Peter! I exclaimed. But....
I didn't know until just now. I love the villa. I love Florence. I
love Edith and I love you. I have never been so happy, but it couldn't
last. Just now when we were spattering water I had a premonition....
He laughed. There was once a singer--I do not recall her name, but
it was neither Patti nor Jenny Lind--who retired while she was still
in the best of voice, and those who heard her in her last opera will
always remember what a great singer she was. So I am going away while
I am happy, so that I can always remember that I have been perfectly
happy--once.
But you always are....
There, you see, you think so! There are months and years when I am
alone, when nobody sees me. Then I am struggling. I make a great deal
of sport about work and, indeed, I _won't_ work at anything that
doesn't interest me, but you know, you _must_ know by now, how much I
want to write. It is coming so slowly. It is getting late ... late. I
must go away to think. I'm too happy here and I am losing time. He was
very earnest now. I _must_ write my book.
But you are coming back to the villa. Your clothes are there, and you
will want to say good-bye to Edith.
No, that is just what I want to avoid and that is what you can do for
me. I can't say good-bye to Edith. She would persuade me to stay. It
would be so easy! You, especially, could persuade me to stay, but I
know you won't, now that you understand how I feel. I shall catch the
night express for Milan. Please, try to explain to Edith ... and you
can pack my bags and send them after me.
But where are you going?
I don't know, and even if I did know and told you, you might be certain
that I would change my mind and go somewhere else. Dispatch my bags to
the American Express Company in Paris and I will send for them.
When shall we meet again?
Peter stood up, his nude body outlined against the crumbling, pink,
vine-covered wall. Then he turned and stooped to draw on his clothing.
Chi lo sa? It will be sometime. You are going back to New York?
Yes, very soon. Perhaps next week.
Well, if we don't meet somewhere else, I will go there to see you, that
much I promise. Then, almost awkwardly, he added, I want you to have my
ring. He drew off the amethyst intaglio of Leda and the Swan and handed
it to me.
We dressed in silence. The motor stood waiting in the road beside the
decrepit farmhouse, noble even in its decay. Peter asked the chauffeur
to drive him to the station, before he should take me back to the Villa
Allegra, and at the station we parted.
Dinner that night seemed tasteless. Edith was furious; I have seldom
seen her so angry. It was exactly what she would have done herself,
had she been so inclined, but she was not at all pleased to have Peter
usurp her privileges. She hardly waited for the salad, leaving me to
munch my cheese and drink my coffee alone. Following dinner, I sat,
a solitary figure on the loggia, smoking a cigarette and sipping my
Strega. Giuseppe, the boy who brought it to me, seemed as dispirited
as the rest of us. After trying in vain to interest myself in half a
dozen books, I went to bed and rolled about restlessly during the long
hot night. I was up very early and went to the garden as usual, but now
lonely and miserable, to have my breakfast. The butler, more cynical
than ever, brought the tray. A gardenia and a note were added touches.
They were Edith's farewells. She had departed for a motor trip through
the Abruzzi. She might return in three weeks. I was welcome to stay at
the villa and wait or.... And so that summer ended.
A month later, Edith was back in New York and again I saw a good
deal of her. She asked for news of Peter but I had none to give her.
Other friends of mine who had heard about him from Edith, expressed a
desire to meet him but, so far as I was concerned, I did not even know
whether or not he was alive. In December, however, passing through
Stuyvesant Square with its gaunt bare trees, the old red-brick Quaker
school-houses, and the stately but ugly Saint George's, on my way to
Second Avenue, where I intended to visit a shop where Hungarian music
might be procured, I found him, sitting alone on a bench.
I am too happy to see you again, he greeted me, but only you. Edith
must not be told that I am in New York, for at last I am working and I
can afford no interruptions. Edith has a way of breaking up the rhythm
of one's life and my life is very rhythmic just now. Do you remember,
one night at the villa, there was some conversation about formulæ and
black magic?
You mean the contessa....
She was speaking figuratively, perhaps, but I have taken her literally.
He paused for a moment; then he continued, It is possible that you will
also remember my telling you in Florence that I believed Donatello's
David to be the most beautiful work of art in the world.