It is all so strange and varied: the dark-skinned Italians ecstatic in
the night and the moon, the blue-eyed old woman ecstatic in the busy
sunshine, the monks in the garden below, who are supposed to unite both,
passing only in the neutrality of the average. Where, then, is the
meeting-point: where in mankind is the ecstasy of light and dark
together, the supreme transcendence of the afterglow, day hovering in
the embrace of the coming night like two angels embracing in the
heavens, like Eurydice in the arms of Orpheus, or Persephone embraced
by Pluto?
Where is the supreme ecstasy in mankind, which makes day a delight and
night a delight, purpose an ecstasy and a concourse in ecstasy, and
single abandon of the single body and soul also an ecstasy under the
moon? Where is the transcendent knowledge in our hearts, uniting sun and
darkness, day and night, spirit and senses? Why do we not know that the
two in consummation are one; that each is only part; partial and alone
for ever; but that the two in consummation are perfect, beyond the range
of loneliness or solitude?
_2_
THE LEMON GARDENS
The padrone came just as we were drinking coffee after dinner. It was
two o'clock, because the steamer going down the lake to Desenzano had
bustled through the sunshine, and the rocking of the water still made
lights that danced up and down upon the wall among the shadows by
the piano.
The signore was very apologetic. I found him bowing in the hall, cap in
one hand, a slip of paper in the other, protesting eagerly, in broken
French, against disturbing me.
He is a little, shrivelled man, with close-cropped grey hair on his
skull, and a protruding jaw, which, with his gesticulations, always
makes me think of an ancient, aristocratic monkey. The signore is a
gentleman, and the last, shrivelled representative of his race. His only
outstanding quality, according to the villagers, is his avarice.
_'Mais--mais, monsieur--je crains que--que--que je vous dérange--'_
He spreads wide his hands and bows, looking up at me with implicit brown
eyes, so ageless in his wrinkled, monkey's face, like onyx. He loves to
speak French, because then he feels grand. He has a queer, naïve,
ancient passion to be grand. As the remains of an impoverished family,
he is not much better than a well-to-do peasant. But the old spirit is
eager and pathetic in him.
He loves to speak French to me. He holds his chin and waits, in his
anxiety for the phrase to come. Then it stammers forth, a little rush,
ending in Italian. But his pride is all on edge: we must continue
in French.
The hall is cold, yet he will not come into the large room. This is not
a courtesy visit. He is not here in his quality of gentleman. He is only
an anxious villager.
'_Voyez, monsieur--cet--cet--qu'est-ce que--qu'est-ce que veut dire
cet--cela?_'
He shows me the paper. It is an old scrap of print, the picture of an
American patent door-spring, with directions: 'Fasten the spring either
end up. Wind it up. Never unwind.'
It is laconic and American. The signore watches me anxiously, waiting,
holding his chin. He is afraid he ought to understand my English. I
stutter off into French, confounded by the laconic phrases of the
directions. Nevertheless, I make it clear what the paper says.
He cannot believe me. It must say something else as well. He has not
done anything contrary to these directions. He is most distressed.
'_Mais, monsieur, la porte--la porte--elle ferme_ pas--_elle s'ouvre_--'
He skipped to the door and showed me the whole tragic mystery. The door,
it is shut--_ecco_! He releases the catch, and pouf!--she flies open.
She flies _open_. It is quite final.
The brown, expressionless, ageless eyes, that remind me of a monkey's,
or of onyx, wait for me. I feel the responsibility devolve upon me. I
am anxious.
'Allow me,' I said, 'to come and look at the door.'
I feel uncomfortably like Sherlock Holmes. The padrone protests--_non,
monsieur, non, cela vous dérange_--that he only wanted me to translate
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