CHAPTER 2

"My Dear,

"When I woke this morning I saw you lying before me, a boy asleep. Your dark, curly head was turned away so that I could hardly reach your beautiful forehead when I leaned across to kiss you. I gave you no more than a butterfly kiss on your closed eyelids; I did not venture to touch your lips, which were half open as you slept.

"The radiant weather calls me forth this morning. I shall sail away in the very boat that brought us—how many weeks ago?—to this island. With sail set, I shall make for Baveno. By the time you wake I shall be in Milan; by the time you read this, I do not know where I shall be.

"Do not try to find me. Did not your spirit leap towards me as, masked, we danced together amid the many other masked couples that night in the palace on the Piazza di Spagna? Did I not place my fullest trust in you, a stranger, whose name was unknown to me just as was mine to you? Did I not come with you willingly when, after the ball, we left Rome and travelled together till we alighted on the shores of this gracious lake? Let these dream days bask in their own beauty. Do not try to find reasons for my flight. Do not follow me.

"We were unchallenged monarchs of the island, hedged in by laurel groves, severed from the inquisitive eyes of the envious, united, you and I, both by day and by night.

"Poems fell from your lips, my poet; and morning after morning I found a fresh sonnet to my praise lying ambushed for my return in ever-renewed hiding places in our garden. Why trouble to wake? Your people are on your trail—I saw you trying to push your letters away out of my sight! Soon, your money will run short, and after one day of uneasiness, you would have to go to the town, a smile on your lips, hoping to delude me.

"What of myself? How often I have heard you say half mockingly and half in earnest: 'You are made for adventure.' Remember your own words. The spirit of adventure runs in my veins and has even affected you.

"Yesterday, in the gloaming, while we sat on the terrace watching the circle of lights along the shores of the lake, you spoke softly to me, gentle words that fell sweetly on my ears. Of a sudden, away there on the mainland, two fiery eyes appeared, and a snake uncoiled its glittering length alluringly beneath the precipitous side of the mountain. Now it would disappear, now shine out again; at one moment its voice would be stilled, to roar forth the instant after. It was the train from the Simplon. Never before had it made such an impression on me. I felt that this was the very snake, magical and glowing, within whose coils I had been spirited through the world in days gone by. That now it carried men and women who had sped away from Paris in the morning and would awaken as day dawned to find themselves in Milan. I could imagine them coming from far castles in the Scottish highlands to seek the warm air of Palermo. Who were they all and what plans had they for themselves? Unrest seethed within me. I felt I must get away from this enchanted isle, that a narrow arm of water was keeping me cloistered from the world, that the hurly-burly was summoning me to the fray—whither I knew not.

"My grateful thanks to you! Nothing repeats itself; and, even if fate should make our paths cross a second time, that which united us this night can never recur, any more than the silent kisses I gave you in farewell. Our island cannot be snatched from us: it is ours now as it has been during all these weeks. I am taking no more than the little mother-of-pearl box which contains your poems, and within which your spirit lies at rest. Nothing else goes with me, for, if they saw me packing up, your kindly old servants would want to know my destination. Forgive me for leaving the clothes you gave me, the clothes your appraising eye so often looked at as I dressed in the morning, and which your ardent hands pulled from my limbs at night with so much passion.

"In a minute or two Othello will, as usual, come down to the landing-stage, and wag his tail expectantly, hoping to be taken on board. I shall sail swiftly away before the wind, without turning for a last look; I must keep watch over myself lest the unbidden tears come to my eyes.

"The wind is blowing. Keep serene of heart, even though you may feel sad; and remember the motto inscribed on the escutcheon of your soul. Be grateful! Thank the gods, even as I do, for granting us this sweetest of springtimes. Ave Poeta!

"DIANA."

By the time Andreas had read the letter a third time he found himself on the landing-stage. An instinct urged him towards the water, her special element, and kept him away from the height whence, above the cypresses that barred the view from below, he might gaze southward over the lake. From that little eminence he could have seen Baveno and the coast line. Othello, who had not left Andreas's side the whole morning, stood beside the young man and endeavoured to lap the waves as they plashed over the landing-stage. But always, before his red tongue could reach them, the waters had withdrawn again.

Now, from round a rocky point, a little boat came in sight. It had come from the direction of Pallanza and another thirty strokes of the oars would bring it ashore. The great dog pricked up his ears as the oarsman waved a hand in greeting. Andreas leaped to his feet, and hailed the new arrival.

"Nikolai!"

"Andreas!" exclaimed a melodious voice in response.

"You, here?" A cross-fire of surmises rushed through the poet's brain. Uneasiness as to why his friend had come over the waters to intrude upon his solitude. This sudden arrival at such a moment seemed to smack of intrigue.

"Nikolai," he thought, "dearest of friends; Nikolai the wise, could he have lent himself to a plot of any kind? No, no, it cannot be!"

The feeling of mistrust was ephemeral, and Andreas soon pulled himself together, remembering his duties as host and as master of the island. Nikolai threw him the painter, and while tying it to the bollard, Andreas said with a note of irritation in his voice:

"This is a surprise!"

Nikolai was quick to perceive his friend's momentary annoyance. He felt quite unembarrassed as he thought: "Ah, well, these lovers' moods change from day to day!" Then, turning to Andreas, he asked courteously:

"Am I disturbing you? Don't you want my company after all?"

These words made Andreas yet more uneasy, for he concluded from them that Diana's flight was known to his friend and had, therefore, been planned some time ago. He stretched out his hand to help Nikolai to land, and as he did so he said:

"In what way could you ever disturb me, old man?"

At his master's first call across the water towards the oncoming boat, Othello had changed his bark of warning to a soft whine; and until the two men clasped hands, the dog's attitude had been one of alert defiance. Now he followed the two friends as they made their way up hill towards the house. He sniffed at their heels and at the leather satchel the oarsman held trailing from his hand. Both young men endeavoured to conceal their emotion behind a flow of conventional banalities. The new arrival continued to expatiate at frequent intervals upon the beauties of the island, while Andreas asked again and again if his friend had had a comfortable journey. At length Nikolai exclaimed:

"Of course I took the very first train from Milan, the eight o'clock, the sooner to be with you...."

Andreas stopped in his walk, looked squarely into his friend's grey eyes, and asked in surprise:

"Do you mean to say that you've come in answer to a summons?"

Even more amazed than his interlocutor, Nikolai delved into his pockets and after a little search produced a telegram which he handed over, saying:

"Didn't you send this?"

Andreas read the message: "Baveno. Please come as soon as possible to the little island to see your friend Andreas."

A light of understanding flashed through the poet's mind. Diana, herself fleeing from him, had sent his best friend to his side in order that the crushing solitude he would experience in the garden of their love might be rendered more bearable by Nikolai's presence. He stood stock still for a moment, biting his lips. Then he fondled Othello's head, as if by this caress he might compensate himself for the lack of a touch from Diana's loving hand. At length, steadying his voice with difficulty as he uttered the name of his mistress, he said:

"No. This must have been sent by Diana."

His friend was silent. Both men turned to go up the terrace steps.

"Have you quarrelled?"

"No."

"Where's she gone off to?"

"I don't know. She has sent you here to comfort me, no doubt." Then, hoping to conceal his wound, he added wryly: "Rather a painful mission, eh?"

Nikolai glanced at him and, cogitating upon the young man's equivocal situation, mused: "Least said, soonest mended!"

"What do you say to half an hour's row?" said Andreas coming suddenly to a halt. "Are you hungry? No? Hi! Domenico! Get the boat out!"

The Russian was quick to perceive that his friend fought shy of the house, and readily acquiesced in the plan. Soon the two of them were facing each other in the boat, one at the oars while his comrade steered. Andreas was still in his dressing-gown, hatless; Nikolai in white trousers, blue blazer, and a tight-fitting cap. They eyed one another surreptitiously, yet each was aware of his companion's scrutiny. Andreas's countenance made a strong appeal to Nikolai. It was a wilful face, crowned with a wealth of curly hair, which was not quite in keeping with the gentle curve of the mouth. He thought:

"I can well understand why women should prefer him to me."

Andreas, for his part, gazed fixedly at Nikolai, trying to extract the secret of his soul by a contemplation of his facial characteristics. Accustomed to reading people at a glance, he jumped now to the conclusion that the high cheek-bones prevalent among the Slavs denoted fanatical asceticism, the deep-set eyes betokened moderation in enjoyment, the thin, long nose must signify cautiousness when dealing with fellow mortals, the fine, rather thin growth of hair must prove that the owner had early experienced the joys of the flesh, the reticence of his deportment and the noble lines of the hand that lay on the gunwale showed him to be a man of taste and of aristocratic birth. The poet said to himself:

"I have known all this from the first day of our acquaintance."

"Shall we land?" The voice broke in on the silence as the boat neared Isola Madre.

Slowly the two friends climbed the hill. The morning freshness still pervaded the air. A bird trilled its rapture from bushes which scattered their leaves with lavish generosity over the yellow path, while, all around, the glittering expanse of the lake sent up dappled reflections amid the green. The youths strode forward on a carpet of moss and closely cropped ivy. At length they reached the warmer part of the island, passed through the flower-decked forest of rhododendrons, disappeared among thickets of pink camellias, brushed away the dew from the tall sprays of meadowsweet, and emerged amid the mimosas whose arid branches waved their ochre-tinted plumes like immense powder-puffs in the air. Sedate, delicate, and elastic, like well-trained German countesses, the cedars thrust their dark heads upward towards the sky, and the laurels, their branches constrained on espalier frames, or fettered together to form bouquets, or clipped into shapes and figurines, stretched out arms imploringly as if in longing for their leaves to be used to cool the fevered brows of inspired poets.

No word was spoken as the two friends slowly climbed the hill. Every turn in the path, every plant, every shade and sound and smell, brought the beloved woman visibly and palpably before Andreas's eyes. Here they had wandered together; this was her very world. She had felt all these things, had spoken of them romantically or with worldly wisdom, with irreverence or mystery, just as the spirit moved her. And all she said was impregnated with such a power of imaginative faculty as is only to be found as a rule among children of exceptional gifts.

They had reached the pergola of Chinese tea-roses through whose yellow blossoms glimpses of Monte Rosa could be seen amid a white-and-blue landscape. Suddenly Andreas came to a standstill, laid his hand affectionately on his companion's shoulder, and began talking as if the latter had actively participated in his whole train of thought. As he spoke he gesticulated, and his voice was agitated as if he were experiencing the excitement of a new discovery.

"An atmosphere of freedom envelops her—do you understand that, Nikolai? Freedom such as—such as hovers around that mountain over there, so that it can rear its crest of ice upward towards the sun, such as pervades this pergola whose roses have graciously permitted a gardener's hand to twine their shoots round the trellis, such freedom as the warm surface of this lake exhales at noon and yet enables it at midnight to mirror the coldly shining stars. Do you realize what it is we are ever in search of? Perfect art accompanied by innocent cheer. Fullness, mystery hand in hand with absolute clarity, the appropriate mood to every hour; wisdom and foolishness, surmise and knowledge, the past freed from sorrow, the magical recipe which will enable us to be bold and modest at one and the same moment, the masters of life and the servitors of fate.... Do you know Diana?"

He threw the four words at his friend as if they were a ball for Nikolai to catch. Before the Russian could answer, he exclaimed:

"You have seen her once, she told me so. Just once; for a few minutes. But that would be long enough for you to realize everything...."

"What did she say?" asked Nikolai, trying to recall the incidents of the encounter.

They sat down on two wrought-iron chairs which they found tilted against the balustrade of the uppermost terrace. Andreas threw one leg over the other, rested his elbows on the parapet, and propped up his head while his eyes travelled over the waters. Then his attention was caught by a stray branch which he carefully plaited into the trellis-work lest it should be broken. Though he was unaware of it, he had assumed Diana's characteristic pose. Without stirring, he resumed the thread of his discourse.

"One day, when I was sorting some papers, your photo tumbled out on to the floor. She picked it up and said: 'I know this face.' To which I replied: 'He's a friend of mine.'—'That's a good thing,' said she, 'I met him once, not so very long ago'—you know how vague she is about dates, and how definite is her remembrance of places—'it must have been in Milan last autumn, one day as I came out of the twilit cathedral. I was wearied with the darkness, and the mass I had been attending. Nevertheless the square with its noisy trams and people and loafing youths, disgusted me. Where could I creep away to quietude? I questioned the oracle. Should I go to right or left? Since the next comer approached me from the left, I determined to go in that direction. The oracle was favourable, for from the narrow street a shop-front beckoned me. I was rooted to the spot. Huge butterflies from Brazil were spread before me in cases. Their wings might have been made of precious stones, so dazzling were the colours. I seemed to be entering into a night of stars'—you are laughing?"

"I am only laughing because," protested Nikolai, "I remember standing at her side, studying the fearless line of her profile and marvelling at the fervour of her contemplation."

"At last she saw you and spoke to you," continued Andreas.

"'Conosce quello, Signore?' said a clear voice in my ear," and Nikolai, too, seemed unconsciously to assume one of Diana's characteristic poses. "But I had to admit that I knew nothing about them."

Andreas had not heard his friend's words. Yet he gathered Diana's question together as if it were some costly jewel worth studying in a good light. He turned the phrase over this way and that, untiringly reiterating: "Conosce quello, Signore? Conosce quello?"

Nikolai awaited his friend's pleasure in silence. At length, Andreas roused himself from his reverie with a laugh.

"Do forgive me! What else did she say? She never told me. All she confided to me was that, when you and she were looking at the specimens together and were talking about them, she had been struck by the melodiousness of your voice and by the fine shape of your hand as it rested on the glass."

"But the really remarkable thing was yet to come," exclaimed Nikolai. "At my request for information, she pointed to this specimen and to that, telling me the place in South America whence it came, the nature of the forests it inhabited, together with the lakes and swamps it needed for its well-being; she distinguished species from varieties; indeed, had I not surprised the initial look of imaginative delight she had cast on the scintillating assembly, I might have fancied her a member of a zoological academy—and incontinently taken to flight!"

Andreas nodded his appreciation, and said encouragingly:

"Well, and what did she say next?"

"She stretched out her hand towards me, and, with a look that glanced at me and then back to the butterflies again, in a tone that was charmingly candid and yet ambiguous, at once delighting me and imposing a barrier to further advance, she said: 'Beautiful!' Her lips remained slightly apart, and her curls were lifted in the breeze as she turned to go."

"You did not try to discover who she was?"

"I do not wantonly pry into the secrets of fate! Still, destiny held something in store for me. A week later, as I was leaving Countess Borromeo's, she came in, and the footman announced her name."

"I told her yours while she was here," observed Andreas. Then, impetuously, he held his hand out to his friend. Nikolai grasped it warmly, and said:

"When I learned last February that you and she had vanished after the carnival ball..."

"Were you uneasy?" interrupted Andreas with some acerbity, trying to withdraw his hand. Nikolai resisted the attempt, maintaining a firm grip and laying his left hand affectionately on the back of his friend's right.

"On the contrary, I felt perfectly happy. Remembering that you are a poet, I thought: 'He could not have fallen into better hands!'"