It is not strange that Cecilia should have been much less disturbed than
Lamberti by what he had described to the doctor as a possession of the
devil, or a haunting. Men who have never been ailing in their lives
sometimes behave like frightened children if they fall ill, though the
ailment may not be very serious, whereas a hardened old invalid,
determined to make the best of life in spite of his ills, often laughs
himself into the belief that he can recover from the two or three mortal
diseases that have hold of him. Bearing bodily pain is a mere matter of
habit, as every one knows who has had to bear much, or who has tried it
as an experiment. In barbarous countries conspirators have practised
suffering the tortures likely to be inflicted on them to extract
confession.
Lamberti had never before been troubled by anything at all resembling
what people call the supernatural, nor even by anything unaccountable.
It was natural that he should be made nervous and almost ill by the
persistence of the dreams that had visited him since he had met Cecilia,
and by what he believed to be the closing of a door each time he awoke
from them.
Cecilia, on the contrary, had practised dreaming all her life and was
not permanently disturbed by any vision that presented itself, nor by
anything like a "phenomenon" which might accompany it. She felt that her
dreams brought her nearer to a truth of some sort, hidden from most of
the world, but of vital value, and after which she was groping
continually without much sense of direction. The specialist whom
Lamberti had consulted would have told her plainly that she had learned
to hypnotise herself, and a Japanese Buddhist monk would have told her
the same thing, adding that she was doing one of the most dangerous
things possible. The western man of science would have assured her that
a certain resemblance of the face in the dream to Lamberti was a mere
coincidence, and that since she had met him the likeness had perfected
itself, so that she now really dreamed of Lamberti; and the doctor would
have gone on to say that the rest of her vision was the result of
auto-suggestion, because the story of the Vestal Virgins had always had
a very great attraction for her. She had read a great deal about them,
she had followed Giacomo Boni's astonishing discoveries with breathless
interest, she knew more of Roman history than most girls, and probably
more than most men, and it was not at all astonishing that she should be
able to construct a whole imaginary past life with all its details and
even its end, and to dream it all at will, as if she were reading a
novel.
She would have admitted that the pictured history of Cecilia, the last
Vestal, had been at first fragmentary, and had gradually completed
itself in her visions, and that even now it was constantly growing, and
that it might continue to grow, and even to change, for a long time.
Further, if the specialist had known positively that similar fragments
of dreams were little by little putting themselves together in
Lamberti's imagination, though the latter had only once spoken with
Cecilia of one or two coincidences, he would have said, provided that he
chose to be frank with a mere girl, that no one knows much about
telepathy, and that modern science does not deny what it cannot explain,
as the science of the nineteenth century did, but collects and examines
facts, only requiring to be persuaded that they are really facts and not
fictions. No one, he would have said, would build a theory on one
instance; he would write down the best account of the case which he
could find, and would then proceed to look for another. Since wireless
telegraphy was possible, the specialist would not care to seek a reason
why telepathy should not be a possibility, too. If it were, it explained
thoroughly what was going on between Cecilia and Lamberti; if it were
not, there must be some other equally satisfactory explanation, still to
be found. The attitude of science used to be extremely aggressive, but
she has advanced to a higher stage; in these days she is serene. Men of
science still occasionally come into conflict with the official
representatives of different beliefs, but science herself no longer
assails religion. Lamberti's specialist professed no form of faith,
wherefore he would rather not have been called upon to answer all three
of Kant's questions: What can I know? What is it my duty to do? What may
I hope? But it by no means followed that his answers, if he gave any,
would have been shocking to people who knew less and hoped more than he
did.
Cecilia thought much, but she followed no such form of reasoning to
convince herself that her experiences were all scientifically possible;
on the contrary, the illusion she loved best was the one which science
and religion alike would have altogether condemned as contrary to faith
and revolting to reason, namely, her cherished belief that she had
really once lived as a Vestal in old days, and had died, and had come
back to earth after a long time, irresistibly drawn towards life after
having almost attained to perfect detachment from material things.
Her meeting with Lamberti, and, most of all, her one short conversation
with him, had greatly strengthened her illusion. He had come back, too,
and they understood each other. But that should be all.
Then she took up Nietzsche again, not because every one read _Thus spake
Zarathushthra_, or was supposed to read the book, and talked about it in
a manner that discredited the supposition, but because she wanted to
decide once for all whether his theory of the endless return to life at
all suited her own case.
She turned over the pages, but she knew the main thought by heart. Time
is infinite. In space there is matter consisting of elements which,
however numerous, are limited in number, and can therefore only combine
in a finite number of ways. When those possible combinations are
exhausted, they must repeat themselves. And because time is infinite,
they must repeat themselves an infinite number of times. Therefore
precisely the same combinations have returned always and will return
again and again for ever. Therefore in the past, every one of us has
lived precisely the same life, in a precisely similar world, an infinite
number of times, and will live the same life over again, to the minutest
detail, an infinite number of times in the future. In the fewest words,
this is Nietzsche's argument to prove what he calls the "Eternal
Return."
No. That was not at all what she wished to believe, nor could believe,
though it was very plausible as a theory. If men lived over again, they
did not live the same lives but other lives, worse or better than the
first. Nietzsche in this was speaking only of matter which combined and
combined again. If it did, each combination might have a new soul of its
own. It was conceivable that different souls should be made to suffer
and enjoy in precisely the same way. And as for the rest, as for a good
deal of _Thus spake Zarathushthra_, including the Over-Man, and the
overcoming of Pity, and the Man who had killed God, she thought it
merely fantastic, though much of it was very beautiful and some of it
was terrible, and she thought she had understood what Nietzsche meant.
Tired of reading, she lay back in her deep chair and let the open book
fall upon her knees. She was in her own room, late in the morning, and
the blinds were drawn together to keep out the glare of the wide street,
for it was June and the summer was at hand. Outside, the air was all
alive with the coming heat, as it is in Italy at the end of spring, and
perhaps nowhere else. The sunshine seems to grow in it, like a living
thing, that also fills everything with life. It gets into the people,
too, and into their voices, and even the grave Romans unbend a little,
and laugh more gaily, and their step is more elastic. By-and-by, when
the full warmth of summer fills the city, the white streets will be
almost deserted in the middle of the day, and men who have to be abroad
will drag themselves along where the walls cast a narrow shade, and
everything will grow lazy and sleepy and silently hot. But the first
good sunshine in June is to the southern people the elixir of life, the
magic gold-mist that floats before the coming gods, the breath of the
gods themselves breathed into mortals.
Within the girl's room the light was very soft on the pale blue damask
hangings, and a gentle air blew now and then from window to window, as
if a sweet spirit passed by, bringing a message and taking one away. It
stirred Cecilia's golden hair, and fanned her forehead, and somehow,
just then, it brought intuitions of beautiful unknown things with it,
and inspiration with peace, and clear sight.
Maidenhood is blessed with such moments, beyond all other states. In all
times and in all countries it has been half divine, and ever
mysteriously linked with divine things. The maid was ever the priestess,
the prophetess, and the seer, whose eyes looked beyond the veil and
whose ears heard the voices of the immortals; and she of Orleans was not
the only maiden, though she was the last, that lifted her fallen country
up out of despair and led men to fight and victory who would follow no
man-leader where all had failed.
Maidenhood meets evil, and passes by on the other side, not seeing;
maidenhood is whole and perfect in itself and sweetly careless of what
it need not know; maidenhood dreams of a world that is not, nor was, nor
shall be, hitherwards of heaven; maidenhood is angelhood. In its
unconsciousness of evil lies its strength, in its ignorance of itself
lies its danger.
Cecilia was not trying to call up visions now; she was thinking of her
life, and wondering what was to happen, and now and then she was asking
herself what she ought to do. Should she marry Guido d'Este, or not?
That was the sum of her thoughts and her wonderings and her questions.
She knew she was perfectly free, and that her mother would never try to
make her marry against her will. But if she married Guido, would she be
acting against her will?
In her own mind she was well aware that he would speak whenever she
chose to let him do so. The most maidenly girl of eighteen knows when a
man is waiting for an opportunity to ask her to be his wife, whereas
most young men who are much in love do not know exactly when they are
going to put the question, and are often surprised when it rises to
their lips. Cecilia considered that issue a foregone conclusion. The
vital matter was to find out her own answer.
She had never known any man, since her stepfather died, whom she liked
nearly as much as Guido, and she had met more interesting and gifted men
before she was really in society than most women ever know in a
lifetime. She liked him so much that if he had any faults she could not
see them, and she did not believe that he had any which deserved the
name. But that was not the question. No woman likes a man because he has
no faults; on the contrary, if he has a few, she thinks it will be her
mission to eradicate them, and reform him according to her ideal. She
believes that it will be easy, and she knows that it will be delightful
to succeed, because no other woman has succeeded before. That is one
reason why the wildest rakes are often loved by the best of women.
Cecilia liked Guido for his own sake, and felt an intellectual sympathy
for him which took the place of what she had sorely missed since her
stepfather died; she liked him also, because he was always ready to do
whatever she wished; and because, with the exception of that one day at
the Villa Madama, his moral attitude before her was one of respectful
and chivalrous devotion; and also because he and she were fond of the
same things, and because he took her seriously and never told her that
she was wasting time in trying to understand Kant and Fichte and Hegel,
though he possibly thought so; and she liked the little ways he had, and
his modesty, though he knew so much, and his simple manner of dressing,
and the colour of his hair, and a sort of very faint atmosphere of
Russian leather, good cigarettes, and Cologne water that was always
about him. There were a great many reasons why she was fond of him. For
instance, she had found that he never repeated to any one, not even to
Lamberti, a word of any conversation they had together; and if any one
at a dinner party or at a picnic attacked any favourite idea or theory
of hers, he defended it, using all her arguments as well as his own; and
when he knew she could say something clever in the general talk, he
always said something else which made it possible for her to bring out
her own speech, and he was always apparently just as much pleased with
it as if he had not heard it already, when they had been alone. It would
be impossible to enumerate all the reasons why she was sure that there
was nobody like him.
She knew that what she felt for him was affection, and she was quite
willing to believe that it was love. He certainly had no rival with her
at that time, and if she hesitated, it was because the thought of
marriage itself was repugnant to her.
In the secondary life of her imagination she was bound by the most
solemn vows, and under the most terrible penalties, to preserve herself
intact from the touch of man. In the dream, it was sacrilege for a man
to love her, and meant death to love him in return. She knew that it was
a dream, but she loved to believe that all the dream was true, and she
was too much accustomed to the thought not to be influenced by it.
There are great actors who become so used to a favourite part that they
go on acting it in real life, and have sometimes gone mad in the end, it
is said, believing themselves really to be the heroes or tyrants they
have represented. Only great second-rate actors "learn" their parts and
attain to a sort of perfection in them by mechanical means. The really
great first-rate artists make themselves a secondary existence by
self-suggestion, and really have two selves, one that thinks and acts
like Othello, or Hamlet, or Louis the Eleventh, the other that goes
through life with the opinions, convictions, and principles of Sir Henry
Irving, of Tommaso Salvini, or of Madame Sarah Bernhardt.
In a higher degree, because she had never learned but one part, and that
one proceeded in some way out of her own intelligence, Cecilia was in
the same state of dual consciousness, and if her waking life was
influenced by her imaginary existence in dreams, her dreams were
probably affected also by her waking life.
"Thou shalt so act, as to be worthy of happiness," said her favourite
philosopher. She could undoubtedly marry Guido, in spite of her
imaginary vows, if she chose to shake off the shadowy bond by an act of
everyday will. Would that be acting so as to deserve to be happy? What
is happiness? The belief that one is happy; nothing else. As Guido's
wife, should she believe that she was happy? Yes, if there were
happiness to be found in marriage. But she was happy already without it,
and would always be so, she was sure. Therefore she would be risking a
certainty for a possibility. "Who leaves the old and takes new, knows
what he leaves, not what he may find"; so says the old Italian proverb.
And again, she had heard a friend of her stepfather's say with a laugh
that hope seems cheap food, but is always paid for by those who live on
it.
To act so as to be worthy of happiness, meant to act in such a way that
the reason for each action might be a law for the happiness of all. That
was the Categorical Imperative, and Cecilia believed in it.
Then, if she married Guido, she ought to be sure that all young girls in
her position would marry under the circumstances, and that the majority
of them would be happy. With a return of practical sense from the
regions of philosophy, she asked herself how she should feel if Guido
married some one else, one of the many young girls who were among her
friends. Should she be jealous?
At the mere thought she felt a little dull sinking that was anticipated
disappointment. Yes, she liked him enough, she was fond enough of him to
miss him terribly if he were taken away from her. This was undoubtedly
love, she thought. She could not be happy without that companionship,
though she wished that it might continue all her life, without the
necessity of being married to him.
Of all the other men she had met during the last month, the only one
whom she instinctively understood was Lamberti, but that was different.
It was the understanding of a fear that was sometimes almost abject; it
was the certainty that if he only would, he could lead her anywhere,
make her do anything, direct her as he directed his own hand. When she
had met him in the house of the Vestals, she had been sure that if she
stood a moment longer where he had come upon her, he would take her in
his arms and kiss her, and she would not resist. It was of no use to
argue about it, to tell herself that she would have been safe on a
desert island with Guido's trusted friend; the conviction was strong. At
the Villa Madama, he had made her say what he pleased, go with him where
he chose, tell him her secret. It was too horrible for words. She had
asked him to come to see her at an hour when there would be no visitors,
and she knew that she had meant to see him alone, in spite of her
mother, and even by stealth if need were. When he was out of her sight,
his influence was gone with him, and she thanked heaven that he had not
come, and that he apparently took care never to be alone with her for a
moment now. He had only to look at her in a certain way, and she must
obey him; if he ever touched her hand she would be his slave, powerless
to resist him.
Sometimes she could not help looking at him, but then he never turned
his eyes towards her, and she was thankful when she could turn hers
away. When he was not present, she hoped that she might never see his
face again, except in dreams, for there he was not the same. There, but
for that one passionate kiss that told all, he was tender, and gentle,
and true, and he listened to her, and in the end he lived as she wished
him to live. But he had come back to life with the same face, another
man--one whom she feared as she feared nothing in the world, and few
things beyond it, for he was born her master, and was strong, and had
ruthless eyes. Even Guido could not save her from him, she was sure.
Yet in spite of all this, she could meet him with outward indifference
in the world, before other people. She felt that there was no danger so
long as she was not alone with him, because he would not dare to use his
power, and the world protected her by its cheerful, careless presence.
She did not hate him, she only feared him, with every part of her, body
and soul.
She was sure that he knew it, but she was not grateful to him for
avoiding her. She could not be grateful to any one of whom she was in
terror. It was merely his will to avoid her, or perhaps, as Guido seemed
to think, he did not like her; or possibly it was for Guido's sake,
because Guido trusted him, and he was a man of honour.
He was that beyond doubt, for every one said so, and she knew that he
was brave; but though he might possess every quality and virtue under
the sun, she could never be less afraid of him. Her fear had nothing to
do with his character; it was bodily and spiritual, not reasonable. She
had found out that he was perfectly truthful, for nothing he said
escaped her, and Guido told her that he was kind, but that was hard to
believe of any one with those eyes. Yet the man in the dream was
gentleness itself, and his eyes never glittered when they looked at her.
To think that she could ever love Lamberti was utterly absurd. When she
was married to Guido she would tell him that she feared his friend. Now,
it was impossible. He would smile quietly and tell her there was nothing
to be afraid of; he would smile, too, if she told him that she had a
dual existence, and dreamed herself into the other every day.
And now she was smiling, too, as she thought of him, for she had thought
too long about Lamberti, and it was soothing to go back to Guido's
companionship and to all that her real affection for him meant to her.
It was like coming home after a dangerous journey. There he was, always
the same, his hands stretched out to welcome her back. She would have
just that sensation presently when he came to luncheon, and he would
have just that look. She and he were made to spend endless days
together, sometimes talking, sometimes thoughtful and silent, always
happy, and calm, and utterly peaceful.
After all, she thought, what more could a woman ask? With each other's
society and her fortune, they would have all the world held that was
pleasant and beautiful around them, and they would enjoy it together, as
long as it lasted, and it would never make the least difference to them
that they should grow old, and older, until the end came; and at
eighteen it was of no use to think of that.
Surely this was love, at its best, and of the kind that must last; and
if, after all, in order to get such happiness as that seemed, there was
no way except to marry, why then, she must do as others did and be Guido
d'Este's wife.
What could she know? That she loved him, in a way not at all like what
she had supposed to be the way of love, but sincerely and truly. What
should she do? She should marry him, since that was necessary. What
might she hope? She could hope for a lifetime of happiness. Should she
then have acted so as to deserve it? Yes. Why not? Might the reason for
her marriage be a rule for others? Yes, for others in exactly the same
case.
So she smilingly answered the mightiest questions of transcendental
philosophy as if they all referred to the pleasant world in which she
lived, instead of to the lofty regions of Pure Reason. In that, indeed,
she knew that she was playing with them, or applying them empirically,
if any one chose to define in those terms what she was doing. After all,
why should she not? Of the three questions, the first only was
"speculative," and the other two were "practical." The philosopher
himself said so.
Besides, it did not matter, for Guido d'Este was coming to luncheon, and
afterwards her mother would go and write notes, unless she dozed a
little in her boudoir, as she sometimes did while the two talked; and
then Cecilia would say something quite natural, but quite new, and she
would let her look linger in Guido's a little longer than ever before,
and then he would ask her to marry him. It was all decided beforehand in
her small head.
She was glad that it was, and she felt much happier at the prospect of
what was coming than she had expected. That must be a sign that she
really loved Guido in the right way, and the pleasant little thrill of
excitement she felt now and again could only be due to that; it would be
outrageous to suppose that it was caused merely by the certainty that
for the first time in her life she was going to receive an offer of
marriage. Why should any young girl care for such a thing, unless she
meant to marry the man, and why in the world should it give her any
pleasure to hear a man stammer something that would be unintelligible if
it were not expected, and then see him wait with painful anxiety for the
answer which every woman likes to hesitate a little in giving, in order
that it may have its full value? Such doings are manifestly wicked,
unless they are sheer nonsense!
Cecilia rose and rang for her maid; for it was twelve o'clock, and
Romans lunch at half-past twelve, because they do not begin the day
between eight and nine in the morning with ham and eggs, omelets and
bacon, beefsteak and onions, fried liver, cold joints, tongue, cold ham
and pickles, hot cakes, cold cakes, hot bread, cold bread, butter, jam,
honey, fruit of all kinds in season, tea, coffee, chocolate, and a
tendency to complain that they have not had enough, which is the
unchangeable custom of the conquering races, as everybody knows. It is
true that the conquerors do not lunch to any great extent; they go on
conquering from breakfast till dinner time without much intermission,
because that is their business; but it is believed that their women, who
stay at home, have a little something at twelve, luncheon at half-past
two, tea between five and six, dinner at eight, and supper about
midnight, when they can get it.
Cecilia rang for the excellent Petersen, and said that she would wear
the new costume which had arrived from Doucet's two days ago.
There was certainly no reason why she should not wish to look well on
this day of all others, and as she turned and saw herself in the glass,
she had not the least thought of making a better impression than usual
on Guido. She was far too sure of herself for that. If she chose, he
would ask her to marry him though she might be dressed in an old
waterproof and overshoes. It was merely because she was happy and was
sure that she was going to do the right thing. When a normal woman is
very happy, she puts on a perfectly new frock, if she has one, in real
life or on the stage, even when she is not going to be seen by any one
in particular. In this, therefore, Cecilia only followed the instinct of
her kind, and if the pretty new costume had not chanced to have come
from Paris, she would not have missed it at all, but would have worn
something else. As it happened to be ready, however, it would have been
a pity not to put it on, since she expected to remember that particular
day all the rest of her life.
Petersen said it was perfection, and Cecilia was not far from thinking
so, too.