“I will tell you the story another time.”
I saw that he shrank from calling up these memories in presence of his
daughters, and I did not press him.
But shortly after, in the outer portico, as we paced slowly up and down
with his arm in mine, he returned to the story; and all the time the
sun blazed on the series of terraces from which the tall white statues
of the Seasons looked over the tawny valley of the Saurgo.
It was a mysterious secret drama of passion and death, worthy of the
weird stone cloister which had fostered and exalted its violence in
rapid alternation. To me it signified the power which the genius of
places can exercise over the responsive soul, a power by which every
genuine feeling of the soul must concentrate itself to the utmost
degree of intensity possible to human nature, in order to express its
whole force in a definite act with a certain result.
As I listened to the prince’s imperfect account, I mentally
reconstructed that hour of intense life which produced the death of
Pantea; and the midnight crime appeared to me clothed in a beauty which
was the harbinger of profound thoughts.
At the close of the story Prince Luzio took leave of me, saying: “I
hope from this day you will treat this house as your own. Whenever you
like to come, you will be welcome, dear boy. So do not stay away too
long.”
It made me sad to see him enter the desolate palace alone, so I went
back a little way with him, talking affectionately. We stopped again
before the fountain; and he made a motion of his hand towards the
basin, and in the chill, clear water I saw the fatal beauty of Pantea
and her curved white hands floating in the water, like two magnolia
petals, and her soft hair fluttering under the horses’ hoofs.
“A legend grew up years afterwards,” said the prince, smiling. “On
moonless nights Pantea’s soul sings on the summit of the fountain,
while that of her lover groans within the jaws of the stone beasts
until the dawn breaks.”
* * * * *
The troublous joy of spring rose up in our faces as we leant over the
balustrade towards the sloping garden. A kind of quivering atmosphere
enveloped us with the swiftness of a fever poison, and the sensation
was so strong as to paralyse the nerves. The pupils of our eyes became
fixed, our eyelids were lowered as if sleep were gliding over us. My
soul within me was heavy like a cloud.