Yesterday there was a thunderstorm. A strong southern wind drove the
clouds along as a herd of wild horses. It pulled and tore, chased
and scattered them, then got them under and threw them with a mighty
effort upon the sea, which darkened instantly as man in wrath, and
began in its turn to send its foam aloft,--a veritable battle of two
furies, which, battering each other, produce thunder and lightning
flashes. But all this lasted only a short time. We did not go out to
sea, as the waves were too rough. Instead of it we looked at the storm
from the glazed balcony, and sometimes looked at each other. It is no
use deluding myself any longer; there is something going on between
us,--a subtle change in our relations to each other. Neither of us has
said a word or overstepped the boundary line of friendship; neither
has confessed to anything, and yet speaking to each other we feel that
our words serve only to disguise our thoughts. It is the same when we
are in the boat, reading together, or when I listen to her music.
All our acts seem mere shadows,--an outward form that hides the real
essence of things, with its face still veiled, but following us
wherever we go. Neither of us has given it a name; but we both feel
its presence. Manifestations like these take place probably every time
man and woman begin to influence each other. I could not tell
exactly when it began; but I confess it did not come upon me quite
unexpectedly.
I accepted their hospitality because Mrs. Davis was my father's
friend; and it was she who, after his death, showed me more sympathy
than any one else in Rome. I have so much consciousness of self, am so
able to divide myself, that soon after my arrival here, in spite of
my heavy sorrow I had the presentiment that our mutual relation would
undergo a change. I hated myself that so soon after my father's death
I should harbor thoughts like these; but they were there. I find now
that my presentiments were right. If I said that the changed relation
has still its face veiled, I meant to say that I do not know exactly
when the veil will be torn asunder, and I am under the spell of
expectation. I should be unsophisticated indeed, if I supposed she
were less conscious of all this than I. She is probably more so.
Most likely she is guiding all these changes; and everything that is
happening happens according to her wishes and cool reflection. Diana
the Huntress is spreading her net for the game! But what does it
matter to me? what is there for me to lose? As nearly every man, I am
that kind of game which allows itself to be hunted for the purpose of
turning at a given moment against the hunter. In such circumstances
we all have energy enough. In a hand-to-hand fight, like this, the
victory rests always with us. I know perfectly well that Mrs. Davis
does not love me, any more than I love her. We simply react upon each
other through our pagan nature, our sensuous and artistic instincts.
With her it is also a question of vanity,--the worse for her, as it
may lead her whither love leads. I shall not go too far. In my feeling
for her there is neither affection nor tenderness,--nothing but
rapture at the sight of nature's masterwork, and the attraction
natural in a man when that masterwork is a woman. My father said that
the height of victory would be to change an angel into a woman; I
maintain that it is no less a triumph to feel around one's neck the
arms, palpitating with life, of a Florentine Venus.
As far as beauty goes she is the highest expression of whatever the
most exalted imagination is able to conceive. She is a Phryne. It
would turn most men's heads to see her in a tight-fitting riding-habit
that shows the outline of her figure as beautiful as that of a statue.
In the boat, reading Dante, she looked like a Sybil, and one could
understand a Nero's sacrilegious passion. Hers is an almost baleful
beauty. Only the joining eyebrows make her appear a woman of our
times, and this makes her all the more irritating. She has a certain
habit of pushing back her hair by putting both hands at the back of
her head; then her shoulders are raised; the whole shape acquires a
certain curve, and the breast stands firmly out,--and one feels a
desire to carry her off in one's arms from everybody's eyes.
In each of us there is a hidden Satyr. As to myself, as I said
already, I am highly impressionable; therefore, when I think of it,
that there is something going on between me and this live statue of
a Juno, that some mysterious power pushes us towards each other,--my
head is in a whirl, and I ask myself what would I wish for more
perfect than this.