The Desire of Life

by Matilde Serao

Again, on the 23rd of August, the whole Engadine was encompassed and surrounded by rain, not one of those rough, short showers of the high mountains, which pass from valley to valley like a seething whirlwind, and leave the sky cleansed and serene where they have passed, while the sky they overtake becomes cloudy and obscured; but it was a soft, close, continuous, almost tireless rain. The rain fell upon the ground indefatigably, and impregnated it with profound damp and pungent freshness; it fell on the waters of the lake, from the great lake of Sils to the melancholy little lake of Statz, imprinting on them thousands of little circles, thousands of little ripples; it fell upon the leaves of the trees, the meadow grass, the last flowers of the Alpine summer, and leaves and grass became lucid with a new and intense green, and the flowers became brighter. It fell on roofs and verandahs, on villages and countryside, and cleaned and clothed them with a bright mist, renovating the air and ever purifying it. At windows and balconies, at the glass doors of the hotel vestibules, on that rainy morning there waited for some time all those who in the Engadine go out every morning, sooner or later, many longing for the fresh, free air, many for amusements and diversion, while others were sighing for the usual meetings, of accident or design, for adventures begun or about to begin. Each as he watched the sky and the horizon waited for the rain to tire, diminish, and cease; but the rain seemed even more regular and tranquil, as it fell methodically and monotonously in an immense veil of light grey that held the whole Engadine.

Then men, women, and children who were unwilling to renounce the open air, their distractions and meetings, gradually vanished from window, balcony, and the glass doors of vestibules, and by degrees the roads of St. Moritz Bad, which had been deserted for one or two hours, began to be filled with people sallying forth from the hotels, dépendances, pensions, and villas, who descended on tram and foot from St. Moritz Dorf to the Bad in search of life, movement, and people. But beneath the fine downpour, and through the continuous silvery drops, people were of another colour and assumed other lines. All the white dresses of the women were changed to black, dark grey, and blue, and all the white, transparent blouses had vanished, or were hidden beneath woollen jackets, closely buttoned at the bosom, with collars raised; and skirts were shorter than ever, showing the feet to the calf, shod in strong boots with short nails. In place of white, blue, or pink veils, that formed a cloud round hats and faces, were substituted dark veils which surrounded hat and face tightly. All the variegated summer suits of the men had vanished, with straw and panama hats, and all were dressed gloomily in black overcoats; the Germans especially had drawn on their ulsters, cut as it were with an axe, like the side of a chest of drawers, with a belt behind held fast by a huge button. But beneath the incessant rain all seemed another people, with other faces and bodies, with other gestures and movements. All went with rapid steps, without stopping, along the beautiful clear roads of the Bad, amidst the gardens full of trees and the public park, only slowing their steps beneath the famous porticoes of the Bad. Nearly all came and went to and from the great wooden promenoir, where is the Serpentquelle, a new spring, to and from the galérie de bois, which is the meeting-place of meeting-places when it does not rain—but there is no promenading when it rains—while in the background the orchestra plays the more passionate airs from Carmen, and the more penetrating from Manon, and on the other side the ladies pretend to drink the waters while they walk up and down and flirt. That morning the promenoir is all humid with the rain, and there is a light vapour and steam in the air; but the meetings, the distractions, adventures even, beneath the rain, developed themselves, while the notes of Aïda caused Italian hearts to beat.

In the afternoon, as the rain continued, a different way of using the time was organised. In the vestibule of the Hôtel du Lac was hung a notice, on which was written "Kinderballet," that is to say, a children's dance, the celebrated, pretty dance for children which takes place at that hotel on a wet day. At the "Stahlbad" Frau Mentzel invited, through the telephone, fifty people to tea, when in the salon there were already fifty people belonging to the same hotel. At St. Moritz Dorf, at the "Palace," twenty bridge tables were set, instead of the usual eight; at the "Kulm" a billiard match was started. Everywhere ping-pong tables were set up for boys and girls, everywhere the reading-rooms overflowed with people, and as an exception each took tea in his own hotel. Towards six the rain began to diminish, at half-past six it rained no more; so nearly all the men went forth for a quarter of an hour or five minutes for a breather, as they said, or to buy a paper and flowers. All breathed a very fresh air, and he who tarried found it very cold. At eight in the evening in all the hotels, as the ladies came down to dinner in low dresses, the large fireplaces had been lit; on entering their rooms at midnight they found their fires lit, and the stoves roaring with heat. The thermometer had descended rapidly to one degree below zero. Next morning the whole Engadine was covered with snow; it had snowed for five or six hours during the night.

As from his windows he watched the landscape become white with a wintry aspect, but without any of the cruel sadness of a winter day, with a slight whiteness in which he perceived grass and earth, with a whiteness almost ready to melt and vanish, Lucio Sabini moved impatiently. He opened the windows to see better, and leant out. He perceived that on the roads the snow had already vanished, but that the woods and meadows were still covered with it, and that the mountains around were covered with snow right to their base.

"But the roads are free," he said to himself, striving to conquer his impatience.

Impatience, uncertainty, and irritation disturbed him, as he dressed rapidly, glancing now and then at his watch. During the night he had slept little and badly, owing to a dull restlessness which he attributed to the idea of having to rise early that morning for the excursion with Lilian Temple and Miss May Ford to the Bernina Pass. He had slept little and badly, perhaps because his heart, nerves, and senses were overflowing with life, in a fullness that was sometimes too tumultuous, which he strove in vain to repress and hide. In the presence of the snow that had rendered white and cold all the landscape of mountains and woods, of meadows and houses, the fear lest that expected, desired, invoked excursion, that excursion which was perhaps to be the most beautiful and exalted of that month of love, could no longer take place, suddenly conquered him and bore him down, like a child who has had what he most desired snatched away from him.

"They will not go," he said to himself, as he finished dressing.

And the day that was a mistake and a failure oppressed him with the weight of a mortal sadness. The carriage which was to take them to the Bernina Pass ought already to be in front of the "Kulm," according to the instructions he had given the driver. Already he should have walked the short stretch from his "Caspar Badrutt" to the "Kulm." But with all the snow on the mountains and the woods and meadows perhaps even the coachman had considered the excursion postponed.