Occasionally she saw him in the street, but he seemed never to see her. A vague heartache grew out of those occasions.
The Italian spring deepened in warmth and color; the air had a fragrance, some days, as of lilacs; other days, more penetrating, as of hyacinths. The little hills in the midst of which Florence lies took on dewy morning hues of the opal, changing evening tints of the dark dove's neck. The pure noon light made the statues in the King's Garden, where Paula walked sometimes, look dazzlingly white against the sombre walls of clipped laurel. The open country now was full of blossoming fruit trees; Paula often begged Veronika to alight from the carriage and gather for her the flowers she saw shining in the grass—primroses and violets, tulips, narcissi, fleurs-de-lis. She brought home immense nosegays, which she spent long minutes breathing; this perfume of Italy went to her brain.
At sunset once a red flower lay by chance on the rail of the balcony, just where a movement of her arm would brush it off; it would drop in the street. A bold thought crossed her mind. But that evening Prospero did not come at the usual hour. She sat outside, trembling slightly as the dusk closed around her and the dew fell; then Veronika, with shrill cries of surprise and blame, came to fetch her in. She felt guilty and ashamed, and did not protest. She spent the evening on the divan, with her face to the wall, crying softly with a vast invincible melancholy, a sense of forlornness and failure, giving no explanation of her humor.
She was kept in-doors for many days after that. Only she insisted upon being folded in a fur and seated on the balcony at a certain hour every afternoon. The beggar-woman stationed at the street corner with a basket on her knees got used to seeing the sick forestiera appear, who always threw her a bit of silver, and gave her a faint little smile.
Veronika suffered from Paula's silence and depression. She went about with two deep lines constantly between her updrawn brows. Her heart misgave her; her inability to communicate with the doctor and those around her became a gnawing despair. She formed a habit, which never left her after, of talking audibly to herself. She gave up the effort to hold cheerful conversation with Paula, and simply tried to preserve in her presence an unconcerned attitude. She secretly yearned to be at home. She felt an unappeasable animosity towards this Italy, that had seemed to do her Paula so much good, only to make her worse. She began to hate everything Italian.
Paula herself sat by the window watching the hills opposite with an absent face. Now and then she rose to take a few desultory steps about the large room, touching the things, passing her hand over the flowers, making the guitar-strings give forth a murmur as she brushed them; she went back to her chair and closed her eyes, tired out.
Once a friend was walking at Prospero's side. They were talking. As they approached, the friend looked up, and evidently asked a question of Prospero, who looked up too: she thought his lips framed her name. Her heart leaped; she drew back, faint, and felt foolish at feeling such pleasure. She waited more eagerly than usual that night to hear him; it seemed the music must have a special message for her. Silence—utter, atrocious. The night seemed unending.
The doctor wondered next day what spring had broken within her. She showed so little interest in anything; she was fretful as he had never seen her before. He scarcely knew how to conduct himself to avoid irritating her. At a loss, he picked up the little tome of Vita Nova, that always lay on the table at her side, and inquired of her progress in it.