Four Phases of Love

by Paul Heyse

CHAPTER VI.

Theodore's mind was in a strange state when he left Bianchi's house. As soon as he felt the cool air breathe upon his face, the feeling of depression which so weighed upon him, as he stood before the model, left him at once. Even the secret remorse in the background of his thoughts almost served to intensify his mental clearness, as the shadow does the light.

The former of the two girls passed before his mind's eye, and his heart never faltered for a moment. Yet it was unjust towards the stranger--a feeling of wonder struck through it still, when it recollected all the beauties of that marvellous face. But it beat high and fiercely, when it recollected the time of his first knowing and loving, of his growing passion for Mary. And what had changed in the interim? Had she not remained the same? Truly, delicacy and a feeling of propriety had restrained her in the presence of others. But she had told him, with all the ever-increasing intensity of her whole being--with her eyes, which never moved from him as long as he was near her; with her hands, that were so loth to leave his when he went, that she had utterly and unrestrictedly abandoned her whole existence to him.

"Can I blame in her," he said to himself, "that she sits in awe of her puritanical mother--that she did not break this old bond of reverence at the same moment that she bound herself to me?"

As if he had to confess to her all with which he had these weeks long made his life miserable, he felt constrained to see her. He knew that the English visitors, who had annoyed him so, had left Rome the day before. He felt as if all was now to begin anew. In this state of freshly-awakened happiness he sprang up the steps of the house.

But a few moments before, Miss Betsy had been standing in Mary's chamber, about to take her leave. The girl was seated by the piano, in the shade, with her hands grasping the arms of her chair, as if afraid that she should sink down upon the floor, if she did not support herself.

"Take my advice, child," said the little woman, at the end of a long conversation. "Directly he appears, and without any beating about the bush, tell him that he will only lose time in trying to excuse himself. Do that, Mary--I advise you; he is young enough to grow a better man, if he begins in time. It is scandalous and, dear heart, much as I wish it, I cannot retract a word that I spoke in my first burst of anger. God has, however, brought other sinners to himself before now; if he only had more religion; you must confess that I have often spoken to him about it, and now you see I was right; shame upon him, child, to have no more respect for you! I looked round, fortunately none of your acquaintances were sitting near us, for respectable people do not go into this part of the circus, but into the private boxes, unless, indeed, they want to study the people. But he spoilt the whole play for me; and I cannot forgive him. Dear me! if you had been with me, you would have died upon the spot! Do you think that he took his eyes off her for a moment? And she seemed to know him--an old passion--and that might be some excuse for him; for he has found girls pretty enough before he knew you. But people ought to have some self-respect, at least in public, and pretend not to recognise each other. Well, well, child, when you talk to him seriously and once for all, he will shrink in his shoes; but if you will not do it--willingly as I would spare you--my principles require me to tell it all to your parents, that they may bring him to his senses. It would be too great a disgrace and misfortune for a family like yours to receive such a frivolous person into its circle. Have you never heard of any old Roman flirtation which he gave up on your account?"

"No," said the girl, in a low voice. How could she confess that the description of her officious tale-bearer brought a picture vividly before her mind, which had once before caused her an anxious day? The day after Theodore had told her about the dance in the osteria, she had walked arm-in-arm with him through the town. From out a lowly window looked a lovely face, which she pointed out to her friend. He had been unable to repress a sudden start, and the girl, too, seemed to recognize him. "It is the girl from Albano of last night," he said, and then turned the conversation suddenly to another subject. But the face had impressed itself feature by feature upon her memory.

"Do not be down-hearted, my child," said Miss Betsy, passing her hand over Mary's hair, "and don't fret. Human beings, and men in particular, are not angels. Dear me! who has not had to bear the like. Do you talk seriously to him, and all will come right. Good night, my child; I will come and see you to-morrow. Heaven bless you!"

She left hastily. Without she met Theodore, who nearly ran against her. "Pardon me," he said; "a bridegroom who is hastening to his bride may be excused for being in a hurry. Is it not so, dear Miss Betsy?" He did not remark the cold expression with which she greeted him. "You will find Mary----indeed she was not expecting you." He greeted her hastily again, and rushed into the room.

For the first time he found her alone, standing at the window, in the darkness, her hair loosened about her face. In his heart he fervently blessed the good fortune that seemed so willing to pave the way for a perfect reconciliation. Gently he approached her. She did not move. He passed his arm around her waist, and called her by her name. She started and turned round, and he saw her eyes, gleaming wet with tears. "You are weeping, Mary, my own love--you are weeping," he cried, and would have pressed her closer to his heart. She resisted him without speaking. She closed her eyes and repressed her tears, and shook her head. "No!" she said, at last, "I am not weeping. It is passed! It is well!"

He took a turn up and down the room. He knew not how it happened, but in one moment all his joyousness had gone. "What is the grief." he said, at last, after a pause, "which I may not know! If you but knew with what a feeling of happiness I stepped over this threshold, what a gleam of joy passed through me at finding you at last alone! And now you are so distant, and more reserved than under all the restraints of society. You know not what amount of sorrow you heap upon both of us."

She remained silent, and kept her eyes firmly closed. She compared within herself the words he spoke, with those that had but just before so chilled her heart, his glances with those which her old friend had described, and which had been directed to another. She felt something within her which would gladly have pleaded for him, but too many voices cried against it. She had listened to Miss Betsy's tale as if it related neither to herself nor to him, like something incomprehensible, which she possessed no power of appreciating. But yet it was the last straw upon the burden, which she had borne for weeks past. Theodore deceived himself when he fancied that he alone had suffered from his miserable overexcited dreamings. That he was altered, that the first glow of love had paled, that his heart was no longer sure of itself had not escaped Mary's penetration. Whilst he was present she controlled herself for his sake, for the world she would not have let him see that she doubted him; and when she was alone she blamed herself, and said that she had seen falsely, and seen more than existed; that a man had thoughts sometimes that absorbed him, and followed him even into the presence of his love. And she knew too that the restraint her mother imposed annoyed him more day by day. And yet just at this moment a feeling of the deepest agony burst through all, and closed her lips and heart at the very time when words were so much wanted. She hoped for nothing from questionings, and of reproaches she would not suffer herself to think. She felt no acute pain, but as if paralyzed, so that she felt not that he was near her, and yet would have received a deathblow had he left her.

So they stood in miserable self-deception opposite each other. He had already taken his hat, intending to put an end to this unbearable situation, when her mother entered. He must remain. Lights were brought. The women seated themselves, whilst he stood, answering in monosyllables, and cursing a thousand times both himself and his miserable fate. And, as everything disagreeable invariably heaps itself together at such moments, the mother began to talk of Edward's monument. He could not conceal that he had seen it that day for the first time, and was obliged to describe the feeling and execution of the work.

He roused himself a little. "It is incomparable," he said; "I cannot express how it affected me. Edward himself, living but at the same time, glorified. And most marvellous, revealed through some strange inspiration of art, his very attitude, that peculiar, kindly way he had of bending his head forward, a peculiarity of which I never said a word to Bianchi."

"What you tell us may be perfectly true, dearest Theodore," said the mother, after some reflection; "I must confess, however, that the additional figures, as you describe them, are so utterly repugnant to me, that I feel that I could never pray at my son's grave whilst the stone presented to me these strange fabulous forms, which horrify instead of elevating the mind."

"They are symbols, mother, symbols of the most exquisite feelings, not foreign to your own when once you appreciate their meaning. Would you not have been affected had an Italian poet written a poem on Edward in his own language, even though it was not your own mother tongue?"

"True; but then it would only be the expression which would seem strange to me; but here the idea of the representation that repels my holiest feelings, is so strong that I run away and feel that I can have nothing in common with it."

"You speak harshly!"

"I wonder that you think it harsh, dear Theodore, when it is the natural feeling of a woman and a Christian."

"And you are in Rome, and see each day the wonders of bygone races, and enjoy the deeds of a thousand different spirits, each of which is different from your own, and yet can close your heart and turn away here--here, where a spirit for your sake has brought up out of his inmost soul all that it possessed."

"I do not dispute his good-will. But, just because it touches me so nearly and is done for my sake, I feel more susceptible against what is wrong; the best intentions may be ungrateful to us when they have no respect for our own feelings."

Theodore approached Mary, who had sat silent, at her work. "Mary," he said, "has Bianchi's effort offended you too?"

"No;" she said gently; "but my mother is right. One cannot love what is strange to us--at least I cannot! A man possibly."

He only partly understood her words, but he understood that she withdrew herself from him. An unspeakable feeling of agony seized him. It was not irritation--no little feeling of bitterness--which made him bow silently and leave them. He felt that he must collect himself--rouse up his crushed spirits. He would have talked wildly had he stayed.

"It shall not be," he said to himself, when he reached the street. "She is right; we were and should have ever remained strangers to each other. I looked upon my longing to throw my whole heart upon her anew, as fruitless. No wonder that at last she became wearied of it! But it was horrible that it should happen just on this day when I had so sweetly deceived myself, so blissfully lied to my soul, and was more full of hoping than ever! It was horrible, yet wholesome. Now am I cured for ever of this presumptuous amiable self-deception!"

Then he thought of Bianchi. "In pity." he said, "I should have spared him this; he will have something to throw into the Tiber again. No; he shall not. I will keep this monument for myself, to warn me in future how I trust mankind."

So he reached his dwelling; he lighted his lamp and sat down to write. He began a letter to Mary, calm and gentle--after the first few lines, the lie became apparent--for it seethed and boiled and surged within him, till he threw the pen upon the table, and sprang up to go--he knew not whither. At last he went again into the night, towards Bianchi's house. Should he seek him out, tell him all? conceal all from him? or only in his neighbourhood struggle for decision and composure? He knew not clearly--but solitude he could not bear.

Only a young and narrow moon stood above the roofs, but the houses were bright, the windows and balconies alive with people. Along the Corso rolled a gay stream of careless promenaders, refreshing themselves in the cool evening; laughing girlish faces, foreign and Roman, lightly dressed, as they had just escaped from the close rooms. The street was like a long corridor near a ball-room, where the company wander in cool twilight between the dances. Here and there music floated through the open windows, and a girl's voice amongst the crowd sang lightly to the air.

Theodore was obliged to cross the stream. He seemed to himself like one departed, who has nothing more to do with life, but who is forced to revisit some friend in order to reveal to him some forgotten duty before he departs for ever. He buried himself in the small deserted streets which lead down to the Tiber, and passed along without the power of grasping any one train of thought firmly; at last, wearied by the fruitless endeavour, he let his spirit dive along the empty waste of sorrow, as across a shoreless, waveless sea.

Thus he reached a part of the river bank called the Ripa Grande, where the boats lie which ply to Ostia and to the little post steamer and other shipping; from there down to the Ripetta there are still some hundred paces, and no direct connection by the water. He turned, however, to the right, towards the broader street, as a loud altercation reached his ears from the summit of the landing-steps. He heard the sound of a voice through it which made him stop suddenly; he approached the crowd, the individuals composing which he could only distinguish gradually by the light of a flaring street lamp. The dispute seemed to be about a girl that a sailor had seized by the arm and was endeavouring to drag off--another tried to separate them--"Let her go, Pietro;" he cried. "How long have you taken cargoes of women, kidnapper that you are? See, she is crying, poor thing! she does not want to go back into your hole of a cabin, she has good reasons--"

"The devil take you!" shouted the other, dragging at the girl. "She will have reasons enough! But the man who brought her, and paid me well too, said, 'Ship her to Ostia and place her in safe hands there, and take care she don't get back again.' He had his reasons too, I fancy, and reasons that he backed with good arguments. The baggage! She has been up to some mischief! If she was the blessed innocent she pretends to be now, why did she not make a fuss when the man brought her? But what do you think? then she was as quiet as a mouse, only cried and sobbed, and kissed the man till it made him quite sad, and he promised to come and see her in Ostia; and now, why should she take a fancy to run away--the cat! as soon as I turned my back--and struggled and screamed half along the street when I wanted to do my duty and place her in safety again? Tell me that if you can! No! away with the witch, and hold your jaw; and accidenti on any one who gets in my way."

"I cannot, I will not go back," cried the girl's voice: "this man is false; he insulted me shamefully; he breaks his agreement; save me!"

"Who will believe you, you liar! who only lie to get away, and to abuse me? Away with your hands, I say, and back to the cabin."

"Halt!" thundered a voice suddenly. The contending parties turned round startled, and saw Theodore breaking through the crowd to place his hand on the girl's arm. "She is mine." he cried, "and goes with me."

There was a pause. Caterina had recognized the young man instantaneously. Wavering between joy and bitter doubt, she stood with downcast eyes.

"Do you take us for children?" cried the sailor, "to think that we are going to be made fools of by the first fellow who comes by? If you want a sweetheart, you will find plenty on the Corso for gold and good words. Who told you to thrust your oar in, and with a style as if you had the best right in the world?"

"I have," said Theodore, loudly and firmly; "I have--for she is my wife!"

"His wife!" ran through the crowd. The nearest drew back a step.

"Your wife! that you must prove--or it may be,--halt!" interrupted the sailor. "Tell us her name, sir, her name! a husband generally knows so much of his wife, even though he don't know what she is about in the streets late at night."

"Caterina," said Theodore, "do you know me?"

"Yes," answered the girl.

"Caterina!" murmured the sailor; "it is right--so the other one called her."

"You will go with me, Caterina?" said Theodore--"you will tell me the reason why you have left me, and forced me to seek you up and down the streets of Rome in anger and fear? So! to Ostia? and he was going to meet you there? It is enough--come!"

He spoke so sternly, and with a face in which sorrow and anger were so plainly written that no one doubted him for a moment. "It is her husband," they whispered: "she was going to run off with the other. God pity him, when he falls into his hands, as she has done!"

Caterina did nothing to undeceive them. Obediently she ascended the steps by Theodore's side; and her astonishment at being saved by him, to escape whom she had fallen into the danger, resembled the conscious confusion of a discovered criminal. The sailor alone did not seem perfectly convinced. He looked at the piece of gold which Theodore had thrown to him, and growled, "If it was all right, the gentleman would not have put his hand in his pocket. Well, I am doubly paid, at all events: what does it matter to me?"