PARADISE.
They had been seated near each other for some time on the same
sofa, not in the voluptuous atmosphere of desire, but in a calm and
ingenuous admiration of each other.
They had no desires, for all were satisfied, but they were not
indifferent nor were they weary, for the light of love shown eternally
in their heaven; twilights of laughing morn or melancholy sundowns,
but never night. True faithful love knows no darkness. When the
planetary sun sinks in the west there are lighted for true lovers the
many-coloured lamps of an electric beacon, which, like an iridescent
rainbow, joins sundown to dawn.
On her knees, as if in a sweet doze, a volume of Musset was lying half
open, and her right hand was more than pressed, it was grasped, in his
left. She had read several pages of the great poet aloud, as only she
knew how to read, pointing those immortal verses with the passionate
accent of one who reading loves, and loving reads. At that inspired
reading he had been always silent, but low and frequent sighs told her
that through those hands closed in such close embrace there crept a
tremor of high and perfect happiness. The current of her touch said to
him softly:
“Listen, dear, how beautiful it is!”
And his answered hers with a tremor:
“Thank you, dearest!”
Then all at once, without her having said, “I am tired!” or his having
said, “That is enough!” the book had fallen on her knees and they
gazed into each other’s eyes.
In fact, these two happy beings were nothing but eyes, open, wide
open, to drink in all the light that emanated from their souls: eyes
moistened with tears which did not fall on their cheeks, but were
absorbed as by an invisible sponge which conveyed them to the heart.
Had anyone been present he would have heard a double _tic-tac_ in
unison, the harmony of two notes, one high and one low, the divine
music of two souls who converse without words.
Her eyes were sweet, tender, and very mild; they appeared as if they
were dissolving in the dew of paradise. His eyes lightened, were
ardent and fiery, drinking in the paradisean ambrosia of her pupils.
Tremour of the frame, contraction of clasped hands, and lightning from
their eyes accorded harmoniously with the _tic-tac_ of two hearts
bound together; the whole an ecstasy of two existences, which are at
one in the pores of the skin, the nerves of the soul, the muscles of
the will.
Was it voluptuousness?
No, it was bliss.
Was it lasciviousness?
No, something less than all those; only two lives fused into one.
After a sigh from both a spark darted from those eyes; and from those
lips there came at the same moment, as if a signal had been given,
these words:
“Oh, how handsome you are!”
“Oh, how lovely you are!”
⁂
They had been married for three years, and not the slightest cloud had
obscured the heaven of their happiness. When, during the first months,
she had drawn a deep sigh and said to him,
“Oh, my Carlo, how happy we are!”
He, as if seized with a mysterious fear, had answered her:
“No, Teresa, do not say so! It seems as if it must bring misfortune.
When God sees a man happy he judges him as standing in contravention
of human and divine laws, and whispers to him that terrible dictum
which one sees promulgated everywhere in England against those who
violate regulations: _You will be prosecuted_. Just imagine if instead
of one happy person he should find two! The penalty must be doubled.”
She blushed and smiled. She did not believe at all in that form of
superstition, but willingly obeyed, and for some time did not say:
“Carlo, how happy we are!”
This did not prevent their being so. One day, however, she repeated
the happy exclamation, for which she felt the real necessity in order
to relieve the fulness of her heart.
Carlo closed her mouth with his hand, but this time she resisted, and
almost for fun repeated the same words ten times:
“You will see that no harm will come to us.”
And, in fact, the most complete bliss continued to shine in the blue
heavens of those two happy ones. They were two and they were one; but
sometimes, sighing, they had said:
“Why are we not three?”
It was he really who had said so; and she then blushed and hung her
head, sighing:
“You are right, Carlo; our happiness is too great for two alone;
divided among three it would be better.”
“But the third, Teresa, ought to be tiny, tiny—so, look,” and he
opened the palm of his hand to show the length that this third partner
in their happiness ought to be.
This discourse, however, did not please Teresa, and after a forced
smile she kissed Carlo and gave him a pat on the cheek, and said in a
shame-faced way, and with an unsteady voice:
“You know it is not my fault.”
“I know it is not the fault of either of us, we love each other so
much. But do not worry any more about it; we can be happy even if we
are only two.”
And from that day they had never referred again to the third being,
who was to be a span long, and was to share their felicity.
But both of them thought of it constantly. It was not a cloud which
covered the sun, but a light mist which dimmed it.
One day when he was in his study busy writing she ran in as if she had
something very urgent to say to him; then instead, when halfway in the
room, she stood still.
“What is it, Teresa?”
“I have good and delightful news for you.”
“Really?”
She smiled and blushed, and with little timid, hesitating steps, as if
she had some fault to confess, she came close to the writing table,
embraced Carlo, and hid her head on his shoulder. She still kept
silence and her face was hidden.
In vain he endeavoured to move her away that he might see her face. He
thought he guessed, but still feared he might be deceiving himself.
“Is it true, then, really true, my dear, dear Teresa?”
With a sudden courage she took one of his hands and placed it on her
heart.
“Listen, Carlo, there are three of us.”
He rose suddenly, agitated, embraced her, and kissed her a hundred
times on the eyes, cheeks, hair, mouth, everywhere, interrupting his
kisses with sighs of joy.
“Thanks, thanks, my adored one.”
They continued to be happy, and to call themselves so, without fear
that God would know it, consider them in contravention, and murmur in
their ears:
_You will be prosecuted._
⁂
They had not seen each other for eight days! He had been obliged to
leave her alone on account of urgent business.
Eight days—that is eight centuries! He had written eight times, she
ten, for on one day which seemed longer than the others she had
written three times, in the three different languages she knew.
In the last, written in English in the evening, she finished with
these words: “Why do I not know seven languages? Then I should have
written seven times to you to-day, because the same thing said in
different languages seems different, and renews my joy in thinking
of you. I should like to say I love you in all the languages in the
world....”
At last he telegraphed his arrival, and she had been an hour at the
station, walking up and down by the deserted rails.
She looked at her watch, then at the station clock; it seemed to her
as if it must have stopped, so much like centuries did those minutes
appear.
With her most pleasant smile she went to one of the officials:
“Is the train from Genoa late?”
“Yes, about ten minutes.”
How cruel those four words were! How she condemned in her heart
Italian railways, engine drivers, directors, and shareholders, who by
their negligence had inflicted another ten minutes upon her anxious
waiting. She drew near the kiosk of newspapers and books, but without
looking at anything; she bought flowers, but did not smell them; she
kept her eyes turned toward Genoa, strained her ears, bit her lips,
but the train came not.
In a moment a thousand fears flashed through her mind—the remembrance
of the last collision, the many killed and injured————
She did not dare to go to the same official. She went to another,
timid and full of fears. This time she did not succeed in smiling.
“Is the train from Genoa still late?”
“Yes, ten minutes; it will be here in five minutes now.”
Shortly after a whistle was heard, then a low and heavy vibration of
the rails, a great column of smoke appeared, then the heavy wheels
rolled under the roof of the station.
She ran from one carriage to another, impatient and anxious; he was
not there.
Travellers alighted in crowds. He was not there.
Her heart beat fast, she did not know what to do. She turned her back
to the train and walked toward the station master without knowing
what she ought to say, or even could say to him.
But she had no need of him, for she felt herself clasped closely by
two loving arms.
It was he, it was Carlo!
The eight days of agony, the seventy minutes of anxiety, all were
forgotten, all submerged in a sea of infinite sweetness.
They said nothing until they were in the carriage, and whilst they
drove to their happy home she, kissing him a hundred times, exclaimed:
“Do you know, I love you more than you love me?”
“But why?”
“Because I have written ten times to you, and you only eight times to
me.”
“Well, next time I will write twenty times to you.”
“No, no. I do not want even one letter. Another time, if you will let
me, I will come with you. I will not be away from you; I cannot bear
it.”
⁂
They were seated at table at the usual hour, calm and happy, with no
one but themselves.
They never sat facing each other, but side by side, because even
during meal times they felt the necessity of caressing and kissing
each other.
Toward the middle of dinner she said, all at once, as if the words had
been held back, and were now forced from her by some internal and
invisible spring:
“Do you know that Lieutenant B. came again at five this evening to pay
me a visit?”
“Well?”
“It is the third time in one week.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, he always comes at the hours when he knows you are at the
office.”
“Perhaps he is not free at any other hour.”
“Listen, Paolo, you take it too indifferently. I think, however, that
in this case you ought to think more of it.”
“But what does the lieutenant say to you?”
“As you may believe, he has never failed in respect toward me—but when
there are no other visitors he looks at me too persistently, and says
the most innocently polite things, but in too warm a tone.”
“Lieutenant B. is my friend, and a perfect gentleman. He has but just
come to Modena, and knows nobody. It is only natural that he should
pay visits to the wife of his old friend and fellow-student.”
“In short, you are satisfied that he should come here three times a
week to see me, stay more than an hour, look at me and tell me I am
beautiful.”
“I do not believe he has gone beyond that—anyhow I will beg him to
come in the evening, when I also am at home.”
“No, that would be to show some mistrust, which, so far, he has not
deserved. I will tell my maid to say, once or twice, that I am out,
and then he will change the hour of his visits.”
“Do what you think best, dear one, and I will do whatever you desire
to calm your fears about this gallant lieutenant. But do you really
wish to be more of a royalist than the king, and to disquiet yourself
when I am not disquieted?”
“But, Paolo, I am sorry that you are not more concerned. It is not
only on account of the lieutenant that I speak, but of all those who
at the theatre, at home, and in society think me beautiful, say so,
and pay me too much court. In short, my own Paolo, shall I tell you? I
should like to see you a little more jealous of me.”
At this point Paolo put down his knife and fork, fell back in his
chair, and began to laugh so heartily, so full of merriment, and so
loudly that it made her laugh as well.
“A hundred wives complain of the jealousy of their husbands, and I
have one who deplores my want of it.”
“No, Paolo, do not laugh. This indifference of yours makes me think
you do not love me, and that it does not matter to you at all if
others pay me too much attention, and that wounds me.”
“Dear one, dearest of my treasures, to please you I will become
jealous too.”
“A little—not too much.”
“A little—how much, for example? So? two fingers, three fingers, half
a metre?”
“No, do not make fun of me. You know how much I love you; you know you
are my very life, that without you I should die. Everything I say to
you proceeds from the immense love I bear you. I, you see, am jealous
of you.”
“But not I of you, for I esteem you too much, and should fear to
offend you by any doubts. A woman can always protect herself without
the aid of an ally; and when she has a husband whom she loves and
esteems he supports her in the course of attacks, menaces, and
gallantry. And together they defend their own honour and felicity.”
“Yes, dear, you have every reason in the world ... but to make me
happy, be a little jealous.”
“Yes, dear, you shall teach me the way to become so.”
And then those two happy creatures interrupted their dinner to throw
themselves into each other’s arms, and make peace after this trivial
battle.
He had loosened her handkerchief and had covered her neck with a whole
string of kisses.
“See, Nina, I am jealous of this handkerchief which kisses your
shoulders all through the day, and so I take its place. Do you not
see, Nina, that I begin to obey you? I am taking the first lesson in
jealousy.”
⁂
They were both leaning on the sill of a window which looked toward the
sea. It was late, and the stars sparkled in a sky which was not yet
dark, but no longer blue.
No sound was heard save the murmur of the breeze among the palm leaves
and the distant flow of the waves as they kissed the shore.
They did not speak; but the arm of one entwined in that of the other
spoke with the hand the words for which the lips were silent.
A perfume of jasmine, pungent and voluptuous, rose from the garden
and intoxicated those two. They were happy.
She interrupted the long silence:
“Dearest, even when you look at the sky and the sea do you not believe
in God, in another life?”
He did not answer, but, sighing, pressed her hand still more firmly.
“After all, if you will let me say so, this negation of yours of all
that reason cannot understand is nothing but pride pure and simple.”
He was still silent and answered with another pressure of the hand,
longer, more tender, and more passionate.
“The ants come into life and die without knowing man or understanding
him. Still man exists; and why cannot we be so many ants to another
being more man, more god, more angel than we are?”
And still no answer. His hands only answered with increasing
tenderness.
“But speak, my treasure; say something to me.”
Here his obstinately closed lips opened:
“But _Dr. Faust_ has already answered them in divine words to the
_Margaret_ of Goethe.”
“They may be divine words, if you will; but they do not please me at
all. _Faust_ answers one interrogation with another. He answers like
the ancient sybil.”
“And in what other way can a man answer the problem, To be, or not to
be? A dogmatic answer might be an offence to reason, and I hate to
confess I believe in something I do not understand.”
“Pride, pride, always pride; your modern science is entirely leavened
with it.”
“And your faith with superstition.”
“No, my love, I do not wish to force my faith upon you; but believe
something, make a faith for yourself, but do not tell me we shall not
live even after death.”
“Yes, my treasure, I also have my faith. Give me a kiss.”
They kissed each other so long and so warmly that their kiss was the
loudest sound heard in the deep surrounding stillness.
“See, I believe in your love. I believe in the joy you give me. If you
will, I also believe that our souls at this moment have come to our
lips from the very depths of our being and have melted in an ecstasy
of love.”
“Well, and must these poor souls die with the bodies which inclose
them?”
“Ah, who knows?”
“Then you doubt your own doubts?”
“Listen, love; I am going to make a confession; but say nothing of it
to any living soul, for men would laugh at me. For them supreme wisdom
consists in never changing an opinion or turning again to any faith,
although nature changes its course every day, and progress itself is
but a negation of what has happened yesterday. Before knowing you I
believed in nothing, but now the idea that we could not meet again in
heaven is unsupportable, and I hope————”
“My treasure, if you hope you are halfway on the road which leads to
faith.”
“And with you and for you who knows but I may gain it some day. To-day
leave me halfway on the road.”
⁂
She put her arms round his neck and kissed him anew, and with more
length than before.
The kiss, however, this time made no sound, and nothing was heard in
the deep surrounding stillness, but the breeze amongst the palm leaves
and the ebb and flow of the waves on the shore.
_Printed from American Plates_
BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
_London & Edinburgh_
┌───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ Transcriber's Note: │
│ │
│ The original spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation have been │
│ retained, with the exception of apparent typographical errors │
│ which have been corrected without note. │
│ │
│ Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained. │
│ │
│ Italicized words are surrounded by underline characters, _like │
│ this_. │
│ │
│ Other corrections: │
│ • Pages 44, 45 and 97: fonder changed to foudre. (coup de │
│ foudre.) │
│ │
│ • Page 69: The ♂ and ♀ symbols should be reversed. │
│ │
│ • Page 111 footnote 3: Geschlechter changed to Geschlechter. │
│ ("Der Kampf der Geschlechter.) │
│ │
│ • Page 156: chaupette-bleue changed to choupette-bleue (much │
│ less a <i>choupette-bleue</i>.) │
└───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
End of Project Gutenberg's The art of taking a wife, by Paolo Mantegazza