She had begun courageously, in a tone that was almost blithe, trying to seem what above all she must be—a good and faithful instrument at the service of a powerful genius, a strong and willing companion. But a wave of repressed emotion would rise in her throat and stop her speech. Her pauses grew longer, and her hand wandered uncertainly among her books and treasures.
"May everything be ever propitious to your work! That is the only thing that really matters—all else is nothing. Let us lift our hearts!"
She shook her head, with its two wild wings, and held out both hands to her beloved. He, pale and grave, clasped them close. In her dear eyes, that were like sparkling springs of water, he saw a flash of the same beauty that had dazzled him one evening in the room where the fire had roared, and he had listened to the development of the two great melodies.
"I love you and I have faith in you," he said; "I will not fail you and you will not fail me. Something springs from us that shall be stronger than life itself."
"A great melancholy," she answered.
Before her, on a table, lay the familiar book, with pages turned down and margins full of scribbled notes; here and there a petal, a flower, a blade of grass lay between the leaves—signs of the sorrow that had asked and obtained from them the consolation of relief or of forgetfulness. Before her were strewn all the little cherished objects dear to her, strange, varied; nearly all were things of no value: a doll's foot, a silver heart, an ivory compass, a watch without a dial, a small iron lantern, a single earring, a flint, a key, a seal, and other trifles; but all were consecrated by some memory, animated by some superstitious belief, touched by the finger of love or of death, relics that could speak only to one of war and of truce, of hope and of sadness. Among these objects were figures to which artists had entrusted their secret confession, signs and enigmas, profound allegories, hiding truths that, like the sun, could not be gazed at by mortal eyes.
The young man put his arm around his friend's waist, and silently they went to the window. They saw the far-distant sky, the trees, the towers, the end of the lagoon over which Twilight was bending her face, while the Euganean hills were as quiet and blue as if they were the wings of earth folded in the peacefulness of eventide.
They turned toward each other, looking into the depths of each other's eyes. Then they embraced, as if to seal a silent compact.
Yes, all the world seemed to have diminished in value.