Chapter IX: Part II: I (4)

"Perhaps you will speak to me of the laws of the land. Very good; according to the law a man and wife are required to be mutually faithful. A magistrate would say that I had betrayed you. But consider a little. Make an effort of memory, Anna, and recall the agreement I proposed to you that evening at Sorrento, before committing my grand blunder. I told you that I wished to remain absolutely free, free as a bachelor; and you consented. Is it true or not true?"

"It is true. I consented."

"I told you that I would tolerate no interference on your part with my relations with other women; and remember, Anna, you consented. Is that true or untrue?"

"It is true," she said, feeling that she was falling into an abyss.

"You see, therefore, that neither according to the laws of love nor according to the laws of marriage have I betrayed you. And if you had a conscience, to adopt your own phraseology, if you had the least loyalty, you would at once confess that I have not betrayed you. You accepted the whole bargain. I am free in heart, and at liberty to do as I like. I have not betrayed you. Confess it."

"Cesare, Cesare, be human, be Christian; don't require me to say that."

"Tragedies are one thing, and truth is another, Anna. I desire to establish the fact that I haven't betrayed you, my dear. For what I did last night, for what I may have done on any other night, for what I may do any night in the future, I have your own permission. Confess it."

"I can't say that, do you understand?" she cried. "Oh, you are always in the right; you always know how to put yourself in the right. You are right in your selfishness, in your perfidy, in your wickedness, in your frightful corruption; you were right in proposing that disgraceful bargain to me, which I was not ashamed to accept, and which you to-day so justly and so appropriately remind me of. But I believed that to love, to adore a man as I loved and adored you, would be a charm to conquer with; and I have lost. For you are stronger than I; indifference is stronger than love; selfishness is stronger than passion. Generous abandonment cannot overcome the refined calculation of a corrupt man. I am wrong, I alone, I confess it--since I loved you to the point of dying for you, since I imagined that that was enough, since I had in my soul the divine hope of winning you by my love. I am wrong, I confess it; yes, I confess it. I cannot love nor hate nor live. I am nothing but a bore, a superfluous person, and a tiresome; it is true; it is true. Say it again."

"If you wish it, I will."

"You are right. You are always right. I have done nothing but blunder. I have always obeyed the mad impulses of my heart. I fled from my home. I ought not to have loved you, and I loved you. I loved you; I have bored you; and I myself, of my free will, gave you permission to betray me. You are the most vicious man I know. You're unredeemed by a thought or a feeling. You horrify me. Under the same roof with your wife, you have committed an odious sin--a sin that would make the worst men shudder. And I can't punish you, because I consented to it; because I debased the dignity of my love before you; because indeed I am a cowardly and infamous creature. See how right you are! You have sinned, but so far as I am concerned you are innocent. I am infamous and cowardly, because I ought to have died rather than accept that loathsome bargain. Forgive me if I have upbraided you. I'll ask Laura's pardon too. No human being is soiled with an infamy so great as mine. Forgive me."

Perhaps he felt in these words the confusion of madness; perhaps he saw the light of madness in her eyes. But he was unmoved. She was a woman who had led him into committing a folly, who had bored him, and, what was more, who would like to continue to bore him in the future. He was unmoved. He was glad to have got the better of her in this struggle. He was unmoved. He thought it time to leave her, if he would retain his advantage.

"Good-bye, Anna," he said, rising.

"Don't go away, don't go away," she cried, throwing herself before him.

"Do you imagine that this duet is pleasing?" he asked, drawing on his gloves. "For the rest, we've said all there is to say. I can't think you have any more insults to favour me with."

"You hate me, do you?"

"No, I don't hate you exactly."

"Don't go away. Don't go away. I must tell you something very serious."

"Good-bye, Anna," he repeated, moving towards the door.

"Cesare, if you go away, I shall do something desperate," she cried, convulsively tearing her hair.

"You'd be incapable. To do anything desperate one must have talent. And you're a fool," he replied, smiling ironically.

"Cesare, if you go away, I shall die."

"Bah, bah, you'll not die. To die one must have courage." And he opened the door and went out.

She ran to the threshold. He was already at a distance. She heard the street door close behind him. For a few minutes she stood there, fearing to move lest she should fall; then mechanically she turned back. She went to her looking-glass, repaired the disorder of her hair, and put on a hat, a black veil, and a sealskin cloak. She forgot nothing. Her pocket-handkerchief was in her muff; in her hand she carried her card-case of carved Japanese ivory.

At last she left her room, and entered her husband's. A servant was putting it in order; but, seeing his mistress, he bowed and took himself off. She was alone there, in the big brown chamber, in the gray winter daylight. She went to her husband's desk, and sat down before it, as if she were going to write. But, after a moment's thought, she did not write. She opened a drawer, took something from it, and concealed it in her pocket.

After that, she passed through the house and out into the street.

She crossed the Piazza Vittoria, and entered the Villa Nazionale. Children were playing by the fountain, and she stopped for a moment to look at them. Twice she made the tour of the Villa; then she looked at her watch; then she seated herself on one of the benches. There were very few people abroad. The damp earth was covered with dead leaves.

She fixed her eyes upon the dial of her watch, counting the minutes and the seconds. All at once she put her hand into her pocket, and felt the thing that she had hidden there.

Anna rose. It was two o'clock.

She left the Villa, walking towards the Chiatamone. Before the door of a little house in the Via del Chiatamone she stopped. She hesitated for a moment; then she lifted the bronze knocker, and let it fall.

The door was opened by Luigi Caracciolo.

He did not speak. He took her hand, and drew her into the house.

They crossed two antechambers, hung with old tapestries, ornamented with ancient and modern arms, and with big Delft vases filled with growing palms, a smoking-room furnished with rustic Swiss chairs and tables, and entered a drawing-room. The curtains were drawn, the lamps lighted. The floor and the walls were covered with Oriental carpets; the room was full of beautiful old Italian furniture, statues, pictures, bronzes. There were many flowers about, red and white roses, subtly perfumed.

Caracciolo took a bunch of roses, and gave them to Anna.

"Dear Anna--my dear love," he said.

A faint colour came to her cheeks.

"What is it? Tell me, Anna. Dear one, dear one!"

"Don't speak to me like that," she said.

"Do I offend you? I can't think that I offend you--I who feel for you the deepest tenderness, the most absolute devotion."

He took her hands.

"It is dark here," she said.

"The day was so sad, the daylight was so melancholy. I have waited for you so many hours, Anna."

"I have come, you see."

"Thank you for having remembered your faithful servant." And delicately he kissed her gloved hand.

"Why not open the curtains a little?" she asked.

He drew aside his curtains, and let in the ashen light. She went to the window, and looked out upon the sea.

"Anna, Anna, come away. Somebody might see you."

"It doesn't matter."

"But I can't allow you to compromise yourself, Anna; I love you too much."

"I have come here to compromise myself," she said.

"Then--you love me a little?" he demanded, trying to draw her away from the window.

She did not answer. She sat down in an arm-chair.

"Tell me that you love me a little, Anna."

"I don't love you."

"Dear Anna, dear Anna," he murmured with his caressing voice, "how can I believe you, since you are here. Tell me that you love me a little. For three years I have waited for that word. Dear Anna, sweet Anna, you know that I have adored you for so long a time. Anna, Anna!"

"What has happened was bound to happen," she said.

"Anna, I conjure you,[G] tell me that you love me."

She shuddered as she heard him use the familiar pronoun.

"Do you love me?"

"I don't know. I know nothing."

"Dear one, dear one," he murmured, trembling with hope, in an immense transport of love.

He drew nearer to her and kissed her on the cheek.

A cry of pain burst from her, and she sprang up, horrified, terrified, and tried to leave the room.

"Oh, for mercy's sake, forgive me. Don't go away. Anna, Anna, forgive me if I have offended you. I love you so! If you go away I shall die."

"People don't die for such slight things."

"People die of love."

"Yes. But one must have courage to die."

"Don't let us talk of these dismal things. My love, we mustn't talk of things that will sadden you. Your beautiful face is troubled. Tell me that you forgive me. Do you forgive me?"

"I forgive you."

"I don't believe it. You don't forgive me. You love another."

"No, no--no other."

"And Cesare?"

But scarcely had he spoken the fatal name when he saw his error. Her eyes blazed; she trembled from head to foot, in a nervous convulsion.

"Listen," she said. "If you have a heart, if you have any pity, if you wish me to stay here with you, never name him again, never name him."

"You are right." But then he added, "And yet you loved him, you love him still."

"No. I love no one any more."

"Why would you not accept me when I proposed for you?"

"Because."

"Why did you marry that old man?"

"Because."

"And now why do you love him? Why do you love him?"

"I don't know."

"You see, you do love him," he cried in despair.

"Oh, God, oh, God!" she sobbed.

"Oh, I am a fool. Forgive me, forgive me. But I love you, and I lose my head. I love you, and I am desperate. And I need to know if you still love him. You will always love him? Is it so?"

"Till death," she said, with a strange look and accent.

"Say it again."

"Till death," she repeated, with the same strange intonation.

They were silent.

Luigi Caracciolo put his arm round her waist, and drew her slowly towards him.

Her eyes were fixed and void. She did not feel his arms about her. She did not feel his kisses. He kissed her hair, he kissed her sweet white throat, he kissed her little rosy ear. Anna was absorbed in a desperate meditation, far from all human things. He kissed her face, her eyes, her lips; she did not know it. But suddenly she felt his embrace become closer, stronger; she heard his voice change, it was no longer tender and caressing, it was fervid with tumultuous passion, it uttered confused delirious words. Silently, looking at him with burning eyes, she tried to disengage herself.

"Let me go," she said.

"Anna, Anna, I love you so--I have loved you so long!"

"Let me go, let me go!"

"You are my adored one--I adore you above all things."

"Let me go. You horrify me."

He let her go.

"But what have you come here for?" he asked, sorrowfully.

"I have come to commit an infamy."

"Anna, Anna, you are killing me!"

She looked at him fixedly.

"What is it, Anna? Something is troubling you, and you won't tell me what it is. My poor friend! You have come here with an anguish in your heart, wishing to escape from it; you have come here to weep; and I have behaved like a brute, a blackguard."

"No, you are good, I shall remember you," and she gave him her hand.

"Don't go away. Tell me first what it is. Tell me what you came for. Tell me, dearest Anna."

"It's too long a story, too long," she said, as if in a dream, passing her hand over her brow. "And now I must go, I must go."

"No, stop here, talk to me, weep. It will do you good."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"My minutes are numbered. You'll understand some day--to-morrow. Now I must go."

"Anna, how can I let you go like this? You have come here to be comforted, and I have treated you shamefully. Forgive me."

"You are not to blame, not in the least."

"But what is it that you are in trouble about, Anna? Who has been making you miserable, my poor fond soul? Whose fault is it? Who is to blame? Cesare?"

"No, I am to blame, I only."

"And Cesare--you admit it."

"No."

"Cesare is an infamous scoundrel, and I know it," he exclaimed.

"It is I who am infamous."

"I don't believe you. I should believe no one who said that, Anna."

"I must be infamous, since I alone am unhappy. I must go."

"Will you come back?--to-morrow? Anna, you are so sad, you are in such distress, I can't let you go."

"No one can detain me, no one."

"Anna, forget that I have spoken to you of love."

"I have forgotten it. Good-bye."

"You musn't go like this. You are too much agitated."

"No, I am calm. Listen, will you do me a favour? You repeated some verses to me one evening at Sorrento--some French verses--do you remember?"

"Yes. Baudelaire's '_Harmonie du Soir_,'" he answered, surprised by her question.

"Have you the volume?"

"Yes."

"Take it, and copy that poem for me. Afterwards I will say good-bye."

He went into his library and brought back _Les Fleurs du Mal_. He seated himself at his writing-table, and looked at Anna. There was an expression of such immense sorrow in her eyes, that he faltered, and asked, "Shall I write?"

She bowed her head. While he was writing the first lines, Anna turned her back to him. She put her hand into her pocket and brought forth a little shining object of ivory and steel. He in a low voice repeated the verse he was writing--"_Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige_"--when suddenly there was the report of a pistol, and a little cloud of smoke rose towards the ceiling.

Anna had shot herself through the heart, and fallen to the floor. Her little gloved hand held the revolver that she had taken from the drawer of her husband's desk. Luigi Caracciolo stood rooted to the carpet, believing that he must be mad.

So died Anna Acquaviva, innocent.

FOOTNOTES:

[F] _Voi_, instead of the more familiar _tu_, which he had previously employed.

[G] Having hitherto used the formal _voi_, he now uses the intimate _tu_.

_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
_London & Edinburgh._

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated variants. For those words, the variant more frequently used was retained. In some cases there was no predominant variant. The hyphenated variant was chosen in those cases.

The name 'Björnstjerne Björnson' was changed to 'Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson'.

Obvious punctuation and printing errors, which were not detected during the printing of the original book, have been corrected.

The original book did not have a Table of Contents. One was added after the Introduction.