Miss Ellis Robinson was leaving for Paris, the charming American old maid of forty; her Italian flirt, the gracious Don Carlo Torriani, who had followed her with courteous obstinacy, besieged her with lively but sincere court, striving to make her renounce her part of vieux garçon—this Italian lover—"le beau Torriani beau pour moi," as she smilingly spoke of him—suddenly understood that as she promised him to return soon to Italy, certainly in November, promising him "d'y penser un peu ... à cette chose ... seulement un peu," as she smiled no more, as she looked at him seriously, that the charming old maid of forty would keep her vow. Vows and promises which were true, vows and promises which were half true, and vows and promises which were false, each man and woman uttered them on those last clear nights and limpid mornings—cynics, sceptics, indifferents, ingenuous, or impassioned, all felt a dull agitation disturbing them, all tried in vain to control themselves and to laugh and smile. Only those who had had a caprice, a flirtation, a little affair of passion, or love, those who had known how to play with love or whom love had mocked, those who had been chained for a short time, or those who were chained for ever, they only, even the most sceptical and most superficial—and much more so those with feeling heart and soul—experienced the sharp bitterness of having to leave that country, were pierced by the nostalgia for all they were abandoning, and turned to gaze at for the last time, to smile at and bless for the last time the Upper Engadine.
Divine Engadine, beloved, adored, blessed by all those who have discovered the face of love and perhaps of happiness. While the pleasure-seekers forgetfully left her without regret, seeking other surroundings with other pleasures, with an inextinguishable thirst that inundated the hearts and souls, while the snobs left without understanding anything, diseased with snobbishness as they were, and anxious to find other circles where they could abandon themselves to their ridiculous infirmity; while the vicious and corrupt fled, shrugging their shoulders, annoyed, in fact, because they had been unable to develop, as they believed and hoped, their vice and corruption; while the indifferent, from whom everything glides away, left without an impression or a recollection, while all those pleasure-seekers, snobs, the vicious, corrupt, and indifferent were dragged along by the same vortex to live elsewhere the same life, while for all of them the magnificent beauty of things and the majesty of the deserted heights had been useless and vain—only those who had loved, for a day, for an hour, for ever in the Engadine, took her away with them in their hearts as a sweet, ineffaceable memory. They delighted in her as the country of their dearest poesy, they shut her up in their fantasy, as the purest of their dreams, they blessed her in the name of their love. The divine Engadine had offered all her most precious treasure to them, even to those seized by a light caprice, even to those transported by a little flirtation in a summer night in the high mountains, even to lovers' tears, even to those who must forget everything at once: the divine Engadine had given to those men and women all her dearest gifts. Divine Engadine! Her winding paths amongst the soft verdure of the meadows had felt the light steps of lovers who had gone along them in forgetfulness of every other human thing; her shady paths amid the salient woods had given their odoriferous freshness to the couples which had traversed them, holding arm or hand; the small singing waters of the brooks hidden amidst grass and rocks had murmured to lovers' ears the music of gaiety and caress; the great, motionless, and shining waters of the lakes had opened before the rocking boats which bore the lovers; had brilliantly reflected the faces of those who had curiously gazed into them from the bank; and the lofty mountain had gathered the more daring, who, in joyous desire of peril, bore their love up there, towards the white and terrible peaks. All her favours—light, flowers, and perfumes—the Upper Engadine had conceded to those who loved her. She had only been beautiful, pure, luminous, the fount of health and life to her old admirers of half a century, of thirty and twenty years, and one of them she had pressed to her bosom for ever in a mortal embrace; only to the humble sick who had come there to seek peace, solitude, and strength. And for those who would never return again, in spite of their nostalgia, as for those who would return the following year, in sentimental pilgrimage, the Upper Engadine remained for them, with all her precious treasures and admirable gifts, a country of well-being and dreams; and later, they, on hearing her name or seeing her outlines on a post card, or hearing mention of some high peak, would experience a tremor of inconsolable regret.
Thus in these last days they were passing together in the Upper Engadine, Mabel Clarke and Vittorio Lante, in spite of the happy certainty of their love and future, in spite of the fact that they were going thence together to Paris, where Mrs. Annie Clarke was feverishly anxious to arrive, requiring a stay of at least six weeks there for all her dresses and hats—thirty dresses and sixty hats for herself and daughter—before setting out for America; in spite of the certainty that in New York the great parent, the great John Clarke would at once consent to the marriage of his daughter with Don Vittorio Lante, Prince of Santalena (there was the title in the family), because John Clarke loved his daughter, and would, like every good American, respect her wish; in spite of all that was smiling on their youth and troth, every now and then they looked at the country where they had known each other, where they had grown fond of each other, and a light cloud obscured their eyes. Their young nerves vibrated with the fullness of life, and absorbed the deep pleasure of being young, healthy, and of loving: but in the presence of the places where their stay in the high mountains had unfolded itself, in its episodes, now gay, now sentimental, they experienced a feeling of unexpected melancholy. Mabel Clarke did not want Vittorio to love her too much all'italiana, as she said, that is, with currents of vague melancholy, with mysterious languors, obscure currents of sadness which characterise Italian love; she did not like that—the frank, lively, American girl, all expansiveness, and without secret comers in her heart or secret thoughts in her mind. But every now and then she was dragged down into that soft, sentimental whirlpool. If they passed before the English library of the Dorf, where they had met the first time; if once again they crossed the wood of Charnadüras where, a trifle jestingly, they had spoken the first words of love; if they renewed the walk round the lake where one day he had expressed more vigorously and ardently the fascination by which she subdued him; if for a moment they gazed into the dark but limpid night from the balconies of the "Palace," with its memories of other nocturnal contemplations; if on the return from the Maloja they noticed from the carriage the sunset girdle with its veils Crestalta and Villa Story; if they saw again a turn of the road, a corner of a room—the slow whirlpool of amorous sadness engulfed them both. They mourned for the Engadine which they would shortly leave, they even mourned for her when jesting and smiling at St. Moritz Dorf station, whence they left together, and where the departure of Mrs. Clarke and her daughter caused a bustle, anxiety, and despair in all; where all the friends and acquaintances had come to provide them with a triumphal departure, with cheers and good wishes—they mourned for the Engadine although they were going towards their happiness. While the train entered the tunnel opposite the foaming white cascade of the Inn, Mabel Clarke extricated herself from the slow mental whirlpool, and said to Vittorio Lante:
"We shall never love each other in another land as we have in the Engadine."
"In Italy," he replied, serene and confident.
"Ah, in Italy," she murmured, a little drearily.
Lilian Temple and Lucio Sabini had prolonged their stay in the Engadine through all that charming first week of September, which had rendered the beauty of the country more intense and penetrating. As by an enchantment it had held them bound, in forgetfulness of all other surroundings.
Every day the peace and silence increased around them, and on them the enchantment worked more profoundly. When Lilian timidly spoke of their departure she saw Lucio's face disturbed with mortal sadness. She became silent, and remained yet a day, and again another; while Miss Ford waited, calm and patient. At last, one day, the 6th of September, Lucio asked permission to accompany the two ladies on a visit they proposed making, after leaving the Engadine, to Berne, to old Berne, the historical, true Swiss city, whither go neither worldlings nor snobs, but where it is possible to pass two or three days of tranquillity in touch with an ancient world of art and poesy. He asked hesitatingly, trembling at the fear of a refusal, to be allowed to accompany them still further, to Basle, where they wished to stop again, to grey Basle, where Hans Holbein left his best pictures, and where Nietzsche taught philosophy. And nothing had been more torturing for him than the moment in which he waited for the reply of the two ladies, although the reply came rapid, frank, decisive, and affectionate, filling him with joy which he knew not how to conceal, which he read in Lilian's eyes and smile, like his own. So from that land where they had arrived from different countries and directions, with different souls and hearts, from that land where destiny had strangely brought them together, with hand clasped in hand they left together, as if they were to journey thus all their lives. Now and then Lilian's eyes were fixed on the horizon of mountains towering towards the sky, but they seemed to see nothing, being absorbed by their interior vision; Lucio Sabini saw nothing except the dear face and dear person of Lilian beside him, and only a confused regret in the depth of their hearts, just a little gnawing sorrow possessed them on the morning they left with Miss May Ford for Berne.
On the morning of departure it was already calmer at the station, because the crowd had now fled in every direction, by every line, because silence reigned in the valleys and in the two little villages of St. Moritz; because only those remained who were allowing themselves some days of calm and comfort before leaving for the large, stifling, noisy cities. Silently, and a little pale, Lilian followed with quiet steps her two travelling companions, who were busy with the details of departure. She was wearing a thick white veil, and as on the evening of the dance at the "Kulm," she had in her hand three white roses which Lucio had given her as a souvenir. Silent and pale, she got into the train and stood as she watched to see if Lucio were following; pale and silent she sat in a corner by a window, watching the hill of the Dorf and the plain of the Bad below, and the beautiful lake that unites them on its banks. Her friend and companion seated herself in another corner, and opened a large English newspaper, while Lucio silently settled the luggage. With a feeble whistling the train departed and entered the tunnel along the gloomy gorge of the Inn; but Lilian still kept her head turned to the window, a little bowed. Uncertain and embarrassed by the presence of May Ford, Lucio had not dared to approach Lilian; but at last, unable to resist, he drew near to her, calling her twice, and touching her hand and the roses, and then he perceived that the roses were bedewed with tears. He bent towards her ear and said in a firm voice:
"Lilian, you mustn't cry; you mustn't suffer."