"'Aunt Varvara have you gone clean out of your mind?'
"Enough of this, Margherita, my own, my sweet lovely Margherita! Let's turn to something else. It's very hot now-a-days, but generally grows fresh in the evening. I work hard all day—seriously; because it's not only my duty but my pleasure. I go oftener than anybody to the University and to the Libraries. For this reason I'm the darling of the Professors. In the evening I walk along the banks of the Tiber and spend hours watching the running water. I ask myself silly questions such as 'What is water?' It's not true that the Tiber is clear coloured. Sometimes it's yellow and muddy, oftener it's green, sometimes blue, sometimes livid. I have seen it quite milky and reflecting the lamps, the bridges, the moon, like polished marble. I compare the perennial flowing of the water to my love for you,—thus constant, silent, inexhaustible. Why, oh why, are you not here with me, my Margherita? The mere thought of you makes everything more beautiful, gives everything deeper meaning. What would not the world be if I could see it reflected in your adored eyes! When, when will the tormenting and delicious dream of our souls be made real? I don't know how I manage to live thus divided from you, but I turn with joy to the thought that in two months we shall again be together. O my Margherita, my pearl of pearls, I cannot express even to you what I feel. No human speech could express it. It's a continual fire which devours me, an unspeakable thirst which only one fountain can slake. You are that fountain; you are the garden whose flowers shall refresh my soul.
"Margherita, I am alone in the world, for you are all the world to me. When I lose myself in the crowd, in the sea of unknown persons, it is enough for me to think of you, and my heart swells with love to them all, for your sweet sake. When your letters come, I am so happy I feel quite giddy. I seem to have attained the summit of some great mountain—if I stretch out my hand I shall touch the stars. It is too much! I dread falling—falling into an abyss, being reduced to ashes by contact with the stars. What would become of me, if, Margherita, if I should lose you? I laugh when you tell me you are jealous of the beautiful and cultured women whom I must be meeting here in Rome. No woman could be to me what you are. You are my life, you are my past, my home, my race, my dream. You are the mysterious wine which fills for me the empty cup we call Life. Yes, I like to fancy life a cup which we continually lift to our lips. For many this cup is never filled, and they try painfully to suck what is not there, and die slowly for lack of nourishment. But for others, and I belong to the happy number, the cup contains divine ambrosia. . . .
"I have interrupted this letter, because Battista came to see me. He seems getting into trouble with the two girls and wants to follow me here. We shall see. I will speak to my landlady about it. I don't bear malice, because as friend Pilbert assures me, hard words are things with no real existence.
"I return to my letter, quite upset by a confidence made to me a few minutes ago by Aunt Varvara. She tells me she knows Daga, having seen him here with the padrona several times. I don't like it, for you must know Signora Obinu has not always borne the best of characters. I looked questioningly at Aunt Varvara but she shut up her lips and shook her head mysteriously. I promised next vacation to visit her old home and learn its history for her during the last thirty years. This pleased her so much that she let me catechize her a bit. I got out of her that Signora Obinu left children in Sardinia, one of whom has been adopted by a rich Signore of Campidano. Aunt Varvara thinks Battista Daga may be Maria Obinu's son."
Anania stopped writing, and read and reread the last few lines. A little black ant ran over the page and he looked at it with eyes full of thought. What was this little being called an ant? Why did it live? Ought he to crush it with his finger or not to crush it? Was there such a thing as Free-Will?
At this time, though he was attending Ferri's lectures, Anania still believed in free-will. He sometimes committed small crimes just to prove to himself that he had willed to commit them. This time, however, he let the ant alone. It vanished under a book ignorant of the danger it had escaped. As often before, he tore up part of his letter. Then he leaned his forehead on his hands and reread the remainder, a wave of bitterness overflowing his heart.
"Yes," he thought, "I am too near the stars; I don't see the abyss into which I must ineluctably fall. Why do I continue to deceive myself? It's my mother she may be, and Battista Daga visits her because she is still—But why has he never spoken of her? After all, why should he speak? He has not confided his adventures to me. He comes here—because—Oh God! Oh God! I am the son of Maria Obinu! She knows my whole life. She told the old jana in her own way that I have been adopted by a rich Signore. Has she left other children in Sardinia? No, that part must be a lie—she went away at once after deserting me. She said that as a blind. Oh God!"
Presently he sprang to his feet.
"I must find out," he thought, "I must know. Why this burning lamp, these pictures, these prayers,—if it's not for that reason. But I will unmask you, lost soul! I will kill you, chase you away, because you are my curse! because you will be the curse of that pure noble creature. Oh my poor, poor Margherita!"