And to whom? She sat at her little desk, shut up in her room, and -covered big sheets of paper with her clear, firm handwriting. -If any one entered, she covered what she had written with her -blotting-paper, and remained silent, with lowered eyes, toying -with her pen. More than once Anna had come in. Thereupon Laura -had gathered up her manuscripts, and locked them into a drawer, -controlling with an effort the trouble in her face. - -"What are you writing?" Anna asked one day, overcoming her timidity, -and moved by a strange impulse of curiosity. - -"Nothing that would interest you," the other answered. - -"How can you say so?" the elder sister protested, with indulgent -tenderness. "Whatever pleases you or moves you must interest me." - -"Nothing pleases me and nothing moves me," Laura said, looking down. - -"Not even what you are writing?" - -"Not even what I am writing." - -"How reserved you are! How close you keep your secrets! But why -should you have any?" Anna insisted affectionately. - -"Yes," said Laura, vaguely. She got up and left the room, carrying -her key with her. - -Anna never again referred to what her sister was writing. It might be -letters, it might be a journal. - -In July, Sorrento filled up with tourists and holiday folk; and the -other villas were occupied by their owners. The sisters were invited -about a good deal, and lured into the thousand summer gaieties of the -town. - -One of the earliest arrivals was Luigi Caracciolo. He came to -Sorrento every season, but usually not till the middle of August, -and then to spend no more than a fortnight. He had rather a disdain -for Sorrento, he who had travelled over the whole of Europe. This -year he came in the first week of July; and he was determined to stay -until Anna Dias left. He was genuinely in love with her; in his own -way, of course. The mystery that hung over her past, and her love -for Cesare Dias, which Luigi knew to be unrequited, made her all the -dearer to him. He was in love, as men are in love who have loved many -times before. Sometimes he lost his head a little in her presence, -but never more than a little. He retained his mastery of himself -sufficiently to pursue his own well-proved methods of love-making. -He covered his real passion with a semblance of levity which served -admirably to compel Anna to tolerate it. - -She never allowed him--especially at Sorrento, where she was alone -and where she was very sad--to speak of love; but she could not -forbid him to call occasionally at the Villa Caterina, nor could -she help meeting him here and there in the town. And Cesare, from -Saint-Moritz, kept writing to her and Laura to amuse themselves, -to go out, saying that he hated women who lived like recluses. And -sometimes he would add a joking message for Caracciolo, calling -him Anna's faithful cavalier; but she, through delicacy, had not -delivered them. - -Luigi did not pay too open a court to her, did not affect too great -an intimacy; but he was never far from her. For a whole evening -he would hover near her at a party, waiting for the moment when -he might seat himself beside her; he would leave when she left, -and on the pretext of taking a little walk in the moonlight, -would accompany the two ladies to the door of their house. He was -persevering, with a gentle, continuous, untiring perseverance that -nothing could overcome, neither Anna's silence, nor her coldness, -nor her melancholy. She often spoke to him of Cesare, and with so -much feeling in her voice that he turned pale, wounded in his pride, -disappointed in his desire, yet not despairing, for it is always a -hopeful sign when a woman loves, even though she loves another. Then -the only difficulty (though an immense one) is to change the face of -the man she loves to your own, by a sort of sentimental sleight of -hand. - -For various reasons, he was extremely cautious. He was not one of -those who enjoy advertising their desires and their discomfitures -on the walls of the town. Then, he did not wish to alarm Anna, and -cause her to close her door to him. And besides, he was afraid of -the silent watchfulness of Laura. The beautiful Minerva and the -handsome young man had never understood each other; they were given -to exchanging somewhat sharp words at their encounters, a remarkable -proceeding on the part of Laura, who usually talked little, and then -only in brief and colourless sentences. Her contempt for him was -undisguised. It appeared in her manner of looking him over when he -wore a new suit of clothes, in her manner of beginning and ending -her remarks to him with the phrase, "A handsome young fellow like -you." That was rather bold, for a girl, but Laura was over twenty, -and both the sisters passed for being nice, but rather original, -nice but original, as their mother and father had been before them. -Luigi Caracciolo himself thought them odd, but the oddity of Anna -was adorable, that of Laura made him uneasy and distrustful. He was -afraid that on one day or another, she might denounce him to Cesare, -and betray his love for the other's wife. She had such a sarcastic -smile sometimes on her lips! And her laughter had such a scornful -ring! He imagined the most fantastic things in respect of her, and -feared her mightily. - -"How strange your sister is," he said once to Anna, finding her alone. - -"She's good, though," said Anna, thoughtfully. - -"Does she seem so to you?" - -"Yes." - -"You little know. You're very ingenuous. She's probably a monster of -perfidy," he said softly. - -"Why do you say that to me, Caracciolo? Don't you know that I dislike -such jokes?" - -"If I offend you, I'll hold my tongue. I keep my opinion, though. -Some day you'll agree with me." - -"Be quiet, Caracciolo. You distress me." - -"It's much better to have no illusions; then we can't lose them, dear -lady." - -"It is better to lose illusions, than never to have had them." - -"What a deep heart is yours! How I should like to drown in it! Let me -drown myself in your heart, Anna." - -"Don't call me by my name," she said, as if she had heard only his -last word. - -"I will obey," he answered meekly. - -"You, too, are good," she murmured, absently. - -"I am as bad as can be, Signora," he rejoined, piqued. - -She shook her head good-naturedly, with the smile of one who would -not believe in human wickedness, who would keep her faith intact, in -spite of past delusions. And the more Luigi Caracciolo posed as a -depraved character, the more she showed her belief that at the bottom -every human soul is good. - -"Everybody is good, according to you," he said. "Then I suppose your -husband, Cesare, is good too?" - -"Too? He is the best of all. He is absolutely good," she cried, her -voice softening as it always did when she spoke of Cesare. - -"He who leaves you here alone after a few months of marriage?" - -"But I'm not alone," she retorted, simply. - -"You're not alone--you're in bad company," he said, nervously. - -"Do you think so? I wasn't aware of it." - -"You couldn't tell me more politely that I'm a nonentity. But he, -he who is away, and who no doubt invents a thousands pretence to -explain his absence to you--can you really say that he is good." - -"Cesare invents no pretences for me," she replied, turning pale. - -"Who says so? He? Do you believe him?" - -"He says nothing. I have faith in him," she answered, overwhelmed to -hear her own daily fears thus uttered for her. - -Caracciolo looked at her anxiously. Merely to hear her pronounce her -husband's name proved that she adored him. Luigi was too expert a -student of women not to interpret rightly her pallor, her emotion, -her distress. He did not know, but he could easily guess that Anna -wrote to Cesare every day, and that he responded rarely and briefly. -He understood how heavy her long hours of solitude must be, amid the -blue and green of the Sorrento landscape, passed in constant longing -for her husband's presence. He understood perfectly that she was -consumed by secret jealousy, and that he tortured her cruelly when -by a word, or an insinuation he inspired her with new suspicions. -He could read her heart like an open book; but he loved her all the -better for the intense passion that breathed from its pages. He did -not despair. Sooner or later, he was convinced, he would succeed in -overcoming the obstacle in his way. He adopted the ancient method of -assailing the character of the absent man. - -When he would mention some old flame of Cesare's, or some affair -that still continued, and which his marriage could not break off, -or when he would speak of Cesare's desertion of his young wife, he -saw Anna's face change; he knew the anguish that he woke in her -heart, and he suffered wretchedly to realise that it was for the love -of another man. His weapon was a double-edged sword, that wounded -her and wounded him. But what of that? He continued to wield it, -believing that thus little by little he could deface the image of -Cesare Dias that Anna consecrated with her adoration. - -Anna was always ready to talk of her husband, and that gave him his -opportunity for putting in his innuendoes. At the same time it caused -him much bitterness of spirit, and sometimes he would say, "We are -three. How do you do, Cesare?" bowing to an imaginary presence. - -Anna's eyes filled with tears at such moments. - -"Forgive me, forgive me," he cried. "But when you introduce his name -into our conversation, you cause me such agony that I feel I am -winning my place in heaven. Go on: I am already tied to the rack; -force your knife into my heart, gentle torturess." - -And she, at first timidly, but then with the impetuousness of an open -and generous nature, would continue to talk of Cesare. Where was -he, what was he doing, when would he return? she would ask; and he -by-and-by would interrupt her speculations to suggest that Cesare was -probably just now on the Righi, with the Comtesse de Béhague, one -of his old French loves, whom he met every year in Switzerland; and -that he would very likely not return to Sorrento at all, nor even to -Naples before the end of October. - -"I don't believe it, I don't believe it," she protested. - -"You don't believe it? But it's his usual habit. Why should he alter -it this year?" - -"He has me to think of now." - -"Ah, dear Anna, dear Anna, he thinks of you so little!" - -"Don't call me by my name," she said, making a gesture to forbid him. - -"If Cesare heard me he wouldn't like it--eh?" - -"I think so." - -"You hope so, dear lady, which is a very different thing. But he's -not jealous." - -"No; he's not jealous," she repeated, softly, lost in sorrowful -meditations. "But what man is?" - -"He's a man who has never thought of anything but his own pleasure." - -"Sad, sad," she murmured very low. - -Yet, though she thoroughly well understood that a better knowledge -of her husband's past life could only bring her greater pain, she -began to question Luigi Caracciolo about Cesare's adventures. Ah, -how ashamed she was to do so! It seemed like violating a confidence; -like desecrating an idol that she had erected on the altar of her -heart. It seemed like breaking the most sacred condition of love, -which is secrecy, to speak thus of her love to a man who loved her. -Yet the temptation was too strong for her. And cautiously, by hints, -she endeavoured to draw from Caracciolo some fact, some episode, a -detail, a name, a date; she would try to ask indifferently, feigning -a slight interest, attempting without success to play the woman of -wit--she, poor thing, who was only a woman of heart. - -Caracciolo understood at once, and for form's sake assumed a certain -reluctance. Then, as if won by her wishes, he would speak; he would -give her a fact, an episode, a date, a name, commenting upon it in -such wise as, without directly speaking ill of Cesare, to underline -his hardness of heart and his incapacity for real passion. It was -sad wisdom that Anna hereby gained. Her husband's soul was cold and -arid; he had always been the same; nothing had ever changed him. -Sometimes, sick and tired, she would pray Caracciolo by a gesture -to stop his talk; she would remain thoughtful and silent, feeling -that she had poured a corrosive acid into her own wounds. Sometimes -Laura would be present at these conversations, beautiful, in white -garments, with soft, lovely eyes. She listened to Caracciolo with -close attention, whilst an inscrutable smile played on her virginal -lips. He, in deference to the young girl's presence, would, from -time to time, drop the subject; then Laura would look at him with an -expression of ardent curiosity that surprised him, a look that seemed -to ask a hundred questions. His narrative of the life of Cesare -Dias succeeded in spoiling Anna's holiday, but did not advance his -courtship by an inch. - -He has great patience, and unlimited faith in his method. He knew -that a strong passion or a strong desire can overcome in time the -most insurmountable obstacles. Yet he had moments of terrible -discouragement. How she loved him, Cesare Dias, this beautiful -woman! It was a love all the more sad to contemplate, because of the -discrepancies of age and character between husband and wife. Here -was a fresh young girl uncomplainingly supporting the neglect of a -worn-out man of forty. - -One day, unexpectedly, Cesare returned. From his wife's pallor, -from her trembling, he understood how much he had been loved during -his absence. He was very kind to her, very gallant, very tender. He -embraced her and kissed her many times, effusively, and told her that -she was far lovelier than the ladies of France and Switzerland. He -was in the best of good humours; and she, laughing with tears in her -eyes, and holding his hand as she stood beside him, realised anew how -single and absolute was her love for him. - -Two or three times Cesare asked, "And Laura?" - -"She's very well. She'll be coming soon." - -"You haven't found her a husband?" - -"She doesn't want one." - -"That's what all girls say." - -"Laura is obstinate. She really doesn't want one. People even think -she would like to become a nun." - -"Nonsense." - -"The strange thing is that once when I asked her if it was true, she -answered no." - -"She's an odd girl," said Cesare, a little pensively. - -"I don't understand her." - -"Ah, for that matter, you understand very little in general," said -her husband, caressing her hair to temper his impertinence. - -"Oh, you're right; very little," she answered, with a happy smile. -"I'm an imbecile." - -But Laura did not come, though she had been called. Anna sent her -maid. "She would come at once; she was dressing," was the reply. They -waited for her a few minutes longer; and when she appeared in the -doorway, dazzling in white, with her golden hair in a rich coil on -the top of her head, Anna cried, "Laura, Cesare has come." - -Cesare rose and advanced to meet his sister-in-law. She gave him her -hand, and he kissed it. But he saw that she was offering her face; -then he embraced her, kissing her cheek, which was like the petal of -a camellia. This was all over in an instant, but it seemed a long -instant to Anna; and she had an instinctive feeling of repulsion -when Laura, blushing a little, came up and kissed her. It was an -instinctive caress on the part of Laura, and an instinctive movement -of repulsion on that of Anna. Not that she had the faintest evil -thought or suspicion; it was a vague distress, a subtle pain, nothing -else. - -From that day life in the quiet Villa Caterina became sensibly -gayer; there were visits and receptions, dances, and yachting -parties. It was an extremely lively season at Sorrento. There were -a good many foreigners in the town; amongst them two or three wild -American girls, who swam, rowed, played croquet and lawn-tennis, -were very charming, and had handsome dowries. It became the fashion -for the men to make love to these young persons, a thing that was -sufficiently unusual in a society where flirtation with unmarried -women is supposed to be forbidden. Cesare told Anna that it was a -propitious moment for launching Laura; she too had a handsome dowry, -and was very lovely, though she lacked perhaps the vivacity of the -wild Americans; and with the energy of a youth, he took his wife and -sister everywhere. - -Luigi Caracciolo continued to make his court to Anna. With delicate -cynicism, Cesare, on his return, had inquired whether Luigi had -faithfully discharged his duty as her cavalier, but Anna had turned -such talk aside, for it hurt her. Laura, however, declared that Luigi -had accomplished miracles of devotion, and shown himself a model of -constancy. - -"And the lady, what of her?" asked Cesare, pulling his handsome black -moustaches. - -"Heartless," Laura answered, smiling at Anna, for whom this joking -was a martyrdom. - -"Noble but heartless lady!" repeated Cesare. - -"Would you have wished me to be otherwise?" demanded Anna, quickly, -looking into her husband's eyes. - -"No; I should not have wished it," was his prompt rejoinder. - -In spite of this downright pronouncement, in which her husband, for -all his cynicism, asserted his invincible right to her fidelity--in -spite of the fact that Cesare appeared to watch the comings and -goings of Caracciolo--he openly jested with his wife's follower about -his courtship. - -"Well, how is it getting on, Luigi?" he asked one day. - -"Badly, Cesare. It couldn't be worse," responded Luigi, with a -melancholy accent that was only half a feint. - -"And yet I left the field free to you." - -"Yes; you are as generous as the emperors your namesakes; but when -you have captured a province you know how to keep it, whether you are -far or near." - -"Men of my age always do, Luigi." - -"Ah, you have a different tradition." - -"What tradition?" - -"You don't love." - -"What! Do you mean to say that you young fellows love?" asked Cesare, -lifting his eyebrows. - -"Sometimes, you know, we commit that folly." - -"It's a mistaken method--a grave blunder. I hope that you've not -fallen into it." - -"I don't know," said Luigi, looking mysterious. "Besides, your -question strikes me as prompted by jealousy. I'll say no more. It -might end in bloodshed." - -"I don't think so," laughed Cesare. - -"But you'll drive me to despair, Dias. Don't you see that your -confidence tortures me. For heaven's sake, do me the favour of being -jealous." - -"Anything to oblige you, my dear fellow, except that. I've never been -jealous of a woman in my life." - -"And why not?" - -"Because----. One day or another I'll tell you." And putting his -arm through Luigi's he led him into the drawing-room of the Hotel -Vittoria. - -Such talks were frequent between them; on Cesare's side calm and -ironical, on Luigi's sometimes a little bitter. On their family -outings, Cesare always gave his arm to Laura, for he held it -ridiculous for a husband to pair off with his wife; and Caracciolo -would devote himself to Anna. Cesare would make him a sign of -intelligence, laughing at his assiduity. - -"Rigidly obeying orders, eh?" asked the sarcastic husband. - -"Anyhow, it's she who's given me my orders," answered the other, -sadly. - -"But really, Anna, you're putting to death the handsomest lad in -Christendom!" exclaimed Cesare. - -"The world is the richer for those who die of love," she returned. - -"Sentimental aphorism," said Cesare, with a cutting ironical smile. - -And he went away to dance with Laura. Between Anna and Luigi there -was a long silence. It was impossible for her to listen to these -pleasantries without suffering. The idea that her husband could speak -thus lightly of another man's love for her, the idea that he could -treat as a worldly frivolity the daily siege that Caracciolo was -laying to her heart, martyrised her. She was nothing to him, since -he could allow another man to court her. He never showed a sign of -jealousy, and jealousy pleases women even when they know it is not -sincere. She was angry with Cesare as much as with Luigi. - -"You jest too much about your feelings for any woman to take them -seriously," she said to the latter, one evening, when they were -listening to a concert of mandolines and guitars. - -"You're right," he answered, turning pale. "But once when I never -jested, I had equally bad luck. You refused to marry me." - -He spoke sadly. That she had refused to marry him still further -embittered for him her present indifference. How could a woman have -refused a rich and handsome youth, for a man who had passed forty, -and was effete in mind and body? How had Cesare Dias so completely -taken possession of this woman's heart? The passion of Anna for -Cesare, and that of Caracciolo for Anna, were much talked of in -Sorrento society, and the general opinion was that Dias must be a -tremendous wizard, that he possessed to a supreme degree the art -of attracting men and winning women, and that everybody was right -to love and worship him. As for Caracciolo, his was the story of a -failure. - -Caracciolo himself, moved by I know not what instinct of loyalty, -of vanity, or of subtle calculation, accepted and even exaggerated -his role of an unsuccessful lover. Wherever he went, at the theatre, -at parties, he showed plainly that he was waiting for Anna, and -was nervous and restless until she came. His face changed when -she entered, bowed to him, gave him her hand; and when she left -he followed immediately. Perhaps he was glad that all this should -be noticed. He knew he could never move her by appearing cold and -sceptical; that was Cesare's pose, and in it Luigi could not hope to -rival him. Perhaps her sympathies would be stirred if she saw him -ardent and sorrowful. - -In the autumn he perceived that Anna was troubled by some new -grief. Her joy at the return of Cesare had given place to a strange -agitation. She was pale and silent, with dark circles under her eyes. -And he realised that whatever faint liking she had had for himself -had been blotted out by a sorrow whose causes were unknown to him. - -One day he said to her, "Something is troubling you?" - -"Yes," she answered frankly. - -"Will you tell me what it is?" - -"No; I don't wish to," she said, with the same frankness. - -"Am I unworthy of your confidence?" - -"I can't tell it to you, I can't. It's too horrible," she murmured, -with so heart-broken an inflection that he was silent, fearing lest -others should witness her emotion. - -He returned to the subject later on, but without result. Anna -appeared horror-struck by her own thoughts and feelings. Luigi had -numberless suspicions. Had Anna secretly come to love him? Or, had -she fallen in love with some one else, some one unknown to him? But -he soon saw that neither of these suppositions were tenable. He saw -that she had not for a moment ceased to love Cesare Dias, and that -her grief, whatever it was, sprang as usual from her love for him. - -For the first week after his return her husband had been kind and -tender to her; then, little by little, he had resumed his old -indifference. He constantly neglected her. He went out perpetually -with Laura, on the pretext that she was too old now to be accompanied -only by her governess, and that it was his duty to find a husband for -her. Sometimes Anna went with them, to enjoy her husband's presence. - -Often he and Laura would joke together about this question of her -marriage. - -"How many suitors have you?" asked Cesare, laughing. - -"Four who have declared themselves; three or four others who are a -little uncertain." - -Anna felt herself excluded from their intimacy, and sought in vain to -enter it. It made her exceedingly unhappy. - -She was jealous of her sister, and she hated herself for her jealousy. - -"I am vile and perfidious since I suspect others of vileness and -perfidy," she told herself to. - -Was it possible that Cesare could be guilty of such a dreadful sin, -that he could be making love to Laura? - -"What's the matter with you? What are you thinking about?" he asked -his wife. - -"Nothing, nothing." - -"What's the matter?" he insisted. - -"Don't ask me, don't ask me," she exclaimed, putting her hand over -his mouth. - -But one evening, when they were alone, and he again questioned her, -she answered, "It's because I love you so, Cesare, I love you so." - -"I know it," he said, with a light smile. "But it isn't only that, -dear Anna." - -And he playfully ruffled up her black hair. - -"You're right. It isn't only that. I'm jealous of you, Cesare." - -"And of what woman?" he asked, suddenly becoming cold and imperious. - -"Of all women. If you so much as touch a woman's hand, I am in -despair." - -"Of women in general?" - -"Of women in general." - -"Of no one in particular?" - -She hesitated for a moment. "Of no one in particular." - -"It's fancy, superstition," he said, pulling his moustache. - -"It's love, love," she cried. "Ah, if you should love another, I -would kill myself." - -"I don't think you'll die a violent death," said he, laughing. - -"Remember--darling--I would kill myself." - -"You'll live to be eighty, and die in your bed," he said, still -laughing. - -For a few days she was reassured. But on the first occasion, when her -husband and Laura again went out together, her jealousy returned, and -she suffered atrociously. Her conduct became odd and extravagant. -Sometimes she treated Laura with the greatest kindness; sometimes -she was rude to her, and would leave her brusquely, to go and shut -herself up in her own room. - -Laura asked no questions. - -"When are we going to leave Sorrento?" Anna asked. But her husband -did not answer, appearing to wish to prolong their sojourn there. - -"Let us go away, I beg you, Cesare." - -"So soon? Naples is empty at this season. There's nothing to do -there. We'd have the air of provincials." - -"That doesn't matter. Let us go away, Cesare." - -"You are bored, here in the loveliest spot in the world?" - -"Sorrento is lovely, but I want to go away." - -"As you wish," he said, suddenly consenting. "Give orders to the -servants to make ready." - -And, to avenge himself, he neglected her utterly during the last two -or three days, going off constantly with Laura. - -On the eve of their departure Luigi Caracciolo called, to make his -adieux. He found Anna alone. - -"Good evening, Signora Dias," he said, and the commonplace words had -an inflection of melancholy. - -"Good evening. You've not gone to the farewell dance at the Vittoria?" - -"I have no farewells to give except to you." - -"Farewell, then," she said, seating herself near him. - -"Farewell," he murmured, smiling, and looking into her eyes. "But we -shall meet again within a fortnight." - -"I don't know whether I shall be receiving so soon. I don't know -whether I shall receive at all." - -"You're going to shut your doors to me?" he asked, turning pale. - -"Not to you only, to everybody. I'm not made for society. I'm out of -place in it, out of tune with it. Solitude suits me better." - -"You will die of loneliness. Seeing a few devoted friends will do you -good." - -"My troubles are too deep." - -"Don't you think you're a little selfish? If you shut your doors, -others will suffer, and you don't care. You are willing to deprive -us of the great pleasure of seeing you. But don't you know that the -pain we give reacts upon ourselves? Don't be selfish." - -"It's true. I'm perhaps selfish. But who of us is perfect? The most -innocent, the purest people in the world, can make others unhappy, -without wishing to." - -He studied her, feeling that he was near to the secret of her sorrow. - -"Sorrento has bored you?" he asked. - -"Not exactly bored me. I have been unhappy here." - -"More unhappy than at Naples?" - -"More than at Naples." - -"And why?" - -"I don't know. I carry my unhappiness with me." - -"Did you imagine that Sorrento would make over the man you love?" - -"I hoped----" - -"Nothing can make that man over. He's not bad perhaps; but he's what -he is." - -"It's true." - -"Why, then, do you seek the impossible?" he went on. - -"And you--aren't you seeking the impossible?" she retorted. - -"Yes. But I stop at wishing for it. You see how reasonable I am. You -are sad, very sad, Anna, and not for my sake, for another's; yet I -should be so happy if I could help you or comfort you in any way." - -"Thank you, thank you," she replied, moved. - -"I believe that dark days are waiting for you at Naples. I don't wish -to prophesy evil, Anna, but that is my belief." - -"I'm sure of it," said she, and a sudden desperation showed itself in -her face. - -"Well, will you treat me as a friend, and remember me in your moments -of pain?" - -"Yes, I will remember you." - -"Will you call me to you?" - -"I will call upon you as upon a brother." - -"Listen, Anna. Officially I live with my mother in our old family -palace. But my real home is the Rey Villa in the Chiatamone. I -promise you, Anna, that I am speaking to you now, as I would speak to -my dearest sister. Remember this, that, beginning a fortnight hence, -I will wait there every day till four o'clock in the afternoon, to -hear from you. I shall be quite alone in the house, Anna. You can -come without fear, if you need me. Or you can send for me. My dearest -hope will be in some way to serve you. I will obey you like a slave. -Anna, Anna, when your hour of trouble arrives, remember that I am -waiting for you. When you have need of a friend's help, remember that -I am waiting." - -"But why do you give me your life like this?" - -"Because it is good to give it thus. You, if you loved, would you not -do the same?" - -"I would do the same. I would give my life." - -"You see! But forget that word love; it escaped me involuntarily. -It is not the man who loves you, it is the devoted friend, it is -the brother, whom you are to remember. My every day will be at your -disposal. I swear that no unhallowed thought shall move me." - -"I believe you," she said. - -She gave him her hand. He kissed it. - - - - - IV. - -Anna was as good as her word, and on her return to Naples shut -herself up in solitude and silence, receiving no one, visiting no -one, spending much of her time in her own room, going in the morning -for long walks in the hope of tiring herself out, speaking but -little, and living in a sort of moral somnolence that seemed to dull -her sorrows. Her husband and sister continued to enjoy their liberty, -as they had enjoyed it at Sorrento. She left them to themselves. She -was alternately consumed by suspicions and remorseful for them. In -vain she sought comfort from religion, her piety could not bear the -contact of her earthly passion, and was destroyed by it. She had gone -to her confessor, meaning to tell him everything, but when she found -herself kneeling before the iron grating, her courage failed her; she -dared not accuse her husband and her sister to a stranger. So she -spoke confusedly and vaguely, and the good priest could give her only -vague consolation. - -She abandoned herself to a complete moral prostration. She passed -long hours motionless in her easy-chair, or on her bed, in a sort of -stupor and often was absent from table, on one pretext or another. - -"The Signora came home an hour ago, and is lying down," said Cesare's -man-servant. - -"Very good. Don't disturb her," returned his master, with an air of -relief. - -"The Signora has a headache, and will not come to luncheon," said -Anna's maid to Laura. - -"Very good. Stay within call, if she should wish for anything," -responded Laura, serene and imperturbable. - -And Cesare and Laura merrily pursued their intimacy, never bestowing -a thought upon her whom they thereby wounded in every fibre of her -body, and in the essence of her soul. The anguish of jealousy is -like the anguish of death, and Anna suffered it to the ultimate -pang, at the same time despising herself for it, telling herself -that she was the most unjust of women. Her sister was purity itself; -her husband was incapable of evil; they were superior beings, worthy -of adoration; and she was daily thinking of them as criminals, and -covering them with mire. Often and often, in the rare moments when -her husband treated her affectionately, she longed to open her heart -and tell him everything. But his manner intimidated her, and she -dared not. She wondered whether she might not be mad, and whether her -jealousy was not the figment of an infirm mind. She had hoped to find -peace in flying from Sorrento; now her hope was undeceived; and Anna -understood that her pain came from within, not from without. To see -her sister and her husband together, seated side by side, walking -arm in arm, pressing each other's hands, looking and smiling at each -other, was more than she could bear; she fled their presence; she -left the house for long wanderings in the streets, or shut herself -up in her own room, knowing but too well that they would not notice -her absence. Indeed, it would be like a burden taken from their -shoulders, for she was a burden to them, with her pallor and her -speechlessness. - -"They are gay, and I bore them," she told herself. - -On several occasions, Cesare twitted her on the subject of her -continual melancholy, demanding its cause; but Anna, smarting under -his sarcasms, could not answer him. One day, in great irritation, -he declared that she had no right to go about posing as a victim, -for she wasn't a victim, and her sentimental vapourings bored him -immensely. - -"Ah, I bore you; I bore you," cried Anna, shaking with suppressed -sobs. - -"Yes, unspeakably. And I hope that some day or another you'll stop -boring me, do you hear?" - -"I had better die. That would be best," she sighed. - -"But can't you live and be less tiresome? Is it a task, a mission, -that you have undertaken, to bore people?" - -"I had better die, better die," she sobbed. - -He went off abruptly, cursing his lot, cursing above all the -monstrous error he had made in marrying this foolish creature. And -she, who had wished to ask his pardon, found herself alone. Later -in the same day she noticed that Laura treated her with a certain -contempt, shrugging her shoulders at the sight of her eyes red from -weeping. - -Anna determined that she would try to take on at least the external -appearances of contentment. The beautiful Neapolitan winter was -beginning. She had eight or ten new frocks made, and resolved to -become frivolous and vain. Whenever she went out she invariably -met Luigi Caracciolo; it was as if she had forewarned him of her -itinerary. He had divined it, with that fine intuition which lovers -have. They never stopped to speak, however; they simply bowed and -passed on. But in his way of looking at her she could read the words -of their understanding--"Remember, every day, till four o'clock." - -She threw herself into the excitements of society, going much to the -theatre and paying many calls. Cesare encouraged this new departure. - -The people amongst whom she moved agreed that she was very -attractive, but whispered that one day or another she would do -something wild. - -"What?" - -"Oh, something altogether extravagant." - -One evening towards the end of January Anna was going to the San -Carlo; it was a first night. At dinner she asked Laura if she would -care to accompany her. - -"No," answered Laura, absently. - -"Why not?" - -"I've got to get up early to-morrow morning, to go to Confession." - -"Ah, very well. And you--will you come, Cesare?" - -"Yes," he said, hesitating a little. - -"Cousin Scibilia is coming too," Anna added. - -"Then, if you will permit me, I'll not come till the second act." And -he smiled amiably. - -"Have you something to do?" - -"Yes; but we'll come home together." - -Anna turned red and white. There was something half apologetic in her -husband's tone, as if he had a guilty conscience in regard to her. -But what did that matter? The prospect of coming home together, alone -in a closed carriage, delighted her. - -She went to dress for the theatre. She put on for the first time -a gown of blue brocade, with a long train, bold in colour, but -admirably setting off the rich ivory of Anna's complexion. In her -black hair she fixed three diamond stars. She wore no bracelets, but -round her throat a single string of pearls. When she was dressed, she -sent for her husband. - -"You're looking most beautiful," he said. - -He took her hands and kissed them; then he kissed her fair round -arms; and then he kissed her lips. She thrilled with joy and bowed -her head. - -"We'll meet at the theatre," he said, "and come home together." - -She called for the Marchesa Scibilia, who now lived in the girls' -old house in the Via Gerolomini. And they drove on towards the -theatre. But when they reached the Toledo they were met by a number -of carriages returning. The explanation of this the two ladies -learned under the portico of the San Carlo. Over the white play-bill -a notice was posted announcing the sudden indisposition of the -prima-donna, and informing the public that there would accordingly -be no performance that evening. Anna had a lively movement of -disappointment, jumping out of her _coupé_ to read the notice for -herself. - -Luigi Caracciolo was waiting in the shadow of a pillar, sure that she -would come. - -"Marchesa, you have a very ferocious cousin," he said, stepping -forward to kiss the old lady's hand, and laughing at Anna's manifest -anger. Then he bowed to her, and in his eyes there was the eternal -message, "Remember, I wait for you every day." - -She shook her head in the darkness. She was bitterly disappointed. -Her evening was lost--the evening during which she had counted upon -being alone with Cesare in their box, alone with him in the carriage, -alone with him at home. And her beautiful blue gown; she had put it -on to no purpose. - -"What shall we do?" she asked her cousin. - -"I'm going home. I don't care to go anywhere else. And you?" - -"I'm going home, too." - -She half hoped that she might still find Cesare at the house, and so -have at least a half hour with him before he went out. He was very -slow about dressing; he never hurried, even when he had an urgent -appointment. Perhaps she would find him in his room, tying his white -tie, putting a flower in his button-hole. She deposited the Marchesa -Scibilia at the palace in the Via Gerolomini, and bade her coachman -hurry home. - -"Has the Signore gone out?" she asked the porter. - -No, he had not gone out. The porter was about to pull his bell-cord, -to ring for a footman, but Anna instinctively stopped him. She wished -to surprise her husband. She put her finger to her lips, smiling, as -she met one of the maids, and crossed the house noiselessly, arriving -thus at the door of Cesare's room, the door that gave upon the -vestibule, not the one which communicated with the passage between -his room and Anna's. - -The door was not locked. She opened it softly. She would surprise her -husband so merrily. But, having opened the door, she found herself -still in darkness, for Cesare had lowered the two _portières_ of -heavy olive velvet. - -A sudden interior force prevented Anna's lifting the curtains and -showing herself. She remained there behind them, perfectly concealed, -and able to see and hear everything that went on in the room, through -an aperture. - -Cesare was in his dress-suit, with an immaculate white waistcoat, a -watch-chain that went from his waistcoat-pocket to the pocket of his -trousers, with a beautiful white gardenia in his button-hole, his -handsome black moustaches freshly curled, and his whole air one of -profound satisfaction. He was seated in a big leather arm-chair, his -fine head resting on its brown cushions, against which the pallor of -his face stood out charmingly. - -He was not alone. - -Laura, dressed in that soft white wool which seemed especially -woven for her supple and flowing figure, with a bouquet of white -roses in the cincture that passed twice loosely round her waist, -with her blonde hair artistically held in place by small combs of -tortoise-shell, and forming a sort of aureole about her brow and -temples, the glory of her womanly beauty--Laura was in Cesare's room. - -She was not seated on one of his olive velvet sofas, nor on one of -his stools of carved wood, nor in one of his leather easy-chairs. She -was seated on the arm of the chair in which he himself reclined; she -was seated side wise, swinging one of her little feet, in a black -slipper richly embroidered with pearls, and an open-work black silk -stocking. - -One of her arms was extended across the cushion above Cesare's head; -and, being higher up than he, she had to bend down, to speak into his -face. She was smiling, a strange, deep smile, such as had never been -seen before upon the pure red curve of her lips. - -Cesare, with his face turned up, was looking at her; and every -now and then he took her hand and kissed it, a kiss that lingered, -lingered while she changed colour. - -He kissed her hand, and she was silent, and he was silent; but it -was not a sad silence, not a thoughtful silence. It was a silence -in which they seemed to find an unutterable pleasure. They found an -unutterable pleasure in their silence, their solitude, their freedom, -their intimate companionship, in the kiss he had just given her, and -which was the forerunner of many others. - -Anna had arrived behind the curtain at the very moment when Cesare -was kissing Laura's hand. She saw them gazing into each other's -eyes, speechless with their emotion. Anna could hear nothing but the -tumultuous beating of her own heart, a beating that leapt up to her -throat, making it too throb tumultuously. - -The fine white hand of Laura remained in Cesare's, softly surrendered -to him; then, as if the mere contact were not enough, his and her -fingers closely interlaced themselves. The girl, who had not removed -her eyes from his, smiled languorously, as if all her soul were in -her hand, joined now for ever to the hand of Cesare; a smile that -confessed herself conquered, yet proclaimed herself triumphant. - -They did not speak. But their story spoke for itself. - -Anna saw how close they were to each other, saw how their hands -were joined, saw the glances of passionate tenderness that they -exchanged. Clearly, in every detail, she witnessed this silent scene -of love. Her heart, her temples, her pulses, pounded frightfully; her -nerves palpitated; and she said to herself: - -"Oh, I am dreaming, I am dreaming." - -Like one dreaming, indeed, she was unable to move, unable to cry out; -her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth; she could not lift the -curtains; she could not advance, she could not tear herself away. -She could only stand there rigid as stone, and behold the dreadful -vision. Every line of it, every passing expression on Cesare's or -Laura's face, burned itself into her brain with fierce and terrible -precision. And in her tortured heart she was conscious of but one -mute, continuous, childlike prayer--not to see any longer that which -she saw--to be freed from her nightmare, waked from her dream. And -all her inner forces were bent upon the effort to close her eyes, to -lower her eyelids, and put a veil between her and that sight. Her -prayer was not answered; she could not close her eyes. - -Laura took her bouquet of white roses from her belt, and playfully -struck Cesare's shoulder with them. Then she raised them to her face, -breathing in their perfume, and kissing them. Smiling, she offered -Cesare the roses that she had kissed, and he with his lips drank her -kisses from them. After that, she kissed them again, convulsively, -turning away her head. Their eyes burned, his and hers. Again he -sought her kisses amongst the roses; and she put down her face to -kiss them anew, at the same time with him. And slowly, from the -cold, fragrant roses, their lips turned, and met in a kiss. Their -hands were joined, their faces were near together, their lips met in -a kiss, and their eyes that had burned, softened with fond light. - -"Perhaps I am mad," Anna said to herself, hearing the wild blows of -the blood in her brain. - -And, to make sure, wishing to be convinced that it was all an -hallucination, she prayed that they might speak; perhaps they were -mere phantoms sent to kill her. No sound issued from their lips. - -"Lord, Lord--a word," she prayed in her heart. "A sound--a proof that -they are real, or that they are spectres." - -She heard, indeed, a deep sigh. It came from Laura, after their long -kiss. The girl jumped up, freed her hands from Cesare's, and took two -or three steps into the room. She was nearer to Anna now. Her cheeks -were red, her hair was ruffled; and she, with a vague, unconscious -movement, lifted it up behind her ears. Her lips were parted in a -smile that revealed her dazzling teeth. Her gaze wandered, proud and -sad. - -"Heaven, heaven give her strength to go away. Give her strength, give -me strength," prayed Anna, in her dream, in her madness. - -But Laura had not the strength to go away. She returned to Cesare; -she sat down at his feet, looking up at him, smiling upon him, -holding his hand, adoring him. And Cesare, his eyes filled with -tears, kissed her lips again and again--a torrent of kisses. - -"Cesare cannot weep. They are phantoms. I am mad," said Anna. A -terrible fire leapt from her heart to her brain, making her tremble -as in a fever; and then a sudden cold seemed to freeze her. She had -heard. These phantoms had spoken. They were a man and a woman; they -were her husband, Cesare, and her sister Laura. Laura had drawn away -from Cesare's fury of kisses, and was standing beside him, while he, -still seated, held her two hands. They were smiling upon each other. - -"Do you love me?" he asked. - -"I love you," answered Laura. - -"How much do you love me?" - -"So much! So much!" - -"But how much?" - -"Absolutely." - -"And--how long will you love me, Laura?" - -"Always." - -Now Anna was shivering with cold. She was not mad. She was not -dreaming. Her teeth chattered. It seemed as if she had been standing -there for a century. She dreaded being discovered, as if she were -guilty of a crime. But she could not move, she could not go away. -It was too much, too much; she could not endure it! She covered her -mouth with her fan, to suffocate her voice, to keep from crying out, -and cursing God and love. Laura began to speak. - -"Do you love me?" she asked. - -"Yes, I love you." - -"How much do you love me?" - -"With all my heart, Laura." - -"How long have you loved me?" - -"Always." - -"How long will you love me?" - -"Always." - -Unendurable, unendurable! A wild anger tempted Anna to enter the -room, to tear down the curtains, to scream. It was unendurable. - -Cesare said to Laura, very softly, "Go away now." - -"Why, love?" - -"Go away. It is late. You must go." - -"Ah, you're a bad love--bad!" - -"Don't say that. Don't look like that. Go away, Laura." - -And fondly, he put his arm round her waist and led her to the door. - -She moved reluctantly, leaning her head upon his shoulder, looking up -at him tenderly. - -At the door they kissed again. - -"Good-bye, love," said Laura. - -"Good-bye, love," said Cesare. - -The girl went away. - -Cesare came back, looking exhausted, deathlike. He lit a cigarette. - -Anna, holding her breath, crossed the vestibule, the smoking-room, -the drawing-room, and at last reached her own room, and shut her door -behind her. She had run swiftly, instinctively, with the instinct -that guides a wounded animal. Her maid came and knocked. She called -to her that she did not need her. Then some one else knocked. - -"Anna, Anna," said the calm voice of her husband. - -"What do you want?" She had to lean on a chair, to keep from falling; -her voice was dull. - -"Was there no performance? Or were you ill?" - -"There was no performance." - -"Have you just returned?" - -"Yes, just returned." But the lie made her blush. - -"And your Highness is invisible? I should like to pay your Highness -my respects." - -"No," she answered, with a choking voice. - -"Good-bye, love," he called. - -"Oh, infamous, infamous!" she cried. - -But he had already moved away, and did not hear. - - * * * * * - -For a long while she lay on her bed, burying her face in her pillow, -biting it, to keep down her sobs. She was shivering with cold, in -spite of the feather coverlet she had drawn over her. All her flesh -and spirit were in furious revolt against the thing that she had seen -and heard. - -She rose, and looked round her room. It was in disorder--the dress -she had worn, her fan, her jewels tossed pell-mell hither and -thither. Slowly, with minute care, she gathered these objects up, and -put them in their places. - -Then she rang the bell. - -Her maid came, half asleep. - -"What time is it?" asked Anna, forgetting that on the table beside -her stood the clock that Cesare had given her. - -"It's one," responded the maid. - -"So late?" inquired her mistress. "You may go to bed." - -"And your Excellency?" - -"You can do nothing for me." - -But the maid began to smooth down the bed. Feeling the pillow wet -with tears, she said, with the affectionate familiarity of Neapolitan -servants, "Whoever is good suffers." - -The words went through her heart like a knife. Perhaps the servant -knew. Perhaps she, Anna, had been the only blind member of the -household. The whole miserable story of her desertion and betrayal -was known and commented upon by her servants; and she was an object -of their pity! Whoever is good suffers! - -"Good night, your Excellency, and may you sleep well," said the maid. - -"Thank you. Good-night." - -She was alone again. She had not had the courage to ask whether her -husband had come home; he was most probably out, amusing himself in -society. - -For a half hour she lay on her sofa; then she got up. A big lamp -burned on her table, but before going away her maid had lighted -another lamp, a little ancient Pompeian lamp of bronze that in old -times had doubtless lighted Pompeian ladies to their trysts. - -Anna took this lamp and left her room. The house was dark and silent. -She moved towards Laura's room; and suddenly she remembered another -night, like this, when she had stolen through a dark sleeping house -to join Giustino Morelli on the terrace, and offer to fly with him. -Giustino Morelli, who was he? what was he? A shadow, a dream. A thing -that had passed utterly from her life. - -At her sister's door she paused for a moment, then she opened it -noiselessly, and guided by the light of her lamp, approached her -sister's bed. Laura was sleeping peacefully; Anna held up her lamp -and looked at her. - -She smiled in her sleep. - -"Laura!" Anna called, so close to her that her breath fell on her -cheek. "Laura!" - -Her sister moved slightly, but did not wake. - -"Laura! Laura!" - -Her sister sat up. She appeared frightened for a moment, but then she -composed herself with an effort. - -"It is I, Laura," said Anna, putting her lamp on a table. - -"I see you," returned Laura. - -"Get up and come with me." - -"What for?" - -"Get up and come, Laura." - -"Where, Anna?" - -"Get up and come," said Anna, implacably. - -"I won't obey you." - -"Oh, you'll come," cried Anna, with an imperious smile. - -"You're mistaken. I'll not come." - -"You'll come, Laura." - -"No, Anna." - -"You're very much afraid of me then?" - -"Here I am. I'll go where you like," Laura said, proudly, resenting -the imputation of fear. And she began to dress. - -Anna waited for her, standing up. Laura proceeded calmly with her -toilet. But when she came to put on her frock of white wool, Anna -had a mad access of rage, and covered her face with her hands, to -shut out the sight. Four hours ago, only four hours ago, in that same -frock, Laura had been kissed by Cesare. Her sister seemed to her the -living image of treachery. - -Laura moved about the room as if she was hunting for something. - -"What are you doing?" asked Anna. - -"I am looking for something." - -And she drew from under a pocket-handkerchief her bunch of white -roses. - -"Throw those flowers away," cried Anna. - -"And why?" - -"Throw those flowers away, Laura, Laura." - -"No." - -"By our Lady of Sorrows, I beseech you, throw them away." - -"You have threatened me. You have no further right to beseech me," -said Laura quietly, putting the flowers in her belt. - -"Oh God!" cried Anna, pressing her hands to her temples. - -"Let us go," she said at last. - -Laura followed her across the silent house to her room. - -"Sit down," said Anna. - -"I am waiting," said Laura. - -"Then you don't understand?" asked Anna, smiling. - -"No--I understand nothing." - -"Can't you imagine?" - -"I have no imagination." - -"And your heart--does your heart tell you nothing, Laura? Laura, -Laura, does your conscience tell you nothing?" - -"Nothing," said the other quietly, lifting up the rich blonde hair -behind her ears. The same gesture that Anna had seen her make in -Cesare's room. - -"Laura, you are my husband's mistress," Anna said, raising her arms -towards heaven. - -"You're mad, Anna." - -"My husband's mistress, Laura." - -"You're mad." - -"Oh, liar, liar! Disloyal and vile woman, who has not even the -courage of her love!" cried Anna, starting up, with flaming eyes. - -"Beware, Anna, beware. Strong language at a moment like this is -dangerous. Say what you've got to say clearly; but don't insult me. -Don't insult me, because your diseased imagination happens to be -excited. Do you understand?" - -"Oh, heavens, heavens!" exclaimed Anna. - -"But you can see for yourself, you're mad. You see, you have nothing -to say to justify your insults." - -"Oh, Madonna, Madonna, give me strength," prayed Anna, wringing her -hands. - -"Do you see?" asked Laura. "You've called me here to vilify my -innocence." - -"Laura," said poor Anna, trembling, "Laura, it's no guess of mine, no -inference, that you are my husband's mistress. I have not read it in -any anonymous letter. No servant has told me it. In such a case as -this no one has a right to believe an anonymous letter or a servant's -denunciation. One cannot on such grounds withdraw one's respect from -a person whom one loves." - -"Well, Anna." - -"But I have seen, I have seen," she cried, prey to so violent an -emotion that it seemed to her as if the thing she had seen was -visible before her again. - -"What have you seen?" asked Laura, suddenly. - -"Oh, horrible, horrible," cried Anna, remembering her vision. - -"What have you seen?" repeated Laura, seizing Anna's arm. - -"Oh, what a dreadful thing, what a dreadful thing," she sobbed, -covering her face with her hands. - -But Laura was herself consumed with anger and pain; and she -drew Anna's hands from her face, and insisted, "Now--at this -very moment--you have got to tell me what you have seen. Do you -understand?" - -And the other, turning pale at her threatening tone, replied: "You -wish to know what I have seen, Laura? And you ask me in a rage -of offended innocence, of wounded virtue? You are angry, Laura? -Angry--you? What right have you to be angry, or to speak to me as -you have done? Aren't you afraid? Have you no fear, no suspicions, -nothing? You threaten me; you tell me I am mad. You want to know what -I have seen; and you are haughty because you deem yourself secure, -and me a madwoman. But, to be secure, you should close the doors -behind you when you go to an assignation. When you are speaking of -love, and kissing, to be secure you should close the doors, Laura, -close the doors." - -"I don't understand you," murmured Laura, very pale. - -"This evening, at nine o'clock, when you were in Cesare's room--I -came home suddenly--you weren't expecting me--you were alone, -secure--and I saw through the door----" - -"What?" demanded the other, with bowed head. - -"As much as can be seen and heard. Remember." - -Laura fell into a chair. - -"Why have you done this? Why? Why?" asked Anna. - -Laura did not answer. - -"Don't you dare to answer? Oh, see how base you are! See how -perfidious you are. What manner of woman are you? Why did you do it?" - -"Because I love Cesare." - -"O Lord, Lord!" cried Anna, breaking into desperate sobs. - -"Don't you know it? Haven't your eyes seen it? haven't your ears -heard it? Do you imagine that a woman such as I am goes into a man's -room if she doesn't love him! That she lets him kiss her, that she -kisses him, unless she loves him! What more have you to ask! I love -Cesare." - -"Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet," said Anna. - -"And Cesare loves me," Laura went on. - -"Be quiet. You are my sister. You are a young girl. Don't speak such -an infamy. Be quiet. Don't say that you and Cesare are two monsters." - -"You have seen us together. I love Cesare, and he loves me." - -"Monstrous, infamous!" - -"It may be infamous, but it is so." - -"But don't you realise what you are doing! Don't you feel that it is -infamous; Don't you understand how dreadful your offence is! Am I not -your sister--I whom you are betraying!" - -"I loved Cesare from the beginning. You betrayed me." - -"The excuse of guilt! I loved him, I love him. You are betraying me." - -"You love him stupidly, and bore him; I love him well." - -"He's a married man." - -"He was married by force, Anna." - -"He is my husband." - -"Oh, very slightly!" - -"Laura!" exclaimed Anna, wounded to the quick, she who was all wounds. - -"I'm not blind," said Laura, tranquilly. "I can take in the -situation." - -"But your conscience! But your religion! But your modesty, which is -soiled by such an atrocious sin!" - -"I'm not your husband's mistress, you know that yourself." - -"But you love him. You thrill at the touch of his hand. You kiss him. -You tell him you love him." - -"Well, all that doesn't signify that I'm his mistress." - -"The sin is as great." - -"No, it's not as great, Anna." - -"It's a deadly sin merely to love another woman's husband." - -"But I'm not his mistress. Be exact." - -"A change of words; the sin is the same." - -"Words have their importance; they are the symbols of facts." - -"It's an infamy," said Anna. - -"Anna, don't insult me." - -"Insult you! Do you pretend that that pretty pure face of yours is -capable of blushing under an insult? Can your chaste brow be troubled -by an insult? You have trampled all innocence and all modesty under -foot--you, the daughter of my mother! You have broken your sister's -heart--you, the daughter of the same mother! And now you say that I -insult you. Good!" - -"You have no right to insult me." - -"I haven't the right? Before such treachery? I haven't the right? -Before such dishonour?" - -"If you will call upon your memory, you will see that you haven't the -right." - -"What do you wish me to remember?" - -"A single circumstance. Once upon a time, you, a girl like me, -abandoned your home, and eloped with a man you loved, a nobody, a -poor obscure nobody. Then you deceived me, Cesare, and everybody -else. By that elopement you dishonoured the graves of your father and -mother, and you dishonoured your name which is also mine." - -"Oh, heavens, heavens, heavens!" cried Anna. - -"You passed a whole day out of Naples, in an inn at Pompeii, alone -the whole day with a man you loved, in a private room." - -"I wasn't Giustino Morelli's mistress." - -"Exactly. Nor am I Cesare Dias'." - -"I wasn't Giustino Morelli's mistress," repeated Anna. - -"I wasn't behind the door, as you were, to see the truth." - -"Oh, cruel, wicked sister--cruel and wicked!" - -"And please to have the fairness to remember that on that day Cesare -Dias rushed to your rescue. In charity, without saying a word to -reproach you, he brought you back to the home you had deserted. In -charity, without insulting you, I opened my arms to welcome you. In -charity we nursed you through your long illness, and never once did -we reproach you. You see, you see, you're unjust and ungrateful." - -"But you have wounded me in my love, Laura. But I adore Cesare, and I -am horribly jealous of him. I can't banish the thought of your love -for him; I can remember nothing but your kisses. I feel as if I were -going mad. Oh, Laura, Laura, you who were so pure and beautiful, you -who are worthy of a young man's love, why do you throw away your life -and your honour for Cesare?" - -"But you? Don't you also love him? You too are young. Yet didn't you -love him so desperately that you would gladly have died, if he hadn't -married you? I have followed your example, that is all. As you love -him, I love him, Anna. We are sisters, and the same passion burns in -our veins." - -"Don't say that, don't say it. My love will last as long as my life, -Laura." - -"And so will mine." - -"Don't say it, don't say it." - -"Until I die, Anna." - -"Don't say it." - -"My blood is like yours; my nerves are like yours; my heart is as -ardent as yours. My soul is consumed with love, as yours is. We are -the daughters of the same parents. Cesare has fascinated you, Cesare -has fascinated me." - -"Oh, heavens, heavens! I must kill myself then. I must die!" - -"Bah!" said Laura, with a movement of disdain. - -"I will kill myself, Laura." - -"Those who say it don't do it." - -"You are deceiving yourself, wicked, scornful creature." - -"Those who say it don't do it," repeated Laura, laughing bitterly. - -"But understand me! I can't endure this betrayal. Understand! I--I -alone have the right to love Cesare. He is mine. I won't give him up -to anybody. My only refuge, my only comfort, my only consolation is -in my love. Don't you see that I have nothing else?" - -"Luigi Caracciolo loves you, though," said Laura, smiling. - -"What are you saying to me?" - -"You might fall in love with him." - -"You propose an infamy to me." - -"But consider. I love Cesare; Cesare loves me and not you. But -Caracciolo loves you. Well, why not fall in love with him?" - -"Because it would be infamous." - -"You are beginning to insult me again, Anna. It is late. I am going -away." - -"No, don't go yet, Laura. Think how terrible this thing is for me. -Listen to me, Laura, and call to aid all your kindness. I have -insulted you, it is true; but you can't know what jealousy is like, -you can't imagine the unendurable torture of it. Call to aid your -goodness, Laura. Think--we were nourished at the same breast, the -same mother's hands caressed us. Think--we have made our journey in -life together. Laura, Laura, my sister! You have betrayed me; you -have outraged me; in the past seven hours I have suffered all that it -is humanly possible to suffer; you can't know what jealousy is like. -Don't be impatient. Listen to me. It is a terrible moment. Don't -laugh. I am not exaggerating. Listen to me carefully. Laura, all that -you have done, I forget it, I forgive it. Do you hear? I forgive you. -I am sure your heart is good. You will understand all the affection -and all the meekness there are in my forgiveness." - -And as if it were she who were the guilty one, she knelt before her -sister, taking her hand, kissing it, bathing it with her tears. -Laura, seeing this woman whom she had so cruelly wronged kneel -before her, closed her eyes, and for a moment was intensely pale. -But her soul was strong; she was able to conquer her emotion. For an -instant she was silent; then, coming to the supreme question of their -existence, she demanded: "And what do you expect in exchange for this -pardon?" She had the air of according a favour. - -"Laura, Laura, you must be good and great, since I have forgiven you." - -"What is your price for this forgiveness?" - -"You must not love Cesare any more. Bravely you must cast that impure -love out of your soul, which it degrades. You must not love him any -more. And then, not only will my pardon be complete and absolute, but -you will find in me the fondest and tenderest of sisters. I will -devote my life to proving to you how much I love you. My sole desire -will be to make you happy; I will be your best and surest friend. But -you must be good and strong, Laura; you must remember that you are my -sister; you must forget Cesare." - -"Anna, I cannot." - -"Listen, listen. Don't answer yet. Don't decide yet. Don't speak the -last word yet, the awful word. Think, Laura, it is your future, it -is your life, that you are staking upon this love: a black future, a -fatal certainty of death, if you persist in it. But, on the contrary, -if you forget it--if a chaste and innocent impulse of affection for -me persuades you to put it from you--what peace, what calm! You will -find another man, a worthier man, a man of your own loftiness of -spirit, who will understand you, who will make you happy, whom you -can love with all your soul, in the consciousness of having done your -duty. You will be a happy wife, your husband will be a happy man, you -will be a mother, you will have children--you will have children, -you! But you must not love Cesare any more." - -"Anna, I can't help it." - -"Laura, don't make your mind up yet. For pity's sake, hear me. We -must find a way out of it, an escape. You will travel, you will make -a journey, a long journey, abroad; that will interest you. I'll -ask Cousin Scibilia to go with you. She has nothing to detain her; -she's a widow; she will go. You will travel. You can't think how -travelling relieves one's sufferings. You will see new countries, -beautiful countries, where your mind will rise high above the petty, -every-day miseries of life. Laura, Laura, see how I pray you, see how -I implore you. We have the same blood in our veins. We are children -of the same mother. You must not love Cesare any more." - -"Anna, I can't help it." - -Anna moved towards her sister; but when she found herself face to -face with her, an impulse of horror repelled her. She went to the -window and stood there, gazing out into the street, into the great -shadow of the night. When she came back, her face was cold, austere, -self-contained. Her sister felt that she could read a menace in it. - -"Is that your last word?" asked Anna. - -"My last word." - -"You don't think you can change?" - -"I don't think so." - -"You know what you are doing?" - -"Yes, I know." - -"And you face the danger?" - -"Where is the danger?" asked Laura, rising. - -"Don't be afraid, don't be afraid," said Anna, carrying her -pocket-handkerchief to her lips and biting it. "I ask you if it -doesn't strike you as dangerous that two women such as I, Anna Dias, -and you, Laura Acquaviva, should live together in the same house and -love the same man with the same passion?" - -"It is certainly very dangerous," said Laura slowly, standing up, and -looking into her sister's eyes. - -"Leave me my husband, Laura," cried Anna, impetuously. - -"Take him back--if you can. But you can't, you know. You never could." - -"You're a monster. Go away," cried Anna, clenching her teeth, -clenching her fists, driving her nails into her flesh. - -"It's at your bidding that I'm here. I came to show that I wasn't -afraid of you, that's all." - -"Go away, monster, monster, monster!" - -"Kill me, if you like; but don't call me by that name," cried Laura, -at last exasperated. - -"You deserve that I should kill you, it is true. By all the souls -that hear me, by the souls of our dead parents, by the Madonna, who, -with them, is shuddering in heaven at your crime, you deserve that I -should kill you!" - -"But Cesare would weep for me," taunted Laura, again mistress of -herself. - -"It is true," rejoined Anna, icily. "Go away then. Go at once." - -"Good-bye, Anna." - -"Good-bye, Laura." - -Leisurely, collectedly, she turned her back upon her sister, and -moved away, erect and supple in her white frock, with her light -regular footstep. Her hand turned the knob of the door, but on the -threshold she paused, involuntarily, and looked at Anna, who stood in -the middle of the room with her head bowed, her cheeks colourless, -her eyes expressionless, her lips violet and slightly parted, -testifying to her fatigue. Laura's hesitation was but momentary. -Shrugging her shoulders at that spectacle of sorrow, she closed the -door behind her, and went off through the darkness to her own room. - -Anna was alone. And within herself she was offering up thanks to the -Madonna for having that night saved her from a terrible temptation. -For, from the dreadful scene that had just passed, only one thought -remained to her. She had besought her sister not to love Cesare any -more, promising in exchange all the devotion of her soul and body; -and Laura had thrice responded, obstinately, blindly, "I can't help -it." Well, when for the third time she heard those words, a sudden, -immense fury of jealousy had seized her; suddenly a great red cloud -seemed to fall before her eyes, and the redness came from a wound -in her sister's white throat, a wound which she had inflicted; and -the pale girl lay at her feet lifeless, unable for ever to say again -that she loved Cesare and would not cease to love him. Ah, for a -minute, for a minute, murder had breathed in Anna's poor distracted -heart, and she had wished to kill the daughter of her mother! Now, -with spent eyes, feeling herself lost and dying at the bottom of an -abyss, she uttered a deep prayer of thanksgiving to God, for that He -had swept the red cloud away, for that He had allowed her to suffer -without avenging herself. Slowly, slowly she sank upon her knees, -she clasped her hands, she said over all the old simple prayers of -her childhood, the holy prayers of innocence, praying that still, -through all the hopeless misery that awaited her, she might ever be -what she had been to-night, a woman capable of suffering everything, -incapable of revenge. And in this pious longing her soul seemed to be -lifted up, far above all earthly pain. - -All her womanly goodness and weakness were mingled in her -renunciation of revenge. - -The violent energy which she had shown in her talk with Laura had -given place to a mortal lassitude. She remained on her knees, and -continued to murmur the words of her orisons, but now she no longer -understood their meaning. Her head was whirling, as in the beginning -of a swoon. She dragged herself with difficulty to her bed, and threw -herself upon it, inert as a dead body, in utter physical exhaustion. - -Laura had undone her. The whole long scene between them repeated -itself over and over in her mind; again she passed from tears to -anger, from jealousy to pleading affection; again she saw her -sister's pure white face, and the cynical smile that disfigured it, -and its hard incapacity for pity, fear, or contrition. Laura had -overthrown her, conquered her, undone her. Anna had gone to her, -strong in her outraged rights, strong in her offended love, strong -in her knowledge of her sister's treachery; she had expected to see -that proud brow bend before her, red with shame; she had expected -to see those fair hands clasped and trembling, imploring pardon; -she had expected to hear that clear voice utter words of penitence -and promises of atonement. But far from that, far from accepting -the punishment she had earned, the guilty woman had boldly defended -her guilt; she had refused with fierce courage to give way; she -had clung to her infamy, challenging her sister to do her worst. -Anna understood that not one word that she had spoken had made the -least impression upon Laura's heart, had stirred in it the faintest -movement of generosity or affection; she understood that from -beginning to end she had failed and blundered, knowing neither how to -punish nor how to forgive. - -"I did not kill her. She has beaten me!" she thought. - -And yet Anna was in the right; and Laura, by all human and all moral -law, was in the wrong. To love a married man, to love her sister's -husband, almost her own brother! Anna was right before God, before -mankind, before Cesare and Laura themselves. If, when her sister had -refused to surrender her husband to her, she had killed her, no human -being would have blamed her for it. - -"And yet I did not kill her. She has beaten me!" - -She tried to find the cause of her defeat, overwhelmed by the despair -with which good people see wrong and injustice triumph. She sought -for the cause of her defeat, but she could find none, none. She was -right--according to all laws, human and divine, she was in the -right; she alone was right. Oh, her agony was insupportable, more and -more dreadful as she got farther from the fact, and could see it in -its full hideousness, examine and analyse it in its full infamy. - -"Beaten, beaten, beaten! bitterly worsted and overwhelmed!" - -For the third time in her life she had been utterly defeated. She -had not known how to defend herself; she had not known how to assert -her rights, and conquer. On that fatal day at Pompeii, when Giustino -Morelli had abandoned her; on that fatal night at Sorrento, when -Cesare Dias had proposed his mephistophelian bargain to her, whereby -she was to renounce love, dignity, and her every prerogative as a -woman and a wife; at Pompeii and at Sorrento she had been worsted by -those who were in the wrong, by Giustino Morelli who could not love, -by Cesare Dias who would not. - -And now again to-night--to-night, for the third time--betrayed by her -husband and her sister--she had not known how to conquer. At Naples, -as at Pompeii, as at Sorrento, she who was in the right had been -defeated by one who was in the wrong. - -"But why? why?" she asked herself, in despair. - -She did not know. It was contrary to all reason and all justice. She -could only see the fact, clear, cruel, inexorable. - -It was destiny. A secret power fought against her, and baffled -every effort she attempted. It was a fatality which she bore within -herself, a fatality which it was useless to resist. All she could -wish for now was that the last word might be spoken soon. - -"I must seek the last word," she thought. - -She rose from her bed, and looked at the clock. It was four in the -morning. - -She went to her writing-desk, and, leaning her head upon her hand, -tried to think what she had come there to do. Then she took a sheet -of paper, and wrote a few words upon it. But when she read them over, -they displeased her; she tore the paper up, and threw it away. She -wrote and tore up three more notes; at last she was contented with -this one: - -"Cesare, I must say something to you at once. As soon as you read -these words, no matter at what hour of the night or morning, come to -my room.--ANNA." - -She sealed the note in an envelope, and addressed it to her husband. -She left her room, to go to his. The door was locked; she could see -no light, hear no sound within. She slipped the letter through the -crack above the threshold. - -"Cesare shall speak the last word," she thought. - -She returned to her own room, and threw herself upon her bed to watch -and wait for him. - - - - - V. - -Anna got up and opened her window, to let in the sun, but it was a -grey morning, grey in sky and sea. Lead-coloured clouds rested on the -hill of Posillipo; and the wide Neapolitan landscape looked as if it -had been covered with ashes. Few people were in the streets; and the -palm in the middle of the Piazza Vittoria waved its long branches -languidly in the wintry breeze. - -Her eyes were burning and her eyelids were heavy. She went into her -dressing-room and bathed her face in cold water. Then she combed -her hair and fastened it up with a big gold pin. And then she put -on a gown of black wool, richly trimmed with jet, a morning street -costume. Was she going out? She did not know. She dressed herself in -obedience to the necessity which women feel at certain hours of the -day to occupy themselves with their toilets. But when she came to -fasten her brooch, a clover leaf set with black pearls, that Laura -had given her for a wedding-present, she discovered that one of the -pearls was gone. The clover-leaf brings luck, but now this one was -broken, and its power was gone. - -Eleven o'clock struck, and somebody tapped discreetly at the door. -She could not find her voice, to answer. - -The knock was repeated. - -"Come in," she said feebly. - -Cesare entered, calm and composed, carrying his hat and ebony -walking-stick in his hand. - -"Good-morning. Are you going out?" he asked tranquilly. - -"No. I don't know," she answered, with a vague gesture. - -All her nerves were tingling, as she looked at the traitor's -handsome, wasted face, a face so quiet and smiling. - -"You had something to say to me?" he reminded her, wrinkling his brow -a little. - -"Yes." - -"I came home late. I didn't want to disturb you," he said, producing -a cigarette, and asking permission with a glance to light it. - -"You would not have disturbed me." - -"I suppose it's nothing of much importance." - -"It's a thing of great importance, Cesare." - -"As usual," he said, with the shadow of a smile. - -"I swear to you by the memory of my mother that nothing is more -important." - -"Goodness gracious! Act three, scene four!" he exclaimed ironically. - -"Scene last," she said, dully, tearing a few beads from her dress, -and fingering them. - -"So much the better, if we are near the end. The play was rather -long, my dear." He was tapping his boot with his walking-stick. - -"We will cut it short, Cesare. I have a favour to ask of you. Will -you grant it?" - -"Ask, oh lovely lady; and in spite of the fact that last night you -closed your door upon me, here I am, ready to serve you." - -"I have a favour to ask, Cesare." - -"Ask it, then, before I go out." - -"I want to make a long journey with you--to be gone a year." - -"A second honeymoon? The like was never known." - -"A journey of a year, do you understand? Take me as your travelling -companion, your friend, your servant. For a year, away from here, far -away." - -"Taking with us our sister, our governess, our dog, our cat, and the -whole menagerie?" - -"We two alone," she said. - -"Ah," said he. - -"What is your decision?" - -"I will think about it." - -"No. You must decide at once." - -"What's the hurry? Are we threatened with an epidemic?" - -"Decide now." - -"Then I decide--no," he said. - -"And why?" she asked, turning pale. - -"Because I won't." - -"Tell me your reason." - -"I don't wish to travel." - -"You have always enjoyed travelling." - -"Well, I enjoy it no more. I am tired, I am old, I will stay at home." - -"I implore you, let us go away, far from here." - -"But why do you want to go away?" - -"Listen. Don't ask me. Say yes." - -"Why do you want to go away, Anna?" - -"Because, I want to go. Do me the favour." - -"Is my lady flying from some danger that threatens her virtue? From -some unhappy love?" - -"There's something more than my virtue in danger. I am flying from an -unhappy love, Cesare," she said gravely, shutting her eyes. - -"Heavens! And am I to mix myself up in these tragical complications? -No, Anna, no, I sha'n't budge." - -"Is there no prayer that can move you. Will you always answer no?" - -"I shall always say no." - -"Even if I begged you at the point of death?" - -"Fortunately your health is excellent," he rejoined, smiling slightly. - -"We may all die--from one moment to another," she answered, simply. -"Let us go away together, Cesare." - -"I have said no, and I mean no, Anna. Don't try to change me. You -know it's useless." - -"Then will you grant me another favour? This one you will grant." - -"Let's hear it." - -"Let us go and live alone in the palace in Via Gerolimini." - -"In that ugly house?" - -"Let us live there alone together." - -"Alone? How do you mean?" - -"Alone, you and I." - -"Without Laura?" - -"Without Laura." - -"Ah," he said. - -She looked at him pleadingly, and in her brown eyes he must have been -able to read the sorrowful truth. But he had no pity; he would not -spare her the bitter confession of it. - -"Be frank," he said, with some severity. "You wish to separate from -your sister!" - -"Yes." - -"And why? Tell me the reason." - -"I can't tell you. I wish to separate from Laura." - -"When?" - -"At once. To-day." - -"Indeed? Have you had a quarrel? I'll be peacemaker." - -"I doubt it," she said, with a strange smile. - -"If you'll tell me what you've quarrelled about, I'll make peace -between you." - -"But why do you ask these questions and make these offers? I want to -separate from my sister. That is all." - -"And I don't wish to," he said, looking coldly into his wife's eyes. - -"You don't wish to be parted from Laura!" she cried, feeling her feet -giving way beneath her. - -"I don't indeed." - -"Then I will go away myself, she cried, her brain reeling. - -"Do as you like," he answered, calmly. - -"Oh, heaven help me," she murmured, under her breath, staggering, -losing all her strength. - -"Now we have come to the fainting-fit," said Cesare, looking at her -scornfully, "and so will end this scene of stupid jealousy." - -"What jealousy! Who has spoken of jealousy?" she asked haughtily. - -"Must I inform you that you have done nothing else for the past -half-hour! It strikes me that you have lost the little good sense you -ever had. And I give you notice that I'm not going to make myself -ridiculous on your account." - -"You wish to stay with Laura!" - -"Not only I, but you too. For the sake of the world's opinion, as -well as for our own sakes, we can't desert the girl. She's been -confided to our protection. It would be a scandal which I'll not -permit you to make. If I have to suffer a hundred deaths, I'll not -allow you to make a scandal. Do you understand!" - -She looked at him, changing colour, feeling that her last hope was -escaping her. - -"And then," he went on, "I don't know your reasons for not wishing -to live any longer with your sister. She's good, she's well-behaved, -she's serious; she gives you no trouble; you have no right to find -fault with her. It's one of your whims--it's your everlasting desire -to be unhappy. Anyhow, your idiotic caprice will soon enough be -gratified. Laura will soon be married." - -"Do you wish Laura to marry!" - -"I wish it earnestly." - -"You'll be glad of it!" - -"Most glad," he answered, smiling. - -Ah, in the days of her womanly innocence, before her mind had been -opened to the atrocious revelations of their treason, she would not -have understood the import of that answer and that smile; but she -knew now the whole depth of human wickedness. He smiled, and curled -his handsome black moustaches. Anna lost her head. - -"Then you are more infamous than Laura," she cried. - -"The vocabulary of Othello," he cried, calmly. "But, you know, it has -been proved that Othello was epileptic." - -"And he killed Desdemona," said Anna. - -"Does it strike you that I look like Desdemona?" - -"Not you, not you." - -"And who then?" - -"Laura." - -"Your folly is becoming dangerous, Anna." - -"Imminently, terribly dangerous, Cesare." - -"Fortunately you take it out in words, not in actions," he concluded, -smiling. - -She wrung her hands. - -"Last night Laura owed her life to a miracle," she said. - -"But what has been going on here?" he exclaimed, agitated, rising to -his feet. "And where is Laura?" - -"Oh, fear nothing, fear nothing on her account. I've not harmed her. -She's alive. She's well. She's very well. No wrinkle troubles her -beauty, no anxiety disturbs her mind. Fear nothing. She is a sacred -person. Your love protects her. Listen, Cesare; she was here last -night alone in this room with me; and I had over her the right given -me by heaven, given me by men; and I _did not kill her_." - -Cesare had turned slightly pale; that was all. - -"And if it is permitted to talk in your own high-sounding rhetoric, -what was the ground of your right to kill her?" he asked, looking -at the handle of his walking-stick, and emphasising the disdainful -_you_.[F] - -"Laura has betrayed me. She's in love with you." - -"Nothing but this was lacking! That Laura should be in love with me! -I'm glad to hear it. You are sure of it? It's an important matter for -my vanity. Are you sure of it?" - -"Don't jeer at me, Cesare. You don't realise what you are doing. -Don't smile like that. Don't drive me to extremes." - -"There are two of you in love with me--for I suppose you still love -me, don't you? It's a family misfortune. But since you both adore me, -it's probably not my fault." - -"Cesare, Cesare!" - -"And confess that I did nothing to win you." - -"You have betrayed me, Cesare. You are in love with Laura." - -"Are you sure of it?" - -"Sure, Cesare." - -"But bear in mind that certainties are somewhat rare in this world. -For the past few minutes I've been examining myself, to discover if -indeed I had in my soul a guilty passion for Laura. Perhaps I am mad -about her, without knowing it. But you, who are an expert in these -affairs, you are sure of it. Have the goodness to explain to me, oh, -passionate Signora Dias, in what manner I have betrayed you, loving -your sister. Describe to me the whole blackness of my treason. Tell -me in what my--infamy--consists. Wasn't it infamy you called it? I'm -not learned in the language of the heart." - -"Oh, God! oh, God!" sobbed Anna, her face buried in her hands, -horrified at what she heard and saw. - -"I hope we've not to pass the morning invoking the Lord, the Virgin, -and the Saints. What do you suppose they care for your idiocy, Anna? -They are too wise; and I should be wiser if I cared nothing for it, -either. But when your rhetoric casts a slur upon others, it can't be -overlooked. I beg you, Signora Dias, to do your husband the kindness -of stating your accusations precisely. Set forth the whole atrocity -of his conduct. I fold my hands, and sit here on this chair like a -king on his judgment-seat. I wait, only adding that you have already -used up a good deal of my patience." - -"But has Laura told you nothing?" - -"Nothing, my dear lady." - -"Where is she?" - -"She's gone to church, I hear." - -"Quietly gone to church?" - -"Do you fancy that all women dance in perpetual convulsions to the -tune of their sentiments, Signora Dias? No, for the happiness of men, -no. Our dear and wise Minerva has gone to mass, for to-day is Sunday." - -"With that horrible sin on her conscience! Does she think she can lie -even to God? But it's a sacrilege." - -"Ah, we're to have a mystical drama, a passion-play now, are we? Dear -lady, I see that you have nothing to say to me, and I make my adieux." - -He started to go, but she barred the way to him. - -"Don't go, Cesare; don't leave me. Since you will have it so, -you shall hear from my lips, though they tremble with horror in -pronouncing it, the story of your infamy. I will repeat it to you -to-day as I repeated it to Laura last night; and I hope it may burn -in your heart as it burns in mine. Ah, you laugh; you have the -boldness to laugh. You treat this talk as a joke. You sneer at my -anger. You would like to get away from me. I annoy you. My voice -wearies you. And what I have to say to you will perhaps bring a -blush of shame even to your face, corrupt man that you are. But you -cannot leave me. You are obliged to remain here. You must give me an -account of your betrayal. Ah, don't smile, don't smile; that will do -no good; your smile can't turn me aside. I won't allow you to leave -me. Remember, Cesare, remember what you did last evening. Remember -and be ashamed. Remember how cruel, how wicked, how atrocious it was, -what happened last evening between you and my sister. Under my eyes -Cesare, and for long minutes, so that I could have no doubt. I could -not imagine that I was mad or dreaming. I saw it all, my ears heard -the words you spoke, the sound of your kisses, your long kisses. I -could not doubt. Oh, how horrible it is for a woman who loves to see -the proof that she is betrayed! What new, unknown capacities for -sorrow open in her soul! Oh, what have you done to me, Cesare, you -whom I adored! You and my sister Laura, what have you done to me!" - -She fell into a chair, crushing her temples between her hands. - -"Is it your habit to listen at doors? It's not considered good form," -said Cesare coldly. - -"Do you wish me to die, Cesare? How could you forget that I loved -you, that I had given you my youth, my beauty, all my heart, all my -soul, that I adored you with every breath, that you alone were the -reason for my being? You have forgotten all this, forgotten that I -live only for you, my love--you have forgotten it?" - -"These sentiments do you honour, though they're somewhat exaggerated. -Buy a book of manners, and learn that it's not the thing to listen at -doors." - -"It was my right to listen, do you understand? I was defending -my love, my happiness, my all; but the terrible thing I saw has -destroyed for ever everything I cared for." - -"Did you really see such a terrible thing?" he asked, smiling. - -"If I should live a thousand years, nothing could blot it from my -mind. Oh, I shall die, I shall die; I can only forget it by dying." - -"You are suffering from cerebral dilatation. It was nothing but a -harmless scene of gallantry--it was a jest, Anna." - -"Laura said that she loved you. I heard her." - -"Of course, girls of her age always say they're in love." - -"She kissed you, Cesare. I saw her." - -"And what of that? Girls of her age are fond of kissing. They're none -the worse for it." - -"She was in your arms, Cesare, and for so long a time that to me it -seemed a century." - -"It's not a bad place, you know, Signora Dias," he responded, smiling. - -"Oh, how low, how monstrous! And you, Cesare, you told her that you -loved her. I heard you." - -"A man always loves a little the woman that is with him. Besides, -I couldn't tell her that I hated her; it would scarcely have been -polite. I know my book of manners. There's at least one member of our -family who preserves good form." - -"Cesare, you kissed her." - -"I'd defy you to have done otherwise, if you'd been a man. You don't -understand these matters." - -"On the lips, Cesare." - -"It's my habit. It's not a custom of my invention, either. It's -rather old. I suspect it took its rise with Adam and Eve." - -"But she's a young girl, an innocent young girl, Cesare." - -"Girls are not so innocent as they used to be, Anna. I assure you the -world is changing." - -"She is my sister, Cesare." - -"That's a circumstance quite without importance. Relationship counts -for nothing." - -She looked at him with an expression of intense disgust. - -"You, then, Cesare," she said, "have no sense of the greatness of -this infamy. She at least, Laura, the other guilty person, turned -pale, was troubled, trembled with passion and with terror. You--no! -Here you have been for an hour absolutely imperturable; not a shade -of emotion has crossed your brazen face; your voice hasn't changed; -you feel no fear, no love, no shame; you are not even surprised. She -at least shuddered and cried out; she is an Acquaviva! It is true -that, though she saw my anger and my despair, she had neither pity -nor compunction, but her passion for you, at least, was undisguised. -She had feeling, strength, will. But you--no. You, like her, indeed, -could see me weep my heart out, could see me convulsed by the most -unendurable agony, and have not an ounce of pity for me; but your -hardness does not spring, like hers, from love; no, no; from icy -indifference. You are as heartless as a tombstone. She, at least, -has the courage, the audacity, the effrontery of her wickedness; she -declares boldly that she loves you, that she adores you, that she -will never cease to love you, that she will always adore you. She is -my sister. In her heart there is the same canker that is in mine--a -canker from which we are both dying. You--no! Love? Passion? Not even -an illusion. Nothing but a harmless scene of gallantry! A half-hour -of amusing flirtation, without consequence! But what does it mean, -then, to say that we love? Is it a lie that a man feels justified -in telling any woman? And what is a kiss? A fugitive contact of the -lips, immediately forgotten? So many false kisses are given in the -course of a day and night! Nonsense, triviality, rubbish! It's bad -form to spy at doors; its exaggeration to call a thing infamous; -it's madness to be jealous. And the sin that you have committed, -instead of originating in passion, which might in some degree excuse -it, you reduce to an every-day vulgarity, a commonplace indecency; -my sister becomes a vulgar flirt, you a vulgar seducer, and I a -vulgar termagant screaming out her morbid jealousy. The whole -affair falls into the mud. My sister's guilty love, your caprice, my -despair, all are in the mud, among the most disgusting human garbage, -where there is no spiritual light, no cry of sorrow, where everything -is permissible, where the man expires and the beast triumphs. Do you -know what you are, Cesare?" - -"No, I don't know. But if you can tell me, I shall be indebted for -the favour." - -"You are a man without heart, without conscience; a soul without -greatness and without enthusiasm; you are a lump of flesh, exhausted -by unworthy pleasures and morbid desires. You are a ruin, in heart, -in mind, in senses; you belong to the class of men who are rotten; -you fill me with fright and with pity. I did not know that I was -giving my hand to a corpse scented with heliotrope, that I was -uniting my life to the mummy of a gentleman, whose vitiated senses -could not be pleased by a young, beautiful, and loving wife, but must -crave her sister, her pure, chaste, younger sister! Have you ever -loved, Cesare? Have you ever for a moment felt the immensity of real -love? In your selfishness you have made an idol of yourself, an idol -without greatness. A thing without viscera, without pulses, without -emotion! You are corrupt, perverted, depraved, even to the point -of betraying your wife who adores you, with her sister whom you do -not love! Ah, you are a coward, a dastard; that's what you are, a -dastard!" - -She wrung her hands and beat her temples, pacing the room as a -madwoman paces her cell. But not a tear fell from her eyes, not a sob -issued from her breast. - -He stood still, his face impenetrable; not one of her reproaches -had brought a trace of colour to it. She threw herself upon a sofa, -exhausted; but her eyes still burned and her lips trembled. - -"Now that you have favoured me with so amiable a definition of -myself," said he, "permit me to attempt one of you." - -His tone was so icy, he pronounced the words so slowly, that Anna -knew he was preparing a tremendous insult. Instinctively, obeying the -blind anger of her love, she repeated, "You are a dastard; that's -what you are, a dastard." - -"My dear, you are a bore--that's what _you_ are." - -"What do you say?" she asked, not understanding. - -"You're a bore, my dear." - -The insult was so atrocious, that for the first time in the course -of their talk her eyes filled with tears, and a sigh burst from her -lips--lips that were purple, like those of a dying child. It seemed -as if something had broken in her heart. - -"Nothing but a bore. I don't employ high-sounding words, you see. I -speak the plain truth. You're a bore." - -Another sigh, a sigh of insupportable physical pain, as if the hard -word _bore_ had cut her flesh, like a knife. - -"You flatter yourself that you're a woman of grand passions," he went -on, after looking at his watch, and giving a little start of surprise -to see how much time he had wasted here. "No? You flatter yourself -that you're a creature of impulse, a woman with a fate, a woman -destined to a tragic end; and to satisfy this notion, you complicate -and embroil and muddle up your own existence, and mortally bore those -who are about you. With your rhetoric, your tears, your sobs, your -despair, your interminable letters, your livid face and your gray -lips, you're enough to bore the very saints in heaven." - -He pretended not to see her imploring eyes, which had suddenly lost -their anger, and were craving mercy. - -"Remember all the stupidities you've committed in the past four or -five years," he went on, "and all the annoyance you've given us. You -were a handsome girl, rich, with a good name. You might have married -any one of a dozen men of your own age, your own rank, gentlemen, who -were in love with you. That would have been sensible, orderly; you -would have been as happy as happy can be. But what! Anna Acquaviva, -the romantic heroine, condescend to be happy! No, no. That were -beneath her! So you had to fancy yourself in love with a beggar whom -you couldn't marry." - -She made a gesture, as if to defend Giustino Morelli. - -"Oh, did you really love him? Thanks for the compliment; you're -charming this morning. Passion, inequality of position, drama, flight -into Egypt, fortunately without a child--forgive the impropriety, but -it escaped me. Morelli, chancing to be a decent fellow, Morelli ran -away, poor devil! and our heroine treated herself to the luxury of a -mortal illness. We, Laura, I, everybody, were bored by the flight, -bored by the illness. The lesson was a severe one, and most women -would have been cured of their inclination towards the theatrical, as -well as of their scarlet fever. But not so Anna Acquaviva. It didn't -matter to her that she had risked her reputation, her honour; it -didn't matter to her that she had staked the name of her family; all -this only excited her imagination. And, behold, she begins her second -romance, her second drama, her second tragedy, and enter upon the -scene, to be bored to death, Signor Cesare Dias!" - -"Oh, Holy Virgin, help me," murmured Anna, pressing her hands to her -temples. - -"Dramatic love for Cesare Dias, an old man, a man who has never -gone in for passion, who doesn't wish to go in for it, who is tired -of all such bothersome worries. Anna Acquaviva gives herself up to -an unrequited love, 'one of the most desolating experiences of the -soul'--that's a phrase I found in one of your letters. Desolation, -torture, spasms, despair, bitterness, these are the words which our -ill-fated heroine, Anna Acquaviva, employs to depict her condition -to herself and to others. And Cesare Dias, who had arranged his life -in a way not to be bored and not to bore anyone, Cesare Dias, who -is an entirely common and ordinary person, happy in his mediocrity, -suddenly finds himself against his will dragged upon the scene as -hero! He is the man of mysteries, the man who will not love or who -loves another, the superior man, the neighbour of the stars. And -nevertheless we find a means of boring him." - -"Ah, Cesare, Cesare, Cesare!" she said, beseeching compassion. - -"Imbecile ought to be added to the name of Cesare Dias. That's the -title which I best deserve. Only an imbecile--and I was one for -half-an-hour--could have ceded to your sentimental hysterics. I -was an imbecile. But to let you die, to complete your tragedy of -unrequited love----" - -"Oh, why didn't you let me die?" she cried. - -"I believe it would have been as well for many of us. What a comfort -for you, dear heroine, to die consumed by an unhappy passion! Gaspara -Stampa, Properzia de' Rossi, and other illustrious ladies of ancient -times, with whose names you have favoured me in your letters, would -have found their imitator. I'm sure you would have died blessing me." - -Bowing her head, she sighed deeply, as if she were indeed dying. - -"Instead of letting you die, I went through the dismal farce of -marrying you. And I assure you that I've never ceased to regret it. I -regretted it the very minute after I'd made you my idiotic proposal. -Ah, well, every man has his moments of inexplicable weakness, and he -pays dearly for them. And marriage, alas, hasn't proved a sentimental -comedy. With your pretentions to passion, to love, to mutual -adoration, you've bored me even more than I expected." - -"But what, then, is marriage from your point of view?" she cried. - -"A bothersome obligation, when a man marries a woman like you." - -"You would have preferred my sister?" she asked, exasperated. But she -was at once sorry for this vulgarity; and he speedily punished it. - -"Yes, I should have preferred your sister. She's not a bore. I find -her extremely diverting." - -"She loved you from the beginning," she says. "A pity she didn't tell -you so." - -"A pity. I assure you I should have married her." - -"Ah, very well." - -But suddenly she raised her eyes to her husband; and at the sight of -that beloved person her courage failed her. She took his hand, and -said, "Ah, Cesare, Cesare, you are right. But I loved you, I loved -you, and you have deceived me with my sister." - -"Signora Dias, you have rather a feeble memory," he returned, icily, -drawing his hand away. - -"How do you mean?" - -"I mean that you easily forget. We are face to face; you can't lie. -Have I ever told you that I loved you?" - -"No--never," she admitted, closing her eyes agonised to have to admit -it. - -"Have I ever promised to love you?" - -"No--never." - -"Well, then, according to the laws of love, I've not deceived you, -my dear Anna. My heart has never belonged to you, therefore it's not -been taken from you. I promised nothing, therefore I owe you nothing." - -"It's true. You're right, Cesare," she said; draining this new cup of -bitterness that he had distilled for her. - -"Perhaps you will speak to me of the laws of the land. Very good; -according to the law a man and wife are required to be mutually -faithful. A magistrate would say that I had betrayed you. But -consider a little. Make an effort of memory, Anna, and recall -the agreement I proposed to you that evening at Sorrento, before -committing my grand blunder. I told you that I wished to remain -absolutely free, free as a bachelor; and you consented. Is it true or -not true?" - -"It is true. I consented." - -"I told you that I would tolerate no interference on your part with -my relations with other women; and remember, Anna, you consented. Is -that true or untrue?" - -"It is true," she said, feeling that she was falling into an abyss. - -"You see, therefore, that neither according to the laws of love nor -according to the laws of marriage have I betrayed you. And if you -had a conscience, to adopt your own phraseology, if you had the -least loyalty, you would at once confess that I have not betrayed -you. You accepted the whole bargain. I am free in heart, and at -liberty to do as I like. I have not betrayed you. Confess it." - -"Cesare, Cesare, be human, be Christian; don't require me to say -that." - -"Tragedies are one thing, and truth is another, Anna. I desire to -establish the fact that I haven't betrayed you, my dear. For what I -did last night, for what I may have done on any other night, for what -I may do any night in the future, I have your own permission. Confess -it." - -"I can't say that, do you understand?" she cried. "Oh, you are -always in the right; you always know how to put yourself in the -right. You are right in your selfishness, in your perfidy, in your -wickedness, in your frightful corruption; you were right in proposing -that disgraceful bargain to me, which I was not ashamed to accept, -and which you to-day so justly and so appropriately remind me of. -But I believed that to love, to adore a man as I loved and adored -you, would be a charm to conquer with; and I have lost. For you are -stronger than I; indifference is stronger than love; selfishness -is stronger than passion. Generous abandonment cannot overcome the -refined calculation of a corrupt man. I am wrong, I alone, I confess -it--since I loved you to the point of dying for you, since I imagined -that that was enough, since I had in my soul the divine hope of -winning you by my love. I am wrong, I confess it; yes, I confess -it. I cannot love nor hate nor live. I am nothing but a bore, a -superfluous person, and a tiresome; it is true; it is true. Say it -again." - -"If you wish it, I will." - -"You are right. You are always right. I have done nothing but -blunder. I have always obeyed the mad impulses of my heart. I fled -from my home. I ought not to have loved you, and I loved you. I -loved you; I have bored you; and I myself, of my free will, gave you -permission to betray me. You are the most vicious man I know. You're -unredeemed by a thought or a feeling. You horrify me. Under the same -roof with your wife, you have committed an odious sin--a sin that -would make the worst men shudder. And I can't punish you, because -I consented to it; because I debased the dignity of my love before -you; because indeed I am a cowardly and infamous creature. See how -right you are! You have sinned, but so far as I am concerned you -are innocent. I am infamous and cowardly, because I ought to have -died rather than accept that loathsome bargain. Forgive me if I have -upbraided you. I'll ask Laura's pardon too. No human being is soiled -with an infamy so great as mine. Forgive me." - -Perhaps he felt in these words the confusion of madness; perhaps he -saw the light of madness in her eyes. But he was unmoved. She was a -woman who had led him into committing a folly, who had bored him, -and, what was more, who would like to continue to bore him in the -future. He was unmoved. He was glad to have got the better of her in -this struggle. He was unmoved. He thought it time to leave her, if he -would retain his advantage. - -"Good-bye, Anna," he said, rising. - -"Don't go away, don't go away," she cried, throwing herself before -him. - -"Do you imagine that this duet is pleasing?" he asked, drawing on his -gloves. "For the rest, we've said all there is to say. I can't think -you have any more insults to favour me with." - -"You hate me, do you?" - -"No, I don't hate you exactly." - -"Don't go away. Don't go away. I must tell you something very -serious." - -"Good-bye, Anna," he repeated, moving towards the door. - -"Cesare, if you go away, I shall do something desperate," she cried, -convulsively tearing her hair. - -"You'd be incapable. To do anything desperate one must have talent. -And you're a fool," he replied, smiling ironically. - -"Cesare, if you go away, I shall die." - -"Bah, bah, you'll not die. To die one must have courage." And he -opened the door and went out. - -She ran to the threshold. He was already at a distance. She heard -the street door close behind him. For a few minutes she stood there, -fearing to move lest she should fall; then mechanically she turned -back. She went to her looking-glass, repaired the disorder of her -hair, and put on a hat, a black veil, and a sealskin cloak. She -forgot nothing. Her pocket-handkerchief was in her muff; in her hand -she carried her card-case of carved Japanese ivory. - -At last she left her room, and entered her husband's. A servant was -putting it in order; but, seeing his mistress, he bowed and took -himself off. She was alone there, in the big brown chamber, in the -gray winter daylight. She went to her husband's desk, and sat down -before it, as if she were going to write. But, after a moment's -thought, she did not write. She opened a drawer, took something from -it, and concealed it in her pocket. - -After that, she passed through the house and out into the street. - -She crossed the Piazza Vittoria, and entered the Villa Nazionale. -Children were playing by the fountain, and she stopped for a moment -to look at them. Twice she made the tour of the Villa; then she -looked at her watch; then she seated herself on one of the benches. -There were very few people abroad. The damp earth was covered with -dead leaves. - -She fixed her eyes upon the dial of her watch, counting the minutes -and the seconds. All at once she put her hand into her pocket, and -felt the thing that she had hidden there. - -Anna rose. It was two o'clock. - -She left the Villa, walking towards the Chiatamone. Before the -door of a little house in the Via del Chiatamone she stopped. She -hesitated for a moment; then she lifted the bronze knocker, and let -it fall. - -The door was opened by Luigi Caracciolo. - -He did not speak. He took her hand, and drew her into the house. - -They crossed two antechambers, hung with old tapestries, ornamented -with ancient and modern arms, and with big Delft vases filled with -growing palms, a smoking-room furnished with rustic Swiss chairs and -tables, and entered a drawing-room. The curtains were drawn, the -lamps lighted. The floor and the walls were covered with Oriental -carpets; the room was full of beautiful old Italian furniture, -statues, pictures, bronzes. There were many flowers about, red and -white roses, subtly perfumed. - -Caracciolo took a bunch of roses, and gave them to Anna. - -"Dear Anna--my dear love," he said. - -A faint colour came to her cheeks. - -"What is it? Tell me, Anna. Dear one, dear one!" - -"Don't speak to me like that," she said. - -"Do I offend you? I can't think that I offend you--I who feel for you -the deepest tenderness, the most absolute devotion." - -He took her hands. - -"It is dark here," she said. - -"The day was so sad, the daylight was so melancholy. I have waited -for you so many hours, Anna." - -"I have come, you see." - -"Thank you for having remembered your faithful servant." And -delicately he kissed her gloved hand. - -"Why not open the curtains a little?" she asked. - -He drew aside his curtains, and let in the ashen light. She went to -the window, and looked out upon the sea. - -"Anna, Anna, come away. Somebody might see you." - -"It doesn't matter." - -"But I can't allow you to compromise yourself, Anna; I love you too -much." - -"I have come here to compromise myself," she said. - -"Then--you love me a little?" he demanded, trying to draw her away -from the window. - -She did not answer. She sat down in an arm-chair. - -"Tell me that you love me a little, Anna." - -"I don't love you." - -"Dear Anna, dear Anna," he murmured with his caressing voice, "how -can I believe you, since you are here. Tell me that you love me a -little. For three years I have waited for that word. Dear Anna, sweet -Anna, you know that I have adored you for so long a time. Anna, Anna!" - -"What has happened was bound to happen," she said. - -"Anna, I conjure you,[G] tell me that you love me." - -She shuddered as she heard him use the familiar pronoun. - -"Do you love me?" - -"I don't know. I know nothing." - -"Dear one, dear one," he murmured, trembling with hope, in an immense -transport of love. - -He drew nearer to her and kissed her on the cheek. - -A cry of pain burst from her, and she sprang up, horrified, -terrified, and tried to leave the room. - -"Oh, for mercy's sake, forgive me. Don't go away. Anna, Anna, forgive -me if I have offended you. I love you so! If you go away I shall die." - -"People don't die for such slight things." - -"People die of love." - -"Yes. But one must have courage to die." - -"Don't let us talk of these dismal things. My love, we mustn't talk -of things that will sadden you. Your beautiful face is troubled. Tell -me that you forgive me. Do you forgive me?" - -"I forgive you." - -"I don't believe it. You don't forgive me. You love another." - -"No, no--no other." - -"And Cesare?" - -But scarcely had he spoken the fatal name when he saw his error. Her -eyes blazed; she trembled from head to foot, in a nervous convulsion. - -"Listen," she said. "If you have a heart, if you have any pity, if -you wish me to stay here with you, never name him again, never name -him." - -"You are right." But then he added, "And yet you loved him, you love -him still." - -"No. I love no one any more." - -"Why would you not accept me when I proposed for you?" - -"Because." - -"Why did you marry that old man?" - -"Because." - -"And now why do you love him? Why do you love him?" - -"I don't know." - -"You see, you do love him," he cried in despair. - -"Oh, God, oh, God!" she sobbed. - -"Oh, I am a fool. Forgive me, forgive me. But I love you, and I lose -my head. I love you, and I am desperate. And I need to know if you -still love him. You will always love him? Is it so?" - -"Till death," she said, with a strange look and accent. - -"Say it again." - -"Till death," she repeated, with the same strange intonation. - -They were silent. - -Luigi Caracciolo put his arm round her waist, and drew her slowly -towards him. - -Her eyes were fixed and void. She did not feel his arms about her. -She did not feel his kisses. He kissed her hair, he kissed her sweet -white throat, he kissed her little rosy ear. Anna was absorbed in a -desperate meditation, far from all human things. He kissed her face, -her eyes, her lips; she did not know it. But suddenly she felt his -embrace become closer, stronger; she heard his voice change, it -was no longer tender and caressing, it was fervid with tumultuous -passion, it uttered confused delirious words. Silently, looking at -him with burning eyes, she tried to disengage herself. - -"Let me go," she said. - -"Anna, Anna, I love you so--I have loved you so long!" - -"Let me go, let me go!" - -"You are my adored one--I adore you above all things." - -"Let me go. You horrify me." - -He let her go. - -"But what have you come here for?" he asked, sorrowfully. - -"I have come to commit an infamy." - -"Anna, Anna, you are killing me!" - -She looked at him fixedly. - -"What is it, Anna? Something is troubling you, and you won't tell me -what it is. My poor friend! You have come here with an anguish in -your heart, wishing to escape from it; you have come here to weep; -and I have behaved like a brute, a blackguard." - -"No, you are good, I shall remember you," and she gave him her hand. - -"Don't go away. Tell me first what it is. Tell me what you came for. -Tell me, dearest Anna." - -"It's too long a story, too long," she said, as if in a dream, -passing her hand over her brow. "And now I must go, I must go." - -"No, stop here, talk to me, weep. It will do you good." - -"I can't." - -"Why?" - -"My minutes are numbered. You'll understand some day--to-morrow. Now -I must go." - -"Anna, how can I let you go like this? You have come here to be -comforted, and I have treated you shamefully. Forgive me." - -"You are not to blame, not in the least." - -"But what is it that you are in trouble about, Anna? Who has been -making you miserable, my poor fond soul? Whose fault is it? Who is to -blame? Cesare?" - -"No, I am to blame, I only." - -"And Cesare--you admit it." - -"No." - -"Cesare is an infamous scoundrel, and I know it," he exclaimed. - -"It is I who am infamous." - -"I don't believe you. I should believe no one who said that, Anna." - -"I must be infamous, since I alone am unhappy. I must go." - -"Will you come back?--to-morrow? Anna, you are so sad, you are in -such distress, I can't let you go." - -"No one can detain me, no one." - -"Anna, forget that I have spoken to you of love." - -"I have forgotten it. Good-bye." - -"You musn't go like this. You are too much agitated." - -"No, I am calm. Listen, will you do me a favour? You repeated some -verses to me one evening at Sorrento--some French verses--do you -remember?" - -"Yes. Baudelaire's '_Harmonie du Soir_,'" he answered, surprised by -her question. - -"Have you the volume?" - -"Yes." - -"Take it, and copy that poem for me. Afterwards I will say good-bye." - -He went into his library and brought back _Les Fleurs du Mal_. He -seated himself at his writing-table, and looked at Anna. There was an -expression of such immense sorrow in her eyes, that he faltered, and -asked, "Shall I write?" - -She bowed her head. While he was writing the first lines, Anna -turned her back to him. She put her hand into her pocket and brought -forth a little shining object of ivory and steel. He in a low voice -repeated the verse he was writing--"_Valse mélancolique et langoureux -vertige_"--when suddenly there was the report of a pistol, and a -little cloud of smoke rose towards the ceiling. - -Anna had shot herself through the heart, and fallen to the floor. -Her little gloved hand held the revolver that she had taken from the -drawer of her husband's desk. Luigi Caracciolo stood rooted to the -carpet, believing that he must be mad. - -So died Anna Acquaviva, innocent. - -FOOTNOTES: - -[F] _Voi_, instead of the more familiar _tu_, which he had previously -employed. - -[G] Having hitherto used the formal _voi_, he now uses the intimate -_tu_. - - - - - _Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. - _London & Edinburgh._ - - * * * * * - - TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES - -Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. - -A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated -variants. For those words, the variant more frequently used was -retained. In some cases there was no predominant variant. The -hyphenated variant was chosen in those cases. - -The name 'Björnstjerne Björnson' was changed to 'Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson'. - -Obvious punctuation and printing errors, which were not detected during -the printing of the original book, have been corrected. - -The original book did not have a Table of Contents. One was added -after the Introduction. - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Farewell Love!, by Matilde Serao - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAREWELL LOVE! *** - -***** This file should be named 54619-8.txt or 54619-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/6/1/54619/ - -Produced by Andrés V. Galia, Chris Curnow and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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