XXI
Adrian, coming in, saw Anthony's letter, superscribed and stamped,lying on the table.
"I 'm posting a lot of stuff of my own," he said. "Shall I post thiswith it?"
Had Susanna admitted him to her confidence? How otherwise could ithave befallen, as it did, that she received Anthony's letter, which wasof course addressed to Craford, at Isola Nobile no later than that veryevening?
She read it, smiling.
"Which of the many villas that overlook the bay and are visible from mywindow, with their white walls and dark-green gardens,--which isyours?" he questioned. "All day I have been wondering. That is thesingle thing that really stirs me here, that really gives me a_feeling_--its association with you. All day I have been hearing asonnet of Ronsard's--do you remember it?--_Voicy le bois_. But I wishI knew which villa is your villa, which garden is your garden. Why didn't I find out before I was driven from Paradise? I could easily findout here by inquiring, I suppose. But your name is too sacred. Ican't profane it by speaking it aloud to people who might not baretheir heads at the sound of it."
Susanna tittered.
And on another page (the letter was eight pages long) he said:--
"It is all very beautiful, of course,--the way the town piles itself upagainst the hillside, the pink and yellow and lilac _blondeur_ of thehouses, the olive gardens, the radiant sky overhead,--it is all verypicturesque and beautiful. But I am not hungry for beauty--at least,for this beauty. If you were here with me,--ah, then indeed! But youare not here, and I am hungry for Craford. There was a time whenCraford used to seem to me the tritest spot in Europe, and the thoughtof Italy was luminous of everything romantic, of everything to bedesired. There was a time when nothing gave me such joy as to wake andremember, 'I am in Italy--in Italy--in Italy!'--in Rome or Florence orVenice, as the case might be. But the times have changed, havechanged. _You_ were in Italy in those days, and now you are atCraford. Italy is dust and ashes. I hunger for Craford as the onlyplace in the world where life is life."
And on still another page:--
"I can't deny that I got a certain emotion in the grey old Cathedral.For so many generations one's people were baptized there, marriedthere, buried there. And then how many times must _you_ haveworshipped there, heard holy Mass there. They showed us the relics ofSan Guido and the Spina d'Oro, of course, and--well, one is n't made ofwood. I tried to make up my mind in what part of the church youusually knelt, which prie-dieu was your prie-dieu,--I 'm afraid withoutany very notable success. But one felt something like a faintafterglow of your presence, and it made one's heart beat. Again at thePalazzo Rosso, under the eyes of all those motionless and silent, deadand gone Valdeschi, in their armour, in their ruffs and puffs andperiwigs, one could n't be entirely wooden. The servant who showed usabout, an old man who said he had been in the family for I forget howmany hundred years, hailed me as a 'cognate,' having recognized thename of Craford, and thereupon inducted us into the _appartamentisegreti_, to exhibit a portrait of my grandsire. Wood itself, I daresay, must have vibrated a little at that. In the throne-room I wassuddenly caught up and whisked away, back to a rainy afternoon atCraford; and I walked beside you on the cliffs, and heard your voice,and rejoiced in the sense of your nearness to me, and in your adorablebeauty, as you breasted the wind, with the sea and the sky for abackground. (Do you remember? Do you remember how keen and sweet theair was, with the scent of the wild thyme? and how the sand-martinscircled round us?) As we passed through the long, bare, imposing rooms,something like a shadow of you seemed to flit before us. Or if Iglanced out of one of the tall windows, it seemed as if you had justpassed under them, along the Riva or across the Piazza. As for IsolaNobile, if I regret that it is n't mine, that is chiefly because Ishould be glad to be in a position to offer so very lordly and lovely apleasure-house to _you_."
Susanna laughed.
Towards the end he wrote:--
"I look at the sea and I realize that it is continuous from here toEngland, from here to Rowland Marshes; and it seems somehow to connectus, to keep us in touch. Perhaps you, too, are looking at it at thissame moment. I fancy you walking on your terrace, and looking off uponthe grey-blue sea. It seems somehow to connect us. But there is nogrey in the blue of the sea here--it is blue, blue, unmitigated, almostdazzling blue, save where in the sun it turns to quite dazzling white,or in the deeper shadows takes on tints that are almost crimson, tintsof _lie-de-vin_. Oh, why are n't you here? If you were here, I thinka veil would fall from before my eyes, and I should see everythingdifferently. I could imagine myself _loving_ Sampaolo--if you werehere. In nine days--nine days! And to-morrow it will be only eightdays, and the day after to-morrow only seven. _Only_ do I say? Icount in that fashion to keep my courage up. Nine days! Why can'tthose nine eternities be annihilated from the calendar? Why does n'tsome kind person kill me, and then call me back to life in nine days?Oh, it was cruel of you, cruel, cruel."
Susanna looked out of her window, across the dark bay, to where theelectric lamps along the Riva threw wavering fronds of light upon thewater. She kissed her hand, and wafted the kiss (as nearly as thedarkness would let her guess) in the direction of the Piazza San Guido.Then she went into the library, and hunted for a volume of Ronsard.
The Lady Paramount Page 21
