Although it was one of the last days of September and the afternoon was advancing, the sea was thronged11 here and there with heads of bathers, whilst the beach was full of people coming and going to and from the sea, from the cabins and the little wooden staircases and gangways. Down below on the shore, by the huts, were children of various ages, watched over by nurses and governesses, who were entering and leaving the water, flying with little cries of joy from the tallest waves, rolling on the sand, and jumping up again in a laughing, delightful12 group. Rather nearer, black dots, with brightly coloured coifs, large straw hats, sailing and swimming on the pale green waves, indicated men and women who were enjoying one of the last days of summer, who were enjoying the sea with its clear waters and disturbed waves, with perfumes so exhilarating, and wind so fresh, and the great beach and soft shore. From the horizon, on the incomparable green of the Adriatic, two vessels13 approached in fraternal movement, following, catching14 up, and passing each other, but pursuing the same course. One had three sails, all yellow, of a yellow-ochre, with certain strange signs of darker yellow on their background; the other had sails of red-bronze, with designs of deep red. When they were nearer, one could see that on the yellow sails were designed a cross, nails, a crown of thorns, to wit, a reminder15 of the Passion of Jesus Christ; on the other was a little Madonna of the Carmine—the Ave Maria Stella.
Towards four o'clock the terrace of the café, bathed by the sun, was empty, with its hundred little tables round which the flies buzzed; some of the awnings were lowered, others were half raised. Slowly the scene changed. The wind became stronger and fresher from the depths; the children decided16 to enter the huts to dress, as they continued their happy cries; one by one the other bathers re-entered their cabins. The sea became deserted17, only on the shore the number of persons who were promenading18 slowly increased, as they tried to walk on the deep sand where the feet sank. Now and then they halted to watch the sea, whose waves became higher and whiter with their rounded crests19, as if the better to breathe the grand fresh air, full of saline aroma20. Now other great vessels appeared, more or less in the offing, with yellow, coppery, and maroon21 sails, rendered darker by sun and brine.
The scene changed on the terrace as the sun declined. All the awnings were raised, some frequenters appeared to sit by the balustrade that gives on to the beach, to take a place at the little tables along this balustrade, whence all the vastness and beauty of that admirable Lido seascape is to be viewed. The little steamers that perform the small crossing—less than a crossing, a ferry—between Venice and the island of the Lido half an hour ago had arrived almost empty, but now they were sending people continually towards the shore, people who left the motionless waters of the shining, grey lagoon22, crossed the island still green with little trees, still flourishing with growing flowers and plants, and came to gaze at the free, resonant23 Adriatic, with its wonderful green and white waves, with a sigh of relief and a smile of greeting for the magnificent Italian sea.
Two or three tables were at first occupied; other people arrived. Then the waiters began to glide24 from table to table, a little bored, carrying large trays with the necessaries for tea, pink and yellow sorbettes, drinks piled with little pieces of ice, wherein was fixed25 a straw. It was not a large crowd, like that of strangers of all nations in April, when they are mysteriously attired26 in voluptuous27 flattery of the Venetian spring, not the great, indigenous28, Italian crowd of the month of August, that chatters29 and laughs at the top of its voice, the ladies dressed in white, fanning themselves, as they drink large glasses of iced beer, far too much in the German manner! It was the crowd of the end of September, a little curious and strange, mingled30 with foreigners who had come from Switzerland and the Italian lakes, mingled with the Italians who had come from the Alps to the plains at the end of the summer season. The crowd round the tables was small and not chatty or noisy. To the charming, languid, sweet Venetian dialect issuing from the beautiful lips of women, here and there was united a French word, but above all was mingled the rough German talk—in the majority everywhere, as usual. The wind was now very fresh, and dull the breaking of the waves down below on the soft sand: a few promenaders went on the shore, watching the warm tints31 of the sunset on the horizon, while large vessels filed past with yellow-ochre sails, from which the Virgin32 Mary gave her blessing33.
For some time Vittorio Lante remained alone at a small table in a far corner of the terrace: before him was a tall glass full of a greenish drink, exhaling34 a smell of peppermint35, but he forgot to sip36 it. The keen expression of life, which had distinguished37 him in the Engadine, had vanished from the young man's graceful38 but virile39 face. He seemed calm, but without thoughts, and all his features appeared grosser in that thoughtless calm. His eyes glanced without vivacity40, as they fixed themselves indifferently on the people and things around him; he was not sad or happy, but indifferent. He smoked a cigarette and lit another, which remained between his fingers without his bringing it to his mouth, while a thread of smoke issued from it. Suddenly someone stopped at his table, bent41 over him, and called him, as he greeted him in a low voice. He raised his eyes and was amazed to see Lucio Sabini standing42 before him.
"Dear Vittorio, you here!"
"Dear Sabini, welcome!"
They shook hands and looked at each other for a long moment, as if each wished to read in the other's face the story of the two years in which they had not seen each other. Certainly Lucio Sabini was the more deeply changed. His black hair, where up to thirty-five not a single silver thread had appeared, now was quite streaked43 with white round the temples; his face from being thin had become fleshless; his black eyes that had been so proud seemed extinguished; the shoulders of the tall, slender figure were a little bent, and all his physiognomy had an expression of weariness, of failing strength, of vanished energy.
"Are you alone, Vittorio?"
"I am here alone, Sabini."
"Disengaged?"
"Yes."
"Then I will sit a little with you."
He sat down opposite him, and became silent, as he watched the sea.
"Won't you take something, dear friend?" asked Vittorio, with careful courtesy.
"If I must, I will take some sort of coloured water," murmured Lucio Sabini, and his long, brown, very thin hand brushed his black moustache in a familiar gesture. Again they looked at each other intensely. Lucio seemed to make an effort to begin an ordinary conversation.
"Have you been long in Venice, Vittorio?"
"No, just a week. We have come from Vallombrosa, where we stayed till September was advanced."
"Is Vallombrosa amusing?"
"No; boring."
"Your wife, Donna Livia, likes it?"
"Exactly. She likes forests with their large trees. She lived there from morning till evening."
"Is Donna Livia here?"
"I left her for tea with some friends in Venice, and came here to pass an hour alone."
"Is she willing to leave you alone?"
"She lets me. She knows I like my freedom ... to do nothing with it. So she herself lets me go free, to please me."
They spoke44 in a low voice, bending a little over the table, looking distractedly, now at the beverages45 from which they had not sipped46 a drop, now a little to their right at the shore and the sea; but their glances seemed to be aware of nothing. Suddenly Lucio Sabini, fixing his worn-out eyes on those of Vittorio, questioned him more brightly, with his dull voice from which all timbre47 seemed extinguished.
"Are you happy, Vittorio?"
"I am not happy, but I am not unhappy," he replied, turning his head away, as if to hide the sudden expression of his face.
"And is Donna Livia happy?"
"She asks nothing else of life than to have me. She has me."
"Then all is well, Vittorio?"
"Yes, for Livia."
"And for you?"
"Oh, for me nothing can go well or ill, Sabini."
This he said with such an accent of indifference50, of detachment, that it amounted more to sadness. After a slight hesitation51 Lucio resumed:
"Ardently is the word," agreed Vittorio Lante, in a rather louder voice.
"How did you let her escape you?"
"I gave her up."
"Although you loved her?"
"Yes, although I adored her, I gave her up."
"But why?"
"So as not to be dishonoured54, Lucio. Had I married her I should have been dishonoured."
"Because of her money."
"Exactly; because of her superfluity of money, her immense amount of money; because of my immense poverty."
A soft veil passed before Vittorio's eyes. The other looked at him, and said:
"It hurts you, then, to talk of this?"
"Yes, now and then it hurts me; but the pain is always less, and always at greater intervals55, Sabini. I am almost cured."
"Did you suffer much?"
"Very much, as if I should die of it. However, I am not dead; it seems one doesn't die of that."
"Do you think so?" asked Lucio, waving a hand.
"I don't know," he murmured; "I had my mother, whom I ought not to make more unhappy; perhaps I was unworthy to conceive a lofty sorrow. Who knows? I haven't been given either a great soul or great will. It is not my fault if I am not dead, if I am almost healed."
"Poor Vittorio!" said Lucio, pressing his hand across the table, "tell me everything. You can tell me everything, I can understand."
"Oh, mine isn't such an interesting story!" exclaimed Vittorio, with a pale smile of irony; "if you like, it is rather a stupid story. I was such a fool in the Engadine! I went there to find a girl, neither too beautiful nor too ugly, and not very rich, who could drag my mother and myself out of our difficulties; I went with a definite programme, a vulgar but definite programme, unromantic but definite, that of a dowry-hunter. Instead of looking for a mediocre57 girl, with a dowry of six or seven hundred thousand lire, like a child, like an idiot, I make straight for Mabel Clarke, who has fifty millions. I put forward my candidature as a flirt58 to good purpose, and conquered all rivals. Fool, thrice a fool that I was! Instead of keeping my presence of mind, and all my wits, I fall in love with her because she is beautiful, fresh, young, new, and of another race; because we were free, and left free, as is the American custom, as you know quite well, so that at last the girl of fifty millions falls in love with me."
"She did love you, then?"
"Yes, she loved me in her way," answered Vittorio, shortly.
"She suffered through you."
"She suffered less intensely, but longer, perhaps. Even in this she beat me, Lucio! What a common story, is it not? How could I have thought that the world and my destiny would have permitted me to marry Mabel Clarke with her fifty millions, to be the son-in-law of John Clarke, who, at his death, would have left other two hundred millions? I? I? And why? Who was I, more than another, of my country or another, of my set or another, who was I to reach to such power? I was neither a true pleasure-seeker, nor properly vicious, nor a cynic. Seriously, I was nothing but a—calculator. I was nothing serious, my friend. If I had been in earnest as a calculator I should not have fallen in love with Mabel Clarke. What a mistake, or rather, what a gaucherie!"
"You can't forget her, Vittorio," whispered Lucio, looking at him with tender eyes.
"You are wrong. I forget her more and more. Besides, have I not married Livia?"
"Why did you make that marriage?"
"Que faire?" he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders. "I was so sad, so broken in bone and soul, as if I had fallen from a precipice59, and had been dragged out half living. I was so bored. And poor little Livia was languishing60 in silence waiting for me. And did not my mother look at me with beseeching62 eyes every time I went to Terni? I married through sadness, fastidiousness, weakness, to make an end of everything, and, as you see, in spite of all my ardent53 love for Mabel Clarke I did not know how to be faithful to her for more than a year. The American girl had foreseen it—Mabel Clarke was stronger, wiser, more direct than I, and much better too. She humbled63 me in sending a rich gift to Livia on her wedding, and she invited us to America. Ah, how strange these women are!"
"She invited you to America? She writes to you?"
"Often, long letters. From the very first she wanted me to go to America to gain money with John Clarke, and she did not believe she would offend me by asking me."
They were both silent for a moment, absorbed and concentrated. Around them people began to leave the tables, as the shadows of dusk were falling from the sky on sea and beach and the flowered island; but they were unaware65 of it.
"Besides, dear Sabini," resumed Vittorio, with a degree of greater sarcasm66, "I am less poor than I was formerly67. Then I spent too much to find the heiress with the great fortune, to live grandly, and to travel. When I announced that I was marrying Livia, Uncle Costrucci, an old clerical, was moved, and let us have, for our natural lifetime, a beautiful suite69 of apartments in old Rome, in via Botheghe Oscure. Mamma has come to live with us, and her cousin, Farnese, made her a present of a carriage. Ours is a marriage which has been made by public subscription70! We have our house and our carriage. Livia is so charming in her discreet71 toilettes, discreet in every fashion. I haven't to strive as I thought, I have not even been forced to work as I supposed. There is nothing of the heroic in me—a mediocre destiny, and a mediocre life!"
"Ah, Vittorio, you still suffer," said Lucio, in a deeply moved voice.
"In my amour-propre, I confess. Think, Lucio, how I have been treated—surrounded, knocked on the head like a lamb under calumnies72, defamations and vituperations, in every land where international society gathers—and how I have been unable to cuff74 a single one of my adversaries75. Think how rivers of ink have been poured out in the papers of two worlds to defame me, and how I have been unable to spit in the face of a single one of those journalists; think how I have been unable to defend myself or offer a fight, solely76 because I loved Mabel and Mabel loved me. And afterwards, Lucio, what an incurable77 offence to my amour-propre, this breaking off the marriage, which sanctions the calumnies, this breaking off ... and how everyone laughed at me afterwards, and if they do not laugh at Livia and me now it is because we are a quiet, modest ménage that lives in the shade—we are an insignificant78 couple now."
"Another man, Vittorio, would never have consented to breaking off the marriage."
"Another! I consented because I loved Mabel; I loved her like a child, like a Don Quixote, with such fire and devotion as to become a hero—and I so mediocre! Through love I renounced79 my every good, but of my own free will. Ah, if I had not loved her! If I had been a cold and interested man, even under the impulse of an amorous80 caprice; if I had kept my clearness of mind, even in flirting81 to extremes, how different everything would have been. If I had not loved her I could have fled with her ten times from the Engadine, and she would have been compromised and the marriage would have been inevitable82. If I had not loved her I would not so ingenuously83 have allowed her to set out alone for America; if I had not loved her I would have provoked a duel84 at every defamation73 and reduced my defamers to silence. At the first injurious article of the American newspapers I would have gone over there to make them show cause in the law courts; if I had not loved her I should have been able to force her to keep her engagements, and I should have obtained her by force, her and her fortune; but I should have obtained her. I loved her, and I destroyed my happiness and my life."
With dreamy eyes, full of incurable sadness, he gazed at the Adriatic which was becoming intensely green, like an emerald, in the twilight85. He added:
"Lucio, love has been my mistake; I committed suicide because of it. But what is more laughable and grotesque86, I survive my suicide."
In spite of his cold delirium87, as he turned to Lucio he perceived that he had become pale, as if he were about to die; he saw that Lucio's thin brown hand was pressing his cigarette-case convulsively. Vittorio composed himself, turned towards his friend, and touching88 his hand lightly, said:
Lucio Sabini bowed a denial with a vague and sad gesture of his hand, without replying; he bowed his denial with a vague smile that vanished immediately.
"Do not think that I tell everyone how it still torments90 me in the depths of my soul; no one knows anything of it; none must know. But you went up with me to the Engadine on a summer evening, do you remember? You were a witness of my joy up there."
"And also you, Vittorio, were my witness up there," murmured Lucio, grimly and gloomily.
Vittorio trembled and leant over the table to Lucio.
"Ah, that too is a sad story," he murmured.
"Sad do you call it, only sad?" exclaimed the other, with a great vibration92 of sorrow in his voice. Confused and disturbed, Vittorio in his turn stammered93:
"I knew—I read."
"In the papers ... a few lines ... I read of Miss Lilian Temple's accident," added Vittorio in a low voice.
"You mean to say Miss Lilian Temple's death, my friend," exclaimed Lucio, with a strange accent; "she is dead, my friend."
"I did not wish to pronounce the word death, my friend," Vittorio replied quietly.
Now they were alone on the terrace, on which the evening was descending95. Everyone had left to take the little steamer back to Venice from the other side of the Lido. The terrace was quite deserted, and all the Lido shore, whose yellow sand remained bright beneath the evening shadows; and deserted the ample Adriatic, now of the deepest green in the evening gloom.
"She was twenty," said a weak, feeble voice, which Vittorio hardly recognised as Lucio's.
"It is very early to die."
"I ought to have died, I who am thirty-seven, and have lived double that time, I who am tired, old, and finished with everything. It was just that I should die, not she, who was twenty," said the weak voice.
"But how did the accident happen?" asked Vittorio.
"What accident?"
Ah, what a horrible smile of torture contracted Lucio's livid lips!
"There was no accident, there was no Alpine catastrophe. Miss Lilian Temple killed herself."
"Killed herself?" cried Vittorio, stupefied.
"She killed herself."
"Are you sure of it?"
"As of my life and death. She killed herself."
"Ah, how cruel! how atrocious!" broke in Vittorio.
A heavy, lugubrious99 silence fell upon the twain, in that solitary100 corner of the great deserted terrace before the Adriatic.
"Would you like to read her last words, Vittorio?" asked Lucio.
The other started and nodded. Lucio drew out from an inner pocket his pocket-book, took from it a long white envelope, and drew delicately from it a picture post card. The two friends bent forward together over that piece of paper to distinguish its design and read the words thereon. On one side the post card had the address written in slender, tall calligraphy101 and firm handwriting, "à Don Lucio Sabini, Lung' Arno Serristori, Firenze." The postage-stamp was of the 24th of April of the previous year, and came from the Hospice of the Bernina. On the other side was a great panorama102 of glaciers103, of lofty, terrible peaks, and printed beneath the German words, "Gruss vom Diavolezza." The same slender, upright characters had written, in a corner of the card, beneath the great strip of white of the glacier104 in English, "For ever, my love.—Lilian." Both raised their heads and looked at each other.
"She died the next day, the 25th of April," said Lucio, holding the card in his hands and gazing at it, as if he saw it for the first time. "These are her last words. She wrote them in the Hospice of the Bernina, and posted them in the letter-box of the fa?ade of the Hospice. Next morning she left very early for La Diavolezza; at four o'clock in the afternoon she was dead, having fallen headlong from a lofty crevasse105 of the Isola Persa."
He spoke slowly, with a precise accent, that rendered even more sorrowful the expression of his words.
"Would you like to see where she died, Vittorio?" he resumed. "Look carefully."
Again, with tragic106 curiosity in the evening half-light, the two men leant over that funereal107 document.
"Look carefully. This is La Diavolezza, a mountain which is climbed without great difficulty, and where is unfolded an immense panorama of glaciers and peaks. I have been there and described it to her. Look carefully; she reached as far as here, and rested only an hour in this Alpine hut. She wanted to proceed at once to the glacier here, where it is marked, the Perso Glacier, this great black moraine that cuts the glacier in two, which is called the Isola Persa—it is written beneath. Look closely; you will not discover the crevasse where she fell, where she wished to fall, but it is here—where she wished to fall and to die."
"But how do you know?"
"She cut the rope which fastened her to her guide with a knife."
"Who told you that?"
"The guide told me: I saw the little torn piece of cut rope. I went over all Lilian Temple's last journey," said Lucio gloomily.
Suddenly he threw himself with arms and head on the table, holding to his mouth the post card whereon were written Lilian Temple's last words murmuring with tearless sighs that rent his breast:
"Oh, my love, my love ... at twenty."
Silent, astonished, Vittorio waited till the moment of weak anguish61 passed. Then he leant towards the man, whose sighs became less, and said to him:
"Lucio, pull yourself together. Let us go away." The electric lamps, which had been suddenly lit, illuminated108 the terrace; the waiters arrived with linen, glass, and silver to set the tables for dinner, since foreigners and Venetians, on warm evenings, came to dine there in the open air before the sea, where one of the usual orchestras played. There was a coming and going of these waiters, and a rattling109 of glass and china. In dull, equal, monotonous110 voice, the Adriatic broke against the shores of the Lido. The wind had fallen.
"Let us go away," repeated Vittorio.
With a rapid movement Lucio started up: his eyes were red, although he had shed no tears, his face seemed feverish111. Both approached the exit, crossed the theatre hall and the vestibule, and found themselves at the door. They went out into the island before the large central avenue, where the tramway runs amongst the trees, gardens, and villas112. They had not uttered a single word. When once again they were in the open air before the little square where the tramway stops Lucio said shortly:
"Shall we walk across the island, Vittorio? We shall always find a steamer on the other side to take us back to Venice."
"Let us walk."
They walked in silence along the little garden in course of construction, by villas hardly finished, beneath the young trees, amidst the white electric lamps and the shadows formed between the lamps. Suddenly Lucio Sabini stopped. He leant over the fence of a garden covered with rambler roses and said in a desperate voice:
"Vittorio, I killed Lilian Temple."
"Don't say that, don't say that."
"I committed the crime, Vittorio. I killed her. It is as if I had taken her by the hand, led her up there to the Isola Persa, and pointing to the precipice had said to her—'Throw yourself down.' Thus am I guilty."
"Your reasonable grief blinds you, Lucio."
"No, no," he answered in his desperate voice, "I am not blind, I am not mad. Time has passed over my sorrow: it has become vast and deep like a great, black lake which I have in the depths of my soul. I am neither mad nor blind. I exist, I live, I perform coldly and surely all the acts of life. Nevertheless, I committed a crime, in thrusting Lilian Temple to her death with my very own hands."
"But you are not an assassin, you are not a cruel man," protested Vittorio vehemently113. "You could not have done it."
"That is true: I am not an assassin, I am not a cruel man, but every unconscious word of mine, every unconscious act of mine, was a mortal thrust whereby this creature of beauty and purity, whereby this gentle creature should go to her death."
His sharp, despairing voice broke in tenderness. They began to walk again, side by side.
"You loved her then, Lucio?" asked Vittorio affectionately.
"Yes, I loved her very much; but with a sudden and violent love which made me forget my slavery, my galley114, and the rough chain that oppresses me. I loved her, but I ought to have been silent and not have lost my peace and made her lose her peace. Here began my sad sin, Vittorio."
"Did she know nothing about you? Did you tell her nothing?"
"Nothing: she knew nothing; she wished to know nothing. Thus she gave me her heart and her life. I ought to have spoken; I ought to have told her everything. I was so madly in love. I was silent and in my silence deceived her. Ah, what a sin! What a terrible sin was that!"
"Did no one warn her?"
"No one. Her soul was mine without a doubt or a thought, with immense certainty."
"But didn't you in all this understand the danger into which you were both running?"
"I didn't understand," replied Lucio Sabini, tragically115. "I didn't understand Lilian Temple's love till after her death."
"You knew that she loved you?"
"Yes, but how many others have loved me for a fortnight or a month, afterwards to forget me!"
"Did she not tell you how much she loved you?"
"She told me a little, but I did not understand."
"But did she not show you?"
"She showed me a little, but I didn't understand. My eyes did not know how to read her soul or guess the riddle116 of her heart."
"But why? Why?"
"Because she was of another country, of another race; because she was another soul different from all the other souls I have known; because I had another heart. Lilian was unknown to me, and I let her die."
Slowly they reached the end of the long avenue that divides the little island and reached the shore of the lagoon, where no majestic117 hotels and sumptuous118 villas arise, but old Venetian houses of fishermen, sailors, and gondoliers. Already in the nocturnal gloom lights were to be seen flickering119 on the turbid120 waters. Once again Lucio stopped, as if speaking to himself; Vittorio stopped beside him, patiently, affectionately, pitifully.
"Oh, these Englishwomen, these Englishwomen," he said, passing his hand over his forehead. "Even if they are very young, even if they are twenty, as my poor love, as my poor Lilian, they have an interior life of singular intensity121, whilst an absolute calm reigns122 in their faces and actions. They hide sentiments within their souls with a force, power, and ardour which would stupefy and frighten us if we could see within them for an instant. They have an absolute power over themselves and their expressions, a surprising domination over every manifestation123. These Englishwomen—Lilian, Lilian mine! They say what they mean, not a word more, they express what they wish to express, no more; they know how to control themselves in the most impetuous moments of life, they know how to encloister themselves when everyone else would expand, and they find their greatest pride in their spiritual isolation124, apart from whatever surrounds them, whatever is happening, far-away, closed in their interior life, in their kingdom, in their temple. Their heart is their temple. How often my dear Lilian was silent beside me, and I did not understand how full of things was her silence: how often she would have liked to fall into my arms, but restrained herself and merely smiled: how often she would have liked to cry and not a tear fell from her beautiful eyes; how often I found her cold, indifferent, apart from me, and never perhaps had she been more mine than in that moment. So I understood not how she loved me, because she was of another race, strong, firm, thoughtful, taciturn, faithful; because Lilian had another soul and all her soul escaped me."
They had now passed on to the pier125, beneath its wooden roof, to take the steamer which should bring them back to Venice. But no steamer was leaving at that moment, although far-off two large red lights were to be seen approaching rapidly towards the shores of the Lido. The two friends sat down on a wooden bench, in a badly lit corner, and resumed their conversation sotto voce, for other travellers were there, waiting with them for the steamer.
"These Englishwomen," resumed Lucio, speaking as if in a sad dream. "On a day in February there comes to my home, in Florence, Lilian's best friend, her most affectionate guardian126, Miss May Ford127, she who always accompanied her at St. Moritz: you remember her? And the good old maid stands there, quiet, imperturbable128, while she asks an explanation of such a serious matter, that is, why I have deserted Lilian Temple; and she asks me with such simplicity129 and indifference, almost as if it were a matter of the least importance, and my pain and sorrowful embarrassment130 caused her wonder. She does not defend Lilian, nor Lilian's love, but is at once content with my reasons. Not that only! When I ask her to use her good influence to make Lilian forget me, she at once promises to do so. If I suggest that she should tell Lilian that I love her, but that I ought not, that I shall always love her, but still I ought to fly from her, Miss Ford declares that she will not give this message because it would make her worse; and finally when I, to show her what an invincible131 and mortal reason prevents me from loving Lilian, tell her of my adultery, that is of my sad servitude, when I suggest to her that a lady could kill herself if I desert her for Lilian; coldly, without protesting, she agrees to bear this embassy of death. Do you understand, Vittorio? Miss May is tenderly fond of Lilian, knows, perhaps, that Lilian loves me deeply, knows, perhaps, that Lilian will not forget me, that she will never console herself for my desertion, yet through reserve, correctness, moderation, through that proud habit of sentimental132 modesty133, that habit of proud and noble silence which these Englishwomen have, so as not to humiliate134 me or herself, so as not to humiliate her friend, to conceal135 from herself, from me, and all whatever there was exalting136 and agonising in our drama of love, this Englishwoman says nothing to me and to Lilian; only a few—very few—words, the least number of words possible, a single phrase, the one necessary, which she had asked from me to take back to her, and she takes back this single phrase—and it was an embassy of death!"
"And did not Miss Ford even know Lilian's heart and of her love?" murmured Vittorio sadly; "did they confide137 little or nothing to each other, through respect and modesty?"
"Not even Miss Ford understood. One day in April Lilian disappeared from her home in London. She left not a letter or a note for her father; she did not write to Miss Ford, who at that moment was in Somersetshire—nothing, she disappeared. After ten days, in which Lilian's father placed an advertisement every day in the Times in search of her, to get her to return, the news of her death arrived."
"Probably not even her family understood that it was a question of suicide."
"Yes," murmured Lucio Sabini in a thin voice, "they caused it to be said that it was an accident: perhaps they believed it was an accident."
There was a short silence.
"In my post card, Vittorio, you read but two words, which could be a sorrowful farewell, a sad and tender remembrance. She covered with modesty and silence her passion and her death."
The little steamer was already at the pier, the gangway had been thrown across, fifteen or twenty passengers crossed it and passed into the boat. They scattered138 here and there on benches along the steamer's sides, which set off again immediately. Lucio and Vittorio went and sat in the front of the boat, at the prow139, receiving in their faces the fresh evening breeze, no longer the strong wind of the day which for so many hours had blown from the Adriatic on the shores of the Lido, but the little wind of the lagoon which scarcely ruffled140 the blackish waters, a breeze that blew from the Canal of the Giudecca and rendered more charming the Venetian evening. With even movement the little steamer threaded its way, cleaving141 the almost motionless waters; making for the brown, fragrant mass, in the evening light, of the Venetian gardens. Below a bright clear light was spreading itself over the city and waters. Towards San Marco and the Grand Canal the light was completely white, while other lights from palaces, houses, steamers, and gondolas142 waved and scintillated143 everywhere, far and near, throwing soft streaks144 of light and flying gleams over the waters. Silent and tired the two friends remained seated, almost as if they were unaware of the movement, so regular was the going of the little boat; and they were unaware of sounds, as everything around them was peace and shadow. Venice flashed with light that brightened the shadows of the lagoon, the houses, and the sky, and she seemed surrounded by a starry145 aureole; but they did not even look at the majestic spectacle, as if in the desolation of their souls neither beauty nor poesy of things could attract them. The steamer bent to the right to the stopping-place at the gardens: a louder and duller noise spoke of their arrival, the gangway was thrown across to the pier; a few embarked146 for Venice, but no one got off. The steamer drew farther away noisily, and resumed its course in the middle of the lagoon.
"Now I am going to find my accomplice147," said Lucio in a dry voice.
"Accomplice?"
"Exactly. Beatrice Herz strangely helped me to kill Lilian," added Lucio, with a sneer148 in the gloom.
"Is she here in Venice?"
"Of course! How could my accomplice be elsewhere? Where I go, she goes; where she goes, I follow. We are inseparable, dearest Victor. Oh, it is touching!"
And a stridulous laugh of irony escaped him.
"Did she know all?" asked Vittorio in a low voice.
"From the first moment," resumed Lucio in a voice become dry and hard. "When I separated myself from Lilian, enamoured as I was, wildly in love, in fact, I had a mad hope, I believed in a generous madness, and told Beatrice Herz everything. Was she not at bottom a woman of heart? Had she not suffered atrociously for love? Had she not a very tender attachment149 for me? I believed in the superiority of her mind and her magnanimity; I asked for an heroic deed. I had loved and served her for ten years; I had given her my youth, and consumed my most beautiful hours and strength for her; I asked her to dismiss me as a good, loving, and true servant, who had accomplished150 his cycle of servitude, and at last wished to be free. Humbly151 and ardently I begged her, with tears in my eyes, turning to her as to a sacred image, to perform the miracle, to give me liberty, to allow me yet to live some years of good and happiness—the few that remained to me for love."
"Well?" asked Vittorio, with sad curiosity.
"I believed Beatrice Herz to be a heroine, capable of a great proof of altruism152; I believed her capable of a sentimental miracle. On the contrary, she is a mean little woman, a wretched, egotistical creature, a puppet without thought or heart, in whom my love and my illusion had placed something of the sublime153. She is nothing. She refused precisely154; she was as arid155 as pumice-stone; she had not a moment's pity or a single trace of emotion. She sees nothing but herself and her social interests. Instead of giving me my freedom she abandoned herself to such scenes of jealousy156, now ferocious157, now trivial, from which I escaped each time worn-out and nauseated158."
"Had you never the strength to break with her?"
"I hadn't the strength," added Lucio sharply. "Of recent years she has threatened to kill herself when I spoke of leaving her. I always believed her. When it was a question of Lilian her threats became even more violent; twice I had to snatch from her hands a little revolver. But it was really nothing, Vittorio! It wasn't true! I was deceived in the first place, and was deceived afterwards. Beatrice Herz never meant to kill herself for me. I have lived ten years with this woman, and she has succeeded in deceiving me. She is not the sort of woman to kill herself. Even in this I have been disillusioned159 about her. She is a paltry160 little woman, nothing else."
"Still she loved you; she confronted dangers for you; she compromised herself and lost her name for you."
"Yes, yes, yes! But adultery with all its waste and lies, adultery with all its corruptions161, this adultery prolonged to the boredom162 and disgust of both, only for womanly vanity, the great vanity of not being deserted, has conquered all her pride."
"You reproach her with her sin!"
"I reproach myself as well as her. I reproach myself as well as her for having sent Lilian Temple to her death."
"Beatrice did not know."
"Beatrice did not deserve to," exclaimed Lucio, again becoming exalted163. "She deserved no sacrifice, neither mine nor Lilian's—I keep telling her that."
"You tell her that!"
"Always. Our life is a hell," added Lucio gloomily.
"But doesn't Beatrice try with sweetness...."
"Sweetness? Don't you know that she is jealous of my poor Lilian, of my poor dead one? Don't you know that she still makes scenes of jealousy?"
"Oh!"
"It is so. When I read in the papers the dread164 news, when I read Lilian's poor, sweet, last words from up there, and understood that she had killed herself, like one possessed165 I set off by night for the Engadine. Ah, Vittorio, Vittorio, that second journey to ascend166 there from Chiavenna, what atrocious anxiety all that journey which I made alone, to the Maloja, to St. Moritz, to the Bernina, in a time of perfect solitude167, with the snow hardly melted, with St. Moritz still shut up as if dead. The roads were still difficult, as everywhere I followed step for step the tracks of my poor little one who had gone up there, who had lovingly and piously168 visited all the places where we had been together—step for step after Lilian's tracks until one night I slept in the house of the guide who had seen her die; the man's eyes were full of tears as he told me of her death. Well, when I, full of horror and sorrow, pierced by remorse169, unconsoled and unconsolable, came away, whatever do you think Beatrice Herz did? She came to meet me in the Engadine, to snatch me back. She said so—just to snatch me back. I found her in the inn at Chiavenna, whence she was hurrying to ascend to the Engadine. I found her there, and instead of weeping with me, instead of asking pardon of God, she acted a scene of jealousy, and insulted the dead and me."
"Oh, how horrible!"
"Horrible! For that matter I told her a great and simple truth, which made her rave68, and always makes her rave; so I repeat it to her."
"What was that?"
"That she had loved me ten years, and did not know how to die for me, and that Lilian Temple had loved me one month and had died for me."
"She must suffer atrociously from all this?"
"Atrociously. I hate Beatrice Herz, and she hates me."
"Yet you remain together?"
"Always. All our lives. Only death, longed-for death, will free us," said Lucio with a sigh.
They gradually drew near to the pier of San Marco; the lagoon was full of gondolas, white and red lights caught the steamer and showed up faces.
"Listen, Vittorio," said Lucio, placing a hand tenderly on his friend's arm, "your love adventure has caused you to suffer much; but to-morrow you will be healed, because you have no remorse, because you have accomplished a lofty duty of honour in destroying your happiness; but you have no remorse. Create none, Vittorio. When at last the beautiful, dazzling figure of Mabel Clarke has vanished from your spirit, love your wife, who is good and sweet, who has been humble64 and patient, who is fond of you, and attends your good. Love her, not another woman; love her, and never the woman of another. Vittorio, don't be lost as I am lost; don't throw to the monster adultery—your flesh, and senses, and heart. Don't create for yourself remorses which will render your life a place of torment91 as it is for me."
They reached the Riva degli Schiavoni, the waters were astir with gondolas, and the Riva with people, and full of light and bustle170. They went ashore171 together. They stood silently for a few moments before separating, while around them life was humming, though pale and exhausted172 they were unaware of it.
"Do you remember Chassellas?" asked Lucio, with singular sweetness.
"Yes, I remember it. I went there with Mabel," replied the other, with repressed emotion.
"I know it, we gathered flowers there one day, Mabel and I."
"Lilian is buried there; not far from poor Massimo Granata. I too shall sleep there one day; the soonest possible, Vittorio."
Vittorio, pale and exhausted, looked at him.
"I long to die," said Lucio Sabini.
They said nothing more, but separated.
THE END
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1
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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9
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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13
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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14
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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18
promenading
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| v.兜风( promenade的现在分词 ) | |
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19
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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maroon
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| v.困住，使（人）处于孤独无助之境；n.逃亡黑奴；孤立的人；酱紫色，褐红色；adj.酱紫色的，褐红色的 | |
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lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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chatters
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的第三人称单数 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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30
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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31
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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33
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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34
exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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peppermint
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| n.薄荷，薄荷油，薄荷糖 | |
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36
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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37
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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38
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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40
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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41
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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42
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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43
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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44
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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45
beverages
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| n.饮料( beverage的名词复数 ) | |
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46
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
timbre
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| n.音色，音质 | |
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48
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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49
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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50
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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51
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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52
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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53
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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54
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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55
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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56
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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57
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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58
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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59
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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60
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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61
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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62
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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63
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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64
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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65
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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66
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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67
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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68
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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69
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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70
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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71
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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72
calumnies
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| n.诬蔑，诽谤，中伤（的话）( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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73
defamation
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| n.诽谤；中伤 | |
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74
cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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75
adversaries
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| n.对手，敌手( adversary的名词复数 ) | |
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76
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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77
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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78
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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79
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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80
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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81
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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82
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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83
ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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84
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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85
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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86
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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87
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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88
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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89
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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90
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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91
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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92
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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93
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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95
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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96
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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97
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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98
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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99
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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100
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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101
calligraphy
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| n.书法 | |
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102
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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103
glaciers
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| 冰河，冰川( glacier的名词复数 ) | |
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104
glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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105
crevasse
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| n. 裂缝，破口；v.使有裂缝 | |
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106
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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107
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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108
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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109
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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110
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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111
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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112
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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113
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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114
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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115
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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116
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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117
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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118
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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119
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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120
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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121
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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122
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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123
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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124
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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125
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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126
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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127
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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128
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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129
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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130
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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131
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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132
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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133
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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134
humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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135
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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136
exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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137
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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138
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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139
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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140
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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141
cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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142
gondolas
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| n.狭长小船( gondola的名词复数 )；货架（一般指商店，例如化妆品店）；吊船工作台 | |
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143
scintillated
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| v.（言谈举止中）焕发才智( scintillate的过去式和过去分词 )；谈笑洒脱；闪耀；闪烁 | |
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144
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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145
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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146
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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147
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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148
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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149
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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150
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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151
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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152
altruism
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| n.利他主义，不自私 | |
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153
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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154
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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155
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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156
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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157
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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158
nauseated
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| adj.作呕的，厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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160
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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161
corruptions
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| n.堕落( corruption的名词复数 )；腐化；腐败；贿赂 | |
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162
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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163
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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164
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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165
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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166
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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167
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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168
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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169
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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170
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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171
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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172
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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173
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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