CHAPTER 3

Twelve hours later, as they sat on the terrace of the white house, they were still talking of her. The coloured lampions overhead swayed gently in the breeze.

"She has bestowed many a beautiful hymn upon you," murmured Nikolai, closing the book upon his finger. "I should like to hear you read this one," he continued, handing over the volume wherein Andreas had copied the poems he had recently composed. The poet glanced through the one his friend had indicated. After turning a few pages, he paused, meditated a moment, then began reading aloud, making no effort to conceal his emotion. His voice hummed through the quiet May night. When he had finished, he sat motionless, gazing at the lights along the shore, the twinkling, moving lights.

"Movement," he said softly. "Poetry merely creates petrified images. Paper, written over with conventional signs ... and there, without, every day sees a mighty...."

"Be thankful for what you have," interposed his friend. "Could you expect greater treasures from yourself or from the world than...?"

"The world! The world! Greater treasures! The whole silly business sickens me. I want to do something totally different."

It seemed as if he had been controlling such an outbreak all day, as he flung out of his chair and strode to the edge of the terrace. He leaned upon the parapet, throwing his arms outward towards the lake as though he craved to grasp the world, the mainland, which in the twinkling lights seemed alluringly close to the island.

"I want to possess all that, do you hear? Possess it, not write poems about it. I don't want to capture rare and lovely things from the world! This evening I am filled with the feeling that all my six-and-twenty years have been passed on an island, passed in contemplation, a pencil in my hand, agog to catch a rhythm here or a harmony there—while, across the water the train on the Simplon railway was hurrying men and women through the world, day in day out for six-and-twenty years."

He turned abruptly, and marched towards his friend. Thumping the table so that the glasses rang, he exclaimed:

"You fancy that Diana is my muse because this sheaf of poems has fallen from her hand on to my field? Listen, Nikolai, you don't know her! She is a missile, an arrow, ever speeding in front of you, ever tempting you to run in emulation of its swift flight. You saw her for ten seconds; but have you gained nothing from her passage? You are a seer? Yet have you not penetrated to deeper things because you have seen her? Tell me, am I become clearer-sighted or madder since she went?"

He dropped to his knees beside his friend's chair and, fixing his blazing eyes upon Nikolai, seemed to wrench the words from the latter's lips.

"No, you are not mad. That very evening, after I had seen her, I went home vowing to make use of every year that was left to me of youth to cultivate all that was worth while in me. During the ensuing six months I wrote my book on morphology, a work which had remained on the stocks for so long."

"Have you finished it?"

"It's to be published this summer."

"Do tell me how you felt that evening...."

"I took the beautiful creature to be an apparition, a sign and a portent, a call to action. As far as I was concerned, she was nameless, and simple; as well-informed as she was charming. What did I care when, later, I discovered that she was a society dame, frequenting the palace of a princess, and possessing a name like any one else? She had been sent to me in the street where the butterflies were to inspire me with the will to put my plans into execution. Voicelessly she summoned me to work. Therefore—do you get on with your task, likewise!"

"How do you know that this is my work?" asked Andreas, tapping the book of poems. "You saw her only for a fleeting moment, and yet, what a stimulus she has been to you. But I have imbibed her very blood! You'll never guess what she said last night. She was leaning on this railing, pressing her knee against the balustrade, her silk dress aflutter in the wind; it was orange-coloured and clung to her lithe young body; tendrils of hair were gently caught by the breeze. Speaking very softly, she said: 'The swallows are coming north again. Though the road be long, they find their way unerringly. When they fly above a ship, there is a sound of rushing aloft as if fine steel wings were clashing one upon the other. How free they are! Free; and yet fate's hand is uplifted over them as it is over our heads. They are in the grip of fear, just as we ourselves are, as soon as one of their company shows signs of exhaustion. Half an hour more, a short half hour only, separates them from the island; their strength must last till then. One final sweep of the wings and they will reach their goal. It is will that drives them, will alone!'—Suddenly she began to sob. The paroxysm lasted but a minute while she was shaken by unseen forces. Then she dried her eyes and looked at me with a smile. After a while she laughed and, throwing her head back, pulled me towards her and kissed me, crying: 'Poet!'

"Believe me, Nikolai, at that moment she bade me farewell. Because of the daring mockery she was able to infuse into that one, perilous word, she had to leave me after uttering it. I was taken aback, and, since I am ever at a loss in such circumstances, all I found to say was: 'Are you hankering to join the flock, Diana? Do you want to go with the common herd across the waters of the lake?'—She laughed again, and as she lay lightly in my arms she said, with a complete change of voice and of manner as if her mood vacillated between coquetry and mystery: 'Perhaps, sometimes, why not? Among the herd, one is lost to sight!'"

Nikolai frowned, while with listless impatience he struck a light in spite of the fact that his cigarette was glowing cheerfully.

"Well, well, Poet, you can't hope to have things otherwise. Over the lake! Don't allow yourself to be misled by the dazzling lights of adventure. Many a promising lad has perished in the quest, to rue the day when he fell away from the right track. Diana was not mocking you when she called you poet; that is your true name. This little batch of poems is no more than a prelude. Remember the fine plans you dreamed of carrying out. When you are calmer, you must build upon her inspiration, and thus you will become reconciled to her flight."

Andreas faced his friend abruptly.

"What? Is this the same voice I once heard speaking to me from the shades of Tartarus? Reconciled? Is that all you have to say after a sublime experience? Was it not you who, just now, spoke of: 'A call to action'? I must get away."

Nikolai, who knew his friend's restless temperament from of old, who knew that the quiet days in love's garden were but an episode in the course of the ceaseless flow of turbulent waters, did not make direct answer, but merely asked: "Where do you intend to go?"

"On to the mainland! Away from my island! To active life! Into the fray!"

"Travel?"

"That's no more than play."

"To work in a factory?"

"That takes too long."

"Get into a ministerial post?"

"That would mean returning to Vienna which I left years ago. But I was wondering..."

"Well?"

"What about the diplomatic service?"

"In that career, too, you'll have to climb a ladder!"

"Maybe I'll climb ten rungs at a time right at the start!"

Nikolai said nothing, but he thought:

"Can that be the ideal aim of a poet? What has happened to the young people of today? They all want distraction, instead of concentrating on one activity. A hankering after adventures seems to fill them; even the strongest natures are led astray by dreams of power; the finest flower of Europe's young citizens is eagerly seeking for movement and ever more movement. Well, at any rate I've not been touched by the microbe!"

"I see you don't approve," said Andreas.

"Your best sonnet is of greater value than all your dreams of power and glory."

"Of greater value? To whom, pray?"

"To your own soul."

Nikolai, convinced that this evening would be a decisive one in their friendship, that they were here and now at the parting of the ways, which might sever them for many years, to bring them together again only after battles, and victories, and disappointments, rose from his chair, emptied his glass, reached out his hand to his friend, and said:

"It is late. I was up early this morning. I'll get along to bed."

But Andreas, in his passionate devotion, flung his arm round his friend's shoulders, and exclaimed:

"Don't give me up! Have confidence in my star."

Andreas lighted his candle and sought his own room, followed closely by Othello. The dog, who was always quick to understand changes in his master's life, realized that once more, as in former days, they were to live by themselves. Yet he was not happy at the prospect. He had not been jealous of Diana, as dogs are wont to be where a woman, and in especial where the beloved mistress of the master, is concerned. Each morning he had raised the latch of the bathroom door and had come to the bedside. Then, resting his forelegs on the coverlet at the foot, Ke had laid his massive head between them, near enough to sniff Diana's fragrance as she lay in her place next the wall. Thus would he remain, his earnest eyes never weary of looking at the young woman whom he allowed his master to house. He never attempted to fling himself across their bodies, well knowing that he would prove too heavy. Besides, a dog's proper place is at his master's feet, and Othello was not one to break the law.

Andreas guessed the Great Dane's thoughts, just as Othello guessed his master's. Without awaiting a sign, the dog took up his position on the white skin that served as bedside rug. He had never done this before. Andreas, for his part, flung himself half dressed on to the bed. He wished to avoid direct contact with the cool white pillow at his side. As he lay there gazing into the darkness, he seemed to hear a voice saying: "Te quiero!" The very words Diana had spoken to him at their first encounter that night of the masked ball! She had entered his life when taking part in a procession of masqueraders, in a fanciful get-up, sandals on her bare feet, a long yellow chiton flowing round her figure, a delicate crown of ivy in her wilful locks. The vision had floated past him as he sat on the steps heavy of heart and watchful. Then she had paused, had stepped out of the ranks, had flung her sun-kissed arm round his neck, and had said, her voice ringing like pure metal in his ear: "Io te quiero!" (I choose thee.)

That night they passed in an almost ceaseless dance together. Next day they found themselves in the Milan train, hastening northward. On the morrow they had reached the island.

Andreas roused himself. Had he not heard the closing of a door? She often went to shut the door leading on to the terrace.... "Othello, did you hear nothing? Where is Diana now?" The boyish eyes peered anxiously, almost defiantly, into the darkness. "Why? How could you mar the sweet harmony of our lives this way? Diana! Diana!"

His trembling lips breathed the name very softly. As he turned over on to the pillow where her head had lain, he suddenly drew back. Was not this the place where, in the cool of the night, he had leaned over the young body? Had he not, in the flickering candle-light, stroked the firm and satiny skin which had been bronzed by the sun; had his poet's hand not travelled over the deep bosom, on which the delicate breasts rose and fell as she breathed; had he not caressed those boyish hips so devoid of passionate desire—for always, until last night, she seemed rather to tolerate his hot wooing than to crave for it, seemed to be armed for battle rather than for the joys of the flesh.

Images of delight floated round the wearied youth, pictures of bliss he had experienced on this couch; and with all the power of a rich imagination he once again drew Diana into his arms.

Othello kept watch throughout the night, his great head resting on his crossed paws as he lay at his master's feet.