Aaron awoke in the morning feeling better, but still only a part
himself. The night alone had restored him. And the need to be alone
still was his greatest need. He felt an intense resentment against the
Marchesa. He felt that somehow, she had given him a scorpion. And his
instinct was to hate her. And yet he avoided hating her. He remembered
Lilly--and the saying that one must possess oneself, and be alone in
possession of oneself. And somehow, under the influence of Lilly, he
refused to follow the reflex of his own passion. He refused to hate the
Marchesa. He _did_ like her. He did _esteem_ her. And after all, she too
was struggling with her fate. He had a genuine sympathy with her. Nay,
he was not going to hate her.
But he could not see her. He could not bear the thought that she might
call and see him. So he took the tram to Settignano, and walked away all
day into the country, having bread and sausage in his pocket. He sat for
long hours among the cypress trees of Tuscany. And never had any trees
seemed so like ghosts, like soft, strange, pregnant presences. He lay
and watched tall cypresses breathing and communicating, faintly moving
and as it were walking in the small wind. And his soul seemed to
leave him and to go far away, far back, perhaps, to where life was
all different and time passed otherwise than time passes now. As in
clairvoyance he perceived it: that our life is only a fragment of the
shell of life. That there has been and will be life, human life such as
we do not begin to conceive. Much that is life has passed away from men,
leaving us all mere bits. In the dark, mindful silence and inflection of
the cypress trees, lost races, lost language, lost human ways of feeling
and of knowing. Men have known as we can no more know, have felt as we
can no more feel. Great life-realities gone into the darkness. But the
cypresses commemorate. In the afternoon, Aaron felt the cypresses rising
dark about him, like so many high visitants from an old, lost, lost
subtle world, where men had the wonder of demons about them, the aura of
demons, such as still clings to the cypresses, in Tuscany.
All day, he did not make up his mind what he was going to do. His first
impulse was never to see her again. And this was his intention all day.
But as he went home in the tram he softened, and thought. Nay,
that would not be fair. For how had she treated him, otherwise than
generously.
She had been generous, and the other thing, that he felt blasted
afterwards, which was his experience, that was fate, and not her fault.
So he must see her again. He must not act like a churl. But he would
tell her--he would tell her that he was a married man, and that though
he had left his wife, and though he had no dogma of fidelity, still,
the years of marriage had made a married man of him, and any other woman
than his wife was a strange woman to him, a violation. “I will tell
her,” he said to himself, “that at the bottom of my heart I love Lottie
still, and that I can't help it. I believe that is true. It isn't love,
perhaps. But it is marriage. I am married to Lottie. And that means I
can't be married to another woman. It isn't my nature. And perhaps I
can't bear to live with Lottie now, because I am married and not in
love. When a man is married, he is not in love. A husband is not a
lover. Lilly told me that: and I know it's true now. Lilly told me that
a husband cannot be a lover, and a lover cannot be a husband. And that
women will only have lovers now, and never a husband. Well, I am a
husband, if I am anything. And I shall never be a lover again, not while
I live. No, not to anybody. I haven't it in me. I'm a husband, and so it
is finished with me as a lover. I can't be a lover any more, just as I
can't be aged twenty any more. I am a man now, not an adolescent. And to
my sorrow I am a husband to a woman who wants a lover: always a lover.
But all women want lovers. And I can't be it any more. I don't want to.
I have finished that. Finished for ever: unless I become senile---”
Therefore next day he gathered up his courage. He would not have had
courage unless he had known that he was not alone. The other man was
in the town, and from this fact he derived his strength: the fact that
Lilly was there. So at teatime he went over the river, and rang at her
door. Yes, she was at home, and she had other visitors. She was wearing
a beautiful soft afternoon dress, again of a blue like chicory-flowers,
a pale, warm blue. And she had cornflowers in her belt: heaven knows
where she had got them.
She greeted Aaron with some of the childish shyness. He could tell that
she was glad he had come, and that she had wondered at his not coming
sooner. She introduced him to her visitors: two young ladies and one
old lady and one elderly Italian count. The conversation was mostly in
French or Italian, so Aaron was rather out of it.
However, the visitors left fairly early, so Aaron stayed them out. When
they had gone, he asked:
“Where is Manfredi?”
“He will come in soon. At about seven o'clock.”
Then there was a silence again.
“You are dressed fine today,” he said to her.
“Am I?” she smiled.
He was never able to make out quite what she felt, what she was feeling.
But she had a quiet little air of proprietorship in him, which he did
not like.
“You will stay to dinner tonight, won't you?” she said.
“No--not tonight,” he said. And then, awkwardly, he added: “You know. I
think it is better if we are friends--not lovers. You know--I don't feel
free. I feel my wife, I suppose, somewhere inside me. And I can't help
it---”
She bent her head and was silent for some moments. Then she lifted her
face and looked at him oddly.
“Yes,” she said. “I am sure you love your wife.”
The reply rather staggered him--and to tell the truth, annoyed him.
“Well,” he said. “I don't know about love. But when one has been married
for ten years--and I did love her--then--some sort of bond or something
grows. I think some sort of connection grows between us, you know. And
it isn't natural, quite, to break it.--Do you know what I mean?”
She paused a moment. Then, very softly, almost gently, she said:
“Yes, I do. I know so well what you mean.”
He was really surprised at her soft acquiescence. What _did_ she mean?
“But we can be friends, can't we?” he said.
“Yes, I hope so. Why, yes! Goodness, yes! I should be sorry if we
couldn't be friends.”
After which speech he felt that everything was all right--everything
was A-one. And when Manfredi came home, the first sound he heard was the
flute and his wife's singing.
“I'm so glad you've come,” his wife said to him. “Shall we go into the
sala and have real music? Will you play?”
“I should love to,” replied the husband.
Behold them then in the big drawing-room, and Aaron and the Marchese
practising together, and the Marchesa singing an Italian folk-song
while her husband accompanied her on the pianoforte. But her singing was
rather strained and forced. Still, they were quite a little family, and
it seemed quite nice. As soon as she could, the Marchesa left the two
men together, whilst she sat apart. Aaron and Manfredi went through
old Italian and old German music, tried one thing and then another, and
seemed quite like brothers. They arranged a piece which they should play
together on a Saturday morning, eight days hence.
The next day, Saturday, Aaron went to one of the Del Torre music
mornings. There was a string quartette--and a violin soloist--and the
Marchese at the piano. The audience, some dozen or fourteen friends,
sat at the near end of the room, or in the smaller salotta, whilst the
musicians performed at the further end of the room. The Lillys were
there, both Tanny and her husband. But apart from these, Aaron knew
nobody, and felt uncomfortable. The Marchesa gave her guests little
sandwiches and glasses of wine or Marsala or vermouth, as they chose.
And she was quite the hostess: the well-bred and very simple, but still
the conventional hostess. Aaron did not like it. And he could see that
Lilly too was unhappy. In fact, the little man bolted the moment he
could, dragging after him the indignant Tanny, who was so looking
forward to the excellent little sandwiches. But no--Lilly just rudely
bolted. Aaron followed as soon as he could.
“Will you come to dinner tomorrow evening?” said his hostess to him as
he was leaving. And he agreed. He had really resented seeing her as a
conventional hostess, attending so charmingly to all the other people,
and treating him so merely as one of the guests, among many others. So
that when at the last moment she quietly invited him to dinner next day,
he was flattered and accepted at once.
The next day was Sunday--the seventh day after his coming together with
the Marchesa--which had taken place on the Monday. And already he was
feeling much less dramatic in his decision to keep himself apart from
her, to be merely friends. Already the memory of the last time was
fanning up in him, not as a warning but as a terrible incitement. Again
the naked desire was getting hold of him, with that peculiar brutal
powerfulness which startled him and also pleased him.
So that by the time Sunday morning came, his recoil had exhausted
itself, and he was ready again, eager again, but more wary this time.
He sat in his room alone in the morning, playing his flute, playing over
from memory the tunes she loved, and imagining how he and she would get
into unison in the evening. His flute, his Aaron's rod, would blossom
once again with splendid scarlet flowers, the red Florentine lilies.
It was curious, the passion he had for her: just unalloyed desire, and
nothing else. Something he had not known in his life before. Previously
there had been always _some_ personal quality, some sort of personal
tenderness. But here, none. She did not seem to want it. She seemed
to hate it, indeed. No, all he felt was stark, naked desire, without a
single pretension. True enough, his last experience had been a warning
to him. His desire and himself likewise had broken rather disastrously
under the proving. But not finally broken. He was ready again. And with
all the sheer powerful insolence of desire he looked forward to the
evening. For he almost expected Manfredi would not be there. The
officer had said something about having to go to Padua on the Saturday
afternoon.
So Aaron went skipping off to his appointment, at seven o'clock. Judge
of his chagrin, then, when he found already seated in the salotta an
elderly, quite well-known, very cultured and very well-connected English
authoress. She was charming, in her white hair and dress of soft white
wool and white lace, with a long chain of filigree gold beads, like
bubbles. She was charming in her old-fashioned manner too, as if the
world were still safe and stable, like a garden in which delightful
culture, and choice ideas bloomed safe from wind and weather. Alas,
never was Aaron more conscious of the crude collapse in the world than
when he listened to this animated, young-seeming lady from the safe
days of the seventies. All the old culture and choice ideas seemed like
blowing bubbles. And dear old Corinna Wade, she seemed to be blowing
bubbles still, as she sat there so charming in her soft white dress,
and talked with her bright animation about the influence of woman
in Parliament and the influence of woman in the Periclean day. Aaron
listened spell-bound, watching the bubbles float round his head, and
almost hearing them go pop.
To complete the party arrived an elderly litterateur who was more proud
of his not-very-important social standing than of his literature. In
fact he was one of those English snobs of the old order, living abroad.
Perfectly well dressed for the evening, his grey hair and his prim face
was the most well-dressed thing to be met in North Italy.
“Oh, so glad to see you, Mr. French. I didn't know you were in Florence
again. You make that journey from Venice so often. I wonder you don't
get tired of it,” cried Corinna Wade.
“No,” he said. “So long as duty to England calls me to Florence, I shall
come to Florence. But I can LIVE in no town but Venice.”
“No, I suppose you can't. Well, there is something special about Venice:
having no streets and no carriages, and moving about in a gondola. I
suppose it is all much more soothing.”
“Much less nerve-racking, yes. And then there is a quality in the
whole life. Of course I see few English people in Venice--only the old
Venetian families, as a rule.”
“Ah, yes. That must be very interesting. They are very exclusive still,
the Venetian _noblesse_?” said Miss Wade.
“Oh, very exclusive,” said Mr. French. “That is one of the charms.
Venice is really altogether exclusive. It excludes the world, really,
and defies time and modern movement. Yes, in spite of the steamers on
the canal, and the tourists.”
“That is so. That is so. Venice is a strange back-water. And the old
families are very proud still, in these democratic days. They have a
great opinion of themselves, I am told.”
“Well,” said Mr. French. “Perhaps you know the rhyme:
“'Veneziano gran' Signore
Padovano buon' dotore.
Vicenzese mangia il gatto
Veronese tutto matto---'”
“How very amusing!” said Miss Wade. “_Veneziana_ gran' Signore. The
Venetian is a great gentleman! Yes, I know they are all convinced of it.
Really, how very amusing, in these advanced days. To be born a Venetian,
is to be born a great gentleman! But this outdoes divine right of king.”
“To be born a Venetian GENTLEMAN, is to be born a great gentleman,” said
Mr. French, rather fussily.
“You seriously think so?” said Miss Wade. “Well now, what do you base
your opinion on?”
Mr. French gave various bases for his opinion.
“Yes--interesting. Very interesting. Rather like the
Byzantines--lingering on into far other ages. Anna Comnena always
charmed me very much. HOW she despised the flower of the north--even
Tancred! And so the lingering Venetian families! And you, in your
palazzo on the Grand Canal: you are a northern barbarian civilised into
the old Venetian Signoria. But how very romantic a situation!”
It was really amusing to see the old maid, how she skirmished and hit
out gaily, like an old jaunty free lance: and to see the old bachelor,
how prim he was, and nervy and fussy and precious, like an old maid.
But need we say that Mr. Aaron felt very much out of it. He sat and
listened, with a sardonic small smile on his face and a sardonic gleam
in his blue eyes, that looked so very blue on such an occasion. He made
the two elderly people uncomfortable with his silence: his democratic
silence, Miss Wade might have said.
However, Miss Wade lived out towards Galuzzo, so she rose early, to
catch her tram. And Mr. French gallantly and properly rose to accompany
her, to see her safe on board. Which left Aaron and the Marchesa alone.
“What time is Manfredi coming back?” said he.
“Tomorrow,” replied she.
There was a pause.
“Why do you have those people?” he asked.
“Who?”
“Those two who were here this evening.”
“Miss Wade and Mr. French?--Oh, I like Miss Wade so very much. She is so
refreshing.”
“Those old people,” said Aaron. “They licked the sugar off the pill, and
go on as if everything was toffee. And we've got to swallow the pill.
It's easy to be refreshing---”
“No, don't say anything against her. I like her so much.”
“And him?”
“Mr. French!--Well, he's perhaps a little like the princess who felt
the pea through three feather-beds. But he can be quite witty, and an
excellent conversationalist, too. Oh yes, I like him quite well.”
“Matter of taste,” said Aaron.
They had not much to say to one another. The time passed, in the pauses.
He looked at his watch.
“I shall have to go,” he said.
“Won't you stay?” she said, in a small, muted voice.
“Stay all night?” he said.
“Won't you?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. Did he not feel the strength of his desire on
him.
After which she said no more. Only she offered him whiskey and soda,
which he accepted.
“Go then,” he said to her. “And I'll come to you.--Shall I come in
fifteen minutes?”
She looked at him with strange, slow dark eyes. And he could not
understand.
“Yes,” she said. And she went.
And again, this night as before, she seemed strangely small and clinging
in his arms. And this night he felt his passion drawn from him as if
a long, live nerve were drawn out from his body, a long live thread of
electric fire, a long, living nerve finely extracted from him, from the
very roots of his soul. A long fine discharge of pure, bluish fire,
from the core of his soul. It was an excruciating, but also an intensely
gratifying sensation.
This night he slept with a deeper obliviousness than before. But ah, as
it grew towards morning how he wished he could be alone.
They must stay together till the day was light. And she seemed to love
clinging to him and curling strangely on his breast. He could never
reconcile it with her who was a hostess entertaining her guests. How
could she now in a sort of little ecstasy curl herself and nestle
herself on his, Aaron's breast, tangling his face all over with her
hair. He verily believed that this was what she really wanted of him: to
curl herself on his naked breast, to make herself small, small, to feel
his arms around her, while he himself was remote, silent, in some
way inaccessible. This seemed almost to make her beside herself with
gratification. But why, why? Was it because he was one of her own race,
and she, as it were, crept right home to him?
He did not know. He only knew it had nothing to do with him: and that,
save out of _complaisance_, he did not want it. It simply blasted his
own central life. It simply blighted him.
And she clung to him closer. Strange, she was afraid of him! Afraid of
him as of a fetish! Fetish afraid, and fetish-fascinated! Or was her
fear only a delightful game of cat and mouse? Or was the fear genuine,
and the delight the greater: a sort of sacrilege? The fear, and the
dangerous, sacrilegious power over that which she feared.
In some way, she was not afraid of him at all. In some other way she
used him as a mere magic implement, used him with the most amazing
priestess-craft. Himself, the individual man which he was, this she
treated with an indifference that was startling to him.
He forgot, perhaps, that this was how he had treated her. His famous
desire for her, what had it been but this same attempt to strike a magic
fire out of her, for his own ecstasy. They were playing the same game
of fire. In him, however, there was all the time something hard and
reckless and defiant, which stood apart. She was absolutely gone in
her own incantations. She was absolutely gone, like a priestess utterly
involved in her terrible rites. And he was part of the ritual only, God
and victim in one. God and victim! All the time, God and victim. When
his aloof soul realised, amid the welter of incantation, how he was
being used,--not as himself but as something quite different--God and
victim--then he dilated with intense surprise, and his remote soul stood
up tall and knew itself alone. He didn't want it, not at all. He knew
he was apart. And he looked back over the whole mystery of their
love-contact. Only his soul was apart.
He was aware of the strength and beauty and godlikeness that his breast
was then to her--the magic. But himself, he stood far off, like Moses'
sister Miriam. She would drink the one drop of his innermost heart's
blood, and he would be carrion. As Cleopatra killed her lovers in the
morning. Surely they knew that death was their just climax. They had
approached the climax. Accept then.
But his soul stood apart, and could have nothing to do with it. If he
had really been tempted, he would have gone on, and she might have had
his central heart's blood. Yes, and thrown away the carrion. He would
have been willing.
But fatally, he was not tempted. His soul stood apart and decided. At
the bottom of his soul he disliked her. Or if not her, then her whole
motive. Her whole life-mode. He was neither God nor victim: neither
greater nor less than himself. His soul, in its isolation as she lay on
his breast, chose it so, with the soul's inevitability. So, there was no
temptation.
When it was sufficiently light, he kissed her and left her. Quietly he
left the silent flat. He had some difficulty in unfastening the various
locks and bars and catches of the massive door downstairs, and began, in
irritation and anger, to feel he was a prisoner, that he was locked
in. But suddenly the ponderous door came loose, and he was out in the
street. The door shut heavily behind him, with a shudder. He was out in
the morning streets of Florence.