________________________________________________
_ 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. _
Read next: CHAPTER XX. THE BROKEN ROD
Read previous: CHAPTER XVIII. THE MARCHESA
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