She stood erect, then departed by the Molo, stepped into a gondola, and ordered it to be rowed to the Giudecca. The buildings and the water formed a miracle of gold and opal. The image of dead Summer flashed across her memory—dead Summer dressed in gold and shut in a coffin of opalescent glass. She imagined herself submerged in the lagoon, sleeping on a bed of seaweed; but the memory of the promise made on that water, and kept in the delirium of that night, pierced her heart like a knife, and threw her into a convulsion.
—Never more, then? Never more!—
She reached the Rio della Croce. The gondola stopped before a closed door. She landed, took out a small key, opened the door, and entered the garden.
This was her refuge, the secret place for her solitude, defended by the fidelity of her melancholy as by silent guardians.
"Never more?" She walked under the trellises, approached the water, stopped a moment, felt weary, and at last sat down on a stone, held her temples between her hands, and made an effort to concentrate her mind, to recover her self-possession. "He is still here, near me. I can see him again. Perhaps I shall find him standing on the steps of my house. He will take me in his arms, kiss my lips and eyes, tell me again that he loves me, that everything about me pleases him. He does not know—he does not understand. Nothing irreparable has happened. What is it, then, that has so upset and disturbed me? I have received a letter written by a girl who is far-away, imprisoned in a lonely villa near her demented father, who complains of her lot and seeks to change it. That is all. There is no more to say. And here is the letter."
Her fingers trembled, and she fancied she could detect Donatella's favorite perfume, as if the young girl were sitting beside her.
—Is she beautiful? Really beautiful? How does she look?—
The lines of the image were indistinct at first. She tried to seize them, but they eluded her. One particular above all others fixed itself in her mind—the large, massive hand.—Did he see her hand that night? He is very susceptible to the beauty of hands. When he meets a woman, he always looks at her hands. And he adores Sofia's hands.—She allowed herself to dwell on these childish considerations, then she smiled bitterly. And suddenly the image became perfect, lived, glowing with youth and power, overwhelmed and dazzled her.—Yes, she is beautiful! And hers is the beauty he desires.—
She kept her eyes fixed on the silent splendor of the waters, with the letter on her lap; she was nailed there by the inflexible truth. And involuntary thoughts of destruction flashed upon her inert discouragement; the face of Donatella burned by fire, her body crippled by a fall, her voice ruined by an illness! Then she had a horror of herself, followed by pity for herself and the other woman.—Has she not too the right to live? Let her live, let her love, let her have her joy.—She imagined for the young girl some magnificent adventure, a happy love, an adorable betrothed, prosperity, luxury, pleasure.—Is there only one man on this earth, then, that she can love? Is it impossible that to-morrow she might meet some one who would win her heart? Is it impossible that her fate should suddenly turn her in another direction, take her far from here, lead her through unknown paths, separate her from us forever? Is it necessary that she should be loved by the man I love? Perhaps they never will meet again.—She tried thus to escape her presentiment. But a contrary thought whispered: "They have met once; they will seek each other, they will meet again. Her soul is not obscure—not one that can be lost in the multitude. She possesses a gift that shines like a star, and it will always be easily recognizable even from afar—her song. The marvel of her voice will serve her as a signal. She will surely avail herself of this power; she too will pass among mankind leaving a wake of admiration behind her. She will have glory as she has beauty—two attributes that will easily attract Stelio. They have met once; they will meet again."
The sorrowing woman bent as if under a yoke. A clear, pearly light bathed the lagoon in radiance. The islands of La Follia, San Clemente, and San Servilio were enveloped in a light mist. From a distance came at intervals a faint cry, as of shipwrecked sailors becalmed, answered by the harsh voice of a siren whistle or by the raucous call of the sea-gulls. At first the silence seemed terrible, then it grew sweet.