"Another time it was in Vienna, in a museum. There was a great, empty hall, the rain whipped against the windows; innumerable precious relics were there in crystal cases; the signs of death were everywhere, exiled things no longer prayed to or adored. Together Sofia and I leaned over a case containing a collection of holy arms, with their metal hands fixed in an immovable gesture. There were martyr's hands sown with agates, amethysts, topaz, garnets, and pale turquoises. Through certain openings, splinters of bone were visible. One hand held a golden lily, another a miniature city, another clasped a column. One was smaller than the others; it had a ring on every finger, and held a vase full of ointment: the relics of Mary Magdalene. Exiled things, become profane, no longer prayed to or adored. Is Sofia devout? Has she the habit of prayer?"
He did not reply. He felt that he should not speak, nor give any visible sign of his own life in the enchantment of that distant life.
"Sometimes your sister used to enter your room while you were at work, and lay a blade of grass on the page newly begun."
The enchantress trembled; a veiled image seemed to be suddenly revealing itself.—Do you know that I began to love her—the girl that sings, the girl whom you cannot have forgotten—because I thought of your sister? Yes—in order to pour into a pure soul the tenderness my soul wished to offer to your sister, from whom so many cruel things separated me! Do you know that?—
Those words quivered with life, but they were not spoken; yet the voice trembled at their mute presence.
"Then you would grant yourself a few moments of rest. You went to the window with her, and both gazed out upon the sea. A plowman drove his young oxen over the sand to teach them a straight furrow. When they were finally taught, they no longer plowed the sand, but went up on the hill. Who has told me these things?"
He himself had told her once, almost in the same words, but now these memories came back like unexpected visions.
"Then flocks of sheep passed along the shore; they came from the mountains, and were on the way to the plains of the Puglia. All was still; a golden silence covered the shore. Later, you went with your sister, and followed the tracks left by the sheep along the wet sand.... Who has told me all these things?"
Stelio's fevered mind was calmed. A slow peace, like slumber, descended upon him.
"Then sudden storms sprang up; the sea sometimes overflowed the dunes and the land, leaving foam on juniper and tamarisk trees, on myrtle and rosemary. Heaps of seaweed and jetsam would be thrown on the beach. A boat had been wrecked somewhere. The sea brought firewood to the poor, and mourning to heaven knows whom! The beach would be thronged with people, each trying to collect the largest bundle of wood. Then your sister would bring other aid—bread, wine, vegetables, linen. Blessings would rise louder than the noise of the waves. You looked out of the window, and thought that none of your beautiful images was worth the odor of warm bread. You left the half-finished page, and hurried to help Sofia, speaking to the women, the children and the old men.... Who has told me all these things?"