"Oh! tell me, Juliana, my love, my life! In pity, tell me the truth.
You are hiding something from me. Surely you have something you do not
want to confess; there, in the centre of your forehead, there is a fixed
idea, some sombre preoccupation that has not left you for an instant
since we have been here, since we have been--happy. But are we truly
happy? Are you, can you be happy? Tell the truth, Juliana. Why would
you deceive me? Yes, it is true, you have been ill; you are still ill,
it is true. But no, it is not that! There is _something else_ that I
do not understand, that I do not know of.... Tell me the truth, even if
the truth must be to me annihilation. This morning when you sobbed, I
asked you: '_Is it too late?_' And you answered me: 'No, no.' Then I
believed your words. But might it not be too late for another motive?
Could not something prevent you from enjoying the great happiness into
which we have just entered? I mean something you know, that you already
foresee? Tell me the truth."
I looked at her fixedly; and, as she remained silent, I ended by seeing
nothing but her large eyes, extraordinarily large, deep and motionless.
All else had disappeared. And I was compelled to close my eyes to
dissipate the sensation of terror that these eyes caused in me. How
long did this last? An hour? A second?
"I am ill," she said at last, with agonized slowness.
"Ill? But what's the matter?" I stammered, beside myself, convinced
that, in her tone, I detected an avowal that corresponded with my
suspicion. "What's the matter? Dangerously?"
I know not in what voice, I know not in what tone, I know not with what
gesture I articulated the last question; I do not even know if it really
and entirely left my lips, or if she heard it entirely.
"No, no, Tullio; it is not that. I meant, no--I meant that it is not my
fault if I am a little strange. It is not my fault.... You must have
patience with me; you must take me now as I am. Believe me, there is
nothing more. I am concealing nothing from you. I shall be cured
perhaps, later; yes, I shall be cured. You will be patient, will you
not? You will be good. Come here, Tullio, my soul! You, too, it seems
to me, are a little strange, a little suspicious. You have sudden
fears; you turn white. Who knows what you suppose? Come, come here;
give me a kiss ... another one ... another one.... That's right....
Embrace me, warm me up again.... There is Federico."
She spoke in a broken and rather low voice, with that inexpressible,
caressing, tender, restless expression that she had already done a few
hours before on the bench, to calm me and console me. I embraced her.
In the wide and low arm-chair, she, so thin, made room for me at her
side, and pressed close to me, shivering, and gathered up the end of her
cloak to cover me with it. We were as if on a couch, entwined, breast
to breast, our breaths mingling. And I thought: "If my breath, if my
contact, could imbue her with all my heat!" And I made an illusory
effort of will to bring about this transfusion.
"This evening," I whispered, "this evening, I will hold you better; you
won't tremble, then..."
"Yes, yes."
"You'll see how nicely I'll hold you. I'll put you to sleep. All night
long you will sleep on my heart."
"Yes, yes."
"I will watch over you; I will quench my thirst with your breath; I will
read in your face the dreams you are dreaming. You will perhaps speak
my name, dreaming."
"Yes, yes."
"_At that time_, on certain nights, you spoke in your dream. How
charming you were! Ah! what a voice! You cannot know.... A voice that
you could never have heard, that I alone know--I alone... And I will
hear it again. Who knows what you will say? You will speak my name
perhaps. How I love the movement of your mouth when it pronounces the
_u_ of my name! One could call it the outline of a kiss.... You know?
I will prompt words into your ear that they may enter into your dream.
Do you remember that _at that time_, on certain mornings, I divined your
dreams? Ah! you will see, dear soul; I will be more caressing than at
that time, You will see how tender I will be in order to cure you. You
need so much affection, poor soul!"
"Yes, yes," she repeated every moment, yieldingly, favoring thereby my
last illusion, and also augmenting that sort of drowsy intoxication that
arose from my own voice and the belief that my words were cradled there
like a voluptuous song.
"Did you hear anything?" I asked suddenly; and I raised myself a little
in order to hear better.
"What? Is it Federico?"
"No; listen."
We both listened, our eyes turned toward the garden. The garden was but
a confused and violet-colored mass, touched here and there by the
darkening light of the dying day. A zone of light persisted on the
limit of the sky, a long, tricolored zone: below of a blood-red, then
orange, then green, then a fading vegetable green. In the silence of
the twilight a strong and limpid voice resounded, like the prelude of a
flute.
The nightingale was singing.
"It is on the cypress," murmured Juliana.
We both listened, our eyes turned toward the edge of the horizon that
paled beneath the impalpable ashy color of the evening. My soul was in
suspense, as if it had expected from this language some high revelation
of love. "What, then, is this poor creature at my side feeling? To
what summit of despair is this poor soul raised?"
The nightingale was singing. At first, it was like an explosion of
melodious joyfulness, a burst of smooth trills that rippled with the
sound of pearls resounding on the crystals of musical glasses. First
pause. Then arose a roll of marvellous agility, extraordinarily
sustained, in which was mingled the energy that attempts a burst of
courage, a defiance thrown to an unknown rival. Second pause. Then a
theme on three notes, of an interrogative expression, unrolled the chain
of its light variations, repeating five or six times the sweet question,
modulated as if on a slender reed flute, on a pastoral pipe. Third
pause. And the chant became an elegy, developed in a minor key, became
softened like a sigh, weakened to a plaint, described the sorrow of a
solitary lover, the vexation of desire, the waiting in vain, burst into
a final appeal, unexpected, piercing like a cry of anguish, and died
away. New pause, more prolonged. Then there were new tones, that did
not seem to issue from the same throat, so humble, timid, tearful, were
they, so much did they resemble the piping of newly hatched birds, the
twittering of a little sparrow; then, with admirable flexibility, these
innocent accents were transformed into a whirlwind of notes more and
more hurried, that sparkled in trains of trills, vibrated in dazzling
roulades, softened into bold periods, descended, ascended, mounted to
prodigious heights. The singer became intoxicated by his song. With
pauses so brief that they scarcely permitted the notes to die away, his
intoxication overflowed in a melody that varied without cease,
passionate and soft, broken and vibrant, light and grave, interspersed
now with feeble moans and plaintive supplications, now with abrupt lyric
bursts, supreme adjurations. Even the garden seemed to be listening;
the sky seemed to incline toward the venerable tree whose top sheltered
the invisible poet who shed these torrents of poetry. The forest of
flowers respired deeply and silently. At sunset several yellow streaks
of light lingered on the horizon, and this last glance of daylight was
sad, almost mournful. But a star appeared, palpitating and trembling
like a drop of timorous dew.
"To-morrow," I murmured, almost unconsciously.
And that word, to me so full of promise, responded to an internal
supplication.
To better listen, we had raised ourselves a little and we had remained
several minutes in that position, attentive. Suddenly, I felt Juliana's
head fall on my shoulder, heavily, like a thing without life.
"Juliana! Juliana!" I cried with fright.
By the movement I made, her head fell back, heavily, like a thing
without life.
"Juliana!"
She did not hear. When I saw the cadaverous pallor of that face lit up
by the last yellowish rays of light from the balcony, I was struck by a
terrible thought. Distracted, allowing Juliana to fall back on the back
of the arm-chair, inert, calling her ceaselessly by name, I began to
open her corsage with contracted fingers, anxious to feel her heart.
My brother's jovial voice called out:
"Where are you, you lovers?"
*X.*
She had rapidly regained consciousness. Although scarcely able to
stand, she wanted to immediately enter the carriage and go back to the
Badiola.
And now, covered with our rugs, she sat back in her seat motionless,
exhausted, mute. My brother and I, from time to time, looked at her
with uneasiness. The coachman whipped up his horses. Their rapid trot
resounded on the road, bordered here and there by blossoming bushes, on
that mild April evening, beneath a cloudless sky.
Every now and then, Federico and I asked: "How are you feeling,
Juliana?"