The following morning, on awakening, I retained only a confused notion
of all that had happened. Cowardice and anguish seized upon me again,
just as soon as I had before my eyes a second letter from Teresa Raffo,
who decided upon the 21st for our meeting at Florence and gave me
precise instructions. The 21st was a Sunday, and on Thursday, the 18th,
Juliana rose for the first time. I argued for a long time with myself
all the possibilities, and, arguing, I began to compromise. "There is
certainly no doubt about it; the rupture is necessary, inevitable. But
how to break off? Under what pretext? Can I announce my decision to
Teresa in a mere letter? My last letter to her was still warm with
passion, filled with longing. How can I justify the sudden change?
Does the poor woman deserve so unexpected and brutal a blow? She has
loved me much, she loves me still, and there was a time when she braved
dangers for my sake. And I too have loved her.... I still love her.
Our passion, powerful and strange, is known; she is envied, and she is
also watched. How many men aspire to take my place! Too numerous to
count." In making a rapid review of my most redoubtable rivals, of my
most probable successors, I pictured to myself their forms. "Is there
in Rome a woman more blonde, more fascinating, more desirable than she?"
The same sudden fire that had heated my blood the evening before gushed
through every vein, and the idea of voluntarily renouncing her seemed to
me absurd, inadmissible. "No, no; I shall never have the courage; I
never will and never can."
This tumult calmed, I followed my useless debate, at the same time
retaining the conviction in the depths of my being that, when the hour
came, it would be impossible for me not to go. Yet I had the courage,
when I quitted Juliana's room still vibrating with emotion, I had the
supreme courage to write to her who claimed me: "I will not come." I
invented a pretext; and, I remember clearly, a kind of instinct made me
choose one that would not appear very important to her. "So you hope
that she will pay no attention to the pretext, and will command you to
go?" asked an inner voice. I found myself without an answer to this
sarcasm, and an irritation, an atrocious anxiety, took possession of me,
and gave me no more peace. I made unheard-of efforts to dissimulate in
the presence of Juliana and my mother; I carefully avoided being left
alone with the poor abused one; each moment I thought I read in her
gentle, humid eyes the shadow of a doubt, I thought I saw a cloud pass
over her pure brow.
On Wednesday I received an imperious and threatening telegram. Did I
not rather expect it? "Either you will come, or you will never see me
again. Answer." I answered: "I will come."
As soon as I had done it, under the impulse of that species of
unconscious superexcitation that, in life, accompanies every decisive
act, I found myself singularly solaced by the view of the determined
turn that events had taken. The feeling of my own irresponsibility, of
the necessity of what had occurred and what was about to happen, became
very profound. "If, though knowing all the evil that I do, though
condemning myself, I cannot act in any other manner, it is a sign that I
obey an unknown superior power. I am the victim of a cruel, ironical,
irresistible destiny."
Nevertheless, I had scarcely put foot on the threshold of Juliana's room
when I felt the pressure on my heart of an enormous weight, and I
stopped, swaying, between the portieres that hid me. "A look will
suffice her to divine all," I thought, desperate. And I was on the
point of turning back. But in a voice that had never before seemed so
gentle to me, she said:
"Is it you, Tullio?"
Then I advanced a step. She exclaimed, on seeing me:
"What ails you? Are you not well?"
"A dizziness ... It is already gone," I answered. And I felt reassured
on thinking: "She has not guessed."
In fact she had not the slightest suspicion; and it seemed to me strange
that it should be so. Should I prepare her for the brutal blow? Should
I speak frankly, or concoct some falsehood out of pity for her? Or
would it not be better to go away unexpectedly, without letting her
know, and leave a letter for her containing my confession? What was the
best way of rendering my effort less painful, of making her surprise
less cruel?
Alas! in this difficult debate, a grievous instinct inclined me to
consider my own comfort more than hers. And without the least doubt I
should have chosen the method of the sudden departure and the
explanatory letter, if I had not been prevented from doing so out of
regard for my mother. It was absolutely necessary to spare my mother,
always, at any cost. This time, too, I could not rid myself of the
inner sarcasm: "At _any_ cost. What generosity! But it is very easy for
you to return to the old conventions, and, further, very safe. This
time, also, if you exact it, the victim will endeavor to smile, while
she feels she is dying. Count on her, therefore, and do not concern
yourself about the rest, O generous heart!"
At times, truly, man finds a singular joy in feeling a sincere and
supreme contempt for himself.
"What are you thinking of, Tullio?" Juliana inquired of me with a naive
gesture, touching me between the eyebrows with the tip of her finger, as
if to arrest my thought.
I took her hand without replying. And my very silence, that appeared
grave to me, sufficed to modify anew the condition of my mind. There
was so much gentleness in the voice, in the gesture, of the poor deluded
woman that I became tender, and felt arise the enervating emotion that
causes tears to flow and which is called _pity for one's self_. I felt a
keen desire to be pitied. At the same time, an inner voice whispered:
"Profit by this disposition of your soul; but, for the time being,
reveal nothing. By slightly exaggerating, you will succeed in weeping,
without difficulty. You well know the prodigious effect on a woman of
the tears of a man whom she loves. Juliana will be distracted by them;
and you yourself will seem to be crushed by some terrible grief. Then,
to-morrow, when you tell her the truth, the recollection of your tears
will raise you in her regard. She may think: 'This is then the reason
why he wept yesterday. Poor fellow!' And it will be to your advantage
not to be taken for an odious egotist; on the contrary, people will
think that you have vainly fought with all your might against the evil
influences that have possession of you, and that you are afflicted with
some incurable malady, that you bear in your bosom a broken heart.
Profit, therefore, by the opportunity."
"Have you anything on your conscience?" asked Juliana, in a low,
caressing voice, full of confidence.
I bent my head, and, assuredly, was affected. But the preoccupation of
these _useful_ tears caused a diversion in my feelings by interrupting
the spontaneity, and, in consequence, retarded the physiological
phenomena of tears. "If I could not weep? Suppose the tears _do not
come?_" I thought with ridiculous and puerile fear, as if my fate
depended on this slight material fact that my will did not suffice to
produce. And yet a voice always the same whispered inwardly: "What a
mistake! What a mistake! No opportunity could be more propitious. One
can scarcely see one's self in this room. What effect sobbing would
have in the dark!"
"You do not answer me, Tullio," went on Juliana, after a short silence,
passing her hand over my face and through my hair to compel me to raise
my face. "You know you can tell me everything."
Ah! in truth, never since then have I heard a human voice of such
sweetness. Even my mother had never spoken to me like that.
My eyes became moist, and I felt between my lids the warmth of the
tears. "Quick, this is the moment, you must burst out." But it was
only a solitary tear. And (shall I make the humiliating confession? but
it is in the comedy of similar puerilities that the manifestations of
the major part of human emotions are lowered)--and I raised my face to
permit Juliana to notice it, and for an instant I felt an insane anxiety
because I feared that, in the dark, she would be unable to see the tear
glisten. To attract her attention to it I gave a deep sigh, as one does
when trying to repress a sob. Bringing her face close to mine, so as to
examine it more closely and made uneasy by my prolonged silence, she
repeated:
"You don't answer me?"
Then she noticed it; and to be more certain, she seized my head, and
drew it back with an almost brutal movement.
"You are crying."
Her voice had changed.
I freed myself as if confused. I rose to flee, like one who is no
longer master of an overflowing affliction.
"Adieu, adieu! Let me go. Adieu, Juliana!"
And I left the room precipitately.
When I was alone, I felt disgusted with myself.
It was the evening of the party given in honor of the invalid. A few
hours later, when I went back to her to be present as usual at her
slight meal, I found that my mother was with her. As soon as my mother
saw me she cried:
"Well, Tullio, to-morrow is the great day."
Juliana and I looked at each other, both of us anxious. Then we spoke of
the morrow, of the hour at which she should rise, of a thousand petty
details, but with a kind of effort. We were preoccupied. I wished
inwardly that my mother would not leave us alone.
I was fortunate; my mother left us only once, and came in again almost
immediately. In the interval, Juliana asked me rapidly:
"What was the matter with you a short time ago? Won't you tell me?"
"Nothing, nothing."
"See how you will spoil my pleasure!"
"No, no ... I'll tell you, I'll tell you ... later. Forget it for the
present, please."
My mother came in with Maria and Natalia. But the tone in which Juliana
had pronounced those few words sufficed to convince me that she
suspected nothing of the truth. Perhaps she supposed that my sorrow
arose from a sombre recollection of my ineffaceable and inexpiable past,
or supposed that I was tortured by remorse for having done her so much
wrong and by the fear of not deserving her full pardon.
The following morning, I was again much agitated. In obedience to her
wish I was waiting in an adjoining room, when I heard her call me in her
limpid tones:
"Come here, Tullio!"
I entered. She was standing up, and seemed taller, more svelte, more
fragile. Robed in a sort of ample and wavy tunic, with long straight
folds, she smiled, hesitating, scarcely able to stand, with her arms
stretched out as if to maintain her equilibrium, turning by turns toward
me and my mother.
My mother looked at her with an inexpressible expression of tenderness,
ready to give her support. I, too, stretched out my hands, ready to
support her.
"No, no, please," she said; "let me be, let me be. I am strong. I want
to walk all alone as far as the armchair."
She advanced one foot, and made a step slowly. Her face lit up with an
infantile joy.
"Take care, Juliana!"
She made two or three steps more; then, seized by a sudden fear, a
foolish dread that she was about to fall, she hesitated for an instant
between my mother and me, and ended by throwing herself in my arms, on
my breast, a dead weight, and trembling as if she were sobbing. On the
contrary, she was laughing, a little oppressed by her nervousness; and,
as she wore no corset, my hands felt through the dress how meagre and
frail she was, my breast felt each motion of the palpitating and sickly
form, my nostrils respired the perfume of her hair, my eyes recognized
the little brown mole upon her neck.
"I was afraid," she said in a gasp, laughing and panting; "I was afraid
I should fall."
And as she threw back her head without detaching herself from me so as
to look at my mother, I caught a slight view of her bloodless gums, the
whites of her eyes, and the convulsed appearance of her entire face. I
felt as though I were holding in my arms a poor, ill creature,
profoundly afflicted by her malady, with debilitated nerves,
impoverished veins, and perhaps incurable. But I thought again also of
her transfiguration, of the evening of the unexpected kiss; and the
labor of charity, of love, and of reform which I was renouncing once
more seemed to me a labor of sovereign beauty.
"Tullio, lead me to the arm-chair," she said.
Supporting her with my arm passed around her waist, I led her slowly and
gently; I helped her to sit in it; I arranged the down cushions at her
back, and I remember that I chose the cushion having the most exquisite
shade for her to lean her head upon. Then, in order to slip one beneath
her feet, I went down on my knees, and caught a glimpse of her gray
stocking, and her little slipper that hid only the tip of her foot. As
on _that evening_, she followed all my movements with affectionate
interest. I took a long time to do everything. I went up to a small
tea-table, placed on it a vase of fresh flowers, a book, and an ivory
paper-cutter. Without having premeditated it, I put into these
attentions a shade of affectation.
The ironical voice went on: "Very clever, very clever! Acting like this
before your mother will help you considerably. How could she suspect
anything after being a witness of such an exhibition of tenderness?
Besides, the shade of affectation won't be noticed; the poor woman is a
little short-sighted. Go on, go on. Everything is progressing
famously. Keep it up!"
"Oh, how nice it is here!" exclaimed Juliana, with a sigh of relief, and
half-closing her eyes. "Thank you, Tullio!"
A few minutes later, when my mother had gone out and we were alone, she
repeated, in a deeper tone: "Thank you!"
She raised a hand towards me so that I might take it in mine. As her
sleeve was large, the gesture exposed the arm almost as far as the
elbow. And that white and faithful hand, which offered me love,
indulgence, peace, dreamland, oblivion, all that is beautiful and all
that is good, trembled in the air a second, stretched towards me as if
making the supreme offering.
I believe that at the hour of death, at the precise instant when my
sufferings come to an end, it will be that gesture, only that one, that
I shall see; amid all the numberless images of my past life, I shall see
only that one gesture.
When I look back I do not succeed in reconstructing with exactitude the
state of soul in which I found myself. What I can affirm is, that again
at that moment I understood the extreme gravity of the situation, and
the prime importance of the acts that were being accomplished, or that
were about to be accomplished. I had, or I believed I had, perfect
lucidity. Two phenomena of my conscience were developing without
becoming confounded, perfectly distinct, parallel. In one of them
predominated, joined to pity for the poor creature whom I was on the
point of striking, a bitter sentiment of regret for the offering that I
was about to reject. In the other predominated, joined to the deep,
eager desire for the absent mistress, an egotistical sentiment that
busied itself in coldly examining the circumstances most suitable for
favoring my impunity. This parallelism gave to my inner life an
incredible intensity and acceleration.
The decisive hour had come. Having to start the following morning, I
could not temporize any longer. So that the affair should not seem too
ambiguous and altogether too sudden, I must prepare my mother for my
departure that very morning at breakfast, and allege some plausible
pretext. I must also tell Juliana, before telling my mother, so as to
prevent any possible contretemps. "And suppose Juliana should rebel?
Suppose, in a moment of grief and indignation, she reveals the truth to
my mother? How can I obtain from her a promise of silence, a new act of
abnegation?" Up to the last moment I argued with myself. "Will she
understand immediately, at the first word? And if she should not
understand? If she should innocently ask me the object of my journey?
What could I answer? But she will understand. It is impossible that
she has not already learned from one of her friends, from Signora
Talice, for instance, that Teresa Raffo has left Rome."
My strength began to give way. I could not have borne much longer the
crisis that became more acute each moment. With a contraction of all my
nerves, I came to a decision; and since she was speaking, I determined
that she herself should furnish me the opportunity for delivering the
blow.
She spoke of a thousand things, and especially of the future, with
unaccustomed volubility. That strange, convulsed appearance that I had
already noticed in her seemed more apparent. I was still standing
behind her chair; up to then I had avoided her eyes by adroit
manoeuvring in the room, remaining attentive behind her chair, busy
either in arranging the window curtains or straightening the books in
the little bookcase, or in picking up from the carpet the petals of a
bouquet of roses that had shed its leaves. Standing up, I looked at the
parting in her hair, her long and curved eyelashes, the light
palpitation of her bosom, and her hands, her beautiful hands extended on
the arms of the arm-chair, lying flat, just as on that day, white as on
that day, "when they could be distinguished from the linen only by the
azure of their veins."
Oh, that day! Not more than a week had gone by since then. Why did it
seem to me to be so far away?
Standing behind her, in that state of extreme tension, and, so to speak,
on the watch, I imagined that perhaps she instinctively felt the danger
hovering over her head: I believed I divined in her a sort of vague
uneasiness. Once more I felt sick at heart.
She finally said:
"_To-morrow_, if I am better, you will take me out on the terrace, in
the open air."