BOOK 1 -CHAPTER 1

"Nothing in sight? Not caught a glimpse of her sail yet?"

"No, Sir. But she'll be all right today. The wind's from the south-east; and the weather is glorious this morning."

"Yes, I know; but this lake of yours is full of shallows and whirlpools."

"La Signora sails her boat with so sure a hand, she might have been born and bred in Baveno!"

The gardener's voice faded away as he pottered about among the fish-tanks and continued to mutter to himself: "... born and bred in Baveno."

Andreas, who had called down to the old man from the top of a craggy eminence, dropped the hand he had raised to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun, so that he might put it to more immediate uses. The bunch of flowers he had gathered was so large that it needed both hands to hold the nosegay together.

"Narcissus!" exclaimed the poet, caressing the blossoms with sensitive fingers, while they swayed gently in the breeze. "Narcissus, fresh as the morning dew! Nothing else can rival Diana's fragrance. And yet—may she not have been akin to other flowers in the past, and may she not resemble yet others in the future? Likenesses ever changing, ever renewed? Would it have entered my head to compare her to the camellias blooming over there in chill white pyramids? Beautiful they are, proud of mien; but scentless and passionless. Perhaps some women are like that!"

The thought dumbfounded him, and he sank down on to a rocky seat. Pulling a notebook from the pocket of his purple dressing-gown, he scribbled assiduously for a while. Then he looked up, gazed at the flowers, jotted down a few more words. Finally he tore off the page and started afresh. He no longer took his eyes from the paper, but continued to write diligently until the sonnet was complete. He began to read it in an undertone, gradually allowing his voice to become louder, until at the eighth line he had achieved a resounding forte. After that he restrained the volume of sound, and finished up with a ritenuto, as if he were playing the final bars of a Bach fugue.

"How Diana will laugh," he thought. "She'll read it twice. Then she will open her mother-of-pearl box and lay this page on the top of the others. Quite unexpectedly one evening, one mild evening, the lines will slowly drop from her delicate lips. Othello must bring her up here when she lands. Othello!"

The Great Dane was snuffing the air as he stood on the landing-stage which gave access to the little island. As his master called him by name, the animal pricked up his ears, sought Andreas's whereabouts with eyes and nose. Having caught sight of the young man, Othello sprang upward over the rocks and pushed his way through the azaleas. The dog's movements were so swift that a trail of white and rose-coloured blossoms was wafted along in his wake.

He came to a halt, and stood attentive and watchful. Like Gothic columns, his forelegs rose to the graceful arch of his chest; his blue eyes had the glint of steel, cold, yet betraying the hidden fires within; his ears were twitching, his whole being was aquiver, and he seemed to be asking: "Well, Master, what do you wish me to do?" Andreas fondled the beast's Head, and the signs of eager expectation gradually disappeared. The muscles relaxed, a dreamy look came into the eyes, the dog yielded luxuriously to the caress, his left paw advancing slightly. As far as is possible to a dumb beast, Othello had approximated to the reflective mood and the attitude of his master.

"Keep still a moment," said the poet. "I want to fix my sonnet in your collar; ... so ... mind you don't lose it. It's for your mistress, as soon as she comes ashore. Understand? For Diana."

The dog had remained motionless, but at the name of Diana he whined, became restless, and, hardly waiting for Andreas to release the collar, darted away to take up his post of sentinel on the landing-stage.

Andreas sauntered towards the house. Occasionally he would kick a stone out of the path, would pluck a yellowing leaf, raise a trailing plant from the ground. He acted mechanically, like one who prefers things to be orderly, who loves tidiness. These minor occupations in the garden or the house unconsciously betrayed a certain restlessness of disposition. Suddenly, as so often happened after he had composed a poem, he felt inexpressibly tired.

"I wonder," he murmured, a faint smile puckering his lips, "I wonder if my fatigue is just the usual tiredness one experiences after a night of love? Diana was never so beautiful as she was last night. Was she still like a narcissus? Or did my imagination conjure up the passionate hour of which I have dreamed since earliest boyhood? I must be honest with myself. Has ever woman thrown herself into my arms with such whole-hearted abandonment as I into the arms of women? Sonia? She was nothing but a little savage. Francisca? She was merely sensuous. But Diana never promised anything. She is not called Diana for nothing! When have I ever before, either with my eyes or in fancy, actually or in a dream, been so dazzled by any woman?"

He turned to gaze once again over the waters of the lake. Scuds of foam seemed to rise from the surface. So absorbed was he in his contemplation of this phenomenon, that he forgot to watch for Diana's boat, a sight of which he so ardently coveted.

"I wonder how early she set sail? No matter the hour at which I wake in the morning, her place by my side is always empty, smooth and cold. She must creep away to her dressing-room on bare feet. When at last I awake, it is to the sound of her voice calling me. By that time she has been abroad two hours at least in the fresh air, and has a keen appetite for breakfast. But today? Even as I slept, I was conceited enough to imagine that after such delights she would surely not go for an early sail. She had been so full of ecstasy...."

Andreas strode forward into the blaze of the blossoming rhododendrons. The flowers stimulated his memory of the hours of passion and his body quivered in response. He raised his brows as he mused:

"Diana as Venus? Impious thought!"

He plucked idly at the stamens of the flowers in his hand, while his thoughts wandered. He was called back to reality by the dog, who approached with every sign of uneasiness.

"Well, Othello, what's up?"

He quickened his pace and glanced towards the house across the terrace where a wicker table was laid for breakfast. On reaching the top of the steps, he turned about, and once more gazed over the blue and gold surface of the waters.

"Domenico!"

"Yes, Sir," came the old gardener's voice in answer. Then after a pause: "I see nothing as yet. Signora usually crosses over by the south-eastern end of Isola Madre."

"I know; but what about Intra?"

"No sign of a sail there either."

Suddenly Andreas was seized with anxiety on account of his beloved, an anxiety which was rendered more acute by a vague presentiment of evil. Were the gods taking revenge because Diana had been delighting in joys which her name would imply her insensible to? Was the boon so recently granted him already to be snatched from his grasp? Had he been over-bold?

"What can it all mean? Why is the dog whining, I wonder?"

Still hoping to find her, he wandered through the low-ceilinged rooms of the house, through the cloistered archways which linked the rooms together, and up the steps which separated them. At his heels walked Othello, snuffing the same trail. Both seekers came to a halt in Diana's room. On the gaily coloured floor, in a green earthenware pot, were the tall sprays of broom she had brought home last night, waving her trophy aloft like an orange flag. The white curtains flapped in the breeze, and he glanced through the windows which gave a view from three angles on to the lake. Nearby was the writing-table on which was placed a silver vase filled with iris.

"The curtain might upset that," thought Andreas, with solicitude.

He grasped the vase, intending to transfer it to a place of security, and, as he touched the cold metal, a chill ran up his arm and struck him to the heart. His heart seemed to stop beating; then it fluttered wildly against his ribs. He had caught sight of a note propped against the vase: the cover bore his own name in Diana's handwriting. At once the truth flashed through his mind: "She has gone!"

The nosegay of narcissus slowly dropped from his hand. Then he seized the hard, white paper, while Othello, seeming to understand all that was afoot, rubbed himself against Andreas's knee. The young man gazed down at the missive of fate as it lay in his hand; then, delaying the evil moment, he thrust it deep into his pocket. His fingers fondled the paper, unseen, as though he were trying to warm the inexorable message with his life blood. He looked over towards the lake; then, again, his eyes travelled round the room. Leaning on the window sill, he drew the letter forth and at length read its contents. As he folded the sheet of paper, he stepped out on to the terrace, told the dog to lie down, and paced to and fro in the shade of the wistaria whose green leaves and lilac flowers were trained on a pergola overhead. Othello's steel-blue eyes followed every movement, from the wicker couch on to which he had flung himself in obedience to his master's command. His great head was pillowed on his crossed paws.