"Yes, go."
"But you will be all alone."
"Never mind; I will stay here alone."
"I will bring you a bit from the sacred pine."
He followed the friar under the portico with a raftered roof, whence hung the empty swallows' nests. Before he crossed the threshold, he turned once more to wave his hand at his friend. Then the door closed after him.
O BEATA SOLITUDO!
O SOLA BEATITUDO!
Then, as a change in the stops of an organ changes its whole tone, the woman's thoughts were suddenly transfigured. The horror of absence, to her the worst of all evils, bore down upon her loving soul. Her beloved was no longer there; she no longer heard his voice, felt his breath, touched his firm and gentle hand. She no longer saw him live; she could no longer realize that the air, the lights and shadows, all the life of the world, harmonized itself with his life!—Suppose that door never should open again—that he never should return to me!—No, that could not be. He would surely cross that threshold again in a few minutes, and once more she would receive him into her eyes and into her very soul. But alas! in a few days, would he not thus disappear again, as he had disappeared now? And first the field, then the mountain, then other fields and mountains and rivers, then the strait and the ocean, the infinite space that neither tears nor cries can cross, would they not come between her and that brow, those eyes, those lips? The image of the far-off brutal city black with coal and bristling with arms, filled the peaceful island; the crash of hammers, the grinding of wheels, the puffing of engines, the immense groaning of iron, drowned the melody of the springtime. And with each of these simple things—with the grass, the sands, the brooks, the seaweed, that soft feather floating downward, perhaps from the breast of a songbird—was contrasted the vision of streets overflowing with the human torrent, houses with thousands of deformed eyes, full of fevers that are enemies to sleep, theaters filled with the restlessness or the stupor of men who yield one hour to relaxation from the ferocious battle for lucre. And still, as in a vision, she saw again her own face and her name on walls contaminated by the leprosy of posters, on boards carried by stupid bearers, on gigantic bridges of factories, on the doors of public vehicles, here, there, and everywhere.
"Look! Look at this! A branch of flowering almond! There is an almond tree in bloom in the monastery garden, in the second cloister, near the sacred pine! And you could detect the odor!"
Stelio ran toward her, joyous as a child, followed by the Capuchin, who bore a bouquet of fragrant thyme.
"Look! Take it. See what a wonderful thing it is!"