Ysabel De Teresa

“ And yet she had never really loved him as a woman loves a man upon whom she depends for her daily strength. He had been like a dearly loved, temperamental child. Torn from her arms, her tenderness was lost without him. Her heart yearned to mother his sorrow. At times her need of him was so desperate that she would have even welcomed a scene. To feel the eager arms about her, to look upon the beautiful, willful face, would have made up for all. However, in the darkest hour, when the void he had left ached most intolerably, Anne knew that their parting had all been for the best. ”

“ But you forget, Vittorio, that—that I—that things will not be the same?”
He trembled as the copper tendrils of her hair swept against his cheek.
“I forget—nothing. In the things of the body, it is only the spirit which counts.”
She raised her head from his shoulder and looked at him from under heavy lids. “How good you are, Vittorio!” she repeated chokingly. Taking his head between her hands, she pressed her lips upon his. “And now, good-by.”
He held her away from him, and looked lingeringly into her face. A cry escaped him.
“Good-by, my Anne, good-by.” ”

“ Vittorio believed that out of some motive of pity, and possibly of modesty, Anne was deceiving him about her feeling for Alexis. She knew he believed this and yet she was as powerless to undeceive him as she was to take up the imaginary sword that lay between them and thrust it into her living breast. Oh, why had she not obeyed her instinct for flight, and avoided this perilous encounter? What a tragedy of errors they had all drifted into. What a farce it was. A trick of the ironical gods who dig colossal fingers into one’s ribs and expect one to laugh like a babe being tickled. ”

“ Gerald Boynton frequented the house as usual, however. A tame cat is a great convenience to a woman like Anne. A necessary escort, he was at her beck and call at all moments, to secure theater tickets, and even to run errands. Caldenas came to see her once or twice, and Anne found herself liking him well enough to promise to sit for her portrait.
But all this was merely artificial, a stuffing of cotton into the void of time. Weary of New York as never before, Anne longed for her villa in Florence, her sun-baked terrace, the pungent smell of the black earth awakening in anticipation of spring. ”

“ A patient smile upon her lips, Anne would shudder inwardly. She had neither the desire nor the intention of becoming Alexis’ wife. There were almost ten years between their ages and she could imagine nothing more tragic, nor more difficult, than to be the elderly wife of a young genius. It would take endless courage to live up to his exactions, to respond to his demand. She would have to be eternally beautiful, a very river of sympathy and understanding, upon whose bosom he could float in perfect serenity and peace. ”

“ All Anne’s fear had been for nothing. Alexis was playing as she had never heard him play before. The golden notes lingered upon the air, round with substance, light as a sunbeam dancing upon the wall. They soared toward the sky like iridescent birds, then swooped earthwards with the beat of celestial wings. Motionless, the life concentrated in his eyes and the rhythm of his bow, his chin caressing his violin as if it were a human thing, Alexis played with all the fire, the eloquence of a modern Orpheus waiting at the gates of Hades. ”

“ A pæan upon the lips, nectar in his veins, he had approached the terrace as if on air. Anne’s head was better, so Regina had told him. She had gone out into the garden, was sitting alone under the scattered stars. How surprised she would be when the notes of his violin stole upon her through the night! He would play the Canzonetta from Tchaikowsky’s Concerto, the one they both loved the best. It was just the thing for a night like this. A heavy, mysterious night. A night weighted with warm perfume and the promise of hidden rapture. ”

“ If Anne’s embraces were tepid, her smile a little absent, her echoing and aching head was heaped with reproaches. She did not love him any more. She never had loved him. She was fickle as the new moon, and as cold. She was thinking of marrying some one else. Yes, yes, that must be it. Who was it? That snobbish fool of a Gerald Boynton, who thought he could play the piano? (The cheek of these amateurs was amusing.) Or that Marchese, of whom Ellen was constantly hinting? Why didn’t she tell him and put him out of his agony immediately? She knew he was not able to marry her, himself. ”

“ Anne paled. His fervor always frightened her. How could such happiness last?
“But I can only come occasionally, you know, dear. It is difficult for me to get away. I have to make excuses,” she faltered. “Excuses, even to Regina. I feel sure she suspects something. Subterfuge is horrible. I loathe it.”
Head drooping upon its slender stem, she looked like a chidden child. A spasm of fear swept over his face. Anne was suffering. Was it all too much for her? God, if he were only free to marry! Hatred for Claire gripped his vitals like a vise. He rose and stood over her trembling. ”

“ Shivering and dazed, Alexis pulled his collar up about his throat. Lowering his head against the rain, in a bull-like, butting gesture, he strode toward Fifth Avenue.
What a fool he had been to imagine he could interest a woman like Anne, an idolized doll, surrounded by male and female sycophants, who probably took advantage of her wealth and loneliness. A woman, whimsical as a pet kitten, who had enjoyed him like a new toy for a while, but as soon as he became hackneyed, would drop him as casually as she had taken him up. ”

“ In the constant glare from passing motors, Anne emerged, doubly magnificent in regal furs, and jeweled band glowing within the copper meshes of her hair, the proud face of a patrician, charmingly insolent, utterly non-committal. Beside her, Claire felt smitten with mediocrity as with a hopeless disease. And yet it was she herself who was bringing this woman to Alexis. Why not? He desired her. Perhaps his very life depended upon her presence. When existence narrowed down to a primal factor such as death, one shed all fears except one. Her eyes fixed upon Anne, she suddenly laughed aloud. ”

“ Anne capitulated, with amusement and despair. Taking his hand in hers, she pressed it softly. Her eyes were maternal.
“What a baby you are, Alexis.”
“You are going to stay!” He sat down upon the bed and fell upon her with ravenous kisses. His arms closed about her.
“Yes, I am going to stay,” she gasped, breathless from the onslaught. She suddenly felt old and worn. Tired to the core. Would he always wear down her resistance like this? She pushed him away almost feebly.
“And now, will you let me get up, please? It is too beautiful a day to remain in bed.” ”

“ To oust this growing dissatisfaction which had sifted into the indolent drift of her life and was gradually embittering it, Anne had literally taken to her heels. Two weeks alone with the mountains had brought a certain serenity. Already the miserly future looked less blank. Soothed by solitudes and distance, her inflamed ego was content to sink into the great whole. After all, there were compensations. She might not be a genius, but that did not prevent genius from existing! And personality was only an illusion after all, a hollow shell, within which the Great Spirit differentiated. ”

“ Nothing but Alexis’ own will can ever separate us now!”
He groaned. “But you are not happy. You do not love him. You love me. Even he wouldn’t ask you to keep your word if he knew that,” he said miserably.
“But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t dream that I don’t love him, poor boy. I’d rather tear myself in pieces than have him guess. He has been so unhappy, so miserable!”
“But Anne, doesn’t my unhappiness, my misery, mean as much to you as his?”
She turned an anguished face towards him, laying her hands upon his shoulders. “You know what it means to me,” she gasped. “I—I love you, Vittorio.” ”

“ And to that fate, so much more bitter than death, Anne could never condemn him.
She pressed her cheek against the head that lay so humbly upon her knees. She raised his face and looked down into the tragic young eyes. A long look, a giving look, a look that poured divine essence of compassion from her very soul, in a sort of spiritual transfusion, until the face between her hands became suffused with rapture.
“No Alexis, do not be afraid, I shall not desert you now. Nothing but your own will can ever separate us.” ”

“ Her own eyes overflowing, Anne pillowed his head on her shoulder, and murmured comfort until he fell into a sorrowful slumber. Frequently she lay awake beside him for hours. These days filled with a continuous wave of sound, left her storm-tossed and weary. Fragments of concertos thundered through her tired brain. Mingled with a sonata, the piercing sweetness of a Berçeuse; the monotonous, but beautiful precision of an exercise, until her head hummed like the inside of a seashell, and her spirit felt as void. She envied Alexis his ability to throw off a mood at will. ”