"Yes!" La Foscarina repeated, but in a new accent, her eyes dwelling upon his, commanding, imperious, as if she felt certain now of possessing a philter that should bind him to her forever.
Stelio felt his heart-throbs quicken still more at the thought of the love this mysterious being must be able to give. He gazed deep into her eyes, and saw that she was as pale as if all her blood had been sapped by the earth to nourish the rich fruits of the garden; and it seemed to him that the present was part of a dream-life, wherein he and she lived alone in all the world.
HE GAZED DEEP INTO HER EYES AND SAW THAT SHE
WAS AS PALE AS IF HER BLOOD HAD BEEN SAPPED
TO NOURISH THE RICH FRUITS OF THE GARDEN
From an Original Drawing by Arthur H. Ewer
La Foscarina was standing under a shrub laden with fruit. The sudden beauty that had illumined her in the supper-room, made up of a thousand ideal forces, reappeared in her face with still greater intensity, kindled now from the flame that never dies, the fervor that never languishes. The magnificent fruits hung over her head, bearing the crown of a royal donor. The myth of the pomegranate was revivified in the mystery of midnight, as it had been at the passing of the boat in the mystic twilight. Who was this woman? Was she Persephone herself, Queen of Shades? Had she dwelt in that unknown region where all human agitations seem as trifling as idle winds on a dusty, interminable road? Had she contemplated the springs of the world, sunk deep in the earth? Had she counted the roots of the flowers, immobile as the veins in a petrified body? Was she weary or intoxicated with human tears, laughter, and sensuousness, and with having touched, one after another, all things mortal, to make them bloom only to see them perish? Who was she? Had she struck upon cities like a scourge, silenced forever with her kiss all lips that sang, stopped the pulsation of tyrannous hearts? Who was she—who? What secret past made her so pale, so passionate, so perilous? Had she already divulged all her secrets and given all her gifts, or could she still, by new arts, enchant her new lover, for whom life, love, and victory were one and the same thing? All this, and more, was suggested to him by the little veins in her temples, the curve of her cheeks, the lithe strength of her body.
"All evil, all good, that which I know and do not know, that which you know, as well as that which you are ignorant of—all this had to be, to prepare the fulness of this night." Life and the dream had become one. Thought and sense were as wines poured into the same cup. Even their garments, their faces, their hopes, their glances, were like the plants of the garden, like the air, the stars, the silence.
Sublime moment, never to return! Before he realized it, his hands involuntarily reached out to draw her to himself. The woman's head fell backward, as if she were about to faint; between her half-closed eyelids and her parted lips her eyes and her teeth gleamed as things gleam for the last time. Then swiftly she raised her head again and recovered herself; her lips sought the lips that sought hers.