themselves, and his eyelashes sharp as needles!”
I had to intone:
“Give me to see!”
Renata spoke:
“Give me to hear his voice, sweet, like the bells of a tiny temple submerged beneath the waters!”
I had to intone:
“Give me to hear!”
Renata spoke:
“Give me to kiss his white hands, hands of mountain snow, and his lips, not vivid, but like rubies beneath a transparent bridal veil!”
I had to intone:
“Give me to kiss!”
Renata spoke:
“Give me to press my bared breasts to his breast, to feel how his heart slows, and then beats quickly, quickly, quickly!”
And I had to intone:
“Give me to press!”
Renata was tireless in the invention of more and more new praises for her litany, composing them like a monk his prayers, and surprising me with the elaborateness of her comparisons, like those of a meister in a contest of meistersingers. I had no power to resist the witchery of her appeals, and, deprived of will, I muttered the responses, that pierced my pride like thorns.
And then Renata, pressing herself against me, looking into my very eyes, asked me, seeking to torture herself with her questions:
“And tell me now, Rupprecht, is he not handsomer than all else? Is he not an angel? But I shall see him again? I shall caress him? And he me? If only once? Only once!”
And I answered in my despair:
“He is an angel. You will see him. You will caress him.”
The moon of yesterday rose into the skies and pointed the column of its light at Renata, and under the moonbeam the darkness of our room moved. The bluish light at once revived the previous night in my memory, and all that I had learned about Renata, and the resolves to which I had later pledged myself. With even measured tread like the march of well-drilled troops, there passed through my head such thoughts as these:
‘And what if this woman is once more mocking you? Yesterday she mocked, pretending the evil-doing of the Devil, and to-day she mocks, pretending the madness of sorrow. And in a few days, when you have been dropped like a fool, she will be making jest of you with another, and letting him make free with her, in the spirit of this morning.’
With these thoughts I became like a drunken man and, suddenly seizing Renata by the shoulders, I said to her, smiling:
“It is not fitting to give yourself to sorrow, pretty lady, shall we not turn now to a pastime gay and pleasant?”
Renata shrank back from me in fear, but I, bracing myself up with the thought that otherwise I might become ridiculous, drew her to me and bent over her, intending to kiss her.
Renata freed herself from my hands with the strength and agility of a forest cat and cried out to me:
“Rupprecht, the Devil inhabits you!”
But I replied to her:
“No devil is in me, but you think to play with me in vain, for I am not such a simpleton as you suppose!”
Again I seized her, and we began to wrestle, very hideously, and I gripped her fingers so strongly that they creaked, and she beat and scratched me furiously. At one time I had already felled her to the floor, feeling for her at that moment nothing but hatred, but she suddenly plunged her teeth into my hand and slipped out with a lizard-like twist. Then, sensing that I was the stronger, she bent all double, her head fell on her knees, and there happened to her that same fit of tears as yesterday. Seated thus on the floor—for I in confusion had let her drop—Renata wept in despair. Her hair fell around her face and her shoulders trembled pitifully.
At that moment an image rose in my imagination: a picture by the Florentine painter Sandro Filippepi, which I saw by chance at the house of some grandee in Rome. On the canvas was depicted a stone wall of crude blocks tightly wedged into one another; an arched entrance set in it was firmly barred by iron gates; and near it, on a ledge projecting forward, was seated an abandoned woman, dropping her head on her hands in the inconsolability of her sorrow. Her
I had to intone:
“Give me to see!”
Renata spoke:
“Give me to hear his voice, sweet, like the bells of a tiny temple submerged beneath the waters!”
I had to intone:
“Give me to hear!”
Renata spoke:
“Give me to kiss his white hands, hands of mountain snow, and his lips, not vivid, but like rubies beneath a transparent bridal veil!”
I had to intone:
“Give me to kiss!”
Renata spoke:
“Give me to press my bared breasts to his breast, to feel how his heart slows, and then beats quickly, quickly, quickly!”
And I had to intone:
“Give me to press!”
Renata was tireless in the invention of more and more new praises for her litany, composing them like a monk his prayers, and surprising me with the elaborateness of her comparisons, like those of a meister in a contest of meistersingers. I had no power to resist the witchery of her appeals, and, deprived of will, I muttered the responses, that pierced my pride like thorns.
And then Renata, pressing herself against me, looking into my very eyes, asked me, seeking to torture herself with her questions:
“And tell me now, Rupprecht, is he not handsomer than all else? Is he not an angel? But I shall see him again? I shall caress him? And he me? If only once? Only once!”
And I answered in my despair:
“He is an angel. You will see him. You will caress him.”
The moon of yesterday rose into the skies and pointed the column of its light at Renata, and under the moonbeam the darkness of our room moved. The bluish light at once revived the previous night in my memory, and all that I had learned about Renata, and the resolves to which I had later pledged myself. With even measured tread like the march of well-drilled troops, there passed through my head such thoughts as these:
‘And what if this woman is once more mocking you? Yesterday she mocked, pretending the evil-doing of the Devil, and to-day she mocks, pretending the madness of sorrow. And in a few days, when you have been dropped like a fool, she will be making jest of you with another, and letting him make free with her, in the spirit of this morning.’
With these thoughts I became like a drunken man and, suddenly seizing Renata by the shoulders, I said to her, smiling:
“It is not fitting to give yourself to sorrow, pretty lady, shall we not turn now to a pastime gay and pleasant?”
Renata shrank back from me in fear, but I, bracing myself up with the thought that otherwise I might become ridiculous, drew her to me and bent over her, intending to kiss her.
Renata freed herself from my hands with the strength and agility of a forest cat and cried out to me:
“Rupprecht, the Devil inhabits you!”
But I replied to her:
“No devil is in me, but you think to play with me in vain, for I am not such a simpleton as you suppose!”
Again I seized her, and we began to wrestle, very hideously, and I gripped her fingers so strongly that they creaked, and she beat and scratched me furiously. At one time I had already felled her to the floor, feeling for her at that moment nothing but hatred, but she suddenly plunged her teeth into my hand and slipped out with a lizard-like twist. Then, sensing that I was the stronger, she bent all double, her head fell on her knees, and there happened to her that same fit of tears as yesterday. Seated thus on the floor—for I in confusion had let her drop—Renata wept in despair. Her hair fell around her face and her shoulders trembled pitifully.
At that moment an image rose in my imagination: a picture by the Florentine painter Sandro Filippepi, which I saw by chance at the house of some grandee in Rome. On the canvas was depicted a stone wall of crude blocks tightly wedged into one another; an arched entrance set in it was firmly barred by iron gates; and near it, on a ledge projecting forward, was seated an abandoned woman, dropping her head on her hands in the inconsolability of her sorrow. Her
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