ONLY ONE CONDITION
Heartrending was the sweetness of that November, smiling like a sick
person who fancies himself to have reached a state of convalescence and
feels an unusual sense of relief and well-being, knowing not that his
hour of agony draws near.
"What is the matter with you to-day, Fosca? What has happened to you?
Why are you so distant to me? Speak! Tell me!"
Stelio had entered San Marco by chance, and had seen her there, leaning
against the chapel-door that leads to the baptistry. She was alone,
motionless, her face devoured by fever and by shadows, with terrified
eyes fixed on the fearful figures of the mosaics that flamed in a
yellow fire.
"Leave me here alone, I entreat you--I beg of you! I must be alone! I
implore you!"
She turned as if to flee, but he detained her.
"But tell me! Speak at least one word that I may understand."
Still she sought to escape, and her movement expressed unspeakable
anguish.
"I implore you! If you pity me, the only thing you can do for me now is
to let me go."
"But one word--at least one word, so that I shall understand."
A flash of fury passed over the agitated face.
"No! I wish to be alone!"
Her voice was as hard as her glance. She turned, taking a step or two
like a person overcome by dizziness seeking some support.
"Foscarina!"
But he dared not detain her longer. He saw the despairing one walk
through the zone of sunlight that invaded the basilica like a rushing
torrent entering through a door opened by an unknown hand. Behind her
the deep golden cavern, with its apostles, martyrs, and sacred beasts,
glittered as if the thousand torches of the daylight were pouring in on
it.
"I am lost in the depths of sadness.... This violent impulse to revolt
against fate, to rush away in search of adventure--to seek.--Who will
save my hope? Whence will come a ray of light?... To sing, to sing! But
I would sing a song of life at last.... Can you tell me where the Lord
of the Flame is at present?"
These words, in a letter from Donatella Arvale, were branded on her
eyes and on her soul, with all the characteristics of handwriting, as
much alive as the hand that traced them, as throbbing as that impatient
pulse. She saw them graved on the stones, outlined on the clouds,
reflected in the water, indelible and inevitable as the decrees of Fate.
--Where shall I go? Where shall I go?--Through all her agitation and
despair, she had still a sense of the sweetness of things, the warmth
of the gilded marbles, the perfume of the quiet air, the languor of
human leisure.
She turned with a start, fearing yet hoping to be followed by her
lover. She could not see him. She would have fled had she seen him,
but her heart ached as if he had sent her to death without a word of
recall.--All is over!--
She entered the Porta della Carta, having crossed the threshold. The
intoxication of her sorrow led her to the spot where, on a night of
glory, the three destinies had come together. She went to the well,
the point of that rendezvous. Around that bronze curb the whole life
of those few seconds rose again with the distinct outline of reality.
There she had said, addressing her companion with a smile: "Donatella,
this is the Lord of the Flame!" Then the immense cry of the multitude
had drowned her voice, and above their head rose a flight of fiery
pigeons against the dark sky.
She approached the well, and gazed into it. She leaned over the curb,
saw her own face in the deep mirror, saw in it terror and perdition,
saw the motionless Medusa she carried in the depth of her soul. Without
realizing it, she repeated the action of him she loved. She saw his
face, too, and Donatella's, as she had seen them illumined for an
instant that night, close together, lighted by the radiance in the sky.
--Love, love each other! I will go away, I shall disappear! Good-by!--
She closed her eyes at the thought of death, and in that darkness
she saw the kind, strong eyes of her mother, infinite as a horizon of
peace.--You are at peace, and you await me--you whose life and death
were of passion.--
She stood erect, then departed by the Molo, stepped into a gondola, and
ordered it to be rowed to the Giudecca. The buildings and the water
formed a miracle of gold and opal. The image of dead Summer flashed
across her memory--dead Summer dressed in gold and shut in a coffin
of opalescent glass. She imagined herself submerged in the lagoon,
sleeping on a bed of seaweed; but the memory of the promise made on
that water, and kept in the delirium of that night, pierced her heart
like a knife, and threw her into a convulsion.
--Never more, then? Never more!--
She reached the Rio della Croce. The gondola stopped before a closed
door. She landed, took out a small key, opened the door, and entered
the garden.
This was her refuge, the secret place for her solitude, defended by the
fidelity of her melancholy as by silent guardians.
"Never more?" She walked under the trellises, approached the water,
stopped a moment, felt weary, and at last sat down on a stone, held her
temples between her hands, and made an effort to concentrate her mind,
to recover her self-possession. "He is still here, near me. I can see
him again. Perhaps I shall find him standing on the steps of my house.
He will take me in his arms, kiss my lips and eyes, tell me again
that he loves me, that everything about me pleases him. He does not
know--he does not understand. Nothing irreparable has happened. What is
it, then, that has so upset and disturbed me? I have received a letter
written by a girl who is far-away, imprisoned in a lonely villa near
her demented father, who complains of her lot and seeks to change it.
That is all. There is no more to say. And here is the letter."
Her fingers trembled, and she fancied she could detect Donatella's
favorite perfume, as if the young girl were sitting beside her.
--Is she beautiful? Really beautiful? How does she look?--
The lines of the image were indistinct at first. She tried to seize
them, but they eluded her. One particular above all others fixed itself
in her mind--the large, massive hand.--Did he see her hand that night?
He is very susceptible to the beauty of hands. When he meets a woman,
he always looks at her hands. And he adores Sofia's hands.--She allowed
herself to dwell on these childish considerations, then she smiled
bitterly. And suddenly the image became perfect, lived, glowing with
youth and power, overwhelmed and dazzled her.--Yes, she is beautiful!
And hers is the beauty he desires.--
She kept her eyes fixed on the silent splendor of the waters, with
the letter on her lap; she was nailed there by the inflexible truth.
And involuntary thoughts of destruction flashed upon her inert
discouragement; the face of Donatella burned by fire, her body crippled
by a fall, her voice ruined by an illness! Then she had a horror of
herself, followed by pity for herself and the other woman.--Has she
not too the right to live? Let her live, let her love, let her have
her joy.--She imagined for the young girl some magnificent adventure,
a happy love, an adorable betrothed, prosperity, luxury, pleasure.--Is
there only one man on this earth, then, that she can love? Is it
impossible that to-morrow she might meet some one who would win her
heart? Is it impossible that her fate should suddenly turn her in
another direction, take her far from here, lead her through unknown
paths, separate her from us forever? Is it necessary that she should be
loved by the man I love? Perhaps they never will meet again.--She tried
thus to escape her presentiment. But a contrary thought whispered:
"They have met once; they will seek each other, they will meet again.
Her soul is not obscure--not one that can be lost in the multitude. She
possesses a gift that shines like a star, and it will always be easily
recognizable even from afar--her song. The marvel of her voice will
serve her as a signal. She will surely avail herself of this power; she
too will pass among mankind leaving a wake of admiration behind her.
She will have glory as she has beauty--two attributes that will easily
attract Stelio. They have met once; they will meet again."
The sorrowing woman bent as if under a yoke. A clear, pearly light
bathed the lagoon in radiance. The islands of La Follia, San Clemente,
and San Servilio were enveloped in a light mist. From a distance came
at intervals a faint cry, as of shipwrecked sailors becalmed, answered
by the harsh voice of a siren whistle or by the raucous call of the
sea-gulls. At first the silence seemed terrible, then it grew sweet.
The woman, little by little, recovered her deep goodness of heart,
felt again her old tenderness for the beautiful creature in whose
personality she had once deceived her desire to love the good sister,
Sofia. She thought again of the hours passed in the lonely villa on
that hill of Settignano, where Lorenzo Arvale created his statues in
the fulness of his strength and fervor, ignorant of the blow that was
about to fall. She lived again in those days, saw again those places;
she sat once more in memory for the famous sculptor who modeled her
in clay, while Donatella sang some quaint old song; and the spirit of
melody animated at once the model and the effigy, and her thoughts and
that pure voice and the mystery of Art composed an appearance of a life
almost divine in that great studio open on all sides to the light of
heaven, whence Florence and its river was visible in the springtime
valley.
In addition to fancying the girl a reflection of Sofia, had she not
been attracted otherwise to her--the sweet Donatella, who never had
known a mother's caress since her birth? She saw her again, grave and
calm beside her father, the comfort for his hard work, guardian of the
sacred flame, and also of a resolve of her own--a secret resolve, which
preserved itself as bright and keen as a sword in its sheath.
--She is sure of herself; she is mistress of her own power. When at
last she knows she is free, she will reveal herself as one made to
rule. Yes, she is made to subjugate men, to excite their curiosity and
their dreams. Even now, her instinct, bold and prudent as experience
itself, directs her.--La Foscarina remembered Donatella's attitude
toward Stelio on that night; her almost disdainful silence, her brief,
dry words, her manner of leaving the table, her disappearance, leaving
the image of herself framed within the circle of an unforgettable
melody. Ah, she knows the art of stirring the soul of a dreamer.
Certainly he cannot have forgotten her. And just as certainly he
awaits the hour when it shall be given him to meet her again--not less
impatiently than she, who asks me where he is.--
Again she lifted the letter and ran her eyes over it, but her memory
traveled faster than her eyes. The enigmatic query was at the foot
of the page, like a half-veiled postscript. Looking at the written
words, she felt again the same sharp pang as when she read them the
first time, and once more her heart was shaken as if the danger were
imminent, as if her passion and her hope were already lost beyond
recall.--What is she about to do? Of what is she thinking? Did she
expect him to search for her without delay, and, disappointed in that,
does she now wish to tempt him? What does she intend to do?--She
struggled against that uncertainty as against an iron door which
she must force in order to find again behind it the light of her
life.--Shall I answer her? Suppose I reply in such a way as to make
her understand the truth, would my love necessarily be a prohibition
of hers?--But here her soul rose with a mingled feeling of repugnance,
modesty, and pride.--No, never! Never shall she learn of my wound from
me--never, not even should she question me!--And she realized all the
horror of an open rivalry between a woman no longer young and a girl
strong in her maiden youth. She felt the humiliation and cruelty of
such an unequal struggle. "But if not Donatella, would it not be some
one else," again whispered the contrary spirit "Do you believe you can
bind a man of his nature to your melancholy passion? The only condition
under which you should have allowed yourself to love him, and to offer
him a love faithful unto death, was in keeping the compact that you
have broken."
"True, true!" she murmured, as if answering a distinct voice, in formal
judgment, pronounced in the silence by invisible Fate.
"The only condition on which he can now accept your love, and recognize
it, demands that you leave him free, that you give up all claim on him,
that you renounce all, forever, and ask for nothing--the condition of
being heroic. Do you understand?"
"True, true!" she repeated aloud, raising her head.
But the poison bit her. She remembered all the sweetness of
caresses--the lips, the eyes, the strength and ardor of the lover had
re-animated all her being.
A far-away monotonous sound of song floated in the air--a song of
women's voices, that seemed to rise from bosoms oppressed, from throats
as slender as reeds, like the sound evoked from the broken wires of
old spinets at a touch on the worn keys; a shrill, unequal tone, in
a lively and vulgar rhythm, which sounded sadder in that light and
silence than the saddest things of life.
"Who is singing?"
With obscure emotion she arose, approached the shore, and listened.
"The madwomen of San Clemente!"
From the isle of La Follia, from the barred windows of the light,
lonely hospital, came the lively yet melancholy chorus. It trembled,
hesitated in the immensity of space, grew fainter and almost died away,
then rose again and swelled to a piercing shriek, diminished once more,
and finally sank to silence.