"Nothing in sight? Not caught a glimpse of her sail yet?"
"No, Sir. But she'll be all right today. The wind's from the
south-east; and the weather is glorious this morning."
"Yes, I know; but this lake of yours is full of shallows and
whirlpools."
"La Signora sails her boat with so sure a hand, she might have been
born and bred in Baveno!"
The gardener's voice faded away as he pottered about among the
fish-tanks and continued to mutter to himself: "... born and bred in
Baveno."
Andreas, who had called down to the old man from the top of a craggy
eminence, dropped the hand he had raised to shield his eyes from the
glare of the sun, so that he might put it to more immediate uses.
The bunch of flowers he had gathered was so large that it needed both
hands to hold the nosegay together.
"Narcissus!" exclaimed the poet, caressing the blossoms with
sensitive fingers, while they swayed gently in the breeze.
"Narcissus, fresh as the morning dew! Nothing else can rival Diana's
fragrance. And yet--may she not have been akin to other flowers in
the past, and may she not resemble yet others in the future?
Likenesses ever changing, ever renewed? Would it have entered my
head to compare her to the camellias blooming over there in chill
white pyramids? Beautiful they are, proud of mien; but scentless and
passionless. Perhaps some women are like that!"
The thought dumbfounded him, and he sank down on to a rocky seat.
Pulling a notebook from the pocket of his purple dressing-gown, he
scribbled assiduously for a while. Then he looked up, gazed at the
flowers, jotted down a few more words. Finally he tore off the page
and started afresh. He no longer took his eyes from the paper, but
continued to write diligently until the sonnet was complete. He
began to read it in an undertone, gradually allowing his voice to
become louder, until at the eighth line he had achieved a resounding
forte. After that he restrained the volume of sound, and finished up
with a ritenuto, as if he were playing the final bars of a Bach fugue.
"How Diana will laugh," he thought. "She'll read it twice. Then she
will open her mother-of-pearl box and lay this page on the top of the
others. Quite unexpectedly one evening, one mild evening, the lines
will slowly drop from her delicate lips. Othello must bring her up
here when she lands. Othello!"
The Great Dane was snuffing the air as he stood on the landing-stage
which gave access to the little island. As his master called him by
name, the animal pricked up his ears, sought Andreas's whereabouts
with eyes and nose. Having caught sight of the young man, Othello
sprang upward over the rocks and pushed his way through the azaleas.
The dog's movements were so swift that a trail of white and
rose-coloured blossoms was wafted along in his wake.
He came to a halt, and stood attentive and watchful. Like Gothic
columns, his forelegs rose to the graceful arch of his chest; his
blue eyes had the glint of steel, cold, yet betraying the hidden
fires within; his ears were twitching, his whole being was aquiver,
and he seemed to be asking: "Well, Master, what do you wish me to
do?" Andreas fondled the beast's Head, and the signs of eager
expectation gradually disappeared. The muscles relaxed, a dreamy
look came into the eyes, the dog yielded luxuriously to the caress,
his left paw advancing slightly. As far as is possible to a dumb
beast, Othello had approximated to the reflective mood and the
attitude of his master.
"Keep still a moment," said the poet. "I want to fix my sonnet in
your collar; ... so ... mind you don't lose it. It's for your
mistress, as soon as she comes ashore. Understand? For Diana."
The dog had remained motionless, but at the name of Diana he whined,
became restless, and, hardly waiting for Andreas to release the
collar, darted away to take up his post of sentinel on the
landing-stage.
Andreas sauntered towards the house. Occasionally he would kick a
stone out of the path, would pluck a yellowing leaf, raise a trailing
plant from the ground. He acted mechanically, like one who prefers
things to be orderly, who loves tidiness. These minor occupations in
the garden or the house unconsciously betrayed a certain restlessness
of disposition. Suddenly, as so often happened after he had composed
a poem, he felt inexpressibly tired.
"I wonder," he murmured, a faint smile puckering his lips, "I wonder
if my fatigue is just the usual tiredness one experiences after a
night of love? Diana was never so beautiful as she was last night.
Was she still like a narcissus? Or did my imagination conjure up the
passionate hour of which I have dreamed since earliest boyhood? I
must be honest with myself. Has ever woman thrown herself into my
arms with such whole-hearted abandonment as I into the arms of women?
Sonia? She was nothing but a little savage. Francisca? She was
merely sensuous. But Diana never promised anything. She is not
called Diana for nothing! When have I ever before, either with my
eyes or in fancy, actually or in a dream, been so dazzled by any
woman?"
He turned to gaze once again over the waters of the lake. Scuds of
foam seemed to rise from the surface. So absorbed was he in his
contemplation of this phenomenon, that he forgot to watch for Diana's
boat, a sight of which he so ardently coveted.
"I wonder how early she set sail? No matter the hour at which I wake
in the morning, her place by my side is always empty, smooth and
cold. She must creep away to her dressing-room on bare feet. When
at last I awake, it is to the sound of her voice calling me. By that
time she has been abroad two hours at least in the fresh air, and has
a keen appetite for breakfast. But today? Even as I slept, I was
conceited enough to imagine that after such delights she would surely
not go for an early sail. She had been so full of ecstasy...."
Andreas strode forward into the blaze of the blossoming
rhododendrons. The flowers stimulated his memory of the hours of
passion and his body quivered in response. He raised his brows as he
mused:
"Diana as Venus? Impious thought!"
He plucked idly at the stamens of the flowers in his hand, while his
thoughts wandered. He was called back to reality by the dog, who
approached with every sign of uneasiness.
"Well, Othello, what's up?"
He quickened his pace and glanced towards the house across the
terrace where a wicker table was laid for breakfast. On reaching the
top of the steps, he turned about, and once more gazed over the blue
and gold surface of the waters.
"Domenico!"
"Yes, Sir," came the old gardener's voice in answer. Then after a
pause: "I see nothing as yet. Signora usually crosses over by the
south-eastern end of Isola Madre."
"I know; but what about Intra?"
"No sign of a sail there either."
Suddenly Andreas was seized with anxiety on account of his beloved,
an anxiety which was rendered more acute by a vague presentiment of
evil. Were the gods taking revenge because Diana had been delighting
in joys which her name would imply her insensible to? Was the boon
so recently granted him already to be snatched from his grasp? Had
he been over-bold?
"What can it all mean? Why is the dog whining, I wonder?"
Still hoping to find her, he wandered through the low-ceilinged rooms
of the house, through the cloistered archways which linked the rooms
together, and up the steps which separated them. At his heels walked
Othello, snuffing the same trail. Both seekers came to a halt in
Diana's room. On the gaily coloured floor, in a green earthenware
pot, were the tall sprays of broom she had brought home last night,
waving her trophy aloft like an orange flag. The white curtains
flapped in the breeze, and he glanced through the windows which gave
a view from three angles on to the lake. Nearby was the
writing-table on which was placed a silver vase filled with iris.
"The curtain might upset that," thought Andreas, with solicitude.
He grasped the vase, intending to transfer it to a place of security,
and, as he touched the cold metal, a chill ran up his arm and struck
him to the heart. His heart seemed to stop beating; then it
fluttered wildly against his ribs. He had caught sight of a note
propped against the vase: the cover bore his own name in Diana's
handwriting. At once the truth flashed through his mind: "She has
gone!"
The nosegay of narcissus slowly dropped from his hand. Then he
seized the hard, white paper, while Othello, seeming to understand
all that was afoot, rubbed himself against Andreas's knee. The young
man gazed down at the missive of fate as it lay in his hand; then,
delaying the evil moment, he thrust it deep into his pocket. His
fingers fondled the paper, unseen, as though he were trying to warm
the inexorable message with his life blood. He looked over towards
the lake; then, again, his eyes travelled round the room. Leaning on
the window sill, he drew the letter forth and at length read its
contents. As he folded the sheet of paper, he stepped out on to the
terrace, told the dog to lie down, and paced to and fro in the shade
of the wistaria whose green leaves and lilac flowers were trained on
a pergola overhead. Othello's steel-blue eyes followed every
movement, from the wicker couch on to which he had flung himself in
obedience to his master's command. His great head was pillowed on
his crossed paws.