The gondola entered a canal enclosed between two green shores, which reached the line of vision so precisely that the numerous reeds were perceptible, the newer ones discernible by their paler tint. From the fulness of her soul, and the abundance of her nature, La Foscarina sought everywhere for living things to love; her glance became child-like once more, and all things were reflected in it as in the peaceful water, and some seemed to reappear from the distant past, like apparitions.
When the gondola touched the shore, she was surprised at having arrived.
"Do you wish to land, or do you prefer to go back?" asked Stelio, coming out of his reverie.
For a moment she hesitated, because her hand lay in his, and to move would have meant a lessening of sweetness.
"Yes," at last she said, with a smile. "Let us walk on this grass a little while."
They landed on the Island of San Francesco. A few slender young cypress shrubs greeted them timidly. Not a human face was to be seen. The invisible myriad filled the desert with their canticle of praise. The mists rose in clouds near the sunset hour.
"How many times we have walked together on the grass, have we not, Stelio?"
"But now comes the steep rock," he replied.
"Let the rock come, no matter how steep and rough it may be," said La Foscarina.
Stelio was surprised at the unusual gayety in his companion's voice. He looked at her, and saw a sort of intoxicated joy deep in her beautiful eyes.
"Why do we feel so joyous and free on this lonely island?"
"And do you know the reason why?"
"To others, this is a melancholy pilgrimage. Most persons, when they come to this place, leave it with the taste of death on their lips."
"But we are in a state of grace," said La Foscarina.
"The more we hope, the more we live," was the reply.
"And the more we love, the more we hope."
The rhythm of the aerial song continued, drawing from them their ideal essences.
"How beautiful you are!" said Stelio.
A sudden flush flowed over that impassioned face. She was silent, but her breath came quick, and she half-closed her eyes.
"A warm current of air is passing," she said in a half whisper. "Did you not feel on the water an occasional breath of warmer air?"
She drew deep breaths.
"There is an odor like that of new-mown hay. Don't you detect it?"
"That is the odor that comes from the banks of seaweed that are beginning to be uncovered."
"See how beautiful the country is!"
"That is Le Vignole. Down there is the Lido. And over there is the Island of Sant' Erasmo."
The sun had now thrown aside its veil and was showering gold upon the estuary. The damp banks emerging from the fog suggested the opening of flowers. The shadows of the slender cypresses began to grow longer and of a deeper blue.
"I am certain," said La Foscarina, "that almond trees are in blossom somewhere near. Let us go on the dyke."
She shook her head, tossing back her hair with one of those instinctive movements that seemed to break a bond or to free her of some fetter.
"Wait!"
And quickly withdrawing from her hat two large pins that held it in place, she uncovered her head. She turned back to the landing and tossed the sparkling hat into the gondola; then she rejoined her friend, running her fingers lightly through the waves of her hair, through which the air passed, while the sun shone on it warmly. She seemed to feel relieved, as if she breathed more freely.
"Did the wings hurt?" Stelio asked with a laugh.
And he regarded the ripples, roughened not by the comb but by the wind.
"Yes, the least weight annoys me. If I should not appear eccentric, I should always go without a hat. But when I see the trees I cannot resist my impulses. My hair remembers that it was born wild and free, and it wishes to breathe in its natural way—in the desert, at least."
Frank and gay in her manner, she glided over the grass with her graceful, swaying movement. And Stelio recalled the day when, in the Gradenigo garden, she had appeared to his eyes like the beautiful tawny greyhound.
"Oh, here comes a Capuchin!"
The friar-guardian approached them, and greeted them with affability. He offered to conduct Stelio within the walls of the monastery, but said that the rules forbade the admission of his companion.
"Shall I go in?" said Stelio, with a look at La Foscarina, who was smiling.
"Yes, go."
"But you will be all alone."
"Never mind; I will stay here alone."
"I will bring you a bit from the sacred pine."
He followed the friar under the portico with a raftered roof, whence hung the empty swallows' nests. Before he crossed the threshold, he turned once more to wave his hand at his friend. Then the door closed after him.
O BEATA SOLITUDO!
O SOLA BEATITUDO!
Then, as a change in the stops of an organ changes its whole tone, the woman's thoughts were suddenly transfigured. The horror of absence, to her the worst of all evils, bore down upon her loving soul. Her beloved was no longer there; she no longer heard his voice, felt his breath, touched his firm and gentle hand. She no longer saw him live; she could no longer realize that the air, the lights and shadows, all the life of the world, harmonized itself with his life!—Suppose that door never should open again—that he never should return to me!—No, that could not be. He would surely cross that threshold again in a few minutes, and once more she would receive him into her eyes and into her very soul. But alas! in a few days, would he not thus disappear again, as he had disappeared now? And first the field, then the mountain, then other fields and mountains and rivers, then the strait and the ocean, the infinite space that neither tears nor cries can cross, would they not come between her and that brow, those eyes, those lips? The image of the far-off brutal city black with coal and bristling with arms, filled the peaceful island; the crash of hammers, the grinding of wheels, the puffing of engines, the immense groaning of iron, drowned the melody of the springtime. And with each of these simple things—with the grass, the sands, the brooks, the seaweed, that soft feather floating downward, perhaps from the breast of a songbird—was contrasted the vision of streets overflowing with the human torrent, houses with thousands of deformed eyes, full of fevers that are enemies to sleep, theaters filled with the restlessness or the stupor of men who yield one hour to relaxation from the ferocious battle for lucre. And still, as in a vision, she saw again her own face and her name on walls contaminated by the leprosy of posters, on boards carried by stupid bearers, on gigantic bridges of factories, on the doors of public vehicles, here, there, and everywhere.
"Look! Look at this! A branch of flowering almond! There is an almond tree in bloom in the monastery garden, in the second cloister, near the sacred pine! And you could detect the odor!"
Stelio ran toward her, joyous as a child, followed by the Capuchin, who bore a bouquet of fragrant thyme.
"Look! Take it. See what a wonderful thing it is!"
She took the branch, trembling, and her eyes were bright with tears.
"And you knew it was blooming!" said Stelio.
He perceived the glittering silvery drops in her eyes, which made them look like the petals of a flower. And at that instant, of all her adored person, he loved most blindly the delicate lines that went from the corners of her eyes to her temples, the tiny veins that made her eyelids look like violets, the sweet curve of her cheek, the tapering chin, and all that never would bloom again, all the shadows of that impassioned face.
"Ah, Father," said she, with a bright glance, repressing her sadness, "will not Christ's Poor Man weep again in heaven for this broken branch?"
The friar smiled with playful indulgence.
"When this good gentleman saw our tree," he replied, "he gave me no time to speak, but had the branch in his hand in a moment, and I could only say Amen. But the almond tree is rich."
He was placid and affable, with a crown of hair still nearly black, with a refined, olive-skinned face, and great tawny eyes, as clear as a topaz.
"Here is some savory thyme," he added, offering the herbs to La Foscarina.
They could hear a choir of youthful voices singing a Response.
"Those are our novices; we have fifteen with us."
He accompanied the visitors to the meadow behind the convent. Standing on a bank, at the foot of a blasted cypress, the good monk pointed to the fertile isles, praised their abundance, mentioned their varieties of fruit, lauded the more delightful according to the seasons, and directed their attention toward the boats sailing toward the Rialto with their new harvest.
"Praise to Thee, O Lord, for our Mother Earth!" said the woman with the flowering branch.
The Franciscan was susceptible to the beauty of that feminine voice, and was silent.
Lofty cypresses encircled the pious field; four of them showed the marks of lightning strokes. Their tops were motionless, and were the only sharp outlines in the level of the meadows, and waters that blended with the horizon. Not the slightest breeze now stirred the infinite mirror. A profound enchantment like an ecstasy filled the lovely place with rapture. The melody of the winged creatures still continued to float from invisible regions, but it, too, seemed to begin to flag and soften in this silent sanctuary.
"At this hour, on the hills of Umbria," said he that had despoiled the flowering almond of the cloister, "every olive-tree has at its base, like a covering that is shed, a heap of its cut branches; and the tree seems more beautiful because the heap of branches hides its rugged root............