do not love me! Andrea finally broke out, removing her hands from his temples and drawing back, because he already felt in his veins the insidious fire that those pupils exhaled even involuntarily, and he felt more piercingly the pain of having lost the material possession of the beautiful woman. âYou did not love me! You,
then,
had the courage to kill your love, suddenly, almost treacherously, while it was giving you its greatest elation. You fled from me, you abandoned me, you left me alone, dismayed, aching all over, dispirited, while I was still blinded by your promises. You did not love me, you do not love me! After such a long absence, full of mystery, mute and inexorable; after such a long wait, in which I wasted the best part of my life nurturing a sadness that was dear to me because it came from you; after so much happiness and after so much hardship, lo and behold, you come back to a place where everything holds such an intense memory for us, and you say to me sweetly: âI am no longer yours. Good-bye.â Ah, you do not love me!
âIngrate! Ingrate! exclaimed Elena, wounded by the young manâs almost irate voice. âWhat do you know about what happened, about what I suffered? What do you know?
âI donât know anything; I donât want to know anything, Andrea answered harshly, looking at her with a somewhat troubled gaze, at the base of which his exasperated desires glittered. âI know that you were mine, once, all of you, with unrestricted abandon, with unlimited voluptuousness, as no other woman has ever been; and I know that neither my spirit nor my flesh will ever forget that exhilaration . . .
âHush!
âWhat do I care about your sisterly pity? You, against your will, offer it to me with the eyes of a lover, touching me with unsure hands. Too many times have I seen your eyes close in ecstasy; too many times have your hands felt me shiver. I desire you.
Incited by his own words, he grasped her wrists tightly and brought his face so close to hers that she could feel his warm breath in her mouth.
âI desire you as I never have, he continued, trying to draw her to his kiss, enclosing her upper body with one arm. âRemember! Remember!
Elena stood up, pushing him away. She was trembling all over.
âI donât want to. Do you understand?
He did not understand. He came still closer, his arms stretched out to take her: extremely pale, resolute.
âCould you bearâshe cried with her voice slightly choked, unable to stand the violenceâcould you bear to share my body with others?
She had uttered that cruel question without thinking. Now, with her eyes wide open, she looked at her lover, anxious and almost dismayed, like one who in self-defense has struck a blow without gauging its strength, and fears that one has wounded too deeply.
Andreaâs ardor suddenly vanished. And on his face there appeared such deep pain that the woman felt a stab in her heart.
Andrea said, after an interval of silence:
âFarewell.
In that one word was the bitterness of all the other words he had choked back.
Elena answered gently:
âFarewell. Forgive me.
Both felt the need to conclude, for that evening, the dangerous conversation. The one assumed a form of external courtesy that was almost overstated. The other became even gentler, almost humble; and an incessant tremor shook her.
She picked up her mantle from the chair. Andrea helped her with a concerned air. When she could not find the sleeve with her arm, Andrea guided it, barely touching her; then he handed her her hat and veil.
âDo you wish to go into the other room, to the mirror?
âNo, thank you.
She went toward the wall, next to the fireplace, where a small antique mirror hung, with an ornate frame sculpted with figures in such an agile and candid style that it appeared to have been formed from some malleable gold rather than from wood. It was an exceedingly light thing,
then,
had the courage to kill your love, suddenly, almost treacherously, while it was giving you its greatest elation. You fled from me, you abandoned me, you left me alone, dismayed, aching all over, dispirited, while I was still blinded by your promises. You did not love me, you do not love me! After such a long absence, full of mystery, mute and inexorable; after such a long wait, in which I wasted the best part of my life nurturing a sadness that was dear to me because it came from you; after so much happiness and after so much hardship, lo and behold, you come back to a place where everything holds such an intense memory for us, and you say to me sweetly: âI am no longer yours. Good-bye.â Ah, you do not love me!
âIngrate! Ingrate! exclaimed Elena, wounded by the young manâs almost irate voice. âWhat do you know about what happened, about what I suffered? What do you know?
âI donât know anything; I donât want to know anything, Andrea answered harshly, looking at her with a somewhat troubled gaze, at the base of which his exasperated desires glittered. âI know that you were mine, once, all of you, with unrestricted abandon, with unlimited voluptuousness, as no other woman has ever been; and I know that neither my spirit nor my flesh will ever forget that exhilaration . . .
âHush!
âWhat do I care about your sisterly pity? You, against your will, offer it to me with the eyes of a lover, touching me with unsure hands. Too many times have I seen your eyes close in ecstasy; too many times have your hands felt me shiver. I desire you.
Incited by his own words, he grasped her wrists tightly and brought his face so close to hers that she could feel his warm breath in her mouth.
âI desire you as I never have, he continued, trying to draw her to his kiss, enclosing her upper body with one arm. âRemember! Remember!
Elena stood up, pushing him away. She was trembling all over.
âI donât want to. Do you understand?
He did not understand. He came still closer, his arms stretched out to take her: extremely pale, resolute.
âCould you bearâshe cried with her voice slightly choked, unable to stand the violenceâcould you bear to share my body with others?
She had uttered that cruel question without thinking. Now, with her eyes wide open, she looked at her lover, anxious and almost dismayed, like one who in self-defense has struck a blow without gauging its strength, and fears that one has wounded too deeply.
Andreaâs ardor suddenly vanished. And on his face there appeared such deep pain that the woman felt a stab in her heart.
Andrea said, after an interval of silence:
âFarewell.
In that one word was the bitterness of all the other words he had choked back.
Elena answered gently:
âFarewell. Forgive me.
Both felt the need to conclude, for that evening, the dangerous conversation. The one assumed a form of external courtesy that was almost overstated. The other became even gentler, almost humble; and an incessant tremor shook her.
She picked up her mantle from the chair. Andrea helped her with a concerned air. When she could not find the sleeve with her arm, Andrea guided it, barely touching her; then he handed her her hat and veil.
âDo you wish to go into the other room, to the mirror?
âNo, thank you.
She went toward the wall, next to the fireplace, where a small antique mirror hung, with an ornate frame sculpted with figures in such an agile and candid style that it appeared to have been formed from some malleable gold rather than from wood. It was an exceedingly light thing,
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