My first recollection is as follows:
It was in April. For several days, during the festivities of the
Pentecost, Juliana and I and our two little daughters, Maria and
Natalia, had been in the country, at my mother's house, a roomy old
place known as the Badiola. It was the seventh year of our marriage.
Three years had already slipped by since another Pentecost which, passed
in that villa, white and isolated as a monastery, and embalmed with
tufts of violets, had seemed to me a veritable festival of pardon,
peace, and love. At that time Natalia, the second of my little girls,
barely emerged from swaddling clothes like a flower from its envelope,
was learning to walk; and Juliana was very good and indulgent with me,
although there was a shade of melancholy in her smile. I had come back
to her, repentant and submissive, after the first serious infidelity.
My mother, who knew nothing of what had happened, had tied with her dear
hands a sprig of olive at the head of our bed, and filled the little
silver holy-water dish hanging on the wall.
But what had not happened in three years! Between Juliana and myself
the breach was henceforth definitive and irreparable. I had gone on
wronging her repeatedly; I had insulted her in the most outrageous
manner without regard for her feelings, without restraint, carried away
by an appetite greedy for pleasure, by the vertigo of my passions, by
the curiosity of my corrupted mind. I had had as mistresses two of her
intimate friends; I had spent several weeks at Florence with Teresa
Raffo, shamelessly; I had fought with the false Count Raffo a duel in
which my unfortunate adversary covered himself with ridicule owing to
certain bizarre circumstances. And nothing of all this had remained
unknown to Juliana; and she had suffered, but with much pride, and
almost without saying anything.
We had only had on this subject a few very short interviews, at which I
did not tell a single falsehood. It seemed to me that my sincerity
would attenuate my fault in the eyes of this sweet and noble woman, who
I knew had a superior mind.
I knew also that she recognized my intellectual superiority and that she
excused in part the disorders of my conduct by the specious theories
that, more than once, I had aired in her presence, to the great
detriment of the moral doctrines that the majority of men profess to
believe in. The conviction that she would not judge me like any ordinary
man lightened my conscience of the weight of my errors. "She, too,
understands," I thought, "that, since I am different from others, since
I have a different conception of life, I have the right to elude the
duties that others would impose on me. I have the right to despise the
opinions of others, and to lead with absolute sincerity the only life
possible to my higher nature."
I had the conviction of being not only a higher nature, but also a rare
intelligence; and I believed that the rarity of my sensations and my
feelings ennobled, distinguished, all my acts. Proud and curious of
this rarity of mine, I was incapable of conceiving the slightest
sacrifice, the slightest abnegation of myself; I was incapable of
renouncing the expression, the manifestation of one of my desires. But,
at the bottom of all my subtilties, there was only a terrible egotism
that caused me to neglect my duties, while at the same time I accepted
the benefits of my situation.
Insensibly, in fact, from one abuse to another, I had succeeded in
reconquering my old-time liberty, even with Juliana's consent, without
hypocrisy, without subterfuge, without degrading lies. I made a study
of being loyal, no matter at what cost, as others make a study of
deception.
At all times, I strove to confirm, between Juliana and myself, the new
pact of fraternal affection and pure friendship. She was to be my
sister, the best of my friends.
My sister, my only sister, Constance, had died when she was nine years
old, leaving in my heart infinite regret. I often thought, with profound
melancholy, of that little soul who had not been able to offer me the
treasure of her tenderness, a treasure that I dreamed inexhaustible.
Among all human affections, among all earthly loves, that of a sister
had always seemed to me the highest and the most consoling. I often
thought of that lost great consolation, and the irrevocableness of death
added a sort of mystery to my pain. Where can one, on earth, find
another sister?
Spontaneously, this sentimental aspiration turned towards Juliana.
Too proud to accept a division, she had already renounced all caresses,
all abandon. And I, for some time past, no longer felt a shade of
sensual disturbance when near her. In vain I felt her breath on my
cheek, respired her perfume, looked at the little brown mole on her
neck. I remained absolutely cold. It seemed impossible to me that this
was the same woman.
I then offered to become a brother to her; and she accepted, without
affectation. If she were sad, I myself was still more so in thinking
that our love was buried forever and without hope of resurrection, in
thinking that our lips doubtless would never, never meet again.
And, in the blindness of my egotism, it seemed to me that at heart she
ought to be grateful to me for this sadness, which I felt was already
incurable; it seemed to me that she ought to be pleased at it and find a
consolation in it, as if with a reflection of our past love.
There had been a time when we both dreamed, not only of love, but of
passion until death--_usque ad mortem_. We had both believed in our
dream--and more than once, during our moments of ecstasy, we had uttered
the great illusionary words: _Always! never!_ We had ended by believing
in the affinity of our flesh, in that affinity so rare, so mysterious,
which binds two human creatures together by the frightful bond of
insatiable desire. We believed so because the acuteness of our
sensations had not diminished even after, by the creation of a new
being, the obscure Genius of the Species had attained, by means of our
persons, his unique object.
Then the illusion had faded away; the flame had gone out. My soul--I
swear it--had sincerely wept over the catastrophe. But how to prevent a
necessary phenomenon? How to avoid the inevitable?
It was, therefore, very fortunate that, after the death of our love,
caused by the fatal necessity of the phenomenon, and consequently by the
fault of neither of us, we were able to go on living in the same house,
bound by a new sentiment, which was perhaps not less profound than the
old one, and which, assuredly, was higher and more singular. It was
very fortunate that a new illusion could replace the old one, and
establish between our souls an exchange of pure affections, delicate
emotions, and exquisite sadness.
But, in reality, what was to be the end of this species of platonic
rhetoric? To induce the victim to smilingly consent to her own
immolation.
In reality, our new existence, henceforth fraternal and no longer
conjugal, was based entirely on this hypothesis: that the _sister_
should make complete abnegation of herself. I myself resumed my liberty,
I could go in quest of those new sensations which my nerves needed, I
could feel passion for another woman, devote to my mistress all the time
that I liked, live away from home a strange and ardent existence, and
then return, find there again the _sister_ who was awaiting me, see
everywhere in my rooms visible traces of her care: on my table, a vase
full of roses that her hands had arranged; on all sides order,
refinement, and the radiant cleanliness of a place in which lives a
Grace. Was not that an enviable condition for me? And was not she an
extraordinarily precious wife, who would consent to sacrifice her youth
to me and who considered herself well recompensed if only I pressed a
grateful and almost religious kiss on her proud and gentle brow?
At times my gratitude became so warm that it took the form of an
infinity of attentions and affectionate greetings. I possessed the art
of being the best of brothers. When I was absent, I wrote Juliana long
letters full of melancholy and tenderness, which were often posted at
the same time as those addressed to my mistress. And my mistress could
not have been jealous of them any more than she could be jealous of my
adoration of Constance's memory.
All absorbed as I was by the intensity of my peculiar life, I could not
elude the problems which, at times, presented themselves to my mind.
That Juliana could continue her sacrifice with such marvellous strength,
she must love me with a sovereign love; but if she loved me and could be
only my _sister_, she must, without any possible doubt, bear in her soul
the secret of a mortal despair. Was not, therefore, any man a madman
who, without remorse, immolated to other loves, disturbed and
chimerical, this creature who smiled so sadly, and was so gentle and
brave? I remember (and I am surprised now at my perversity at that
time), I remember that, among the reasons that I advanced to calm
myself, the strongest was this one: "Since moral greatness results from
the violence of the sorrows over which one triumphs, it is necessary
that she should suffer all I make her suffer so that she may have an
opportunity to display her heroism."
But, one day, I noticed that she was also suffering in her health. I
perceived that her pale face was growing still whiter, and at times took
on livid tints. More than once I noticed on her face the contractions
of suppressed pain; more than once, in my presence, she was seized with
an irresistible trembling which shook her entire being and made her
teeth rattle as by the shiver of a sudden fever. One evening while she
was upstairs I heard her give a piercing cry. I ran to her and found
her standing upright, leaning against a cupboard, convulsed, writhing,
as if she had taken poison. She seized my hand, and held it tight as in
a vise.
"Tullio! Tullio! How horrible it is! Oh, how horrible it is!"
She looked at me, close to; she kept fixed upon me her dilated eyes,
which in the twilight seemed of unusual size. And in those large orbs I
saw pass something like the waves of some mysterious agony. That
persistent, intolerable gaze suddenly filled me with a mad terror. It
was evening, twilight, and the window was open, and the swollen curtains
shook at the breath of the wind, and a candle was burning on a table,
before a mirror. And, I know not why, the shaking of the curtains, the
hopeless flickering of the tiny flame which reflected her paleness in
the glass, assumed in my mind a sinister significance, and increased my
terror. The idea of poison flashed across my mind. At that moment she
could not repress another cry, and, beside herself by the excess of
pain, she threw herself upon my breast distractedly.
"Oh! Tullio, Tullio! Help me, help me!"
Paralyzed with terror, I remained for a moment without power to utter a
word, without power to make a movement.
"What have you done, Juliana? What have you done? Speak, speak! What
have you done?"
Surprised at the great change in my voice, she drew back a little and
looked at me. My face must have been whiter and more upset than hers;
for she replied quickly, in a rambling way:
"Nothing, nothing, Tullio! Don't be frightened. See, it's
nothing--only one of my usual spells. You know--it will soon be
over--don't be alarmed."
But, seized by the terrible suspicion, I doubted her words. It seemed
to me that all around revealed to me the tragic event and that an inner
voice repeated: "_It's for you, for you, that she wanted to die; it's
you, you, who have urged her on towards death._" And I took her hands,
and I felt they were cold, and I saw a bead of sweat running down her
brow.
"No, no," I cried; "you're deceiving me. For pity's sake, Juliana, my
cherished soul, speak, speak! Tell me, have you-- Oh! for pity's sake,
tell me, have you taken----"
And my horrified eyes sought all around, on the furniture, on the
carpet, everywhere, for some sign.
Then she understood. Again she let herself fall on my breast, and
shuddering, making me shudder, she said to me her mouth against my
shoulder (never, never, shall I forget that indefinable tone), she said
to me:
"No, no, no, Tullio; no!"
Ah! what else in the world can equal the vertiginous acceleration of our
inner life? We remained in this attitude in the middle of the room,
silent; and, in a single moment, the inconceivable immensity of a
universe of feelings and thoughts surged up in me with frightful
distinctness. "_And if it were true?_" demanded the voice; "_if it were
true?_"
Continual starts shook Juliana against my breast--she still kept her
face hidden; and I myself knew well that, in spite of the sufferings of
her poor flesh, she thought only of the possibility of the deed I had
suggested--she thought only of my mad terror.
A question rose to my lips: "Have you ever been _tempted?_" Then
another: "Is there a possibility of your giving way to the
_temptation?_" I did not give expression to either of them, and yet it
seemed to me that she understood. From then on, we were both under the
empire of this thought of death, this picture of death; we both were
subjected to a kind of tragic exaltation which made us forget the moment
of doubt in which it was born, and lose consciousness of the real. All
at once she burst into sobs, and her tears provoked my tears. We
mingled our tears, such hot tears, alas! which yet were powerless to
change our destiny.
I knew later that, for several months already, she had been tormented
with complicated internal troubles, those terrible occult maladies
which, in the woman, disturb all the vital functions. The doctor whom I
consulted gave me to understand that another pregnancy might be fatal to
her.
This grieved me, and, nevertheless, relieved me from two sources of
anxiety. I was convinced that I had nothing to do with Juliana's
decline, and I had an excuse in my mother's eyes for our separate beds
and all the other changes that had taken place in our domestic life.
About that time my mother was coming to Rome from the country, where,
since my father's death, she passed the greater part of the year with my
brother Federico.
My mother was very fond of her young daughter-in-law. In her eyes
Juliana was truly the ideal wife, the companion of whom she had dreamed
for her son. She did not believe that anywhere in the world there was a
more beautiful, more gentle, more noble woman than Juliana. She could
not conceive that I could desire other women, abandon myself in other
arms, sleep upon other hearts. As she had been loved for twenty years
by a man, always with the same devotion, with the same fidelity, until
death, she was ignorant of the lassitude, the disgust, the treachery,
and all the miseries and all the shames that the conjugal alcove
shelters. She was ignorant of the wounds that I had inflicted and that
I was still inflicting on this dear soul which did not deserve them.
Deceived by Juliana's generous dissimulation, she still believed in our
felicity. How it would have grieved her had she known the truth!
At that period I was still under the domination of Teresa Raffo, whose
violent and empoisoned charms evoked in me the image of Menippo's
mistress. Do you remember what Appollonius says to Menippo in the
ravishing poem: "O beautiful young man, thou art caressing a serpent; a
serpent is caressing thee!"
Chance favored me. The death of an aunt compelled Teresa to leave Rome
and to remain absent some time. I was then able by unusual assiduity
when with my wife to fill the great void that the departure of the
"Biondissima" left in my days. The disturbance which had taken place in
me that evening had not yet been quieted. Since that evening there
floated between Juliana and myself something new, indefinable.
As her physical suffering increased, my mother and I were able, not
without great difficulty, to secure her consent to the surgical
operation necessitated by her condition. After the operation she was
confined to her bed for thirty or forty days and compelled to take the
greatest precautions during her convalescence. Already the poor
invalid's nerves were extremely weak and irritable. The preparations,
long and wearisome, exhausted and exasperated her so much that, more
than once, she tried to throw herself out of bed, to revolt, to escape
the brutal punishment which violated her, humiliated her, degraded her.
"Tell me," she said to me one day with bitterness, "aren't you disgusted
with me when you think of it? Oh, how horrible it is!"
And she made a gesture of repugnance at herself, frowned, then was
silent.
Another day as I entered her room she cried:
"Go away, go away, Tullio! Please go away! You can come back when I'm
better. If you stay here you'll hate me. I'm odious now, odious--don't
look at me."
Sobs choked her. The same day, a few hours later, while I was standing
by her bedside in silence, because I thought she was about to doze off,
she let fall these obscure words, pronounced with the strange tone of
someone speaking in his sleep:
"Yes, really, I did it. It was a good idea----"
"What are you saying, Juliana?"
She did not reply.
"What are you thinking of, Juliana?"
She replied only by a contraction of her mouth, which was meant to be a
smile.
I believed I understood. And a tumultuous wave of regret, tenderness,
and pity assailed me. I would have given everything so that at that
moment she could have read in my soul, that she could have observed
there in its plenitude my inexpressible and consequently vain emotion.
"Forgive me! Forgive me! Tell me what I must do to obtain my
forgiveness, to make you forget all the pain I have caused you.... I
will come back to you, I will be entirely yours, forever. It is you,
you alone whom I have truly loved; you are the only love of my life. My
soul ceaselessly turns towards you, and seeks you, and regrets you. I
swear it! When away from you I have never felt sincere joy, I have
never had an instant of complete forgetfulness. Never, never! I swear
it! You alone, of all the women in the world, are the living expression
of goodness and gentleness. You are the best and the sweetest creature
that I have ever dreamed of. You are the Unique! And yet I have
offended you, I have caused you to suffer, I have made you think of
death as a desirable thing! Oh! you will pardon me; but I--I can never
forgive myself. You, you will forget; but I, I shall not forget. I
shall always be in my own eyes an unworthy being, and the devotion of
all my life will not seem a sufficient reparation. Henceforth, as
formerly, you will be my mistress, my friend, my sister; as formerly,
you will be my guardian and my adviser. I will tell you everything, I
will reveal everything to you. You will be my soul. And you will get
better. It is I who will cure you. You will see how tender your doctor
will be to you. Oh, you already know his tenderness. Remember,
remember! Then, too, you were ill, and you wouldn't have any other
doctor than me. And I did not leave your bedside night or day. And you
used to say: 'Juliana _will always remember_, always!' And you had
tears in your eyes and I drank them, trembling. Saint! Saint!
Remember. When you can get up, when you are convalescent, we'll go back
there, we'll return to the Lilacs. You will still be a little weak, but
you'll feel so well! And I, I shall feel once more my old-time gayety
and I will make you smile, I will make you laugh. You yourself will
have once more your sweet bursts of joy that rejuvenated my heart, you
will have once more your exquisite girl-like airs, and you'll wear once
more on your shoulders that plait of hair which pleased me so much. We
are young. We can, if you wish it, reconquer happiness. We'll
live--yes--we'll live...." That is how I spoke inwardly; but the words
did not issue from my lips. It was in vain that I was moved and that my
eyes became moist; I knew that my emotion was temporary, that these
promises were deceptive. I knew also that Juliana would not entertain
any illusions and that she would reply by that feeble and distrustful
smile which, at other times, I had already noticed on her lips. That
smile meant: "Yes, I know, you are good and you would like to spare me
pain; but you are not master of yourself, you cannot resist the
fatalities that control you. Why should I blind my eyes to the truth?"
That day I said nothing; and the days that followed, in spite of the
frequent return of the same confused impulse of repentance, vague
intentions, and dreams, I did not dare to speak. "To come back to her,
you must abandon those things you delight in, that woman who corrupts
you. Have you the strength to do it?" I replied to myself: "Who knows?"
And I waited from day to day for the strength that did not come; I
waited from day to day for some event, without knowing what, that could
determine my resolution, render it inevitable. My mind pictured our new
life, the slow reblossoming of our legitimate love, the strange savor of
certain sensations renewed. "We'll go back there, to the Lilacs, to the
house where still linger our sweetest memories; we'll be there alone,
all alone, because Maria and Natalia would stay with my mother at the
Badiola." The weather would be mild and the invalid would not leave the
support of my arms, in those familiar paths where each of our footsteps
would awaken a souvenir. At certain moments her pale face would suddenly
be covered with a faint flush, and we should both feel a little timidity
in each other's presence; at others, we should seem preoccupied; at
others, we should avoid each other's gaze. Why? Finally, one day, the
suggestion of the spot would master us, and I should be bold enough to
speak to her of the early days. "Do you remember? Do you remember?"
And, little by little, we should both feel the disturbance grow and
become unbearable; we should both at the same time clasp each other in a
wild embrace, we should kiss each other on the mouth, we should feel
about to faint. She would faint, yes; and I would lift her in my arms,
I would call her by the names that a supreme tenderness would suggest to
me. Her eyes would reopen, all the veils would be lifted from her gaze,
and, for an instant, her very soul would be riveted on me: she would
appear to me transfigured. Then the old ardor would retake possession
of us, we should reenter into the great illusion. We should both have
but a unique and incessant thought; we should be tormented by
inexpressible uneasiness. I should ask her, my voice trembling: "_Are
you better?_" And, by its tone, she would understand the question that
this question concealed; and she would reply, without succeeding in
dissimulating a thrill: "_Not yet._" And in the evening, when we left
each other and each retired to a separate chamber, we should feel as if
dying of anguish. But, one morning, with an unexpected glance, her eyes
would say to me: "_To-day, to-day_..." And, in the terror of this
divine and terrible moment, she would take some childish pretext to flee
from me. She would say to me: "_Let us go out, let us go out_." We
would go out, on a grayish, cloudy, oppressive afternoon. The walk
would tire us. Drops of rain, warm as tears, would begin to fall on our
hands and faces. I would say to her in a changed voice: "_Let us go
home_." And, on the threshold, unexpectedly I would seize her in my
arms, I would feel her abandon herself almost fainting in my arms, I
would carry her upstairs without perceiving her weight. It is so long
ago--so long ago! And our beings, under the shock of a divine and
terrible sensation, never experienced before, never before imagined,
would be utterly exhausted. And, afterwards, she would appear to me
almost as if she were dying, her face all bathed in tears, as white as
her pillow.
Ah! that is how she appeared to me, it was dying that I saw her, the
morning when the doctors put her to sleep with chloroform; and she,
feeling that she was slowly sinking into the insensibility of death,
tried two or three times to stretch out her arms to me, tried to call
me. I left the room, completely overcome. For two long hours, endless
hours, I waited, exasperating my suffering by excessive imagination.
And my man's being felt a pang of hopeless pity for that poor creature
whom the surgeon's steel was violating, not only in her poor flesh, but
in the most sacred recesses of her soul, in the most delicate sentiment
that a woman can defend--pity for her, and also for the others, for all
those tormented by indefinite aspirations towards the idealities of
love, abused by the captious dream with which virile desire surrounds
them, insensibly captivated with a higher life, but so weak, so sickly,
so imperfect, irremediably equal to the females of the beasts by the
laws of nature which impose on them the duties of the Species, afflict
them with horrible maladies, leave them exposed to all kinds of
degeneration. And then, shuddering in every fibre, I saw in them, I saw
in all of them, with frightful lucidity the original wound...."
When I reentered Juliana's room she was still under the influence of the
anaesthetic, unconscious, silent, still, like a dying woman. My mother
was very pale and very much excited. But it seemed that the operation
was a success. The doctors appeared pleased. The assistant surgeon was
rolling a bandage. Things gradually began to be orderly and quiet
again.
The invalid remained a long time unconscious, and a slight fever set in.
In the night she was taken with spasms; laudanum did not quiet her. I
was nearly frantic; the spectacle of these horrible sufferings made me
think that she was going to die. I no longer know either what I said or
what I did. I suffered with her.
The following day the condition of the patient improved; then, from day
to day, the improvement continued. Her strength came back very slowly.
I did not quit her bedside. I showed a kind of ostentation in recalling
to her, by my acts, the nurse of the old days; but my actual feeling was
very different. It was not always the feeling of a _brother_ only. It
often happened to me that my mind was preoccupied with a phrase written
by my mistress, at the very moment that I was reading to her some
chapter from one of her favorite books. I did not succeed in forgetting
the Absent. Nevertheless, when in replying to a letter I felt myself a
little distracted and almost bored, during those strange respites that
are still left to us by a strong passion the object of which is far from
us, I thought I recognized by this sign that I no longer loved, and I
repeated to myself: "Who knows?"
One day, in my presence, my mother said to Juliana:
"When you are up, when you can walk, we'll all go together to the
Badiola; won't we, Tullio?"
Juliana looked at me.
"Yes, mother," I replied, without hesitation, without reflection. "But
first, Juliana and I will go to the Lilacs."
And she looked at me again, and she smiled, an unexpected, indescribable
smile, with an almost infantile expression of credulity. It looked like
the smile of a sick baby to whom has been made a great promise which it
did not hope for. And she lowered her eyelids; but she continued to
smile, and her half-closed eyes seemed to contemplate something, far
away, very far. And the smile faded away, faded away, without
disappearing.
How she pleased me then! How I adored her at that moment! How I felt
that nothing in the world equals the simple emotion of kindness!
Infinite kindness emanated from this creature, penetrated all my being,
filled my heart. She was lying on the bed, supported by two or three
pillows; her face, amid the mass of untied brown hair, seemed of
extraordinarily delicate mould, a sort of visible immateriality. She
had on a night-dress tightly closed at the neck, tight around the
wrists, and her hands rested flat on the counterpane, so pale that they
were only distinguishable from the linen by the blue of their veins.
I took one of these hands (my mother had just left the room), and I said
in a low tone:
"So we'll return there--to the Lilacs."
"Yes," replied the invalid.
And we became silent, to prolong our emotion, to preserve our illusion.
We both knew the profound meaning concealed under these few whispered
words. A sagacious instinct warned us not to insist, not to define
anything, not to go too far. If we had said a word more we should have
found ourselves face to face with the exclusive realities of the
illusion on which our souls existed and in which, imperceptibly, they
lost themselves with rapturous dreams.
One afternoon--we were almost always alone--we were reading, stopping
every now and then, bent together over the same page, and following the
same lines with our eyes. It was a volume of poetry, and we were giving
to the verses an intensity of meaning which they did not possess.
Silent ourselves, we spoke to each other by the mouth of the poet. I
myself marked with my nail the lines which seemed to interpret to my
thoughts:
Je veux, guide par vous, beaux yeux aux flammes douces,
Par toi conduit, o main ou tremblera ma main,
Marcher droit, que ce soit par des sentiers de mousses
Ou que rocs et cailloux encombrent le chemin,
Oui, je veux marcher droit et calme dans la Vie ...
And she, after reading, sank back for an instant on her pillows, her
eyes closed, and with an almost imperceptible smile on her lips pointed
to the passage:
Toi la bonte, toi le sourire,
N'es-tu pas le conseil aussi,
Le bon conseil loyal et brave ...
But on her breast I saw the batiste follow the rhythm of respiration
with an easy grace which began to disturb as also the feeble perfume of
iris which was exhaled by bedclothes and pillows. I hoped and I
expected that seized by a sudden languor, she would put her arm around
my neck and put her cheek to mine, so close that I could feel myself
touched by the corner of her mouth. She laid her slender thumb on the
book, and with her nail made a mark on the margin, guiding my emotion:
La voix vous fut connue (et chere?),
Mais, a present, elle est voilee
Comme une veuve desolee...
Elle dit, la voix reconnue,
Que la bonte, c'est notre vie...
Elle parle aussi de la gloire,
D'etre simple sans plus attendre,
Et de noces d'or, et du tendre
Bonheur d'une paix sans victoire.
Acceuillez la voix qui persiste
Dans son naif epithalame.
Allez, rien n'est meilleur a l'ame
Que de faire une ame moins triste!
I seized her wrist, and, slowly, I lowered my head until I touched with
my lips the hollow of her hand; and I murmured:
"Could you--forget?"
She closed my mouth and uttered her great word:
"Silence!"
At that moment my mother came in to announce the visit of Signora
Talice. I noticed Juliana's impatient little gesture, and I felt
irritated myself against the importunate visitor. Juliana sighed:
"Oh! _mio Dio!_"
"Tell her that Juliana is sleeping," I suggested to my mother in an
almost supplicating tone.
She made me a sign that the visitor was waiting in the adjoining room.
We must see her.
This Signora Talice was a spiteful and fastidious gossip. Every few
moments she glanced at me with curiosity. In the course of conversation,
my mother happened to say that I had sat with the invalid all day almost
without interruption, and Signora Talice, looking fixedly at me, said in
a tone of manifest irony:
"What an ideal husband!"
She finally irritated me so that I found a pretext to leave the room.
I left the house. On the steps I met Maria and Natalia coming in with
their governess. As usual they assailed me with an infinity of
caresses, and Maria, the elder, handed me several letters that the
janitor had given her. Among them I suddenly recognized the letter of
the Absent. And then I escaped from their caresses with a sort of
impatience. As soon as I was in the street I stopped to read.
It was a short letter, but full of passion, with two or three of those
singularly incisive phrases that Teresa knew how to write when she
wished to disturb me. She announced her return to Florence on the
twentieth to the twenty-sixth of that month, and said she hoped to meet
me as before. She promised to furnish me with more precise particulars
concerning the rendezvous.
In a second all the phantoms of the recent illusions and emotions became
detached from my mind like the flowers of a tree shaken by a gust of
wind. And, as the fallen flowers are forever lost to the tree, so these
things of the soul were lost to me. They became foreign to my being. I
made an effort, I tried to regain possession of myself; I did not
succeed. I began to walk through the streets, aimlessly; I entered the
shop of a confectioner, I entered a book-shop; I bought bonbons and
books, mechanically. Twilight fell; the street lamps were lighted; the
pavements were crowded; two or three ladies bowed to me from their
carriages; one of my friends passed quickly, laughing and talking with
his mistress, who held a bunch of roses in her hand. The maleficent
breath of fashionable life penetrated me, awakened my curiosity, my
desires, my jealousies. My blood seemed suddenly aflame. Certain
images, extraordinarily distinct, passed before my mind like a lightning
flash. The Absent regained possession of me merely by certain
"expressions" of her letter, and all my desires went out towards her,
madly.
But when the first tumult was appeased, while I was re-ascending the
steps of my house, I understood the gravity of what had taken place, of
what I had done; I understood that, a few hours before, I had
effectively tightened the bond, I had pledged my faith, I had given a
promise, a tacit but solemn promise, to a creature still weak and ill. I
could not break my word without infamy, and I was conscious of it. Then
I was sorry I had not mistrusted this deceitful compassion; I was sorry
I had dwelt too long on this sentimental languor! And I examined
minutely my acts, my words, of that day, with the cold subtilty of a
dishonest tradesman who seeks a quarrel in order to avoid the
obligations of a contract he has made. My last words had been too
serious. That "Could you forget?" pronounced in that tone, after the
reading of those verses, had had the value of a definite understanding.
And that "Silence!" of Juliana had been the seal of the contract.
"But," I thought, "was she really convinced, this time, of my
repentance? Has she not always been a little sceptical concerning my
good impulses?" And I saw once more that weak and unbelieving smile
that, on former occasions, I had already noticed on her lips. "If in
the secret recesses of her heart she had not believed, or, again, if her
illusion had suddenly faded away, then perhaps my retraction would be
less serious, would not greatly wound her or offend her. There would
merely have been an episode without consequence, and I should resume my
former liberty. The Lilacs would still be a dream to her." But then I
saw the other smile, that new, unexpected, credulous smile which had
appeared on her lips at the mention of the Lilacs. What could I do?
What should I decide? What attitude should I take? Teresa Raffo's
letter had the same effect on me as a severe burn.
When I reentered Juliana's room, I noticed at once that _she was waiting
for me_. She seemed pleased. Her eyes shone brilliantly. Her cheeks
had more color.
"Wherever have you been?" she asked, laughing.
"Signora Talice drove me away," I replied.
She laughed again, a limpid and young laugh which transfigured her. I
held out to her the books and the box of sweetmeats.
"For me?" she cried joyously, like a greedy child.
And she hastened to open the box with graceful little gestures, which
aroused in my mind fragments of distant memories.
"For me?"
She took a bonbon, made a motion as if about to carry it to her mouth,
hesitated a little, let it fall back, thrust aside the box, and said:
"Later, later----"
"You know, Tullio," explained my mother, "she's not eaten anything yet.
She wanted to wait for you."
"Oh, I haven't told you yet," interrupted Juliana, her face flushing.
"I haven't told you yet that the doctor came during your absence. He
said I am much better. I may get up on Thursday. You understand,
Tullio? I may get up on Thursday."
Then she added:
"In ten or fifteen days, at the most, I shall even be able to undertake
a journey."
After a moment's reverie she added, in a lower tone:
"The Lilacs!"
So that had been the unique object of her thoughts, the unique object of
her dreams! She _had_ believed; she _believed_. I had difficulty in
dissimulating my anguish. I busied myself, perhaps with excessive
eagerness, with the preparations for her little dinner. It was I who
put the portable table on her knees.
She followed all my movements with a caressing look that pained me.
"Ah! if she could guess!" All at once my mother exclaimed naively:
"How beautiful you are to-night, Juliana!"
In fact, an extraordinary animation lit up her features, brightened her
eyes, completely rejuvenated her. My mother's exclamation made her
blush, and during the whole evening her cheeks preserved a reflection of
that redness. She repeated:
"On Thursday I will get up. Thursday--in three days! I shan't know how
to walk any more----"
She spoke persistently of her recovery, of our approaching departure.
She asked my mother for news of the villa, of the garden.
"I planted a willow branch near the basin, the last time I was there.
Do you remember, Tullio? Who knows if we shall find it again----"
"Yes," replied my mother, beaming; "yes, you will find it again. It has
grown since then; it is a tree now. Ask Federico."
"Really? Really? Tell me, mother----"
It seemed as if at that moment this trifling detail had incalculable
importance in her eyes. She began to prattle. And I was astonished
that she could venture so far into the illusion. I wondered at the
transfiguration that was the result of her dream. "Why, this time, _has
she believed_? How comes it that she permits herself this transport?
What gives her this unusual confidence?" And the thought of my
approaching infamy, inevitable perhaps, froze the blood in my veins.
"Why inevitable? Shall I never be able to free myself, then? _I must,
I must_ keep my promise. My mother was a witness of my promise. I will
keep it at any cost." And, with an inward effort, I might say with an
upheaval of my conscience, I emerged from the tumult of my
uncertainties, and I went back to Juliana by a sudden conversion of my
soul.
I found her as charming as ever, full of animation, life and youth. She
reminded me of the Juliana of former days--the Juliana who, so often,
amidst the calm of domestic life, I had suddenly taken in my arms, as if
in a sudden frenzy.
"No, no, mother; do not make me drink any more," she pleaded, staying
the hand of my mother, who was pouring out some wine for her. "I have
already drunk too much without noticing it. What delicious Chablis it
is! Do you remember, Tullio?"
She laughed, looking straight at me as she recalled the love memories
over which floated the delicate vapor of that pale, slightly bitter
wine, her favorite beverage.
"Yes, I remember," I replied.
She half-closed her eyes, with a slight trembling of the lashes. Then
she said:
"It's warm, isn't it? My ears are burning."
She took her head between her hands to feel how hot it was. The lamp,
placed near the bed, threw a bright light on her long profile, causing
to glitter the few golden threads in the depths of her hair, where the
delicate and tiny ear peeped out. While I helped to clear the table (my
mother and the servant had gone out for a moment and were in an
adjoining room), she called me in a low voice:
"Tullio!"
And, drawing me furtively to her, she kissed my cheek.
Did she not mean by this kiss to reclaim me entirely, body and soul,
forever? Did not such an act, coming from her, so reserved and proud,
signify that she wished to forget all, that she had already forgotten
all, so as to live once more a new life with me? How could she have
yielded to my love with more grace, with greater confidence? In an
instant, the sister became once more the lover. The impeccable sister
had retained in her blood and in the depths of her veins the memory of
my caresses, the organic recollection of sensations so vivid and
tenacious in women. In thinking of it again when I found myself alone,
I had a fleeting vision of distant days, of evenings long gone by. A
June twilight, warm and roseate, in which floated mysterious perfumes,
dangerous to the solitary, to those who regret, or those who desire. I
enter the room. She is seated near the window with a book on her knees,
very, very pale, in the attitude of one about to faint.
"Juliana!" She shudders and recovers herself. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," she answers. But an indefinable change, as if she were
undergoing an inward struggle to repress something, passed in her black
eyes. How many times had her poor flesh been compelled to suffer these
tortures since the day of the sad renouncement! My mind dwelt upon the
images raised by the recent trifling incident. The singular excitement
displayed by Juliana reminded me again of divers exhibitions of her
physical and extraordinarily acute sensibility. Perhaps the malady had
increased, had provoked this sensibility. And I, curious and perverse,
thought I should be able to see the fragile life of the convalescent
inflame and dissolve under my caresses; I thought, too, that this
voluptuousness would have, as it were, a flavor of sin. "If she died
from it," I thought. Certain words of the surgeon recurred to me in a
sinister way. And, because of the cruelty that is at the heart of every
sensual man, the peril, instead of frightening me, attracted me. I
lingered over this examination of my feelings with that species of
bitter complaisance, mixed with disgust, that I brought to bear upon the
analysis of all the inner manifestations in which I believed I
discovered a proof of the natural wickedness of man. Why does human
nature possess that horrible faculty of feeling acute pleasure when one
knows one is harming the creature who gives the pleasure? Why is the
germ of this execrable sadic perversion to be found in every man who
loves and desires?
It was these unhealthy reflections, rather than the first instinctive
impulse of kindness and pity, that strengthened during the night my
plans in favor of the Abused. Even from a distance, the Absent still
empoisoned me. To conquer the resistance of my egotism, it was
necessary for me to oppose to the thought of the delicious depravity of
that woman the image of a new depravity, very choice, that I promised
myself to cultivate at leisure in the virtuous security of my own house.
Then, with the alchemistic talent that I possessed for combining the
several products of my mind, I analyzed the series of the characteristic
states of soul determined in me by Juliana at the various epochs of our
common existence, and I drew from it certain elements that I used in the
construction of a new, artificial state, singularly appropriate for
increasing the intensity of the sensations that I wished to experience.
Thus, for instance, with the object of rendering still more acute the
savor of the sin that attracted me and exalted my wicked phantasy, I
sought to picture to myself the moments in which I had most deeply
expressed the fraternal feeling, the moments in which Juliana had seemed
most like a sister.
And he who dwelt on these wretched maniacal subtleties was the man who,
a few hours before, had felt his heart palpitate with a simple emotion
of kindness at the glimmer of an unexpected smile! These contradictory
crises made up his life--an illogical, fragmentary, incoherent life.
There were in him all kinds of tendencies, the possibility of every
opposite, and, between these opposites, an infinity of intermediary
degrees, and, between these tendencies, an infinity of combinations.
According to the weather and according to the place, according to the
accidental shock of circumstances, of an insignificant fact, of a word,
according to the inner influences, even still more obscure, the
permanent basis of his being assumed the most changing, the most
fugitive, the strangest aspects. In him a special organic condition
corresponded to every special tendency while strengthening it, and this
tendency became a centre of attraction toward which converged all the
conditions and tendencies directly associated, and the association
spread further and further. Then his centre of gravity was displaced;
his personality was changed to another personality. Silent floods of
blood and ideas caused to blossom on the permanent basis of his being,
either gradually or all at once, new souls. He became _multanime_.