“I suppose she is happy in her way; for she indulges her every mood and temper to her heart’s desire.”
“How is Antony?”
“God alone knows. To speak plainly, Rose is enough to drive him to destruction of some kind or other. Her vagaries, her depressions, her frivolities, her adoration of him one day and her hatred of him the next day, are beyond my comprehension. She prides herself on doing outrageous, unconventional things, and poor Antony feels that he must stand by her in them. My heart ached for the man.”
“There is nothing really wrong, though?”
“Well, Yanna, there is always a dreadful debasement of nature, following violations of popular morality. Antony’s face of calm endurance made my heart ache. Its patience, and its unspoken misery, reminded me constantly of a picture by Carlo Dolci, called The Eternal Father.”
“How could any one dare to paint the face of God?”
“In this case the painter has been penetrated with an awful reverence. And, Yanna, what do you think his idea of the Divine Father was? A grand human face, full of human grief and loneliness and patience, the eyes sad beyond tears, as if there were an unutterable sorrow in the Eternal Heart.”
“How strange!”
“No. If God is Love, how can He be ineffably happy and glorious while his sons and daughters are wandering away from Him and the whole world is broken-hearted? It did me good, it comforted me, to think of a God who could suffer; and I am sure it had done Antony good, for it was he who told me, when I 195 was in Florence, to be sure and go to the Gallery and see the picture.”
“I hope Rose is not taking wine.”