There are two ways, there is not only One. There are two opposite ways
to consummation. But that which relates them, like the base of the
triangle, this is the constant, the Absolute, this makes the Ultimate
Whole. And in the Holy Spirit I know the Two Ways, the Two Infinites,
the Two Consummations. And knowing the Two, I admit the Whole. But
excluding One, I exclude the Whole. And confusing the two, I make
nullity nihil.
'_Mais_,' said the Signore, starting from his scene of ignominy, where
his wife played with another man's child, '_mais--voulez-vous vous
promener dans mes petites terres?_'
It came out fluently, he was so much roused in self-defence and
self-assertion.
We walked under the pergola of bony vine-stocks, secure in the sunshine
within the walls, only the long mountain, parallel with us, looking in.
I said how I liked the big vine-garden, I asked when it ended. The pride
of the padrone came back with a click. He pointed me to the terrace, to
the great shut lemon-houses above. They were all his. But--he shrugged
his Italian shoulders--it was nothing, just a little garden, _vous
savez, monsieur_. I protested it was beautiful, that I loved it, and
that it seemed to me _very_ large indeed. He admitted that today,
perhaps, it was beautiful.
'_Perchè--parce que--il fait un tempo--così--très bell'--très beau,
ecco!_'
He alighted on the word _beau_ hurriedly, like a bird coming to ground
with a little bounce.
The terraces of the garden are held up to the sun, the sun falls full
upon them, they are like a vessel slanted up, to catch the superb, heavy
light. Within the walls we are remote, perfect, moving in heavy spring
sunshine, under the bony avenue of vines. The padrone makes little
exclamatory noises that mean nothing, and teaches me the names of
vegetables. The land is rich and black.
Opposite us, looking down on our security, is the long, arched mountain
of snow. We climbed one flight of steps, and we could see the little
villages on the opposite side of the lake. We climbed again, and could
see the water rippling.
We came to a great stone building that I had thought was a storehouse,
for open-air storage, because the walls are open halfway up, showing the
darkness inside and the corner pillar very white and square and distinct
in front of it.
Entering carelessly into the dimness, I started, for at my feet was a
great floor of water, clear and green in its obscurity, going down
between the walls, a reservoir in the gloom. The Signore laughed at my
surprise. It was for irrigating the land, he said. It stank, slightly,
with a raw smell; otherwise, I said, what a wonderful bath it would
make. The old Signore gave his little neighing laugh at the idea.
Then we climbed into a great loft of leaves, ruddy brown, stored in a
great bank under the roof, seeming to give off a little red heat, as
they gave off the lovely perfume of the hills. We passed through, and
stood at the foot of the lemon-house. The big, blind building rose high
in the sunshine before us.
All summer long, upon the mountain slopes steep by the lake, stands the
rows of naked pillars rising out of the green foliage like ruins of
temples: white, square pillars of masonry, standing forlorn in their
colonnades and squares, rising up the mountain-sides here and there, as
if they remained from some great race that had once worshipped here. And
still, in the winter, some are seen, standing away in lonely places
where the sun streams full, grey rows of pillars rising out of a broken
wall, tier above tier, naked to the sky, forsaken.
They are the lemon plantations, and the pillars are to support the heavy
branches of the trees, but finally to act as scaffolding of the great
wooden houses that stand blind and ugly, covering the lemon trees in
the winter.
In November, when cold winds came down and snow had fallen on the
mountains, from out of the storehouses the men were carrying timber, and
we heard the clang of falling planks. Then, as we walked along the
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