苏比亚科位于蒂沃利之外，罗马东南部，位于萨姆尼特山脉野生峡谷的上游。它是一个大主教辖区，并授予红衣主教头衔，仅凭这一点就足以使其成为一个重要的城镇。它与卡西诺山一样有幸被圣本尼迪克特和​​他的妹妹圣斯科拉斯蒂卡选为修道院和女修道院的所在地；在岩石的一个牢房中，一幅圣人的肖像仍然保存完好，尽管圣本笃早在五世纪初去世，但人们相信这幅画是根据真人画的，这并非没有道理。城镇本身在一大片岩石上突然升起，形状几乎呈圆锥形，顶部是红衣主教的宫殿，三面被崎岖的山脉包围。在第三处，它俯瞰维科瓦罗方向迅速扩大的山谷，在维科瓦罗附近，利森扎河与霍勒斯农场附近的阿尼奥河交汇。这是一个非常古老的城镇，从总体外观来看，它与意大利山区的许多类似城镇没有太大区别。但它的地位非常好，它的重要性是由那些自古罗马时代以来就认为它值得持有的人的手所烙印的。当然，最近它已经获得了一定的现代性。它的小广场上种植了金合欢树，还有一支华丽的市政乐队。但从远处看，人们既听不到乐队的演奏，也看不到树木，严峻的中世纪防御工事在山谷中皱起眉头，那些大大小小的历经岁月洗礼的住宅，在浅棕色的岩石背景和绿色的背景下，凹凸不平地矗立着。分散的橄榄树林和栗子。至少这些特征没有改变，并且在未来几代人中也没有表现出改变的倾向。

1844 年，现代文明还没有到来，苏比亚科从外部看来仍然是一个有点阴暗的中世纪要塞，城垛和塔楼矗立在山上阴暗的峡谷中。洪流，居住着原始而热情的人们，由教会机构主导，虽然明显是罗马式的，但在所有伦理和审美方面都落后罗马本身数百年。这里仍然是圣克罗切谋杀案的现场，真正决定了比阿特丽斯·森西的命运；它仍然是强盗和亡命之徒的聚集地，他们的活动在萨姆尼特山脉和大海之间的所有丘陵和平原地区找到了令人惊叹的场地，而在更高的山脉上几乎难以到达的堡垒，朝向特雷维和塞拉迪桑特安东尼奥提供了一个安全的避难所，让他免受教皇格雷戈里懒惰士兵半心半意的追击。

早期人们所谓的生死攸关的真诚，当时以激情为动机，以偏见为法则，在当时甚至更晚的时候仍然存在。实际的爱与恨的残酷主导了小城镇公共生活中正义的理论和实践，而父权制度使家庭几乎处于绝对奴役的地位。

布拉奇奥家族的族长强迫他的一个女儿在苏比亚科大门内的加尔默罗修女修道院戴上面纱，就像他的妹妹多年前戴过的那样，这一事实并不令人惊讶。 。事实上，在赫拉诺亲王家族中，有一个惯例，其中一位妇女应该是加尔默罗会的成员，而且这一传统并非无人关注，这对姐妹会来说具有世俗的优势，即布拉奇奥修女，无论何时，只要有一位修女，就应该是那个修道院的女院长。

因此，尽管非常不情愿，玛丽亚·特蕾莎·布拉奇奥还是屈服于她父亲的坚持，并通过了见习期，最终于 1841 年戴上了苏比亚科加尔默罗会的面纱，因为她清楚地认识到，当她的姨妈去世时，她将成为苏比亚科的加尔默罗会修士。代替老太太当女院长。事实上，女修道院院长本人身体状况极好，而且还不到五十岁，因此玛丽亚·特蕾莎——宗教上的玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔——可能要等很长时间才能获得她认为是世袭的荣誉。但升职的前景几乎是她对她所留下的一切的唯一补偿，她以此为生，将自己的性格集中于此，练习她要扮演的角色，当她确信自己不会被人注意到时。

大自然并没有让她成为隐士，尤其是像加尔默罗会这样严格的修女。在最终戴上面纱之前，按照古老的传统，她被允许享受辉煌的社交生活的短暂体验，这已经足够清楚地向她展示了她将要放弃的东西的价值，同时也完全证实了她父亲的决定。与现在的自由相比，当时的罗马社会对年轻女孩的限制当然是残酷到了极点，一般的现代年轻女士几乎愿意进入修道院，也愿意服从。他们。但玛丽亚·特蕾莎给她留下的印象是任何东西都无法抹去的。她的直觉本性预见了婚姻可能的半解放，她的性情在某种程度上感受到了欢乐的兴奋和令人着迷的悲伤的极端，这是爱情的预感，它告诉少女在认识他之前爱情是什么。让他们意识到他尚未空置的住所的宽度和深度。

在那短暂的时间里，她认识到自己是美丽的，她觉得自己可以爱，也应该被爱作为回报。她以公主的身份看世界，以女人的身份感受世界，她明白在戴上面纱时必须放弃的一切。但她别无选择，虽然想过反对，却不敢反抗。据她所知，她完全处于父母的权力之下，她已经接受了他们意志的宿命，并低下她那美丽的头颅，让她的光辉被剥夺，她宽阔的额头永远被男人的目光所遮盖。屈服之后，她勇敢而自豪地经历了这一切，也许她会经历其他事情，甚至死亡本身，作为一个古老种族的女儿，习惯于神化荣誉并将其视为传统的神。在她的余生中，她将生活在短暂而辉煌的一年的记忆中，永远满足于在一座被阴沉的群山环绕的古老修道院里过着严酷的世俗生活。她将成为蒙蔽阴影中的蒙蔽阴影，悲伤处女中的悲伤女祭司。虽然，如果她活得足够长，她将成为他们的首领和统治者，但她的优越感只会让她更加荒凉，直到她自己的影子和其他人一样，被纳入永恒的黑暗之中。

玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女享有某些特权，她的同伴们会为此付出很多，但传统上这些特权是布拉乔家族中戴面纱的女士们的权利。例如，她有一间牢房，虽然不比其他牢房大，但位置更好，因为它有一个小阳台，可以俯瞰修道院花园，而且足够高，可以看到远处的山谷和周围的山丘。它，在花园围墙之外。它是从里面走廊的最后一扇门进入的，靠近女院长的公寓，从走廊进入，通过一个小前厅，也可以进入巨大的亚麻压榨机。阳台也有一个小楼梯通向花园。按照惯例，将亚麻布从玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔的牢房运进或运出洗衣房，然后穿过花园墙上的后门，洗涤工作在镇上进行。通过这个计划，避免了搬运巨大的篮子穿过整个修道院，进出主入口的麻烦，主入口距离首席洗衣女工索拉南纳的房子也很远。此外，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔还负责所有修道院的布草，因此为她提供的工作本身无疑是一种特权，因为在这样的存在中，任何非虔诚的职业都极其稀缺。

在其他修女看来，能经常与女修道院院长交往也是一种特权，无论如何都不容轻视。毕竟，女院长和她的侄女关系密切，他们可以谈论他们的家庭事务，女院长无疑收到了许多来自罗马的信件，其中包含当天所有有趣的新闻和所有社会八卦——完全无辜，当然——这是罗马生活的编年史。这些都是很有价值的补偿，修女们都很羡慕。八月和九月，当这位王子高级主教从罗马出来避暑时，女院长也见到了她的兄弟，苏比亚科的大主教和名义红衣主教，据说他的谈话不仅有启发性，而且令人着迷。红衣主教是一个非常好的人，就像布拉乔家族的许多人一样，但他也是一个见多识广的人，曾被派往国外执行重要任务，并在过程中获得了一些世俗的声誉和教会的尊严。他漫长的一生。修女们想，作为他的妹妹，接受他的长期拜访，并听到他讲述罗马繁忙的世界，这一定是令人高兴的。对于他们中的大多数人来说，罗马以外的一切都是外部的黑暗。

尽管修女们羡慕女修道院院长和玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔，但她们不敢这么说，也几乎不敢这么想，即使她们独自一人在她的牢房里；她们也不敢这么想。因为在没有任何真正有罪的情况下，修道院生活的集中放大了精神上的小罪过，承认她甚至微弱地希望自己可能成为其他人，就是玷污了修女一丝不苟的良心的光辉。也许，这就像在特别虔诚的时候让注意力分散到世俗事务一样严重。尽管如此，嫉妒还是明显地表现出来了，而且非常违背姐妹们自己的意愿，对这位年轻美丽的修女表现出某种冷漠的尊重，因为她的环境使她有一天成为了她们中的佼佼者。不值得任何赞扬。她在她们中间有着这样的地位，在她太后的宫廷贵妇们中间，她就像一位年轻的皇家公主，有着某种孤立的地位。

她身上也有一种无法定义的东西，就像未来命运的阴影，一种几乎无法描述的东西，但对于所有见过她并与她生活在一起的人来说，却是明显可欣赏的。尤其是当她沉默寡言、心不在焉的时候，当她跪在唱诗班的位置上，或者独自一人在花园上方的小阳台上时，这种感觉就会降临在她身上。在这种时候，一种明亮的苍白逐渐取代了她清新健康的肤色，她的眼睛变得不自然的黑色，里面闪烁着深深的、固定的火焰，而规整的五官呈现出死亡面具般的白色、笔直。有时，在这样的时刻，即使是在夏天，她也会感到一阵颤抖，她会急促地呼吸一两次，仿佛受伤了。这种表情并不是一种痛苦或痛苦，而是一种意识到某种巨大危险的人的表情，必须毫不畏惧或退缩地应对这种危险。

她很难解释自己当时的感受。她可能会说这是一种未知的意识。她不能再说更多了。它没有带来任何美好或恐怖的景象。它不是像催眠状态那样有条不紊地沉思的结果；然后就没有任何反应，也没有任何不安的感觉。它只是来了又去，就像雷雨云的黑影从她和太阳之间掠过，没有留下任何痕迹。

没有什么可以解释它，除非可以用遗传来解释，而且从来没有人向玛丽亚提出过这样的解释。确实，在以前还没有王子、公爵等头衔之前，布拉奇奥家族自从第一次超越同时代人成为罗马男爵以来，发生过不止一次悲剧。但是，大多数古老的家族都可以讲述玛丽亚种族记忆中的残酷行为和充满激情的生活，而意大利人虽然以意想不到的方式迷信，但对遗传命运的信仰却很少，这在阴暗的北方很常见。 。

“玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女在成为修女之前是一个大罪人吗？”有一天，当他们离开修道院时，索拉·南娜的女儿安妮塔问她的母亲。

“你在说什么！”洗衣妇用责备的语气喊道。 “她是一位伟大的女士，是女院长和红衣主教的侄女。有时某些想法会闪过你的脑海，我的女儿！”

空南娜打着手势，无法表达自己的意思。

“然后她就犯了罪，”安妮塔平静地说道。 “但你甚至看都不看她——这么多的床单——这么多的枕套——祝你美好的一天！但当你数数的时候，我却在观察。”

“我为什么要看着她？”南娜一边问道，一边移动头上顶着的大空篮子，宽阔的肩膀搭在肩上，皱起皮革般的前额，小眼睛向上翻着。 “你以为我是个男人，竟然敢对一个修女眨眼睛吗？”

“和我？我是男人吗？但我还是看着她。当我们在那里时，我除了她的脸什么也看不见，事后我会想起这件事。有什么危害呢？她的罪孽在她的喉咙里。我知道这。”

空南娜再次不耐烦地耸起肩膀，一言不发。两个女人沿着陡峭狭窄的街道走下去，街道又滑又湿，粘稠的煤黑色泥浆在粗糙的鹅卵石上闪闪发光。南娜走在前面，安妮塔紧随其后，保持着步伐，把脚准确地放在她母亲走过的地方，带着天生登山运动员的本能确定性。她们昂着头，挺着肩膀，一手放在臀部，另一只手垂下来，迅速而安全地搬运着自己的重物，步态摇摆不定，仿佛移动起来很愉快，而且需要费力。停下来而不是永远走下去。他们穿鞋子是因为他们是有钱人，并且在去修道院时选择表明自己是有钱人。但其余的时间，他们都穿着附近的服装——粗糙的白色连衣裙，靠近喉咙，猩红色的紧身胸衣，短的深色褶皱裙子，深蓝色的地毯围裙，白色的裙子上织着花朵。条纹穿过下端。两人都戴着沉重的金耳环，索拉南娜的喉咙上挂着八到十串大珊瑚珠。

安妮塔才十五岁，皮肤黝黑，身材苗条，像蜥蜴一样活跃。她是那些完全不守规矩、难以驯服的女孩之一，在意大利的每个村庄里，无论是山区还是平原，都有两三个这样的女孩，在她身上，一种活生生的自然意识取代了思想，与她一起意识是一种生物。说话，没有理由，没有犹豫。黑色的小而敏锐的眼睛位于巨大的拱形黑色眉毛下，使眼睛本身看起来比实际更大，突出的太阳穴在脸颊上投下阴影，掩盖了粗糙的下眼睑的基本造型。耳朵扁平且不发达，但靠近头部且不大；牙齿很短，但非常规则且非常白；嘴唇长而灵活，呈棕色而不是红色，通常像野生动物一样分开。女孩光滑有力的喉咙随着每一步而移动，显示出弹力带和肌肉的快速发挥。她蓝黑色的头发编成辫子，虽然不太整齐，辫子扭成不规则的扁平线圈，通常被交叉折叠在头上并垂在后面的白色绣花布的襟翼隐藏起来。

母女俩继续沿着上村黑暗房屋之间蜿蜒的小巷行走了几分钟。然后索拉·南娜伸出右手，示意安妮塔停下来，她站在陡峭的下坡上，小心地转身，直到看到女孩。

“你在说什么？”她开口说道，好像谈话没有停顿。 “玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女喉咙里有罪！但她怎么能在喉咙里犯罪呢，因为她除了园丁和牧师之外没有看到任何人呢？确实，你说的是蠢话！”

“那这有什么关系呢？”安内塔问道。 “她一定在罗马见够了男人，他们每个人都是伟大的领主。谁告诉你她不爱他们中的一个，也不希望自己嫁给他？如果这不是喉咙里的罪恶，我不知道该说什么。这就是我的答案。”

“你说的是愚蠢的话，”索拉·南纳重复道。

然后她故意转过身去，再次开始下降，肩膀偶尔不满地运动一下。

“至于其他的，”安妮塔说，“这不关我的事。我宁愿看英国人吃肉，也不愿看玛丽亚修女数衣服！我不知道他是狼还是人。”

“呃！英国人！”索拉·南娜惊呼道。 “你会如此看重英国人，以至于你会与吉吉托流血，吉吉托祝你一切顺利，当吉吉托在森林的角落里等待英国人时，我们会得到什么呢？厨房。你在英国人身上看到了什么？他有一头红头发和长长的牙齿。是的——就像狼一样。你是对的。如果他付钱买肉，为什么他不应该吃呢？如果他不付钱，那就不一样了。很快就会完成。上帝在没有英国人的情况下给我们一点钱！而且，吉盖托那天还说会在森林的拐角处等他。而吉吉托，当他说一件事时，他就会做到。”

“如果吉吉托在等英国人，我们为什么要去厨房呢？”安内塔问道。

“愚蠢的！”老妇人喊道。 “因为吉盖托会拿走你父亲的枪，因为他自己没有枪。这就足够了。我们应该这么做的！”

安内塔耸耸肩，什么也没说。

“但是要小心，”索拉·南纳继续说道。 “你父亲睡觉时睁着一只眼睛。他每天都看到你，也看到那个英国人。他什么也没说，因为他很好。但他有一个像铺路石一样的拳头。我什么也不告诉你了。”

他们到达了索拉·南娜的家，消失在黑暗的拱门下。对于索拉·南纳和她的丈夫斯特凡诺来说，他们的住所都是有钱人，他们的房子很大，建有一个足够宽和高的拱门，足以让一头驮着驮着的牲口通过。而且，里面的所有东西都干净且保存完好，除了属于安妮塔的所有东西。楼上的房间通风良好，地板是红砖或打过的水泥，铺着打扫得很干净的地板，铁支架上有高床，破旧的棕色橡木凳子，桌子漆成鲜艳的绿色，还有原始的圣本笃石版画。以及圣斯科拉斯蒂卡和阿多洛拉塔。还有一些阁楼，秋天丰收的葡萄被挂在绳子上晾干，栗子堆成堆，无花果对称地铺在苏比亚科制造的大张粗糙的灰色纸上。还有苹果，虽然质量很差，还有一箱箱的玉米和小麦，等待着被采摘，然后在原始的家用磨坊里磨碎。架子上还有火腿、培根、红辣椒、成捆的干香草和美味的山奶酪。还有一间比其他房间更好的客房，斯蒂芬诺和他的妻子偶尔会把它租给受人尊敬的旅行者或从罗马来苏比亚科出差的商人。目前，这个房间是安妮塔和她母亲之间发生过讨论的那个英国人租的。

医学博士安格斯·达尔林普尔 (Angus Dalrymple) 并不是英国人，他曾试图向索拉·南纳 (Sora Nanna) 解释这一点，但没有成功。正如他的名字所宣称的那样，他是苏格兰人中的苏格兰人，也是一名医学博士。确实，他有一头红发，而且很浓密，还有长长的白牙，但索拉·南纳的描述在其他方面是诽谤性的不完整，完全省略了所有关于他外表优点的提及。首先，他拥有高度发达的民族体格特征，以及在世界上完成了如此多艰苦工作的所有精瘦、骨感能量。他肩宽、臂长、腿长、胸深、笔直，双手有力，手指形状奇特。他健康的皮肤呈现出由无数雀斑在近乎孩童般的肤色上形成的斑驳外观。庄重的大嘴一般掩盖了空南那不喜欢的长牙，嘴唇虽然平而窄，但不薄却坚挺，罕见的笑容既和蔼又温柔。嘴角有一些皱纹，但还很淡，显示出一种紧张而热情的性格，苏格兰人的强烈脾气，以及北方人种特有的某种敏感。蓬松的赤褐色眉毛下有一双苍白但非常明亮的蓝眼睛，充满勇气和敏锐的进取心。达尔林普尔在任何情况下，无论是智力上还是身体上，都绝对不是一个值得轻视的人。

他出现在苏比亚科这样的地方，当时除了画家之外几乎没有外国人到访这个地方，需要一些解释；因为他不是艺术家，而是医生，甚至从来没有想过用素描来消遣。首先，他是一个好家庭的小儿子，并领取适度的津贴，这在当时足以让他在老式的意大利有相当大的支出自由。其次，他完全拒绝从事任何被称为“自由派”的职业。他对法律没有兴趣，也没有友善的性格，只有这种性格才能使和平时期的军队生活变得愉快。他的信仰，或者说他的不信仰，加上光荣的良心，使他自然而然地反对所有的教会。另一方面，他几乎从童年起就被科学学科所吸引，在那个时期，过去五十年的发现对科学家来说似乎是朦胧但美好的愿景。令他的家人失望的是，在某种程度上也让他的家人感到羞辱的是，他一获得剑桥大学的普通学位，就坚持去圣安德鲁大学学习医学。一旦坚持，就没有什么可以改变他的目标，因为他拥有英国人的坚韧与苏格兰人的独创性，以及两个种族的大量力量。

当他还是一名学生时，他就曾去意大利旅游过一次，和许多北方人一样，他从一开始就被南方的神秘魅力所吸引。正如前面所说，他有足够的津贴来满足他的所有需要​​，并且被他职业的纯粹科学方面所吸引，而不是被成为一名成功的从业者的任何愿望所吸引，很自然地，当发现自己可以自由地去他想去的地方时为了追求知识，他应该再次访问意大利。第三次访问使他确信自己应该在乡下待上几年。因为那时他对疟疾热病的研究产生了浓厚的兴趣，而这在当时是完全被误解的。如果说年轻的达尔林普尔当时已经形成了有关疟疾的完整理论，那就太过分了。但他天生的孤独和集中的智力轻蔑地抛弃了对疟疾现象的所有解释，并且，在他拥有自己观点的证据之前，他没有向任何人传达自己的想法，他实际上已经掌握了真理的开端关于细菌，从此彻底改变了医学。

这段简短的题外话的唯一目的是表明安格斯·达尔林普尔在意大利并不是一个粗心的游手好闲者和游客，他只对他所做的事情承担一半责任，而对他的想法则完全不负责。相反，他是一个具有非同寻常的天赋、受过高等教育、以及罕见的进取心的人。一个坚强、沉默、深思熟虑的男人，大约八岁到二十岁，当他来到苏比亚科度过秋天并租用索拉·南纳的客房时，他刚刚开始感受到自己的力量比他想象的更伟大外面有一个小房间，他一直锁着，里面有一张桌子、一把椅子、一台显微镜、一些书、一些化学品和一些简单的仪器。

他的出现起初引起了镇医生托马索·塔代修女（Sor Tommaso Taddei）心中的某种嫉妒和疑虑，他通常被简单地称为“医生”，因为没有其他人了。但达尔林普尔并非缺乏机智和对人性的了解。他解释说，他作为外国人来到意大利是为了向当地医生学习如何治疗意大利的疟疾发烧。他耐心而智慧地聆听托马索修士过时的理论，并默默地观察他更加过时的实践。托马索修女，像所有自认为知识渊博的人一样，高度赞赏达尔林普尔顺从的沉默，并说这个年轻人是谦虚的奇迹，如果他能在苏比亚科待大约十年并从中学到一些东西托马索本人，有一天他可能真的成为一名相当不错的医生，这是老医生非常自由的承认，并且在很大程度上有助于让斯特凡诺对他的房客的性格放心。

因为斯特凡诺和他的妻子有他们的疑虑和怀疑。他们当然知道，除了法国人和奥地利人之外，所有外国人都是新教徒，在斋戒日吃肉，​​并受到魔鬼最特殊的保护，魔鬼在这个世界把他们养肥，以便他们在下一个世界燃烧得更好。但斯特凡诺从未近距离见过真正的外国人，也没有想到任何活着的人一天之内可以吃掉这么多半生不熟的肉，就像达尔林普尔想要的每日份量一样，付了钱，吃掉了。此外，在苏比亚科，没有人能够而且确实吞下了如此猛烈的山酒，而没有受到他的药剂的任何明显影响。而且，达尔林普尔在卧室旁边布置的小实验室里，日夜做着奇怪的事情，不时从门缝里散发出不洁邪恶的气味，从卧室渗透到外面的楼梯上，整个房子都清晰可见。因此，斯特凡诺在很长一段时间里坚持认为，他的房客与黑暗势力勾结，把他留在房子里并不安全，尽管他每周六定期支付账单，而且从不为价格争吵。他的食物和饮料。然而，总的来说，斯特凡诺内没有像最初那样进行干涉，而是在教区牧师的支持下进入了实验室，手里拿着一盆圣水和一把上膛的枪——他携带的这三样东西都是他的。被认为是驱魔所必需的；医生托马索修女渐渐地说服了他，达尔林普尔是一位值得尊敬的年轻人，深入研究深奥的知识，应该受到尊重而不是被驱除。

“当然，”医生承认，“他是新教徒。但他有护照。因此，让我们别打扰他吧。”

在单纯的斯特凡诺看来，护照的存在——在当时是不可或缺的——是一个强有力的论据。他无法想象，一个灵魂被卖给魔鬼的魔法师，竟然还能拥有护照，受到法律的保护。于是事情就这么解决了。

玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女坐在开着的牢房门旁，目光越过小阳台的石栏杆，看着西方天空不断变化的丰富色彩，太阳渐渐落到山后看不见的地方。虽然是十月，但午后却很暖和。祝福仪式刚刚结束时，四周一片寂静，唱诗班里的空气也很凝重。她靠在椅子上，嘴唇张开，呼吸着，明显渴望呼吸中的清爽。她那双白皙厚重的手里拿着一件针线活。针已经穿过亚麻布，但针迹尚未完成，一根手指将双边压在另一根边缘上，以免在她决定将针穿过之前，布料滑落。阳台下的花园深处，迟来的花朵从头顶明亮的天空中汲取了奇异的鲜艳色彩，对面墙顶上的砂浆里粘着一些碎玻璃，以防男孩偷窃，它们闪闪发光，像一盏灯。粗糙的红宝石线条映衬着朦胧的远方。就连牢房的白色墙壁和小床脚上铺着的粗糙的灰色毯子也染上了一点颜色，看起来不那么灰暗了。

燕子从敞开的门上方高高的屋檐上飞下来，飞入金色的光芒中，它们划着大圈，从胸前反射出天空的红金色，它们稳健地张开翅膀，向上和向下飞过墙外。向下;每一个都全速转动，再次向上撞击，瞬间消失在门楣上方。修女看着他们，她的眼睛试图依次追随他们每个人，并在他们一次又一次地闪现时分别认出他们。

她的嘴唇张开，坐在那里，她开始无意识地轻柔地唱歌。她无法说出这首歌是什么。这些词很奇怪，而且分割得很奇怪，在某个间隔里有一种致命的悲伤，几乎每一个五线谱都会回来。但声音本身却是美丽的，超越了普通的声音，充满了深沉动人的振动和远和声，尽管她唱得如此轻柔，完全是自言自语。当演唱这些音符的她早已去世时，像她这样的音符萦绕在耳边，有时甚至萦绕在心间，许多人愿意付出很多代价来聆听，但只能再次呼吸它们。

玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔（Maria Addolorata）有时独自一人在牢房里时很难不唱歌，尽管这是严格禁止的。唱歌是一种表达的天赋，当它是一种真正自然的天赋时，就像言语、手势和嘴唇上的微笑一样，唯一的区别是，唱歌对他或她来说是一种比手势或言语更强烈的快乐。是。音乐，尤其是歌唱，是一种身体和智力的表达，是身体的愉悦和灵魂的“愉悦”。自然而自发地歌唱通常是一种身体上的强大和丰富的感官的天赋，独立于心灵，尽管旋律有时可能是无声思想的可听翻译以及无言激情的无意识言语。

在玛丽亚的歌声中，有一种未知的、致命的气息，修女们有时会在她的脸上看到这种感觉，而现在，当她唱歌时，这种感觉也出现在她的眼睛里。因为它们不再跟随燕子盘旋，而是变得固定而黑暗，在落日天空的火热反射下，规则的特征在狭窄的房间内加深的阴影的映衬下变得白色、笔直、方形。低沉的声音有些颤抖，深色面纱的厚重褶皱下，肩膀出现了短暂的颤抖，一种存在的感觉贯穿了她，让她不寒而栗。但声音并没有中断，她继续唱，比她意识到的声音更大，饱满的音符在她的喉咙里膨胀，在狭窄的墙壁之间振动，从敞开的门飘出去，加入燕子的飞行。

牢房的门轻轻地打开了，但她没有听到，只是靠在椅子上，继续唱歌，凝视着山上粉红色的云朵。

她唱歌。

“玛丽亚！”

女院长站在门口跟她说话，但她没有听见。

“玛丽亚！”女院长不耐烦地喊道。 “你在唱什么蠢话？我在房间里都能听到你的声音！”

玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔一惊，从座位上站起来，手里还拿着她的针线活，半转过身，看着她的上司，眼神突然低垂下来。老妇人缓慢而庄严地走上前，一直走到阳台门口，站在那儿一动不动，凝视着美丽的天空。她不是一个庄严的女人，因为她又矮又胖，但她有一种平静的气质，一种确定的优越感，取代了庄严，似乎特别适合那些在教会中担任重要职位的人。她宽大的五官虽然过于厚重，但由于过于苍白而显得很威严，而黑色大眼睛周围和下面的宽阔的深棕色阴影给这张脸带来了一种深度的表情，也许与原来的性格并不完全相符。这是一张引人注目的脸，考虑到女院长和她侄女的年龄相差很大，再加上肤色的自然差异，这两个女人有很强的家族相似性。

女院长在唯一的一把椅子上坐下，玛丽亚仍然站在她面前，手里拿着针线活。

“我经常告诉过你，你不可以在牢房里唱歌。”女修道院院长用冷酷严厉的语气说道。

玛丽亚的肩膀稍微抖了一下面纱，但她仍然看着地板。

“我无法控制，”她用压抑的声音回答。 “我不知道我在唱歌——”

“这太荒谬了！一个人怎么能唱而不知道呢？你没聋。至少，你不像以前那样唱歌。我不会拥有它。远到我自己的房间我都能听到你的声音——也是一首情歌！”

“死亡之爱，”玛丽亚建议道。

“没有什么区别。”老太太回答道。 “你的歌声扰乱了姐妹们的平静。你知道规则，并且必须像其他人一样遵守它。如果你一定要唱歌，那就在教堂里唱歌。”

“我做。”

“很好，这样应该就够了。一定要一直唱歌吗？假设红衣主教来拜访我（这是很有可能的），他会对我们的纪律有什么印象？

“哦，红衣主教叔叔经常听我唱歌。”

“你不能叫他‘红衣主教叔叔’。”就像普通人说的“牧师叔叔”一样。我已经告诉过你至少一百次了。如果红衣主教听到你唱歌，那就更糟了。”

“他曾经告诉我，我的声音很好听，”仍然站在姑妈面前的玛丽亚说道。

“好声音是上帝的恩赐，可以在教堂中使用，但不能用来吸引注意或钦佩。我的女儿，魔鬼无处不在，它利用我们最好的天赋来进行诱惑。红衣主教当然没有听到你唱我刚才听到的那首女巫的情歌。他一定会像我一样斥责你。”

“这不是一首情歌。这是关于死亡——以及圣约翰节的前夕。”

「嗯，那就是关于魔女的事了。不要跟我争论。这是有规矩的，你不能违反。”

玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔什么也没说，只是向前迈了一步，靠在门柱上，看着窗外的夕阳。粗壮的女院长一动不动地坐在直椅上，目光越过她的侄女，望向远处的群山。显然，关于歌唱她想说的都已经说完了，她没有想到要谈论其他的事情。接下来是长时间的沉默。玛丽亚并不胆怯，但她从小就习惯于将姨妈视为一个极其高人一等的人，处于更高的境界，在修道院里当了五年的见习修女，这让她对姨妈的敬畏感非但没有减少，反而增加了。女院长对年轻女孩的启发。事实上，社区里没有其他姐妹敢于回应女院长的斥责，而玛丽亚非常谦虚的抗议确实代表了非凡的个性和勇气。传统制度只能在绝对服从的基础上存在。

女院长既不严厉也不不仁慈，当然也不是一个非常可怕的人物，但她拥有不可否认的性格力量，加上天生的世袭权利和权力意识，她的仁慈令人印象深刻，而她的不满则崇高而庄严。她对别人的弱点几乎没有同情心，但她总是准备好代替上天的仁慈，可以这么说，并且带着某种王室压抑的惊讶，觉得上天应该仁慈。总的来说，考虑到当时的情况，她承认玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔虽然没有任何职业，但已经以足够的外在优雅接受了面纱，她理所当然地认为，有了这样的机会，这个女孩必须慢慢发展成为一位与她的前任不同的女修道院院长。当然，她定期祈祷，并且特别用心地为她的侄女祈祷，为修会的福祉祈祷，并认为她的祈祷毫无疑问得到了完全定期的回应，这是毫无疑问的结果，因为她自己的良心并没有因为疏忽而责备她。她年轻亲戚的灵性教育。

对于女修道院院长来说，宗教、修道会及其职责，就像一台巨大的机器，由教皇控制，以荣耀上帝。她和她的修女们是这台伟大引擎的一部分，它必须完全有规律地运转，以便上帝得到荣耀。她的思想本质上是宗教性的，但同时本质上也是物质秩序的。有物质的想象，也有精神的想象。有一些非常善良和虔诚的男人和女人，他们把现在的和未来的世界，毫不夸张地说，仅仅看作是他们自身局限性的实现。他们将他们所知道的视为所有需要知道的，并将他们所相信的上帝和天堂视为他们所知道的机械结果，而不是分别作为存在和行动的原因和目标；对他们来说，法律条文是专制权力的任意表达，不知何故，必须将其视为仁慈的；他们以对上帝旨意的巨大断言来回答有关上帝逻辑的所有问题；他们的上帝是一个被尊大的人，他的魔鬼是一个邪恶的动物，在理解上仅次于上帝，而在性情上却与上帝背道而驰。有一些善良的男人和女人，用一个自然但不轻率的比喻来说，理所当然地认为灵魂被抛入生活的浑水中，没有游泳的能力，甚至没有学习漂浮的可能性，依赖于极有可能有人将其作为仪式宗教的救生圈，作为其唯一可以想象的救赎手段。每种特定信仰形式的反对者总是把这些善良的男人和女人，尽管他们有种种局限性，视为该特定信条的唯一真正的倡导者，然后他们轻而易举地将其撕成碎片，从而获得了不正当的优势。错误的前提给了他们。他们中没有人认为理智上的仁慈也许是基督教慈善事业的一个组成部分。他们有充足的信心，也有不少的希望；但是，虽然慈善事业是为了人类的世俗疾病，理论上（如果不总是实际），是为了人类的精神缺陷，但它是严格禁止的，因为它是为了人类心灵的错误。为什么？没有一个有思想的人会情不自禁地问这个小问题，而这个小问题在随之而来的无人回答的沉默中却变得越来越重要。

所有这一切并不是为了为年轻修女玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔后来所做的事情道歉，尽管其中的大部分内容对于解释她的行为是必要的，无论它们如何被视为给她和其他人带来了不可避免的逻辑后果。在任何意义上，它都更不是对隐修会传统制度的攻击，该制度本身就是精神、思想和政治历史的结果，并且拥有根据其原因的证据来判断的首要权利，而不是其在时代变迁中所产生的缺点。上面所说的只是表明了这样一个事实：玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔和她的女修道院院长姨妈的性格、思想和性情完全不相配。这一事实成为许多人的生与死、幸福与痛苦、喜剧与悲剧的根源，甚至直到今天。

修女一动不动，把脸颊贴在门柱上，向外张望。她姨妈进来的门还没有完全关上，一股清凉的气流从走廊里吹了出来，穿过牢房，带着宗教团体居住的所有大型古老建筑特有的特殊气味。它是由石墙和铺好的地板散发出的冷气组成的，其中总是有一些潮湿，还有厚重的皮革、棉絮窗帘的辛辣气味，这些窗帘阻挡了主要的空气流通，就像在一个房间里的旋转门一样。我的，一种微弱但明显的焚香味道，从教堂或礼拜堂渗透到整个建筑，尤其是烹饪大量蔬菜时产生的烟雾，这些蔬菜是弟兄或姐妹的主食。 。对于僧侣和尼姑来说，这种气味就像吸烟者无法察觉的烟草气味一样。

小牢房里的距离非常近，玛丽亚很高兴从敞开的门进来的凉爽。她的目光注视着天​​空，眼神里充满了渴望。她的歌声再次浮现在她的唇边，但她记起了姨妈的存在，于是她忍住了，在努力保持沉默的同时，她强烈地渴望自由，渴望在傍晚时分来到那些紫色的山丘上，眺望远方。看着太阳沉入远方的大海，呼吸山间的空气，沿着山顶奔跑直到疲倦，在广阔的天空下睡觉，在梦中看到明天的太阳穿过树林，被鸟儿的歌声吵醒，发现梦是真的。

取而代之的是，这一切对她来说并不意味着什么，而是安静的晚餐，封闭的、灯火通明的小教堂，姐妹们疲倦的鼻腔吟唱，她孤独的牢房，黑暗的环境，令人精神不振的睡眠，破碎的睡眠。按铃叫她去教堂的另一间办公室；然后，最后，黎明，这一天就像她自己一样被囚禁在修道院的围墙里，祈祷和鼻音吟诵，数床单和枕套，做一点缝纫，唱歌也许是对她自己来说，然后是因此而受到的责备——这一切因粗粮的膳食和唱诗班座位上的周期性变化而变化。那天！太阳似乎被囚禁在花园墙角里，从早到晚，慢慢地拖着他的链子，画着一个短短的半圆，就像一条看门狗被拴在他的狗窝旁边的院子里。晚上的情况好多了。有时，她躺在床上，就能透过阳台门缝看到月光。她可以在黑暗中看到它们，它们的末端是直白线和地板上和墙上的圆形白点。她的思绪在它们之中嬉戏，她少女般的幻想抓住了它们，轻轻地跟着它们走进了白夜，远远地到达了第三世界，也就是梦境。在梦中，她对着午夜的星星歌唱，用裸露的双臂搂住月亮洁白的喉咙，亲吻月亮女士苍白而热情的脸颊，直到她迷失在那双神秘的眼睛里，发现自己再次沐浴在凉爽的空气中。星雨，温柔梦想的女王。

女院长坐在唯一的一把椅子上，冷漠、正义、威严。九十和九个不需要宽恕的化身和代表，像教条一样具有令人恼火和数学上的美德，是一个无法受到任何责备的女人，只要看到她，虚假证人就会枯萎死亡，就像阳光下的水母。她不仅赞同修道院的生活，而且喜欢它。她可以自由地做上千件修女们不允许的事情，但她一点也不想做其中任何一件，就像她不愿意承认，如果她们只做这些事情，她们中的任何一个都可能会不高兴。在指定的时间祈祷、唱歌、睡觉、吃煮白菜。她和玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔有什么共同点，除了她出生时是一位公主和布拉乔家族？

像十几个或更多的姐妹一样，出生为公主，甚至像其他人一样成为贵族，有什么用呢？如果没有自由，任何事物还有什么用处或优势呢？当年轻修女把脸颊靠在门柱上时，一个更朴实、更绝望的问题浮现在心头，午后阳光的余热依然温暖。如果生命要生活在坟墓里并伴随着终生的葬礼，那生命还有什么用呢？为什么上帝不应该像喜悦自葬那样喜悦自杀呢？为什么不应该像因有序的痛苦、系统性的饥饿和严格控制的苦难而导致的肮脏死亡一样，被干净的钢铁突然冲撞而立即死亡，是一种崇高和可接受的牺牲呢？难道不是生命、生命——还有鲜血、鲜血——无论是滴下来的，还是在英雄瞬间的绚丽红色中从快速伤口中流出来的？当然，如果仅仅以牺牲为目的，那么，带着死亡的推力，在祭坛脚下，以她所有的青春光彩和年轻的美丽，彻底死去，那将是一件多么伟大的事情，不受诱惑，不受玷污，在牢狱中四十年牢骚满腹的痛苦中禁食和祈祷。

但是，还有耐心的美德。毫无疑问，差异就在于此。取悦上帝的不仅仅是死亡本身，还有死亡的漫长方式、痛苦的总结、生命资本投资于死亡后所支付的利息。上帝会对事物及其总和感到满意。项目，一个不眠之夜。项目，重感冒，跪在潮湿的石头上。项目，节日期间拒绝的一盘甜点。项目，当一只苍蝇停在女院长的鼻子上时，决心不笑。项目，决心不希望她的头发从未被剪掉。项目，在她的牢房里，夏天被窒息，冬天被冰冻。项目，感激这是最好的牢房，而且她比其他姐妹过得更好。

半个世纪以来重复这些项目，总结它们，并将它们作为合适的祭品献给上帝——通过细微的微小痛苦，摧毁一个女人的整个一生，几乎从一开始，直到最后，彻底消灭了人类所有的可能性，爱，母性，合理的享受和合法的幸福。这就是玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔通过面纱得到的救赎公式。

而且不仅是她收到了。它被强加在她身上，因为她碰巧是古老的布拉乔家族唯一可用的女儿，填补了木制华盖下的世袭席位，成为苏比亚科加尔默罗会的女修道院院长。如果有另一个姐妹，不那么公平，但更虔诚，那么那个姐妹就会被选来代替玛丽亚。但除此之外别无他法。必须有一位年轻的布拉奇奥修女来取代那位年长的修女，而后者本该在她的账户上塞满一些小物品，用某些救赎的金子来支付。

一个有罪的女人，充满悲伤，厌倦了这个世界，可以在修女的面纱下默默地低下头，并以虔诚的朴素磨掉她罪恶故事的深深的字母，这至少是玛丽亚的一件事能理解。姐妹们中的一些面孔在她的孤独中萦绕在她的心头，她们的嘴唇本来可以诉说很多，但只说“Miserere”；那些曾经注视着爱的眼睛，现在只注视着十字架；脸颊因悲伤而变得苍白，经常流下泪水，像古老喷泉的大理石一样凹陷。那些付出了一切的心，也曾被殴打、伤痕累累、被拒绝过。修道院是为他们而设的。对他们来说，生活就是生活；对他们来说，在这些围墙之外、在生者世界、在死亡这边的任何地方都没有自由。他们来是正确的，他们留下来也是正确的。当他们祈祷自己在死前有时间为自己的罪孽感到抱歉并再次触摸无辜外衣的下摆时，他们是理性的。

但即使是他们，如果被告知这是对的，他们难道不会宁愿将聚合痛苦的时间缩短到一天，甚至一瞬间，然后一次性献出自己的牺牲吗？为什么它不应该是正确的呢？上帝是否喜欢痛苦和苦难本身？热情少女的内心对一个能够享受无助生灵痛苦的存在感到愤怒。

但接下来，又出现了那种忍耐的美德，这超出了她的理解范围。最后她开口说话了，脸仍然面向着夕阳。

“我们的死方式对上帝有什么影响呢？”她问道，几乎没有意识到自己在说话。

女院长一定吓了一跳，因为在她回答之前几秒钟，椅子突然吱吱作响。然而，她的脸并没有放松，双手也没有松开，交叉放在膝盖上。

“这是个愚蠢的问题，我的女儿，”她最后说道。 “你认为上帝不喜悦圣烈们所受的苦难，也没有奖励他们所承受的一切吗？”

“不，我不是这个意思。”玛丽亚很快回答道。 “但是为什么我们不应该都成为烈士呢？这样会快很多。”

“上天保佑我们吧！”女院长惊呼道。 “孩子，你在想什么？”

“这样会快得多，”玛丽亚重复道。 “我们来这里是为了什么？将我们的生命献给上帝。我们希望做出这样的牺牲，神也应许接受它。为什么见习结束就被领到祭坛上，然后快速杀掉，会不太完整呢？会是一样的，而且会快得多。既然我们最终都会死去，除了死亡之外什么也完成不了，那么我们的死亡方式又有什么不同呢？”

这时，女院长苍白的双手松开了，一只手按在双膝上，她在座位上向前倾身，脸上露出惊讶和恐惧的表情，深色的嘴唇张开，毫无血色的脸上所有的线条都被拉了下来。

“你生气了吗，玛丽亚？”她低声问道。

“疯狂的？不。你为什么认为我生气了？修女转过身来，低头看着姨妈。 “毕竟，这是一个伟大的问题。我们的生命不过是为死亡做准备。为什么需要这么长时间的准备？为何死亡要如此缓慢？为什么为了上帝的荣耀而逐步自杀是正确的，而如果有勇气的话，一下子自杀却是错误的呢？我认为这是一个非常合理的问题。”

“确实，你疯了！魔鬼向你暗示这样的事情，让你看不到真相，我的孩子。忏悔和祈祷，祈祷和忏悔——靠着上天的恩典，一切都会过去。”

“忏悔和祈祷！”玛丽亚悲伤地喊道。 “就是这样——缓慢的死亡，但肯定是死亡！”

“我已经六十多岁了。”女院长回答道。 “我一生都在忏悔和祈祷，你看，我很好。我很壮实。”

“为了慈善事业，不要这么说！”玛丽亚喊道，用手指比出牛角的手势，以避开邪恶的眼睛。 “你肯定会生病的。”

“我们的生命属于上帝。邪恶的是我们自己的眼睛。不可以用手指制作喇叭。正如我经常告诉你的那样，这是一种异教迷信。但你们中的许多人都这么做了。玛丽亚，我想认真地和你说话。”

“说吧，母亲。”年轻的修女回答道，对方严肃的语气立刻恢复了顺从的强烈习惯。

“你的这些想法非常邪恶。我们被安置在这个世界上，只要上帝愿意，我们就必须继续生活在其中。当神乐意拯救我们时，他会及时拯救我们。你、我和姐妹们应该庆幸的是，在我们短暂停留在地球上的这段时间里，这个圣所已经落入了我们的命运，也让我们拥有了过圣洁生活的可能性。我们必须充分利用它，感谢上天，让我们停留的时间足够长，让我们能够悔改我们的罪孽，并获得对我们微小缺点的宽恕。渴望缩短我们的生命是邪恶的。渴望任何不符合神的旨意的事情都是邪恶的。我们来这里是为了生活、警醒和祈祷，而不是抱怨和反抗。”

女修道院院长很粗壮，正如她自己所承认的那样，她突然惊讶于她的侄女完全不正统，更不用说亵渎神灵，建议以自杀作为恩典的手段，而她自己也试图雄辩，她很快变得热情起来，尽管相对凉爽的气流从建筑物内部传出。说完，她抓住宽松的袖子末端，慢慢地给自己扇风。

但玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔并没有认为她得到了答复。在加尔默罗会修道院的牢房里，在一个可能从未听说过莎士比亚、当然对哈姆雷特一无所知的年轻女孩的心中，所有问题中的问题都出现了，她找到了她可以指挥的演讲。 。它爆发得热情而又不耐烦。

“我们是什么？为什么我们是现在这个样子？是的，妈妈——我知道您很好，您说的都是真的。但这还不是全部。超越它的是整个世界。活着，或者不活着——但你知道，这不是活着！它并不意味着活着，因为外面的人明白活着意味着什么。当我们戴上面纱，躺在祭坛前，盖上棺材时，这一切除了死亡还意味着什么？这意味着死亡——那为什么不完全死亡呢？难道上帝没有成千上万的天使来赞美他、敬拜他，并为地上的罪人祷告吗？他们高兴地唱歌和祈祷，因为他们受到祝福，不像我们一样受苦。为什么上帝要我们这些可怜的小修女，活得半死不活，在冬天用寒冷的声音赞美他，在夏天跪下直到酷热昏倒，并在禁食和斋戒中耗尽我们的身体。祈祷和忏悔，直到我们能做的一切都爬到唱诗班的位置上？我不是——我仍然年轻而坚强——也许你也不是，因为你仍然坚强，尽管你不年轻了。但许多姐妹——是的，我知道她们是最好的——她们正在我们眼前自杀。你知道——我知道——他们自己也知道。为什么他们不应该为了上帝的荣耀找到一些更短的死亡方式呢？或者，如果不是，为什么他们不应该幸福地生活，因为他们中的许多人都可以幸福地生活？为什么创造我们的上帝希望我们毁灭自己——或者如果他这样做，那么我们为什么不能用自己的方式做到这一点呢？啊——那会是多么短暂——一刀刺入，然后就是永远的太平了！”

女院长站了起来，站在玛丽亚面前，一只手搭在灯心草底椅背上。

“亵渎！”她哭了，终于喘不过气来了。 “这是亵渎，或者疯狂，或者两者兼而有之！都是自己作孽啊！原谅她吧，善良的上帝！她不知道自己在说什么！全能、仁慈的上帝宽恕她吧！”

玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔沉默了一会儿，意识到自己已经忘记了自己，并被女院长惊恐的眼神和兴奋的语气吓了一跳。但她自然是一个比她自己想象的更加大胆的女人。尽管她的脸色苍白，但她的嘴唇因她的好姨妈的惊吓而微笑。

“但这并不是一个答案——只是喊‘亵渎’！”她说。 “问题已经很明确了——”

她没有把这句话说完。女院长实在是因为宗教恐惧而发疯了。她几乎用暴力的双手将她的侄女拖倒并推倒，直到玛丽亚跪倒在地。

“祈祷吧，孩子！祈祷吧，以免为时已晚！”她哭了。 “跪下来祈祷，在你的灵魂永远消失之前，这个财产可以过去！”

她自己跪在女孩身边的石头上，仍然抱住她，把她按在地上。她长时间、热切地、近乎疯狂地大声祈祷，祈求上帝保护我们免受肉体诱惑的魔鬼的侵害，魔鬼以自己的意志和邪恶的力量，引诱并驱使人类的灵魂陷入彻底的诅咒。

“很好，”斯特凡诺说。 “世界末日已经来临。我不会再说什么了。”

他喝完一杯酒，靠在棕色墙壁旁的木凳上，玩弄着深蓝色夹克上宽大的银色纽扣，死死地盯着坐在他对面的托马索医生修女。医生摇摇晃晃地看了一眼，然后又把目光转向了鼻烟盒。它是用磨损的黑檀木制成的，盖子中间装饰着圣彼得教堂和马赛克柱廊的小景色，还有非常蓝的天空。由于长期使用，马赛克的每个细小碎片都被一条细小的黑线包围，这确实为这幅小画的强烈清晰的氛围增添了一些基调，但也给其中所代表的建筑带来了肮脏和被忽视的外观。然而，鼻烟本身具有当时被称为西西里岛的优质鼻烟，并且呈美丽的浅棕色。

“那为什么呢？”在捏、塞、吸、撒粉的间隙，医生非常缓慢地问道。 “为什么世界末日来了？”

斯特凡诺的眼神变得阴沉，一眨不眨的眼神中带着一种阴郁的光芒。刚才他看上去很危险，但是医生却似乎一点也不害怕他。

“你既然已经结束了这一切，就应该知道为什么。”农民停顿了一下，回答道。

斯特凡诺是个罗马类型的男人，中等身材，体格粗壮，天生忧郁，薄而直的嘴唇，刮得干干净净，直发，小而有侵略性的鹰钩鼻，沉重的双手，指背上长着毛。 ，指关节之间。他的妻子索拉·南娜（Sora Nanna）说，他的拳头就像铺路石一样。他看上去也有骡子的体质。当时他大约五岁、三十岁，脸上有几条粗细的皱纹，特别是从鼻孔开始到嘴角的那些弯曲的皱纹，据说这是一种脾气不稳定。

他穿着当时富农的装束，一件粗糙但一尘不染的白衬衫，领口敞开，夹克和马甲是厚实的深蓝色布，上面有大而光滑的银色纽扣，及膝马裤，白色长筒袜，带钢扣的重型低帮鞋。他兼具农民、酒商和运输商的职业。当他在苏比亚科和罗马之间的路上时，已经提到过的吉盖托应该代表他。据了解，吉盖托将与安妮塔结婚——如果他能被说服的话，因为他是一个农民家庭的小儿子，这个家庭的头比斯特凡诺还高，这个年轻人和他的人民都看重他。安妮塔的狂野行为令人不以为然，尽管她作为斯特凡诺和索拉·南纳唯一的孩子，她的财富具有很强的吸引力。与此同时，吉吉托表现得好像他是这位老人在酒馆里的合伙人，因为他是一个特别诚实，但又特别闲散的年轻人，喜欢唱歌和弹吉他，所以这个职位很适合他令人钦佩。

至于托马索修士，斯蒂芬诺在这个特别的晚上似乎很想和他吵架，他是一位非常受人尊敬的人物，穿着一件窄肩高领黑色大衣，宽裙，还有一件鼻烟色背心。他穿着一件明显破旧但很得体的袜子，衬衫的细袖口翻到外套紧袖子上，这是一种老式的风格。他还穿着令人惊讶的紧身黑色裤子，紧紧地绑在他的黑色靴子上。说实话，这些下衣虽然具有很强的天然抵抗力，但由于长期处于高度紧张状态，可以说，它们在所有部位都不再同样紧绷，毫无疑问，它们上面有一些明显的斑点。 ;但总体而言，医生外表的总体效果是时尚的，是几年前的时尚，以苏比亚科的标准来判断。他的头发相当长，呈英俊的铁灰色混乱，脸刮得很短，虽然很瘦，但脸色却有些中风。

医生郑重地完成了吸鼻烟的手术，然后看着农民。

“我不想说任何话，”他说，但总体撤回了。 “这些可能都是愚蠢的。”

“你本来不想说什么，却把这把刀插在了我的心里！”斯特凡诺反驳道，他的太阳穴处青筋暴起。 “谢谢。如果我忘记了，我想死。你告诉我我的女儿正在和英国人做爱。然后你说你不想说什么！愿他死去，英国人，他，以及创造他的人，以及他的全家！他和他的全家都会被邪恶地处死！”

“只要你不让我也死就好了！”托马索修士大声说道，脸上带着一丝怜悯的微笑。

“呃！死——很快就有人说！然而，人确实会死。作为一名医生，你应该知道这一点。而你什么也不想说！太棒了，医生！言语就是言语。但它们也会蜇人。一千年后，它们仍然会刺人。你——你能明白什么？你也许是一位父亲吗？你连老婆都没有。哦，愿上帝受祝福！你甚至不知道自己在说什么。你什么也不知道。也许你认为，因为你是一名医生，所以你知道的比我多。我告诉你，你就是个无知的人！”

“哦，漂亮！”医生愤怒地喊道，他被这几乎是一种致命的侮辱所刺痛。 “你——对我来说——无知！噢，美丽，最美丽，这个！从农民到科学家！也许你也有萨皮恩扎大学的文凭——”

“如果有的话，我应该为第一位顾客包上半磅切片火腿——肥火腿，你知道的。你的文凭我该怎么办！我问你，你知道什么？你知道什么是女儿吗？我的血的血，我的心的心，我的手的手。但我是农民，你是医生。因此，我什么都不知道。”

“而与此同时，你却当着我的面给我‘无知’！”托马索修士反驳道。

“是的——我再说一遍！” “斯特凡诺内向前倾身喊道，他的手紧握在桌子上。 “我说了两遍、三遍——无知、无知、无知！你明白了吗？

“大声点说！这样每个人都能听到你的声音！吃草的野兽！”

“还有你——喂乌鸦的人！掘墓人的供给者。然后——无知！哎呀——这次我说清楚了！”

“而且在我看来，这就足够了！”医生隔着桌子吼道。 “乔西亚罗！拿着它！”

“乔西亚罗？我？哦，你的灵魂！如果我用手抓住你就好了！”

“ciociaro”是指穿着“ciocie”（即破布）、脚上绑着皮凉鞋和丁字裤的山地人。他通常是一名牧羊人，受到较大山区城镇中较受尊敬的人们的蔑视。称一个人为“ciociaro”是一种痛苦的侮辱。

斯特凡诺愤怒地从座位上站了起来。但他坐的木凳距离他身后的墙壁很近，厚重的橡木桌子被推到离他胸口不到几寸的地方，让他的动作受到了很大的阻碍，他的双手有些疯狂地伸向前方。他的对手。后者拥有更多的道德勇气，而不是身体勇气，他把椅子向后移，准备在斯特凡诺出现绕过桌子的迹象时逃跑。

就在这时，一个高大的身影遮住了临街的门，一个安静、干巴巴的声音带着浓重的外国口音说话。那是安格斯·达尔林普尔 (Angus Dalrymple)，他缺席了一整天，刚刚从山上的植物考察中归来。

“这是一种非常不舒服的战斗方式，”他站在门口一动不动地说道。 “你不可能隔着比你手臂还长的桌子打人，斯特凡诺先生。”

他的话的效果立竿见影。斯特凡诺跌回到座位上。医生焦急而兴奋的表情立刻转变成礼貌的微笑。

“我们只是玩玩，”他温和地说。 “一点讨论——只是一个玩笑。我们的朋友斯特凡诺正在解释一些事情。”

“如果桌子再窄一点，他就会把你完全解释走。”达尔林普尔走上前说道。

他将随身携带的一个锡盒放在桌子上，并与托马索修士握手。然后他溜到桌子后面，靠近主人坐下，作为预防措施，以防比赛重新开始。如果这位强大的苏格兰人选择压制斯特凡诺内，那么他就有很大的危险。但农民似乎突然变得和医生一样平静。

“没什么，”斯特凡诺平静地说，尽管他的眼睛布满血丝，不安地扫视着房间。

就在这时，安妮塔从通向楼梯的门进来了。当她走上前来时，她的眼睛盯着达尔林普尔的脸，她把灯放在桌子上，手里拿着一盏擦得锃亮的铜灯，上面有三根燃烧的灯芯。达尔林普尔抬头看着她，看到她询问的表情，缓缓地点了点头。女孩笑了一声，红棕色的嘴唇从她短白的牙齿上缩了回来，她拿出一个小烧瓶和一个玻璃杯，她进来时把它们带在身后，看不见。她把它们放在达尔林普尔面前。

“我看到你来了，”她说，又笑了。 “然后——总是一样的。半份老的“foglietta”，只是为了开胃。”

托马索修士意味深长地看了史蒂芬诺一眼，但女孩的父亲假装没有看到他。达尔林普尔点头致谢，按照古老的习俗，在酒杯中倒了几滴酒，撒在砖地上，既是为了冲洗酒杯，也是为了奠酒，然后主动为两人各自倒满酒杯。 ，他们微笑着，摇了摇头，用右手盖住了酒杯。最后，达尔林普尔自助了，向他的同伴礼貌地点点头，慢慢地倒空了玻璃杯，里面装着小烧瓶里几乎所有的东西。据说，葡萄酒的“foglietta”或“小叶”因扭曲卷曲的藤叶而得名，通常用作酒塞。一整个“foglietta”只含了很少的一品脱。

“现在吃饭吗？”安妮塔问道，仍然微笑着。

“现在，”达尔林普尔回答。 “有什么吃的？我饿了。”

“看来你也不得不这么说啊！”女孩笑道。 “这是一个新事物。有牛排或羊肉，如果你想知道的话。还有火腿——今天切的新鲜火腿。这是食葡萄者的一种，看起来不错。托马索爵士，你还记得去年那头——就你的脸而言——我们称之为“吃葡萄人”的猪吗？老实说，他是头好猪。我们切的是他的一根火腿。还有沙拉，还有新鲜的面包，你喜欢的。至于酒，我就不说了。呃，他喜欢酒，英国人！他进来时脸很长很长，而当他上床睡觉时，他的脸又宽又宽。那就是酒。但是，这对他没有任何其他作用。它只会改变他的脸。当我看着他时，我仿佛看到了月亮。”

“你说得太多了，”斯特凡诺说。

“没关系，爸爸！言语不是一分钱。浪费的越多，拥有的就越多！”

达尔林普尔什么也没说。但他微笑着，看着她轻轻地转过身，一甩黑色的小脑袋，离开了房间。

“血统很好，”医生说道，同时用安抚的目光看了女孩的父亲一眼。

“托马索爵士，你很快就会被通缉。”达尔林普尔严肃地说。 “听说女院长病得很重。”

医生突然感兴趣地抬起头来，露出了他专业的表情。

“你说女院长？亲爱的我！她不年轻了！她有什么？谁告诉你的，安戈西亚修士？”

现在，“Sor Angoscia”在英语中的意思是“Sir Anguish”，但尽管医生非常认真地努力，但还是无法接近 Angus 的发音。尽管如此，由于北方人的坚持，达尔林普尔第一百次纠正了他。医生的第一次尝试导致他称这位苏格兰人为“Sor Langusta”，意思是“小龙虾先生”——必须承认“痛苦”是一种进步。

“安格斯，”达尔林普尔说。 “我的名字是安格斯。女院长因为天气太热而坐在通风口里，得了重感冒。它立即就沉积在她的肺部，你随时都可能被叫去。我下山的时候路过修道院的后面，园丁正好从后院出来。他告诉我。”

“亲爱的我，亲爱的我！”托马索修士摇着头喊道。 “感冒——支气管炎、胸膜炎、肺炎——快好了！一个就够了！那些尼姑们，她们吃什么？周日，一点草，一点煮糊，一点肉汤。他们应该具备怎样的实力？然后祈祷，祈祷，唱歌，唱歌！它需要一个胸！肺不好啊！我要回家准备好——水泡——芥末——柳叶刀——他们不会允许修道院里的理发师给它们放血。好吧——我让自己当理发师！什么样的生活，什么样的生活！如果您希望英年早逝，请去苏比亚科 (Subiaco)、索安戈西亚 (Sor Angoscia) 做一名医生。晚安，亲爱的朋友。晚安，斯特凡诺。我希望什么都不说——你知道——那件小事。我们不再谈论它了。我比你更野兽，因为我什么都说了。晚安。”

托马索修士从黑暗的角落里拿出他的手杖，将宽阔的猫皮帽子压在头上，并用它紧紧包裹的黑色腿剥夺了他的尊严。

“愿魔鬼与你同行。”医生消失后，斯特凡诺低声说道。

“为什么？”听到这句话的达尔林普尔问道。

“我什么也没说，”农民回答道，一边若有所思地用弯曲的铜线修剪灯芯，铜线和剪子用链条挂在提灯的环上。

“我以为你说话了，”苏格兰人说。 “嗯——女院长病得很重，托马索修女有工作。”

“祝他一切顺利！这样就不需要重新开始了。”

“你是什么意思？”达尔林普尔慢慢地抿了一口剩下的少量酒。

“那些修女们！”斯特凡诺没有回答问题，而是惊呼道。 “他们来这个世界做什么？最好让他们成为圣人——晚安！这样一来，痛苦就会少一点。你知道他们做什么吗？他们酿酒。好的！但他们不喝它。他们以比其他人低一毛钱的价格出售它。让他们和他们的酒见鬼去吧！”

达尔林普尔有些好笑地看了一眼愤怒的农民，但没有做出任何回答。

“呃，先生！”斯特凡内叫道。 “你既是外国人，又是新教徒，你能不能说点什么，因为这对你来说没有什么罪过？”

“我正在想说什么，斯特凡诺先生。但至于这一点，修道院的事务是谁做的呢？我想他们自己做不到。谁为他们决定葡萄酒的价格？或者他们的玉米价格？”

“他们并不像你想象的那么愚蠢。不好了！修女们并不傻。他们和你我一样知道这个的价格和那个的成本。但如果你想知道的话，吉盖托的父亲，阿戈斯蒂诺修女，是他们的管家。他的父亲在他前面，吉吉托则在他后面，带着他的南瓜头。其余的部分由管风琴演唱，正如我们在弥撒结束时所说的那样。因为你知道吉吉托和安妮塔的事。”

“是的。既然你不能在这个问题上与阿戈斯蒂诺修女争吵，我不认为你要么必须忍受它，要么把你的酒卖得比修女们便宜一分钱。”

「呃——这话很快就说出来了。比他们便宜一毛钱！这意味着比我现在卖的便宜一半。最好的只有五个baiocchi the follietta，最便宜的是两个半。再见利润——前往斯特凡诺的愉快旅程。但就是那些修女。他们应该受到责备，魔鬼将会付出代价。”

“既然如此，你就不必了，”达尔林普尔站起身来说道。 “晚饭前我要洗手。”

“请您放心，先生。”斯特凡诺礼貌地回答。

达尔林普尔出去时，安妮塔从他身边走过，端来了盘子、餐巾、刀叉。当他走过时，女孩瞥了一眼他的脸。

“快点，先生，”她笑着说。 “牛排羊肉正在烤。”

他点点头，走上黑暗的楼梯，沉重的鞋子在他的脚步中发出回声。斯特凡诺仍然坐在桌边，将酒杯倒过来放在酒杯上，让最后一滴酒流完。他看着它们一一倒下，没有抬头看他的女儿，女儿开始整理达尔林普尔吃饭的盘子。

“我会教你和英国人做爱，”他慢慢地说，仍然看着滴落的酒。

“我！” “安妮塔喊道，带着真实或假装的惊讶，她愤怒地把刀叉扔进盘子里，发出巨大的碰撞声。

“我正在和你说话。”她的父亲没有抬起眼睛回答道。 “你知道吗？你将会有一个糟糕的结局。”

“谢谢你！”女孩轻蔑地回答道。 “既然你这么说，那一定是真的！现在，谁告诉你那个英国人正在和我做爱？不管他是谁，他都中风了！”

“对于一个女孩来说，这句话真是太好了！托马索修士告诉我的。再多一点，我就会把他的舌头扯下来。就在这时，英国人进来了。托马索修士轻松地下了车。”

再次开口的时候，女孩的语气变化很大，眼中闪过沉闷而愤怒的光芒。她的长嘴唇仍然张着，露出闪闪发光的牙齿，但笑容已经消失了。

“是的。太容易了。”她几乎是低声说道，话语中带着低沉的嘶嘶声。

“与此同时，他所说的是真的，”斯特凡诺继续说道。 “你向他眨眼。你等他，看他从山里回来——”

“出色地？难道我不应该为他提供晚饭吗？如果不满意，就雇一个仆人来伺候他。你好有钱。我关心英国人什么？也许在木炭上烤我的脸，为他煮肉是一种乐趣。至于托马索修士——”

她突然停了下来。她的父亲知道这语气意味着什么，第一时间抬起头来。

“哎哟！”他惊呼道，就像一个人突然意识到危险一样，并警告其他人。

“没什么。”安妮塔回答道，她低下头，将刀叉对称地摆放在她铺好的干净布上。

“当那个英国人进来时，我可能会热血沸腾地杀了他，”斯特凡诺若有所思地说。 “但现在我的血液变冷了。我不会对他做什么。”

“这对他来说更好。”她转身离开餐桌，声音依然低沉。

“但我会杀了你，”斯特凡诺说，“如果我看到你向英国人眨眼。”

他站起身来，拿起身旁的帽子，沿着木凳慢慢地出去，小心翼翼地走动，以免摇动桌子，打翻灯或瓶子。听到他发出的威胁，安妮塔又转过身来，一动不动地站着，等着他走进房间，她的双手放在臀部，眼睛里冒着火。

“你会害死我？”她问道，而他就在她的对面。 “好吧——那就杀了我吧！我在这里。你在等什么？让英国人干涉？他正在洗手。他总是需要很长时间。”

“那你真的爱上他了？”斯特凡诺问道，他的怒火又回来了。

“他，或者另一个。这对你来说有什么关系？你让我想起了那个老妇人，她打了她的猫，然后当它逃跑时哭了。如果你想让我留在家里，你最好给我找个丈夫。”

“你想要比 Gigetto 更好的东西吗？中风了！但你有想法！”

“事实上，你和 Gigetto 的生意做得很好！”女孩轻蔑地叫道。 “他吃、喝，然后唱歌。但他不结婚。他甚至不会和我做爱——即使是用眼睛。然后，因为我爱那个英国人，他是一位伟大的领主，尽管他说他是一名医生，但我必须死。好吧，杀了我吧！”她傲慢地盯着父亲看了一会儿。 “哦，好吧，”她轻蔑地补充道，“如果你现在没有时间，那就明天吧。我很忙。”

她转过身来，轻蔑地甩动她的黑色短裙。斯特凡诺被激怒了，他的怒火又回来了。在她够不到之前，他张开手掌打了她一下。这一击没有击中她的脸颊，而是击中了她的后脑勺和脖子，让她跌跌撞撞地向前走去。她抓住椅背，稳住身子，然后立即转过身来，完全站起来，没有屈尊把手举到受伤的地方。

“懦夫！”她惊呼道。 “但我会为你和托马索修士的这一击付钱。”

“只要你愿意，”她父亲粗声粗气地回答，但他已经为自己的所作所为感到后悔了。

他转身，走进夜色中。天已经快黑了，安妮塔一动不动地站在椅子旁，听着他远去的脚步声。然后她慢慢地转过身来，凝视着闪烁的灯芯。她做出一种幼兽般的动作，用一只手揉着后脖颈，悠闲地把头转向一侧，然后又转向另一侧。她棕色的皮肤异常苍白，但盯着灯的眼睛里却没有任何水分。

“但我会付钱给你，托马索爵士，”她若有所思地轻声说道。

最后，她把目光从灯上移开，拿起桌上的一把刀，看了看，摸了摸刀刃，轻蔑地放下了。那时，罗马村庄里所有受人尊敬的农民都拥有实心的银叉子和勺子，这些银叉子和勺子早已去大熔炉交税了。但他们仍然使用今天使用的木柄钝器、毫无意义的刀。

当安妮塔听到达尔林普尔踩在楼梯石阶上的声音时，她吓了一跳，但她立即恢复了平静，对桌子进行了最后的修饰，再次快速地擦了擦后脑勺，微笑着迎接他。

“牛排羊肉做好了吗？”苏格兰人用他非凡的口音兴高采烈地问道。

安妮塔从他身边跑过，几乎在他坐下之前就回来了，端来了食物。女孩在桌尾对着临街的门坐下，看着他一口又一口地吞下肉，时不时停下来喝一杯酒。

“你一定很坚强，先生，”安妮塔最后说道，她的双手托着下巴。

“为什么？”达尔林普尔在两口之间漫不经心地问道。

“因为你吃得太多了。吃这么多肉一定是件好事。我们吃得很少。”

“为什么？”苏格兰人又在嘴里问道。

“噢，谁知道呢？花费很大。一定是这个原因。此外，它不会下降。我不应该关心它。”

“这是一种习惯。”达尔林普尔喝了下去。 “在我的国家，大多数人都吃燕麦，”他放下杯子说道。

“燕麦！”女孩笑道。 “像马一样！但马也会吃肉，就像你一样。对我来说——美味的面包、新鲜的奶酪、一点沙拉、一杯酒和水——这就足够了。”

“就像修女们一样，”达尔林普尔边吃着“食葡萄者”的火腿边观察道。

“噢，修女们！他们靠煮白菜为生！一英里之外你都能闻到它的味道。但他们做的蛋糕很好吃。”

“你经常去修道院，不是吗？”苏格兰人一边倒满杯子，一边问道，因为第一口火腿让他又渴了。 “我知道，你和你妈妈一起把床单拿起来。”

“有时候，当我想去的时候，”女孩回答道，她愿意表明提篮子不是她的责任。 “只有当我们有可以顶在头上的小篮子时，我才会去。我会告诉你。他们用小篮子装一些精致的东西，比如女修道院院长的亚麻布、祭坛布，以及属于修女们的牧师的花边。但床单和桌布都装在篮子里，有一个人那么长。需要四个女人才能抬动其中一个。”

“那一定很不方便，”达尔林普尔说。 “我应该认为较小的总是更好。”

“谁知道？一直都是这样。当它一直如此时，它就会永远如此——人们都知道这一点。”

安妮塔有节奏地点点头，传达出一种印象：所有古代习俗，尤其是这一习俗，都是一成不变的。

然而，达尔林普尔对篮筐的问题并不太感兴趣。

“修女们整天都在做什么？”他问。 “我想你有时会看到它们。他们当中肯定有年轻人。”

安妮塔更加敏锐地看了一眼苏格兰人安静的脸，然后笑了。

“有一个，如果你能看到她的话！女院长的侄女。哦，那个很漂亮。在我看来，她就像一个彩绘天使！”

“院长的侄女？她喜欢什么？让我看看，女院长是公主吧？”

“是的，你知道，杰拉诺亲王的一位伟大的公主，卡萨布拉奇奥的。他们总是女院长。当这个人死后，年轻的人将成为下一个。她是宗教上的玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔（Maria Addolorata），但我不知道她的真名。她有一张美丽的脸和一双黑眼睛。有一次我看到了她的头发。这是公平的，但不像你的。你的颜色像西红柿一样红。”

“谢谢你，”达尔林普尔带着笑意说道。 “告诉我更多关于修女的事。”

“如果我告诉你，你就会爱上她。”安妮塔反对道。 “他们说红头发的男人容易坠入爱河。这是真的吗？如果是的话，我不会再告诉你关于尼姑的事了。但我认为你爱上了那个可怜的老吃葡萄人。这是很好的火腿，不是吗？靠巴克斯，我亲手喂他栗子，他却总是偷葡萄。栗子使他发胖，葡萄使他变甜。恕我直言，对于教皇来说，他就是一头猪。”

“那么他就可以当一名苏格兰医生了，”达尔林普尔回答道。 “告诉我，这位美丽的尼姑整天都在做什么？”

“她是做什么的？修女能做什么？她像其他人一样吃卷心菜并祈祷。但她负责所有修道院的亚麻布，所以当我和母亲一起去的时候我会看到她。这是因为 1798 年亚麻布全部被土耳其人偷走后，赫拉诺王子首先将亚麻布送给了修道院。因此，在他们赠送亚麻布的同时，他们的女修道院院长会照顾它。

达尔林普尔嘲笑了南方撒拉逊人非常古老的传统和最近的拿破仑战争的非凡历史典故。

“所以她会照顾床单，”他说。 “我想，这不会很有趣。”

“她们是修女，”女孩回答。 “你认为他们是为了自娱自乐吗？这是一种丑陋的生活。但是玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女自己唱歌，这让女修道院院长很生气，因为除了在教堂外唱歌是违反规定的。我不会住在那个修道院里——如果他们在我的围裙上塞满金币的话。”

“那么，这个美丽的女孩为什么会出家呢？她是不开心，还是失恋了？”

“她？他们没有给她时间！在她闭上眼睛说：“小青年，你让我高兴，我祝你一切顺利”之前，他们就把她放进去了。那扇门，当它关闭时，谁来打开它呢？也许是麦当娜？但她是杰拉诺亲王中的一员，他们中一定有一位女院长，而抽签就落到了她的身上。整个历史都有。如果你站在花园墙下，在祝福时间之后、万福玛利亚之前的狭窄小路上，有时你可能会听到她的歌声。但我告诉你是个傻瓜，因为你会去听，当你听到她的声音时，你会像个疯子一样。你会爱上她的。我真是个傻瓜才告诉你的。”

“出色地？如果我真的爱上她了，谁在乎呢？”达尔林普尔慢慢地倒了一杯酒。

“如果你愿意呢？”年轻女孩的眼睛迅速而锐利地扫了他一眼。然后她的脸色突然凝重起来，看到有人在临街门口，小心翼翼地往里张望。 “进来吧，托马索爵士！”她在桌子底下喊道。 “爸爸出去了，但我们还在这里。进来喝杯酒吧！”

医生裹着一件天鹅绒领子的长呢绒斗篷，腋下夹着一箱器械和药品，环顾房间一圈，走了进来。

“只是半福列塔，我的女儿，”他说。 “他们派人来找我了。女院长病得很重，我可能会在那里待很长时间。如果你认为他们会记得给那里的基督徒递一杯酒，那你就大错特错了。”

“她们是修女，”安妮塔笑着说。 “他们能知道什么？”

她起身去给医生拿酒。她说话的声音和态度都没有一丝不悦。

托马索修女很少被邀请到修道院。事实上，他不记得在苏比亚科漫长的执业过程中，他被通缉过六次以上。要么修女们几乎从未生过病，要么她们一定是用前世流传下来的简单疗法来治疗自己的。也许他们总体上过得很好，就好像他们系统地接受了当时被视为医学的英雄治疗一样。事实上，他们主要是患了重感冒。当他们得了重感冒时，要么痊愈，要么死亡，这取决于他们的命运。托马索也许救了他们中的一些人；但另一方面，他可能会相当迅速地帮助其他一些人从他们的牢房到那个深深的地下室，这个地下室在小教堂的中间，由一面大理石方形旗帜封闭，上面有两个黄铜螺柱，上面印着简单的铭文：“这里安息着迦密山圣母玛利亚修女会的遗骸。”总的来说，平时不请医生的做法对修道院的死亡率统计是否有很大影响值得怀疑。

不过，虽然女院长一生中不止一次患过感冒，但从来没有像这次这样受过如此严重的痛苦，对于侄女关于需要医疗救助的强烈陈述，她也没有什么异议。因此，托马索修女在晚上被匆忙地叫来，并带来了足够的适当材料，即使不能治愈，也足以杀死修道院里一半的修女。他以前记得的所有情况都准确无误地重复了一遍。他按响了大门，在黑暗中等了很久，终于听到了门内人行道上鞋子的拍打声和拖拉声，门女和另一位修女走过来让他进去。然后，她们的小门里发出了微弱的光芒。灯，从饱经风霜的旧门的裂缝中颤抖着，落在托马索修女所站的开裂的大理石台阶上。一个细弱的声音问谁在那儿，托马索修士回答说他是医生。然后他听到两个修女用压抑的语气进行了一些对话。那人说，医生正在等候中，必须毫无疑问地让他进去。另一个人观察到这可能是小偷。第一个说，在这种情况下，他们必须找出漏洞。第二个说她不认识医生。第一个发言者说得有些道理，人们可以区分出一个受人尊敬的人和强盗，突然，门上的一个小方形舷窗向内打开，当修女们举起她们的小手电筒时，一道光线落在托马索修女的脸上。光栅后面的灯。在灯后面，他可以辨认出一对在悬垂的面纱下有一双阴暗的眼睛，面纱也遮住了脸的下半部分。

“你真的是医生吗？”其中一个声音用怀疑的语气问道。

“他本人，”医生回答道。 “我是萨皮恩扎大学的托马索·塔代伊博士，我奉命为女院长牧师提供帮助。”

光线消失了，舷窗也关闭了，第二场谈话开始了。总而言之，两个修女决定让他进去，然后传来钥匙的丁当声、铁棍的叮当声和锁的摩擦声，不久，一扇小门被切割并挂在一张巨大的铁门上。 -镶有钉子的木门被向后打开。托马索修士弯下腰，将箱子放在面前，因为入口又低又窄。

“赞美上帝！”当他在里面时，他大声喊道。

“赞美归于他的圣名，”姐妹俩立即回答。

两人都摘下了面纱，把灯放在人行道上，然后又把小门锁上。阳光使石旗上油腻潮湿的东西闪闪发光，托马索修士在他的呢绒斗篷中瑟瑟发抖。然后，像以前一样，他被默默地引导着穿过拱形通道，登上许多台阶，沿着迷宫般的走廊，他坚固的鞋子激起尖锐的金属回声，而修女们的拖鞋拍打着，拖着脚步，一个人走在他的两侧，左边那个提着灯的，按照古老的礼貌规则。最后，他们到达了走廊尽头的前厅门口，穿过门厅就到了女院长的私人公寓，共有三个房间。托马索修女面对通向前厅的那扇门，左边最后一扇门是玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔的牢房。亚麻压榨机是从前厅内通过右侧的门进入的，因此它们实际上是在女院长的公寓里，这是一种老式且有点不方便的布置。玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔（Maria Addolorata）在门口迎接他，她把面纱拉下来，这样她就看不到医生了，只能看到他的脚，以及下巴和嘴巴上的褶皱，她在门口迎接他，并在他身后关上了门。另外两个修女把灯放在走廊的地板上，把手伸进袖子里，站在外面等着。

女院长病得很重，但她坚持坐在客厅里接待医生，她穿好衣服，戴上面纱，坐在她的大安乐椅上，枕头是绿色丝绸制成的，但上面盖着一个白色枕头——盒子的两端都绣有精美的镂空图案，透过它们可以看到鲜艳的色彩——即使在灯光下也看不出蓝色的高绿色。前厅和客厅里都摆着擦得锃亮的银灯，其样式与富农用的铜灯一模一样，只是每盏灯的一侧都有一个扇形的银罩，用作灯罩，上面有Braccio 家族的徽章位于高凸台上，并通过可移动的弯曲臂固定在油船上。房间里的家具非常简单，但是高背雕花镀金椅子、黑白大理石路面、格列高利十六世的巨大肖像，却透露出某种教会的庄严。镀金的框架，写字台上精美的银色十字架，总之，眼前的一切都是坚固的。

要确定这位好女士的状况并不是一件容易的事，因为她裹得严严实实，戴着面纱。托马索修女被允许摸脉搏只是对必要性的巨大让步，需要玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔雄辩的说服和明智的论证才能促使她稍微揭开面纱，张开嘴。

“尊敬的阁下必须通过代理人来治愈，”托马索修士无计可施地说。 “如果这位尊敬的母亲，”他转向年轻的修女，补充道，“如果能够执行我的指示，也许会有所作为。尊敬的阁下有生命危险。尊敬的阁下应该在床上休息。”

“这是天意。”女院长用微弱而沙哑的声音说道。

“告诉我该怎么做，”玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔说。 “这件事应该像你自己做的那样做。”

托马索修士被他所说的话中的确信语气所鼓舞，并开始给出他的许多指示和几乎无穷无尽的建议。

“但是，如果尊敬的阁下允许我亲自协助您，那么补救措施会更有效，”他建议道，同时将案件的大部分内容放在巨大的写字台上。

“你似乎忘记了这是一座宗教场所，”女修道院院长回答道，她本来还可以说更多，但突然被一阵剧烈的咳嗽打断了，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔扶着她，试图让她放松下来。

“你走开会更好。”修女最后说道。 “我会做你吩咐的一切，但你的出现激怒了她。明天早上回来，我会告诉你她的进展如何。”

女院长缓缓点头，证实了侄女的话。托马索修士很不情愿地合上箱子，把它夹在腋下，把绒布斗篷和帽子收起来，在生病的女士面前低下头。

他说：“祝愿阁下好好休息，早日康复。” “我是大人最卑微的仆人。”

玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔领着他走进前厅。她停了下来，他们单独在一起了一会儿，所有的门都关上了。医生站在她身旁，等着她说话。

“你怎么认为？”她问。

“我不想说什么，”他回答道。

“你想让我说什么？中风、感冒、支气管炎、胸膜炎、肺炎。感谢老天爷，没有发烧了。你想让我说什么？为了呼吸空气，喝一点好酒；用于防寒、保暖；对于支气管炎，棉花糖茶；用于胸膜炎，严重起泡；对于肺炎，芥末膏是很好的选择；对于一般系统，黑色吃水；最重要的是，没有东西吃。用热油摩擦也会有效果。这是代理行医，我的母亲女士。你想让我说什么？我已经准备好了。我是她最尊贵的阁下最卑微的仆人。但我无法创造奇迹。祈求圣母玛利亚表演它们。我什至没有看到她最尊贵的阁下最睿智的舌头的尖端。我能做些什么？”

“那么，明天早上回来，我们在这里见。”玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔说道。

托马索修女发现修女们在走廊里拿着小灯在等他，她们带着他穿过拱形通道和楼梯，一言不发地把他放出了夜色。

夜晚漆黑多云。自从他上来之后，天色变得更加黑暗了，最后一丝余光也从天空中完全消失了。十月的风从苏比亚科上方的山上吹来，把医生的长斗篷吹得乱七八糟，像夜鸟的翅膀一样轻轻拍动。下降了一段距离后，他小心翼翼地将箱子放在石头上，然后在口袋里摸索着鼻烟盒，费了好大劲才找到。一阵风把一粒鼻烟吹进了他的右眼，他痛得愤怒地跺着脚，脚被滚石撞伤了。但他最终还是成功地将鼻烟吸到了鼻子上。然后他在黑暗中弯下腰，拿起他的箱子，箱子就在他的脚边，尽管他几乎看不到它。阵阵南风吹过他的斗篷长裙，吹过他的头顶，拂动着他的耳朵。他摸索着寻找盒子。

就在这时，医生听到身后小路上传来轻微的脚步声。他大声喊叫，警告他挡道了。

「噢、轻轻一点，你知道的！」他哭了。 “风中风！”他激烈地补充道，同时他的头和手越来越被斗篷的褶皱缠住。

“还有一个在你身上！”一个女人的声音回答道，她咬紧牙关，低声说道。

黑暗中，一只手拿着什么东西快速地连续上升和下降了三次。一个男人因痛苦而发出的低沉叫声被厚厚的绒布压制住了。狭窄、蜿蜒的道路上，一会儿又听到了同样的轻快脚步声，托马索修士一动不动地趴在包厢上，斗篷盖在头上。阵阵南风在漆黑的墙壁间吹来吹去，时不时地夹带着几片枯萎的藤叶和几缕稻草。夜越来越黑了，那条路已经很久没有人经过了。

安格斯·达尔林普尔吃完晚饭后，拿出一本书，坐在三盏铜灯灯芯的灯光下读书。安内塔把东西拿走了，就没有再回来。吉吉托走进来，从墙上的挂钩上拿起吉他，在房间里闲逛，一边调音，一边哼着歌。他是一个身材高大的年轻人，有着一张女人的脸和天鹅绒般美丽的眼睛，就像你在苏比亚科夏日的节日里遇到的那样英俊而闲散的年轻人。他和达尔林普尔寒暄了几句，看到这个地方空无一人，最后他把吉他扛在肩上，把宽大的黑色毡帽拉到眼睛上，然后从半开的门里走了出去，大概是这样。寻找乐趣。吉吉托的主要美德是，只要有机会，他就表现出完全的孩子气和不做作的自娱自乐的品味，总的来说，他是非常天真的。他和苏格兰人不应该关心彼此的社交，这是很自然的。达尔林普尔注视了他一会儿，然后又继续看书。他身边放着一大杯酒，还有半杯，他的杯子已经满了。

他正在努力将注意力集中在那本博学的论文上，这些论文是他随身携带的小图书馆的一部分。尽管他决心严肃起来，但安妮塔关于修女们的闲聊，尤其是关于玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔和她的歌声，却一直在他的脑海中萦绕。他已经过了几个月的隐士生活，几乎忘记了一个受过教育的女人的声音。对他来说，安妮塔只不过是一只相当漂亮的野生动物。他没有想到她可能会爱上他。索拉·南纳只是同一物种中的一种更古老、更丑陋的动物。对于达尔林普尔这样的性情、真正致力于追求某个严肃目标的男人来说，一个连这个目标是什么都无法理解的女人根本就不能算是一个女人。

但这位年轻的苏格兰人并不缺少那种充满激情和奇幻的想象力，这种想象力常常是北方人顽强的本性的基础，甚至是指导者，而年轻女孩漫不经心的话语突然激发了这种想象力。他不由自主地已经计划好要到修道院墙下去听，也许他能听到修女那美妙的声音，而从那以后，他就想一睹这位歌手的风采，这只是一步之遥。与此同时，他也清楚地意识到，这样的计划即使不是不切实际，也是危险的，他理智的自我嘲笑了他不合理的浪漫，但当他试图将注意力转向他的书时，他又再次面对它。

他抬头一看，发现自己的酒还没有喝完，尽管那个时候量杯通常是空的，他想知道为什么自己没有平时那么渴了。出于习惯的力量，他倒空了整杯酒，又倒了更多的酒——出于北方人的老习惯，把喝一点点酒当作一种义务，这在当时比现在更常见。然后他又开始读书，做梦也没想到他那坚强的头脑和坚实的神经会受到他的药剂的任何影响。但今晚他的想象力发挥得越来越快，他清醒的理由是顽固和厌恶的工作。

修女有一头金色的头发、黑色的眼睛和一张美丽的脸。这些事实比他在工作中所能找到的要有趣得多。她有一副美妙的声音。他试图回忆起一生中听到过的所有非凡的声音，但没有一个对他产生过太大的影响，尽管他有很好的耳朵和一些音乐品味。他想知道这会是什么样的声音，他渴望听到它。他不耐烦地合上书，又喝了一口酒，起身向敞开的门走去。阵阵南风吹拂着他的脸，令人心旷神怡，他恨不得睡在户外。

索拉·南娜（Sora Nanna）和附近的一位朋友一起度过了一个晚上，她进来了，她薄薄的黑色罩裙拉在头上，以将绣花头巾固定在原位。过了一会儿，达尔林普尔还站在门口，斯特凡诺出现了，他正在一家友好的酒馆里打牌。他在餐桌旁的索拉·南娜身边坐下。她正在一个饰有绿色和棕色条纹的大陶碗里搅拌一些沙拉。他们低声交谈着。达尔林普尔依次向每个人点了点头，但阵阵风让他很高兴，他仍然站在门边，任由风吹到他的脸上。

天色已晚。意大利农民不太爱睡觉，他们的习惯是在很晚的时候，也就是睡觉前吃晚饭。这时，按照我们计算的时间，已经快十点了，或者按照意大利的古老习俗，大约是十月的“夜四点”，这是从理论上的黑暗时刻推算的，应该从万福玛丽亚开始，半夜。日落后一小时。

突然，达尔林普尔听到安妮塔的声音在他身后的房间里对她的母亲说话。自从她清理完桌子并离开他以来，他没有什么特别的理由认为她已经出门了，但无意识地他有一种印象，她已经离开了，并且惊讶地听到她在房间里，在期待之后她应该从街上进来，从他身边经过，就像其他人一样。他转身，缓缓走向桌边自己的位置。

“我以为你出去了，”他漫不经心地对安妮塔说道。

少女连忙转过头。

“我？”她哭了。 “那么一个人呢？连吉吉托都没有吗？我晚上什么时候一个人出去？先生，请吃晚饭吗？”

“我刚吃过饭，谢谢你，”达尔林普尔回答道，坐了下来。

“三个小时前。吃饭的时候还不到晚上一个小时。好吧——随你便。事后别抱怨我们让你饿死。”

“面包，安妮塔！”斯特凡农粗声粗气地说道，但脾气很好。 “还有奶酪、盐——还有酒！一千件事！快点，我的女儿。”

“比这个还快？”女孩问道，她已经将他要的大部分东西放在了桌子上。

“我这么说就是为了这么说，”她父亲回答道。 “‘饥饿使人跳远’，我很饿。”

“你赢了什么吗？”索拉·南娜把双肘撑在桌子上问道。

“五个白菜。”

“为了赢得这么多，花十白赤买别人的劣酒也是值得的！”索拉·南纳回答道，她是个细心的人。 “酒当然是你付钱的？”

“呃——当然。当他们来到这里时，他们会付钱买酒。一个人索取一点，一个人付出一点。这就是生活。”

他们说话的时候，安妮塔忙着简单地准备晚餐。达尔林普尔懒洋洋地看着她，他觉得她脸色苍白，眼睛却很明亮。她给自己准备了一个盘子，但忘记带杯子了。

“你呢？你不喝酒吗？”斯特凡诺问道。 “你没有玻璃杯。”

“有什么关系？”她坐在爸爸和妈妈中间。

“喝我的吧，我的小女儿，”斯特凡诺说着，笑着把酒杯举到唇边，就像她是个小孩子一样。

她静静地看着他的眼睛片刻，然后用嘴唇触碰了酒。

“是的，”她略带强调地回答。 “我现在就用你的杯子喝水。”

“这样更好，”斯特凡农笑道，他很高兴能和解，因为他爱这个女孩，尽管他偶尔会发脾气。

“这是什么意思？”索拉·南娜问，她那狡猾的农民的眼睛从一只眼睛扫到另一只眼睛，似乎掩盖了她那张愚蠢的脸。

“没什么，”斯特凡诺回答。 “我们一起玩。英国人先生，”他转向达尔林普尔说道，“你有时一定希望自己已经结婚了，有一个像南娜那样的妻子，和一个像安妮塔那样的女儿。”

“我当然知道，”达尔林普尔微笑着说道。

不久之后，他拿着书上楼睡觉，在山坡上度过了漫长的一天，寻找某些植物，但毫无结果，根据他的书，这些植物在意大利的那个地区被发现，他感到疲倦和困倦，但他还没有看到。他睡着了，想着玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔那张他从未见过的可爱的脸庞和金色的头发。在他的梦中，他听到了一种罕见的真实声音，这让他感到奇怪的触动。狂风吹得他卧室的窗玻璃嘎嘎作响，在梦中，他正在敲打玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔的窗户，轻声呼唤她，打开窗户跟他说话，或者用他非凡的外国口音叫她的名字。他觉得自己敲击玻璃和木框的声音越来越大，越来越响。然后他听到自己的名字被喊出来，他的心猛地一跳，仿佛要在原地翻个身，然后又像一块重石掉进深水里一样沉下去；因为他醒了，呼唤他的声音肯定不是那个美丽修女的声音，而是粗鲁而有男子气概的。而且，敲击声不再是敲击窗扉，而是猛烈地敲击他自己的门闩。

达尔林普尔突然坐了起来，听着，立刻就完全清醒了。黑暗中，他那方形的窗户依稀可见，仿佛黎明即将破晓。他大声喊道，询问谁在外面。

“起来吧，先生！起床！快点通缉你吧！”是斯特凡诺内。

达尔林普尔点了一把火，因为他随身带着火柴，这是当时苏比亚科所不知道的现代生活的便利，除了作为一种昂贵的玩具，尽管已经在罗马使用。就这样，他打开了门。斯特凡诺进来了，穿着衬衫和马裤，脸色因兴奋而苍白。

“你必须穿好衣服，先生，”他简短地说，同时看了一眼苏格兰人，然后放下了他随身携带的小锡玻璃灯笼。

“什么事？”达尔林普尔打着哈欠问道，他把白色的大手臂伸过头顶，直到指关节碰到了低矮的天花板。因为他是个高个子。

“问题是他们杀了托马索修女，”农民回答道。

达尔林普尔发出一声惊讶和难以置信的感叹。

“正如我所说，”斯特凡诺继续说道。 “他们发现他躺在街对面的街道上，身上有刀伤，你想伤多少就伤多少。”

“那太可怕了！”达尔林普尔转过身来，平静地修剪着他的灯，一开始灯烧得很厉害。

“那就穿好衣服吧，先生！”斯特凡诺不耐烦地说。 “你一定要来！”

“为什么？如果他死了，我该怎么办？”北方人冷冷地问道。 “对不起。我还能说什么？

“但他还没死！”斯特凡诺越来越兴奋。 “他们带走了他——”

“哦！他还活着，是吗？”苏格兰人打断了他的话，猛地扑打着自己的衣服，仿佛他自己突然被激发了活力。 “那你为什么告诉我他们杀了他？”他立即开始穿衣服，声音带着好奇、干巴巴的平静问道。 “拿一些干净的床单来，斯特凡诺先生。把它撕成手掌那么宽的条子，用来做绷带，然后让女人们用旧亚麻布做一点绒——棉花不好。他们把托马索修士带到哪里去了？

“去他自己的房子。”农民回答道。

“这样就好多了。去制作绷带吧。”

达尔林普尔一只手将斯特凡诺推向门口，另一只手继续扣紧衣服。

斯特凡诺内也不是没有过类似的经历，于是他拿起灯笼就走了。不到一刻钟，他和达尔林普尔就前往托马索修女的家，那所房子位于苏比亚科广场，距离主教堂不远。六名农民遇见了将受伤医生从被发现地点带回家的骡夫，他们跟着这两个人，低声、断断续续地兴奋地交谈着。房屋上空的黎明灰蒙蒙的，秋天的薄雾已经飘到了小广场俯瞰山谷一侧的栏杆上，一动不动地悬挂在静止的空气中，就像剧院里的舞台海。远处传来骡子鞋子的叮当声，偶尔还有山羊铃铛的低沉叮当声。就在这一小群人到达医生家那扇深绿色的小门时，远处的修道院钟声敲响了一声，然后快速敲响了两声，然后又敲响了三声，然后敲响了五声，然后敲响了晨钟声。广场上肮脏的小咖啡店的门已经打开，里面亮着微弱的灯光。空气潮湿、安静，还带着奇怪的共鸣，就像黎明时分山城里经常出现的那样。十月的狂风在吹了几乎一夜之后已经停了下来。

案情远没有达尔林普尔预期的那么严重，他很快就确信托马索修女并没有遇到任何巨大的危险。他因惊恐和失血而昏了过去，但那两次刺伤他的刺都没有刺入他的肺部，而第三次只是擦伤而已。毫无疑问，他的安全部分归功于风将他的斗篷吹到了他的肩膀和头上。但同样明显的是，袭击者没有使用刀作为武器的经验。当门口的一群人被告知托马索修士没有受致命伤时，他们离开时对这件事的微不足道的结局感到有些失望，尽管这位医生在镇上并不是一个不受欢迎的人。

“是某个女人，”其中一个轻蔑地说。 “女人拿刀能做什么？比猫更糟糕——她抓伤，然后逃跑。”

“有点嫉妒，”另一个人评论道。 “呃！托马索啊——谁知道他在哪里做爱呢？但与此同时，他也在变老，变得如此快乐。”

“老年人是最糟糕的，”第一位发言者回答道。 “既然没什么，那就喝一杯百奥科的阿夸维塔吧，然后我们就走吧。”

于是他们走进那间肮脏的小咖啡店去买价值一分钱的烈酒。与此同时，达尔林普尔正在清洗并包扎他朋友的伤口。托马索修士在每一次触碰下都会发出呻吟和退缩的声音，而苏格兰人则以干巴巴的温柔尽力安抚他。斯特凡诺默默地旁观了一段时间，在达尔林普尔需要的时候帮助他。医生的女仆是个浑身脏兮兮的农民，她坐在楼梯上大声哭泣。

“这没用，”托马索修士抱怨道。 “我死了。”

“我可能弄错了，”达尔林普尔回答道，“但我认为没有。”

他以坚定的态度继续进行手术，这让斯特凡诺非常钦佩，因为他经常看到刀伤包扎。托马索修女渐渐变得平静了。他的脸色原本是鲜红的，现在变得非常苍白，水汪​​汪的蓝眼睛像小猫一样无助地眨着眼睛，一动不动地躺在枕头上。斯特凡诺最终离开去干他的活儿了，达尔林普尔清理了一堆未使用的绷带和棉绒，把东西整理好，坐在床边耐心地陪伴了他一会儿。他确实有些着急，生怕伤口凉了。

“如果我康复了，那将是一个奇迹。”托马索修士有气无力地说。 “我必须考虑我的灵魂。”

“无论如何，”苏格兰人回答。 “它不会伤害你的灵魂，沉思可以让你的身体得到休息。”

“你们新教徒没有人类的情感，”意大利人说道，他的头在枕头上慢慢地移动。 “但我也想到了女院长。我本应今天一早就去那儿的。她也会死。我们都会死。”

达尔林普尔将一条腿交叉在另一条腿上，静静地看着医生。

“托马索先生，”他说，“苏比亚科没有其他医生。我是一名医生，拥有适当的执业许可。显然，在你生病时照顾你的病人是我的责任。”

“怜悯！”托马索修士睁大了眼睛，突然充满了活力，喊道。

“你害怕我会杀掉他们吗？”达尔林普尔微笑着问道。

“谁知道？一个外国人！人们说你与魔鬼交谈。但普通人却愚昧无知。”

“非常。”

“至于女修道院——一个新教徒——女修道院院长！他们宁愿死。你自己想想，会有什么样的丑闻！修道院里的新教徒，然后，也是那个修道院里的新教徒！女院长宁愿平静地死去。”

“无论如何，我都会去提供我的服务。如果女院长希望平静地死去，她可以回应这一点。我会问问她对此有何看法。”

“问她！”托马索修士重复道。 “你以为你能见到她吗？但你能知道什么？我告诉你，昨晚她坐在椅子上，脸被蒙住。需要上天的恩惠，我才能摸到她的脉搏！至于她的舌头，天知道是什么样子的！我没看见过它。还不及它的尖端！我连她的眼睛都没有看到。今天我根本不准进去，因为女院长正在床上。想象一下你自己，有水泡和芥子病，以及一百种东西。我只是要在女院长公寓的前厅里与玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女交谈，她是她的侄女。他们不会让你进去。他们会通过修道院门的漏洞给你洗一浴圣水，然后说：‘走开，罪人；去吧，罪人。这是一座宗教房屋！”你对他们知之甚少。”

“你说得太多了，”达尔林普尔观察道，他认真地听着。 “这对你没有好处。再说了，既然你能说话，你最好告诉我昨晚是谁刺伤了你，这样我就可以去报警，如果可以的话，可以把人抓起来。”

“你不知道自己在说什么。”托马索修士突然严肃地回答道。 “这个女人有亲戚——谁能比她更好地用刀。”

他把脸转开。

当达尔林普尔让托马索修女照顾老女仆时，太阳已经升得很高了，他回到斯特凡诺的家，比黎明时匆匆上厕所时更加小心地穿好衣服。而现在时间充裕，他比平时更加​​注意自己的仪容仪表；因为他已经下定决心要接替托马索修女侍奉女修道院院长。因此，他穿上了一件颜色朴素的外套，把红色的直发从前额梳到脑后，轻松地给自己带来了一种极其严肃和令人信任的气氛，这种气氛使许多苏格兰人与众不同，并支持他们的坚实品质，同时似乎否认了任何冒险和浪漫倾向的可能性。

那时房子周围没有人，达尔林普尔手里拿着手杖，开始了他的探险，寻找全世界，就好像他要去爱丁堡的教堂，而不是想进入意大利修道院一样。他没有就这个问题对医生再说什么。街上的人们大多数都经常见到他，也都知道他的名字，没有人会奇怪为什么一个外国人在国外散步时应该穿一种外套而不是另一种外套。他走得很悠闲；因为天空已经放晴，太阳很热。而且，为了保持鞋子干净，他走的是更长的路，而不是爬上托马索修士遭到袭击的狭窄泥泞小巷。他终于到达了修道院门口，掸去外套上的几粒灰尘，整理好高领和当时取代领带的宽大的黑色领带，然后用力地按响了门铃。也许没有必要紧张。不管怎样，达尔林普尔的动作一如既往地从容，在各方面都一如既往地冷静。只是，就在他刚拉开那条饱经风霜的铃链时，他平坦的唇角浮起一抹半幽默的笑容，转眼又消失了。

里面的拱形拱门里响起了平常的拍打声和拖鞋拖曳的声音，但由于现在是白天，漏洞立即被打开，门女独自走了进来。达尔林普尔用带有奇怪口音但流利的意大利语解释说，托马索修女在夜间遭遇了事故。他，安格斯·达尔林普尔，是医生的朋友，也是医生本人，承担了托马索修女的所有职责，最后，他恳求女门童找到玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女，重复他的故事，并提供他的帮助。为女院长的康复事业做出了卑微的贡献。这一切，里面蒙着面纱的修女都耐心地听完了。

“我会和玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女说话，”她说。 “请耐心等待。”

“外部？”达尔林普尔问道，因为漏洞的小百叶窗几乎已经关闭了。

“当然，”修女回答道，又打开了门，话一出口又关上了。

达尔林普尔在烈日下等了很长时间。修道院正门朝东南，此时尚未到正午。走了一圈，他浑身发热，轻轻擦了擦额头，又小心翼翼地折好手帕，放回口袋里。终于，他又听到了脚步声，几秒钟后，漏洞再次被打开。

“玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女会和你说话，”当门女的脸靠近小栅栏时，他的声音说道。

他感到一丝意外的惊喜。但就看到的一切而言，他很失望。现在不再是一位蒙着面纱的修女，而是两位蒙着面纱的修女。

“女士，”他开始说道，“我的朋友托马索·塔迪医生遭遇了一场事故，无法下床。”他接着重复了他告诉女门童的一切，并做了他认为必要和有说服力的进一步解释。

当他说话的时候，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔退到了更深的阴影中，远离了漏洞。她的面纱遮住了她的眼睛，褶皱遮住了她的嘴，但她逐渐抬起头，又向后仰，直到她能从黑色材料的边缘下面看到达尔林普尔的脸。说到这里，她不自觉地捂住了嘴。苏格兰人看到了她的大部分容貌，全神贯注地凝视着他所看到的一切，正确地判断出，由于太阳在他身后，她几乎无法确定他是否在看着她。

至于她，无疑是出于一种天生的好奇心，但同时她也明白事情的严重性，希望对是否应该接纳这个陌生人发表意见。一眼就看出达尔林普尔是一位绅士，他严肃的声音和他显然熟悉女修道院院长的状况，因此一定是托马索修士的朋友，这让她放心了。他说完，她立刻又低下了头，似乎在犹豫。

“打开门，菲洛梅娜修女，”她最后说道。

女看门人几乎难以察觉地摇了摇头，听从了吩咐，但什么也没说。整件事在她看来极不正常。玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔应该退到修道院客厅旁边的小房间里，用双层栅栏与它隔开，而达尔林普尔应该被允许进入客厅，他们应该通过栅栏互相说出他们不得不说的话，当着门女的面。但玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔是女院长的侄女。据说，女院长病得很重，无法发号施令，甚至无法说话。几天后，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔可能会成为“她最尊敬的阁下”。与此同时，她是局势的主宰，服从她更安全。而且，女看门人只是个俗人修女，一个又老又无知的人，习惯于做修道院女人们吩咐她做的事。

达尔林普尔摘下帽子，弯下腰从小侧门进去。一跨过门槛，他就站起来，然后向玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔深深鞠了一躬，她的面纱现在完全遮住了她的眼睛，让她看不到他——他立即意识到了这一点。

“向修女们发出警告，菲洛梅娜修女，”玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔对门女说，门女恭敬地点点头，走入拱门下的阴暗处，把修女和达尔林普尔留在门边。

“有必要发出警告，”她解释说，“免得你在走廊里遇到任何没有戴面纱的姐妹，而她们会被激怒。”

达尔林普尔再次严肃地鞠了一躬，静静地站着，他的眼睛盯着玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔蒙着面纱的头，但时不时地转向她那只沉重但形状美丽的白手，她漫不经心地握着她的手，手里拿着那串由棕色珠子组成的大念珠的末端。挂在她身边。他觉得自己从来没有见过这样的手。他们出身高贵，但同时又具有强烈的物质吸引力。

他不知道该说什么，又似乎没有人对他抱有任何期望，所以他沉默了一会儿。最后，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔似乎对女门童的长期缺席感到不耐烦，用她的凉鞋轻轻地敲击着人行道，然后把头转向拱门的方向，仿佛在倾听接近的脚步声。

“我希望女修道院院长并不比塔德伊医生昨晚见到她时更糟，”达尔林普尔说道。

“最尊贵的阁下，”玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔回答道，语气中略带强调，仿佛是在教他如何正确地称呼女修道院院长，“就是痛苦。她度过了一个糟糕的夜晚。”

“我希望能够向尊贵的阁下提出一些建议，”达尔林普尔说道，以表明他已经理解了这个暗示。

“她不会让你见她的。但你应该跟我一起去前厅，我会和她谈谈，并告诉你她说的话。”

“我将非常感激，并将尽我所能在不见病人的情况下提供好的建议。”

接下来又是一次停顿，期间两人都没有动。然后玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔再次说话，达尔林普尔安静而专业的语气也许让她更加放心。她刚刚离开这个世界，已经失去了通过交谈来打破尴尬的沉默的习惯。多年的隐居，不但没有让她害羞沉默，反而给了她一种已婚妇女的轻松和冷静。这是很自然的，因为她出身于世俗之人，并且在童年时期就在自己家里习得了世俗的礼仪。

“我猜你是英国人，博士先生？”她用审问的语气观察道。

“一位苏格兰人，女士，”达尔林普尔回答道，纠正了她的说法，并让自己稍微镇定下来。 “我的名字是安格斯·达尔林普尔。”

“无论是英国人还是苏格兰人，都是一样的。”修女说。

“请原谅，女士，我们认为这是有很大区别的。苏格兰人主要是凯尔特人。英国人是盎格鲁撒克逊人。”

“但你们都是新教徒。因此对我们来说也是一样。”

达尔林普尔害怕讨论宗教问题。他没有回答尼姑的最后一句话，只是礼貌地鞠了一躬。她当然看不到他的倾向。

“你什么也没说，”她立刻说道。 “你是新教徒吗？”

“是的女士。”

“很可惜！”玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔说。 “愿上帝赐予你光明。”

“谢谢夫人。”

玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔看到这礼貌而简单的回答，在面纱下微笑起来。她在罗马遇到了英国人。

“现在不再习惯称我们为‘女士’，”过了一会儿她回答道。 “更常见的是称呼我们为‘修女’或‘牧师修女’——或者‘玛丽亚修女’。我是玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女。但你知道这一点，因为你给我发了信息。”

“塔德伊医生告诉我的。”

这时，看门女出现在远处，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔听到脚步声，把头从达尔林普尔转开，稍微掀起面纱，这样她就可以认出这位外行修女，而不用把脸暴露给年轻人。

“我们走吧，”她说着，再次摘下面纱，开始继续前行。 “姐妹们受到警告。”

达尔林普尔默默地跟在她身后，保持着一段尊重的距离，庆幸自己在第一次尝试中就取得了如此大的成就，并在心里祈祷托马索修士的伤口可能需要相当长的时间才能愈合。这一切发生得如此自然，以至于他已经失去了最初占据他的那种冒险的感觉，现在他认为一切皆有可能，甚至被邀请在玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女的座位上喝一杯友好的茶——房间;因为他想象她有一个起居室，并在半豪华的私密环境中喝茶。这个想法会让当时的意大利人感到好笑，因为当时茶被视为药物。

他们到达了最后一条走廊的尽头。达尔林普尔和托马索修女一样被允许进入前厅，而门女则在外面等着把他带回来。但玛丽亚并没有把他带进女院长的客厅，她立刻走进去，关上了门。达尔林普尔坐在一张雕花木箱长凳上，等待着。修女已经走了很长时间了。

“让你久等了。”她一边说，一边再次走进小房间。

“我的时间完全为你服务，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女，”他回答道，迅速站了起来。 “殿下怎么样了？”

“病得不轻。我不知道要说什么。她不会听说要见到你。我担心她活不了多久，因为她几乎无法呼吸。”

“她咳嗽吗？”

“不多。不像昨晚那么严重。她抱怨自己无法呼吸，肺部感觉充满了某种东西。”

案件显然很严重，天生是医生的达尔林普尔开始从修女那里获取尽可能多的信息，而修女也尽力清楚地回答了他的所有问题。这场漫长的谈话，虽然没有什么限制，但多次试图达成相互理解，这比他任何礼貌的演讲都更能让玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔习惯达尔林普尔的存在和个性。任何一起照顾病人的两个人之间都不可避免地存在亲密倾向。

“我可以给你指导和好的建议，”达尔林普尔最后说道。 “但这永远不会像我亲眼见到病人那样。难道就没有办法征得她的同意吗？她可能会因为缺乏我只能在见到她之后才能给出的建议而死去。难道她的兄弟，即红衣主教阁下，也许不会推荐她让我去拜访她一次吗？”

“这是一个主意，”修女很快回答道。 “我的叔叔是一个视野开阔的人。我在罗马听到过这样的说法。我可以写信给他，告诉他塔德伊医生不能来，一位著名的外国医生在这里——”

“不值得庆祝，”达尔林普尔以他苏格兰人的诚实打断了他。

“这能有什么不同呢？”玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔说道，她的肩膀有点不耐烦地活动着。 “他会更愿意利用自己的影响力，因为他非常依恋我的姨妈。那么，如果他能说服她，我今天下午就可以派花匠去镇上接你。也许还不算太晚。”

“我看出你对我有一定的信心，”达尔林普尔说。 “我所在的学校比塔迪医生新。如果你听从我的指示，我几乎可以保证，尊贵的阁下不会在明天之前死去。”

他现在微笑着，给了女院长完整的头衔，因为他开始觉得自己好像认识玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔很长一段时间了，尽管他只瞥见了她的眼睛，就在她抬起头来要走的时候。透过门的漏洞看了他一眼。但他并没有忘记他们，而且他觉得他认识他们。

“我会做你告诉我的一切。”她平静地回答。

达尔林普尔在旅行时随身携带了一些英国药品，并且不知道修道院可能需要他什么，所以他随身携带了几小瓶。

“当她咳嗽的时候，十滴，”他说着，把瓶子递给了修女。 “每小时滴五滴，直到她的胸部感觉更自由。”

他尽可能地向她详细说明了病人的一般治疗方法，玛丽亚重复了一遍并牢记在心。

“我会在二十三点之前让你知道红衣主教对计划的看法，”她说。 “这样你就能在天亮的时候上来了。”

当达尔林普尔离开时，他伸出了手，忘记了自己是在意大利。

“这不是我们的习俗，”玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔一边说，一边将自己的双手伸进了另一只袖子里。

但她的语气中却没有一丝冰冷。相反，达尔林普尔觉得她那一刻几乎要笑了，他为自己的尴尬脸红了。但她看不到他的脸。

“您最卑微的仆人，”他向她鞠躬说道。

“美好的一天，医生先生，”她透过敞开的门回答道，门女叮叮当当地敲着钥匙，准备跟着达尔林普尔。

于是他离开了，对第一次尝试的结果颇为满意。

托马索修士康复得很慢，不过他的伤势本身并不危险。他的脸色中风，患有痛风，他已经不年轻了，不到四十八小时，他的伤口就明显发炎了，还有些发烧。与此同时，他也绝不是一个勇敢的人，每当他感觉自己更糟糕的时候，他就准备大喊自己死了。除此之外，他每天都会对达尔林普尔发脾气，达尔林普尔坚决拒绝给他放血，他坚持吃喝过量，如果他是自己的病人，他会强迫他挨饿。恢复所必需的。

与此同时，红衣主教对他的妹妹女修道院院长发挥了影响力，到目前为止，达尔林普尔已经取得了成功，每天都去修道院的达尔林普尔现在被迫背对着女院长敞开的门站立，以便他可以在至少问她问题并听到她自己的答案。许多意大利老医生都能讲述当时修女们采取的更奇怪、更荒谬的预防措施。口试一结束，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔就关上门，走进客厅，达尔林普尔在那里结束了他的访问，并想方设法延长与她的谈话时间。

尽管达尔林普尔有点北方人的害羞，但他并不害羞。害羞和羞怯之间有很大的区别。自信就是不信任自己；害羞不信任别人的外在印象。此时，达尔林普尔除了享受与玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔交谈的乐趣之外，没有别的目标，也没有希望有一天能看到她没有戴面纱的脸。至于她的声音，他目前担任修道院医生的职位使他冒着被抓到在花园围墙后面听她歌曲的风险是愚蠢的。但他没有忘记安妮塔告诉他的话，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔柔和的语调和流畅的深沉语调让他相信农家姑娘并没有夸大修女的歌唱天赋。

有一天，在他见过她并与她交谈了六次以上之后，他只是为了谈话而接近这个话题，说他是在花园对面听到她说话的人告诉他她美丽的声音的。 。

“确实如此。”她简单地回答。 “我有一副好嗓子。但这里禁止唱歌，除非在教堂里，”她叹了口气补充道。 “现在姑姑病了，我也不会因为任何事而得罪她。”

“那是自然的，”达尔林普尔说。 “但为了听到你的声音，我愿意付出一切。”

“在教堂里你可以听到我的声音。教堂每周日开放，举行祝福仪式。当然，我们在唱诗班的祭坛后面。但也许你会从其他人中辨别出我的声音，因为它更深沉。”

“我应该知道十万的数字，”苏格兰人热情地说。

“那将是很多——一整支天使合唱团！”修女轻声笑起来，就像她有时那样，因为她对他更加了解了。

她的笑声里有一种温暖和爱抚的感觉，尽管笑声短促而低沉，这让达尔林普尔看着她那双洁白的双手，想知道它们是否也同样温暖和爱抚。

“下周日下午你能比其他人唱得大声一点吗，玛丽亚修女？”他问。 “我会在教堂里。”

“那将是一个巨大的罪孽，”她回答道，但语气并不十分严肃。

“为什么？”

“因为我应该想到你而不是神圣的仪式。你不知道吗？但我想，在你们新教徒看来，没有什么是有罪的。不管怎样，一定要来教堂。”

“你认为我们都是魔鬼吗，玛丽亚修女？”达尔林普尔微笑着问道。

“或多或少。”她又笑了。 “镇上有人说你和魔鬼有契约。”

“你听到镇上说什么了吗？”

“有时。园丁把闲话带来并告诉厨师。或者索拉·南娜（Sora Nanna）带来床单时告诉我的。有一千种方法。人们认为我们一无所知，因为他们从未见过我们。但我们听到了正在发生的一切。”

达尔林普尔有一段时间没有回答。然后他突然说话，声音有些沙哑。

“我会永远见不到你吗，玛丽亚修女？”他问。

“我？但你每天都看到我——”

“是的，但是你的脸，没有戴面纱。”

玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔摇摇头。

“这违反了所有规则，”她回答道。

“我们每天坐在这里聊半个小时，这不是违反规矩吗？”

“是的——我想是的。但你是以医生的身份来这里照顾我姑妈的。”她很快补充道。 “这就对了。你不是一个男人。你是医生。”

“哦，我懂。”达尔林普尔笑了一声。 “那我就再也见不到你美丽的容颜了？”

“你没见过，怎么知道它漂亮呢？”

“出自你美丽的双手，”年轻人立即回答。

“哦！”玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔看了一眼自己的双手，然后用一个可能更快的动作将它们藏进了袖子里。

“隐藏上帝创造的美丽是一种罪过，”达尔林普尔说。

“如果我身上有什么美丽的地方，我是为了上帝的荣耀而隐藏它，”玛丽亚这次回答得很严肃。

达尔林普尔明白他有点太过分了，尽管他并不完全后悔，因为她接下来说的话表明她并没有真正被冒犯。尽管如此，为了表现出适当的悔悟，他在这个特殊场合比平常更加正式地离开了。也许她愿意表明她原谅了他，因为在打开门之前她犹豫了一会儿，然后令他大吃一惊的是，她向他伸出了手。

“这是你的习惯，”她说，只是碰触他急切伸出的手指。 “但你不能看它，”她补充道，迅速把它拉回来，藏在袖子里，又低声笑了一声。几乎在他完全走进去之前，她就开始关门。

那天，达尔林普尔走得更慢了，当他穿过陡峭而狭窄的街道时，虽然他生性和习惯都走得很稳，但他在下山的过程中差点绊倒一两次，因为，不知何故，尽管他的眼睛看着他的脚，他并没有确切地看到自己要去哪里。

没有必要分析他的感觉。只要说他开始真正爱上玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔就足够了，他坚决地向自己否认这一事实，尽管这一事实迫使他一步一步地远离修道院。那天，他感觉到一种强烈的预兆，其形式是逻辑上反对他再次回来看修女。反对意见是，两人近乎亲密的交往显然是徒劳的。女院长不再需要他的帮助的那一天很快就会到来。她很可能会康复，因为更令人担忧的症状已经消失，而且她的体力正在慢慢恢复。达尔林普尔非常清楚，在她最终康复后，他与玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔见面并交谈的机会将永远消失。托马索修女确实康复了，但恢复得很慢。这两个人中，他的情况最严重，因为第三天发烧了，而且还没有离开他，所以他几乎每小时都向达尔林普尔保证，他的最后一刻即将到来。但在苏格兰人看来，他也一定会康复，后者非常清楚，一旦苏比亚科医生能够爬上山，他作为修道院医生的临时特权就会从他身上被收回。

因此，这只是他生命中的一个短暂事件，此后不可能再有任何延续。他徒劳地试图制定计划并创造理由，以便在未来一段时间内每月与玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔见面一次，但他的聪明才智完全让他失望了，他对自己感到愤怒，因为他渴望得到明显不可能的东西。

真正的男子气概，一旦他对自己不满意，他就会把自己的不满发泄到吸引他的对象上，而且是在他们下次见面时尽早地表达出来。他表现出一种冷漠和矜持的神情，这是他第一次来访时肯定没有必要表现出来的。他几乎没有任何初步的客套话，也没有试图延长在他背对女院长敞开的门站立之前总是进行的简短谈话，他冷冷地询问了这位好女士昨晚的状况，然后对此做了一两点简短的观察，几乎可以说是草率的。

玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔很惊讶；但由于她的脸被遮住，双手静静地叠在身前，达尔林普尔看不出他的行为对她有任何影响。她没有回答他的最后一句话，只是静静地低下了头。

接下来是通常的严肃喜剧场景，在此期间，达尔林普尔背对着敞开的门站着，向生病的妇女提出问题，并仔细聆听她低声回答。说实话，他判断她的状况更多的是从她的声音来，而不是从其他任何方面。他还教玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔如何感受脉搏。当他看手表时，她数着节拍。他现在主要担心的是心脏的活动，由于一生不健康的生活、食物质量不足（即使数量充足）、被限制在室内、缺乏赋予生命的阳光，以及所有这些因素都会降低隐修修女的活力。

喜剧结束后，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔像往常一样关上了门。她和达尔林普尔独自一人在女院长的客厅里，就像他们每天一样。女院长本人能听到他们在说话，但她自然地认为他们正在讨论她病情的细节；据她判断，她感觉自己确实在康复，达尔林普尔走后，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔几乎每天都有新的指示要执行，所以老太太的怀疑并没有引起。相反，她对这位苏格兰医生的信心与日俱增。在她思考自己的处境和处境的漫长时间里，她为他的皈依制定了计划，其中她的红衣主教哥哥发挥了主要作用。她对达尔林普尔心怀感激，在她看来，表达感激之情的最恰当方式就是拯救他的灵魂，这在普通的生活关系中是不寻常的。

在这一天，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔关上门，像往常一样走进客厅。她也像往常一样，坐在女院长自己的大安乐椅上，期待着达尔林普尔会坐在她对面。但他仍然站着，显然打算一会儿就走。他说了几句关于病人的事，给出了一两个指示，然后静静地站了一会儿。

玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔稍微抬起头，但还不足以让他看到她的脸超过一英寸。

“我有让您不高兴吗，博士先生？”她用低沉而温暖的声音问道。 “我没有执行你的命令吗？”

“恰恰相反，”达尔林普尔回答道，他的表情僵硬，连他自己都感到厌恶。 “你不可能比以前更加认真了。”

尼姑见他还站着，就起身等他走。她相信，如果他想缩短会面时间，她太骄傲了，不会拘留他。但有些东西伤害了她，她无法理解。

达尔林普尔犹豫了一会儿，嘴唇张开，似乎正要说话。沉默只持续了一两分钟。

“早上好，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女，”他突然说道，然后鞠了个躬。

“早上好，医生先生。”修女回答道。

她微微低下头，但比达尔林普尔更敏锐的观察者此时会注意到，当她这样做时，她的肩膀向前移动了一点，就好像她的胸部因某种突然的小疼痛而收缩。达尔林普尔没有看到。他再次鞠了一躬，出去了，轻轻地关上了身后的门。

他走后，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔又在大安乐椅上坐下，揭开脸庞，将面纱折回头上，拉开下巴和嘴上厚厚的褶皱。她的脸色非常苍白，她坐在那儿，透过窗户凝视着天空，她的目光定格在她特有的表情上。她白皙的双手微微用力，让指尖染上颜色。几分钟后她一动不动。然后她听到姨妈沙哑的声音在呼唤她。她立刻起身，进了卧室。女院长苍白的脸躺在白色的枕头上，现在显得非常瘦弱、发黄。被子拉到了她的下巴，一个雕刻阴森的黑色十字架直接挂在她的头顶上。

“今天医生没有待太久，”她语气空洞地说。

“不，妈妈，”年轻的修女回答道。 “他认为你做得很好。他希望你吃一只烤鸡翅。”

“如果我能吃点沙拉就好了，”女院长说。 “玛丽亚，”她突然补充道，“当你在隔壁房间时，你会小心地遮住脸，不是吗？”

“总是。”

“在医生离开后，你通常不会揭开面纱，直到你进入这个房间，”老太太说。

“他今天就走了，”玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔回答道，语气天真无邪。 “我在客厅里呆了一会儿，思考着他的指示，当我独自一人时，我揭开了面纱。距离今天已经很近了。”

“到花园里去走走，”女院长说。 “这对你有好处。你脸色苍白。”

即使她对侄女的行为感到一丝不安，但她的态度也消除了这种不安。

达尔林普尔再次坐在一楼拱形房间的桌子旁吃晚饭，斯特凡诺将这里用作葡萄酒商店。说实话，它比苏比亚科的普通酒行要优越得多，名声也非同一般。普通人从来不来那里，因为斯特凡诺内并没有零售出售他的廉价葡萄酒，而是将其全部送往罗马，或者自己运到那里，以便获得更高的价格。他总是说他没有开旅馆，也许是考虑到他与吉盖托家族的关系，他尽可能地承担了酒商的角色，而不是酒商的角色。在意大利山区城镇，这种区别非常明显。

他说：“如果他们愿意付费，他们就能获得最好的产品。” “如果他们想要一口食物，那里就有。但我不是村主，南娜也不是酒馆厨师，为提丢斯和凯厄斯煎牛肚、剥洋葱。”

这个古罗马表达通常指的是普通大众，在上流社会中仍然存在，斯特凡诺是从托马索修女那里学来的。

达尔林普尔像往常一样坐在三喙铜灯的灯光下吃晚饭，旁边放着他量的葡萄酒，面前摆着一块牛排，这一次确实是牛肉。斯特凡诺内带着一大堆酒不在罗马。索拉·南娜坐在达尔林普尔的右边，以意大利时尚的方式勤奋地编织，其中一根针插在她腰带上的木鞘上并由木鞘支撑，而她则和其他针一起缝线。安内塔坐在苏格兰人对面，但离灯的一侧稍远一些，这样她就能看到他的脸。

“妈妈，”她突然说道，下巴没有从搁着的手上抬起来，“你什么都不知道！这位英国先生正在修道院里和一位修女做爱！呃——你觉得怎么样？只缺这个。再多一点，闪电就会落在修道院上！这些新教徒！哦，这些有福的新教徒！他们不尊重任何东西，甚至不尊重圣人！”

“我的女儿！你在说什么？”

索拉·南娜的手指没有停下来，眼睛也没有抬头，但她粗壮的农民额头上却露出了深深的皱纹，粗糙而坚硬的嘴唇笨拙地抽动着，开始微笑。

“我在说什么呢？真相。不如问问先生，这是否属实。”

“这太愚蠢了，”达尔林普尔说，他的脸变得不自然地红了，他猛地抬头看着安妮塔，然后才喝下一口。

“看看他，妈妈！”女孩笑道。 “他是红色的，红色的——在我看来，他就像一只煮虾。嗯，这次我猜对了！至于玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女，她已经不再用眼睛看到了！今天，当你和其他和我们一起去的妇女们抬着篮子的时候，我问她女院长对新医生是否满意，她回答说他是一个非常聪明的人，比索尔聪明得多。托马索.所以我告诉她，这很遗憾，因为托马索修女正在康复，不会允许英国医生代替他来太久。然后她看着我。巴克斯，我很害怕。一定的眼睛！当你带走她的小猫时，连猫都不是了！再多一点，她就会吃了我。然后她的脸变成了大理石——就像广场喷泉里的女人的脸一样。大祭司！真是一张脸啊！”

女孩死死地盯着达尔林普尔，嘴角因他明显的尴尬而邪恶地笑了起来，而她的眼中却有一种与笑声截然不同的东西。在长篇大论的演讲中，索拉·南娜停止了编织，她的目光从女儿身上移到了苏格兰人身上，带着一种半傻半狡猾的好奇心。

“但这些都是罪过！”她终于惊呼道。

“那又有什么关系呢？”女孩问道。 “他去忏悔吗？那么这有什么关系呢？他自己记账，记下他的罪过。我不应该喜欢让它们落在我的肩上。但至于玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女——哦，她！我告诉过你，她的罪孽在她的喉咙里。好吧，现在罪孽已经准备好了。她还在等什么？让女院长去死？或者让托马索修女康复？那么她就再也见不到英国人先生了。这对她来说会更好。当她再也见不到他的时候，她会用泪水揉捏枕头，把它做成面包，咬着吃。玛丽亚修女胃口好极了！”

索拉·南纳（Sora Nanna）评论道：“你说啊说啊，却什么结论也没有。” “你心里有一些想法！而且你不让先生说一句话。”

“他能说什么？他会说这不是真的。但到那时，谁会相信他呢？我很想看看他们在一起。我确信她向他展示了她的脸，这里是“医生先生”，那里是“亲爱的医生先生”，还有一千种温柔。说实话，先生。她向你展示了她的脸。”

“不，”达尔林普尔说，他恢复了冷静。 “她从不向我展示她的脸。”

“加尔默罗会修女向男人露脸真是太耻辱了！”女孩喊道。

“但我告诉你，她总是用面纱遮住下巴，”达尔林普尔坚持说，这是完全正确的。

“呃！是你说的！” “安妮塔反驳道。 “但是，这对我来说又有什么关系呢？和修女做爱，如果可以的话，先生。青春是一朵花，枯萎后就是干草，被野兽吃掉。”

“这是真的，”索拉·南娜说着，继续编织。 “但是别理她，先生。她很蠢。她不知道自己在说什么。吃好喝好，自己的事情自己处理。这个比较好。孩子能明白什么？它就像一只小狗，看见了就叫，但并不理解。但你是一个受过很多教育的人，已经走遍了整个世界。因此你知道很多事情。看起来很自然。”

虽然达尔林普尔并不像我们所说的那样羞怯，但总的来说，他一点也不虚荣，特别是他没有那种令人鄙视的虚荣心，这种虚荣心使男人很容易相信他遇到的每个女人都爱着他。那时他根本不知道安妮塔这个农家姑娘看他的眼神除了意大利外国人通常表现出的好奇和模糊的兴趣外。

不过，他对她今天晚上说的话感到恼火，但同时也暗自惊讶和欣喜。这种矛盾是一种普遍现象。当守财奴发现自己拥有的比他想象的多得多时，他欣喜若狂，同时又对别人注意到这一事实感到非常不满。

安妮塔不喜欢他的狼狈和明显的尴尬，因为她自己受到的伤害比她意识到的要深得多，她所说的每一个关于玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔的词都伤害了她，尽管她在取笑达尔林普尔时感到了某种隐约的快乐。她现在又陷入沉默，时而希望他爱她，时而希望她可以杀了他。如果得不到他的心，她就满足于他的血。有一种强烈的动物本能地渴望拥有他，甚至死了，而不是任何其他女人应该得到他的爱。

达尔林普尔只知道女孩的话惹恼了他，但他内心却意识到，如果她说的是真的，真相将会改变他的生活。他没有再说话的意思，在相当郁闷的沉默中吃完晚饭，一吃完就转向书本。然后吉吉托拿着吉他进来，和两个女人唱歌聊天。

但那天晚上他心神不宁，直到月亮落下，窗外一片漆黑才睡着。即使在梦中，他仍然焦躁不安，所以当他早上醒来时，他对自己说，他前一天对玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔的行为是愚蠢的。他也感到疲倦，脸色也没有平时那么亮丽。那是星期天，他记得如果他愿意的话，他可以在下午去修道院教堂参加祝福仪式，也许还能听到玛丽亚的声音。但在通常的时间，中午之前，他去拜访女院长。

他的目的是忘记他的僵硬态度，并像昨天一样行事。然而奇怪的是，一到修女面前，他就感到一种束缚。她像往常一样接待了他，女修道院院长的门口上演了常见的滑稽场面，而且，就像每天一样，在她的门关上之后，两人就单独在一起。

“你是不是生病了？”沉默了一会儿后，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔问道，尽管沉默的时间很短，但两人都感到很尴尬。

达尔林普尔大吃一惊。她说话的语气冷漠而疏远，没有表现出任何关心他的幸福，但他没有想到这一点。他才发现，既然她问出了这样的问题，他的态度在她看来一定很不寻常。意大利人会发现自己的脸色苍白，并会告诉她他快要为爱而死了。

“不，我没有病。”苏格兰人用他最自然的语气简单地回答道。

“那你从昨天开始到底是怎么了？”玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔问道，语气不那么冷漠了，似乎暗自觉得好笑。

“没什么问题——至少我无法向你解释。”

她在大安乐椅上坐下，他像以前一样坐在她对面的座位上。

“有件事，”她若有所思地坚持道。 “你无法欺骗女人，医生先生。”

达尔林普尔微笑着看着她蒙着面纱的头。

“你那天说我不是人，而是医生，”他回答道。 “我想我可能会回答说，你不是女人，而是修女。”

“修女不是女人吗？”玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔问道，他知道她也在微笑。

“如果我回答你，你就不会原谅我，”他说。

“谁知道？我可能有义务，因为我有义务每天见到你。这可能是一种罪过，但我很好奇。”

“要我告诉你吗？”

玛丽亚仿佛本能地沉默了片刻，把蒙着面纱的脸转向女院长的门。但达尔林普尔不需要这样的警告就可以降低声音。

“告诉我，”她说，在面纱下，她能感觉到自己的眼睛越来越深，瞳孔又大又黑，她知道自己做错了。

“我没见过你的脸，怎么知道你是圣人还是女人？”他问。 “我永远不会知道——因为几天后塔德伊医生就会康复，你就不需要我的服务了。”

他看到一只手迅速收紧另一只手，头微微一动，刹那间他知道安妮塔告诉他的一切都是真的。接下来的沉默似乎比谈话之前尴尬的停顿要长。

“不可能这么快。”她低声说道。

“可能是明天，”他回答道，令他自己惊讶的是，他的声音几乎从喉咙里哽住了，他感到自己的双手正在互相扭捏，好像很痛苦。 “见不到你我就会死。”他几乎粗鲁地补充道。

寂静的房间里再次陷入短暂的沉默。

突然，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔双手快速动作，掀开了脸上的面纱，拉开了遮住嘴角的褶皱。

“那儿，见我吧！”她惊呼道。 “这次好好看着我！”

她的脸色洁白如大理石，漆黑的眼睛里带着狂野和惊愕的神色，仿佛她第一次看到这个世界。一缕红金色的头发从她前额上的白发带中逸出，并在两侧笔直地垂下来，因为在她快速的动作中，她松开了将它们固定在一起的别针。下巴，并把令人眼花缭乱的喉咙释放到高领处。

达尔林普尔苍白、明亮的蓝色眼睛燃烧着火焰，他全身心地看着她，看着她的脸，她的喉咙，她的眼睛，她的卷发。他张开双唇，咬紧牙关，呼吸声很大。

渐渐地，他看着，看到红晕从喉咙上升到脸颊，从脸颊上升到额头，大理石因女人的生命而变得更加美丽。突然，他看到她眼里涌出滚烫的泪水，刹那间，视线就消失了。她热情地用面纱遮住了脸，侧身靠在高高的椅背上，把黑色的东西压得更靠近她的眼睛、嘴巴和脸颊。她全身都在抽搐，过了一会儿，她抽泣起来，听不见，但看得见，仿佛她的心都碎了。

达尔林普尔再次大吃一惊。他完全沉浸在对她美丽的自私沉思中，以至于他根本没有意识到当她欣赏自己所做的事情时她自己一定会有什么感受。他立刻指责自己看她的眼神太粗鲁，但同时他自己也太不安了，无法争论这件事。他本能地站了起来，试图将她的一只手从面纱上拿开，安抚地抚摸着它。但她却做出了一个疯狂的手势，仿佛要将他赶走。

“去！”她抽泣着，声音低沉、断断续续地哭着。 “去！快去！”

她抽泣着说不出更多的话，但他不听她的话。他只是向后退了一点，看着她，她柔软白皙的手触碰着他，全身的血液都燃烧起来。

她用面纱强忍着抽泣，渐渐平静下来。她甚至把面纱整理得更好一些，脸仍然转向椅背。

“玛丽亚！玛丽亚！”隔壁房间里传来女院长的声音，声音沙哑，几乎绝望。

她吃了一惊，坐直了身子，侧耳倾听。然后又听到了哭声，更加绝望，但声音更小了。玛丽亚的动作敏捷，在达尔林普尔看来简直不可思议，她几乎在站起来之前就调整好了面纱。

“等待！”她说。 “有事！”

一会儿就到了卧室门口，一会儿又到了姨妈的床边。

“玛丽亚——我快死了，”女院长的声音微弱地说，她感觉到修女的手臂放在她的头下。

达尔林普尔闻言，没有犹豫，连忙摸索着口袋里的东西。

“来！”玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔叫道。

但他已经在那儿了，在床的另一边，正在把一些东西倒在生病的女士的嘴唇之间。

庆幸的是，那个时候他就在场。他确实预料到心脏活动可能会突然衰竭，而且他每次来修道院时都会带上他自己发明的少量强效兴奋剂。然而，这种液体的性质如此之大，他不想让玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔自行决定是否使用它，因为他知道她可能很容易误认为真正需要使用它的崩溃症状。

女院长吞下了足够的量，达尔林普尔让她的头再次躺在枕头上。她看起来几乎就像死了一样。她的眼睛向上翻，下巴都掉了下来。玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔相信一切都结束了。

“她死了，”她说。 “让我们让她安静吧。”

意大利人有一个非常古老的习俗，一旦垂死的人失去知觉，即使在至高无上的时刻之前，也要立即撤离。

“她可能会度过这个难关，”达尔林普尔摇着头回答道。

很长一段时间，他和修女都没有再说话。渐渐地，女修道院院长在兴奋剂的作用下苏醒了，心脏跳动变得微弱起来，嘴巴也慢慢闭上，而眼皮也紧紧地盖住了上翘的眼睛。正常规律的呼吸又开始了，危机结束了。

“已经通过了，”达尔林普尔说。 “今天不会再出现了。我们现在可以离开她了，因为她会睡觉的。”

“是的，”女院长本人说道。 “让我睡觉。”她的声音虽然微弱，但话语却清晰可见。

然后她睁开眼睛，很自然地环顾四周。她的目光停留在达尔林普尔的脸上。突然发现自己没有戴面纱，她拉起被子盖住了脸。此类病例的一个特点是，当危险时刻过去后，患者几乎立即恢复正常意识。

“去！”她说，精力比预想的要多。 “这是一座宗教房屋。你一定不在这里。”

达尔林普尔再次退回客厅，关上身后的门，等待玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔，因为现在他必须为她指明晚上的方向。在他独自一人的几分钟里，他站着看着窗外。过去半个小时的兴奋已经让他现在的心情不再像女院长呼救之前那样激动，但并没有减少他留下的印象。当他帮助那位生病的女士时，他无时无刻都感到，一位半圣的老妇人的生命危在旦夕，她的死意味着他与玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔会面的结束。 。他想起安妮塔的话：“她会用泪水揉捏枕头，然后用它当面包。”

几分钟过去了，门轻轻地打开又关上。玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔走到他面前，他站在窗边。她半晌没有说话，但他看到她的手按在了身侧。

“我已经度过了糟糕的半个小时，”她最后说道，声音像是喘着气。

“这是我一生中度过的最糟糕的半个小时，”达尔林普尔回答道。 “我以为一切都结束了，”他补充道。

“是的，”她说，“我以为一切都结束了。”

他能听到自己的心跳声在耳边响起。他几乎能听到她的声音。他的手向她伸出来，冰冷而不稳定，但几乎立刻又落到了他的身边。但除了心跳声，他觉得这间安静的房间里的空气有一种可怕的寂静。他那张充满男子气概的脸变得非常苍白。他缓缓咬着嘴唇，看向窗外。巨大的诱惑临到了他。他知道，如果她要离开他身边，他就应该拉住她，抱住她。现在他的嘴唇上还沾着一滴血。他心里有一种不安的感觉，希望她会说话，希望她会说一些无关紧要的干巴巴的话。但他的每一寸坚韧的纤维、每一盎司的热血都希望她能动，而不是说话。

她叹了口气，却被急促的呼吸打断了。达尔林普尔慢慢地将苍白的脸和闪闪发光的眼睛转向她蒙着面纱的头。但她仍然没有说话，也没有动。他在记忆中透过厚厚的东西看到了她的脸、她的嘴和她的眼睛。沉默让他感到可怕。他的双手痉挛地张开又合拢。

她听到了他的呼吸声，看到了他手的模糊影子，在人行道的黑白方块上移动。她向他做了一个轻微而短暂的动作，然后突然向后退了一步，克服了走向他的诱惑。

“没有！”

他用低沉而激烈的哭声说出了这个词。刹那间，他的双臂环住了她，压着她，举起她，用力地拉着她，几乎把她压伤了。刹那间，他的双唇吻上了一张比自己更白的脸，双眸在他的吻间闪烁着夏日闪电般的光芒，双唇被他压碎、伤害，但仍没有吻够，双手举起反抗，却又迟迟不肯被吻。转动，以免丢失任何东西。

一声轻微的碎裂声，玻璃掉落在隔壁房间石地板上的声音，打破了寂静。达尔林普尔的手臂放松了，两人面对面站了一会儿，脸色苍白，眼中充满火焰，心跳得比以前更加剧烈。达尔林普尔将手举到额头上，仿佛感到茫然，然后朝门的方向迈出了不确定的一步。玛丽亚向他举起白皙的双手，即使看着他的脸，她的眼睑也低垂着。

他再次吻了她，这一吻似乎是所有其他吻的交集，生生死死都在一种挥之不去的、甜蜜的死亡中。她一屁股坐进那张又深又旧的安乐椅里，当她抬头时，他已经不见了。

下午下雨了，达尔林普尔坐在他的小实验室里，周围是书籍和他用于实验的简单仪器。他的小窗户关着，西南风把阵雨吹在云雾缭绕的玻璃窗上，雨水穿过连接它们的不合身的铅条，顺着小溪流到石窗台上的通道里。 ，水从那里通过墙上的一个洞流出。他坐在交易台旁边的灯心草底椅子上，一条长腿交叉在另一条腿上。他的手放在一本打开的书上，手指时不时地不耐烦地敲击着书页，眼睛则盯着窗外，看着倾盆大雨。

他没有思考，因为他无法思考。他一遍又一遍地想起早上的情景，热血涌上喉咙。事实上，他试图反思，看看他所做的事情是否会给他带来任何后果，或者是否会被留在他的生活中，就像在一次快速旅行中从马车窗户看到的美丽景色一样，在它之前消失了。只见了一半，除了在梦中，再也见不到了。但他完全无法展望和推理未来。一切都把他拉回来，​​爬上通往修道院的陡峭斜坡，穿过拱形通道和拱形走廊，来到他度过一生中最辉煌时刻的房间。对未来的唯一清晰印象是强烈渴望再次感受那天的感受；一次又一次、永远地感受它，只要这种感觉能够持续；伸出双手，握住，合拢双手，毫无疑问地将曾经一度可疑的东西变成他的，为他自己，而且只为他自己得到一件值得拥有的东西。因为坚强男人的激情是爱和索取，好女人的激情是爱和给予。后来，达尔林普尔推理得足够好——也许太好了——但是在那天他独自度过的那些时间里，他没有推理的能力。世界就是他所爱的女人，世界的轨道就是他紧握双臂的一圈。他们身后是一片混乱，没有形状和空虚，像他那扇小窗户上的雨痕玻璃一样阴暗。

他不止一次地看了手表。最后他站起来，把斗篷披在肩上出去了，像往常一样锁上了身后小实验室的门，然后把笨重的钥匙塞进口袋里。

他抄近路穿过狭窄的小巷，爬上山坡来到修道院。雨几乎停了，从黑暗的房屋角落吹来的湿雾在他脸上令人愉悦。但他几乎不知道自己在路上看到了什么、感受到了什么。他到达修道院教堂，走进去，站在靠近门的一根柱子旁。

那是一座小教堂，在高祭坛后面为修女们建造了一个大型唱诗班。后者的每一侧都有一个高高的木屏风延伸到墙壁，完全隔绝了空间。天也很黑，尤其是在这样的天气里，几乎空无一人，除了一些跪在潮湿的大理石路面上的老妇人，有的靠在椅背上，有的把一只手臂放在黄色大理石的抹灰底座上。列。高坛上有许多灯火。两名侍僧，来自苏比亚科的粗鲁男孩，跪在祭坛栏杆内，身穿黑色袈裟和干净的亚麻短裙。两名神父和一名年轻执事并排坐在祭坛右侧，手中拿着黑色的小书本。修女们在唱诗，但在唱诗班中却看不见。没有人注意到达尔林普尔裹着斗篷，靠在门边的柱子上。他的头有点倾斜，不由自主地尊重着他既不相信也不理解的仪式，但其中却有一种虔诚的认真的气势。然而他的眼睛却抬起来，从眉毛下向上看，稳定而警惕，因为他知道玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔就在屏风后面，从进入教堂的第一刻起，他似乎就能将她的声音与其他人区分开来。 。

他知道那是她的，尽管他从未听过她唱歌。在所有这些甜美、无色的音调中，有一种音调在他坚强的心中发出响亮的和谐声。在这纷杂的口音中，有一种口音触动了他的灵魂。在昏暗的拱门下渐渐消失的回声中，有一个回声没有消失，而是在他耳边不断地回响。有一种声音不同于那里的其他声音，也不同于他所听过的任何声音。许多人坚强而甜蜜；这不仅是甜美和坚强，而且还充满了神圣的生命，长着神圣的翅膀，不朽的本质，感动得泪流满面，热情如生者，呼吸，叹息，垂死的世界，宏伟如光芒泛滥，悲伤如诸神的黄昏，如夏日月潮中荡漾的大水，如星光般精致——金色的声音。

当达尔林普尔站在阴影中时，他听到它在向他歌唱，告诉他所有没有用言语告诉他的事情，所有他感受到的事情，以及更多。因为其中有女人的激情，特农的强烈悔恨，玛丽亚·布拉乔（Maria Braccio），女人和公主的崇高爱情，以及玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔（Maria Addolorata）的深深绝望，修女和罪人，主基督的不忠配偶，被指控和自责、自委屈、自我审判，但却受到上帝的谴责，并预示着永恒的终极悲剧——至高地狱的悲剧。

站在那里的那个人知道这是他做的，他站着的时候，他的行为所带来的负担使他整个人屈服了。但他仍然听着，当她唱歌时，他在罪恶记忆的黑暗内在镜子中看着她的嘴唇，它们吸引了他。

渐渐地，他只听到了她的声音，其他人都在微弱地吟诵着，仿佛从无限远的地方传来。然后，不是在他的思想中，而是在他的行动中，她独自歌唱，“O Salutaris Hostia”的歌词在昏暗的教堂里响起，这是以前从未响起过的，也不会再响起，这是一个失落的人的呼吁。灵魂对上帝的痛苦，金嗓子的荣耀，超凡天才的口音，古老种族的激情，力量，绝望。

黑暗的教堂里，粗俗、悲伤的农妇跪在人行道上。其中一人大声抽泣，捶打着自己的胸部。安格斯·达尔林普尔单膝跪下，额头抵在柱脚上，既不向上帝下跪，也不向圣体下跪，也不向人类对天堂或地狱的信仰下跪，既不祈祷，也不亵渎，既不希望，也不恐惧，而是咒语——他被一种令人心碎的喜悦所束缚，他的感官被撕裂，他的忍耐力达到了极限，他的灵魂因他罪恶的美妙而被钉死在十字架上。

然后一切都静止了。修女们齐声唱起“Tantum Ergo”，声音再次响起。但他们之中却静默无声。庄严的祝福祝福正义者和不正义者。祭司们的简短诗句和回应打破了似乎仍然充满生机和颤抖的空气。

达尔林普尔慢慢站起来，用斗篷裹住自己。在女人们走出教堂的脚步声上方，他能听到所有修女离开唱诗班时一起走动的轻柔声音。他知道她和他们在一起，他一动不动地站在原地，直到沉默像一道帘子降临在他和过去的一切之间。然后，他低着头，走进了昏暗暮色中倾泻而下的雨中。

第二天他们就在一起了。女院长的情况好多了，达尔林普尔所担心的晕厥还没有复发。

与她的习惯相反，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔坐在桌边的一张高脚椅上，蒙着头，转过身去，用手托着下巴。达尔林普尔坐在离她不远的地方，身体前倾，试图看清她的脸，她一言不发，心情很危险。她拒绝让他靠近她，甚至拒绝掀起她的面纱。她说话的时候，声音里充满了深深的悲伤，这种悲伤非但没有打动他，反而让他感到恼火，因为他的神经被激情所束缚，又因悔恨而失去调和。

“它的罪恶；死罪！”她说。

“这里面没有罪，”他回答道。但她摇了摇头。

又是一片寂静，就像前一天一样，但那是另一种寂静。这并不是暴风雨爆发前可怕的平静，当时空气似乎随着一片树叶的落下而开始颤抖，生怕已经是雷霆万钧。这更像是饥饿的洪水无声地涌向注定要失败的房子周围，那里是绝望、饥饿的生命，越来越高，一寸一寸——命运的洪水上涨。

“你说这没有罪恶，”过了一会儿她说道。 “你这么说，但你不这么认为。你是一个男人——你有失去的荣誉——你明白，至少——”

“你是一名女性，你拥有人类的自由权利。这是一项光荣的权利。当你拿起那面纱时，你就放弃了它，却不知道你放弃的是什么。你没有做错任何事。你没有做过任何值得任何一位可爱的少女感到羞耻的事情。我吻了你，因为你无法控制自己。这就是你所说的滔天罪行，要受到永恒的诅咒的惩罚。你这么想真是太可怕了。如果说上帝创造了女人，让她过着痛苦和每日痛苦的生活，她们被锁在十字架上，看着它就感到痛苦，挣脱它就感到羞耻，这是对上帝的亵渎。”

“走吧——离开我吧。你又在诱惑我了。”她不再说话，立场没有改变。

“如果真理是诱惑，那么我就是在诱惑你，因为我正在向你展示真理。事实是这样的。当你还是个孩子的时候，他们就开始以他们希望你成长的方式来弯​​曲你、摧毁你。你弯曲了，但你并没有折断。你的本性太强烈了。你的内心有一个属于你自己的生命。这是违背你的意愿的，当你刚刚长大的时候，他们埋葬了你，你的美丽，你的青春，你新鲜的年轻的心，你的声音和你的天才——因为它一点也不差。这一切都是为了你家族的荣耀而故意做的，并被亵渎地宣称是上帝的荣耀。在你知道自己在做什么之前，它就压在你身上，在你知道这一切意味着什么之前，它就让你感到愉快。你的十字架已为你铺上垫子，你的荆棘王冠已镀金。他们让天篷下的座位看起来就像是天堂里的座位。他们甚至让你相信管理两三个受苦妇女就是政府和权力。成为女院长似乎是一件很棒的事，不是吗？”

玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔带着面纱，缓慢地低下两三下头，心情沉重。

“他们让你相信这一切，”达尔林普尔继续冷酷而真诚，“还有更多的事情——我想其中很多我知之甚少——未来的生活、圣徒身份和天堂的荣耀。你已经发现这一切的价值了。我们已经一起发现了。他们用地狱来吓唬你。你知道什么是地狱吗？一种没有爱的生活，当一个人知道爱意味着什么时。我不善言辞；我希望我是。但我很坦白，我可以告诉你真相。”

“这不是事实，”修女缓慢地回答。 “你这么说是为了诱惑我。我不能用武力把你赶走。你不去吗？我不能大声呼救——那会毁了我和你。你不会离开我吗？但看在上帝的恩典上，我只能听凭你的怜悯，而我这个罪人却得不到什么恩典。”

“不，我不会离开，”达尔林普尔说，在玛丽亚看来，他的声音就是她命运的声音。

“那么上帝怜悯吧！”她低声叫道，头向前低下，右手托着的是额头，而不是下巴。

“爱比上帝更仁慈，”他回答道。

他的声音突然变得温柔起来，这是她从未听过的，即使是昨天。他起身，偷偷靠近她，然后站起来，弯下腰靠在她身边的桌子上，靠近她的耳边说话。但他没有碰她。当他再次说话时，她能透过面纱感受到他的呼吸。那气息充满活力、凶猛，又带着柔和的炙热，就像一头强大野兽的呼吸。

“你是我的上帝，”他说。 “我崇拜你，崇拜你。但我必须永远拥有你。我宁愿杀了你，没有上帝，也不愿活活失去你。跟我来。你自由了。晚上你可以穿过花园——只要有好马，我们明天就可以到达大海。有一艘英国战舰停泊在奇维塔韦基亚。官员们是我的朋友。明天晚上之前我们就能安全——结婚——幸福。没有人会知道——没有人会跟随我们。玛丽亚——来——来——来！”

当他一遍又一遍地重复这个词时，他的声音变得低沉而颤抖，离她的耳边越来越近。她的双手从额头上垂下来，放在桌子上。她低着头听着。

“来吧，我亲爱的，”他继续说道，声音又快又低。 “我有一个美丽的家，我父亲的家，我母亲的家——你的法律和誓言对他们来说毫无意义。你将受到尊重、被爱——啊，亲爱的！崇拜、崇拜——你不知道我们会为你做什么，让你的生活充满甜蜜的东西。你的一生，玛丽亚，从明天开始。你将拥有世界上所有的爱、和平和鲜花，而不是痛苦、忏悔和永恒的痛苦和疲倦。当你愿意的时候，你可以全心全意地唱歌，从年初到年末，再到年末，都有音乐可以演奏。亲爱的，让我告诉你我是多么爱你——你是如何在我的每一滴血液中充满活力，像活火一样在我体内跳动，穿过我的心、灵魂、头和手——”

她迅速用手掌抵住耳朵上的面纱，以隔绝他说话的声音。她轻轻摇晃着身体，仿佛疼痛几乎超出了她的承受能力。但他的手也在动，悄悄地、有力地，就像老虎的天鹅绒脚一样，全身都在颤抖，一直到手指尖。因为他是认真的。当她在椅子上摇晃时，那只手臂轻轻地搂住了她，并轻轻地靠近了她。另一个则寻找她的，发现它冷得像冰一样，颤抖着，但不足以阻止她的听力。她又听了一遍。

狂野而语无伦次的话语从他嘴里吐出，炽热而低沉，其中没有任何理由，只有爱本身的压倒性理由。因为他不是一个能言善道的人，现在他并没有考虑自己所说的话。他太自然了，无法雄辩，也太激动了，无法关心他的爱在言语中的表现。他的话语中充满了真理的强烈冲击力，即使是最糟糕的激情，当它是真实的根源时也是如此。可怕和温柔、亵渎和虔诚的词语交织成一种新的语言，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔从未听过，也不敢想象要听。但他却敢于一切，告诉她，抓住她，对抗神与魔，对抗天与地，对抗全人类。他承诺了他所拥有的一切，以及所有不属于他的承诺或给予，将她的信仰撕成碎片，践踏她所崇拜的一切破碎的碎片，撕碎她的锁链，将它们像稻草一样散落在风暴中充满了强烈的蔑视。然后，再次倾注出爱，更多的爱，再一次的爱，就像一股液态火焰释放出来，淹没了它所遇到的一切，带来令人眼花缭乱的破坏和炽热的死亡。

不是每个女人都知道被如此爱、聆听如此话语、如此说出是什么感觉。听过、感受过的人可以理解，但其他人就不能理解。当他说话时，她蒙着面纱的脸渐渐靠近他的脸。渐渐地，她的手掀起了厚厚的面纱，又把它拉了回来。又过了一会儿，那只长久以来默默地与他抗争的手终于静止了，那张曾徒劳地祈求上天的脸，也隐藏在了强者的心脏前。

“愿主怜悯我有罪的灵魂！”她轻声祈祷。

“我爱你！”达尔林普尔低声说道，用双臂将她抱在怀里，嘴唇压在她的头上。 “这就是世界所拥有的一切。这就是天堂的全部，而我们拥有它。”

但不久她就从他身边退开，双手紧紧抓住他，仿佛要拥抱他，但又又分开，抬头看着他的脸。

“和明天？”她说道，语气里带着绝望的询问。

“我们今晚就走，”他回答道，“明天也是我们的，之后的所有明天也是我们的。”

但她却摇了摇头，松开了抓着他手臂的手，依然留在他的衣袖上。

“然后让她等死？”她快速地瞥了一眼女院长的门，问道。

然后她看着他，当她再次见到他的眼睛时，突然感到一丝恐惧。她几乎立刻就转过身去，坐到桌子上。

“罪孽，死罪！”她呻吟道。 “哦，这一切太可怕了——罪恶、耻辱、耻辱！这是最难以忍受的——耻辱！这是永远的耻辱！”

达尔林普尔的眉毛深深皱起，因为他没有心情被挫败，尽管风险可能是绝望的。就他自己而言，他知道，如果她同意，他就将自己的生活押在了机会上；如果她拒绝，他的生活就不值得过。他非常清楚，他们几乎肯定会被追赶，如果他们被抓住，如果他抵抗，他会毫不犹豫地开枪射击他或割断他的喉咙，因为他知道他应该抵抗。他已经爱她好几天了。过去的二十四小时让他感到绝望。一个绝望的人是不能被玩弄的，尤其是如果他的血管里流淌着高地的血液的话。

“你最相信什么？”他突然近乎粗暴地问道。

她吃惊地转过身来，看着他的脸。

“因为，如果你相信上帝，就像我想的那样，我有上帝作证，今晚我将成为一个死人，除非你答应和我一起去。”

她凝视着，脸色变得苍白到嘴唇，他以前从未见过她脸色苍白。她向前倾身，凝视着他的眼睛，呼吸急促。

“你不是这个意思。”她说道，似乎在努力说服自己。

“我是说真的，”他慢慢地回答，脸色苍白，他知道自己在说什么。

她靠得更近，用手握住他的手臂，因为她无法说话。他的眼中浮现出可怕的疑问。

“如果我拒绝——如果我不和你一起去，你会自杀吗？”但她还是无法相信他。

“是的。”他回答。

房间里再次安静下来，两人四目相对。但玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔什么也没说。达尔林普尔脸上的眉头皱得更深了，他的嘴唇也紧闭起来，就像一个人在面临死亡的那一刻一样。

“再见。”他轻轻地从她的怀抱中松开。

她垂下手，半转过身，跟着他朝门口走去。他的手几乎就在门闩上。他没有转身。但当他听到身后她敏捷的脚步声时，他微微低下了头。她的手臂搂住他的喉咙，伸到他很高的高度。

“不！不！”她叫道，把他的头低向她。

但他抓住了她的手腕，将她拉离自己一臂之遥。

“你是认真的吗？”他激烈地问道。 “你再跟我玩，你也得死。”

“但不是今天！”她恳求地回答。 “不是今晚！给我时间——一天——一会儿——”

“失去你？不，我差一点就要失去你了。我知道这意味着什么。下定决心吧。是还是不是。”

“今晚？但如何呢？没有时间——我穿的这些衣服——”

说话时，她心不在焉地把头转向一侧，另一侧，他握住她的手腕。达尔林普尔认为她的反对是有道理的。如此危险的飞行如果没有一些准备是不可能进行的。他松开她的手，开始在房间里踱步，把注意力集中在细节上。她靠在安乐椅的靠背上，默默地看着他。然后他停在她面前。

“我的斗篷会垂到你的脚边，”他一边说，一边用眼睛测量着她的身高。 “我有一块格子布，可以遮住你的头。一旦骑在马背上，任何人都不会注意到任何事情。你能骑吗？”

“不。我从来没学过。”

“那就不幸了。但我们可以管理它。最重要的是，如果可能的话，要有一个长的开始——你不应该被错过——在修女们预计不会见到你的最长时间开始时离开。你自己的房间在哪里？就在这附近吗？”

玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔告诉了他，并解释了阳台的位置以及通往花园的台阶。他问她谁保管着海报的钥匙。它是园丁的财产，他在晚上把它带走了，但锁在里面，而且没有盖子，就像古老的意大利锁一样。通过抬起弯曲的弹簧，可以将螺栓推回。为此，后者有一个手柄。只要夜色漆黑，出去或让达尔林普尔进去都不会有困难。

“月亮快满了，”达尔林普尔若有所思地说，然后他又开始走来走去。 “没关系。一定是明天晚上。穿着深色衣服，当姐妹们睡着的时候，如果你一直待在墙边的阴影里，就不会有丝毫的危险。我会穿着斗篷和格子在大门的另一边等你。我会把马备好，放在高一点的地方。有一条很好的骡道，通向那边的山谷。您只需到达大门并出去即可。这很容易。告诉我什么时候等候。”

玛丽亚低着头，重重地靠在椅子上。

“我做不到——哦，我做不到！”她绝望地说。 “真是耻辱啊！成为罗马的话题——当今的丑闻——是我父母的耻辱！”

达尔林普尔皱起眉头，咬着嘴唇，手掌轻轻地握紧了拳头，快速地前后走了几步。他突然停了下来，用危险的眼神看着她。

“我已经告诉过你了，”他说。 “我不会重复。你必须选择。”

“哦，你不可能是认真的——”

“你会看到的。这很明显，”他带着轻蔑的语气补充道。 “你更害怕在罗马的闲聊和八卦，而不是明天早上被告知我在夜间去世。我想这就是意大利人的勇气。”

她低下头片刻。然后，听到他的脚步声，她掀开面纱，看到他一言不发地朝门口走去。

“你太残忍了，”她喘着粗气说道。 “你知道你让我受苦——没有你我就活不下去。”

“没有你，我肯定活不下去。”他回答道。 “我打算不惜一切代价得到你，否则我会为了得到你而死。”

这些话在纸面上看起来很戏剧化。但他不仅用嘴唇说这些话，而且用他的整个自我说出来。它们并不违背他的本性。当凯尔特人陷入困境或被激情激怒时，世界上的血管里没有比凯尔特人更绝望的血液了。在他身上，亚洲人鲁莽的宿命论与北方人的冷静大胆融为一体。

玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔对这个世界或男人的经验很少，但她有性别的遗传本能，当她看着达尔林普尔时，她在他身上认出了这个男人，他会按照他所说的去做，或者因为试图这样做而放弃自己的生命。 。在这样的时刻，关于这样的人的真相是毫无疑问的。

“我相信你会的，”她说，并为说出这句话感到自豪。

她自己的生活也处于平衡之中。她又低下了头。她的太阳穴一阵阵抽痛，根本无法进行任何关联性的思考。

“我想要你的答案，”他说，仍然站在门边。 “是还是不是——明天晚上？”

“没有你，我活不下去。”她缓慢地回答，仍然低着头。 “我必须去。”

但她没有看他的眼睛，因为她知道自己还在犹豫不决，几乎和以前一样不确定。达尔林普尔的态度突然变了。他悄悄走到她身边，用双手握住她随意垂在椅背上的一只手。

“亲爱的，你一定是认真的，就像我一样，”他非常平静而温柔地说道。 “你不能玩弄一个人的生命和心灵，就好像它们除了玩耍之外一文不值。刚才你还说我残忍，亲爱的。但你比我更残忍，因为我不犹豫。”

“我必须走了。”她重复道，仍然避开他的目光。 “是的，我必须走了。没有你我就该死。”

“但是明天我来的时候，你又会犹豫了，”他说道，语气仍然非常平静。 “我必须确定。你必须给我一些承诺，比你给我的更多的承诺。”

她抬起头，双眸充满惊愕。

“你不相信我？”她问。 “我该怎么办？我——我保证！你自己从来没有说过你答应过。”

“需要那个吗？”他将握着的手按在掌心之间，力度逐渐加大。

“不，”她看着他回答。 “我能看到它。你会照你说的去做。我也答应了。”

他不可置信地看着她的脸。

“你怀疑我吗？”她问。

“我没有理由怀疑吗？你很容易改变主意。我不怪你。但我该如何相信呢？”

她对他的不信越来越不耐烦。然而，当他按住她的手时，他对她的控制力却每一秒都在增强。

“但是我会的，我会的！”她低声喊道。 “但你仍然怀疑——我从你的眼神中看到了这一点。我不是已经答应了吗？我还能做什么？

“我不知道，”他回答道。 “但你必须让我相信你。”他的眼神里充满了力量，似乎要将什么东西从她身上强行夺走。

“我这么说——我保证——我发誓！我不爱你吗？我不是为你付出了我的灵魂吗？我不是已经给了吗？我还能做什么或说什么？

“我不知道，”他第二次回答，眼睛看着她。 “我走之前必须相信你。”

他说得诚实而认真，并没有激怒她的意思，而是从她的表情中寻找着自己的影子。当他握着她的手时，他的手在颤抖，但颤抖的程度并不微弱。他那双锐利的眸子，仿佛要将她看透，看透。她全身颤抖，脸色涨红，更多的是因为无法说服他而绝望，而不是因为羞愧而脸红。

“相信我！”她专横地说，她的眼睑因她的意志力而收缩。

但他什么也没说。她感觉他比她强了无数倍。但就在此时，他并没有更加绝望。一阵短暂而激烈的沉默。她的脸色变得苍白，呈现出她有时会出现的致命表情。

“我以我的血誓！”她突然说道。

她的目光没有从他身上移开，但她却从他身上抽出了右手，在他再次握住之前，她整齐的牙齿已经咬在了肉上。当她把它放在他面前时，明亮的猩红色水滴高高升起，破裂了，在她的手上滴下鲜艳的条纹。她的脸色很白，却没有一丝痛苦。激烈的动作中的某些东西强烈地吸引了这个人火热的凯尔特本性。他的脸色瞬间放松下来。

“我相信你，”他说，当他的双臂搂住她时，她就知道了。伤口的疼痛让他的吻变得更加甜蜜。

那天达尔林普尔离开玛丽亚后，像往常一样回到了斯特凡诺的家。索拉·南纳（Sora Nanna）独自一人，因为斯特凡诺（Stefanone）仍然不在罗马，安妮塔（Annetta）在前一天与一些妇女一起去了周日在奇维泰拉圣西斯托（Civitella San Sisto）举行的集市。预计她将于周一下午返回。通常，一群女性和两三个男性一起去邻近城镇的集市，并与公司中某个人的朋友一起过夜。在那些日子里，这种情况更为常见。

索拉·南娜给达尔林普送了晚餐，并陪伴了他一段时间。但他心情郁闷，心事重重，不久她就退到了洗衣房，洗衣房位于一栋低矮的长楼里，一直延伸到房子后面的菜园里。周一通常是熨烫修道院厚重亚麻布的日子，周二，这些亚麻布被装在由四名妇女提着的巨大篮子里，篮子挂在一根杆子上，杆子以古老的原始方式放在她们的肩膀上，就像仍然搬运垃圾一样亚洲许多地区。在过去的两天里，达尔林普尔不止一次地想到，他几乎可以将他选择的任何东西藏在这些篮子中，这些篮子总是直接交付给玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔，她可以在私密的房间里自由地打开包装。如果她选择的话，可以选择亚麻布房间。

当他坐下来吃晚饭时，他又想起了这一点，听到远处女人们在工作时不断地唱着歌。他对这所房子的习惯和搬运篮子的所有习俗了如指掌，他记得其中有几个篮子明天肯定会被带到修道院。他想，如果他能买到一些更合适的衣服给玛丽亚穿，这将是一个安全的方式将它们传达给她。她可以在等待他的时间之前把它们放在牢房里，这样就不会浪费时间，而且在他们飞行期间被发现的危险也会大大降低。但途中遇到了各种各样的困难，他一一意识到，直到他几乎放弃了这个计划，转而选择了他最初提出的斗篷和格子呢。

他推开椅子，上楼回到自己的房间。玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔咬了她的手后，给他留下了深刻的印象，但这个男人的本性虽然并不完全不信任，但却是忧郁和悲观的。自从他们在一起已经两个多小时了，一切都已经不同了。他更清楚地认识到玛丽亚与修道院生活的联系有多牢固，以及她必须付出多大的努力才能打破这些联系。他想起了自己所使用的论点，发现这些论点都是出于激情，而非理性。当他本人不在那里向他们借用他的话语和他的力量说服他们时，他们的影响不可能持久。玛丽亚会后悔她的诺言，而且没有什么可以约束她。迄今为止，还没有出现任何风险，没有常见的危险。由于一连串的自然环境，他已经登上了一个最非凡的位置，但她有能力在悔悟的时刻迫使他离开这个位置。当女院长生病时，玛丽亚实际上是修道院的女主人。只要她一句话，门就会当着他的面关上。她可能会再次答应，再次咬住她的手，但当他在花园门外等待时，她可能会后悔不已，而他可能会等到早上。

当他坐在自己的房间里时，他意识到了这一切，甚至更多，因为他知道，经过冷静的反思，他打算去做那天早上匆忙中威胁要做的事情。他从来都不是为了生活而执着于生活。忧郁的男人往往不是这样。他曾多次以一种冷酷的兴趣思考过自杀这个话题，这表明如果他在一件他内心深处的事情上彻底失败，他的脾气将会走向何方。

他一生中从未有过像对玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔的爱那样紧紧抓住他的心，因为他以前从未真正恋爱过，而且他已经完全沉浸其中，就像这样一个男人在这样的环境中肯定会做的那样。她很漂亮，但这还不是全部。自从听过她的歌声，他就知道她的声音和她罕见的才华加在一起就是天才。但这还远非全部。她与他属于同一阶级，他每天都见到她，而他所生活的农妇只不过是性情温和的动物；但这还不是全部。他正处于人生的那个阶段，一个人的性格很容易在其最终方向上发生猛烈而突然的转变，当一直在增长的力量一下子显现出来时，当激情尚未吸引人时，已经攀爬到了他的灵魂所能触及的地方，抓住它并扭曲它，或者最终被征服，也许，在一种神圣的生活中。但达尔林普尔远不是那种可以在更高的事物中寻求庇护的人。在唯物主义开始显得伟大的时候，他在科学问题上是一位坚定的唯物主义者。他抓住并握住了他能看到的东西，但他看不到的东西对他来说并不存在。除了数学领域之外，没有什么超验的东西能吸引他。然而他没有物质主义者的气质，因为他血管里的高地血液给他的头脑和心灵带来了强烈的幻想和突然的激情，这是他的化学反应无法解释的；当大脑燃烧、心跳加快时，就意味着和他一起做或死，就像之前和之后的许多苏格兰人一样。在他眼里，与他想要的东西相比，生命似乎从来就不值钱。

他静静地坐着，思考了这件事，思考了死亡的问题，持续了几分钟。他的反应中没有一丝哲学思辨，否则的话会持续更长时间。他只是想以苏格兰人那种好奇的谨慎态度来确定自己的意图，以免在最后一刻不得不重新考虑这件事。

和往常一样，他在晚餐时喝了一点烈酒。今天，他的脾气更加阴郁，他的看法更加悲观。不到一刻钟，他就下定决心，如果玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔在很晚的时候悔罪并拒绝离开修道院，他就会试图用武力把她带走。如果他失败了，发现自己与她失去了一切交往的可能性，那么生活就没有价值了，他就会把它扔掉。当坚强的人处于这种心态时，他们通常会实现他们的目标。此外，认为那些想到和谈论自杀的人不会结束自己的生命，这是一个巨大的错误。相反，统计数据表明，往往是那些最常谈论它的人最终逃脱了惩罚。仅仅思考和讨论死亡这一事实就使人熟悉了它，直到他甚至不承认它的真正价值，正如我们大多数人所知，这还不够。达尔林普尔是认真的，他知道这一点。

他从椅子上站起来，打开了他的小实验室。长桌上的许多东西中，有一个朴素的英国橡木盒子，里面装满了带塞的小瓶子，每个瓶子上都有一个标签，上面写着他亲笔写的内容物名称。有些只是药品，他随身携带，以备需要时使用，就像现在发生的那样。其他的是他在实验中使用的化学品，这些化学品是他在意大利大城市以外不容易买到的。其中甚至含有樟脑精，有一次当安妮塔抱怨感冒和生病时，他给了她一茶匙。然而，其中一半以上是氢氰酸钾溶液，这种液体比加入其成分中的氢氰酸稍微不那么突然，而且肯定致命。

他拿出这个瓶子，把它举到灯光下。该液体像水一样清澈透明。当他让它跑到脖子上然后又跑回来时，他好奇地看着它。它可能被认为是纯酒精，完全无色。

“这并不需要太多，”他自言自语地说，脸上带着冷酷的微笑。

他的沉思被索拉·南纳的声音打断了，索拉·南纳毫不客气地打开了卧室的门，站在那里呼唤着他。他急忙从实验室走出来，走到她面前。

“你不知道！”她一边哭一边笑着举起一封信。 “斯特凡诺从罗马给我写信！大部头书！谁知道他说了什么？我对此一无所知。谁来教我读书？他把我当牧师，让我懂得读书！”

达尔林普尔接过信时轻笑了一声。他从椅子上拿起帽子，因为他打算出去独自在山坡上度过一个下午。

“我们会在楼下读它，”他说。 “我要去散步。”

他在一楼的公共休息室里读给她听。这是斯特凡诺内向一名公共抄写员口述的一封信，指示他的妻子告诉吉盖托，她必须尽快再运一船葡萄酒到罗马，因为市场上的价格很好。斯特凡诺会留在城里直到它到来，并在返回之前卖掉它。

“这些丈夫！”索拉南娜笑着喊道。 “他们不会做什么！他们去，骑马，骑马，当他们觉得合适的时候他们就会回来。谁告诉我他在罗马做什么？罗马很棒。”

达尔林普尔笑了，戴上帽子就走了，留下索拉·南娜去找吉吉托并给出必要的指示。

吉盖托拒绝陪同安妮塔和她的一行人去奇维泰拉圣西斯托的集市。他已经去过罗马好几次了，作为一名年轻绅士，他实在太优秀了，不会在这样一个非常原始的地方消遣。根据他的灯光，他更喜欢在烟草店、药店之间优雅地闲逛，度过很多空闲时间，那里是下午四点以后当地所有上流人物的度假胜地。以及他父亲家里每天摆两次的丰富但不是很精致的餐桌。奇维泰拉葡萄酒、奇维泰拉烟花，尤其是奇维泰拉女孩，根本不引起他的注意。至于安妮塔，他用一种近乎轻蔑的眼神看着她，尽管他对有一天必定属于她的财富怀有高度敬意。她将成为他未来生活中必要的负担，目前他打算在不放弃对她的控制的情况下，尽可能少地见到她。在某种程度上，她一直钦佩他，直到达尔林普尔到来，而他对苏格兰人出现在房子里感到有点恼火，因此他偶尔会因为说拿着枪在街角等他而吓到索拉南娜。森林。他认为，这会时不时地表明他并非没有嫉妒，这会给人留下良好的印象。但要和她一起去参加乡间集市这样的探险活动，那就不太值得他期待了。

尽管如此，安妮塔和她的同伴们在一起玩得很开心，而且很高兴吉盖托没有与她同流合污，他把城市的礼节观念应用到了她身上，而是按照自己的意愿随意调整。她参加过乡村教堂的大型弥撒，拥挤得令人窒息，她在大街上走来走去半个下午，和其他女孩手挽着手，咯咯地笑着，向这个小村庄里较穷的当地人炫耀她漂亮的服装。并对着街角三五成群闲逛的​​英俊青年露出邪恶的微笑。她吃得很丰盛，喝了一杯浓烈的老白葡萄酒，祝其他女孩身体健康，早日结婚，让她的眼睛闪闪发光，像相当庸俗的小星星。她在黄昏时与他们一起出去，在小广场上观看了美丽的烟花，然后在月光下与他们一起漫步到俯瞰着两个山谷的独眼堡垒的废墟。然后回到她的朋友家，他们保留了主要的客栈，晚饭吃的是更硬的鸡肉和嫩沙拉和红酒。第二天，他们全都下到了贫瘠的葡萄园，位于圣维托的半路上，就在茂密的栗树林下面，这些栗树林属于那个古镇的侯爵和封建领主。在泛红的藤叶阵雨中，她在歌声、玩笑和笑声中帮助采集了今年最后的葡萄。中午，他们在十月的阳光下再次爬上山，吃着前一天盛宴的残渣。然后，他们继续唱着歌，开始下山回家的路，当他们在晚霞中到达苏比亚科时，他们既高兴又不累。

他们成群结队穿过城镇来到医生家所在的小广场。她们在这里分开了，有的要上去较高的地方，有的则要和安妮塔同一个方向下去。女孩抬头看向医生的窗户，小眼睛里闪烁着恶毒的光芒。如果能看看她的作品，给这两天的假期画上一个圆满的句号。正如达尔林普尔告诉她的那样，现在他已经康复了，她很高兴自己没有杀死他。差点把这个老胆小鬼吓死，更是一种满足。她一直对坦白的问题感到不安。

“巴克斯，”她笑道，“我要去见托马索修女。他们说他更好。”

于是她告别了同伴，走进窄门，爬上一小段黑暗的台阶，敲了敲门。医生的卧室直接通向楼梯。他把底楼的房间用作办公室和餐厅，老农婢睡在阁楼上，另外两间房间按年出租了。那是一座很小的房子。

老妇人名叫塞拉菲娜，她打开卧室门，探出头来，头上盖着一条又黑又破的围巾。她枯萎的脸上有一种女巫般的阴郁，仿佛她一生都在面对即将到来的恐怖。

“你想要什么？”她粗声粗气地叫了一声，却没有把门开得更大。

“呃！我想要什么？我是斯特凡诺的安妮塔，我来拜访这位亲爱的医生，因为他们说他好多了，上帝保佑他。”

“哦！我没认出你来。”老妇人说道。 “我去问问。”

她仍然把门关得紧紧的，她低下头与托马索修士说话。安内塔听到了他的回答。

“当然！”他说道，声音依然微弱，但由于他的礼貌意图，显得格外油腻。 “让她对我们有利吧！”

门打开了，安妮塔走了进去。托马索修女坐在靠近窗户的一张深安乐椅上，上面铺着破烂的绿色锦缎。与他原本红润的肤色相比，他的脸色变得苍白，让女孩感到惊讶。她像农民一样，在说话之前环视了房间，判断里面的东西。

“你好吗，亲爱的托马索修士？”短暂的停顿后她问道。 “呃，我们大家为你们受了多少苦啊！这个想要送你去天堂的野蛮人是谁？”

“谁知道？”托马索修士以惊人的温和态度回答道。 “我相信他会被原谅，就像我原谅他一样。”

“什么叫作一个聪明人！” “安妮塔喊道，装出一副钦佩的样子。 “竟然有这样的感情！这是一件美丽的事情。亲爱的托马索修女，你现在感觉如何？你又恢复体力了吗？他们夺走了你们的血，这些懦弱的杀人犯！你必须再做一次。”

他们的目光相遇，彼此都知道对方知道并理解。托马索索尔温和地微笑着。野蛮女孩的嘴角抽动着，似乎她很想笑。

“一点一点地;走得慢的人就安全。”医生回答道。 “我是个老人了，你应该知道。”

“老的！”安内塔很高兴终于有机会笑了。 “老的？呃，星期天，当你穿上那条新的黑色裤子，紧紧的，紧紧的——在我看来，你就像一个像吉盖托一样年轻的男孩。就我而言，我应该更喜欢你。你更严重了。吉盖托！我必须说什么？他很帅，他可能很好，但他没有头脑。那个南瓜里什么也没有。”

“青春的血液，”托马索修士回答。 “它必须沸腾。它必须抛开锁链。之后它开始认识链条。渐渐地，它就习惯了它们。然后就很安静，很安静，就像我们这些老人一样。坐下，我的女儿。塞拉菲娜！一把椅子——一把不蹩脚的椅子。这些椅子记住了妈妈受祝福的灵魂，”托马索修士在解释它们的弱点时补充道。

“安息卡！”安内塔坐下时大声说道。

“阿门，”托马索修女回答道。 “你今天真漂亮，”他继续说道，看着她的花衣和新围裙。 “你去哪儿了？”

“我应该去哪儿？到奇维泰拉。那里有博览会。我们吃了某些鸡——太难了！但山上的空气却在消耗。还有烟花。”

“什么？你走路了吗？”托马索修士问道。

“即使有两条腿，也能走路。”女孩笑道。 “但是当然，一头野兽有四个就更好了。这些野兽都带着前往罗马的酒去了蒂沃利。昨天早上他们还没有回来。所以我用这两只脚走路。我和其他许多像我一样的女孩。确实，我已经半死不活了。”

“你比生菜还新鲜，”托马索修士说道。 “然后你就爬上了我的楼梯。这是真正的基督徒行为。上帝把它还给你。我整天都是一个人。”

“但是英国人来看你了，”安妮塔冷漠地说。

“英国人，是的。他来了。或多或少，他几乎治愈了我。但后来，对于他的谈话，我什么也没说！”

“同时他也在给女院长治病。他有一双幸运的手。那里死，这里死——他让他们都活了。现在死亡在哪里？也许在这里？藏在某个角落，或者床底下？他有某些药物，那个英国人！您做梦也想不到的药物。强的！是我告诉你的。有时，满屋子都是它们的味道。死亡一刻也无法抗拒他们。他们甚至把苍蝇赶出窗外。英国人有一次给了我一些。我在阳光下晒过，喝了一加仑冷水，尽管我很愚蠢。我很渴，就像现在一样。嗯，他给了我一勺像水一样的东西，混在水里。我什么也不告诉你。起初它烧伤了我。大祭司，它着火了！然后，不到一分钟，我的体内就拥有了天堂。就这样就过去了。”

“谁知道？也许是一杯甜酒。”托马索修女若有所思地说道。 “我也有这样的甜酒。”

“我不怀疑，”女孩疑惑地回答。 “但我宁愿不尝它们。我感觉很好。”

她突然想到，托马索修士可能不会错过用三刀刺伤她的好机会，给她一杯毒药。如果她处在他的位置，她自己肯定也会这么做。

“谁想到要给你甜酒！”医生礼貌地笑了笑，回答道。 “我说是为了说。但如果你渴了，就命令我。有水和好酒。他们是最好的甜酒。”

“嗯，一点水。我不拒绝。至于酒，没有。我也同样感谢你。我正在禁食并步行。吃完晚饭，我就在家喝酒。”

“塞拉菲娜！” “托马索修女喊道，老女巫立即从楼梯上出现，在安妮塔来访期间，她小心翼翼地退到了那里等待。 “把水拿来，还有我楼下的那瓶酒。你知道，那瓶斯特凡诺的陈酒被打开了。”

“不，不。我不要酒。”安妮塔很快说道。

“都一样带过来。也许她会让我们有幸喝到它。”

塞拉菲娜点点头，下楼时，石阶上传来她赤脚的声音。

“当一个人非常口渴时喝纯净水是不好的，”托马索修女说。 “它会使胃痉挛。一点酒可以增强胃的力量。但最好还是吃。如果你想吃的话，有新鲜的杂物。我也吃它们。”

“我也同样感谢你，”安妮塔回答道。 “我只想要水。距离奇维泰拉路途遥远，没有什么好春天。最后一座山脚下有一条小溪，从池塘里流出来。但它是重水，充满了东西。”

塞拉菲娜回来了，带来了两个沉重的压制玻璃杯，放在一个黑色的日本小托盘上，还有一瓶冷水。她的另一只手拿着两个瓶子，一半装满了酒，另一只装着意大利人喜爱的白糖桃仁糖浆。

“我也带来了这个，”她一边说，一边放下托盘，举起瓶子。 “也许这样更好。”

“是的，”托马索修士点头表示赞同。 “这个比较好。”

“你要喝一点杏仁酒吗？”老妇人用劝说的语气问道，并把它倒进了玻璃杯里。

“水，就是水。”安妮塔说，她仍然心存疑虑。 “给我另一个杯子里的水。”

“但我已经把两者混合了，”塞拉菲娜回答道。 “嗯，你就喝吧。你不会再让我这样的老太婆一路走下楼梯吧。但这样也好。是我告诉你的。昨天早上我自己给医生做的，让他的血液恢复一点。”

安内塔站了起来，看着镜子，老妇人用一把老式的长柄勺子搅拌着水中的白色糖浆。她不想让自己显得可疑得荒唐可笑，但她又不信任她的敌人。她拿起一只杯子，走到他身边，把它举到他的唇边，就像一个人喝了一杯无效的饮料一样。

“在你之后。”他带着礼貌的微笑说道，但同时举起手接过杯子。

“先是病人，然后是健康的人。”安妮塔回答道，她也微笑着，但专注地看着他。

他确信她确实怀疑有不法之事，因为他很了解农民，而且他自己与他们的距离也只有一步之遥。他立即喝掉了半杯，打消了她的怀疑。她立即​​接过另一个，迫不及待地喝了下去，因为她真的很渴。

“再来一点？”塞拉菲娜用沙哑的声音建议道。

“不，”托马索修士插话道。 “这可能会伤害她——一下子伤害太多。”

但安妮塔把杯子装满了纯净水，又把它倒空。

“终于！”她满意地叹了口气。 “多么渴啊！我好像吃到骨灰了！现在我谢谢你，托马索修女，我要回家了；因为这是万福玛利亚，我不想像你那样在黑暗中举行一次糟糕的会议。丑陋的刺客！我永远不会原谅他们，永远不会！我在家该说什么？有一天你会来吃晚饭吗？

“呃，如果上帝愿意的话，”医生回答道。 “我将由塞拉菲娜陪同。”

“我！”老妇人惊呼道。 “我连猫都害怕！我能为你做什么？

“陪伴始终是陪伴，”托马索修士明智地说。 “一个人不愿去的地方，两个人勇敢地去。晚上好，我美丽的女儿，”他抬头看着安妮塔补充道。 “麦当娜和你一起去。”

“谢谢你，晚上好。”女孩低下半句礼貌回答道，小眼睛里闪烁着邪恶的光芒。

她转身，片刻就出了房间。回家的路上，穿过晚霞中的狭窄街道，她给自己唱了几首歌曲，想起了她对托马索修士所说的一切，以及他对她所说的一切，以及他是多么害怕她。父亲的刀。否则，正如她所知，他会逮捕她。

突然，在最后一个转弯处，她停了下来，脸色变得非常苍白，双手紧握着紧身胸衣。

“刺客！”她呻吟着，磨着她洁白的短牙。 “He 到底是给我下了毒！他和他的全家都会遭受邪恶的死亡！刺客！”

她忘记了自己曾经经历过同样的感觉，当时她太热了，喝了太多冷水。

黄昏时分，女孩迈着缓慢的脚步，双手紧握着胸衣，来到了父亲的家门口。她知道他不在，而且由于她没有早点回家，她的母亲会在较低的地区为他准备达尔林普尔的晚餐。从街上通往楼梯的门仍然开着，她几乎确信能够在不被发现的情况下到达自己的房间，除非她偶然在楼梯上遇到达尔林普尔本人。就在那时，她宁愿见到他，也不愿见到她的母亲。她非常痛苦，很难向空南那解释她相信自己是被故意下毒的。

她悄无声息地爬上几乎漆黑的楼梯，来到达尔林普尔面向第一层楼梯平台的门前。她停了下来，犹豫着，靠在墙上。在她看来，他是个聪明人，当然会立刻明白她的症状。但后来，她中毒了，他却无能为力。如果这是真的，她的下一个想法告诉她，托马索修女一定是服毒自杀了。他不会那样做。她从未听说过解毒剂；因为虽然她和她的班级里的人传统上很熟悉中毒，但这种情况却非常罕见。然而，她敏锐的智慧告诉她，如果托马索修女像他那样微笑着吞下了这些东西，那么他就有办法抵消它——毫无疑问，她一离开他，他就服用了某种药物。但如果达尔林普尔有药物可以解毒，那么他是一个聪明得多的人，他也一定有这样的药物，甚至是更好的药物。这个反应让她下定了决心。她离他的门很近。那个时间他很可能会在自己的房间里。她担心自己的生命安全，于是她敲了敲门。

但达尔林普尔还没有回来。他独自在山里走了很长一段路，随着太阳落得越来越低，他爬得更高，在陡峭的小路上迟到了，即使是他经过山地训练的脚也小心翼翼地走在路上。他对这个国家太熟悉了，不会迷路，但他从来没有找到最短的路，也不是特别急于这样做。步行的时间比坐在三只铜喙燃烧的小火焰下看书的时间更快。

安内塔发现房间里没有光，因为挂闩绳的洞因使用而变宽了。她也感到头晕目眩，刀割般的疼痛贯穿全身，让她弯下腰。她知道达尔林普尔把他的药物锁在实验室里，她无法拿到它们，尽管她会毫不犹豫地吞下她发现的任何东西，因为她简单地确定他所有的药物本身都一定是好的，而且因此可以挽救生命并且对她有好处。但他出去了，她确信卧室里不会有任何东西。每天早上浇水、清扫砖地时，她常常要检查每一个角落，并按照她原始的想法把东西整理好。

从那时起，她就失去了对生活的把握。她中毒了，必须死。她确信这一点，就像一个看到鹰的中国人，意识到自己的时刻到了，平静地躺下来，仅仅通过悬置意志而咽下最后一口气。在旧国家，下层阶级通常活力很低。更准确的说法可能是生命意志薄弱。让有学问的人来确定定义。这个事实很容易解释。世世代代以来，大多数欧洲农业人口都以蔬菜为生，就像大多数东亚人一样，结果也是一样。可以说，艰苦的劳动会产生坚硬的肌肉，但蔬菜食品会产生较低的生命张力。士兵们对此非常了解。每天吃两次肉、脸色苍白的城市职员将比那些肌肉发达、肌肉大多由土豆、玉米和水制成的魁梧工人更能战斗、更长寿、更挨饿。

女孩蹑手蹑脚地爬上楼梯，来到她孤独的小房间，躺在床上等死，仿佛这是在这种情况下唯一能做的事。她从来没有想过去找她母亲，告诉她发生了什么事以及她的怀疑，就像她没有向托马索修士提出举报她刺伤他一样。如果她父亲在家，她也许会去找他，在临死前告诉他，医生杀了她，斯特凡诺必须为她报仇。但他不在。她比她母亲要坚强，一直支配着她。她还知道，如果她抱怨，索拉·南纳会发出尖叫声，半个苏比亚科都会跑到家里。女孩的动物本能是孤独地、安静地死去。于是她一声不吭地躺在床上，痛苦地翻滚着，用尽全身力气捂住身体两侧，但牙齿紧咬，嘴唇沉默。

从事实来看，这一切都够可笑的。女孩在炎热的秋日里晒了一整天，吃了一些过熟的无花果和葡萄，这可能会扰乱鸵鸟的消化，最后走回家时，连她强壮的四肢都累了，然后，在托马索修女的家里，吞下了近一夸脱的冰水。她病得很重并不奇怪。毒药理论的出现并不奇怪。当她躺在床上时，这对她来说是一场悲剧，无异于死亡。

当她的头静静地躺在枕头上时，在痉挛之间，各种各样的事情都在她的脑海中闪过。她的思想主要尤其是对托马索修女的仇恨，以及一种像狗一样渴望在死前看到达尔林普尔的脸的渴望。她仍然对他的红发和明亮的蓝眼睛的景象着迷，这双眼睛清晰地浮现在她的脑海里，他冷酷的脸上对她半幼稚半恶意的话语露出漫不经心的微笑。想到他，也随之而来的是对玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔的嫉妒，以及另一种仇恨，这种仇恨比她对托马索修女的任何仇恨都更深、更强烈、更报复。她感觉到，而不是理解，达尔林普尔全心全意地爱着修女。她跟他谈到过她，看着他的脸，看到了他眼睛里迅速而野蛮的目光，尽管他的声音只是表达了他的烦恼。当他的景象出现在她面前时，她看到了他当时的样子，愤怒的红晕覆盖了他的脸，一直延伸到发根。

图像自行固定。在它后面的昏暗阴影中，她看到了玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔的脸，就像一张死亡面具，还有修女那双奇怪的、深邃的眼​​睛越过男人的肩膀轻蔑地看着她，尽管她在女人致命的迷恋中忘记了他。她凝视着，似乎无法合上眼睑，尽管她渴望将视线拒之门外。然后，她的耳边似乎响起了一阵沉闷的噪音，这种噪音不是声音，而是一种未曾听到、而是想象出来的声音对她大脑的惊人影响。修女的头部周围出现了巨大的光圈，这些光圈划破了达尔林普尔的脸，然后将其隐藏起来。它们就像荣耀，就像圣徒头上的光环。安妮塔对他们很生气，因为她确信玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔很坏，并且在她的喉咙里犯了罪。

“你和你的全家都会被邪恶地处死！”愤怒的农家女低声叫道。

“死亡！”她不知道回声是从哪里传回来的，声音听起来很奇怪——也许是她自己的。

她吓了一跳。幻象消失了，她猛地从床上坐了起来，猛地清醒了过来。痛苦一定已经过去了。不——它又来了，但远没有那么强烈。她用手摸着自己的脸，轻轻地笑了，因为她知道自己还活着。那是晚上，她一定在那里独自躺了一段时间，因为有一种银色的、薄雾般的东西穿过黑暗，那是月出时的白色黎明，它不像白天的黎明，也不像渐渐远去的暮色。当她坐起来时，她看到了山峦的轮廓，在窗户上的铅窗玻璃的十字形映衬下呈锯齿状。黎明的月亮向天空发出柔和的光芒。她又看了一会儿，一个亮点将一道水平光线直射到她的脸上。又过了一会儿，房间里充满了光，这样她就可以清楚地看到最小的物体。

“但我还活着！”她用柔和而高兴的语气喊道。 “强盗只是对我怀恨在心。他害怕杀了我。”

疼痛再次袭来，虽然没有之前那么剧烈，但却足以激起她的愤怒。她仍然坐起来，但身体前倾，紧紧抓住她的紧身胸衣。月光下，她可以看到脚上沉重的鞋子在她面前竖起。她意识到穿着它们躺下是一件不光彩的事情，于是她跳下床，开始用手掸床单上的灰尘。疼痛过去了。

毕竟，她想，无论第一杯水里有没有毒，她都在托马索修女那里喝了不少冷水。她也没有忘记，同样的事情以前也发生在她身上，达尔林普尔用一勺东西治好了这件事，这种东西刺痛了她的嘴和喉咙，但后来温暖了她，治愈了她。她现在感到寒冷，她希望自己也有一些同样的刺痛、温暖的东西。

房子里的某个地方有什么东西动了。女孩认真地听了一会儿。达尔林普尔可能已经回来了，正在他的房间里走来走去，像晚饭前他总是做的那样洗手，然后脱掉沉重的靴子。他的房间就在她的楼下，面向同一个方向。她走到门口，打算立即下去向他要点药。这时她确信自己没有任何危险，她的常识告诉她，她只是因为吃太多的葡萄、太多的冷水和太长时间的阳光照射而让自己一时生病了。她不想让母亲知道这件事，因为索拉南娜会责骂她。在门口抓住那个苏格兰人，轻而易举地答应保密，从他那里得到她想要的东西，然后下楼，就像什么都没发生过一样，这将是一件简单的事情。

安妮塔只犹豫了一会儿，然后走进黑暗的楼梯，蹑手蹑脚地走下去，就像她爬上来一样，在拐角处、靠墙摸索着走。她走到门口，惊讶地发现里面没有光——没有灯发出的黄光，只有月光透过阴影，从门闩的孔里爬出来的灰色微光。她的耳朵欺骗了她，达尔林普尔并不在那里。尽管如此，她相信他是。月光会照在他的房间里，就像在她的房间里一样，就在头顶上，而他可能不会费心去点灯。这是很有可能的。她轻轻敲了敲，却没有任何回应。她担心母亲可能会偷偷地走上楼梯，听到她隔着门说话。她把嘴唇靠近门闩的孔，轻轻地吹了一声口哨。她的哨子被她自己的微笑打断了，因为她想象达尔林普尔可能会因为这意想不到的声音而惊慌失措。

但没有任何回应。她胆子越来越大，轻轻地叫了他一声。

“先生！你在吗？”

没有人回答。就在这时，当她弯下腰时，疼痛再次传遍全身。她非常确定自己听到了他的声音，因此她确信他一定在里面，很可能在卧室外面他的小实验室里。她很痛，而他有药。她很自然地拉动绳子，推开了门。

他不在那儿。月光洒满一切，粉刷成白色的墙壁反射着月光，让这里明亮如白昼。她首先映入眼帘的是房间中央桌子边上的一个小瓶子，下午索拉·南娜打电话给达尔林普尔读她的信时，达尔林普尔不小心把它放在了那里。它正好位于月光的直线上，塞子像一颗小星星一样闪闪发光。

安妮塔看到这一幕，高兴极了。这正是他不到一个月前给她送樟脑的瓶子——大小、透明内容物、标签都一样。它可能欺骗了比她更敏锐的眼睛。

实验室的门开着，就像他离开时一样，当时心事重重，漫不经心。她只停了一会儿，确认这瓶酒是对的，并反映出他可能感觉不舒服，自己喝了一些。她继续往小房间里看。

“先生！”她轻声叫道。但没有得到任何答复。

很明显，达尔林普尔要么还在外面，要么正在楼下和她母亲一起吃晚饭。不过，他可能会出局。在这样一个美好的夜晚，这是很有可能的，因为他的作息时间很不规律。如果他突然进来发现她乱动他的东西，他会不高兴的。她再次穿过房间，轻轻地关上了门。至少，他来了，就不会被发现她手里还拿着瓶子。她可以找个借口。

一切都是那么自然。这是同一个瓶子。她知道正确的数量，因为她拥有农民对这些细节的记忆。桌子上的白色盘子里放着一个玻璃杯和一瓶水。她没有勺子，但这并不重要。她用有力的手指把塞子拔了出来，尽管它有点卡住了。当她把一些东西倒进玻璃杯里时，疼痛再次袭来，她的手颤抖着，所以她倒出了比需要的多一点的东西。但这并不重要。她倒满水，把杯子举到月光下，一口气喝了下去，然后把空杯子重新放在桌子上。

瞬间，她的面容就变了。她感觉自己的头、心、身体仿佛被炽热的钢铁击中。玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔的死亡面具在月光下升起在她面前。

“你和你的全家都会被邪恶地处死！”她试图说。

但话还没说完，她就浑身发抖，抓住桌子，倒在了砖地上，死了。

没有任何噪音。快死了，她以为自己在尖叫，但她的嘴唇里只有最微弱的呻吟声。

门关着，静谧的月光洒了进来，给她那张黝黑、死气沉沉的脸镀上了银色。

那天晚上月出时，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔站在敞开的牢房门前，看着西边的乌云，一缕一缕地捕捉着光芒。修道院的黑色阴影仍然覆盖着整个花园，路过的人几乎看不到她站在那里。她的面纱被掀起，寒冷的山风吹过她的脸颊。但她没有感觉到，因为她已经在女院长的床边待了很长时间，然后又在教堂的唱诗班里待了很长时间，她的头又热又痛。

在她看来，当她望向西边的群山，看着层层叠叠的云彩，感受着凉爽潮湿的风时，那天晚上的空气中似乎弥漫着一种奇异的悲壮气息。风时不时地从修道院窗户的缝隙中吹过，吹过旧墙的垛口，就像死亡的镰刀可能会吹口哨一样，如果他怀着正确的善意砍倒人们，成堆地砍倒死者。古老的钟声阴沉地敲响了整点，每敲响一次，空气中就会发出沉闷的撞击声，就像埋葬的钟声一样。天空中的云朵是黑色和银色的，就像葬礼的棺材。

玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔靠在门柱上向外望去，她的手在黑木头的阴影中泛白，脸色更白。但她的手上有两个痕迹，即使在昏暗的情况下也清晰可见。白天它们会是红色的，这个地方不时地刺痛她，因为她狠狠地咬了它。这是她的誓言，而这痛苦让她想起了自己曾经许下的诺言。

她需要提醒；她需要提醒。现在他不在她身边，这桩巨大的罪行就显得格外突出，如同死亡本身一样黑暗而崇高。当达尔林普尔在她身边时，情况就不同了。他狂暴的生命力拖着她的生命体行动起来，牵引着、驱动着、刺激着它，就像不情愿的士兵被赶进野蛮军队的战斗一样。然后，命运似乎不可抗拒，然后危险似乎很小，燃烧的红色耻辱变得苍白无力。他那双瘦骨嶙峋、年轻的手充满了两人的力量，他那双闪闪发光的眼睛烧尽了她的抵抗力，并用自己的光芒照亮了它们。他的不信是由衷的、鲁莽的，贯穿了她的综合信仰，并在她的灵魂逃脱中布满了漏洞。然后，她的激情的现实使她崇高的爱情疯狂地渴望自由，冲破她诞生和成长的坚固墙壁。当他的爱在那里时，她的爱与他的爱相匹配，在脸上重击财富，为了爱而敢于挑战天堂和地狱，和他在一起，爆裂的鲜血使她的手变成了铁，刺痛着，打击着懦夫苍白的命运。嘴。然后她就凌驾于女性之上；然后她就像勇敢的人一样勇敢；那么，既然答应了，那么遵守只是意志的自然把握，死亡只不过是再敢于再挑战一个小对手。

但现在她独自一人，一边思考着，一边眺望着悲惨的夜色，看着巨大的云层的黑暗。她并没有像有些女人那样，在刺痛让心暂时平静下来后，回到原来的样子。她并没有对自己说，她会下令永远关闭安格斯·达尔林普尔的修道院大门，而她自己则回到附近的唱诗班，坐在她的座位上，与其他人一起唱圣歌，平静地不高兴地唱着圣歌。他们中的许多人都是。她太清楚，当爱情靠近时，她的心跳会多么剧烈，她的双手会变得多么冰冷。然而，她对自己许诺要做的事情感到恐惧不寒而栗。她会挣扎到最后，但当她听到他的声音，感觉到他的手时，她必须屈服，在最后一刻，当他们应该到达花园门口时，他拉着她，她回头。

这是伪证和亵渎，是尘世的耻辱，是永恒的诅咒。一点也没有少。这句话对她来说有着完整而致命的意义。即使他有不同的想法，即使他有另一种信仰，或者更确切地说，根本没有信仰，这并不重要。这一切对她来说都是真实的。这不是风险，而是风险。这是确定性的。对于一个不忠的修女，人间或天堂有什么宽恕呢？他谈到了婚姻，他会按照在他眼中有意义的仪式娶她。上天不会与基督的宣誓配偶离婚，成为安格斯·达尔林普尔的尘世妻子。

她的脑海中浮现出永恒折磨的幻象，一个有形的灼热地狱，充满了火焰和魔鬼，一片液体火海，一片沸腾沥青海洋，撒旦在中间发号施令，还有无数的恶魔在施展他折磨人的意志。

黑暗中，她苍白的嘴唇轻蔑地翘起。这些并不是让她害怕的恐惧，也不是让她退缩的恐惧。有一个问题，无论是被诅咒还是得救，都不能由她自己的灵魂来回答，而是由此后的人们来回答——她的名字的荣誉问题。那些善良的老贵族们的传统在那天并没有消亡，也还没有全部消亡。许多布拉乔人在他或她的时代都做过恶事，至少有一个人在玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔入葬后也做过恶事。但罪恶是一回事，耻辱则是另一回事，即使在苏比亚科修女看来也是如此。对于她的罪孽，她可以而且必须用自己灵魂的福祉或祸患来回答。但她的耻辱将降临在她的父亲和她的母亲身上，以及她所有的种族身上。没有什么比一个不忠的修女给一个不洁的名字带来的耻辱更深、更致命、更持久的了。玛丽亚·布拉奇奥 (Maria Braccio) 对耻辱犹豫不决，而玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔 (Maria Addolorata) 对毁灭微笑。在她家族的历史上，这并不是第一次以上帝的名义来对抗魔鬼。

这是最大的障碍，她现在知道了。她能够面对除此之外的所有后果，尽管它们可能很可怕。障碍就在那里，传统的旧观念认为荣誉是第一位的，高于一切考虑因素。当她最后犹豫是否要戴面纱时，他们正是利用了这一信念。他们告诉她，她已经走了这么远，在最后一刻回头是懦弱和不光彩的行为。现在也存在同样的争论。那么，如果她拒绝成为修女，至少人权和教会法会站在她一边。现在，一切都对她不利。然后，她将不得不面对一些人的谴责意见，他们谈到了隐含的义务。现在，她必须站起来，在全世界面前蒙羞。将会有关于它的可怕的宣传。她出身高贵，不可能不觉得她所生活的世界就是一个伟大的家庭。达尔林普尔可能会向她许诺荣誉和尊重，以及他自己的父母对她父母的爱、一个家、受人尊敬的妻子身份以及其他一切。以他的实力，他可能会把她强加给他的家人，他们也可能按照他的吩咐对待她，因为他是一个强势而有统治力的男人。但在他们心里，无论是新教徒、英国人还是外国人，对于她的种族来说，他们都无法诚实地告诉自己，违背她这样的誓言并不是一件可耻的事情，可耻且毫不逊色。如果，有那么一刻，他不在那里控制他们，她应该从他们的脸上看到这一点，她必须低下头，因为她无话可说。为了他，她不仅要牺牲自己的灵魂，还要断绝自己的信仰，违背对上帝的承诺，以及对教会的誓言。为了他，她必须让自己遭受公开的世俗耻辱。

实在是太多了。除了这个，她什么都可以忍受。与其忍受这些，还不如死了好。

西边乌云升得更高，阴沉的空气吹在她的脸上。她的头不再发热，因为一种冰冷的恐惧降临在她身上，就像有某种无法形容的可怕的阴影，近在眼前。突然，她害怕独自一人。一只蝙蝠在月亮升起的第二个黄昏的引诱下，轻轻地扇动着翅膀，从上空盘旋而下，几乎擦到了她的脸庞。她迅速退回到门口。这是一个非常悲惨的夜晚，她想。她关上门，摸索着走出牢房，来到走廊，走廊上只有一盏灯，通过一根绳子从金库上垂下，发出昏暗的灯光。她走进女院长的寓所。一位修女代替了她的位置，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔用手势打发她离开，自己在床边坐下。

老太太要么睡着了，要么没有注意到侄女来了。她的脸像灰烬一样灰白，在阴影中仰起。石头地板上立着原始的意大利夜灯，灯芯由三角形的锡片支撑，由三个小软木塞支撑，软木塞浸在玻璃杯的水面上。光线非常清晰和稳定，尽管光线很少，对于长期处于相对黑暗中的玛丽亚来说，房间似乎足够明亮。除了那张朴素的床、一张小桌子、几把椅子和一个又高又黑的衣柜之外，就没有什么家具了。白色的墙上，挂着一个冷酷的十字架，挂在女院长的头顶上，这是那个时代的作品，恐怖是人们所熟悉的，需要夸张来教导冷酷的人性。

玛丽亚正忙着自己的事情，没能立即注意到那位生病的妇女的状况。此外，这两天晕厥没有再出现，女院长的病情似乎正在稳步好转。她的呼吸有些粗重，看起来像是睡着了。

然而，渐渐地，当修女一动不动地坐在她身边，随着思绪的风暴平息，她意识到一切都不对劲。姨妈的脸色异常的灰白，呼吸异常的缓慢而粗重。吸气时，细细的鼻孔两边奇怪地扁扁起来，五官显得尖尖的。玛丽亚站起来，摸了摸脉搏。它在颤动，并不总是被察觉。

起初，玛丽亚对这些事实的关注只是机械的。然后，她的心突然一沉，她意识到这可能意味着什么——又一场危机，就像女院长死里逃生的那场危机一样。确实，那一次她不止一次地呼救，表明她已经感觉到自己正在下沉。目前她似乎失去了知觉，如果说有什么不同的话，那就是更糟糕的情况。

玛丽亚长长地吸了一口气，然后屏住呼吸，咬着嘴唇，就像人们在悬疑、怀疑和焦虑的时刻所做的那样。命运仿佛在最后一刻才做出了这个伟大的决定。她眼前悬而未决的生命意味着等待的可能性，以及尚未做出决定的微弱安慰。

她像雕像一样一动不动地站着，脸像面具一样，手放在失去知觉的女人的手腕上。达尔林普尔向她展示如何使用的兴奋剂就在手边——用来服用它的玻璃杯。它会延长寿命。它可能会拯救它。

她应该给吗？时间一分一秒过去，这个可怕的问题却没有得到答案。如果女院长死了，如果不给她药，她几乎肯定会在半小时内死——如果她死了，玛丽亚会打电话给姐妹们，门女会接到指示，第二天达尔林普尔来的时候，他会告诉她。他会被告知一切都结束了，不再需要他了。没有什么比这更确定的了。他或许会竭尽全力。他无法再进入修道院。

在快速的幻象中，玛丽亚一动不动地站在教堂里，夜里她独自一人在教堂里，跪倒在地，忏悔着，用泪水清洗祭坛的台阶，得到了上帝的宽恕，因为上帝仍然可以宽恕她，在地球上像以前一样受到尊敬，因为除了沉默的告解神父之外，没有人知道她做了什么，更不用说她打算做什么了。她的悲伤是真实的、压倒性的，能够感动上天怜悯，她的忏悔是真诚而严厉的，这是她应得的。她的名字将是纯洁无瑕的。

如果她不必再见到他的话，那就太容易了。如果他能触碰她的手，她怎么能抗拒他呢？但如果她能免受他的伤害，她就可以埋葬他的爱，并在死者的记忆中为他祈祷。所有这一切，只要她让沉重的呼吸再持续一会儿，如果她不举起手来，把酒杯放在那张灰色的、张开的嘴唇上。

他们现在分手了。费力的呼吸从牙齿中吸了出来。眼睑微微上扬，只露出上翻的眼白。

玛丽亚目不转睛地盯着那张被捏紧的脸，一种新的恐惧袭上心头。

她所做的是谋杀。一点也没有少。拯救的力量就在那里，她不会使用它。不——这不可能是谋杀——她不可能谋杀。

她仍然睁大眼睛凝视着。刚才那沉重的呼吸声肯定来得更快了。床单的每一次起落之间似乎都隔着一个年龄。齿间发出恐怖的呼啸声。

速度还更慢。眼睑逐渐睁开——那片盲目的白色让人难以忍受。每一次呼吸都是一次抽搐，让脆弱的身体颤抖起来。

这是谋杀。她的手闪电般伸出，抓住了小瓶子。让任何事情发生——爱、羞耻、天堂、诅咒；这不应该是谋杀。

她绝望地把那只没有塞住的瓶子塞进垂死的女人嘴里。下一次呼吸是窒息的。全身都颤抖起来。那只瘦手出现，带着扭曲的能量抓住了被子，然后几乎一动不动地躺着，一秒一秒地抽搐着。玛丽亚仍然疯狂地尝试将更多的兴奋剂倒入固定的牙齿之间。当他们分开时，没有呼吸，手指只再次动了一下，这是最后一次。

这不是谋杀，而是死亡。这位消瘦的老妇人比那位强壮的年轻农家姑娘多活了两三个小时，而命运却沉重地压在了玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔的生命上。

那天晚上，当达尔林普尔回到家时，他发现晚饭已经放在桌子上了，而且半冷了。索拉·南娜比她的女儿更忙，对苏格兰人的违规行为也没有那么耐心。如果他不能在合理的时间回家，他就不能指望她让一切都等着他。

他甚至没有像往常一样上楼去洗手，就坐到了桌边，因为煮熟的肉再放五分钟就会又冷又油腻。他坐在自己的位置上，良久没有动。索拉南娜不止一次来过。她全神贯注于丈夫吩咐送来的酒，如果可能的话，她打算在早上之前送出去，因为她不希望他口袋里揣着钱而缺席罗马。比必要的时间更长的一天。

达尔林普尔背靠墙坐着，心情郁闷，心事重重，面前连一本书也没有，默默地喝着酒，眼睛盯着灯。索拉南娜问他是否见过安妮塔。他摇摇头没有说话。这位女士观察到，女孩们完全有能力在奇维泰拉度过第二个晚上，以延长庆祝活动。达尔林普尔点点头，一点也不在意。

由于安妮塔缺席，吉吉托认为没有必要出席。但索拉南娜希望再次见到他是因为酒的事。她笑着问达尔林普尔，如果她出去半个小时，他是否会留在家里。他再次沉默地点点头。他听到她从门内锁门的声音，门是从街上的楼梯打开的，因为时间已经很晚了。然后她又穿过公共休息室，把罩裙罩在头上，出去了，门半开着。达尔林普尔独自一人在房子里，没有意识到安妮塔已经死在楼上房间的地板上。

索拉·南纳离开还不到一刻钟，一个男孩从街上进来了。达尔林普尔认识他，因为他是修道院园丁的儿子。

小伙子说，达尔林普尔立即被通缉，因为女院长病得很重。这就是他所知道的一切。他是一个相当迟钝的男孩，他机械地重复别人告诉他的话。苏格兰人吃了一惊，正要说话，突然停住了。他问了男孩两三个问题，希望得到更准确的信息，却只能得到男孩的重复。由于女院长病得很重，他立即被通缉。

他用手捂住眼睛几秒钟。他猛然意识到，如果他要带走玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔，就必须在今晚。如果再发生一次危机，女院长在到达修道院之前就已经死了，这种可能性是一百比一。一旦死了，不知道在随之而来的混乱和精心准备的葬礼中会发生什么。这个人有一种敢于直面障碍的勇气，就像雄鹰面对峭壁一样，没有丝毫犹豫。当他把手放在桌子上时，他就下定了决心。

在苏比亚科，晚上任何时候都很容易买到一头好骡子。那时骡子还在马厩里。白天，这会非常令人怀疑，因为他们中的大多数人都在葡萄园里，或者向邻近的城镇搬运货物。达尔林普尔知道，修道院的园丁很有钱，他有一头非常好的骡子，它的马厩就在山坡的半山腰上。男孩可以毫无困难地给它装上驮鞍，并在他选择的任何地方与他见面。作为一个自由派外国人，达尔林普尔的名声很高，工资很高，园丁也不会责怪这个男孩擅自给骡子装鞍。

达尔林普尔用几句话解释了他想要什么，为了帮助小伙子理解，他给了他一些铜币，这让小家伙充满了活力和快乐。半小时后，男孩将到达从修道院上方通往山谷的骡道的顶端。达尔林普尔告诉他，他想去蒂沃利，如果他愿意的话，在拜访女院长结束后，男孩可以和他一起去。男孩跑开去给骡子备鞍。

达尔林普尔迅速站起来，关上临街的门，以便把灯带进自己的房间，而不是让房子在没有光的情况下敞开着。案情紧急。他提着灯上楼，打开了宿舍的门。他立刻就闻出了氢氰酸钾的微弱的、令人作呕的气味，并记起那天下午他匆忙地将装有溶液的瓶子留在了桌子上。然后他低头一看，发现地板上有一张苍白的脸，还有那个农家姑娘的花衣和漂亮的裙子。

他有坚强的神经，对死亡完全漠不关心，这是大多数医生在解剖室里习得的一种现象。但当他弯下腰，把灯放在地板上时，几秒钟后他发现安妮塔已经死了一段时间，他感到震惊。他甚至轻轻地摇了摇头，非常缓慢，这对他的冷酷本性来说意义重大。看了一眼桌子上并排的没有塞子的瓶子和空玻璃杯，他立刻明白，这个女孩有意或无意地吞下的毒药，足以杀死六名壮汉。他立刻想起有一次她生病的时候，他给她灌了樟脑酒，刹那间他就明白了一切，就好像他亲眼所见一样。

他几乎没有想到自己在做什么，尽管他费了很大的力气，任何一个试图从地上抬起尸体的人都会明白，他抱起那个毫无生气的女孩，她僵硬而荒凉，把她放在自己的床上。 。这只是人类的本能。然后他走回去，拿起灯，放在她的脸旁，若有所思地再次摇了摇头。一声怜悯的话语从他嘴里逸出，语气很低。

他把灯放在床边的地板上，因为附近没有小桌子。农民家里从来没有。他开始在房间里走来走去，思考着形势，这已经够严重的了。

突然，他闻到了棉花燃烧的刺鼻气味。他猛地转过身来，发现三喙灯离床太近了，垂下来的被单就在其中一团火焰的正上方，而且已经在闷烧了。他用双手捂住了灯，把灯带进实验室，放在桌子上。

然后，他意识到自己的案子很紧急，就开始做准备。他拿了一个干净的瓶子，倒了三十五滴鸦片酊，塞上塞子，塞进口袋里。他打开另一个盒子，拿出一些文件和一个装满黄金的帆布袋，这种袋子是银行家在旅行时需要携带大量现金时送给旅行者的。他披上斗篷，用一只手臂搭起格子布，然后回到卧室，另一只手提着灯。然后他犹豫了一下，嗅了嗅空气和烧焦的棉花的味道。突然，他的脑海中似乎闪过了一个念头，他关掉了灯，把格子布放在椅子上。他又站了一会儿，看着床上死去的女孩，若有所思地咬着嘴唇，点了两下头。他向床边迈了一步，又犹豫了一下，然后就下定了决心。

他回到床边，稍微弯下腰，把尸体抱在怀里，仿佛在判断它的重量和他承载它的力量。他的第一反应是锁上房间的门，然后去修道院，把死去的女孩留在原处，无论他那天晚上是否注定会回来。他想了想，如果他这么做了，他肯定会被指控毒害了她。他的意思是，如果可能的话，在二十四小时内将玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔带上位于奇维塔韦基亚的英国战舰。就带走一名修女而言，他在船上是安全的。但如果他被指控谋杀，无论多么虚假，船长都有权拒绝对他提供保护，即使他是达尔林普尔的朋友。一系列的小情况让他瞬间制定了一个计划，如果成功实施，就能解释安妮塔本人和玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔的失踪。

他的眼皮微微收缩，他的大下巴坚定地下定决心要克服一切障碍。几秒钟之内，他就把死去的女孩脱掉了厚重的紧身胸衣、裙子、地毯围裙和厚重的鞋子。他把东西卷成一捆，扔进实验室，锁上实验室的门，然后把钥匙塞进口袋里。他小心翼翼地塞住装有剩余亚铁酸钾的瓶子，也接了过来。然后，他像木乃伊一样，小心翼翼地用他那件巨大的格子布把尸体卷起来，并用他随身携带的鞋带系住披肩的两端。他把软帽牢牢地拉到额头上，把斗篷披在左肩上。他把尸体从床上抱起来。它是如此的鲜明，直立在他的身边。他用右臂搂住它的腰，把它举得高高的，这样他就可以自由行走，并尽可能地用宽大的斗篷盖住它，并腾出了左手。经过桌子时，他抓住了灯，在门口听了听，尽管他知道房子在下面锁着，他小心翼翼地艰难地下了楼梯。

就在楼梯的临街门内有一个壁龛，几乎所有意大利老房子里都有一个壁龛。他把尸体放进去，提着灯走进公共休息室。他从口袋里掏出装有鸦片酊的瓶子，装满了大半瓶茴香甜酒，其中一个醒酒器和其他酒一起放在餐具柜上，就像在这些地方一样。他把它放回口袋，又听了一遍。然后他向自己保证，他已经拥有了他所需要的一切——瓶子、钱、他的斗篷，还有一把短而宽的刀，他走路时总是带着它，更多的是为了在他停下来吃点心时切一条面包。而非任何其他目的。他的护照和盒子里其他几张有价值的文件都被他带走了。

他把灯放在桌子上，打开临街的门锁，但没有拉开。尽管他很勇敢，但他的心跳得很快，因为这是第一个决定性的时刻。如果空南娜在接下来的六十秒内回家，就会有麻烦。但没有任何声音。

他在黑暗中回到楼梯门前，打开门锁，然后把门打开，向外看去。厚厚的云层遮住了月光，他几乎看不清东西。但街上很安静，因为时间已经很晚了，当时苏比亚科没有看守人。过了一会儿，门在他身后关上了，他消失在黑暗的角落里，怀里抱着安妮塔的尸体，全身裹在他的大斗篷里。

这是一次漫长而可怕的攀登。达尔林普尔在修道院后面的花园围墙和左边陡峭的下坡之间延伸出一条狭窄的人迹罕至的小路上，在达尔林普尔踏上这条狭窄的小路之前，一个体弱的人可能会晕倒或放弃。黑暗中，汗水从他坚硬苍白的脸上流下来，他脱下斗篷，把可怕的担子放在低矮的后柱的阴影下。他摇晃宽阔的肩膀，擦擦额头，伸出长长的手臂，对折又伸展，因为长时间的努力，它们已经麻木了，睡着了。但事已至此，还没有人见过他。虽然可能性很小，但他还是很高兴。如果在楼下的房子里，任何人去他的房间，都不会发现任何东西。他口袋里有小实验室的钥匙。过了很长一段时间，他们破门而入，发现安妮塔的裙子、紧身胸衣和鞋子被包裹在一个角落里。

他又继续攀登五分钟，双臂不再负重，走起路来就像在空中一样。在骡道的尽头，小伙子已经牵着骡子在等他了。他告诉小家伙，他可能还要再等半个小时，因为在出​​发前往蒂沃利之前，他必须先去修道院见见女修道院院长。他吩咐他把骡子的缰绳拴在一棵悬垂的无花果树的低树枝上，然后坐下来等待。

“这是一个凉爽的夜晚，”达尔林普尔说，尽管他自己也够热的。 “喝这个吧，我的孩子。”

他递给他那小瓶茴香，一边打开。男孩闻了闻，知道是好酒，因为这是山里常见的饮料。他喝了一半，咕噜咕噜地倒进嘴里。

“把它全部喝掉，”达尔林普尔说。 “我给你带来的。”

男孩没有犹豫，还是喝干了最后一滴，一言不发地将瓶子递了回去。达尔林普尔让他坐在骡子头附近，远离小路，以防有人经过。他知道，在不习惯的烈酒剂量和三十五滴鸦片之间，这个小伙子很快就会沉沉睡去。剩下的，就只能靠运气了。就体力而言，他已经完成了不可能的任务，但命运最终不会阻止他。如果她这样做了，他的另一个口袋里还有足够的东西杀死了安妮塔，以永远解决他自己的事情，他可能需要它。那一刻他彻底绝望了。那天晚上任何一个经过他路上的人都会很不幸。

达尔林普尔再次用斗篷裹住自己，然后转身离开，沿着花园围墙原路返回。当他走过时，他瞥了一眼位于后门阴影中的长长的黑色物体。晚上十点到凌晨三点之间，即使有人经过那条路，也不太可能被注意到。他没有停下来，继续往前走，三四分钟后，他就绕过修道院来到教堂旁边的正门。他按响了门铃。女门童正在等他，他二话没说就进去了。

他在女院长公寓的前厅里找到了玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔，她戴着面纱，双手合十地站在小大厅的中央。她肯定听到了远处传来的铃声，因为她显然正在等他。

“我来得及吗？”他用焦急的语气问道。

她缓缓摇头。

“她死了吗？”

“在我派人去找你之前，她就已经死了。”玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔用低沉而近乎庄严的语气回答道。 “还没人知道。”

“我担心是这样，”达尔林普尔说。

他向客厅门口迈出了一步，自然地期待玛丽亚会像往常一样在那里和他说话。但她退后一步，挡住了他的路。

“不，”她简短地说。

“为什么不？”他惊讶地问道。

她把手指举到蒙着面纱的嘴唇上，然后指着另一扇门，警告他看门女就在那里，而且几乎就在她能听见的范围内。他很快就怀疑起来，她把他留在前厅是为了自卫，她无法抗拒再次见到他的愿望，她打算这是他们最后一次见面。

“玛丽亚，”他开始说道，但他只念出了她的名字，然后突然停了下来，因为巨大的恐惧扼住了他的喉咙。

“是的，”她用平静、低沉的声音回答。 “我已经下定了决心。我不会去。上帝也许会原谅我所做的事。我会祈求宽恕。但我不会再做更多的坏事了。即使是出于对你的爱，我也不会让我父亲的家族蒙羞。”

说完最后一句话，她的声音有些颤抖。尽管她戴着面纱，但这个男人的生命力已经在她身上蔓延。她决定要再次见到他，她要告诉他简单而正确的事实，她要向他告别，并答应为他祈祷，就像她必须为自己祈祷一样。但她已经发誓，她不会谈论爱情。然而，随着她说出的第一句话，爱的话语和振动也随之而来。她的双手消失在袖子里，指甲压着肌肤，坚定着坚强的决心。她几乎没有猜到他即将发生的激烈争论。

“在这里很难说话，”他说。 “我们去客厅吧。”

她摇了摇头，又向后退了一步，肩膀几乎抵住了门。

“你必须在这里说你必须说的话。”停顿片刻后，她回答道，她又感觉自己坚强了。 “就我而言，我已经说过了。如果我和你一起走，愿上帝在我最需要的时候忘记我。”

达尔林普尔似乎对这个庄严的祈祷没有什么感动。这对他来说意义不大。

“我必须给你讲一个小故事。”他平静地回答。 “除非我告诉你，否则你无法理解。我把我的生命寄托在你的爱上，我已经走了这么远，除了你我无法挽救我的生命——我的生命和我的荣誉。你愿意听我说吗？”

她点点头，他听到她急促的呼吸声。然后他开始讲述他的故事，根据他所知道的事实，用很少的言语将其清楚地组合起来。他告诉她安妮塔一定是把他桌上的瓶子误认为是樟脑，以及他是如何发现她死的。除了她的尸体完全消失之外，没有什么可以使他免受谋杀女孩的指控。当他告诉玛丽亚尸体就躺在花园墙后的后拱门下时，玛丽亚浑身发抖，迅速转过头。他还告诉她，这个男孩此时已经在远处小路上的骡子旁边睡着了。然后他告诉她他的计划，这个计划简短、绝望，但又巧妙。

“你不能告诉任何人女院长已经死了，”他说。 “我一走，就从你的牢房出去到花园里，当我敲门时，就把门打开。在牢房里留一盏灯。剩下的事我来做。”

“你会怎么做？”玛丽亚用低沉而疑惑的语气问道。

“你必须把牢房的门从里面锁上，并将灯留在那里，”达尔林普尔说。 “你在门口的花园里等我。我会把那个可怜女孩的尸体抬进去，放在你的床上。然后我会放火烧掉床本身。当然，床垫下有玉米叶——总是有的。我会把灯放在床边的地板上。我把门关上，出来找你，我可以通过从里面撑起弹簧，从外面把花园门的插销滑掉。你会看到的。

“太可怕了！”玛丽亚喘着气说。 “而且我没有看到——”

“很简单，没有什么可以挽救我的生命。当然，你的牢房只是一个石头拱顶，火无法蔓延。姐妹们都睡着了，除了女门童，她会在很远的地方。早在他们破门而入之前，尸体就会被火烧得面目全非。他们会看到灯站在附近，并会认为你躺下来休息，让灯离你很近——太近了；女院长在你睡着的时候死了，而你在醒来之前就着火了；事实上，你被烧死了。尸体将作为你的尸体被埋葬，你将在法律上死亡。因此，您的名声不会受到丝毫怀疑。至于我，人们会认为我为安妮塔买了其他衣服，把她的衣服扔进实验室，然后把她带走了。到时候我会寄给她父亲一大笔钱，不做任何评论。如果你拒绝，我要么因为谋杀一名在我不知情的情况下自杀的女孩而被逮捕、定罪并被判处死刑，要么，很可能，我现在就出去，坐在一个安静的地方，然后被判死刑。早上被发现死亡。无论哪种情况，我都必死无疑。我绝对不可能在不引起怀疑的情况下处理掉尸体。如果烧尸自救是错误的，那也不算大错，我自己承担。这是这件事上唯一的错误，除非爱你并愿意为你而死是错误的。你了解我吗？”

玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔靠在客厅的门​​上，几乎无意识地掀起了面纱，凝视着他的眼睛。这个计划很可怕，但她不禁佩服这个男人的力量和勇气。即使当他告诉她他爱她时，他的声音里也充满了男人和女人都拥有的那种平静的勇气。刹那间，整个情况对她来说就一清二楚了，因为他所有的计算都绝对正确——牢房的防火穹顶，尸体将被夺走的确定性，最重要的是，她的保证自己假定的死亡，这对她来说意味着从此以后完全不受怀疑。难道她不应该以基督教的方式下葬，像死了一样哀悼，并在一小时内摆脱她一生的所有后果吗？虽然其中有一丝恐怖，但它非常出色。

她爱他胜过爱自己的灵魂。束缚着她的，是对给父母带来耻辱的恐惧，远胜于任何精神上的恐惧。当他展开他的计划时，她再次动摇并不奇怪。

她转身，打开门，领着他走进客厅，客厅里银灯亮着。

“你必须把这一切都再说一遍，”她仍然站着说。 “我必须非常确定我理解了。”

他很清楚，既然她已经走到了这一步，她终于屈服了。他脑子里飞快地把计划的细节重新想了一遍，并在心里盘算了一下尚未决定的事情。但既然她愿意，他就把已经说过的话又说了一遍。他能够用自然的声音说话，不用担心被女门童听到，而且对结果也很确定，所以他说话更加轻松，更加雄辩。话还没说完，他就握住了她的手，她专注地凝视着他的眼睛。

“这对我来说是生死攸关的事，”当他告诉她一切后，他说道。 “会是哪一个呢？”

她沉默了一会儿。然后她有力的嘴角露出诡异的笑容。

“如果我为此失去灵魂，这对你来说就是生命，”她说。

她感觉到他手上快速的颤抖和压力，这个男人所有的巨大能量又恢复了活力。

“那我们就快点做吧，”他回答道。 “我要和门女出去。在我们到达走廊尽头之前，先去你的牢房，然后关上门，发出一些噪音。事后她会记得的。在花园门口等我轻轻敲一下，剩下的就交给我了。没有危险。不要害怕。”

“害怕的！”她自豪地喊道。 “你对我了解太少了！控制我的从来都不是恐惧。而且——还有你！”

最后两句话比她以前说过的一切都告诉了他更多，他第一次完全信任她。而且，这只是几分钟的时间，他从前门出去，绕到修道院的后面。这个计划构思得非常好，一旦付诸实施，就不会失败。

他们握手，就像两个人同意为了对方而做一件孤注一掷的事情。然后，当他们的手松开时，达尔林普尔转向门口，但几乎立刻又转过身，将她抱在怀里，亲吻她，就像男人在生命处于平衡时亲吻他们所爱的女人一样。然后他出去了，穿过前厅，发现女门童像往常一样在等他。她拿起小灯，默默地在前面带路。过了一会儿，他听到玛丽亚出来，进入她的牢房，在她身后大声地关上了门。

“尊贵的阁下现在没有危险，”他用苏格兰人的真诚对门女说。

“玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女可以休息一下，”很少说话的平信徒回答道。

“正是如此，”达尔林普尔冷冷地说。

五分钟后，他来到了花园门口，轻轻敲着门。门立刻在他轻轻的一按下屈服了，因为玛丽亚已经打开了里面的锁。

“站到一边去，”达尔林普尔低声说道。 “你不需要看——这不是一个美丽的景象。把门关上，等我回来。你的牢房在哪儿？”

她指着花园上方一扇开着的门。一点光亮出来了。当她打开门时，她以女人的谨慎态度将灯放在门后的角落里，以便尽可能少地从外面看到。

当他背着沉重的担子从她身边走过时，她转过头去，轻轻地踩在坚硬干燥的地面上。但他还没穿过花园一半，她就照顾了他。她无法控制。他怀里那个黑色的东西吸引了她，她不禁打了个寒颤。她关上门，站在那里，手放在门锁上。

在她看来，他似乎已经离开了很长一段时间。虽然月亮已经高高挂起，但云层却很黑，花园里几乎一片漆黑。突然，她听到了他的脚步声，而且他比她想象的还要近。

“燃烧得很好，”他简短地说。

他弯下腰​​，在昏暗的光线中仔细观察那把老式的锁。它是按照他的设想制作的，很容易从外面滑落。他发现脚下有一块小石子，抬起弹簧，把小石头放在下面，检查了木头上裂缝的位置，裂缝很多。

“现在时间还很充裕，”他说，然后轻轻地将她推到狭窄的人行道上，并在他身后拉上门。

他用大刀穿过最宽的裂缝，将螺栓插入插座。然后他用肩膀轻轻地摇动了整个门。他听见泉水落回原来的位置，就像鹅卵石落在干燥的地面上一样。

“没有人会怀疑门已被打开，”他说。

他将她裹在长斗篷里，站在墙下，站在她身边。他非常轻轻地把面纱和带子从她金色的头发上拉开。她帮助了他，他亲吻了软发。然后，他将格子布放在她的头上，然后将其拉到她的肩膀上。她让他这么做，没有意识到这条围巾最近做了什么作用。

他们向前走去。男孩睡得很熟，一动不动。他们上来时，骡子跺着脚。达尔林普尔将玛丽亚侧身抬到驮马鞍上，然后将打包绳拉到背后。

“坚持住，”他说。 “我来牵骡子。”

所以一切都结束了，事情已经完成，无论是善是恶。但这是为了邪恶，因为这是一件坏事。

直到最后，命运眷顾了达尔林普尔和玛丽亚，逃亡后的一切都正如壮汉所预料的那样。没有留下任何真相的痕迹。清晨，女修道院院长被发现死亡，在附近的小牢房里，在仍在闷烧的床垫残骸上，躺着一个烧焦的女人的尸体。在斯特凡诺的家里，上锁的实验室里的那一小包衣服就是安妮塔剩下的全部了。苏比亚科全都说英国人把农家女孩带到了自己的国家。

在修道院里，修女们隆重地埋葬了女修道院院长，有棺材和华盖，有数百根蜡烛，还有无尽的葬礼歌声。他们还埋葬了另一具尸体，虽然不那么宏伟，但比任何其他姐妹都更加隆重，不久之后，教堂墙上的一块大理石碑用简短而优美的拉丁语写着，玛丽亚修女如何具有许多美德的阿多洛拉塔在福音传道者圣路加节前夕被烧死在床上，所有善良的基督徒都被要求为她的灵魂祈祷——她的灵魂确实需要他们的祈祷。

斯特凡诺从罗马回来，但当他发现女儿不见了时，他感到很悲伤，他无意识地重复了她独自在达尔林普尔的房间里临终时所说的最后一句话。

“你和你的全家都会被邪恶地处死！”他一边说，一边在房门口挥舞着拳头。

斯特凡诺在心里庄严地发誓，英国人应该付出代价。他和他的家人全额支付了这笔钱，而且在多年之后，甚至还给了尚未出生的几代人。

可以说，这是整个故事的第一幕，从这一幕到接下来几年的开始，即使不是完全沉默，也必须很快过去。

1861 年，唐娜·弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科 (Donna Francesca Campodonico) 已是寡妇。她的丈夫唐·吉罗拉莫·坎波多尼科 (Don Girolamo Campodonico) 在他们结婚后两年内就去世了，对他来说，这是一种利益和方便，因为唐娜·弗朗西斯卡 (Donna Francesca) 很富有，而他只是一个小儿子，而且很穷。他的哥哥是杜卡·迪·诺尔巴 (Duca di Norba)，他是另一位吉罗拉莫 (Girolamo) 的父亲，吉罗拉莫 (Girolamo) 多年后继承了他的王位。但在这些后来的人中，有些人当时还没有出生，有些人还处于婴儿期，因此他们在当前历史的这一部分中不起任何作用。

唐娜·弗朗西斯卡出身于布拉乔大家族，是最后一个旁支。她继承了一笔非常可观的遗产，如果她没有后代，这笔遗产将归还给杰拉诺王子。她遵照监护人的建议嫁给了唐·吉罗拉莫，但并没有违背她的意愿，在他们短暂的两年婚姻生活中，她对他产生了深深的依恋。他从小就一直不坚强，当他还是个孩子的时候，他的体质就因为一场疟疾的猛烈袭击而受到了永久性的伤害。在菲乌米奇诺附近的一次射击探险中，他第二次发烧，甚至比第一次更严重，导致了他的死亡，唐娜·弗朗西斯卡成了一个没有孩子的寡妇，完全拥有自己的财产，还有一点小小的财产。联合。人们认为她很快就会再婚，但现在期待这一点还为时过早。

作为布拉奇奥家族的最后一个分支，她的所有财产中，有一座小而美丽的宫殿，她现在独自居住在其中，而布拉乔家族的主线已经得到了充分的体现。它位于卡比托利欧山和台伯河之间，三边被黑暗而狭窄的街道包围，但面对一个小广场，广场上有一座古老的教堂。当说这座宫殿很小时，其规模可与罗马宏伟的宫殿相比，其中不止一座可以轻松容纳一千人。它的总体规划与大多数建筑相同，底层的窗户装有严密的栅栏。一楼有一间官邸，前面有三个石头阳台；上面有一个非常低的第二层，但并不与它同大，因为其中两个大房间比其他房间高，并且有天窗。最后，第三层的房间比第二层高得多，倾斜的屋顶下有一个宽敞的阁楼，当然，上面覆盖着老式的红瓦。这座宫殿当时被称为波吉亚宫（Palazzo）或“宫殿”（Palazzetto），从外观上看，它是文艺复兴时期建筑的一个很好的典范，当时华丽的“巴洛克”风格尚未在罗马占上风。巨大的拱形马车入口比例匀称，石雕严肃而不是优雅，飞檐的比例和设计都非常高贵。下层是用粗糙的石灰华石块建造的，上面的砖石是光滑的。整个宫殿呈现出一种温暖的、具有时代感的色调，石灰华随着时间的推移而呈现出这种颜色，因此，这是古罗马建筑所特有的。

里面虽然不能说有任何部分完全腐烂，但有许多房间早已废弃，里面有灰色和白色的旧壁画和建筑设计，拱顶上画着一些大胆的透视图，窗户几乎被时间抹去了，其中的家具也无法保存太久。大约有一半的国家公寓，大约有十五个或二十个大大小小的房间，一直被唐娜·弗朗西斯卡和她的丈夫占据，现在她独自一人住在里面。宫殿的那一部分有一种安静而庄严的奢华，这是她自己品味的结果，这与当时第二帝国鼎盛时期从巴黎引入的艳丽时尚形成鲜明对比。吉罗拉莫·坎波多尼科（Girolamo Campodonico）意识到他年轻的妻子在艺术方面的判断力远胜于他自己，因此将所有此类问题完全留给了她。

她很高兴从阁楼和废弃的房间里挖掘出所有具有内在艺术价值的物品，例如旧的雕刻家具、挂毯等。无论她发现什么值得保留，她都会将其修复到有用的程度，而且她知道如何用现代材料来弥补缺陷，以免破坏整体的和谐。

从这些事实应该足够清楚地看出，唐娜·弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科是一位现代意义上的有品味、有文化的女性。事实上，在她的生活中，品味的满足比她的社会义务占据了更重要的地位，并且对她以后的生活产生了更大的影响。她最喜欢的计划是让她的宫殿在内部的各个方面都像建筑师在外部建造的一样完整，而且她有能力成功地做到这一点。正如有些人可能认为的那样，她在当时并不是一个伟大的例外。在某个阶级的狭隘范围内，对杰作的世袭拥有已将艺术智慧确立为种姓的印记，直到最近，没有人比意大利人有更好的品味。因为没有人比这些限制更糟糕。唐娜·弗朗西斯卡的观点并没有什么特别之处，只是她在执行这些观点时坚持不懈、勤奋努力。甚至这也可能归因于这样一个事实：她继承了一座美丽但破旧的宫殿，她渴望对其进行改进，直到小规模地使其像古老伟大家族的房屋一样，例如萨拉辛斯卡家族、萨维利家族。 ，鸡蛋花，以及她自己的近亲，杰拉诺王子。

在她的艺术事业中，她有一位非常宝贵的盟友，这位艺术家是一位艺术家，在某种程度上，他被认为属于卡萨布拉奇奥，尽管他非凡的才华使他远远超出了家庭依赖者的地位，他出生于这座城堡，是赫拉诺古城堡和庄园管理员的儿子。正如那些日子里经常发生的那样，这个聪明的男孩引起了王子的注意，或者，也许是受到了他父亲的注意，他的父亲对他感到相当自豪。这个小伙子已经脱离了他的环境，并在罗马接受了全面的神职教育，但当他达到了任命所需的年龄时，他的艺术天赋已经发展到了这样的程度，尽管他的父亲很失望，甚至老王子——玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女的弟弟——建议安杰洛·里安达放弃教堂，全身心投入绘画。

年轻的利安达对自己前景的改变感到非常高兴。许多杰出的意大利人都以类似的方式开始了生活。红衣主教安东内利并不是唯一的一个，因为意大利总理和教会的显要人物都出身卑微，他们后来的显赫地位归功于贵族对他们的善意关注，而他们的父母只是贵族的庄园。农民，地位远低于安杰洛·雷安达的父亲，他受过一定的教育，占据着值得信赖和重要的地位。

就他的职业生涯而言，利安达的牧师教育对他来说只不过是一个优势，无论这使他远远高于他出生的阶级。就拉丁语和修辞而言，他比他父亲的老师受过更好的教育。因为在同样的优势下，他拥有更出色的才能、更强的创造力和更勤奋的精神。作为一名艺术家，他的精神修养使他在智力上优于大多数同时代人。作为一个男人，十年的与君子之子的密切交往，很容易就造就了一个本能自然优雅、性格敏感正直的君子。

唐娜·弗朗西斯卡作为家族的最后一个成员，自幼就成了孤儿，当然是在杰拉诺的亲戚家里长大的，从小就认识利安达的父亲和安吉洛本人。比她足足大十岁。他的一些第一幅画作是在宏伟的布拉乔宫完成的，很多时候，作为一个小女孩，她看着他坐在脚手架上工作，装饰主厅的拱顶。她不记得什么时候没有听到他被称为年轻的天才，但她清楚地记得当他的命运已经决定的时候，当他最后被告知他可能会发生的讨论时。如果他选择的话，就成为一名艺术家。那时，她对他抱有一种奇妙的钦佩，其中有一种真正的友善之情，随着她长大，看到他能做什么，并学会欣赏它，她默默地决定有一天他应该帮助她。她委托她修复破旧的博吉亚宫，她的父母在她婴儿时期就去世了，她对这座宫殿怀有一种温柔的依恋，这种依恋是由远亲抚养长大的孩子们对那些属于自己依稀记得的父母的东西所抱有的感情。

这位年轻女孩和艺术家之间有一种自然的亲密感。很久以前，她曾和他在赫拉诺城堡的大庭院里玩过球，当时他在家度假，穿着黑色法袍，戴着三角帽，就像一位年轻的牧师。然后，突然之间，他不再是一名牧师，而是一名画家，穿着和其他男人一样，在她住的房子里工作。她玩弄了他的色彩，用他的木炭在白色的灰墙上乱涂乱画，问了他一些问题，并与他谈论了布拉乔画廊里的著名画作。而这一切，在这些年里，已经发生过很多次了。然后她向他透露了她对自己的小宫殿的计划，他答应帮助她，再见，一半是开玩笑，一半是认真的。她说，她会给他上层的房间住，并提前处理掉所有东西。他应该靠近他的工作，并始终将其放在手下，直到完成。当没有更多事情可做时，他可能仍然住在那里，并在老房子的顶部拥有他的工作室，有自己的入口，通过狭窄的楼梯通向后面的一条黑暗的街道。她偶尔和家庭女教师一起参观这座建筑时，注意到了这座建筑的各种奇特之处，例如，有一个方便的内部楼梯从大厅通向上层，旁边的门曾经漆成墙壁的样子，很难找到，但现在挂在铰链上，而且非常明显。大厅必须全部重新粉刷一遍，安杰洛可以住在头顶上，然后通过那些台阶下来工作。她怀着孩子般的喜悦，称赞自己提前安排好事情的聪明才智。安吉洛将在她所做的一切事情上为她提供帮助，直到博吉亚宫变得和布拉乔宫本身一样美丽，尽管它当然要小得多。然后她又在墙上乱涂乱画，试图用幼稚徒劳的草图向他解释她的装饰想法，而他会从脚手架上走下来，尽力用几条粗线条向她展示她真正想象的东西，直到她高兴地拍着沾满灰尘的小手，最终被她的家庭女教师带走，以便每天与杰拉诺公主一起在博尔盖塞别墅开车。

作为一个女孩，弗朗西斯卡拥有一种罕见的天赋，能够清楚地看到自己想要什么，最后她发现自己拥有实现自己意图的力量。理所当然，她把利安达视为她的主要助手，自童年以来的亲密关系一直在同样的基础上继续下去。经过十年的努力，他的才华得到了成长和巩固，而她，作为一个年轻的已婚妇女，在她还是个孩子的时候就明白了她的意思。现在，利安达在他的部门中无疑是罗马第一位画家，这在当时就是名声。他所受的高等教育和对所有艺术事务的通识使他成为弗朗西斯卡所从事的工作中有趣的伙伴，此外，他的举止和声音的个人魅力一直吸引着她。

或许没有人会称他为美男子，而此时的他已不再是青春年少的时候了。他又高又瘦，肤色很黑，黑色的胡须中却带着一丝深金棕色，与他黝黑的肤色形成了些许对比。他有一张悲伤的脸，一双深邃、无光泽、深思熟虑的眼睛，似乎在向内而不是向外凝视。橄榄色的皮肤上有浓重的棕色阴影，骨感突出的额头在太阳穴上留下了凹陷，细密的黑发从凹陷处向后长出，这使他的表情显得有些不寻常。鹰钩鼻是许多罗马面孔的特征，它又薄又精致，说话时鼻孔敏感，经常动。眉毛不规则，浓密，深色地延伸到前额的下角之上，几乎在两眼之间交汇。但是，这给他带来的略显阴沉的表情被嘴唇的某种敏感优雅所改变，几乎没有被稀疏的黑胡子或胡须所掩盖，胡须没有长到下唇，尽管它从上到下又厚又柔滑。下巴向下。

这是一张深思熟虑的脸，但高高的额头却充满了创造力，修长的手臂和瘦削而紧张的双手也充满了直接的能量。唐娜·弗朗西斯卡喜欢看着他工作，就像她小时候看着他一样。时不时地，但很少有，在他用稳定而坚定的笔触揭示出设计的意义之前，那双黯淡的眼睛会发光。那时，当主要思想被表面表达出来的那一刻，他们的内心就会迅速燃烧起来，如果她在这种时候不经意地对他说话，他从来不会立即回答她，有时甚至忘记回答她。因为他的艺术永远是第一位的。她知道这一点，也因此更加喜欢他。

这位伟大的女士和这位艺术家之间的亲密关系确实是建立在他对绘画的热爱之上的，但这种亲密关系是由一种可以追溯到更黑暗时代的利益共同体来维持的，当时他的祖先一直是她祖先的奴隶。在农奴制时代。他从小就怀着一种明确的归属感，即使不是布拉奇奥家族的归属感。他的父亲是家庭中值得信赖的依赖者，他在孩提时代就吸收了家庭遗传的好恶、明智和愚蠢的传统，以及对其在世界上的崇高财富和地位的不屈不挠的自豪感。弗朗西斯卡本人就是真正的布拉乔家族，尽管她是旁系支系的后裔，并且是利安达仅次于赫拉诺王子的最重要的拥有这个名字的人。她小时候崇拜他，长大后鼓励他，现在她为他的天才提供了工作，并给他友谊，让他在工作和闲暇时得到安慰和快乐。据说，只有意大利人才能担任这样的职位，并且可以肯定的是，他们在任何情况下都不会冒犯这一职位。对于安吉洛·雷安达来说，这比对于大多数可以被置于像他这样的人来说意义重大得多。他的天才使他远远高于他出生的阶级，他所受的教育，加上他天生的和后天的修养，使他比大多数其他罗马艺术家处于更高的水平，而这些艺术家在当时的罗马居住着。他们自己的波西米亚已经完全消失了。当他们严肃的时候，他们的想法和谈话让他很感兴趣，但是他们的举止不是他的，而且他们的欢乐坦率地让他感到厌恶。他将他们视为艺术家，而不是伴侣，他特别不喜欢他们的妻子和女儿，而她们也发现他对他们的社会来说太“严肃”，无法使用历史悠久的意大利表达方式。然而，他天生的温和性情使他对他们所有人都一视同仁，彬彬有礼，当他不得不和他们在一起时，就像经常发生的那样，他诚实地尽力成为他们中的一员。

另一方面，他在弗朗西斯卡所属的社会中没有立足之地，但她对此却漠不关心。确实，有一两所房子接待了他，就像他在卡萨布拉奇奥那样，接待方式正因为人们所熟悉，才证明了他的社会地位低下——在那里，他称呼房子的主人为“阁下”，每个人，无论长辈还是晚辈，都称他为“利安达”，在那里，他作为一名艺术家受到赞赏，作为一个男人受到尊重，并且在没有其他外人在场的情况下偶尔作为客人受到欢迎，但在那里他不被视为在国家场合甚至与一大群人一起被邀请的人物。他与那些接受这种社会存在的冷漠的承认相差甚远，没有什么比他与接受这种承认的人更远离平等的亲密关系了。

对于这样的待遇，他并没有抱怨，甚至内心也没有怨恨。他表现出的友善与他在年轻时从杰拉诺王子那里得到的善意一样真实，而且他不会因为他的血管里没有一滴温柔的血液而低估它。但他高雅的天性渴望高雅的交往，并且更喜欢独处，而不是在任何较低的领域。对最上层阶级氛围的渴望，而不仅仅是希望作为其成员之一出现，往往属于艺术气质，许多艺术家不公正地受到同伴的厌恶，并被指为势利小人，因为他们更喜欢作为一个大气、空洞的优雅到不优雅的知性。那些诽谤她们的人常常忘记了，遗传的优雅，不管头脑多么空虚，都是对美丽的遗传培养的结果，而最虚荣、最愚蠢的女人，如果本能地穿得漂亮，那么她就是一位艺术家。方式。

弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科的品味远不止这些肤浅的品味，利安达在她身上找到了他所认识的唯一真正的伴侣。如果没有遇到这样的人，他可能在二十年里一直是整个罗马社会的亲密朋友，他知道这一点，并感激他的好运。因为他生来并不是一个不满的人，也根本不喜欢抱怨自己的命运。很少有人拥有积极的、创造性的天赋，并且他们的职业给了他们所需要的一切空间。近年来，弗朗西斯卡也对他表现出一种从世界上其他人那里得不到的尊重。他意识到她确实这么做了，但没有试图解释这一事实，事实上，这取决于一些超出他理解的东西。

他对她有一种类似尊敬的感觉。这个词并不能准确表达他对她的态度，但没有其他词能如此准确地定义他的立场。他并不像意大利人所说的那样爱她，因为他不认为她会爱他，而他告诉自己，如果他找到一个合他口味的妻子，他可能会结婚。他深爱着自己的妻子，但丝毫不影响他对唐娜·弗朗西斯卡的忠诚。

他看到并知道她即使不漂亮，也很年轻、可爱。他甚至不自觉地承认，如果她是一位老妇人，他就不可能像他那样“尊敬”她，尽管尊敬本身是老年人而不是年轻人应有的。在他的梦中和醒时的思绪中，她的灵性双眸和处女般的面容常常出现在他的面前。甚至她那优雅的身体也有一种少女般的谦虚，在他的想象中，她属于祭坛上的圣人，而不是基座上的雕像。她那一头柔软的深棕色头发散发着某种气息，暗示着男人的手触碰它会是一种亵渎和暴力。她年轻的嘴唇上有一种带着露珠的精致，仿佛它们无法亲吻比一朵新开的花朵更世俗的东西，它已经在大地之上，但还没有被阳光触及。光滑、洁白的前额上有一种深思熟虑的造型转变，这完全超出了利安达的艺术能力，无法再现，尽管他经常尝试这样做。他认为一位伟大的雕塑家可能会成功，正是这一点让他有时希望自己用凿子作为工具，而不是刷子。

她从未被认为是罗马最伟大的美女之一。她没有她的女亲戚玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔那样的华丽风采和肤色，她在苏比亚科修道院的悲惨死亡——一场被整个罗马社会视为真实的虚构悲剧——使她在布拉乔家族的历史上占有特殊的地位。她没有科罗娜·达·阿斯特拉登特（Corona d'Astridente）那样的黑暗和女王般的光彩，科罗娜·达阿斯特拉登特是她的同代人，也是那个时代最美丽的女人。但对于那些爱她的人来说，她拥有一些完全属于她自己的东西，这使她在某些方面超越了他们，无论如何，这是为了争夺那些伟大的美女所接受的敬意。没有人比安吉洛·雷安达更充分地认识到这一点，他会立刻想到爱上她，就像男人爱女人一样，就像他想象他的父亲可能会爱加尔默罗会修女玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔一样。 。

他对弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科的全心全意的崇拜中，最人性的一点就是他害怕弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科英年早逝，让他在没有她的情况下变老。有时他也会这样告诉她。

“你应该结婚，”有一天，当他们一起在他正在装修的大厅里时，她回答道。

她还是一身黑衣，说话间，他转过身，看到她所坐的旧椅子高靠背上，映着她纯洁的小脸的轮廓。那时它是如此的白色，他觉得自己在其中看到了属于布拉乔家族的一些人的致命的表情，这总是被认为是玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔的主要特征之一。他站在她附近的地板上，手里拿着画笔，靠在脚手架的立柱上，悲伤地长久地看着她。

“我认为我永远不会结婚，”他最后回答道，低下头，漫不经心地在调色板上混合两种颜色。

“为什么不？”她连忙问道。 “我听你说过，有一天你可能会这么做。”

“有一天，有一天——然后，突然之间，‘有一天’就过去了，而且不再是未来了。我为什么要结婚？我现在已经很好了；只会有不快乐。”

“你以为每一个结婚的人都会不幸福吗？”她问。 “你很愤世嫉俗。我不知道。”

“不。我并不愤世嫉俗。我只说我自己。原因有很多。我无法娶一个我希望拥有的女人作为我的妻子。你一定明白这一点。这很容易理解。”

他做出一副要爬上梯子到他的小平台上继续工作的样子。但她阻止了他。

“伤了你的眼睛有什么用？”她问。 “已经很晚了，光线也不好。此外，我不太确定我是否理解你的意思，尽管你说这很容易。我们从来没有过多谈论过这个问题。”

他把调色板和画笔放在一张破烂的草椅上，然后在离她不远的另一张椅子上坐下。巨大的拱形大厅里没有其他家具，砖石路面光秃秃的，很多地方都溅上了白色的灰泥。壁画只能在刚刚铺上的灰泥上进行，趁灰泥还潮湿的时候，泥瓦匠每天很早就来，在晚上之前准备好利安达能覆盖的尽可能多的墙壁。如果他没有在整个表面上涂漆，那么剩余的部分就会被削掉，并在第二天早上重新铺上。

夕阳已经把西边高高的窗户染红了，因为现在是秋天，白天很快就变短了。利安达知道自己无能为力，于是坐下来，回答弗朗西斯卡的问题（如果可以的话）。

“我不是绅士，正如你所理解的那样，”他慢慢地说。 “但我肯定不属于我父亲所属的阶级。我的立场没有明确。我不能娶你们这个阶层的女人，我也不应该娶其他任何一个女人。就这些。难道还不清楚吗？”

“是的，”弗朗西斯卡回答。 “这已经足够清楚了。但-”

她检查了一下自己，他看着她的脸，期待她继续说下去。但她什么也没说。

“你会发现有人反对我所说的话，”他观察到。

“不;我不是。我会这么说，因为你会理解我的。你告诉我的是真的，我很遗憾事情应该是这样。某种程度上这不是我的错吗？”

“你的错？”利安达喊道，身体前倾，看着她的眼睛。 “如何？我不明白。”

“我责怪自己，”弗朗西斯卡平静地回答。 “也许，我在很多方面都让你远离了这个世界。你生活在这里，日复一日，仿佛除此之外什么都不存在。早上，早在我醒来之前，你就从那扇门走下楼梯，再爬上梯子，工作、工作、工作，一整天，直到天黑，就像你今天所做的那样，昨天，几个月了。当你可能而且应该在户外，或者与其他人交往时，就像刚才一样，我坐下来和你说话，占据了你所有的闲暇时间。这是错误的。你应该多看看其他男人和女人。天才的男人都不结婚吗？在我看来这很荒谬！”

“天才！”利安达大声说道，悲伤地摇着头。 “别用我的话。”

“我会像其他人一样做，”弗朗西斯卡回答道。 “但这不是问题所在。事实上，你就像笼子里的小鸟一样被压抑在这栋老房子里。我希望你能张开翅膀。”

“要离开一段时间吗？”利安达焦急地问道。

“我没那么说过。也许我应该。是的，如果你能享受一段旅程，那就离开——暂时离开。”

她说话时有些犹豫，而且相当紧张，因为他说的比她想要提议的要多。

“只是为了做出改变，”停顿片刻后，她补充道，而他什么也没说。 “正如我所说，你应该多看看其他人。你应该融入这个世界。你至少应该给自己一个结婚的机会，即使你认为你可能找不到一个合你口味的妻子。”

“如果我在这里找不到——”他没有把话说完，只是微微一笑。

“你必须娶罗马公主吗？”她问。 “你应该对外国人说什么？这也不可能吧？”

“如果我想娶她，她来自哪里并不重要，”他回答道。 “但我喜欢现在的生活。我为什么要尝试改变它？我很高兴，因为我是这样的。我工作，而且我享受工作。我为你工作，你满意。在我看来，没有什么可说的了。你为什么这么着急让我结婚？”

唐娜·弗朗西斯卡轻声笑起来，但笑声并不大。

“因为我认为，从某种程度上来说，如果你没有结婚，那是我的错，”她说。 “此外，我还想到了一位年轻的女孩，我那天遇见了她，或者更确切地说，看到了她，她可能会让你高兴。我认为她拥有世界上最美丽的声音。她可以通过歌手的身份发家致富，我相信她也想尝试一下。但她的父亲反对。他们是外国人——英国人或苏格兰人——都是一样的。他们说她只是个孩子，但她似乎已经长大了。他们有些奇怪。有人告诉我，他是一位科学家，但我想他是那些热衷于意大利自由的英国人之一。他的名字叫达尔林普尔。”

“多好的名字啊！”利安达笑了。 “我想他们是来罗马过冬的，”他补充道。

“一点也不。听说他们已经在这里住了很多年了。但人们永远不会见到外国人，除非他们愿意融入社会。他们说，他的妻子早逝，而这个女孩是他唯一的女儿。我希望你能听到她唱歌！”

“就此而言，我希望我可以，”热衷于音乐的利安达说。

十七年的岁月已经在安格斯·达尔林普尔冷酷的脸上留下了痕迹，而一种巨大的悲伤在他身上留下了更深的印记——这种悲伤是如此之深、如此势不可挡，以至于没有人敢向他提起这件事。他不是那种可以逆来顺受地承受任何苦难、以记忆为食、在过去的梦想中得到安息的人。他阴沉而激烈地反抗着自己的命运，他在一生中度过了一生，而不是经历了一生，在大多数情况下，他野蛮而沉默，就像尼禄一样，希望一击就可以结束世界，包括他自己和所有活着的人。然而，这个人的特点是，如果玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔（Maria Addolorata）令他失望，他并没有像早年那样选择自杀作为逃避的手段。现在看来是懦弱的表现，而他这辈子从来没有做过懦弱的事。在悲伤中，责任感一直伴随着他，并让他活了下来。他并不将自己的存在视为一种他有权逃离的状态，而是将其视为一个需要与之战斗、被鄙视、或许会受到野蛮虐待的个人敌人，但仍然是一个要谋杀他的敌人。冷血是一种懦弱的行为。

除了责任感之外，没有什么其他的了，因为他没有做足够多的事情来履行他的义务。他的妻子为他生了一个女儿，但安格斯·达尔林普尔的本性不会用一个人代替另一个人。他不能仅仅因为这个女孩的母亲去世了就爱她。他只能宠坏她，粗略的想法是应该尽可能让她免受所有痛苦，但如果他给了她她想要的，他就已经做了一切对他的期望。剩下的时间，他过着自己的生活。

他具有良好的智力和卓越的天赋，以及相当大的智力获取能力。他年轻时就相信自己注定会做出伟大的发现，后来他的论文表明他确实走在伟大而新事物的轨道上。但随着丧亲之痛，他的性格中所有的野心和好奇心都在一瞬间消失殆尽。从那以后，他再也没有回去过他的学业，这让他感到厌恶，而且显得陈旧而平淡。当在他面前讨论科学问题时，他变得粗鲁的教条主义，就像在他与世界的日常交往中，每当他发现有人反对他的观点或他的意愿时，他就会变得粗暴、专横，甚至近乎暴力。他唯一的例外是对待他的女儿，除了她想成为一名公众歌手之外，他在各个方面都纵容她。在他看来，给她想要的一切，就是尽了他对她的所有义务；在上台这个问题上，他很不灵活。他只是拒绝听到这件事，除了在这种情况下出现的普通理由之外，很少给她任何理由，而这些理由远远不能满足女孩天才的冲动。

在他们充满激情的幸福日子里，他们称她为格洛丽亚。这个多愁善感的名字对他们来说意义重大，因为达尔林普尔当时已经养成了一种粗俗的多愁善感，这种情感就像橡树上的真菌一样强健的人身上都有，后来让他们感到厌恶，除非他们能够忘记它。两人都觉得这个孩子是生命的光辉，他们也因此给她起了名字。

多年后，达尔林普尔把这个小女孩带到了罗马，她被那种强烈感动这些男人的身体印象所不可抗拒地拉回了那个地方。他们留下来，年复一年地住在达尔林普尔租用的住处，最初只租了几个月。他从未去过苏比亚科。

他为格洛丽亚提供了能找到的最好的老师，在那个时代，当人们愿意花时间学习时，就有很好的老师。在音乐方面，她继承了母亲的声音和才华。她的父亲给了她成为音乐家的机会，难怪她会梦想像格里西所做的那样，在脚下征服欧洲，而帕蒂也即将这样做。

她和她的父亲一起说英语，但格洛丽亚会说双语，就像异族通婚的孩子一样，英语和意大利语都能轻松地说。达尔林普尔找到了一位受人尊敬的中年德国家庭女教师，她每天都会来，大部分时间都和格洛丽亚在一起，教导她，和她一起散步——也崇拜她，带着那种将人性理想化的好奇能力，这种能力属于德国家庭女教师，当他们就像他们的学生一样。

达尔林普尔过着自己的生活。如果他选择混入罗马社会，他会受到很好的欢迎，因为他是苏格兰大家族的一员，而且与家族的族长相距不远。除了他的父亲之外，他的亲戚中没有人知道关于他妻子的真相，他的父亲带着这个秘密去世了，而且不太可能有人应该询问。如果有人这样做，他肯定无法满足这样的好奇心。但他对社会并不关心，他要么独自一人读书和喝酒，要么偶尔去艺术世界游览，在那里他的怪癖很少引起人们的议论，在那里他遇到了暗中同情意大利革命运动的人，并涉足艺术领域。这些阴谋让教皇政府感到好笑而不是不安。

尽管格洛丽亚当时只有十六岁出头，但她的父亲还是带她去工作室甚至艺术家家里参加小型非正式聚会，那里经常有美妙的音乐和聪明（即使不是严肃的）谈话。在这样的圈子里，年龄的惯例很少受到重视。格洛丽亚也显得比实际年龄老得多，她美妙的声音使她成为众人瞩目的焦点，而当时大多数年轻女孩都处于背景之中。达尔林普尔从不反对她在这种场合唱歌，他总是闭着眼睛，双手合十地听着，就像在协助宗教仪式一样。她的声音就像她母亲的声音，只是音调更高，并且具有伟大女高音所需的所有指南和力量。当格洛丽亚唱歌时，达尔林普尔近乎虔诚的态度是他对死去妻子的存在所做的唯一暗示（如果可以这么说的话），没有人知道这意味着什么。但在她唱完之后，他常常比平时更加​​沉默，有时唱完后他会独自离开，在国会大厦附近的一个旧酒窖里坐上几个小时，郁郁寡欢地喝着他能找到的最古老、最烈性的酒。因为他在晚上或多或少地不停地喝酒，酒让他感到忧郁和忧郁，尽管它似乎并没有对他产生其他影响。然而，它渐渐地削弱了他早期敏锐的智力，尽管它几乎没有触及他的体质。他仍然像以前一样瘦骨嶙峋，但脸色更加苍白，红胡子也长了起来。他的脸上布满了灰色的条纹，眼睛周围有一些紧张的细纹，额头和脸上有深深的皱纹。

达尔林普尔在艺术家的世界里找到了一个有时可以成为他的同伴的人——一个非常年轻的人，他无法理解他，尽管他自己的教条性脾气使他通常相信他理解大多数事情和大多数事情。男人。但这个特殊的人时而让这位紧张的苏格兰人感到困惑、高兴和恼怒。

他们是前一年在一次艺术家的晚宴上认识的，后来在西班牙广场的书店里偶然相遇，两人时不时地去看英文报纸，渐渐地陷入了困境。习惯于早上在那里见面，然后朝达尔林普尔的住处散步。最后，达尔林普尔邀请他的同伴进来看一本书，于是我们的熟识就这样加深了。格洛丽亚看着这个年轻的陌生人，一开始她不喜欢他。

上述书商过去、现在仍然经营照片和印刷品，以及外国和意大利书籍。目前，他的机构是典型的罗马天主教机构。在当时，它几乎是同类中唯一的一个，并且受到罗马人和外国人的同样光顾。就连唐娜·弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科 (Donna Francesca Campodonico) 也时常去那里寻找她和利安达工作所需的艺术书籍或版画。他们偶尔早上一起从波吉亚宫一路步行到西班牙广场。当他们找到想要的东西后，唐娜·弗朗西斯卡通常会开出租车回家，而利安达则在返回前去吃午饭。因为他和她的亲密关系就是在此时划定的。他从来没有和她坐过同桌，更没想到会这样。此刻两人站在一起，虽然弗朗西斯卡很乐意请他吃早餐，但她会犹豫是否要这么做，因为第一次邀请不可避免地会引起人们的注意，因为界限已经在某处划定了，而两人我们愿意相信它根本不存在。在任何必要的压力下，她都会和他一起乘坐出租车，但不会乘坐自己的马车。他们都知道这一点，并且默契地不允许这种未知的可能性出现。但到了早上，没有什么可以阻止他们一起走到西班牙广场或其他任何地方。

谈话导致弗朗西斯卡提到了达尔林普尔一家，不久后的一天，他们就去了书店。当他们沿着大广场的东侧行走时，他们看到前面有两个人。

“角斗士走了。”利安达突然对他的同伴说道。 “即使在这么远的距离，他的步伐也不会被认错。”

“你是什么意思？”弗兰西斯卡问道。 “如果我没有记错的话，那个身高稍高一点、穿着粗糙的英国衣服的人就是达尔林普尔先生。你知道，前几天我谈到过他。”

“哦！是他吗？另一个有一个更非凡的名字。他就是保罗·格里格斯。他是一位美国领事的儿子，这位领事二十年前在奇维塔韦基亚去世，留下了一个流浪儿，因为他没有钱，显然也没有亲戚。不知怎的，他长大了，天知道是怎么长大的，并靠新闻谋生。我相信他小时候在海上呆过几年。他既是美国人，又是意大利人。我曾与艺术家和文学界人士见过他。”

“你为什么称他为角斗士？”弗朗西斯卡饶有兴趣地问道。

“这是他的昵称。雕塑家科托尼去年对模型感到绝望。格里格斯和另外两三个人在工作室里，有人认为格里格斯的比例非常接近古人的标准。他们说服他让他们测量他。您知道，在比例的“经典”中，卢浮宫中的博尔盖塞角斗士被视为运动员的最佳典范。他们当场测量了格里格斯，发现他在所有方面都与雕像的活生生的形象一模一样。这个名字已经深深地印在了他的身上。你看看他是个怎样的人，也看看他走路的样子。”

“是的，他看起来很强壮。”弗朗西斯卡说道，自然好奇地看着这个男人。

这位年轻的美国人比达尔林普尔矮一点，但比例显然更好。没有人会注意到宽阔的肩膀、坚固的柱状喉咙以及运动员的小脑袋和紧密的耳朵。他的动作没有任何上半身的摆动动作，这对许多强壮的男人来说是很自然的，在达尔林普尔很明显，但他的步态有一些奇特的东西，几乎无法定义，但传达了非常强大的力量的想法。弹性大。

“但他是一个丑陋的人，”利安达几乎立即说道。 “丑陋，但并不令人厌恶。如果他转过头你就会看到。他的脸就像一张面具。这不是你想象中的脸和这样的身体。”

“真好奇啊！”弗兰西斯卡漫不经心地喊道，因为她对保罗·格里格斯的兴趣几乎耗尽了。

他们沿着拥挤的人行道继续前行。当他们到了书店门口，走进去的时候，他们看到两个人就在他们面前，翻阅着外国报纸，这些报纸整齐地排列在一张小桌子上。达尔林普尔抬起头，认出了弗朗西斯卡，他是在私人住宅举办的一场小型慈善音乐会上被介绍认识的，格洛丽亚在这次音乐会上演唱了歌曲。他从头上摘下帽子，把它放在报纸上，弗兰西斯卡出人意料地以英国方式向他伸出了手。见面的第二天，他在她家里留下了一张卡片，但由于她孤身一人，她没有办法回礼。

“如果您能带您的女儿来见我，我将非常高兴。”她和蔼地说。

“你非常善良，”达尔林普尔回答道，他钢铁般的蓝眼睛审视着她纯洁年轻的面容。

她只看了他一眼，因为她突然意识到他的同伴正在看着她。他也放下了帽子，她立刻明白了利安达把他的脸比作面具的意思。相貌确实谈不上英俊。如果他们真的得到了救赎，那就是那双深陷的眼睛，以一种奇怪的稳定方式凝视着她的眼睛，仿佛眼睑永远不会从沉重的悬垂眉毛下垂下来，然后，仍然一眨不眨地转入另一个眼睛。方向。男人的肤色非常均匀，但几乎是蜡黄的，往往属于非常强烈的忧郁气质。他的脸刮得干干净净，方方正正，显得不自然，除了那双深邃的眼睛里充满了生命之外，毫无表情。深色、直发、剪得很短的头发长得浓密而光滑，就像牧师的无边帽，额头低，太阳穴向前远。水平的嘴巴紧紧地闭着，将脸的下半部分分开，就像直刀割伤的疤痕一样。两眼之间的鼻子很厚，相对较长，鼻孔异常宽阔，从鼻尖向上延伸到瘦削的脸颊。那人穿着极其朴素的深色衣服，在别针和链子盛行的时代，他身上没有任何金银的东西。他把手表戴在一条短的、双层的黑色丝绸辫子上，这条辫子从他的纽扣孔里滑了出来。他穿得几乎就像在服丧一样。

弗朗西斯卡无意识地专注地看了他一会儿，以至于达尔林普尔认为介绍他是很自然的事，认为她可能听说过他，并且可能出于好奇而想认识他。

“我可以介绍一下格里格斯先生吗？”他说道，语气中带着僵硬的倾向，这是他举止的一部分。

格里格斯鞠了一躬，唐娜·弗朗西斯卡微微低下了头。利安达走过来与美国人握手，弗朗西斯卡将这位艺术家介绍给达尔林普尔。

“我一直希望有幸认识您，利安达先生，”后者说道。 “我们这里的艺术家有很多共同的熟人。我可以说，我非常崇拜你的作品，就这一点而言，我的女儿也是如此。”

当利安达的手与苏格兰人的手分开时，利安达说了句客气的话。弗朗西斯卡看到了让利安达和格洛丽亚走到一起的机会。

“既然你这么喜欢利安达先生的画，”她对达尔林普尔说，“今天下午你不带你的女儿来看看他在我家里画的壁画吗？你知道帕拉泽托吗？当然——你留下了一张卡片，但我没有人归还它，”她相当悲伤地补充道。 “格里格斯先生，你也来吗？”她转向美国人问道。 “这将给我带来很大的乐趣，而且我看到你认识利安达先生。今天下午，如果你愿意的话，可以在四点以后的任何时间。”

达尔林普尔和格里格斯对于收到一位罗马女士的邀请感到有些暗自惊讶，两人之前只见过一次，而对方也刚刚被介绍给她。但他们还是鞠躬致谢，并答应一定会来。

又说了几句话后，他们分开了，弗朗西斯卡和利安达去挑选他们想要的版画，另外两个人则回到他们的报纸上。再见，弗朗西斯卡在出去的时候再次经过他们。

“四点之后我会等你，”她走过时礼貌地点点头说道。

达尔林普尔照顾着她，直到她离开商店。

“我认为那个女人和其他女人不一样，”他若有所思地对他的同伴说道。

那张面具般的脸刻意地转向他，眼神阴暗，一眨不眨。

“不，”格里格斯回答道，然后他又慢慢地拿起了报纸。

唐娜·弗朗西斯卡在她居住的房子一侧的客厅里接待了三位客人。利安达正在大厅里工作。

格洛丽亚先走了进来，她的父亲紧随其后，弗朗西斯卡被这个年轻女孩光彩照人的肤色和表情迷住了，尽管她以前见过她一次。当她进来时，午后的阳光照在她的脸上，把她的赤褐色头发变成了红金色，当她张开坚韧的嘴唇说出第一句话时，她的小白牙闪闪发光。她身材高挑，身姿柔美，优雅如豹，声音忽高忽低，语调急速变化，宛如夏日树林中的瀑布。她继承了父亲的青春活力，同时又继承了母亲的美丽。然而她并不吵闹，尽管她的举止不像弗朗西斯卡。她的声音荡漾而响亮，却没有说得太大声。她动作迅速而坚定，但并不仓促。不过，弗朗西斯卡觉得这其中一定有什么夸张的地方。年长的女人起初认为这是女学生的害羞，但很快就觉得自己错了，因为这并没有丝毫的尴尬或不冷静。这个年轻女孩和保罗·格里格斯之间的对比如此鲜明，几乎是暴力的。他的狮子般的力量显得冰冷而阴郁，当他鞠躬、沉默地坐下时，他的脸比以往任何时候都更像一张面具。当他没有让她想起角斗士时，他让她想起一头黑狮子，它有一张奇怪的人脸，和不完全是人类的眼睛，尽管它们并没有让她想起她见过的任何动物的眼睛。

至于达尔林普尔，她认为他异常憔悴，对于一个显然只有中年的男人来说，显得憔悴不堪。他身上有一种气势磅礴的气质，她很喜欢。此外，她很少见到外国人，但他们对她很感兴趣。她注意到两个男人都穿着黑色外套，手里都拿着高帽子。因此，他们不是艺术家，也不能归入艺术家一类。她还年轻，在某种程度上可以通过细节来判断他们，当时人们比现在更重视细节。在接下来的几分钟里，她下定决心，达尔林普尔和格里格斯都属于她自己的阶级，尽管她没有问自己这个年轻的美国人的举止是从哪里来的。但不知何故，尽管格洛丽亚让她的眼睛和耳朵着迷，她却认为这个女孩不如她的父亲。她想知道格洛丽亚的母亲是否不是一名演员？考虑到死去的女人是她自己的家族和名字，这是一种奇怪的反应。

与客人交谈了几句后，弗朗西斯卡建议他们应该到另一边看看壁画，并补充说利安达可能还在工作。

“你认识他，格里格斯先生？”当他们都起身离开房间时，她说道。

“是的，”他回答，“就像一个人认识另一个人一样。”

“这意味着什么？”弗兰西斯卡一边问道，一边走向门口带路。

“没什么意义，”年轻人含糊不清地回答道。

他的态度十分温和，说话的声音低沉，颇有些羞涩。她看着他，似乎下定决心要改天再问这个问题。她的第一印象是这个男人的双重性，因为她发现他的回答可能有双重含义。他雄伟的身躯似乎属于一个人，他的声音和举止似乎属于另一个人。两者都可能各有各的好处，但她的好奇心却被不那么明显的一面所激发。

他们穿过房子，直到来到一扇门前，这扇门将有人居住的部分与利安达工作的大厅分开。她用指关节轻轻地敲了敲它，然后当她看到格洛丽亚正在看着她时微笑着。

“我们把它锁起来，”她说。 “石匠们早上来铺设灰泥。人们永远不会信任那些人。利安达先生保管着这扇门的钥匙。”

艺术家从内部打开，站在一旁让聚会通过。当他第一次见到格洛丽亚时，他明显地吃了一惊。作为一个男孩，在玛丽亚·布拉乔进入修道院之前，他不止一次见过她，他被这个女孩与她的惊人相似所震惊。跟随格洛丽亚的弗朗西斯卡看到了他惊讶的动作，并把这仅仅归因于钦佩或惊讶，就像她在一刻钟前所感受到的那样。当她经过时，她微微一笑，利安达知道这个微笑是给他的，因为他表现出了惊讶。他理解这种误解，同时也有些怨恨。

但她很了解利安达，不到十分钟，她就确信他是被这个年轻女孩排斥而不是吸引，尽管后者毫不掩饰地钦佩他的工作。这也不仅仅是愚蠢的热情，他很可能会因为她不做作的赞美而感到高兴和受宠若惊。

她也对壁画绘画的技术机制感兴趣，这是她以前从未近距离观察过的。格洛丽亚对一切都感兴趣，尤其是与艺术有关的一切。当他们都说出第一句赞美和赞赏的话时，她就开始与画家交谈，问他各种各样的问题，并认真地听他说的话，直到他意识到她肯定不是一副假装的样子。为了阿谀奉承而钦佩他。

与此同时，弗朗西斯卡与格里格斯交谈，达尔林普尔独自一人在其他人之后慢慢绕着大厅走来，站在两人旁边看着弗朗西斯卡，偶尔以一种心不在焉的方式发表一些相当干巴巴的评论。这一切都很平常，而且绝对安静，他并不怎么好笑，尽管有时他似乎全神贯注地研究弗朗西斯卡的脸，仿佛他在那里看到了一些超出他理解的东西。她注意到他在看着她，在他钢铁般的蓝眼睛下感到有点不舒服，于是她转过头去，更多的是和格里格斯说话，而不是和他说话。记得利安达曾告诉过她这个年轻人的出身，她不想问他有关在罗马居住以及他对意大利的喜好等常见问题。她很冷静，也很愿意交谈，而且她选择谈论一般性话题。当然，他们用意大利语交谈。达尔林普尔和以前一样，说话很流利，但口音很奇怪。任何人都会把保罗·格里格斯视为罗马人。最后，她几乎不由自主地对他的讲话发表了评论。

“我出生在这里，”格里格斯回答道。 “更值得注意的是，达尔林普尔小姐出生在苏格兰，竟然能像她一样说意大利语。”

“你是在说我吗？”年轻女孩迅速转过头问道，尽管她和利安达站在一起，与其他人保持着一段距离。

“我说的是你的意大利语口音，”格里格斯说。

“有什么问题吗？”格洛丽亚问道，她的焦虑似乎有些夸张。

“恰恰相反，”唐娜·弗朗西斯卡回答道，“先生。格里格斯告诉我你说得多么完美。但我已经注意到了。”

“哦！我以为格里格斯先生在找茬。”格洛丽亚回答道，再次转向利安达。

达尔林普尔看着他的女儿，似乎很生气。弗朗西斯卡和格里格斯的目光相遇了片刻。三人都知道，他们对这个年轻女孩的快速提问感到不满，如果他们在一次遥远的谈话中无意中听到自己的名字被提及，他们自己也不会代替她问这个问题。但弗朗西斯卡立即继续这个话题。

“对我们意大利人来说，”她说，“任何人都能说我们的语言和英语同样流利，这似乎令人难以置信。就好像你们是两个人，格里格斯先生，”她补充道，微笑着看着她对他的思念的隐藏表情。

“我自己有时也是这么想的，”格里格斯回答道，一脸镇定。 “在某种程度上，每个人都必须有一种二元性——善与恶的原则。”

“上帝与魔鬼，”弗朗西斯卡简单地建议道。

“我想，身体和灵魂都可以。一方永远是另一方的奴隶。结果是罪人或圣人，视情况而定。一个人永远无法分辨，”他更加漫不经心地补充道。 “我不确定这是否重要。但人们可以看到它。战斗是打在脸上的。”

“我不明白。什么战斗？”

“肉体与灵魂的战斗。面部表情告诉我们战斗的走向。”

她看着他自己的，她觉得自己说不出来。但在某种程度上，她理解他。

“格里格斯充满了理论，”达尔林普尔观察到。 “格洛丽亚，下来吧！”他突然用英语哭了起来。

格洛丽亚一心想了解壁画是如何完成的，她大胆地将梯子的台阶安装到小脚手架的顶部，脚手架可能有十四英尺高。因为金库早已完工，利安达正在粉刷墙壁。

“废话，爸爸！”年轻女孩也用英语回答。 “完全没有危险。”

“好吧——别折断你的脖子，”达尔林普尔说。 “不过，我希望你能下来。”

弗朗西斯卡对他的冷漠以及他女儿对他权威的冷静漠视感到惊讶。与大多数意大利高级女性一样，她也很胆怯，紧张地看着这个女孩。格里格斯抬起眼睛，头也没抬。

“格洛丽亚相当狂野，”达尔林普尔带着某种歉意说道。 “我希望你能原谅她——她太感兴趣了。”

“噢——如果她想看，当然就让她走吧。”弗朗西斯卡回答道，掩饰着她感到的一点紧张的恼怒。

片刻之后，格洛丽亚和利安达来到了小平台上，平台的一侧只有扶手。这是为他量身定做的，即使在更高的高度，他的头也能保持稳定。他向她指出随着灰泥日复一日的干燥，颜色慢慢变化的方式，并解释如何在全部完全干燥之前不可能看到所做的效果。其他人在下面继续说话，但格里格斯时不时抬起头来，弗朗西斯卡的目光也跟着他。达尔林普尔变得冷漠起来，像往常一样，让女儿做她想做的事。

当格洛丽亚看到了她想看到的一切后，她迅速转身再次落下，转身时，她发现自己比她预想的更接近边缘。她向前倾了一点，格里格斯立刻意识到她一定会失去平衡，除非利安达从后面抓住她。但她却一声不吭，脸色惨白，身子摇晃着，想要向后退去。

格里格斯以一个轻柔但不可抗拒的迅速动作，将弗朗西斯卡推开，眼睛一直盯着上方的女孩。这一切都发生在瞬间。

“跳！”他用命令的口气喊道。

她感觉自己要么要跳，要么要摔，身体已经失去平衡，她扑倒在地，本能地用手把裙子收了起来。达尔林普尔脸色变得和她一样苍白。如果她撞到光秃秃的砖地板上，她很难逃脱严重的伤害。但她没有够到，因为保罗·格里格斯把她抱在怀里，随着她的重量而摇晃，然后像岩石一样稳定地站着，轻轻地把她放在她父亲身边。

“玛丽亚·桑蒂西玛！”弗兰西斯卡惊恐地喊道，虽然立刻松了口气，但她隐隐约约地明白了刚刚在她眼前完成的惊人的身体力量壮举。

上方，利安达靠在脚手架的一根栏杆上，眼睛睁得大大的。格洛丽亚吓得晕了过去，抓住了父亲的手臂。

“你应该为自己感到羞耻！”他用英语粗声粗气地说，但声音很低。 “你的命可能要归功于格里格斯先生，”他补充道，立即恢复了冷静。

只有格里格斯一个人似乎对所发生的事情完全无动于衷。格洛丽亚手里松松地握着一只手套，当她跳起来时，手套掉到了地上。他拿起它，带着一种奇怪的温柔递给她。

“它一定是你的，达尔林普尔小姐，”他说。

那天下午，很晚了，利安达和唐娜·弗朗西斯卡才单独在一起。当格洛丽亚事故带来的最初的惊讶和震惊过去后，弗朗西斯卡不允许达尔林普尔立即带她离开，而他似乎很急于这样做。女孩并没有受到丝毫伤害，但她仍然感到茫然和恐惧。弗朗西斯卡把他们全部带回客厅，坚持要给他们喝茶，因为他们是外国人，而格洛丽亚，她说，自然需要一些东西来恢复神经。三十年前，罗马茶是一种奇怪且不确定的饮料，格洛丽亚和她的父亲都知道，但他们喝的是弗朗西斯卡给他们的东西，最后带着对他们造成的打扰的多次歉意离开了。说实话，当他们离开后，弗朗西斯卡很高兴，她可以自由地回到雷安达仍在工作的大厅。她发现他紧张又恼怒。听到她开门的声音，他就从脚手架上下来了。两人都没有说话，直到她坐在自己惯用的椅子上，坦白地松了一口气。

“我非常感谢你，唐娜·弗朗西斯卡，”利安达一边说，一边用细长的手指捻着胡须，同时看了她一眼，然后审视着自己的作品。

“都是你的错。”她一边回答，一边用白皙的双手敲击着那张被虫蛀的旧椅子扶手，因为她自己仍然感到恼怒和恼怒。 “别让我为那个女孩的愚蠢行为负责。”

“责任！但愿那永远不会发生！”艺术家用一句常见的意大利短语喊道，但带着一点讽刺。 “但至于责任，我不知道是谁的。肯定不是我邀请小姐上梯子的。”

“好吧，这是她的错。此外，不在场的人总是错的。但她很漂亮，不是吗？”

利安达耸耸瘦弱的肩膀，挑剔地看着自己沾满油漆的双手。

“很帅。”他淡淡地说。 “但这种美对我来说无足轻重。喜欢这种美的人一定是年轻的。那位年轻女士，她是一场美丽的风暴。对于一个寻求和平的人来说——”他再次耸了耸肩。 “然后，她的举止！我不懂英语，但我知道她父亲叫她下来，但她却上去了。我不知道这些外国人受过什么教育。指导，是的，只要你愿意；但教育，没有。他们不过是野蛮人。父亲说：“你不可以那样做。”女儿也这么做了。那是什么教育？当然，如果他们是你的朋友，我就不该这么说。”

“不过那个女孩很漂亮。”弗朗西斯卡坚持道。 “她具有威尼斯色彩。提香会按照她本来的样子画她，而不做任何改变。”

“美人，美人！”利安达不耐烦地喊道。 “当然是美啊！为画笔而食，与心无关。恶魔也可以化身为美女。这就对了。那位小姐的脸上有某种东西——怎么说呢？这让我很高兴——一点点！你一定要原谅我，公主。我的神经动摇了。神圣的善良！看到像魔法师西蒙一样在空中飞翔的少女！够了！

弗朗西斯卡轻轻地笑了。利安达缓慢地摇摇头，皱起眉头，表示不以为然。

“我说的是实话，”他说。 “有一些东西——我无法解释。但我可以告诉你，”他很快补充道。

他从椅子上拿起调色板和画笔，两步走到白色的灰墙上。

“画她，”弗朗西斯卡鼓励他说。

“是的，我会把她带给你看——我认为她就是这样，”他回答道。

他闭上眼睛一会儿，唤起眼前的画面，然后回到椅子旁，从一根管子里取了一些颜色，这个管子和六支管子一起放在灯芯草座位的空洞里。这些颜色不是他画壁画用的颜色，而是两三天前他画头像时留下的。不一会儿，他又来到了墙前。从地板到壁画的下线，都是粗略地抹灰的。他用一支又长又粗的画笔开始画出一个巨大的女人头像。油画颜料很好地涂在粗糙、干燥的表面上。他用尽了手臂的全部长度来进行大力的划水。

“至少让她变得美丽，”弗朗西斯卡看着他说道。

“哦，是的——非常漂亮，”他回答道。

他快速地工作了几分钟，随着手的移动，他面带微笑，但并不愉快。弗朗西斯卡觉得他脸上有一种她以前从未见过的邪恶表情，而且他的笑容邪恶而恶毒。

“但你画的是日落！”她突然哭了。

“日落？那是她的头发。它是红色的，而且她有很多。等一下。”

他继续说道。这确实有点像日落，云朵明亮、飘逸的飘带左右飞扬，与干灰泥的中性色调融为一体，仿佛与灰色的天空融为一体。

“是的，但这仍然是日落，”弗朗西斯卡说。 “我在冬天的平原上见过这样的景象。”

“她不是无缘无故的‘格洛丽亚’，”利安达回答道。 “我正在让她变得光荣。你会看到的。

突然，他用另一种语气，在火红的头发上投下强烈的阴影，衬托出那张引人注目的脸的主要特征。弗朗西斯卡变得更感兴趣了。头部巨大、非凡、几乎超凡脱俗。表情很奇怪。

“真是个怪物！” “弗兰西斯卡终于喊道，他站在一旁，仍然用他的长画笔在一臂之外的地方触摸那幅巨大的素描。 “这太可怕了，”她低声补充道。

“真相总是可怕的，”利安达回答道。 “但你不能说这不像她。”

“太像了。这真是太邪恶了！”

“然而，这是一个美丽的头，”艺术家说。 “也许你们离得太近了。”他自己穿过大厅，然后转身看他的作品。 “从这里开始会更好，”他说。 “你会来吗？”

她走到他身边。巨大的脸庞和狂野飘逸的头发从墙壁上仿佛在三维空间中一样突出。那张坚韧的大嘴对着她微笑，笑容既邪恶又悲伤又致命。那双奇怪的眼睛从宽阔的眉毛下面审视着她。

“这是邪恶的、邪恶的！”她低声回答。

利安达仍然邪恶地微笑着看着她。那张脸似乎越来越大，直到充满了整个视野。漆黑的眸子闪烁着光芒；嘴唇颤抖；火红的头发颤抖着、飘动着、卷曲着，像蛇一样窜来窜去。然而，它却非常像格洛丽亚，清新、丰富的油画色彩赋予它惊人的、生动的光彩。

这是一个天才人物突然而巨大的表情，被紧张和刺痛，直到愤怒不得不通过他绝对掌握的一门艺术来爆发——在一幅可怕的漫画中，将美本身夸大到了邪恶的境界。

“我不能忍受！”弗兰西斯卡叫道。

她从他手里夺过大刷子，轻快地跑过房间，把残留在脸上的颜色从各个方向扫过，划过眼睛和嘴巴，划过红色的长发。十秒钟之内，只剩下混乱的涂抹和绚丽的油漆飞溅。

“那里！”弗兰西斯卡叫道。 “我希望我从未见过它！”

她手里仍然握着画笔，背对着被抹掉的草图，面对着利安达，脸上带着少女般的蔑视和满足。他的脸色现在很严肃，但他似乎对自己所做的很满意。

“这没有什么区别，”他说。 “你永远不会忘记它。”

当格洛丽亚跟着女孩走进大厅，看到他惊愕时，他对格洛丽亚的美丽表现出明显的惊讶，而她对他露出了微笑，他觉得这是对她的报复。他无法掩饰自己的胜利。

“这就是你认为我可能想娶的那位年轻女士，”他说。 “这么多年过去了，你对我知之甚少，唐娜·弗朗西斯卡。你对一个你不认识的人给予了很多善意。”

“我亲爱的利安达，谁能理解你？但至于善意，就别让我听到你我之间的话语了。它没有任何意义。我们一直是好朋友，就像我小时候经常玩你的颜料一样。在你的作品中，你给予我的远远超过我所能报答的。我不是在恭维你，我的朋友。在你的壁画中，丘比特和普赛克会比我活得更长久，并在我被遗忘时变得出名——但他们是我的，不是吗？而你却把它们给了我。”

那张甜美的年轻脸庞转向他，脸上带着不做作的、感激的微笑。他悲伤的表情一下子就柔和了。

“啊，唐娜·弗朗西斯卡，”他温柔地说，“你给了我比丘比特和普赛克更好的东西，因为你的礼物将永远活在天堂。”

她若有所思地看着他的眼睛，但眼中却带着某种疑问。

“你亲爱的友谊，”他稍微低下头补充道。然后他突然笑了起来。 “不要给我一个妻子，”他总结道。

“还有你，利安达——不要对你只见过一次的女人进行邪恶的漫画！另外，我又回去了。当她在门口经过你时我看到你吓了一跳。你对她的美丽感到惊讶。你必须承认这一点。然后，因为你对她很恼火，你就拿起刷子，把那个可怕的东西涂抹在墙上！这是一种耻辱！”

“我开始说，是的。这并不是因为她让我觉得美丽。这是更奇怪的事情。你知道吗？她正是唐娜·玛丽亚的肖像，她在苏比亚科的加尔默罗会修道院里被烧死。我经常告诉你，我记得当我还是个孩子的时候，在她戴面纱之前，在赫拉诺和布拉乔宫见过她。我认为，颜色上有一点差异，但表达上有很大差异。但剩下的——就是图像！”

弗朗西斯卡不记得她不幸的亲戚，她对利安达的说法并没有太大印象。

“这让你的漫画变得更糟，”她回答道，“因为它也是那个神圣女人的漫画。至于相似之处，这么多年过去了，只是印象而已。谁知道？可能是的。没有玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔修女的肖像。”

“哦，不过我记得很清楚！”利安达坚持说。

“好吧，它毕竟没有得出任何结论。”弗朗西斯卡很有逻辑地回答道。 “这并不会让可怜的修女变成恶魔，她此时已经是天使了，也不会让达尔林普尔小姐变得不那么美丽。现在，画家先生，”她又带着少女般的笑声补充道，“如果我们吵得够多，足以让你恢复紧张的话，我就出去了。天都快黑了，晚饭前我还要去奥地利大使馆，马车已经等了一个小时了。”

“你，公主！”利安达惊讶地喊道；因为自从她丈夫去世后，她还没有开始进入这个世界。

“这不是招待会。我们将在那里见面，为聋哑人安排另一场慈善音乐会。”

“我本来就知道，”画家回答道。 “至于我，今晚我要去剧院。还有游吟诗人。”

“这对你来说也是一件新鲜事。但我很高兴。开心一下吧，告诉我明天唱歌的事。记得锁门并拿走钥匙。我不相信早上的泥瓦匠。”

“我会忘记吗？”利安达问道。 “但现在你出去的时候我会把它锁上；时间不早了，我要上楼了。”

“晚安，”弗兰西斯卡转身离开房间时说道。

“你原谅那幅漫画吗？”利安达一边问道，一边把门打开让她过去。

“我会原谅你很多事情，”她走过时微笑着回答。

那时候，《游吟诗人》还不是一部老式歌剧。借用一句充满活力的德国短语来说，这并不是“敲定的”。瓦格纳并没有用“音调诗”使旋律黯然失色，也没有让人们感受到超出他们所能听到的东西。本世纪末的许多伟大的事情在当时还没有做过，甚至也没有梦想过，甚至音乐家也愉快地聆听游吟诗人，没有梦想到威尔第巨大的储备中等待着未经考验的力量。那时，这是青春的音乐。对我们来说，这似乎只是童年的音乐。我们中的许多人在听到塔楼上曼里科的死亡之歌时，都无法不听到研磨风琴的声音，而它的激情却变得如此可怜。但人们可以理解那音乐。今天，只要说这是可以理解的，就会让人微笑。它诉诸简单的情感。我们不再满足于这样的简单，甚至渴望那些不吸引人的力量，而是用比我们冷酷的自我更强大的东西扭曲我们，直到我们自己诉诸未知，以一种未满足的喜悦的绝望狂喜，要求将自己延伸到不可能的可能性。我们正处于一个奇怪的发展阶段。我们看到科学在我们眼前的幕布上精心描绘的人造世界景观，但我们不安的双手却伸过它并超越它，急切地打开并关闭任何东西，尽管我们知道那里有什么东西。

三十多年前，安吉洛·雷安达 (Angelo Reanda) 非常喜欢意大利所谓的音乐。他拥有真正的耳朵和对意大利人所共有的旋律的敏锐记忆，意大利人即使不是一个音乐种族，也是一个歌唱民族，当音乐被认为是一系列声音而不是一系列感性事物时，这构成了音乐天赋。印象。他可以听一部歌剧，不假思索地理解它，简单地享受它，并且毫不费力地记住它，就像成千上万的其他罗马人一样。如果可以的话，我们大多数人都愿意回到这种孩童般的娱乐中。少数人甚至现在就拥有权力，并受到他们更有教养、因此更受折磨的音乐熟人友好的蔑视，他们的梦想是在管弦乐激情的谵妄中被撕成碎片。

利安达去阿波罗剧院只是为了寻找愉悦的感觉，而他正是得到了他想要的东西。即使在那些日子里，这座老房子也很辉煌，确实，与其说是灯光，不如说是珠宝，但也许那种照明和其他的一样好。罗马的女士们和各大使馆的女士们过去常常整晚都坐在她们的包厢里，而在马厩和坑里的男人们有特权在表演和表演之间站起来，这在罗马仍然是这样。随心所欲地欣赏他们和他们的钻石。与我们现在的光线相比，光线已经足够暗了。因为天然气刚刚在几条主要街道上引入，阿波罗巨大的枝形吊灯上的灯以及房子周围的支架上都充满了橄榄油，这些橄榄油今天是世界上的沙拉。但这是一种柔和而温暖的光，带有浓郁的黄色，穿透阴影，美化了它所触及的一切。

第一幕结束后，利安达和其他人一样站起来环顾四周。他的目光立刻被格洛丽亚那美丽的头发吸引住了，头发在上面的光线下闪闪发亮。她坐在第三层包厢的前排，当时第二排包厢几乎都是包厢。达尔林普尔就在他女儿身边，保罗·格里格斯那张黝黑、静止的脸在阴影中依稀可见。

格洛丽亚几乎立刻就看到了这位艺术家，因为他忍不住好奇地看着她，将她的脸与他在墙上画的疯狂素描进行比较。她向他点点头，然后对她的父亲说话，显然是在引起他对利安达的注意，因为达尔林普尔立即低下头，也点了点头，而格里格斯则向前倾了一点，茫然地凝视着深坑。

“今天真是一种痴迷，”利安达自言自语道，虽然这个女孩住在罗马，但他以前从未注意到她，现在同一天见过她两次。

他在心里补充道，她的神经一定很好，大多数年轻女孩在像她这样死里逃生后，都会在家里感到头疼。不过，她确实和他想象的一样英俊，更何况现在他看到她穿着那件少女感十足的晚礼服，只是领口有点开，连最简单的饰物都没有。白色的材料和她周围和身后的阴影让她的头明显放松了。

幕布再次拉开，利安达坐下来观看表演，聆听简单而激动人心的旋律。但他不安地意识到格洛丽亚正在包厢里看着他的后脑勺。紧张的人知道这种错觉会产生不愉快的感觉。利安达在座位上不安地移动，不止一次地环顾四周，距离足以看到格洛丽亚的头发，而无需抬头看她的眼睛。

他思绪混乱，清晰地想起了很久以前见过的死去的尼姑的脸。相似度确实非常高。玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔有时会露出一种奇怪的表情，这完全是她自己的表情，而他在格洛丽亚身上还没有见过。但他觉得有一天他应该看到它。他确信这一点，确信他已将全部力量投入到墙上的草图上，知道它会吓到唐娜·弗朗西斯卡。两个女人不可能如此相似，但其中一个却永远不应该有那样的相貌。也许格洛丽亚现在已经明白了，她正盯着他的后脑勺。

莫名其妙的紧张感占据了这个敏感的男人，他坐在那儿感到很痛苦。幕落下后，他起身，头也不抬地离开了剧院，穿过狭窄的街道，来到了一家他熟悉多年的小咖啡店。他喝了一杯咖啡，折断了一根细细的黑色罗马雪茄的烟头，抽了几分钟才回来。

格洛丽亚没有动，但格里格斯要么已经走了，要么退到了阴影深处。达尔林普尔靠在椅子上，瘦骨嶙峋，憔悴不堪，一只大手无精打采地垂在包厢的前面。利安达再次坐下，并决定在表演结束前不再转身。但没有用。他的焦躁不安激怒了两边的邻居，他的额头湿漉漉的，仿佛正在承受巨大的痛苦。他再次转过身来，向上凝视着盒子。令他惊讶的是，格洛丽亚并没有看着他，但在阴影中，他遇到了保罗·格里格斯那双高深莫测的眼睛，那双眼睛紧紧地盯着他，仿佛永远不会移开视线。但他并不关心格里格斯是否看他。他再次面向舞台，更加安静了。

这是一场精彩的表演，他开始为自己的到来而感到高兴。歌手很年轻，观众很容易鼓掌，一切都很顺利。利安达认为女高音在大塔场景中相当弱。

她唱歌的音程逐渐上升。

利安达叹了口气，因为她没有给他留下任何印象，他记得当他第一次听到这句话时，他印象深刻，甚至激动不已。他当时就意识到了这种情况，并对利奥诺拉产生了感情。也许他已经太老了，无法再感受到那种年轻的情感了。他遗憾地叹了口气，从座位上站了起来。再次抬头，他看到格洛丽亚正在穿上斗篷，背对着剧院。他等了一会儿，然后随着人群继续前行，从衣帽间取了外套。

他走出去，沿着托迪诺纳大道慢慢走去。那时，这是一条又黑又窄的街道。老式的大灯笼里装着油灯，长长的杠杆用锁在墙上的链条固定在适当的位置。低矮的门上到处闪着红灯，显示地下室几乎是一个地窖，里面有卖酒的。剧院里的人群紧挨着墙匆匆走来，不断地面临着载着罗马女士回家的大马车冲过的危险，因为所有人都必须穿过那条狭窄的街道。兰道斯还没有发明，沉重的马车在黑暗中隆隆作响，在小铺路石上行驶。但步行的人们已经习惯了，当他们经过时，他们贴着墙站着，或者在黑暗房子的低矮台阶上聚集一会儿。

利安达和其他人一起去了。他本可以走另一条路，从圣安吉洛桥出发，沿着老班奇河走，这样会更近，但他有一个奇怪的幻想，达尔林普尔一家可能会步行回家，他可能会再次见到格洛丽亚。虽然还没有到冬天，但夜色明亮寒冷，走起来很舒服。阿波罗剧院的常规演出季直到圣诞节才开始，但在一年中的其他时间经常有优秀的公司。

艺术家继续走着，扫视着昏暗街道上走过的人群，既没有停下来，也没有匆忙。那天晚上，他打算让命运随心所欲。

命运离我们并不遥远。他已经走了一段距离，人群已经向各个方向散去，直到他出现在克莱门蒂诺大街与里佩塔河相交的空地上时，几乎只剩下他一个人了。就在这时，他听到一阵狂野而激动人心的歌声。

伟大的女高音在午夜的寂静中响起，就像绝望的大天使的声音，然后就什么也没有了。

“嘘！”一个男人的声音充满活力地喊道。

两三扇窗户高高地打开，因为以前从来没有人在街上听到过这样一个女人的声音。利安达透过黑暗往前看去，看到下一个拐角处站着三个人，于是加快了他的大步。他无法解释的直觉告诉他，这首短曲是格洛丽亚唱的，当他在剧院听到这首曲子时，他感到冷漠而无动于衷。现在他两者都不是，他很想确定那是她。

他没有看错。格里格斯最先认出了他，他们就在拐角处等他。

“同一天两次见面真是一种意想不到的快乐，”利安达说。

“我们很高兴，”达尔林普尔用正确的措辞回答，但带着他独特的口音。 “我想你听到了我女儿的尖叫声，”他冷冷地补充道。 “她正在向我们解释应该如何演唱某个特定的乐句。”

“我说得不对吗？”格洛丽亚问道，并迅速向利安达求助，表示一定会支持。

“一千次正确，”他回答道。 “这样的声音怎么可能会出错呢？”

格洛丽亚很高兴，他们一起继续前行，直到到达达尔林普尔的住所门口。

“进来和我们一起吃晚饭吧。”苏格兰人说道，他看上去不像平时那么阴郁。 “我想你住在我们附近吧？”

“不。在我工作的博吉亚宫。”

“那么，这并不完全是在你回家的路上，”格洛丽亚观察道。 “你还是休息一下吧，恢复一下精神。”

利安达接受了邀请，心里对外国女孩的自信感到纳闷。他想，以她的意大利语，她应该有意大利的举止。按照当时的惯例，这三个人都拿着蜡烛，在登上黑暗的楼梯之前，他们都点燃了蜡烛。

“这是一道亮光，”达尔林普尔在带路时回头说道。

格洛丽亚突然停了下来，环顾四周。她跟随她的父亲，利安达跟随她，格里格斯是最后一个。

“一，二，三，”她数着，目光与利安达的目光相遇。

她没有丝毫犹豫，吹灭了他手里的蜡烛。但是，有那么一瞬间，他在她的脸上看到了死去修女的表情，在明亮的光线下清晰可见，就在他的眼睛附近。

“你为什么这么做？”当蜡烛熄灭时，达尔林普尔又转过头问道。

“三盏灯意味着死亡。”格洛丽亚立即说道。她一边笑一边快步走上台阶。

“确实如此，”利安达跟着她，低声回答道。他突然意识到，一瞬间，他看到了那张灿烂的年轻面孔上写着的死亡。

十分钟后，他们在达尔林普斯家的小餐厅里围桌而坐。利安达注意到，他在那里看到的一切显然都属于租用的住所，从老式的意大利银叉子，叉子处破旧弯曲，到沉重的刻花玻璃酒瓶，在颈部和中间都因年龄和使用而沾染污迹。钻石形切屑。不过，晚饭足够六人吃，还有数量惊人的酒。达尔林普尔在吃任何东西之前吞下了一大杯。保罗·格里格斯将杯子倒满，看着它。自从利安达加入队伍以来，他几乎没有说过话。

艺术家努力表现得和蔼可亲，考虑到他与达尔林普尔夫妇的认识还不到二十四小时，他觉得这次邀请是一次非常友好的邀请。不久，他问格洛丽亚是否因为下午那场非同寻常的事故没有感到任何不良影响。

“我没有再想过这个问题，”她回答道。 “整个晚上我只想着你的画，直到那个女人唱起这句话，仿佛她在向月亮伯爵要更多的草莓和奶油。”

她笑了，但眼睛却盯着他的脸。

她用罗马方言轻声唱歌。

然后她又笑了，利安达对这荒谬的话语笑了——“再加一些草莓，再给我一些奶油。”但即使是几个音符，对首席女歌手演唱这句短语的懒惰模仿，也迷住了他对旋律的简单热爱。

“爸爸，别显得那么严肃，”她用英语说。 “你知道，这里没人能听到我说话。”

“我想没有人愿意这么做，”苏格兰人回答道。但考虑到他的客人不懂英语，他用意大利语说话。

“我不知道为什么如果我唱一些愚蠢的歌，你总是那么生气，”年轻女孩说，又用意大利语说道。 “一个人不可能总是严肃的。但我说的是你的壁画，利安达先生。我没有想到别的。”

她的目光再次与艺术家的目光相遇，但又落在了他的目光之前。他是一位伟大的画家，不可能不知道这种奉承之言的价值，而且在某种程度上，他倾向于怨恨这个女孩的大胆。但与此同时，很难相信她并不是真心实意的，因为她有一种突然而严肃的力量，可以让小小的演讲变得很有分量。他不由自主地相信了她，也许这也是对的。保罗·格里格斯没有，他好奇地看着她。

“你为什么这样看着我？”她问道，带着一点脾气转向他。

“如果你父亲允许我这么说，你就是这间屋子里最值得一看的对象。”年轻人平静地回答道。

“你的漂亮演讲会让她自负的，格里格斯，”达尔林普尔说。

“我对此表示怀疑，”格里格斯回答道。

他又陷入沉默，喝干了一大杯酒。利安达凭着敏锐的直觉怀疑这个美国人很欣赏格洛丽亚，但她不太喜欢他。

“达尔林普尔小姐竭尽全力让我对她的赞美感到自负，”利安达说。

“我一生中从未奉承过任何人，”格洛丽亚回答道。 “利安达先生是意大利最伟大的画家。大家都这么说。如果我假装看到他工作后我想到了其他事情，那就太愚蠢了。今晚我们都说，壁画太棒了，没有人，甚至是做了同样事情的拉斐尔，对丘比特和普赛克的历史有更美丽的想法。为什么我们不应该仅仅因为他碰巧在这里就说实话呢？你真是不合逻辑啊！”

“我相信我把拉斐尔排除在外，”达尔林普尔用他的全国准确性说道。 “但我确信利安达先生不会因此而与我争吵。”

“但我没有排除拉斐尔，也没有任何人，”在利安达开口之前，格洛丽亚坚持道。

“说实话，夫人，虽然我是凡人，而且很容易受到影响，但你有点太过分了。你知道，奉承不是欣赏。”

“这不是奉承，”她回答道，脸色涨红了。 “我是很认真的。没有人画过比你的丘比特和普赛克更好的东西。与它相比，拉斐尔的作品显得平淡无奇。”

“我脸红，但我不能接受这么多，”意大利人礼貌地微笑着说，但仍在试图弄清楚她说的是不是真的。

他不由自主地像以前一样继续相信她，尽管他的判断告诉他她的东西不会值多少钱。但他很高兴能给人留下这样的印象，很快他对她的偏见开始消失。她身上看似大胆的东西不再让他感到震惊，他对自己说这是一个外国女孩的天真率直。像死去的玛丽亚·布拉奇奥这样的人不可能粗俗或大胆。从那一刻起，他开始将格洛丽亚视为属于更高的领域，而他的出生却将他排除在外。这是一个奇怪而快速的转变，他不会承认这是因为她对他的工作夸大其词。对于那些不熟悉旧意大利社会几乎无法逾越的障碍的人来说，这一定很奇怪，那天晚上，利安达有生以来第一次感受到了被弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科阶级的女人喜欢、钦佩和交谈的感觉。 ;更奇怪的是，这是他经历过的最美妙的感觉之一。然而这个女人还只是一个不满十七岁的女孩。在起身回家之前，他无意识地怨恨格里格斯对格洛丽亚默默的崇拜。对于普通意大利人来说，这样的沉默是一个男人恋爱的标志，而利安达对格洛丽亚更有吸引力，因为她对待格里格斯的态度是如此完美的冷漠。

当他点燃蜡烛下楼梯时，已经快一点了。格里格斯也做好了出发的准备。知道他不会留下来和格洛丽亚谈话，这让我松了口气。他们默默地下去了。

“我想问你一个问题，”当他们走到街上时，美国人说，并吹灭了他们的蜡烛。 “我们住在相反的方向，所以我现在必须问。如果我为伦敦一家报纸写一篇关于你的壁画的文章，你介意吗？”

“头脑！”艺术家大声说道，突然对记者产生了厌恶感。 “我应该感到高兴——受宠若惊。”

“不，”格里格斯冷冷地说。 “我不会在达尔林普尔小姐说话时写作。但我会尽力公正地对待你，当一个人像你一样是一位严肃的艺术家时，这是一件好事。”

利安达对这句话的冷静温和感到震惊，这表达了他对自己的谦虚判断，在格洛丽亚无限的赞扬之后几乎无法令人同意。不过，他热情地感谢了格里格斯，并在分手前握手。

三个月过去了，利安达与达尔林普一家的关系变得亲密起来。考虑到当时的情况，这是很自然的。他们生活得很孤独，利安达在这方面和他们很像，因为他很少去他必须说话的地方。白天，他经常见到唐娜·弗朗西斯卡，但当仲冬的午后天黑时，这位艺术家就开始依靠自己的资源了。在过去的几年里，他时不时地像许多其他艺术家那样做，有时一两个月，他的大部分晚上都在他吃饭的餐馆里度过，与其他六位经常光顾的人在一起。同一机构。每个人都在适合自己的任何时间顺便过来，吃完晚饭，把椅子往后推，加入一般谈话，抽烟，喝咖啡或喝点酒，直到回家的时间。有些白发画家在五年和二十年里几乎没有离开法尔科内、加比奥内或吉尼奥等地方惯常的桌子超过几天。但利安达加入这些小圈子的时间从来没有超过一两个月，到那时他已经耗尽了同伴们的想法，回到了孤独和自己的思想中。因为他拥有他们所没有的东西，除了他更伟大的天赋、更广泛的智慧和更深刻的艺术洞察力。唐娜·弗朗西斯卡的高雅影响不断地对他产生影响，使许多普通的谈话令他感到厌烦或不愉快。一个男人的存在被一个极其优雅的女人所渗透，他很少关心男人的日常社会。当他不能和她在一起时，他更喜欢一个人呆着。

利安达相信他对弗朗西斯卡的感情是一种忠诚的、近乎虔诚的友谊。事实上，在他第一次见到格洛丽亚之后，没过几个星期，他就明显爱上了这个女孩，而他感觉与唐娜·弗朗西斯卡的关系没有丝毫变化，这一事实令人满意地向他证明了他是对的。它不会像意大利人和拉丁人那样通过想象的测试来比较他对这两个女人的感情，例如，通过问自己为这两个女人中的哪一个做出更大的牺牲。他理所当然地认为一种感情是友谊，另一种感情是爱情，他也照此行事。

他确实不信任，而且非常怀疑，但不是对自己。格洛丽亚对他太好了。她的眼睛告诉他的事情超出了他的想象。一个如此年轻、清新、美丽的女孩，面对这个世界，会爱上一个同龄的男人，这是不自然的。至少他是这么想的。但它不自然的事实并没有阻止它的发生。

利安达忽略了某些非常重要的要点。首先，格洛丽亚面前的世界并不真实。她父亲忧郁的自私极大地限制了她的小范围，这导致他把她留在罗马，因为他自己喜欢这个地方，并远离他的同胞，他像生活在国外的英国人有时一样对他们深恶痛绝。另一方面，出于对自己婚姻的故事有一天会曝光的隐隐恐惧，他远离了罗马社会。他回到艺术波西米亚寻求他想要的陪伴，但这还不够，随着他的孩子长大，他不明白她还在他的家庭女教师的照顾下，就发育得很早，即将成年。假如。他甚至没有为她的未来制定任何计划，因为他不爱她，尽管他纵容她是一种自私而轻松的方式，以履行他作为父亲的义务。为了摆脱她的纠缠，他在她十六岁的时候就开始带她去一些已婚艺术家的家里，尽管她看上去至少老了两岁。

但在这样的社会中，利安达很容易成为第一，除了使他处于整个艺术行业领先地位的天赋之外。他是在欧洲最古老、最挑剔的贵族之一的绅士们中长大、受教和接受教育的，他继承了他们的举止、言谈、安静的优越感，尤其是外表的温柔和谦逊的举止。这最触动一些女性。在格洛丽亚看来，他的外貌甚至和他们很像，又高又瘦，又黑又黑。尽管她已经习惯了与阴郁、忧郁的父亲住在一起，也经常见到保罗·格里格斯，当时他的沉默能力是惊人的，但利安达轻松优雅的谈吐让她着迷，让她受宠若惊。从很多方面来说，他在才华、魅力、学识上都比她见过的任何人都要优秀，而且不要忘记，虽然他比她大二十岁，但还不到四十岁，而且由于他的头上没有一根白发，所以他仍然可以被认为是一个年轻人，尽管他严肃的性格使他感觉比实际年龄要老。在她主要生活的三个忧郁的男人中，她的父亲自私而阴郁。格里格斯很温柔，但沉默寡言，难以理解，尽管他无疑对她产生了影响。利安达独自一人，虽然生性忧郁，但对她却温柔、友善、健谈。

达尔林普尔冷漠地接受了这种亲密，甚至还带着某​​种满足。在他的反思中，他将利安达描述为伟大艺术家和绅士的罕见结合体。自从格洛丽亚认识他以来，她变得更加安静了。她钦佩他并模仿他的举止。这是一件好事。他也很高兴利安达没有结婚，达尔林普尔想，因为如果这个男人的妻子总是在身边并期待着被逗乐的话，那就太麻烦了。

他开始意识到利安达可能爱上了格洛丽亚，而且他并不反感这个想法。事实上，尽管乍一看这对英国人来说似乎很奇怪，但他却很喜欢这个想法。他希望在意大利度过一生，因为他对这个国家有着强烈的感情，这种感情征服并束缚了许多北方人，从约翰·霍克伍德爵士到兰多和布朗宁。虽然他不爱格洛丽亚，但他以自己的方式依恋着她，不想完全失去她。但是，由于他自己的婚姻不正常，他无法将她嫁给罗马与他同等地位的男人，因为他不会不询问她母亲的情况。他自然会对利安达这样的人产生好感。利安达有很多优良品质。达尔林普尔对人的判断力一般都很敏锐，他明白，像唐娜·弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科这样的女人肯定不会与画家成为私人朋友，并允许他占据她宫殿的房间，除非他的品格完全不容怀疑。

当然，格洛丽亚还太年轻，还不能结婚，尽管她看起来已经完全长大了，完全是一个女人了。在这方面，达尔林普尔并没有偏见。他自己的母亲十七岁就结婚了，他在意大利生活了很长时间，那里早婚很常见。就这一点而言，当然不会有人对这场比赛提出严重反对，而此时又应该过去一年了。

达尔林普尔对女儿唯一的担忧是她想成为一名公众歌手的强烈愿望。这种偏见绝不是非同寻常的，作为一个苏格兰人，这种偏见对他的影响甚至比对意大利人的影响还要大。利安达在这一点上完全同意他的观点，当格洛丽亚谈到这一点时，他总是生动地描绘出舞台生活的弊端。这位艺术家的语气非常强烈，因为格洛丽亚在他眼中最早也是最吸引人的地方之一就是他确信她属于弗朗西斯卡的阶级。因此，她的谄媚的钦佩带有一种特殊的味道，特别适合出身卑微的男人的口味。达尔林普尔不明白这一点，但他知道，如果格洛丽亚嫁给了这位伟大的画家，后者实际上会让她远离舞台。

至于格里格斯，这位苏格兰人很清楚，这位可怜的年轻记者很容易就会爱上这个美丽的女孩。但这并没有阻止他让格里格斯经常呆在家里。格里格斯是他见过的唯一一个不让他厌烦的人，他一次可以沉默一个小时，他可以吞下和他一样多的烈酒，而不会影响他的举止，他听懂了他所说的一切，尽管有时会说些他听不懂的话——总之，格里格斯对他来说是必需品。年轻人也许意识到了这一点，而且他发现达尔林普尔和他的脾气很相投。但当时他非常骄傲，同时又极其贫穷，他设法拒绝了向他提供的大部分款待，仅仅是因为他无法回报。他很少接受吃饭的邀请，尽管现在他通常在晚上来，此外几乎每天早上他们一起去书店时都会见到达尔林普尔。

他奇怪地让苏格兰人感到困惑。他是思想家和运动员的奇怪结合体，一半是文学家，一半是角斗士。俗话说“年轻的肩膀上有老头”来形容他，这与任何其他短语一样好。肩膀也许更引人注目，但头部也不容忽视。一个能折断马蹄铁、把一副卡片撕成两半的人，在业余时间研究黑格尔和康德，而不是为报纸写政治信件的人，应该被视为例外。他看似没有物质上的需要，但却有一种动物般的力量，可以过度享受物质，这是很少见的。他在科尔索和里佩塔之间的弗雷扎大道上有几个房间，他在那里以一种相当神秘的方式居住，尽管他对此毫不掩饰。偶尔会有一个熟人爬上陡峭的楼梯，但没有人让他开门，也没有人表明他在家（如果他在家的话）。一个独眼的鞋匠在楼下当搬运工，从早到晚，跨坐在长凳上，嘴里叼着一支难闻的旧烟斗，一直在干活。

当有人询问格里格斯时，他回答说：“你可以尝试一下。” “谁知道？也许保罗修女会开门。如果你有耐心的话，可以尝试一下。”

客人忍无可忍，又从五层楼下来，向鞋匠提出抗议。

“我什么也没说，”他在烟雾中回答道。 “很多人都尝试过。我告诉过你去尝试一下。我要告诉你，从来没有人进去过吗？为什么？来妨碍你吗？如果你想要保罗修女的任何信息，请告诉我。或者再来一次。”

“但他不肯开门，”来访者反对道。

“哦，确实如此，”独眼人回答道。 “但如果你想尝试，我不会阻止你。这是事实。”

有时，一些更好奇的人提出问题中可能有一位女士。然后，那只眼睛茫然地凝视着。

“女性？”鞋匠会惊呼道。 “连猫也不行。什么通过你的头脑？他总是一个人。如果你不相信我，你可以试试。我并不是说保罗修士不会开门。门就是门，需要打开。”

“但是既然我已经尝试过了！”

“而我，我能做什么呢？你来过，你见过，你敲过，却无人开门。愿圣母陪伴您！我无能为力。”

因此，即使是最顽固的访客最后也离开了。但格里格斯不止一次带达尔林普尔到他的住处，他们坐在那里讨论书籍一个小时。事实上，达尔林普尔观察到，格里格斯比在其他地方更倾向于在自己的房间里说话，而且他的态度发生了很大的变化，几乎让他看起来像是换了一个人。石质面具上流露出一种感兴趣的表情，深陷的眼睛里闪烁着平时酒和智慧都无法带来的光芒。这个人穿着他的盔甲对抗世界，可以说是一个由穷人的骄傲组成的坚韧外壳，并且坚固地具有绝对的身体优越感，这是强人性格中的一个要素，苏格兰人也理解这一点。他本人曾经是强者，但并不总是最强者。自从保罗·格里格斯第一次成长以来，还没有任何人能与他匹敌。他的智力与许多人不相上下，但他的体力在青年时期和成年时期却无人能及。他隐藏的虚荣心的秘密就在于此。他的道德力量表现在他假装谦虚的态度上，因为几乎不可能说服他表现出来。似乎只有格洛丽亚一个人能够诱使他用手指折断一枚银元，或者撕一叠卡片，这对她来说是一种特别的乐趣，而且只能在她父亲或利安达在场的情况下进行，但绝不能在其他人面前进行。

“你是世界上最强的男人，不是吗？”她曾经问过他一次。

“是的，”他回答。 “如果是我的话，我可能是这样。我对此感到自负，但并不为此感到自豪。这让我有时觉得我是两个人合而为一。你知道，这也许可以解释这一点。”

“胡说些什么！”格洛丽亚笑了。

“是吗？我敢说是的。”在她看来，他又变得冷漠了。

“另一个人是什么样的人？”她问。 “不是两人中的强者，而是另一个？”

“他是一个好人。强者就是坏人。他们战斗，结果微不足道。总有一天，两者中的一个会战胜另一个。”

“那会发生什么？”她轻声问道，仍然想笑。

“我想，其中一个或另一个，或者两个都会死，”他回答道。

“真是太不愉快了！”

她根本不明白他的意思。与此同时，她情不自禁地感觉到，他是一个杰出的男人，她会在遇到危险或麻烦时向他求助。虽然她是个女孩，但她不会误会他对她的极大钦佩，随着冬天的过去，她渐渐地更加信任他，尽管他仍然有点排斥她，因为他阴郁的平静与她狂暴的活力形成了鲜明的对比。黑色的岩石变成黄褐色的急流。格里格斯通常既没有赢得女人芳心的举止，也没有脾气。当这些男人的悲伤将他们束缚在恐怖的岩石上，而悲伤无法满足的泪水从他们破碎的心中流出时，他们有时会受到女人的爱。但就他们的力量而言，他们并不被爱。他们还不能奉献自己，因为他们的力量阻碍了他们，而女人们认为他们吝啬言语和爱情的小钱。如果他们最终得到了爱，那就像未受伤害的弱者对被毁灭的强者的怜悯一样。

当格洛丽亚想到以这种方式寻求娱乐时，偶尔也会激怒格里格斯。她知道该怎么做，而他很少向她发起攻击，即使是以最温和的方式。

“我们是好朋友，不是吗？”有一天，她问道，当时正在下雨，他独自一人和她在一起，等待她父亲进来。

“我希望如此，”他回答道，面无表情地慢慢转向她。

“那你应该对我好一点，”她说。

“我已经尽力了，”格里格斯目光坚定地回答道。 “我该怎么办？”

“这就对了。你应该知道。例如，你可以交谈并说一些令人愉快的事情。你不承认你今天很无聊吗？”

“我承认。我很后悔，但愿我没有后悔。”

“你不必这样。我相信只要你愿意，你都能说得很好。你任何时候都不好笑，但今天你却像葬礼一样。你让我想起了他们用来做灵车的那些大黑马，你知道的。”

“谢谢你，谢谢你，”格里格斯轻声说道，不加强调地重复着这句话。

“我不喜欢你！”她脾气暴躁地喊道，但脸上却带着一丝笑意。

“我知道，”他回答道。 “但是我非常喜欢你。我们可能注定要有所不同。”

“那你可能会逗我开心。下雨天的时候真是太沉闷了。把房子推倒，或者撕碎银色的斯库迪，或者什么的。”

“我不是参孙，也不是小丑。”格里格斯冷冷地说道。

“如果你这么令人讨厌，我永远不会喜欢你，”格洛丽亚说，拿起一本书，开始阅读。

“恐怕你永远不会，”格里格斯效仿她的榜样回答道。

几分钟的沉默过去了。然后格洛丽亚突然抬起头来。

“先生。格里格斯？”

“是？”

“我并不是故意要变得可怕。”

“不，当然不。”

“因为，如果我遇到麻烦，你知道——我应该直接来找你。”

“谢谢。”他非常温柔地回答。 “但我希望你永远不会遇到麻烦。如果你应该——”他停了下来。

“好？”

“我认为你不会找到任何人会更努力地帮助你，”他简单地说。

她希望他的声音会颤抖，或者他能向她伸出手，或者表现出一些更像情感的东西。但她必须满足。

“会帮助我的是好人还是坏人？”她想起之前的谈话，问道。

“两者都是。”格里格斯毫不犹豫地回答。

“我不确定我是否会更喜欢这个坏人，”格洛丽亚几乎自言自语地说。

“利安达是坏人吗？”格里格斯慢慢地问道，一边寻找着她脸上的红晕。

“为什么？”但正如他所料，她脸红了。

“因为你比我更喜欢他。”

“你很不一样。谈论这些是没有用的，我想读书。”

她转过身去，把自己埋在书本里，但她不安地动了两三下，过了几分钟，脸上的红晕才消失。

她仍然很少女，当她激怒了格里格斯，达到这样的男人能够激怒的程度时，她宁愿拒绝战斗，也不愿处理她制造的困难。但格里格斯明白，在他仍然微小的痛苦中，他常常感到一点点、沉闷、绝望的痛苦，这告诉一个人他不可爱。

很晚了，嘉年华季节的一个晚上，保罗·格里格斯独自走在街上。他的痛苦不再像以前那么小了，孤独的苦涩也适合他。

他曾在一位西班牙艺术家的家里，那里有舞蹈、音乐、晚餐和即兴表演。格洛丽亚、她的父亲和利安达也都在那里，发生了一些事情，激起了年轻人的脾气。他讨厌展示自己，而他的展示却违背了他的意愿，可以说是为了助长娱乐活动的欢乐气氛。伟大的雕塑家科托尼曾建议格里格斯以参孙的形象出现，他的头靠在黛利拉的膝盖上熟睡，并用绳子绑在她身上，当​​非利士人冲进来时，他似乎应该将绳子折断。他一次又一次断然拒绝，直到所有吵闹的人都明白了这个想法并强迫他这么做。

他们给他穿上了丝绸帷幔，他有力的手臂几乎裸露在肩上，他们还给了他一顶长长的、深色的、戏剧性的假发。他们用绳子绑住他的手臂和胸部，让他躺在艺术家美丽妻子的脚边假装睡着了。他们在绳子上打了一个滑结，这样他就可以轻松地把它们扭松。然后幕布被拉到一边，画面上演时停顿了一下。突然，一群艺术家匆忙地冲了进来，他们匆忙地穿上了他们能接触到的任何东西，头上戴着西班牙人收藏的各种各样的头盔。

“非利士人来攻击你了！”黛利拉用尖锐的声音喊道。

他跳了起来，双腿自由了，他挣扎着拉着绳子。结不会像预期那样滑动。这种情况持续了好几秒，也够可笑的了。

人们开始大笑。

“把他的头发剪掉！”一个人喊道。

“假发有什么用？”另一个人笑了起来，每个人都窃笑起来。

格里格斯能听到格洛丽亚清晰、高亢的笑声。喉咙里的血慢慢涌上来。但没有人拉开窗帘。那些非利士人，年轻的艺术家，对狂欢节感到疯狂，即兴表演了一种非常古怪的胜利舞蹈，笑声越来越大。

格里格斯看着绳子。然后他那张面具般的脸缓缓转向观众。唯独太阳穴处的青筋骤然暴涨，众人都饶有兴趣地看着他。突然，他的目光一闪，他深吸了一口气，因为他生气了。房间里一瞬间陷入死一般的寂静。过了一会儿，一根绳子紧紧地绕在他的胸口，套在丝绸长袍上，像一根线一样折断了，然后是另一根，然后是第三根。然后，在一种疯狂的愤怒中，他野蛮地用手将整根绳子扯成碎片，轻蔑地把碎片扔在地板上。他的脸色惨白如死人。

当宾客们意识到他所做的事情时，一阵热烈的掌声打破了沉默。艺术家们抓住他，把他高高举起在房间里绕行，女人们向他扔花，有人在钢琴上奏起凯旋进行曲。大家热烈鼓掌。半小时后，他再次穿上平常的衣服，发现自己站在格洛丽亚身边。

“有一天你告诉我你不是参孙，”她说。 “只要你选择，你就会发现你可以做到。”

“不，”格里格斯冷冷地回答。 “我是一个小丑。”

她说的话很自然，但不知怎的，身体虚荣心的满足却让他道德上的自尊心难以忍受。他对自己没有付出任何代价的礼物如此自负，这似乎是一件卑鄙的事情。在内心深处，他也痛苦地感到，他写下并寄到英国日报的大锅里的任何想法都从未受到过丝毫的赞扬，在这家报纸上，所有个人获得荣誉的权利都消失了，所有的赞扬都没有。 ，来自书面材料，无论它有多好。他工作、读书、学习、晚写、早起观察。但他的天赋却是成为一名江湖骗子、一名小丑、一名马戏团大力神。他只要僵硬一只毫无知觉的手臂，就能引来掌声雷动。他靠着多年的笔耕苦干，勉强维持生计。搬运工可能拥有的肌肉给他带来了财富，因为它比其他人的肌肉坚韧一些。他努力追求的知识让他摆脱了绝对的匮乏。

他尽快逃离了这个同性恋聚会。他最后扫视了一下房间，发现安吉洛·雷安达和格洛丽亚坐在一个角落里。少女脸色凝重。艺术家的眼中闪烁着格里格斯从未见过的温柔而幸福的光芒。这也是强者的份。

他在昏暗的油灯下愤怒地大步离开了房子，牙齿叼着一支未点燃的雪茄，软毡帽遮住了眼睛。他穿过城市朝万神殿和纳沃纳广场走去，他的雪茄还没有点燃。

尽管已经很晚了，街道还是充满生机。在那些日子里，同性恋有更多的自由，也更有希望获得简单的快乐。许多男人和女人组成十人或十几人的乐队，用轻柔的声音唱歌，上面不时响起一些响亮的男高音。空气中到处都是笑声；手鼓敲响、重击、叮当作响，吉他鸣响，曼陀林叮当作响、颤抖着。从宽阔大道旁的一条黑暗小巷里，传来一个声音，唱着小夜曲。科尔索大街灯火通明，灯光异常明亮，撒满了鸟食和巴黎石膏的“五彩纸屑”，还有黄色的沙子和黄杨树叶的小枝，还有枯萎的花朵，整个街区都弥漫着石膏和碎石的特殊气味。当时属于罗马街头狂欢节的花茎。再往前走，在台伯河边昏暗的地方，所有的酒铺都挤满了人，人们站在外面的人行道上喝酒，付了钱，然后继续笑着，笑着唱着，唱着笑着，整个晚上。

格里格斯感受到了他在笑中不能笑的那种彻骨的孤独，这对他来说很合意。他一直都是孤独的，他觉得这个世界没有他的陪伴。知道没有人能猜出他的心和头脑之间发生了什么，这让我感到很满足。

他以同样均匀、不知疲倦的步伐漫步了很长一段时间，穿过黑暗而蜿蜒的小道，从万神殿穿过老城，穿过帕加尼卡广场和科斯塔古蒂广场，到达蒙塔纳拉广场，那里聚集着来自乡村的车夫和搬运工。在那里，在三个角落的空地中央，人行道上有一面旗帜，标志着过去处死人的地方。今晚，就连承运人也很高兴。格里格斯口渴了，在一家酒馆门口停了下来。尽管是冬天，人们还是坐在外面，因为里面已经没有空间了。铁环上插着一根用斜绳制成的火炬，在男人们的脸上投射出不确定的、烟雾般的光芒。围裙里的抽屉给格里格斯带来了一杯酒，他站着喝了一杯。

“这没什么区别，”一小群人中一个粗鲁的声音说道。 “他们可能会在铺路石上砍下我的头。他们会帮我一个忙。如果我找到他，我就会杀了他。他和他的全家都会被邪恶地处死！”

格里格斯毫不惊讶地看着说话的人，因为他经常听到这样的话。他看到一个铁灰色的男人，穿着深蓝色的好农民衣服，上面有宽大的银色纽扣，这个男人有一张真正的罗马脸，一个小鹰钩鼻，一双敏锐的黑眼睛。他转身，开始原路返回。

半小时后，他就来到了法尔科内老旅馆的门口，那家旅馆现在已经像那天的许多遗迹一样消失了。它位于万神殿附近的圣尤斯塔斯广场，是当时最好的老式餐馆。格里格斯突然感到饥饿。自从他离开队伍以来，他已经走了七八英里了。他进去了，穿过下面拥挤的房间，爬上狭窄的台阶，来到上层的一个小房间，他希望独自呆在那里。但那里的每个座位也都坐满了。

令他惊讶的是，达尔林普尔和利安达坐在离他最远的那张桌子上，正在认真地交谈，他们之间还喝了一杯酒。格里格斯以前从未在那里见过那个意大利人，但意大利人在门口看到了他，便站了起来，做了个手势，表示他要离开，椅子是空的。格里格斯走上前来，在他们见面时看着他的脸。当利安达和格洛丽亚坐在这位西班牙艺术家客厅的角落里时，利安达的眼里同样闪烁着温柔而快乐的光芒。这时候格里格斯明白了，知道了真相，也猜出了利安达不说话地向他打招呼时那种不习惯的压力的含义，然后匆匆出去了。

达尔林普尔看到格里格斯来了，已经向一个穿着一尘不染的白色夹克的男人喊话，要再来一杯和更多的酒。苏格兰人瘦骨嶙峋的脸庞憔悴不堪，但脸颊上却泛起一丝血色，看上去很高兴。

“坐下，格里格斯，”他说。 “没有椅子了，所以我们可以把桌子留给自己。我希望你的口渴程度有我的一半。”

“超过一半。”另一个回答道，他急切地喝了一口。 “请再给我一些，”他递出杯子说道。

“我发现你听到好消息的心情很好，”苏格兰人说。 “利安达将于夏天迎娶我的女儿。”

“我祝贺你们三个，”格里格斯慢慢地说，因为他知道接下来会发生什么。 “让我们为夫妻俩的健康干杯。”

“无论如何，”达尔林普尔再次补充道。 “无论如何，让我们喝酒吧。我无法在门多萨那儿咽下那些甜食。这个更好。无论如何，我们能喝多少就喝多少吧。”

“这可能意味着一笔好交易，”格里格斯很快说道，然后他喝掉了第三杯。 “达尔林普尔，你喝醉过吗？”他严肃地问道。

“不。我从来没有。”苏格兰人回答道。

“我也没有。这似乎是尝试实验的合适时机。我们可能会尝试喝醉。”

“无论如何，让我们尝试一下，”达尔林普尔回答道。 “不过，我对这件事的可能性持怀疑态度。”

“我也有。”

他们相对而坐，沉默了几分钟，都对对方的认真感到满意。达尔林普尔郑重地倒满了酒，然后靠在椅子上。

“你似乎对我告诉你的事情并不感到惊讶，”他最后说道。 “我猜你已经预料到了。”

“是的。这看起来很自然，尽管发生的事情并不总是自然的。”

“我认为他们适合结婚。当然，利安达年纪大了很多，但相对来说他还是个年轻人。”

“比较。我敢说，由于他有经验，他会成为一个更好的丈夫。”

“这取决于他有什么经验。当我第一次见到他时，我以为他爱上了唐娜·弗朗西斯卡。它就像一个艺术家。他们大多是傻瓜。但我错了。他在远处敬拜。”

“她保持了距离，”格里格斯说。 “你喝酒不公平。我的杯子已经空了。”

达尔林普尔喝完他的，并把两杯都重新装满。

“我来这里已经有一段时间了，”他半带歉意地说道。 “但正如我所说——或者更确切地说，正如你所说——唐娜·弗朗西斯卡保持了距离。这些意大利人在这方面做得非常出色。他们知道亲密和熟悉之间的区别。”

“这是一个很好的区别，”格里格斯说。 “我将在下一封信中使用它。不，唐娜·弗朗西斯卡永远不可能与任何人熟悉。我想，他们在年轻时就学会了这一点，这成为了一种种族特征。”

“什么？”达尔林普尔突然问道。

“有一种优雅的崇高感，”年轻人回答道。

苏格兰人皱起的眼皮收缩了，沉默了一会儿。

“某种优雅的崇高，”他缓慢地重复道。 “是的，也许是这样。有一种优雅的崇高感。”

“你似乎对这个表达感到震惊，”格里格斯说。

“我是。喝吧，伙计，喝吧！”达尔林普尔突然用不同的语气补充道。 “如果我们想在那些乞丐上床睡觉之前喝足够多的酒来伤害我们，那就不能浪费时间了。”

“从不畏惧。他们将彻夜不眠。正如你所说，这并不是浪费时间的理由。”

他喝了一杯酒，看着达尔林普尔，后者也这么做了，他的那种刻意的意图除了苏格兰人之外很少有人能在这种场合保持。就目前而言，酒可能已经被倒入流沙中了。

“这些家庭的种族特征非常令人好奇，”格里格斯若有所思地继续说道。

“是吗？”达尔林普尔疑惑地看着他。

“非常。尤其是声音。他们是家族成员，就像特征相似一样。”

“他们就是这么做的，”另一个若有所思地回答道。 “他们就是这么做的。”

这些年来，他养成了经常心不在焉地重复这样的简短短语的习惯。

“是的，”格里格斯说。 “我第一次听到唐娜·弗朗西斯卡的声音。这是必须继承的声音之一。我相信她的家人都和她一样说过。它让我想起了一些事——想起了某个人——”

达尔林普尔突然再次抬起眼睛，似乎很生气。

“我说，”他打断了他的同伴的话。 “你有什么感觉吗？你脑子里有什么奇怪的东西吗？”

“没有。 为什么？”

“你说话的语气相当不连贯，仅此而已。”

“我是吗？我并没有意识到自己语无伦次。可能我的一半在睡觉，而另一半在说话。”他干笑一声，又喝了一口。 “不，”他放下杯子，若有所思地说。 “我的脑子里没有什么异常的感觉。考虑到我们才刚刚开始，如果我这么做了那就很奇怪了。”

“我是这么想的，”达尔林普尔回答道。

他又点了酒，又陷入了沉默。良久两人都没有再说话。

“还有一瓶，”达尔林普尔最后说道，同时他从酒壶里倒掉了最后一滴水。 “喝快一点。这是一项缓慢的工作。我们对那条老路很熟悉。”

“你不会想放弃这个尝试吧？”格里格斯问道，他平静的脸上没有任何变化。 “吃饭公平吗？我饿了。”

“当然。你想吃多少就吃多少。”

格里格斯点了一些东西，过了很长时间才送来，然后他开始吃东西。

“我们不会因为杯子而喋喋不休，”达尔林普尔说道。 “你能告诉我为什么今晚你生平第一次如此渴望喝醉吗？”

“我可能会问你同样的问题，”格里格斯小心翼翼地回答。

“只是因为你提议的。我觉得这是一个全新的想法。你知道，我没有什么可以让我开心的，当我的女儿离开我时，我的乐趣就会更少。在某种程度上失去理智是一种乐趣。”

“你的意思是，以一种能够把它拿回来的方式。今天晚上聚会结束后我散步，来到蒙塔纳拉广场。那里有一块大石板，人们过去常常把头埋在上面。”

“是的。我已经看过了。你不能告诉我太多关于罗马的事情，因为我不知道。”

“有很多携带者在附近喝酒。我想，情况相当严峻。那里有一个老家伙对某人怀有怨恨。你知道他们怎么说话。 “他们可能会在铺路石上砍下我的头，”那人说。 “如果我找到他，我就会杀了他。他和他的全家都会被邪恶地处死！你听说过这样的事情。但那家伙看起来很认真。”

“他可能会杀了他的人，”达尔林普尔说。

突然，他那宽大、松弛的肩膀轻轻颤抖了一下，他打了个寒战。他朝窗户看了一眼，怀疑窗户可能是开着的。

“你冷吗？”格里格斯漫不经心地问道。

“寒冷的？不，正如他们所说，有人走过我的坟墓。不过，如果我们用更强大的东西来改变娱乐方式，我们应该会进展得更快。”

“不，”格里格斯说。 “我拒绝把东西混在一起。这可能是更长的路，但更安全。”

然后他又喝酒了。

“他是蒂沃利或苏比亚科人，”他不久说道。 “他说话就是那种口音。”

“我敢说，”达尔林普尔回答道，此时他低头看着镜子，所以他的脸处于阴影中。

就在这时，坐在靠近门口一张桌子上的四个人起身走了出去。即使在嘉年华过夜，也已经很晚了。

“我希望他们不会让我们独自一人，”达尔林普尔说。 “这个地方将被封锁，我们至少还需要两个小时。”

“至少，”保罗·格里格斯表示同意。 “但他们希望整晚营业。我想还有时间。”

其他桌子上的人没有任何移动的迹象。他们安静地坐在自己的位置上，小口小口地喝着酒。他们有的在吃着烤栗子，大家都或多或少地低声交谈着。偶尔有人发出一声惊呼，但又立刻平息下来。这一阶层的意大利人很少吵闹，因为罗马人虽然喝得很深，但他们一般都有很强的头脑，并且会为自己的酒变得兴奋而感到羞耻。

空气很凝重，因为几个男人正在抽浓烈的雪茄。拱形房间由一盏带反光镜的大油灯照明，用一根绳子挂在十字拱门的交叉处。地板铺着白色的釉面瓷砖，唯一的窗户挂着土耳其红的窗帘。即使在那个拥挤的季节，一切都非常干净、体面，维护得很好，但空气中弥漫着酒和烟草的味道，还有熟食的味道——一种奇特的气氛，老式的罗马人喜欢在其中坐上几个小时。节假日。

达尔林普尔环顾四周，转动着淡蓝色的眼睛，没有转过头。突出的颧骨上的颜色加深了一些，眼睛也没有平时那么明亮。但他的红发已经变成了灰色，沙色的头发被光滑地梳到脑后，晚礼服也没有皱起。他和格里格斯显然是绅士，以至于其他桌子上的一些意大利人偶尔会惊讶地看着他们，并不是因为他们应该在那里，而是因为他们应该呆那么久，并且不断地重新订购另一瓶葡萄酒。葡萄酒。

朱利奥是那个穿着一尘不染的外套、身材矮胖、黝黑的抽屉，默默地、快速地走动着。一个意大利人看了一眼格里格斯和达尔林普尔，然后又看了一眼服务员，后者也快速地看了他们一眼，然后几乎可以察觉地耸了耸肩。达尔林普尔看到了这两眼，他的眼睛亮了起来。

“我相信那个家伙在嘲笑我们，”他对格里格斯说。

“没什么好笑的。”后者不为所动地回答。 “不过当然，如果你这么认为，就把他扔下楼吧。”

达尔林普尔干巴巴地笑了。

“这个建议有一定的冷静，”他说。 “它有一种很好的、​​老式的感觉。考虑到你的智力造诣，你并不是一个非常文明的年轻人。”

“我是在海上、在桅杆前长大的。这或许可以解释这一点。”

“你似乎在短暂的一生中塞满了很多东西，”达尔林普尔说。 “这肯定是一艘经典的船，他们在那里教授希腊语和拉丁语。”

“船长曾称她为愚人船。事实上，正如你所说，它相当经典。老人轮流教我们航海和希腊诗文五年。他是一名热爱文学的大学生，但我从未见过比他更好的水手。当我十七岁的时候，他把我送上了岸，我的口袋里几乎装满了我五年的工资，他让我保证，只要我的钱够用，我就会上大学并留下来。我不知怎么地度过了难关，但我不确定我是否祝福他。他还活着，我时不时给他写信。”

“我想是个英国人吧？”

“不。一个美国人。”

“你们美国人真是奇怪的人！”达尔林普尔喊道，他又喝了下去。 “你从事一项职业，就像穿一件外套一样，穿一段时间，然后换另一件，”他放下空杯子补充道。

“很像你们苏格兰人，”格里格斯回答道。 “我听你说你曾经是一名医生。”

“一名医生——是的——在某种程度上，是为了成为一名科学家，或者相信自己是一名科学家。我的家人反对，”他若有所思地继续说道。 “我父亲告诉我，他真诚地相信科学不需要我的任何帮助。他说我更有可能像其他疯子一样需要科学的帮助。我不会说他不对。”

他微微一笑，倒满了杯子。

“可怜的达尔林普尔！”他轻声喊道，仍然微笑着。

保罗·格里格斯缓慢地抬起眼睛看着同伴的脸。

“我从来没有想到你有那么多值得怜悯的地方，”他评论道。

“不，不。也许不是。但我敢说，这一点是值得商榷的，而且是可以争论的。如果你倾向于这种消遣，“生存或毁灭”这个问题经过精心设计，可以在论证中汲取智力资源。这是一件非常好的事情，一个人在年轻的时候思考、权衡这个问题是非常好的事情。在他睡觉之前，你知道，格里格斯，在他睡觉之前。”

“‘因为在死亡的睡眠中，可能会发生什么梦——’”格里格斯引用了这句话，然后停了下来。

“‘当我们摆脱这凡人的束缚时。’你不了解你的莎士比亚，年轻人。”

“‘必须让我们暂停一下，’”格里格斯继续说道。 “我想到的是梦想，而不是其他的。”

“梦想？是的。那里会有梦想。梦想，还有其他的事情——“这一夜。”并不是说我的理智承认它们不仅仅是梦想，你知道，格里格斯。理性说“睡觉吧——别再睡觉了。”幻想说“也许有梦想。”好吧，好吧，这将是一个漫长的梦想，仅此而已。”

“是的。我们将会死去很长一段时间。现在最好喝了。”格里格斯也喝了酒。

达尔林普尔说道，苍白的眼睛里流露出一种遥远的神情。 “你知道《莱克唤醒挽歌》吗，格里格斯？这是一首盛大的挽歌。留意它的摆动。

他以一种平淡而实事求是的方式重复着这些奇怪的词，谈话中带着一种很难察觉的苏格兰口音。格里格斯听着。他以前听过这首挽歌，里面有很多诗节，它总是对他有一种奇怪的迷恋。他什么也没说。

“在订婚时唱挽歌可不是好兆头。”苏格兰人突然说道。 “喝吧，伙计，喝吧！喝到蓝色恶魔飞走为止。喝-

这并不是说意大利旅馆老板愿意给我们时间。”他冷冷地补充道。 “正如我所说，我的脾气很忧郁。格里格斯，我并不是把你当成同性恋。多喝一点。我认为，再多一点就会给你留下愉快的印象，我的年轻朋友。多喝一点。对于这么年轻的一个人来说，你太严肃了。我不希望表现得轻率，但如果我不是更了解你，我可能会把你当成一个恋爱中的男人。格里格斯，你恋爱过吗？

“是的，”格里格斯平静地回答。 “那你呢，达尔林普尔？你们从来没有恋爱过吗？”

达尔林普尔松垮垮的肩膀突然一震，淡蓝色的眼睛定定地看着格里格斯。红色的眉毛蓬乱，每块颧骨上都有一个鲜红的斑点。他没有回答同伴的问题，尽管他的嘴唇动了两下，好像要说话一样。他们似乎无法说出言语，也没有发出任何声音。

或许，他的怒火已经迫在眉睫了，如果换成另一个人，他的愤怒可能就会爆发。但他对面那张苍白而冷漠的脸，以及那双深邃而平静的眼睛，却产生了一种平静的影响，无论什么话到了他嘴边，他都没有说出来。格里格斯明白，他触摸的是充满激情的尸体，它的死亡是神圣的，因为它的生命一定是压倒性的。他立即转向另一个话题，假装没有注意到达尔林普尔的表情。

“我喜欢你那奇怪的古老苏格兰民谣，”他说，幽默地调侃了这个人以前引用诗歌的倾向。

“它们里面还有很多生命力，”达尔林普尔回答道，心不在焉地扭动着空杯子。

格里格斯给他倒了一杯，他们俩都喝了下去。渐渐地，意大利人开始离开。朱利奥，穿着白夹克的肥胖抽屉，坐在角落里点头，当他的头向前垂下时，高灯的灯光在他光滑的黑发上闪闪发光。

“我们的苏格兰诗人有一种真诚的活力，”达尔林普尔说道，似乎对他给出的简短回答不满意。 “他们有些不规则的韵律，以及他们对苏格兰早期生活的三个主要行为的推理串联，展现了积极生活的一种非常显着的力量，我认为这三个行为是出生、偷窃和暴力死亡。 ”

“但在这三者中，慈善是最大的，”格里格斯带着笑意说道，因为他看到达尔林普尔开始说很长的句子，这对于苏格兰人的清醒来说是一个坏兆头。

“不，”达尔林普尔严肃地回答。 “我冒昧地——事实上，我主张我的权利——与你持不同意见。因为苏格兰人热情好客，但并不慈善。苏格兰人的思维过程是统一的，如果你允许我创造一个词，我愿意为此付出我的酒杯。”

他立即在深井中履行了义务。他放下酒杯，靠在椅子上，慢慢地环顾房间。他的嘴唇动了动。格里格斯只能辨认出另一首老歌谣的最后几行。

他停了下来，紧张地摇了摇头，看着格里格斯，仿佛想知道后者是否听到了。

“这酒不错，”他振作起来说道。 “让我们再来一些吧。朱利奥！”

胖服务员一听立刻就醒了，看了一眼，点点头，出去了，马上又拿了一瓶回来。

“这是第六个还是第七个？”达尔林普尔缓缓问道。

“利安达先生的八个。”那人回答道。 “但是利安达先生出去时付了钱。因此你有七个。也许就足够了。”朱利奥笑了。

“再拿七个来，朱利奥，”苏格兰人严肃地说。 “这将为你节省六趟路程。”

“先生说的是认真的吗？”仆人问道，他看了格里格斯一眼，格里格斯面无表情。

“如果你认为我会开一个糟糕的玩笑来逗你开心，”达尔林普尔令人印象深刻地对那个人说，那你就太自以为是了。带七瓶来。”朱利奥离开了。

“这是荷马的命令，”格里格斯评论道。

“我认为——事实上，我几乎可以肯定——再喝七瓶就会给我们中的一个人留下深刻的印象。但我有明显的忧郁性格，而且我很小的时候就习惯了意大利葡萄酒。忧郁的人可以比其他人喝得更多。再说了，这样的瓶子里装的是什么？我给你看。你一个杯子，我一个。喝;你会看到的。

他倒空了杯子，把瓶子里剩下的酒倒了进去。

“你有看到？半个杯子。两个半就是一瓶。七瓶是十七杯半。在漫长的夜晚，这对你或我来说意味着什么？我的蓝魔鬼很大。需要一片海洋才能将它们全部漂浮起来。今晚我坚持要以愉快的心情上床睡觉，这一次，以纪念我女儿的订婚。再见，格里格斯，你觉得利安达怎么样？”

“他是一位一流的艺术家。我非常喜欢他。”

“一个好人，嗯？好吧，好吧——从谨慎的角度来看，格里格斯，我做得对。但是，正如您可能非常明智地反对的那样，自由裁量权只是一种观点。重要的是观点，而不是观点。伽尼米德带着七瓶愤怒来了！把它们放在桌子上，朱利奥。”他说，这时胖侍者悄无声息地走过来，手指间提着瓶子，一只手拿着三个，另一只手拿着四个。 “他们一起表演了一场精彩的表演，”他若有所思地说道，瘦骨嶙峋的头稍微偏向一侧。

“愿上帝保佑你！”朱利奥严肃地说。 “如果你今晚不死，你就永远不会再死。”

“我认为我们不可能不止一次地死，”达尔林普尔回答道。 “我相信，”他转向格里格斯说道，“男人喝醉后会在金钱方面犯错误。趁我们清醒的时候，我们现在就付钱。”

格里格斯坚持支付他的份额。他们安顿下来，朱利奥高兴地离开了。

两个壮汉相对而坐，在小屋的高灯下，喝个不停。苏格兰人决心要失去理智，这让人感到可怕——当年轻人和他的同伴一起吞下一杯又一杯的时候，他大理石般的冷漠中有一种可怕的东西。他的脸色变得更加苍白，更加冰冷，但那双阴暗的眼睛里却闪烁着遥远的光芒，就像黑暗中孤独的平原上的微光。达尔林普尔的精神并没有好起来，但他说得越来越多，句子变得又长又复杂，有时甚至没有结论。酒终于对他起了作用。他从来没有像格里格斯那样坚强过，在他最好的时候，他现在不是他的对手。这个年轻人奇怪的双重性格似乎让他的头脑超越了任何可能影响他感官的事物。

达尔林普尔滔滔不绝地讲着，从一个话题到另一个话题，问问题时不等待任何答案。他引用了莎士比亚的长歌谣和长段落，然后突然转向科学主题，直到他自己的一些话暗示了另一段引用。

格里格斯静静地坐在座位上，继续喝着酒，但现在很少注意苏格兰人所说的话。有什么东西抓住了他的心，就像磨石之间的谷物一样，将它磨成尘土和灰烬。他知道这一夜他无法入睡。他还不如喝酒，因为这不会伤害他。似乎没有任何物质能够伤害他。他感受到了对完全无法实现的事物的渴望所带来的痛苦，因为他知道那是他永远无法实现的。与完全拥有的丧亲之痛相比，不满足的守寡简直就是地狱。他甚至没有告诉格洛丽亚他爱她。只比乞丐高一级的他怎么可能？那些未说出口的话语在他心中燃烧起一道道皱纹，就像熔化的金属在活生生的肉体上划出冒烟的通道一样。如果格洛丽亚知道的话，她一定会笑的。酷刑折磨得他脸色惨白。这其中有对自己的蔑视，因为区区一个孩子就可能把他伤害得几乎要死，而这让情况变得更糟。一个刚出教室的孩子，任性，被宠坏，自私！

但她的声音里有天堂般的荣耀，她的脸上则带着她死去母亲所犯下的致命罪孽的致命美丽。他不必因为爱她而鄙视自己。她整个人都在向男人倾诉，自从第一个亚当为了女人的爱而将天堂出卖给撒旦以来，没有一个女人对男人的倾诉是徒劳的。

达尔林普尔靠在胳膊肘上，一只手插着条纹胡须，另一只手抓着杯子，继续讲着，引用了越来越多的内容。

说完最后几个字，他的声音变成了沙哑的低语，突然，他不顾同伴，用手捂住了眼睛，修长的手指拼命地按在瘦骨嶙峋的额头上。格里格斯看着他，以为他终于喝醉了。

“因为她犯下了致命的罪孽，”他缓慢地重复道，然后语气发生了变化。 “这里面没有罪恶！”他突然低声喊道，声音里有一种遥远的、幽灵般的声音。

他抬起头，眼睛变了，格里格斯知道他们不再看到他了。

“僵硬。”他轻声说道。 “相当僵硬。我敢说，死了两三个小时。它在我身边站起来——肯定死了两三个小时。”

他明智地对自己点了两次头，然后用同样遥远的语气再次说话，目光越过格里格斯，望向墙壁。

“衣篮是个愚蠢的主意。再说了，我应该输掉这个夜晚。不如自己携带——用格子布包裹起来。当她把它戴在头上时，她永远不会知道。谁在乎？”

接下来是长时间的沉默。一只手握住空玻璃杯。另一个躺在桌子上一动不动。蓝色的眼睛，瞳孔放大，盯着墙壁，一眨不眨，也不转动。但脸上却流露出身体努力的憔悴表情。不久，格里格斯就看到了他巨大的额头上渗出细密的汗珠。然后那个声音又说话了，不过这次是意大利语。

“当我经过时，你最好把目光移开。这不是一个美丽的景象。不，”他用英语继续说道，“一点也不漂亮。仍然像木板一样僵硬。”

那双一眨不眨的眼睛睁大了。颧骨上明亮的颜色消失了。

“它燃烧得很好，”他用意大利语再次说道。整张脸都在颤抖，坚硬的嘴唇软化，亲吻着空气。 “它是金色的——我在黑暗中可以看到它——但我必须把它盖起来，亲爱的。快点——这边走。终于！不——你看不到火，但我确信它燃烧得很好。坚持，稍等！双手握住鞍头——就这样！”

声音停止了。格里格斯开始明白了。他碰了碰达尔林普尔的袖子，靠在桌子上。

“我说！”他轻声叫道。 “达尔林普尔！”

苏格兰人猛地一惊，瞳孔收缩。他右手中的空玻璃杯在坚硬的木头上发出嘎嘎声。然后他对格里格斯含糊地笑了笑。

“天啊！”他用自然的声音喊道。 “我想我一定是在打瞌睡——‘羔羊山的沉睡的西姆，还有支持磨坊的打鼾的乔克！’天哪，格里格斯，我们终于接近了重点。还剩一瓶吧？第七个。

其余的与主题无关。”他总结道，一边倒满了两只杯子。 “格里格斯，”他在喝酒前说道，“恐怕事情就这样解决了。”

“恐怕是这样，”格里格斯说。

“是的。不久前我还抱有希望，这似乎是有根据的。但那次不幸的小睡让我又回到了起点。我应该重新开始。我想，已经很晚了。让我们为自己的两个人喝下最后一杯酒，然后放弃吧。”

肯定有什么东西让苏格兰人再次清醒过来，或者至少清醒了他的头脑，因为他并没有喝醉。

“不能说我们没有对这件事进行公正的审判，”格里格斯郁闷地说。 “我肯定不会再费劲去尝试了。”

尽管如此，当他们一起站起来时，他好奇地看着他的同伴。达尔林普尔站起身来，将长臂对折并伸展开来。

“这很奇怪，”他说。 “我感觉自己的怀里好像担着很重的担子。我曾经做过一次，有一段距离，”他若有所思地补充道，“我记得那种感觉。”

“很奇怪，”格里格斯点燃一支雪茄说道。

坐在外面半睡半醒的朱利奥，听到两个壮汉稳健的脚步声从身边走过，他就醒了过来。

“如果你今晚不死，你就永远不会再死！”他低声说道，同时起身走进去，清理客人们坐过的房间。

在他们结婚的头几个月里，利安达和格洛丽亚相信自己是幸福的，而且确实如此，因为除了他自己对幸福的信念之外，没有真正的标准来衡量人的幸福。他们在马塞尔·德科维街角买了一套带家具的小公寓，有一个铁制阳台，可以俯瞰图拉真广场。他们本来可以毫不费力地获得与利安达在博吉亚宫长期占据的两间相邻的其他房间，但格洛丽亚反对这种安排，利安达也没有坚持这样做。图拉真广场距离宫殿很近，他每天都去上班。

“此外，”格洛丽亚说，“你不会总是为唐娜·弗朗西斯卡画壁画。我希望你画一幅伟大的画，然后把它送到巴黎并获得一枚奖牌。”

她对他抱有雄心壮志，梦想着他赢得世界声誉。她爱他，她觉得弗朗西斯卡把他囚禁在笼子里，就像弗朗西斯卡自己曾经有过的感觉一样。她希望让他完全摆脱后者的影响，既因为她坦率地嫉妒他与年长女人的友谊，并希望让他独自一人，也因为她相信，如果他完全自由，他可以做更大的事情装饰宫殿的任务使他在有限的生产过程中花费了太长时间。此外，在她看来，还有一种自私的虚荣心，这与她对丈夫的无限崇拜密切相关。她知道自己很美丽，她希望他最伟大的作品是一幅她自己的画。

然而，格洛丽亚也希望在罗马社会占据一席之地，唯一能帮助她和她的丈夫跨越界限的人就是弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科。因此，格洛丽亚不可能完全打破这种亲密关系，无论她多么希望这样做。与此同时，利安达也还没有完成他的壁画。

夏天举行的婚礼后不久，达尔林普尔就离开了罗马，打算在苏格兰缺席几个月，因为由于家族首领雷丁勋爵去世后的某些家庭事务和安排，他必须在苏格兰呆上几个月。仅仅几周后，他的达尔林普尔支系和雷丁勋爵的儿子的头衔就被授予，由此该头衔传给了安格斯达尔林普尔的一位年迈的未婚叔祖父，因此达尔林普尔唯一的兄弟成为了下一个继承人。

因此，格洛丽亚独自一人和她的丈夫在一起。保罗·格里格斯也因与他的新闻事业有关的业务而离开罗马一段时间。他其实不愿意为了见证歌洛莉亚的幸福而承受不必要的痛苦，所以趁早离开了。格洛丽亚本人起初对他的离开感到高兴。但后来，她又希望他能回来。当她在利安达无法或不愿决定的事情上需要任何建议时，她没有人可以向她求助。

利安达本人一开始就如他所预期的那样非常高兴，弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科则祝贺自己带来了一场完美成功的比赛。当他继续在博吉亚宫工作时，两人经常像以前一样在一起几个小时。起初，格洛丽亚经常早上来，当她丈夫在画画时，她就坐在大厅里，但过了一会儿，她就发现这件事很单调。利安达无法永远说话。事实上，他不止一次在他画的众多面孔中介绍了他妻子的脸，她很高兴，尽管不满意。他不能让她成为整个系列中出现的中心人物之一，因为大部分工作已经完成，有必要保持每个相似之处的连续性。格洛丽亚希望在任何地方都成为第一，尽管她没有这么说。

渐渐地，她早上来的次数越来越少了。她要么呆在家里认真学习当时流行的伟大歌剧中的女高音部分，要么发明一些小事让她呆在户外。有时，当利安达离开宫殿时，她有时会遇见他，他们一起走回家吃午饭。

渐渐地，弗朗西斯卡也养成了在确信格洛丽亚不会在的时候去大厅拜访利安达的习惯。她并不是不喜欢看到他们在一起，而是因为她觉得歌莉娅心里有敌意。格洛丽亚的举止中有一种微小的、永久的、未表达出来的敌意，这种敌意无法逃脱像弗朗西斯卡这样敏感的女人。利安达也感觉到了，但什么也没说。他近乎愚蠢地爱着他的妻子，也深深地依恋着弗朗西斯卡本人。目前他对待自己的方式很简单，他默默地对两个女人之间可能发生分歧的可能性视而不见，尽管他觉得这种情况已经存在。

他对唐娜·弗朗西斯卡的义务不但没有随着他的婚姻而减少，反而不断增加。她看到并理解他妻子的社会野心，并且不遗余力地去满足它。利安达敏锐地感受到了这一点，心中的感激之情与日俱增，但他内心却希望每一次善意都是最后一次。但格洛丽亚有野心，也有权利在平等的基础上受到社会的欢迎，除了弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科之外，没有人能给她想要的东西。

尽管在接下来的冬天很多人接待了她和她的丈夫，但她并没有获得通常所说的社会成功。她得到了很多人的钦佩，她自己也相信这是友谊。两人中，毫无社会野心的利安达显然更受欢迎。他一如既往地安静、谦逊，成为了一个具有非凡才华的人。他显然更喜欢在社会上与聪明人交谈，而不是让自己与伟人讨好，以至于伟人试图吸引他到自己身边，以便在别人眼中显得聪明。他们完全忘记了他是杰拉诺管家的儿子，尽管他有时毫不掩饰地谈论自己的童年。

但格洛丽亚经常提醒人们，作为安格斯·达尔林普尔（Angus Dalrymple）的女儿，她有权留在自己所在的地方，而安格斯·达尔林普尔（Angus Dalrymple）有一天可能会成为雷丁勋爵（Lord Redin）。对她来说幸运的是，没有人知道达尔林普尔已经开始了一名医生的生活，而且与现在看来完全可以实现的前景相去甚远。但即使作为可能的雷丁勋爵，她父亲的存在也没有引起罗马人的兴趣。他们不习惯那些认为有必要通过提及自己的出身来证明自己的社会地位的人，而且自从弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科向他们保证达尔林普尔是一位绅士以来，他们没有更多的问题要问，当格洛丽亚自愿提供信息时，他们扬起眉毛关于她的祖先的话题。他们礼貌地听着，并尽快转移话题，因为这让他们感到无聊。

但她得到的钦佩是真正的钦佩，只是钦佩，除此之外别无其他。她美妙的歌声对于那些希望为穷人举办音乐会的古代慈善公主很有用，但她的脸却让那些有未婚儿子的优秀女士和其他有同性恋丈夫的优秀女士心烦意乱。她的美貌和声音一起构成了一种危险，必须从远处欣赏。格洛丽亚和她的丈夫在重要场合被邀请去很多房子。格洛丽亚去看望公主和公爵夫人，发现她们在家。他们的卡片定期出现在马塞尔德科维的小房子里，但他们如何到达那里总是一个谜，因为公主和公爵夫人本人并没有出现，除了一两次当弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科带了她的一张卡片时朋友们和她在一起，温和地坚持应该有一个适当的通话。格洛丽亚明白了，当她独自一人时，她会说一些关于社会的尖酸刻薄的话，渐渐地，她开始对她的丈夫说这些话。

“这些罗马人！”她终于惊呼道。 “他们相信没有人能像他们一样！”

当安吉洛·雷安达将细长的手放在她的手上时，他的脸上露出痛苦的表情。

“亲爱的，”他温柔地说。 “你嫁给了一位艺术家。你想要什么？我确信，人们对我们的接待非常好。”

“很好！当然——就好像我们没有权利受到良好的接待一样。但是，安吉洛——别说这样的话——我嫁给了一位艺术家——”

“确实如此，”他微笑着回答。 “我用手工作。他们不。是有区别的。”

“但你是世界上最伟大的艺术家！”她热情地哭着，用双臂搂住他的脖子，一次又一次地亲吻他。 “这太荒谬了。在任何其他城市，在伦敦，在巴黎，人们都会追赶你，人们不会为你做足够的事情。但那不是你；是我。他们不喜欢我，安杰洛，我知道他们不喜欢我！他们希望我参加他们的大型聚会，他们希望我为他们唱歌——但仅此而已。他们中没有人想要我做朋友。我很孤独，安吉洛。”

她的眼里充满了泪水，他试图安慰她。

“这有什么关系，我的心？”他安慰地问道。 “我们拥有彼此，不是吗？爱慕你的我，和爱我的你——”

“爱你？我崇拜你！这就是为什么我希望你拥有世界上的一切，一切都在你的脚下。”

“但我很满意，”利安达反驳道，说出了不明智的事实。 “别想我。”

她爱他，但她希望把自己对社会成功的一些无法控制的渴望强加在他身上，以便为自己辩护。为了取悦她，他应该加入她的抱怨行列。她的泪水突然干了，眼睛里闪烁着光芒。

“我会想到你的！”她哭了。 “我没有别的事可想。你将拥有一切，一切——他们将知道你是一个怎样的人！”

“一位艺术家，亲爱的，一位艺术家。比某些人好一点，比其他人差一点。社会能为我做什么？”

她叹了口气，脸颊的颜色更深了一些。但她掩饰了自己的烦恼，因为她爱他的爱既热情又有意，夹杂着现实和与生俱来的强烈的情感渴望，这种渴望与她对舞台生活的渴望密切相关，但现在突然被抛在了一起。全力进入她的现实生活通道。

利安达开始明白他的妻子并不高兴，这种确定性对他产生了强烈的反应。当他不在她身边时，他变得越来越悲伤和心不在焉。他渴望，只有具有这种性格的人才能渴望有一个可以倾诉的朋友，可以向他寻求建议的朋友。他确实有这样一个朋友，那就是弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科，但他太骄傲了，不敢求助于她，而且他也深深地意识到，她已经竭尽全力为格洛丽亚提供了后者梦寐以求的社会地位。

弗朗西斯卡很快就发现了事情的严重性。自从结婚以来，利安达的举止逐渐发生了变化。他的骄傲使他对这个他非常感激的女人更加正式，而她觉得自己无能为力打破他们之间慢慢升起的障碍。她以她自己的方式受苦，因为当她允许自己公平地面对这个情况时，她对这个男人的真诚依恋远比她意识到的，或者也许愿意承认的要真诚得多。几个月来，她一直在与任何可能让她对自己的婚姻感到后悔的事情作斗争。但最后她承认她对此感到后悔，因为这件事强加在她身上，让她自己的生活变得更加痛苦。然后她心里意识到对格洛丽亚有一种无声的、日益增长的敌意，对安吉洛·雷安达深表同情。她对这种敌意感到羞耻，因为这种敌意在她眼中既是有罪的，又在她本性的高贵之下，她表达了这一点，如果那是表达的话，她允许她对这个男人的怜悯自然而然地表现出来。她告诉自己，这是一种慈善形式，无论她怎么看，都不会错。

当他们单独在一起时，她和利安达的谈话中所有关于格洛丽亚的提及都消失了。在这种时候，她竭尽全力逗他开心，让他感兴趣，让他忘我。起初她没有取得什么成功。他回答她，有时甚至与她争论，但话题一落，她就看到他脸上又恢复了焦急的神情。就他的工作而言，他所做的一切一如既往的好。弗朗西斯卡认为这样更好。但除此之外，他已经变了一个人。

冬天，保罗·格里格斯回来了。有一天，弗朗西斯卡和利安达坐在大厅里，一名仆人宣布格里格斯要见她。她看了一眼利安达的脸，立即决定在房子另一边的客厅里单独接待这个美国人。

“你为什么不在这里接待他？”利安达漫不经心地问道。

“因为——”她犹豫着。 “我宁愿在客厅里见到他，”过了一会儿她补充道，但没有给出任何进一步的解释。

格里格斯告诉她，他回来待了一整年，甚至可能更久。她对这个年轻人产生了善意的兴趣，并很高兴听到他在缺席期间改善了自己的地位和前景。他很少在任何地方找到同情，而且确实需要很少的同情。但他很容易冲动，而且他很早就认定弗朗西斯卡是善良、谨慎和善良的。他很轻松地回答了她的问题，当她和他说话时，他平静的脸变得有些温暖。就她而言，她情不自禁地对这个孤独、勤奋的男人感兴趣，他似乎从来不需要任何帮助，靠着自己的双手攀登人生。当时他身上有一种内敛的力量，虽然不吸引认识他的人，但却很有趣。

突然，他询问了格洛丽亚和她丈夫的情况。这个问题有一种奇怪的唐突感，同时还伴随着一声毫无必要的冷笑。弗朗西斯卡注意到了态度的变化，并记得她最初是如何产生这样的印象：格里格斯钦佩格洛丽亚，但格洛丽亚却排斥他。

“我想他们一定很幸福，”他说。

弗朗西斯卡犹豫了，她生性诚实，也很忠诚。格里格斯没有理由不问她这个问题，这很自然，但她有很多理由不想回答。

“他们不高兴吗？”他很快问道，因为她的沉默引起了他的怀疑。

“我从未听说过任何相反的情况，”弗朗西斯卡回答道，其声明准确得危险。

“哦！”格里格斯用深思熟虑的语气说出了这句话，但没有再说什么。

“我希望我没有给你留下有什么问题的印象，”弗朗西斯卡说道，表现出了太多的焦虑。

“我在英国看到了达尔林普尔，”格里格斯机智地回答道。 “他似乎对这场比赛非常满意。顺便说一句，我敢说你听说达尔林普尔很有可能会以贵族身份死去，如果他真的死了的话。就他的体质而言，这是值得怀疑的。”

他接着向弗朗西斯卡解释了雷丁头衔的问题，而且达尔林普尔的哥哥虽然已婚，但没有孩子，他自己可能有一天也会介入其中。然后格里格斯就离开了，没有再提到利安达或格洛丽亚。但弗朗西斯卡意识到，她已经将利安达的不幸背叛给了一个崇拜格洛丽亚的男人，而且很可能在她结婚前就爱过她。后来她为自己的所作所为感到痛苦和不公正。

格里格斯走了，不久之后又拜访了马塞尔·德科维的小房子。他发现格洛丽亚独自一人，她很高兴见到他。她告诉他，利安达听到他回来也会很高兴。格里格斯写的一切内容都使他有机会运用他各种各样的知识，他也写了艺术，除了一年多前他写的第一篇关于利安达的文章外，从那时起，他经常提到艺术家在报纸信件中的伟大才华。因此，利安达对记者负有义务，格洛丽亚本人也很感激。此外，来到罗马的英国人经常因为这些文章而去看利安达的作品。一位老绅士曾试图说服这位艺术家为他画一幅画，但遭到拒绝，理由是博吉亚宫的作品至少还要花一年的时间。英国人说他应该回来再试一次。

格里格斯和格洛丽亚之间存在着一种在这种情况下不得不存在的友好信任。她认识他很久了，他是她父亲在罗马唯一的朋友。从她还是个孩子的时候起，到她突然变成女人之前，她就记得他了。她信任他。她完全明白他爱她，但她相信她有能力把他的爱完全隐藏在幕后，就像他自己迄今为止一直保留的那样。她的直觉还告诉她，格里格斯在困难时刻可能是一个强有力的盟友。他内敛的力量给她留下的印象甚至比给弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科的印象还要深刻。她很高兴地接待了他，并叫他再来。

他来了，她请他吃饭，确信利安达会想见他。他接受了第一个邀请，不久之后又接受了另一个邀请。冬天里，格里格斯不知不觉地在家里变得非常亲密，就像他以前在达尔林普尔的住处一样。

“那个年轻人爱你，亲爱的，”第二年春天的一天，利安达说道，他的微笑表明他并没有感到焦虑。

格洛丽亚高兴地笑了，拍拍丈夫的手。

“这样的男人才叫爱情！”她回答。 “此外——一名记者！而且他的样子也很丑陋！”

“他确实没有一张英俊的脸，”利安达笑道。 “我并不嫉妒，”他突然严肃地补充道。 “这个人也为我的声誉做出了很大贡献，我知道我欠他什么。我有充分的理由希望善待他，如果你觉得他和蔼可亲，我就更高兴了。”

他以一种绝对正式的语气发表了相当正式的演讲，并无意识地意图以某种方式为自己辩护，尽管他生性太简单，不会怀疑自己有任何复杂的动机。她看着他，却不太明白。

“你肯定以为我从来没有关心过他！”她说，很容易怀疑他也在怀疑她。

他明显地吃了一惊，看着她的眼睛。她的语气很诚恳，但她那夸张的不自在，让她的语气带有了他不认识的色彩。过了几秒钟，他才回答她。当他意识到自己有多么爱她时，温柔的光芒映照在他的脸上。

“你真是太傻了，亲爱的！”他惊呼道。 “但是格里格斯比我年轻——如果你关心他，那就不会那么不自然了。”

她热情地爆发了。

“比你年轻！我也是，比你年轻多了！但你也很年轻。我不会让你暗示你不年轻。当然是。再说了，你也太不友善了。就好像如果你一百岁的话，这对我来说会有丝毫不同！但你不明白我对你的爱是什么。你永远不会理解它。我希望我能少爱你一点；我应该比现在更幸福。”

他不情愿地将她拉向自己，弗朗西斯卡熟悉的痛苦表情出现在他的脸上。

“我的心，你不高兴吗？”他温柔地问道。 “这是什么，亲爱的？告诉我！”

她很紧张，而坦白或抱怨都是无意的，更多的是因为恼怒而导致的。他接手这件事让事情变得更糟。在她所处的状态中，这样的女人宁愿小题大做，也不愿放弃她的体质所需要的同情，而这种同情的程度超出了她小小的痛苦所能要求的程度。

“唉，真不高兴啊！”她轻声哭泣，把脸埋在他的外套里，很高兴能感觉到眼里的泪水。

“但是那是什么？”他非常友善地问道，一只手抚平她赤褐色的头发，另一只手将她按在自己身上。

当他越过她的头看向墙壁时，他的脸上露出痛苦和困惑。他根本不知道该做什么，除了尽可能地迁就她。

“有时我很孤独，”她呻吟道。 “日子还这么长。”

“然而，你并没有像刚开始那样，早上来和我坐在一起。”他的声音里带着一丝遗憾。

“她总是在那儿，”格洛丽亚说，把脸贴近他的外套。

“她确实不是！”他哭了，她能感觉到他发出的微弱的愤怒气息。 “我很孤独。”

“还不到我的一半。”

“但我能做什么呢？”他绝望地问道。 “这是我的工作。这是她的宫殿。你可以自由地来去，如果你不来——”

“我知道，我知道，”她回答道，仍然紧贴着他。 “你会说这是我的错。它就像一个男人一样。但我知道你一小时又一小时地陪着她，她年轻而美丽。她爱你——哦，我知道她爱你！”

利安达开始失去耐心。

“多么荒唐啊！”他惊呼道。 “这太荒谬了。说唐娜·弗朗西斯卡爱我是对她的侮辱。”

“是真的。”格洛丽亚突然抬起头，从他身边退了一点。 “我是一个女人，”她说。 “我知道，我也理解。她本想牺牲自己，让你幸福，把你嫁给我，但现在她后悔了。能见到她就足够了。当你移动时，她的目光会跟随你，眼神里有一种——”

利安达努力地笑了。

“这实在是太荒唐了！”他说。 “我不知道要说什么。我只能笑。”

“因为你知道这是真的，”格洛丽亚回答道。 “她所做的这一切都是为了你，她假装对我很友好，她把我们推向社会，并带她的朋友来这里见我。除非她带来，否则他们永远不会来。”她痛苦地补充道。 “对此不用担心。阿斯特拉登特公爵夫人不会让人看到她的黑马站在马塞尔·德科维，除非唐娜·弗朗西斯卡让她这么做并和她一起去。”

“为什么不？”利安达简单地问道，因为他的意大利头脑无法理解格洛丽亚生活在一个相当简陋的社区所感到的虚假耻辱。

“她不会让人们知道她有朋友住在这样的地方，”格洛丽亚回答道。

不知不觉中，她给了利安达致命的一击。

他爱上了她，并根据自己的理解娶了她，可以说，她在各方面都和唐娜·弗朗西斯卡本人一样是一位伟大的女士，他理所当然地认为她必须高于这样的人。琐碎。住宿条件非常好，而且位置非常适合他的工作。他从来没有想到，因为它处于一个不流行的位置，格洛丽亚可以想象她认识的人会犹豫是否要来看她。自从他们结婚以来，她做了很多小事，说过很多小事，这动摇了他对她的优雅彻底的信念。她现在突然用一句愚蠢的话摧毁了这个信念。想要再重建起来就很难了。

像许多天才一样，他无法原谅自己的错误，而格洛丽亚也卷入了这一错误。而且，作为一个意大利人，他觉得她暗自怀疑他卑鄙，而当意大利人并不卑鄙时，他们最讨厌的就是被认为是卑鄙的。他有很多钱，因为他婚前一直生活得很简朴，达尔林普尔给了格洛丽亚零用钱。

当他回答她时，他的语气变了，但她丝毫没有怀疑自己做了什么。

“我们马上再买一套公寓，”他轻声说道。

“不，”她立刻抗议道，“你绝对不能做这种事！多好的主意啊！仅仅因为我们的家不在科尔索或威尼斯广场上，就改变我们的家！”

“你更喜欢Corso？”安吉洛问道。 “那是自然的。它更加同性恋。”

作为一个罗马人，图拉真广场的荒凉景色让他感到乏味，因为他知道罗马中产阶级女性喜欢向窗外看。

“这太荒谬了！”格洛丽亚叫道。 “你千万别想这个。而且——费用——”

“亲爱的，费用不属于问题，”他完全下定决心后回答道。 “你不应该住在一个你认为你的朋友可能会犹豫是否要来的地方。”

“朋友们！他们不是我的朋友，而且他们从来都不是我的朋友。”她更加激烈地回答道。 “我何必在意他们会不会不厌其烦地来看我呢？如果我配不上他们，就让他们远离我吧。告诉唐娜·弗朗西斯卡不要带他们来——不要再自己来了。我讨厌她把我塞进一个不需要我的社会的喉咙里！她这样做只是为了让我对她负有义务。我确信她在背后议论我，还说了一些可怕的话——”

“你太不公正了，”利安达说，他被粗俗的言论所伤害，也深深地伤害了他自己的自尊心。

“你保护她！你看！”格洛丽亚的脸颊涨红了。

“她没有做任何需要辩护的事情。她总是对我和我们表现出最大的善意。当你不在场时，你没有权利认为她会说你的坏话。我无法想象你今天遭遇了什么。一定是天气的原因。这是西洛科。”

格洛丽亚生气地转过身去，以为他在嘲笑她，而在罗马，关于天气的暗示是完全自然的，东南风无疑对人的脾气有影响。

但许多讨论的种子是在那个临近春天的下午播下的。利安达对小目标异常顽强，因为他在艺术方面有着伟大的想法，他的本性虽然温和却无情，不是出于冷酷，而是因为他太敏感了，以至于他的幻想很容易被摧毁。

他出去后立即开始寻找一套他的妻子应该没有理由抱怨的公寓。一周之内，他找到了他想要的东西。它是科尔索街上一座宫殿二楼的一部分，距离威尼斯广场不远。房子已经装修好了，几天之内他就在没有和格洛丽亚说话的情况下把房间装修得舒适起来。准备好后，他简短地警告她，他们要立即搬走。

奇怪的是，格洛丽亚却很不高兴，并没有掩饰自己的恼怒。她真的很喜欢马塞尔·德科维的那栋小房子，但对她丈夫对她对这种情况的评论的态度感到不满。说实话，利安达自欺欺人，以为她会因为这个改变而高兴，所以花钱相当大手笔，就是想给她一个惊喜。他对她出乎意料的不满感到相当失望。

“花那么多钱有什么用？”她一脸不满地问道。 “人们不会来看我们，因为我们住在漂亮的房子里。”

“亲爱的，我拿走这栋房子并不是出于这个目的，”利安达温和地说，但对这句话和语气感到受伤和反感。

“那么，我们可能会留在原地，”她回答道。 “它便宜得多，而且冬天有更多的阳光。”

“但这更快乐，”利安达反对道。 “你的窗户下面有Corso。”

“就像我看着窗外一样！”格洛丽亚轻蔑地喊道。 “那真是太好了——我们在那里的小地方。”

“你很难取悦，亲爱的，”艺术家冷冷地说。

然后她发现自己伤害了他，而她并不是故意的。她的本性是自我意识和贪恋情感，但并不敏感。她张开双臂拥抱他，亲吻他并向他表示感谢。

但利安达并不满足。日复一日，弗兰西斯卡看着他，她看到他脸上痛苦的表情越来越深，她觉得每一条皱纹都刻在自己的心里。而她，也变得非常严肃和沉思。

保罗·格里格斯是一个兼具主导特质和潜伏矛盾的人，这些特质随时都有可能轮流占据主导地位。他自己几乎相信他有两个独立的个性，甚至有两个截然不同的思想。

人们可能会怀疑，对于一个人来说，长期思考与自己相关的这样一个观念是否有好处，无论他在别人身上如何清楚地看到它所依赖的真理的基础。然而，对于格里格斯来说，它表现得如此清晰，以至于他发现在他一生中更重要的行动中不可能不考虑它。这两个人在他的思想中有着非常鲜明的区别。一个人会做另一个人不会做的事。另一个人的想法可能超出第一个人的理解范围。

一个是物质的，敏锐的，坚强的，热情的，自私的；一个是物质的，敏锐的，坚强的，热情的，自私的；非常适合艰苦的工作；凭借本能的力量，尽责地把自己所做的一切事情贯彻到底，并判断自己所做的一切都是好的，值得完成的；具有某种坚固的发条装置的性质，在停止之前必须运行到最大极限，无论是快走还是慢走，都具有独立于意志的命运确定性；拥有如此不寻常的力量，如果在移动时受到反对就会变得危险，同时在不做某项工作时具有非凡的惯性；在过错方面自力更生，就像狮子在身体天赋的优越性上自力更生一样；不反对时温和，因为没有明确的目标和目标几乎无法采取行动；但当惯性被克服时，就会产生不可抗拒的势头；彻底的，意思是潮水是彻底的，均匀地、同时地上升，并且像潮水一样无情，因为它是整个人的那一部分，它是结果，因此，一旦落下运动几乎超出了他的控制范围；合理只是因为，作为结果，它逻辑地遵循其原因，并且首先需要一个真正的原因来推动它。

他身上的另一个人非常不同，几乎完全独立于第一个人，而且通常与第一个人直接冲突。这是一种富有想象力和沉思的个性，很容易被欺骗而假设一个错误的前提，但在根据它所接受的任何事物进行推理时，其逻辑性超出了所有欺骗的责任。它的过程直观上是正确的，几乎是瞬时的，而它的假设则极端任意。它可能在任何一点开始行动，与物质人不同，物质人一开始需要意志来移动它，它自发地以直闪电般的方式从一个点到另一个点，从不被误导，尽管经常致命错误地理解了积分本身的价值。

大多数思考过很多的人，无论是明智的还是愚蠢的，见过很多的，无论是好的还是坏的，都或多或少地意识到他们的两种个性。一般来说，懒惰和轻率的人不会。对于格里格斯来说，两人是截然不同且独立的。有时他觉得自己就像第三者一样坐在他们之间进行评判。在其他时刻，他感到自己完全认同其中一方，并痛苦地意识到另一方的反对。他的想象力部分鄙视物质部分，因为它是生命的骄傲和生活的欲望。物质部分嘲笑想象部分的错误假设和毫无根据的信念。当他能够将自己从两者中抽象出来时，他将直觉人格视为真正意义上的他自己，并将物质人视为对他的精神自我的巨大过度生长和阻碍。

当他开始爱格洛丽亚·达尔林普尔时，她吸引了他性格的两面。这一次，精神本能与世俗激情赋予物质人的方向相一致。

造成这种情况的原因非常简单。精神本能占据了主导。在格洛丽亚成为一个值得爱的女人之前，他就认识她了。女孩的少女天才从物质之上的领域与更高的人交谈，并为他创造了随后的精神直觉的假定前提之一，从中他几乎获得了他所知道的唯一幸福。然后，突然间，那个女人突然出现，她年轻的美丽以压倒性的力量向年轻的角斗士倾诉。这个女人让他着迷，而他想象中的孩子身上的天使般的存在仍然让他着迷。

他不像利安达；他不像利安达。因为他的敏感性是片面的，因此只有一半的脆弱性。格洛丽亚的缺点是总体完美的微不足道的意外，是武断地呈现出完美人格的结果。它们不能使他的精神直觉之爱的道路动摇，也不能对他直接的物质激情产生任何影响。可以这么说，为了摧毁最初的美丽幻象，必须发生一些事情，从超越它的角度推翻错误的假设。至于他的爱的尘世部分，它是如此强烈，以至于即使另一部分完全消失，它也很可能独立存在。

然后是荣誉，以及男人的半宗教道德，为了他通过她看到的天使，保护女人免受他的伤害。最重要的是，他坚信她不爱他，也永远不会爱他，也永远不可能爱他。无论如何，他也是她父亲的朋友，尽管这两个人之间除了阴郁的性格之外几乎没有什么相似之处。受统治的是物质人的意志，由于没有任何外在影响使其运动，它保持惰性，处于不稳定的平衡状态，就像一块巨大的巨石可能在悬崖边上躺了很长时间，准备好了但没有倾斜。跌倒。它的静止是致命的，而且它确信如果移动它一定会撞毁它所遇到的一切。

格洛丽亚对真正的男人一无所知。他回来后的几个月里，她常常想起他，几乎每周都见不到他两三次。她对他的想法实在是太愚昧无知了。她意识到，而不是意识到，他爱她，但对她来说，在她这个年纪，他永远不应该通过任何言语或行为表达他的爱，这似乎是很自然的。

但在几乎不可避免的事情上，她天真地、无意识地把他与她的丈夫进行了比较。他雄狮般的身体力量给她留下了深刻的印象，即使她没有看他，她也能感觉到他就在房间里。利安达身体虚弱、神经质。当他作画时，他的手的动作似乎不依赖于他的意志，而是由一种超强的看不见的力量引导，而不是由他的判断和意志所指挥。保罗·格里格斯的任何一举一动都让格洛丽亚感到震惊，因为他表达了他想要完成某件事的意愿。他的双手非常灵巧。无论他想做什么，他的手指都会毫不犹豫地立即去做。在她看来，他的心理过程很相似。如果她问他一个问题，如果可以的话，他会斩钉截铁、清晰地回答。如果没有，他就这样说了，然后又陷入沉默，研究这个问题，或者试图强迫他的记忆回忆起一件丢失的物品。另一方面，利安达以模糊的观点回答了大多数问题，通常是正确的，但显然没有任何特定的基础。在谈话中，格里格斯的准确性有时会明显激怒艺术家。但他对格里格斯写的内容很感兴趣，并让格洛丽亚将许多文章翻译给他，用意大利语从英语大声朗读。说来奇怪，他们之所以让他高兴，是因为他不喜欢这个人谈话中的某些品质。意大利人的思想在发展良好时，倾向于专业化而不是普遍化，格里格斯写了很多东西，就好像他是一个专家一样。他拥有巨大的勤奋和处理语言的强大机械能力。

“我没有天才，”有一天，他对格洛丽亚说，当时她正在欣赏他写的东西，并使用了很容易脱口而出的夸张的赞美词。 “你丈夫有天才，但我没有。有一天，我会做一些非常了不起的事情，让你们所有人都大吃一惊。但这不会是天才的作品。”

那是一个深秋的日子，格洛丽亚结婚已经一年半多了。东南风吹过科尔索大道，非洲沙漠吹来的潮湿沙尘使人行道变得又黄又粘。在这种时候，空气中确实可以看到沙粒。据说，西洛可热风对意大利南部脾气暴躁的效果无疑是由于随呼吸吸入细小颗粒而引起的刺激。那股特殊的风里有某种东西，它突然而奇怪地改变了男人和女人的脾气。

那天下午，格洛丽亚和她的同伴坐在客厅里，窗户开着。风吹动着白色的窗帘，时不时地把它们吹向内，把它们扭到里面的窗帘上，窗帘是深灰色的，上面有宽大的棕色天鹅绒带子，当时的时尚是新的。格洛丽亚一直在唱歌，侧身坐在三角钢琴的桌子上。放蜡烛的小滑动架子上，音乐旁边放着一只高大的红色波西米亚玻璃杯，里面有几朵花，一小时前还是新鲜的，但现在在东南方的毒气下已经半枯萎、耷拉着。温暖潮湿的微风吹来，吹动了褪色的树叶和格洛丽亚赤褐色的头发，还有桌上直立的乐谱。格里格斯坐在离她不远的一张矮椅子上，他平静的脸转向她，他那双阴暗的眼睛盯着她的面容，他有力的双手紧握着交叉的膝盖。伟大运动员的本性即使在休息时也能显现出来——宽阔、深邃的喉咙、坚实的肩膀、伸直的手臂上的巨大曲线、小而紧凑的头部，以及浓密的深色头发。 ，在休息肌肉总体放松的情况下稍微向前弯曲。在他完全一动不动的情况下，人们可以在睡狮身上感受到而不是看到的瞬间跳跃和闪电般的运动。

格洛丽亚半闭着眼若有所思地看着他。

“我会让你们所有人大吃一惊，”他缓慢地重复道，“但这不会是天才。”

“你不会让我感到惊讶的，”格洛丽亚回答道，仍然看着他的眼睛。 “至于天才，那是什么？”

“这就是你唱歌时所拥有的，”格里格斯说。 “这就是利安达绘画时所拥有的。”

“那为什么不写你写的东西呢？”

“区别很简单。利安达把事情做得很好，因为他情不自禁。当我把一件事做好时，那是因为我太努力了，所以这件事不由我来完成。你明白吗？”

“我总是明白你告诉我的话。你把事情说得这么清楚。是的，我想我比你更了解你自己。”

格里格斯低头看着自己的双手，沉默了一会儿。他机械地左右移动拇指，观察拇指和食指之间的肌肉结，它随着每次收缩而肿胀和消失。

“也许你确实理解我。也许你会的，”他最后说道。 “我认识你很久了。自从我第一次来这里工作以来，至少已经四年了。这是生命中很长的一段时间。”

“确实如此。”格洛丽亚回答道，过了一会儿她叹了口气。

风把乐谱吹到她身上。她不耐烦地把它折好，扔到一边，又恢复原来的姿势，一只手肘撑在狭窄的桌子上。沉默持续了几秒钟，白色的窗帘轻轻地拍打着厚重的窗帘。

“我想知道你是否了解我的生活，”她随即说道。

“我不确定我是否知道。从某些方面来说，这是一种奇怪的生活——就像你自己一样。”

“我很奇怪吗？”

“非常。”

“是什么让你这么想的？”

他再次沉默了一会儿。他的脸非常平静。根本不可能猜测他此刻有什么情绪。

“你喜欢赞美吗？”他突然问道。

“这取决于我是否认为他们是赞美，”她笑着回答。

“在非常不完美的环境中，你是一个非常完美的女人，”格里格斯说。

“无论如何，这并不是对周围环境的赞美。我不知道该笑还是不该笑。我可以吗？”

“如果你愿意的话。我喜欢听你笑。”

“你应该听我哭​​！”她又自嘲地笑了。

“上帝禁止！”他严肃地说。

“我有时会，”她回答道，当他看着她时，她的脸突然变得悲伤起来。

他的心里突然为她感到一阵疼痛。

“我很抱歉你这么告诉我，”他说。 “我不愿意去想它。你为什么要哭？你有什么可哭的？”

“你应该怎么想？”她轻声问道，但话语中没有一丝笑容。

“我猜不出来。告诉我。是因为你还想当歌手吗？是这样吗？”

“不。不是这样的。”

“那我就猜不出来了。”他在她脸上寻找答案。 “你能告诉我吗？”停顿了一下，他问道。

“那有什么用呢？”她的目光与他的目光相遇了一会儿，眼皮垂下，然后转身走开。 “你把窗户关上吗？”她突然说道。 “风吹动周围的事物。再说了，时间已经晚了。”

他站起身来，走到窗前。她看着他关上门，背对着她，这样他的身影在灯光下显得格外清晰，黑色。她意识到他是一个怎样的男人。有了他的手臂和肩膀，他可以做任何事，就像他曾经在空中抓住她并救了她的命一样，然后，就像那天晚上他在门多萨家里折断了电线一样。体力上没有什么是这样的人做不到的。他是她有限的生命中可以依靠的东西，与她的丈夫形成了鲜明的对比，她的丈夫的含糊不清激怒了她，而他的麻木不仁，她过度敏感，让她在自己眼中感到羞辱。她想，她保守这个秘密很久了，尽管她保守这个秘密的原因很简单，因为她没有人可以倾诉。

格里格斯从窗户回来，又在她旁边的矮椅上坐下，抬头看着她的脸。

“先生。格里格斯，”她说，从他的眼睛上移开，看着钢琴，“你刚才问了我一个问题。如果我对你很有把握的话，我愿意回答这个问题。”

“你对我不确定吗？”他问。 “我想，到了这个时候，你可能已经是了。我们只是说我们认识很久了。”

“是的。但是——那段时间发生了各种各样的事情，你知道的。我已经不再是刚认识你时的我了。”

“不。你结婚了。这是一个很大的区别。”

“太棒了，”她说。 “说实话，你觉得我结婚后进步了吗？”

“好转了吗？不，你为什么要改进？你就是你本来应该成为的样子，一如既往。”

“我知道。刚才你还说我是一个完美的女人，你又说我的周围环境不完美。你的意思一定是他们不适合我，或者我不适合他们。是哪一个？

“它们应该适合你，”格里格斯说。 “如果他们不这样做，那不是你的错。”

“但我可能做了一些事情让它们适合我。有时我想我没有正确对待他们。”

“你为什么要责怪自己？你没有创造它们，它们也无法摧毁你。你有权做你自己。每个人都有。这是第一个权利。你的环境欠你的比你欠他们的还要多，因为你就是你，而他们却不是他们应该的样子。让他们承担罪责吧。至于没有好好对待他们，没有人能指责你。”

“我不知道——有人可能会。人有时候就是这么奇怪。”

她停了下来，他什么也没回答。她低头看着敞开的钢琴，一边悠闲地看着琴槌的移动，一边用一只手轻轻地按下琴键。

“有些人就是这样，”她微笑着说道，并重复了这个动作。 “如果你以某种方式触摸它们，它们就会做出回应。如果你轻轻地按他们，他们就听不懂。你有看到？音锤刚刚到达琴弦，然后又落回，没有发出任何声音。我想这些就是我周围的环境。有时他们会回答我，有时则不会。我喜欢我可以确定的事情。”

“你所说的事物是指人，”格里格斯建议道。

“当然。”

“你所说的周围环境是指——什么？”

“你知道，”她低声回答，把脸转得离他更远。

“利安达？”

她犹豫了片刻，知道自己的回答一定对男人有分量。

“我想是的，”她最后说道。 “我不应该这么说——不是吗？告诉我真相。”

“事实是，你不快乐。”他缓慢地回答。 “你没有理由不告诉我。如果你愿意的话，也许我可以帮助你。”

他几乎后悔自己说了这么多，却说得很少。但她希望他能说出这句话，甚至更多。她仍然转身不看他，用手托着下巴。他的脸一动不动，但脸上露出了她从未见过的表情。现在窗户关着，房间里很安静，空气有种奇怪的沉重、柔和和昏暗。玻璃窗时不时地发出轻微的嘎嘎声。格里格斯看着那优雅的身影，格洛丽亚则坐着思考着该说什么。他顺着线条走，直到他的眼睛停留在她所看到的那张脸上。然后他感觉有什么东西猛烈地、快速地击打在他的太阳穴上，血液滚烫地冲到了喉咙里。与此同时，他早已熟悉的苦涩的小痛苦告诉他，她从来没有爱过他，也永远不能爱他。

“你真的是我的朋友吗？”她轻声问道。

“是的。”这个词几乎让他窒息，因为没有空间容纳它和其他的东西。

她静静地转过身来，带着好奇的询问打量着大理石面具。

“你为什么这么说？”她问道； “好像你不愿意？你对此怀恨在心吗？”

“不。”他说话的声音几乎是喘不过气来。

“你怎么说呢！” “是的。”她喊道，带着笑声，但笑声却笑不出来，因为空气中弥漫着一种奇怪的紧张气氛，在她和他身上。 “你可能会说得更好，”她补充道，她的瞳孔稍微放大了一点，让房间看起来突然变大了，也不那么清晰了。

她知道即将到来的情感的感觉，并且她喜欢它。她以前从未想过，通过与保罗·格里格斯交谈，她可以得到它。他没有回答她。

“也许你是认真的，”她立刻说道。 “我几乎不知道。你是否？”

“请讲道理，”格里格斯含糊地说，双手紧握在膝盖上。

“你说话真奇怪！”她惊呼道。 “我说了什么不合理的话？”

她感觉自己期待的情绪正在从自己身上溜走，神经不自觉地对失望产生了怨恨。她瞬间没了脾气。

“你无法理解，”他回答道。 “你没有理由这么做。对不起。我今天很紧张。”

“你？紧张的？”她又笑了，带着一丝轻蔑。 “你不能够紧张。”

她隐隐约约地意识到自己在挑衅他，但她不知道是什么，而他却在抗拒她。他没有回答她的最后一句话。她又回到了起点，声音变得更加悲伤。

“老实说，你愿意做我的朋友吗？”她带着温柔的微笑问道。

“用心和灵魂——还有手，如果你想要的话，”他说，因为他已经恢复了讲话。 “告诉我出了什么问题。如果可以的话，我会把你带出去。”

这是一次相当奇怪的演讲，她对措辞的转变感到震惊，这表达了更多的力量，而不是对他所做的任何事情的权力的怀疑。

“我相信你可以，”她看着他说道。 “你太强了。你可以做任何事。”

“如果一个人愿意冒一切风险，事情就不会像看起来那么困难，”他回答道。 “当一个人没有什么可失去的时候，”他事后补充道。

她叹了口气，再次转过身去，半满意的样子。

“没有什么可冒险的，”她说。 “这不是一个危险的情况。你不能忍受我的麻烦，用你的双手把它像撕纸牌一样撕掉。我希望你可以。我不高兴——是的，我已经告诉过你了。但你能帮我做什么呢？你知道，你无法让我的周围环境变成原来的样子。”

“不——我不能改变你的丈夫，”格里格斯说。

她稍微吃了一惊，但还是移开了视线。

“不。你不能让他爱我，”她轻柔而悲伤地说。

大手松开了，深邃的眸子睁得更大了一些。但她没有看他。

“你的意思是说——”他停了下来。

她缓缓低下两下头，却什么也没说。

“利安达不爱你？”他带着疑惑的审问说道。 “为什么——我想——”他犹豫了。

“他对我的关心不过是——那个！”跨过敞开的钢琴伸向他的手猛烈地敲击了抛光的木头。

“你是认真的吗？”格里格斯向前倾身问道，仿佛要在她转身时第一眼看到她。

“有人拿这种事开玩笑吗？”他只看到她说话的时候嘴角微微翘起。

“那你——你还爱他吗？”他用紧迫的声音问道。

“是的——我爱他。我越是傻。”

这些话并没有激怒他，因为这会刺痛她丈夫的耳朵。他所想象的神话完美地弥补了这个女人的缺点。

“真遗憾，”他用手托着额头说道。 “真是致命的遗憾。”

然后她终于转过身来，看到了他的态度。

“你看，”她说。 “没有什么可做的。有没有？你现在知道我的故事了。我嫁给了一个我崇拜的男人，但他并不关心我。拿走它，随心所欲地扭转它，就是这样，仅此而已。你可以可怜我，但你不能帮助我。我必须尽我所能地忍受它，并且尽可能地忍受它。总有一天它会结束——或者我会让它结束。”

“看在上帝的分上，不要这样说话！”

“我该怎么说话？我应该说什么？跟他说话有用吗？你认为我没有几乎跪下来恳求他、恳求他、恳求他放弃那项工作，去做其他事情吗？”

格里格斯直视着她的眼睛一会儿，然后几乎明白了她的意思。

“你的意思是他——当他在那里画画时——”他犹豫了。

“当然。整天。一切苦日子都过完了！他们坐在一起假装正在谈论这件事。你知道——你至少可以猜到——这是老生常谈，我必须为此受苦。她不能嫁给他——因为她是公主，而他是艺术家——对我来说已经足够好了——天知道，我爱他！对她太好了，太好一万倍了！但还不足以让她结婚！他需要一个妻子，她把我们聚集在一起，我想他告诉她我应该为此目的做得很好。我是一个很好的主题。我爱上了他——这就是他们想要的。为她最爱的人娶一个老婆！哦天啊！当我想到这一点时——”

她突然停了下来，双手捂着脸，靠在钢琴上。

“这难以置信！”壮汉的声音带着颤抖，愤怒的风暴愈演愈烈。

她再次抬起头，双眸闪烁着光芒，脸颊苍白。

“不！”她哭了。 “这不可信！但你现在看到了。你知道这一切是什么，以及我的生活在开始之前就已经被破坏和毁掉了。如果我为了他的名声、他的面子、他的金钱、他拥有或可能拥有的一切而嫁给他，那就太糟糕了。但我嫁给了他，因为我全心全意地爱他，崇拜他和他所做的一切。”

“我知道。我们都看到了。”

“当然——有什么要隐瞒的吗？我以为他也爱我。你知道吗？”她变得更加平静。 “一开始，当他工作的时候，我常常去大厅里坐。然后他就沉默了，我感觉他不要我了。我想这是因为他是一位如此伟大的艺术家，无法说话和工作，只想一个人呆着。所以我就离开了。然后，有一次，我去了那里，她就在那里，坐在那张大椅子上——这展示了她白皙的脸庞的纯真，你知道！真是天真无邪啊！”格洛丽亚苦笑道。 “我来的时候他们正在说话，门一打开他们就停了下来。我确信他们正在谈论我。然后他们看起来非常不舒服，然后她就走了。之后我又去了几次。有一两次我在的时候她进来了。然后她就没有再来了。当然，他一定已经告诉她了。但他一直看着门口，仿佛随时都在等待着她。但那段日子她再也没有来过。我无法忍受——他试图和我说话，显然一直希望她能来。我最后彻底放弃了。我能做什么？这是难以忍受的。这超出了血肉之躯所能承受的范围。”

“我不奇怪你恨她，”格里格斯说。 “我常常以为你是这么做的。”

格洛丽亚悲伤地笑了笑。

“是的，”她回答。 “我全心全意地恨她。她夺走了我唯一值得拥有的东西——如果我曾经拥有的话。有时我想知道——或者更确切地说，不。我并不奇怪，因为我很清楚真相。晚上我已经一遍又一遍地翻来覆去。他从来没有爱过我。除了她，他永远不可能爱任何人。他很早就认识她，并且爱她一生。他为什么要把我放在她的位置上？他很欣赏我。我是一个美丽的玩物——不，并不美丽——”她停顿了一下。

“你是世界上最美丽的女人，”保罗·格里格斯深信不疑地说。

他看到她脸上洋溢着喜悦的红晕，看到她眼睑的颤动。但他既不知道她是有意这么说的，也没有判断出她的心灵一定立即跨越了巨大的鸿沟，从她想象中的伤害和她对弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科的仇恨的倾泻而出，到他的话所带来的不可掩饰的满足。她。

“我也听他这么说过。”过了一会儿她回答道。 “但他并不是这个意思。他对我说的任何话都不是真心的——一个字也没有。你不知道这意味着什么，”她继续说道，同时又让自己陷入一种绝望的愤怒之中。 “你不知道。将自己的一生建立在一件事上，就像我一样！像我一样只相信一件事！却发现一切都消失了，一切都是不真实的，一切都是可悲的表演——哦，你不知道！那个女人的脸在黑暗中萦绕在我的心头——无论我往哪里看，她总是在那里，和他在一起，就像他们现在在她家里一样。你明白吗？你知道我的感受吗？你可怜我——但你知道吗？哦，我渴望有人——我希望有一只狗能听我说话——有时——独自一人是如此困难——如此非常困难——”

她突然停下来，再次捂住脸。

“你并不孤单。你拥有我——如果你愿意拥有我的话。”

话还没说完，第一声抽泣就爆发了，剧烈、真实、无法控制。接下来是下一个，然后是暴风雨般的泪水。格里格斯本能地站了起来，来到了她身边。他重重地靠在钢琴上，微微弯下腰，有些无助，就像某些男人此时此刻的样子。她没有注意到他，安静的房间里充满了她的抽泣声。当他站在她身边时，他可以看到明亮的泪珠落在黑白象牙琴键上。他将颤抖的手放在她的肩上。看到她痛苦的样子，他几乎无法呼吸。

“不要——不要，”他说，当他认为自己最需要口才时，他却缺乏口才，这几乎是可悲的。

她的一只热热的手，被泪水浸湿，突然走到她的肩膀上，用一种痉挛般的压力抓住了躺在那里的他的手，似乎把他拉了下来，因为她在痛苦的哭泣中几乎跪倒在键盘上。然后，不假思索地，他的另一只手冰冷如冰，伸到了她的喉咙下面，轻轻地将她的头靠在他的手臂上，直到那张苍白的脸转向他的面前。一阵阵抽泣，暴风雨渐渐平息，但大颗大颗的泪水仍然在厚重的眼睑上膨胀，从她的脸上流到他的手腕上。然后那双湿润的黑眼睛睁开，抬头看着她头顶上他的眼睛。

“做我的朋友！”她轻声说道，手指轻轻地按着他的。

他低头凝视她的眼睛一会儿，然后他内心的热情控制了他高贵的灵魂。

“我怎么能够？”他用断断续续、哽咽的声音喊道。 “我爱你！”

刹那间，他站了起来，将她从地板上高高举起，也许以前从未亲吻过爱情的嘴唇压在了她的唇上。她，一个女人，有什么机会落入他那无法抗拒的怀抱里呢？在她的脸上，是死去的修女从一座埋葬的悲剧的远方坟墓中升起的平静而命运般的表情。

在无法控制的激情中，他把她压在怀里，像个孩子一样把她抱起来。她挣扎着松开双手，按在他的两只眼睛上。

“求你——求你！”她哭了。

声音里带着可怜的声音，就像受惊的羔羊的咩咩叫。他也伤害了她，因为他一不小心就太强势了。

她哭喊着让他放开她。但当她悬在那里时，她感受到的并不全是恐惧。随之而来的是一种不确定的、半疯狂的喜悦。感觉自己对于他巨大的力量来说只是一根羽毛，像他一样摇摆、抛掷、亲吻、压碎。恐惧已经存在，她天真无邪的少女般的反抗，用力量和愤怒打击着他，还有女性因无耻的暴力而受到伤害的感觉；但除此之外，自然女人还对自然男人的主要力量感到高兴，如果他愿意的话，这可以立即杀死她，但这可以将她像一个小孩子一样举起来，包围她并保护她免受伤害。全世界。

“求你——求你！”她又哭了，用手捂住他凶狠的眼神和苍白的脸，想要把他推开。这语气充满感染力，却又触动了他。他的手臂放松了，又因某种痉挛而收紧，然后她发现自己站了起来，站在他身边。接下来是长时间的沉默。

格洛丽亚坐进椅子里，看了他一眼，发现他转过脸去，又低下头，看着他。他的胸口起伏了一两次，就好像他刚刚跑完一场短距离的急速赛跑一样。他站起身来，一只手抓住了椅背。突然，他没有看她，走到窗前站在那里，向外望去，却什么也没看到。柔和潮湿的风吹得玻璃窗发出嘎嘎声。仍然没有人打破沉默。然后他来到她面前，站在她面前，低着头，她也低着头，看不到他。她现在比他把她从脚上抱起来时更害怕他，她的心跳得很快。她想知道他会说什么，因为她认为他是想请求她的原谅，而她是对的。

“格洛丽亚——请原谅我，”他说。

她抬起头，脸上仍然带着一丝对他的恐惧。

“我怎么能够？”她问道，但她的声音里已经充满了宽恕。

尽管她还那么年轻，她的女性本能告诉她，错在她，而且考虑到挑衅，这并不是什么大事——一生中几个吻，即使是他这样的吻又算得了什么？她对他进行了无限制的诱惑，并为此后悔了。在她在他心里掀起的风暴之前，她想象中的痛苦就消散了，显得无限渺小。她知道自己已经激动得流泪了，尽管她不太确定自己在说什么，她夸大了她所知道的一切，暗示了她不知道的一切，她几乎是在扮演一个角色来满足某些东西。她无法理解的她。通过她的表演，她在她的脸上唤醒了残酷的真相，它席卷了之前的一切。她没有想到会有这样的可能性。在他的爱的风暴面前，她曾经感受到或梦想过的一切感觉都显得毫无色彩和冰冷。她害怕再次唤醒它，但她永远无法忘记当他把她从脚上抱起来时，她瞬间感到的颤抖。

当她回答完他的问题后，他沉默地站了一会儿。她在他眼里太完美了，他无法将责任归咎于她，但他知道这并不全是他的错。下层男人内心充满了疯狂的胜利，因为他亲吻了她，并一次又一次地告诉了她他存在的全部意义。她低着头，他看不到她的眼睛。附近没有椅子。为了看清她的脸，他跪倒在地，轻轻碰触她随意放在腿上的双手。她害怕再次爆发。

“求你——求你！”他轻声说道，用的是她对他说过的那个词。

“是的——但是——”她犹豫了一下，然后抬起了眼睛。

他脸上的面具全部​​软化，嘴唇微微颤抖。当他的手触碰她的手时，他的手也在颤抖。

“请！”他重复道。 “我保证。确实，我保证。对不起。”

她突然微笑起来，如梦似幻。他所有的情感，以及她对它的渴望，都消失了。

“我邀请你成为我的朋友，”她说。 “我是认真的，你知道。你怎么能？这可不太友善。”

“不——但是请原谅我，”他用恳求的语气坚持道。

“我想我必须这么做，”她最后说道。 “但我再也不会对你有信心了。我怎么能够？”

“我保证。你会相信我的，也许不是今天，也不是明天，而是很快。我将一如既往。我再也不会做任何冒犯你的事情了。”

“你答应我这个？郑重地？”她依然微笑着。

“是的。这是一个承诺。我会保留它。我将永远是你的朋友。让我为你做点事。这会让事情变得更容易。”

“我能要求你做什么吗？我再也不敢和你谈论我的生活了。”

“我想，当你看到我和以前一样时，你就会的。你就原谅我了，真的吗？”

“是的。我必须。我们必须忘记今天。一定就好像这件事从未发生过一样。你会忘记吗？”

“我会尝试。”但他知道那是完全不可能的。

“如果你尝试，你就能成功。现在起来吧。讲道理。”

他用两只手握住她的手。她做了个撤回的动作，然后就屈服了。他的嘴唇几乎没有碰到它，然后立即站了起来。

“谢谢你，”她简单地说。

她从来没有像这一刻那样对他如此有魅力。但他的情绪发生了变化，虽然他再次感到太阳穴里快速剧烈的抽动，喉咙里的血液在上升，但他的内心并没有摆脱另一个人。高我再次占主导地位，面容像雕像一样静止。

他很快就告别了她，走到潮湿的街道上，迎着阵阵东南风。

等他走后，她起身，迈着无精打采的步伐走到窗前，透过玻璃懒洋洋地望着对面宫殿的一排长窗，然后又走回来，疲惫地倒在沙发上。远离光。她脸上露出茫然、疑惑的表情，一动不动地坐了很长时间，直到天色开始变暗。黄昏时分，她起身走到钢琴前，轻声地自言自语。她的声音从来没有升到一个完整的音符，她的手指所寻找的和弦低沉、温柔、梦幻。

当她唱歌的时候，门无声无息地开了，利安达走了进来，站在她身边。她停了下来，抬起头，有点吃惊。她的脸上也带着同样的疑惑、半茫然的表情。她的丈夫弯下腰来吻她，她也默默地吻着他。

唐娜·弗朗西斯卡推迟了哀悼，在那个冬天再次走进了世界。世人都说，如果她愿意的话，她可以结婚，但又有点怀疑她没有这么做。如果她选择的话，她本可以打造一场精彩的比赛。但相反，尽管她出现在社会聚集的任何地方，但她表现出的宗教倾向令她的朋友们感到惊讶。

布拉奇奥家族中存在着一种宗教倾向，以及其他各种与之完全不相协调、也没有其他启发性的倾向。弗朗西斯卡似乎没有其他倾向，渐渐地，她的熟人开始说她是一个虔诚的人。杰拉诺亲王甚至暗示，她有一天可能会成为苏比亚科加尔默罗修道院的女院长，就像她之前的许多女士一样。但弗朗西斯卡并不准备完全退出这个世界，尽管目前她很不高兴。

她怀疑自己犯了大罪，并为自己的许多不值得责备的行为而痛苦地责备自己。但她绝不是病态的，也没有天生地倾向于不断地自我审视。相反，她一直愿意接受生活是一件简单的事情，只要是她所说的“好”，即言行诚实，做事一丝不苟，做事彻底，就不会有任何困难。正确的意图是她的宗教要求她做的事情，但只有她自己才能判断自己的诚意。

然而最近，她总觉得自己最近的生活有些不对劲。这种确定性逐渐显现出来，然后有一天，当她和利安达在一起时，她突然意识到了这一点。

她很早就注意到他态度的变化，焦躁的神情，以及他声音里的悲伤，一度他的痛苦就是她的悲伤，而能够全心全意地为他着想，她有一种痛苦的快乐。 。他经历了一个长达数月的阶段，以前的自己和现在的自己变化很大。他受过苦，但冷漠却在他身上蔓延。这已经很清楚了。除了他的艺术，也许还有她自己的谈话，他没有什么感兴趣的，尽管连这一点对她来说似乎都令人怀疑。

一个冬日的下午，他们独自一人在大厅里。工作快完成了，他们一直在谈论更机械的装饰和家具的风格。

“这是一个很大的地方，”弗朗西斯卡说，“但我想把它填满。我喜欢大房间，等完工了，我就住在这里，称之为我的闺房。”

她对这个想法笑了。大厅至少有五十英尺长，三十英尺宽。

“我认识的所有女性都拥有简陋的小客厅，她们在里面几乎无法转身，”她说。 “我将拥有我喜欢的所有空间、所有空气和所有光线。此外，我将永远拥有亲爱的丘比特和普赛克，让我想起你们。”

她说出最后一句话时，语气里充满了绝对的纯真。

“和我？”他问，就像她一样天真单纯。 “你要对我做什么？”

“无论你喜欢什么，”她说，像他一样，理所当然地认为他将为她工作一生。 “如果你愿意的话，你可以在房子里拥有一个工作室，就像以前一样。您还可以为餐厅的天花板绘制精美的画布。或者我应该修复旧教堂？你更喜欢画哪一个——油画，还是壁画？”

“你不会想要我应该画的祭坛作品，”他突然悲伤地说。

“圣弗朗西斯卡？”她问。 “那一定是圣弗朗西斯卡。这座教堂是献给她的。你可以为她拍一张美丽的照片——也许是一幅肖像——”她停了下来。

“你自己的？是的，我可以做到。”他很快回答道。

“不，”她说，然后犹豫了。 “你的妻子，”她突然补充道。

他吃了一惊，看着她，她很抱歉自己说话了。格洛丽亚美丽的脸庞浮现在她的脑海中，提出这个想法似乎很慷慨。她觉得很难告诉他，但她认为坦白是她的责任。

他在回答她之前笑得很厉害。

“不，”他说。 “当然不是我妻子的肖像。甚至不是为了取悦你。这说明了很多。”

他说得很苦涩。寥寥数语，将数月以来积压已久的苦痛倾吐而出。弗朗西斯卡脸色苍白。

“我知道，都是我的错。”她低声说道。

“你的错？不！但这不是我的。”

当他拿起调色板和画笔开始混合一些颜色时，他的手剧烈地颤抖着，不知道自己在做什么。

“这是我的错，”弗朗西斯卡说道，她的脸色仍然很白，盯着砖地板。 “我已经看过了。我无法谈论它。你不快乐——痛苦。你的生活被毁了，而我已经做到了。我！”

几乎在最后一个字说出之前，她就咬住了嘴唇。因为它比她预想的更强烈、更响亮，这个音节在空荡荡的大厅里响起了绝望的回声。

利安达摇摇头，用颤抖的双手弯下腰看他的颜色，但什么也没说。

“你结婚的时候我很高兴，”弗朗西斯卡强迫自己平静地说。 “她对你来说似乎是一个很好的妻子——那么年轻，那么美丽。她爱你——”

“不。”他使劲摇头。 “她不爱我。不要这么说，因为这不是真的。人不会以这种方式去爱——今天一个吻，明天一个蜇——今天是蜜，明天是蛇毒。不要说这是爱，因为那不是真的。心吐真言，全在胸中。千言万语不能说一个谎言。但对我来说——一切都结束了。我们不要再谈论爱情了。让我们谈谈我们的美好友谊吧。这个比较好。”

“呃，我们谈谈吧，谈谈这份友谊吧！这是付出了血泪的代价！”

弗朗西斯卡怀着真诚的心情，又开始说罗马方言。几乎所有罗马人在任何情绪下都会这样做。

“一切都会过去的，”利安达回答道，把调色板放在一边，开始走来走去，双手插在口袋里。 “这也会过去的，”他转身时补充道。 “我们是男人。我们会忘记的。”

“但我不是。因为我做到了。你的悲伤刺痛了我的心，因为我做到了。我——我一个人。但对我来说，你就是自由的。”

“愿上天堂！”艺术家几乎低声喊道。 “但我不会让你说这是你的错！”他停在她面前喊道。 “我是个相信的傻瓜。一个像我这个年纪的男人——哦，一个严肃的男人——要娶一个孩子！我早该知道。起初，我不说。我是第一个。她以为自己怀里有天堂。一位丈夫！他们都想要它，丈夫。但我，亲眼目睹过的人，应该知道。傻瓜，傻瓜！无知的傻瓜！”

这句话用浓烈的方言激烈地说出来，紧张、揪心的男人用紧握的拳头捶着胸口，眼睛向上看。

“利安达，利安达！你在说什么？当我告诉你是我让你娶她的时候！就是在这里——我就坐在这把椅子上——我告诉了你关于她的事。我特意邀请她来这里，想让你看看她有多么美丽。然后，不一不二，她爱上了你！如果你没有娶她，那就是一个奇迹。而她的父亲，他很满意。愿我把他们带到这里来折磨你的那一天受到诅咒！”

她说话很激动，嘴唇都在颤抖。他又开始迈着快速而不确定的步伐行走。

“为此——是的！”他说。 “让白天承担责任吧。但我就是那个疯子。离开旧路而追随新路的人知道他留下了什么，但不知道他会发现什么。我或许已经心满意足了。我很高兴！天知道我当时有多高兴！”

“和我！”弗兰西斯卡不由自主地喊道；但他没有听到她的声音。

尽管她真心为他感到难过，但她却感到一种奇怪的欣喜感，这让她感到奇怪的不安。她看着他微笑，然后想知道为什么会微笑。最纯粹的纯真者半无意识的冲动中存在着一种无情的残忍，罪恶本身可能会在内心感到羞耻。这只是人类对其幸福优先权的主张。她不自觉地笑了，因为她知道利安达已经不再爱格洛丽亚了，她觉得他不可能再爱她了；有一段时间，她太自然了，没有为此与自己争吵，也没有意识到这意味着什么。

他紧张、忧郁、心神不宁，他第一次开始谈论自己和他的婚姻生活，倾诉自己的痛苦，不考虑弗朗西斯卡的想法和感受。他也很自然。与他的妻子不同，他厌恶情感。对于他过于严密的性情来说，生气几乎是一种病。在某种程度上，格里格斯的说法是正确的，利安达似乎是作为一种无形的、直接影响力的代理人来绘画的。美让他感受到它本身，并轮到他用画笔去感受它。在工作完成之前，构想就在他面前，指导着他的手。思想和执行之间存在着闪电般的相互响应和相互反应，有人将其解释为人的两个思想（主观和客观）的同时行动。在做某些事情时，他具有耐心和细致，就像时间对他来说毫无意义一样。他分不清是他的手跟着他的眼睛，还是他的眼睛跟着他的手。他的整个生命结构过于敏感，任何情感，甚至快乐，都会与他那细如发丝的敏感度相冲突。然而，在这一切的背后，有这位伟大艺术家的坚韧和在某些方面非凡的耐力，这对于在争取名誉的过程中获奖至关重要。有一种神经质，可以在某一方面承受巨大的紧张，但在其他方面却无法忍受。

他继续说下去，发泄着自己的感受，自言自语，而不是对弗朗西斯卡。他不能用任何一件重要的行为来责备他的妻子。她喜欢保罗·格里格斯。但这只是格里格斯！他笑了。在他眼里，这个冷面男子，不过是一块石头。在他们的社交活动中，她遇到了他认为危险得多的男人，这些男人年轻、英俊、富有、名声大噪。他们很钦佩她，并用他们所拥有的最好的语言对她说这些话，毫无疑问，这些语言往往非常雄辩。她曾经看过其中一个人两眼吗？不，他不能以此来责备她。阿斯特拉登特公爵夫人对她的崇拜者并不比格洛丽亚更冷淡。事实并非如此。事情虽小，无足轻重，但却有成千上万。他试图用一些东西取悦她，而她却当着他的面嘲笑他，或者挑剔他。她的一些小脾气和一些粗俗行为让他发疯。

“我以为她和你一样，”他突然转向弗朗西斯卡说道。 “她不是。她是粗粒度的。她有农民的灵魂，有圣母的面孔。你想要什么？太多了。爱情是一种幻觉。我不会再有这样的事情了。更何况，爱情已经死了。唤醒尸体会更容易。我会活下去。我可能会忘记。同时还有我们的友谊。那是金子做的。”

弗兰西斯卡低垂着双眼，默默地听着，他的口中吐出简短而杂乱的句子，每一句话都在心里指责她给两条生命造成了痛苦，其中一条对她来说是非常珍贵的。太亲爱了，她终于知道了。如果她承认自己爱这个男人，她嫁给了另一个男人，相信她正在使他幸福，那么猩红的耻辱就会烧伤她的脸。她不会拥有它。如果她当时承认这一点，她就能在一小时内离开他，并把自己永远关在苏比亚科的修道院里，以赎清这个想法的罪恶。这在她眼中是可怕的，她仍然拒绝看到它。

但她承认存在这种怀疑，而且安吉洛·雷安达对她来说比世界上任何其他东西都更珍贵。她的纯真如此强烈、一尘不染，以至于她有权获得唯一的满足。但她对利安达的感觉要么是爱，要么是对他在她神庙中所取代的圣物的亵渎。这一定不是爱，因此，和其他事情一样，它太过分了。由于格洛丽亚对他而言毫无意义，她感到了一种奇怪的快乐，这种快乐仍然充满了她的心，尽管它开始用她从未理解的邪恶知识来折磨她。

她对种族的自豪感也对他不利，这对她很有帮助，因为这告诉她，作为布拉奇奥家族的公主，她是多么不可能爱上一个纯粹的艺术家，一个艺术家的儿子。一位管家，其祖先自古以来就是她祖先的奴隶。这是不可能的，连她自己都不会相信。然而，当她看着他精致而充满灵性的脸庞，看着脸上表情的阴影时，她觉得他来自哪里并没有什么区别，因为她理解他，他也理解她。

她对自己的想法感到困惑，并抓住了一种真正而完美的友谊的想法，带着一种有点绝望的决心，在她的余生中，她要看到它，而不是其中有任何其他东西，而不是与安杰洛·雷安达分开。

“朋友们，”她若有所思地说。 “是的——永远是朋友，你和我。但是作为朋友，利安达，我能做什么呢？我不能帮你。”

“如果需要帮助的话，现在已经过去了。你是一位圣人——为我祈祷。你可以做到这一点。”

“但要做的事情远不止这些，”她说，准备牺牲一切。 “别告诉我这是没有希望的。我会经常见到你的妻子，我会和她说话。我比她大，我可以让她明白很多事情。”

“不要尝试，”利安达改变了语气说。 “我劝你不要尝试。你在那里没有什么好处，还可能会遇到麻烦。”

“找麻烦？”弗朗西斯卡重复道，不明白他的意思。 “你是什么意思？她不喜欢我吗？”

“你没看到吗？”他苦笑着问道。

弗朗西斯卡没有立即回答他，而是又低下了头。有一两次她抬起头，好像要说话。

“正如我告诉你的那样，”利安达缓缓地点点头。

弗朗西丝卡下了决心，但脸上却泛起猩红的血色。

“最好是诚实和坦率，”她说。 “格洛丽亚嫉妒我吗？”她当时羞得不敢看他。

“嫉妒的！她会杀了你！”他哭了，想到这里，他的声音里充满了愤怒。 “别去找她。可能会发生什么事。”

弗朗西斯卡脸上的红晕加深，然后消退，脸色又变得苍白起来。

“但如果她嫉妒，她就是爱你的。”她诚恳而焦急地说。

他耸了耸高瘦的肩膀，苦笑又回到了脸上。

“这是一种舞台嫉妒，”他残酷地说。 “如果没有什么可以消遣的事情，她怎么能打发时间呢？她总是在演戏。”

“可是她嫉妒什么呢？”弗兰西斯卡问道。 “她怎么会嫉妒我呢？因为你在这里工作？如果她愿意的话，她可以自由地来，并且可以呆上一整天。我不明白。”

“谁能理解她？创造她的上帝了解她。我只是一个男人。我只知道一件事，我爱她，又不爱她。她每天都会制造场景。有一天是你，另一天是她不喜欢的墙。你会原谅我的，公主。我心里想到的话，就坦白地说出来。整个故事是这样的。她让我的生活变得难以忍受。我不是一个无所事事的人，你可能会在社会上遇到第一个从早到晚花时间研究我妻子的反复无常的人。我是一个艺术家。当我工作的时候，我必须有平静。我不要求像你这样聪明的谈话。但我必须有平安。总有一天我会亲手掐死她。主会原谅我并理解我。我充满了神经。是我的错吗？当女人们在喷泉边拧干衣服时，她扭动着它们。这不是一个生命；它是一个生命。这是一个地狱。”

“可怜的利安达！可怜的利安达！”弗朗西斯卡轻声重复道。

“我不可怜自己，”他轻蔑地说。 “这是我应得的，还有更多。但我是人类。如果再持续一段时间，你可以带我去圣灵教堂，因为我快要疯了。至少我应该在神圣的和平中。在她之后，疯子们都像是智慧的医生。你知道今晚会发生什么吗？我回家。 '你去哪儿了？'她会问。 “在宫殿。” '你这阵子都在干什么？' “绘画——这是我的职业。” “唐娜·弗朗西斯卡在吗？” '当然。她是自己家里的女主人。 “那你说了什么？” '我该如何记住？我们谈过。'然后就开始了。一如既往，这将是一场地狱。 “所有进入这里的人，请留下希望！”我可以这么说，如果有人可以的话！你可怜我是对的。在事情完成之前，你会有理由更加可怜我。让我们希望它能尽快结束。要么是圣洛伦索，要么是圣灵——与疯子或死者在一起。”

“可怜的利安达！”

“是的——可怜的利安达，如果你愿意的话。人们羡慕我，他们说我是一位伟大的艺术家。如果他们这么认为，就让他们说吧。在他们看来，我是一个重要人物。”他笑起来，几乎是歇斯底里的。 “有人！圣灵圣人的东西！这就是她在两年内——还不到两年——留给我的一切。”

“别谈论圣神，”弗朗西斯卡说。 “你不许发疯。当你不开心的时候，想想我们的友谊，想想你每天在这里度过的时光。”她犹豫了一下，似乎在努力克制自己。 “但是一切都不可能结束，这么快就这么绝望。也许她很紧张。这里的气候不适合她——”

利安达狂笑起来，因为他很快就失去了对自己的控制。

“所以我应该带她走，去别的地方住！”他哭了。 “那就结束了！我应该用手把她撕成碎片——”

“安静！你在胡言乱语——”

“我知道这。这是有原因的。总有一天，它会以糟糕的方式结束，除非我先结束，而这种情况也可能发生。如果没有你，这件事早就发生了。你是我生命中的善良天使，是上帝在我饱受折磨的生活中送给我的唯一朋友，是我黑色天空中的一颗星星。永远、永远、永远、永远做我的朋友，我将永远活着，只为成为你的朋友。至于爱——魔鬼和他的恶魔会知道如何处理它——他们会在其中找到自己的账户。他们借了钱，并会用那些相信他们的人的血和泪来偿还。”

“但是世界上某个地方有爱，”弗朗西斯卡温柔地说。

“是的——而且是在地狱里！但不是在天堂——你所在的地方。”

弗朗西斯卡无意识地叹了口气，远远地望向大厅尽头的大窗户。利安达用更加稳定的手收起了调色板和画笔。他的怒火还没有消退，却让他突然变得坚强起来，这种爆发让他松了口气，尽管可以肯定的是，随之而来的是极度沮丧的反应。

突然他靠近了弗朗西斯卡。她抬起头，被他突然的动作吓了一跳。

“至少这是真的——这一件事，”他说。 “我可以信赖你。”

“是的。你可以信赖我。”她凝视着他的眼睛回答道。

他没有动。一只手握着调色板，另一只手则随意地垂在身侧。突然她把它收在了自己的手中，仍然抬头看着他的眼睛。

“我非常喜欢你。”她认真地说。 “只要我们两个还活着，你就可以依靠我。”

“上帝保佑你，”他说道，语气比之前更加平静，他的手轻轻地按了她的手。

她想，既然这句话如此真实、如此简单，说这么多也没什么坏处。这是她只能对他或对自己说的话，而且她没有理由不说。他不会误会她的。没有人会误会她清澈眼睛里的纯真，那是生命和光芒。她很高兴自己说了这句话，而且很长一段时间后，她很高兴自己在那天轻声地说了这句话，当时在寂静的大厅里没有人能听到他们的声音。

那天晚上，利安达带着一种非常不安的心情回家了。只要他不发泄自己的感受，他就会好一些。因为，正如许多性情易激动、神经衰弱的南方人一样，他对自己的想法，与他的追求不同，直到他用语言表达出来之后，才在他的脑海中形成积极的形状。在拉丁人种中，“他不说话就无法思考”这句话用在某些人身上比盎格鲁撒克逊人更能理解。

几个月以来，这位艺术家一直非常不高兴。他对悲伤的沉默几乎堪称典范，只有当格洛丽亚的行为让他极度恼火时，他才会时不时地因恼怒而匆忙惊呼。他是男人中最温柔的人。即使他对她发脾气，也从来没有粗暴地说过。

“你很难取悦，亲爱的，”他有时会这样说。

但这几乎是他不满的最强烈的表达。事实上，他在这件事上并没有表现出很强的自制力，因为他对自己没有什么控制力。如果说他对格洛丽亚的态度习惯性温和，那是因为，像许多意大利人一样，他害怕情感，就像害怕疾病一样，并且可以通过不坦率地表达自己的感受来在某种程度上避免它。对他来说，沉默通常是很容易的事。他一生中爆发的次数不超过两三次，就像那天下午他单独和弗朗西斯卡在一起时那样。

不可避免的后果立即接踵而至——这不仅是身体上的，也是精神上的，因为当他离开宫殿时，他那双清澈的黑眼睛布满了血丝和黄色，他的双手颤抖着，几乎找不到他的袖孔。他穿上大衣。他迈着犹豫而激动的步伐，一边走一边左右看看，半是凶猛，半是胆怯，仿佛他期待着一个新的对手从各个角落向他扑来。当他看着它们时，房屋的直线在黄昏中逐渐减弱和颤抖，他看到空气中闪烁着光芒。他的头又热又痛，帽子也让他很疼。总而言之，他处于一种危险的状态，就像北方男人有时酗酒后的情况一样。

那天晚上他不愿意回家。就他自己的意识而言，他既没有歪曲也没有以任何方式夸大他家庭生活的痛苦。他感觉它现在就在他面前，正如他所描述的那样。会有同样的问题，他也会给出同样的答案，格洛丽亚也会表现出同样受伤绝望的表情，除非她爆发并发脾气，这种情况经常发生。这种前景令人难以忍受。利安达把手深深地插进大衣口袋里，当他转过阿斯塔利街的拐角处时，他怒视着四周，看到了远处的科尔索。但他并没有放慢脚步，沿着奥地利大使馆——威尼斯宫——所有罗马宫殿中最阴森、最像堡垒的阴暗墙下走去。

他的感觉就像一个穷人在炉边干活时感到又热又发烧，他知道自己必须穿着薄薄的破烂夹克，面对冰冻雨夹雪和刺骨寒风的冬季风暴才能回家——可以说是一次跳水。 ，从铁水变成冰，没有任何防寒措施。回家的每一步对他来说都是可恨的。但他很清楚自己的弱点，所以没有犹豫。如果他停下来，他也许能够转向另一个方向，与他的一些艺术家同事一起度过整个晚上，在深夜回家，那时格洛丽亚已经睡着了。这个想法闪过他的脑海。如果他这样做，他肯定会向那些与他没有亲密关系的人讲述他的烦恼。他为此感到太骄傲了。他希望他能回到弗朗西斯卡身边，再次倾诉他的痛苦。他的话还没有说完一半。他真想把它说出来，直到最后，然后躺下，闭上眼睛，听弗兰西斯卡的声音安慰他，讲述他们黄金般的友谊。但这是不可能的，所以他回到家，尽力面对自己的痛苦。

他的想法有些夸张，但他的想法对自己没有任何影响。他娶了一个在各方面都不适合他的女人，正如他也不适合她一样。整个麻烦就在那里。也许他根本就不是一个适合结婚的男人，应该在弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科忠实的友谊和甜蜜的影响下从外部照亮他的孤独生活直到最后。所有分歧的原因，被视为婚姻生活中的力量，其价值都与他们所遵循的性格的相对坚固性相关——这是一个不言而喻的道理，它应该成为社会慈善的基础，但事实并非如此。利安达的脆弱敏感不能被责怪，格洛丽亚也不能被责怪她从父亲那里继承了某种粗暴的残忍性格，这种性格奇怪地与她已故母亲的罕见天赋和巨大缺点结合在一起——对母亲的爱。情感本身，以及做一切可能在她自己和她周围的人身上产生情感的倾向。情感对利安达来说是毒药。这是他妻子最喜欢的食物。

他回到家，走上光线充足的大理石楼梯，希望自己能手握细细的蜡烛，登上波吉亚宫后面狭窄的石阶，回到他原来的单身汉住处，点上灯，在屋里抽烟。平静地度过一个晚上，画一幅草图，或者看一本书，或者梦想着尚未完成的工作。他在楼梯平台上停了下来，然后按响了公寓的门铃。那扇锃亮的门令他恼火，它的黄铜配件以及它所意味着的婚姻生活和令人厌烦的社会义务。他从不带钥匙，因为当时的罗马钥匙又大又重。但以前他一个人住的时候，不得不使用一个。按门铃的必要性再次激怒了他，当他拉动黄铜旋钮时，他感到一阵不情愿的紧张震惊。他用牙齿抵住随之而来的丁当声和叮当声，眼皮颤抖着。一切都伤害了他。当他想要使用自己的双手时，他并没有把握。他很想打那个开门的沉默而恭敬的男仆，只是因为他沉默而恭敬。他径直走进了自己的更衣室，把自己关在了屋子里。换衣服才算是一种解脱。晚上他和格洛丽亚要去参加一个招待会，他要立刻穿好衣服。在那些日子里，很少有罗马人每天都盛装出席晚餐。

他掉下了一颗螺柱，因为他的双手颤抖得几乎拿不住任何东西。他摸索着膝盖上的东西。血流到了他的头上，让他感到剧烈的疼痛，就像受到了重击一样。

格洛丽亚的房间就在他的旁边，她听到他走动的声音。她敲了敲门，试了试门，但门是锁着的。当他寻找种马时，她听到他发出了一声恼怒的叫喊。她以为这是给她准备的，愤怒地从门口转了回去。换做其他日子，他一定会打电话给她，因为他听见她想进去。但他不耐烦地耸耸肩，朝她的房间看了一眼，找到了他的马蹄铁，然后继续穿衣服。

当他一个人的时候，他真的很努力地控制自己。但无论如何，他实际上是病了。他的脸色憔悴、蜡黄。他的眼睛是黄色的，布满血丝。他的嘴角有深深的、抽搐的皱纹。当他呼吸时，他的鼻孔会痉挛性地动动，他修长的瘦手无助地摸索着衣服的铆钉和纽扣。最后他穿好衣服，走进客厅。格洛丽亚已经在那里，在炉边等着，她美丽的脸上带着受伤和令人生畏的表情。

利安达来到炉边，站在那里，向火焰伸出颤抖的双手。他害怕第一个词，就像一个患有脑热病的人害怕雷雨中的每一次爆炸一样。尽管他们的关系长期以来一直处于紧张状态，但当他回到家时，他总是会亲吻格洛丽亚。今天晚上，他几乎没有看她一眼，只是站在那里看着柴火舞动的舌头，不敢去想妻子的声音。它终于冷静下来，不高兴了。

“你是不是生病了？”她问道，目光坚定地看着他。

“不，”他费力地回答，伸出的双手在火堆前颤抖着。

“那你怎么了？”

“没有什么。”说这句话的时候，他甚至没有看她一眼。

接下来是一阵沉默，期间他很痛苦。尽管如此，听到她声音的第一次可怕的震惊已经过去了。虽然他只看了她一眼，但从她的脸上他就知道那声音会是什么。

格洛丽亚靠在椅子上，看着火，叹了口气。格里格斯下午和她在一起，她很开心，正如她所想的那样，很天真。这个男人的强势和深切的真诚，对于许多女人来说是难以忍受的迟钝，但可以说是让格洛丽亚感到平静。她说他为她抚平了她生活中的皱纹。这不是一种软化的影响，而是一种平静的影响，孕育出的力量严重压制着任性。她抵制它，但很高兴发现它是不可抗拒的。有时这不仅仅是一种稳定的压力。他的智力武器中有一把大锤，偶尔它会落在她的一个幻象上。她嘲笑破坏，对碎片毫不怜悯。这些并不是与她的虚荣心密不可分的幻想，因为他认为她是完美的，如果他看到了她的缺点，他就不会批评她的缺点。她的缺点越来越多，因为它们扎根于她的生命本性中，并从他持久的力量中汲取营养，这种力量包围着他们，并在他盲目而全心全意的爱中保护着他们。其余的事情他都信守诺言。她有时看到他脸色煞白，咬着嘴唇，不止一次，他突然离开了她，好几天都没有再回来。但自从他做出承诺以来，他从未忘记过他的承诺，无论是言语还是行动。

把巨大的现实堆砌成一座大山，从中眺望转瞬即逝的幻象的褪色之美，这是一件危险的事情。在他对格洛丽亚一生的影响上，这位强者远远超过了天才。她喜欢与格里格斯在一起时感受到的那种奇怪的吸引力和排斥感——这种东西伤害了她的虚荣心，因为她无法理解它，而保护罩覆盖了同样的虚荣心，并给予它超越一切的虚荣的自由。界限。她不会承认她爱这个男人。她的本性就是用她对丈夫的爱所受的伤害来利用他的怜悯。然而她知道，如果她自由了，她就应该嫁给他，因为她无法抗拒他，而且一想到她控制着如此不可抗拒的力量，她就感到高兴。他和利安达之间的对比一直摆在她面前，而且自从她了解到天才是多么的弱，这种比较对年轻人有利。

那天晚上，当利安达站在火炉前时，她鄙视他，她的心反抗他的本性。他的紧张，他的双手颤抖，他几乎明显害怕被询问，这些都是可鄙的。他就像一只被猎杀的动物，她想。两个小时前，她的朋友站在那里，坚定、雄狮、角斗士般，用他那张方形的白脸和静止的、阴暗的眼睛统治着她，两只手静静地伸向火焰，两只手可能会把她撕成碎片——一个男人在他的严肃的年轻悲伤，在他辉煌的身体尊严中几乎是庄严的。

她看着利安达，嘴唇轻蔑地翘起，因为自己竟然爱上了这样的东西。她已经很久没有看到他脸上那股两年前赢得她芳心的温柔光芒了。她熟悉他的天才，因此忽视他的脆弱不再让她感到惊讶。他的名气不再让她高兴。他的温柔消失了，取而代之的不是冷酷也不是暴力，而是一种不满的暴躁麻痹。她看着他时就是这么称呼的。

“你回家时常常吻我，”她突然说道，靠在椅子上。

他机械地转过头。这个习惯很强烈，她也提醒过他。他不想争吵，也不想讲道理。他往她身边挪了一步，弯下腰亲吻她的额头。日常接吻的自动结合可能会有很好的效果。如果他真的这么想的话，这就是他的想法。

但她突然举起双手，粗鲁地把他推了回来。

“不，”她说。 “如果我必须提醒你的话，这种事情就不值钱了。”

她的嘴角又翘起来了。他高高的肩膀耸起，转身走开。

“你很难取悦，”他说，这句话和之前的动作一样机械。

“不能说，你最近为了讨我的欢心，煞费苦心。”她冷冷地回答。

这时仆人宣布开饭了，利安达没有回答，但他紧张地看了她一眼。他们走进餐厅坐下。

沉默的用餐过程中酝酿着风暴。利安达几乎没吃任何东西，只喝了一点淡酒和水。

“你今晚看起来身体不太好，无法出去。”格洛丽亚最后说道，但语气中没有一丝善意。

“我很好，”他不耐烦地回答。 “我跟你一起去。”

“没有丝毫必要。”他的妻子回答道。 “我一个人去，你去睡觉吧。”

“我告诉你我很好！”他毫不掩饰地恼怒地说。 “让我一个人静一下。”

“当然。没有什么比这更容易了。”

格洛丽亚知道，这声音充满了受伤的尊严，这无疑激怒了他。但仆人就在房间里，他什么也没说，尽管他真的很努力保持沉默。那天他的舌头已经自由了，很难再被束缚了。

他们几乎默默地吃完晚饭，然后习惯性地回到客厅。格洛丽亚仍然穿着她的步行服，但并不着急，她在火边恢复了她最喜欢的座位一段时间，然后才去穿衣服参加招待会。

职位的更新与晚餐前的情况一模一样，有些令人恼火。为了弥补没吃东西，利安达默默喝了两杯咖啡。

“你至少可以跟我说话，”格洛丽亚一边说，一边放下第二个杯子。 “让人差点以为我们吵架了！”

话音刚落，他就发出一阵大笑，这比之前发生过的任何事情都更加刺痛他。沉默了一会儿之后，他也笑了起来，半歇斯底里地笑了。

“是的，”他说。 “别人差点以为我们吵架了！”他又笑了。

“这个想法似乎让你觉得有趣，”格洛丽亚冷冷地说。

“就像你一样，”他回答道。 “我们都笑了。确实，这非常有趣。”

“唐娜·弗朗西斯卡心情愉快地送你回家。那是很少见的。我想我应该心存感激。”

“是的。我心情很好。在我看来，我们俩都是。”他咬了一口雪茄，短促地吐了一口。

“你不必包括我。请不要对着我的脸抽烟。”

烟雾离她不是很近，但她用手做了一个动作，好像要把它拂开。

“请原谅，”他礼貌地说，然后走到壁炉的另一边。

“你好紧张啊！”她惊呼道。 “你为什么不能坐下来？”

“因为我想站着，”他回答道，语气又变得不耐烦了。 “因为我很紧张，如果你选择的话。”

“你告诉我你很好。”

“我也是。”

“如果你身体很好，你就不会紧张，”她回答道。

他感觉她好像把一根锋利的钉子钉进了他的大脑。

“我紧张与否对你来说没有任何区别，”他说，当他坐下时，他的眼睛开始变得明亮。

“无论你是否粗鲁，对你来说都没有什么区别。”

他耸耸肩，什么也没说，默默地抽烟。一条细腿交叉在另一条腿上，不安地摆动着。

“这种事能永远持续下去吗？”沉默了整整一分钟后，她冷冷地问道。

“我不明白你的意思，”利安达说。

“你很清楚我的意思。”

“这简直令人难以忍受！”他突然站起来，嘴里叼着雪茄，大声喊道。

“你可以把雪茄从嘴里拿出来这么说，”格洛丽亚反驳道。

他转向她，嘴里发出愤怒的惊呼，但他没有说出来。还残留着一丝自制力。格洛丽亚靠在椅子上，从旁边小桌子上的小摆设中拿起一把象牙雕扇。她打开门，关上，又打开，假装给自己扇风，尽管房间里很凉。

“我真的很想知道，”她立即说道，而他则步履不稳地走来走去。

“什么？”他尖锐地问道。

“这是否会持续我们的余生。”

“什么？”

“这种平静的生活，”她轻蔑地说。 “我真的很想知道它是否能持续下去。你就不能告诉我吗？”

“如果你把折磨我当成你的主要任务，那么这种情况不会持续太久，”他停下脚步说道。

“我？”她惊呼道，神情极其惊讶。 “我什么时候欺负过你了？”

“每当我和你在一起的时候，你都知道。”

“真的吗！你一定是病了，或者疯了，或者两者兼而有之。这也算是说出这种话的借口吧。”

“它不需要任何东西。是真的。”他终于变得恼怒了。 “你似乎把时间花在寻找如何让生活变得难以忍受上。你快把我逼疯了。我无法再忍受下去了。”

“如果说到承受，我想我承受的比你多。”格洛丽亚说道。 “这可不小。你让我独自一人。你忽略了我。你虐待我不得不去找的朋友，而不是独自一人。你在各方面都忽视了我——你还说我快把你逼疯了。你是否意识到去年你发生了怎样的变化？据我所知，你可能真的疯了，但必须受苦并承担后果的是我。你残忍地忽视了我。我怎么知道你是怎么打发时间的？”

利安达一动不动地站在房间中央，凝视着她。一时之间，他对病情的爆发感到惊讶。她没有给他回答的时间。

“早上你就离开我了，”她继续说道，把冷漠变成了愤怒。 “你经常在我醒来之前就走开。你中午回来，有时吃早饭时一句话也不说。如果我说话，你要么不回答，要么对我说的话挑剔；如果我对除了你的工作以外的任何事情表现出一点热情，你就会用谚语和格言来训斥我，就像我是个孩子一样。你说我傻，年轻，没耐心，傻，不会照顾自己！你照顾过我吗？你是否曾经在漫长的一天中牺牲过一个小时来给我一点快乐？自从我们结婚以来，你是否曾经有一天早上呆在家里问我要做什么——只是为了给我放个假？绝不。从来没有一次！你给了我一套好房子和足够的钱，你以为你已经给了我一个女人想要的一切。”

“你想要什么？”利安达问道，试图平静地说话。

“一点善意，一点爱——这是你向我许诺的一切中最微不足道的，也是我确信拥有的一切中最微不足道的！有那么多要问的吗？你一直在骗我吗？你从来没有爱过我吗？你嫁给我是因为我的脸，还是因为我的声音？难道这一切从一开始就只是一场空洞的骗局吗？你从一开始就欺骗了我吗？你说过你爱我。难道这一切都不是真的吗？”

“是的。我爱你。”他回答道，声音突然变得沉闷。

“你爱过我-”

她叹了口气，在一片寂静中，象牙小扇子随着她开合而发出嘎嘎声。在他听来，她说话的语气有些虚假。如果他能听到她的声音像以前一样，他一定会被感动。

“是的，”她继续说道。 “你爱我，或者至少你让我认为你爱我。我还年轻，我相信你。你现在甚至不说。也许是因为你知道让我相信你有多难。”

“不。原因不是这个。”

她等了一会儿，因为这不是她所期望的答案。

“安杰洛——”她开口说道，等待着，但他什么也没说，尽管他看着她。 “这不是真的，这不可能是真的！”她说着，突然把脸转开，因为这里面有一种痛苦的羞辱。

“最好立即说出来，”他说，语气中带着一种超自然的平静和冷漠，这种冷漠有时会出现在非常敏感的人被激怒到无法忍受的时候。 “我确实爱过你，不然我就不应该嫁给你。但我不再爱你了。对不起。但愿我做了，可惜我没有。”

“你也敢这么告诉我！”她突然转向他，大声喊道。

过了一会儿，她向前倾身，用手捂住脸，用双手说话。

“你竟然有心告诉我，毕竟我对你如此——多年来的忠诚，温柔，男人从未对任何女人有过的爱！天啊！太多了！”

“现在据说。再说谎是没有用的。”利安达评论道，他的冷漠态度甚至对他自己来说也是恶魔般的，如果他相信她的爆发是真实的的话。 “再假装又有什么用呢？”

“你承认你只是假装爱我吗？”她抬起了通红的脸和闪闪发光的眼睛。

“最近——如果你称其为假装的话——”

“噢，不是那样——不是那样！我已经看到了——但是是第一次。你确实爱过我。至少要这么说。”

“当然。我为什么要嫁给你？”

“是的，为什么？尽管有她，这也是令人难以置信的。”

“不顾她？谁的？你是不是疯了？”

格洛丽亚绝望地笑了。

“别告诉我唐娜·弗朗西斯卡曾经希望你结婚！”她说。

“她让我们走到了一起。你知道的。这是我唯一可以责备她的事情。”

“她让你嫁给我？”

“让我？不！你真是太生气了。”

他不耐烦地跺了跺脚，转身又走来走去。他的雪茄已经灭了，但他愤怒地咬着它。他对自己还能忍受的事情感到惊讶，但他很快就失去了理智。想要掐死她的疯狂欲望在他的手中刺痛，当他看着它时，灯的光芒在舞动。

“她让你做了那么多事情！”格洛丽亚说。

当她谈到唐娜·弗朗西斯卡时，她的语气又变了，变得严厉而轻蔑。

“她让我做了什么让你用这样的方式谈论她？”利安达重新穿过房间，愤怒地问道。

“她让你恨我——一方面，”格洛丽亚回答道。

“这不是真的！”利安达几乎无法呼吸，他感觉自己的声音越来越粗。

“不对！那么，如果不是她，还能是谁呢？你整天和她在一起——她谈论我，她挑剔我，而你回到家就会看到她为你挑的毛病——”

“你说的话一点也不真实——”

“那就别这么生气了！如果不是真的，你为什么要关心？我已经说过了，我也会这么说。她夺走了我的你。噢，我永远不会原谅她！从不畏惧！人们不会忘记这样的事情！她已经得到了你，我想她也会留住你。但你会后悔的！她要付钱给我！”

她的声音颤抖着，因为她的嫉妒是真实的，正如她持续的所有情绪一样。

“你不可以这样谈论她，”利安达严厉地说。 “我欠她和她的家人我的一切，我在世界上所拥有的一切——”

“包括我！”格洛丽亚打断道。 “那就付钱给她吧——用你的爱和你自己来付钱给她。你这样可以满足你的良心，也可以让我心碎。”

“对此没有丝毫恐惧，”利安达残酷地回答。

她突然站了起来，站在他面前，怒火中烧。

“如果我能找到你的——如果你有的话——我会打破它，”她说。 “你还敢说我没心，你说的每一句话都像刀子一样刺痛我，我爱你就像没有女人爱男人一样！我说过，而且我重复一遍——当我给了你一切，如果我有的话，我会给你整个世界！确实，你真是无情、残忍、不仁——”

“至少，我是诚实的。我不像你那样扮演角色。我坦白地说我不爱你并且对此感到抱歉。是的——真的很抱歉。”他的声音瞬间软了下来。 “我愿意付出很多来像以前一样爱你，并相信你爱我——”

“你会告诉我，我不——”

“事实上，我会告诉你，你从来没有——”

“安杰洛——保重！你会走得太远了！”

“我永远无法告诉你这个真相。你从未爱过我。你可能以为你做到了。我不在乎。你谈论忠诚和温柔等等！被孤立和忽视！太过分了！在我们结婚后的几个月里，除了对我画的一切大加赞赏之外，你还对我表现出了多大的忠诚。然后你厌倦了我的工作。那是你的事。无论你欣赏我的画、门多萨的画，还是其他人的画，与我有何关系？你认为这就是虔诚吗？我比你更清楚哪些是好，哪些是坏。但你称之为奉献。当我工作时，当我被迫工作时——毕竟这是我的职业——当你本可以日复一日地和我在一起时，正是忠诚让你远离了我！每天我回家时，你用酸溜溜、严厉的眼神迎接我，这是一种忠诚，就好像我是一个秘密的敌人，一个阴谋家，一个像小偷一样需要提防的生物——就好像我一直远离你一样是有目的的，也是我的意愿——而不是整天为你工作。那是你表达爱意的方式。用问题来折磨我，永远相信我花时间和唐娜·弗朗西斯卡反对你——”

“你做！”格洛丽亚喊道，她无法打断他语无伦次的讲话。 “你爱她，就像你从未爱过我一样——就像你恨我一样——就像你们都恨我一样！”

她愤怒地抓住他的袖子，摇晃着他的手臂，盯着他的眼睛。

“你让我恨你！”他回答道，试图把她甩开。

“你成功了，在你——你和你的——之间”

轮到他了，他用又长又细的手指抓住了她的手臂，紧张而粗暴。

“你不许谈论她——”

“最好不要？这是我唯一剩下的权利——还有恨你的权利——你和你爱的那个臭名昭著的女人——是的——你和你的情妇——你漂亮的弗朗西斯卡！”她的笑声几乎是尖叫声。

他的怒火溢满了。毕竟，他是一个乡下人的儿子，是杰拉诺管家的儿子。他从她手中夺过象牙扇，用扇子打在她脸上。这个脆弱的东西颤抖着破碎，碎片落在他们之间。

格洛丽亚脸色惨白，但脸颊上却有一道鲜红的横纹。她看了他一会儿，脸上浮现出一种命运般的表情，就像她死去的母亲一样。

然后二话不说，转身离开了房间。

安格斯·达尔林普尔（Angus Dalrymple）和玛丽亚·布拉奇奥（Maria Braccio）的女儿不是一个能够温顺地承受打击的女人，也不会犹豫是否要采取最可靠的方式来表达愤怒。在她走到门口之前，她决定立即离开家，不到十分钟，她就发现自己沿着科尔索走下去，披着面纱，裹着一件斗篷，手里拿着所有她能称之为自己的钱，她的口袋里装着一些价值不大的珠宝，是她父亲送给她的。

当门在她身后关上时，利安达瘫坐在椅子上，他被自己爆发的愤怒惊呆了。他看着地毯上的碎象牙碎片，模糊地想知道它们意味着什么。他感觉自己就像是在一场梦中，完全无法清楚地记得那些扭曲的事情。他的呼吸变得不规则，他的心扑通扑通地跳动着，静止不动，又跳动着，他的手在椅子扶手的边缘抽动着。不一会儿，管家进来拿走咖啡杯，发现主人病了。在这种情况下，没有什么能比得上意大利仆人的温柔。那人叫人来帮助他，把利安达带到他的更衣室，脱掉他的衣服，把他放在长长的皮沙发上。随后，他们敲了卧室的门，但没有回应。

“别打扰夫人，”利安达有气无力地说。 “她希望一个人呆着。我们不会想要马车的。”

这是他那天晚上唯一说的话，仆人们很清楚夫妻之间发生了什么事，最好保持沉默并服从。没有人尝试卧室的门。如果有人转动把手，就会发现它被锁住了。钥匙放在大厅的桌子上，就在名片中间。达尔林普尔的女儿继承了他的敏捷本能和沉着冷静。她确信，如果她出门时锁上房门，丈夫自然会认为她把自己关在里面，不想被打扰，并会尊重她独处的愿望。这样既省事，又给她逃跑的时间。他可以睡在更衣室的沙发上，就像他在愤怒的病态中所做的那样，按照意大利人知道如何处理这种常见情况的方式对待，这些情况有时会造成致命的后果。许多意大利人死于愤怒。大脑中的一根血管比其他血管稍微弱一些，一旦中风，一切就都结束了。但利安达并不是一个中风的人。镇静治疗很快就起了作用，他睡着了，直到天亮才醒来，完全没有意识到格洛丽亚不在隔壁房间，像他一样睡着发泄愤怒。

她一冲动就走出了这个曾经如此侮辱她的男人的家。在她的面纱下，滚烫的血液灼烧着她那一击留下的红条，她的愤怒和受伤的自尊从她的心到她的头，而随着她脉搏的每一次跳动，对复仇的渴望变得更加狂野和强烈。

她离开家时第一个想法就是找到保罗·格里格斯并告诉他发生了什么事。她脑子里没有其他想法，她的脚步机械地转向科尔索，因为他仍然住在弗雷扎大街的两个房间里。

时间还早。那时，人们在六点钟吃饭，格洛丽亚发现自己站在街上时还不到八点。周围很安静，尽管有很多人在走动。从晚饭到看戏的这段时间里，几乎没有马车出来，空气中充满了许多脚步声和许多低沉的说话声。格洛丽亚一直靠右边，快步走着，头也不回。她这辈子从来没有在晚上独自一人上街，即使在愤怒的时候，她也感到一种对她来说很新鲜的自由的陶醉，对伤害她的他开始感到满足。她的血管里流淌着高地的血液，也流淌着意大利的热情。

东南风正沿着她身后的街道吹来，同样的奇怪而悲惨的风，悲惨而热情，很久以前的那个晚上，玛丽亚·阿多洛拉塔站在花园门口，从山上猛烈地吹向苏比亚科。让达尔林普尔过去，他怀里抱着什么东西。格洛丽亚通过它悲伤的低语、透过她紧闭的面纱闻到的淡淡的味道和气味，认出了它。

她继续往前走，沿着科尔索街，直到来到科隆纳广场，远远地看到在她左边，在巨大的黑色纵柱之外，法国军官俱乐部发出灿烂的灯光。她犹豫了一下，放慢了速度。俱乐部的景象让她想起了社会，想起了她正在做的事情，以及这可能意味着什么。当她走得越来越慢时，风似乎从后面吹来，试图推动她继续前进。它似乎用尽全力将她赶出丈夫的家，吹动她面前的裙子和厚厚的面纱。她经过广场，靠近皮翁比诺宫下面商店的百叶窗——现在已经消失了，以扩大开放空间。一阵狂风吹过人行道，比她感受到的任何一阵都强。她停顿了一会儿，靠在钟表匠里奇紧闭的百叶窗上，他的商店曾经是科尔索的一个地标。就在这时，里面的钟敲响了八下。她透过百叶窗清楚地听到了他们的声音。

她犹豫了一下。当时是八点钟。她还没意识到现在是什么时间了。如果她发现弗雷扎大街的门关着，就很难找到格里格斯了。她散步时不止一次经过这栋房子，她知道格里格斯住在五楼的高处。可能已经太晚了。她犹豫了一下，上下打量着人行道。一位年轻的法国轻骑兵军官朝她走来。他那双皱巴巴、涂着清漆的高筒靴在煤气灯下闪闪发光。他留着黑胡子，年轻的眼睛明亮明亮，正在抽烟。他看着她，走近时放慢了脚步。她离开了自己的位置，快步从他身边走过，沿着科尔索大道走下去。

突然，她感觉到一阵风吹过她的耳后，有一滴凉爽的雨滴，过了一会儿，经过一盏煤气灯，她看到灰色人行道上的黑色圆点。由于匆忙，她没有带伞。她快步前行，风使劲地把她吹着向前，让她感觉脚步轻快了。科尔索大道更暗，人也更少。当她到达圣卡洛时，雨下得很快，街道变宽了，她尽可能地裹紧斗篷，走到另一边，希望能找到更多的庇护所。她已经快到弗雷扎大街了，她知道这座大教堂看台后面狭窄街道的一些来龙去脉。当她转过后殿的半圆时，天色很暗，雨倾盆而下，但那条路走得更短，因为格里格斯住的地方离里皮塔比科尔索更近，她沿着一条弯曲的对角线走，朝着他家的方向。她以为这条路通向她想去的地方，于是她尽可能快地走着。偶尔有一盏油灯在灯杆末端高高地亮起，为她指明了道路，也为她指明了黄色的水流沿着街道中间的河道奔流而下。她徒劳地寻找右边的转弯。她没有迷失方向，只是没有找到她所寻找的捷径。出现在宽阔的里皮塔河上时，她在拐角处停了下来，环顾四周，尽管她知道该转向哪个方向。就在这时，她身边传来了沉重的脚步声，溅起水花。

“请允许我，夫人，”一个声音粗哑，带着奇怪的口音说道，尽管语气很礼貌，一把大伞撑在她的头上。

她迅速缩回墙边，充满女人对陌生男人的恐惧。

“不，谢谢！”她大声回答道。

“但是，是的！”那人说道。 “下雨了。你得病了，夫人。”

微弱的光芒表明她接受这个提议是足够安全的。那人显然是个山里的农民，年纪也不小了。他宽大的黑色斗篷被他的手臂向后翻了一点，露出了绿色法兰绒的衬里和他穿的带有宽银纽扣的蓝色衣服。

“谢谢你，”她说，因为她很高兴有这个庇护所，她一动不动地站在那把巨大的蓝色棉伞下，伞上的黄铜把手已经破旧，上面有彩色的条纹。

“但我会陪你。”男人说道。 “这当然还没有开始到结束。中风了！下雨了！”

“谢谢。我不会走太远，”格洛丽亚说。 “你真善良。”

“这似乎是基督徒的行为，”农民评论道。

她开始移动，他走在她身边。他会认为问她要去哪里是不礼貌的。他们冒着倾盆大雨，默默地前行。不到五分钟，她就找到了格里格斯家的门。令她松了口气的是，门还开着，楼梯上的灯笼里发出一盏小油灯的微光。格洛丽亚摸索口袋里的钱。那人没有等待，也没有说话，已经走了。她打电话给他。

“我想给你一些东西，”格洛丽亚说。

“大部头书？”那人惊讶地叫道。 “不，夫人。看来你搞错了。”

“对不起，”格洛丽亚回答道。 “在黑暗中，我什么也没看见。我非常感谢你。你是乡下人吗？”

她希望通过一点礼貌来弥补自己所犯的错误。男人站在门口，雨伞向后搭在肩上，她可以清楚地看到他的脸——一张典型的罗马脸，小鹰般的五官，锐利的黑眼睛，方下巴，铁灰色的头发。

“是的，夫人。 Stefanone of Subiaco，酒商，为您服务。如果您想要苏比亚科葡萄酒，请在蒙塔纳拉广场找我。夫人，下着倾盆大雨。得到允许，我就走。”

“再次谢谢你，”她回答道。

他消失在洪流中，只剩下她一个人站在阴暗的楼梯下，在小油灯的微弱灯光下。她把面纱掀开，因为面纱已被水浸湿，粘在脸上。小溪从她的湿衣服上流下来，落在石头上，她站在那里，一只戴着手套的手靠在潮湿的墙上，盯着灯笼，感觉衣服沉重得难以忍受。与农民的短暂会面扰乱了她的思绪。雨让她感到寒冷，她的脸被烧伤了。她用手摸了摸利安达打她的脸颊。感觉又青又痛，因为这一击并不轻。湿皮革的感觉让她感到恶心，她艰难地脱下手套，把它翻过来盖在她白皙的手上。然后她又摸了摸那个地方，轻轻地拍了拍，感受了一下。但她的目光却没有从灯笼上移开。

在一连串的事件中，有一个短暂的平静停顿，似乎是为了混乱人们的思想，扰乱他们的目的。如果她早五分钟到达家，她就不会在楼梯下犹豫片刻。突然，她转回门口，站在那里向外望去。它看起来很黑。她收起滴着水的裙子，稍微向前倾身，凝视着黑暗。现在，雨倾盆而下，伴随着急流急流般的震耳欲聋的声音。如果出去参与其中，那就太疯狂了。她浑身一阵颤抖，又一阵颤抖。她感到非常寒冷和痛苦。毫无疑问，格里格斯楼上生了火，书房里也有宜人的灯光。他会在那里，努力工作。她会敲门，他会开门，她会坐在火边擦干身体，倾诉她的痛苦。红色的条子仍然横在她的脸上——她戴上帽子时在镜子里看到过它。

那天晚上要回去见她的丈夫——这是不可能的。稍后，也许，当他应该睡着的时候，格里格斯会找到一辆马车，带她回家。没有人会知道她去过哪里，而且她也不会像格里格斯那样透露更多信息。她觉得自己必须见到他，告诉他一切，感受他在她身边的力量。毕竟，他是她在世界上唯一的朋友，在父亲不在的情况下，她自然应该向他寻求帮助。他也是她父亲的朋友。

她从头到脚连连颤抖，从门口退了回来。她犹豫了一会儿。然后，她以一种女性的动作，开始尽可能地抖掉斗篷和裙子上的雨水，把双手打湿到手腕。当她弯下腰，抖着裙摆时，鲜血再次涌上她的脸，被他击中的地方烧焦了，发痛。这和她用冰凉湿润的手触碰时的感觉截然不同。她猛地直起身子，仰起头，双眸在黑暗中闪烁着凶光。命运的意外将她包围，命运之手掐住了她的喉咙，窒息了她的呼吸。

没有再犹豫。她迈着快步开始登上短而陡的楼梯。过了第一个转弯处，天就黑了，但她继续前行，用手抚摸着潮湿的墙壁。然后又出现了一道微光，第二个灯笼标志着第一个平台，微弱地照在一扇绿色的门上，门上钉着一块薄薄的白色大理石小方块，作为门板，上面写着黑色的名字。她看了一眼就继续说下去，因为她知道格里格斯住在五楼。她像她父亲一样脚步坚定，坚定地站了起来，有点气喘吁吁，因为她湿透的衣服压得她喘不过气来。又亮起一盏灯，然后就再也没有了。她数着楼梯平台，边走边用手摸着门，黑暗中不断的转弯让她头晕目眩。最后，她以为自己已经走到了尽头，用手摸索，找到一根精纺绳子，一拉，一个破裂的小铃铛敲打着里面的木头，发出叮当作响的声音。她听到一阵脚步声，还有一个尖锐、带着鼻音的孩子的声音，按照惯例发出询问，询问谁在那里。她要找格里格斯。

“他不在这里。”孩子回答道，尽管她大声喊叫，但她又听到了逃跑的脚步声。

她的心沉了下去。但她还是摸索着前行。楼梯结束了，因为那是房子的顶部，她找到了另一扇门，摸索着一根像她拉过的绳子一样的绳子，但什么也没有。某种感觉告诉她，她是对的，突然间，绝望地渴望进去，在她坚强的保护者的陪伴下，在光明和温暖中，她用手掌敲打着门，她的脸几乎碰到了冰冷的油漆木头。上面钉满了钉子，散发着湿铁的味道。

随后传来了壮汉坚定而有规律的脚步声，清晰而严厉的声音从里面传来，不是询问，而是生硬的拒绝开口。

“走开，”他用意大利语说。 “你走错门了。”

但她用手敲打沉重的木头。

“让我进去！”她用英语哭了。 “让我进去！”

一声低沉的惊讶叫声响起，涂了油的螺栓又回到了插座中，叮当作响。门向内打开，保罗·格里格斯举起一盏绿色灯罩的灯，将光线投射到格洛丽亚的脸上。

格洛丽亚推开格里格斯，在狭窄的入口处站在他身边。他机械地关上门，慢慢地转向她，仍然举着灯，照在她的脸上。

“你怎么了？”他缓慢而坚定地问道，他那双阴暗的眼睛盯着她。

“他打败了我，我来找你。看看我的脸。”

他看到她脸颊上的红条。他没有提高声音，面容也没有什么变化，但他的眼睛却突然发光，就像野兽的眼睛一样，他发下的誓言如此可怕，让格洛丽亚脸色有些苍白，从他面前退缩了。然后他沉默了，他们站在一起。她能听到他的呼吸声。她可以看到他试图吞咽口水，因为他的喉咙突然像煤渣一样干燥。慢慢地，他的眉头皱得更深，变成了愁眉苦脸，两道笔直的皱纹在他的眼睛之间向下延伸，他的黑眉毛邪恶地向上和向外抬起，渐渐地，坚固的、刮得干干净净的上唇在嘴角处升起，露出两道皱纹。闪闪发光的狼牙。光滑、紧密的头发从额头垂下来的地方竖起。

格洛丽亚的身子微微缩了缩。她在愤怒的狮子身上见过这样的表情。只是眼神，没有四肢的动作。然后一切都消失了，她熟悉的那张静止的脸变成了她的脸。

“你要进来吗？”他用一种压抑的语气问道。 “这是我的工作室。我会生火，你必须把自己擦干。你怎么湿成这样了？你不是步行来的吗？”

说话间，他打开了门，提着油灯在前面带路。格洛丽亚跟在后面，浑身发抖，因为入口处有一扇小窗户开着，她的衣服在寒风中紧贴着她。她走进去时关上了身后的门。里面比外面暖和得多，小壁炉又黑又冷。她本能地看了格里格斯一眼。他穿着一件久经考验的粗糙飞行员外套，扣子一直扣到喉咙处。他把绿色灯罩的小灯放在桌子上，周围是一堆文件和书籍，然后拉出唯一的一把安乐椅，这是一把破旧的家具，上面覆盖着褪色的黄色代表和破烂的流苏，拖在地板上。 。他从角落里的晾衣架上取下一件大斗篷，把它扔到椅子上，用手仔细地抚平它。

“如果你坐下来，我会试着生火，”他轻声说道。

当他吩咐她时，她坐下来，对他的平静感到有点惊讶，但想起了她说话时从他嘴里脱口而出的可怕话语，以及他脸上那一刻野兽和化身恶魔的表情。当他开始生火时，她环顾四周，没有阻止他，因为她在发抖。房间很大，但家具很简陋。有两张大桌子，上面摆满了书和文件。一面墙边有一个书柜，两扇窗户之间有一个陈旧的柜子，柜子的一条腿用一张肮脏、褪色的纸支撑着。粗糙的绿色地毯已经破旧，但仍然完整。房间的各个地方都有六把朴素的椅子，上面有绿色和白色的灯芯草座位。狭窄的白色大理石壁炉架上放着两个瓷烛台，其中一个烛台上放着一根上次燃烧时已经熄灭的蜡烛。中间有一个廉价的美国白色金属钟，滴答作响，指针指向九点前二十分钟。角落里放着一个晾衣架，上面挂着两三件大衣，还有两顶帽子，其中一顶半挂在一侧。看起来就像是两个戴着斗篷、戴着帽子的骷髅正在拥抱。门边的另一个角落里，一根黑色的棍子和一把雨伞并排立着。如果不是有书，这个地方就会显得荒凉。空气中弥漫着浓烈的烟草味。

格洛丽亚好奇地环顾四周，尽管她的心跳得很快。这个男人对她来说很熟悉，在很多方面对她来说都很亲爱，而且在她的生活中也有很多。他住的地方，蕴藏着她不知道的他的一部分。她的呼吸急促起来，期待着一种比她已经感受到的更强烈的情感，但她的眼睛好奇地从一个物体移到另一个物体。突然，她听到了木头折断的巨响。壁炉里升起一股纸的火焰，照亮了整个房间，他扔在上面的一些灯片很快就点燃了。他正在打破它们——她看上去——那是一把灯心草底椅子。

“你在干什么？”她叫道，身体突然向前倾得更远。

“生旺火，”他回答道。 “我的盒子里正好只有一点木头，所以我就拿这些东西了。”

他手里折断了椅子的腿和栏杆，就像小孩子折断树枝一样，然后把它们堆到了火上。

“还有五个，”他观察到。 “他们会生一堆火。”

他将燃烧的物体排列成适合自己的形状，看了看，然后转身。

“你应该靠近一点，”他说，然后把她放在椅子上，把她放在壁炉前。

半分钟前，这里看上去、感觉起来都极其荒凉。现在已经改变了。他走到一个角落，用稻草盖的酒瓶倒了一杯酒，递给她。她用眼神感谢他，迫不及待地喝了一半。他又跪在火边，因为下面的纸烧掉了，荧光棒会向内掉下来，可能会熄灭。当他重新安排好一切后，他环顾四周，与她的目光相遇，她仍然跪着。

“那个更好吗？”他轻声问道。

“你太棒了，”格洛丽亚说，她的眼睑下垂，目光从他身上移向那令人愉悦的火焰。

他伸出手，轻轻触碰她的布裙下摆。

“你浑身湿透了，”他说。

然后，在她意识到他在做什么之前，他弯下腰，亲吻了湿布，看也不看她，站了起来，拿了另一把椅子，在她旁边坐下。她的脸颊上泛起一丝喜悦的红晕。这些都是他做的小事，但就像他一样，不做作、坚强、直接。另一个人会因为没有木头而道歉，并会尝试用一根木棍生火。换作另一个人，也许会为自己房间的凌乱或家具的简陋找借口。她想到的另一个男人是她的丈夫，也许她心里也有她的父亲。

“等你休息了，告诉我你的故事。”他说道，脸色一下子变得严肃起来。

她开始用低沉而不确定的声音说话，几乎机械地背诵着许多她以前经常告诉他的事情。他一动不动地听着。她的声音对他来说很亲切，无论她是第十次还是第一百次重复她那无尽的痛苦历史。对于她，他没有判断力，也没有标准，因为他从来没有爱过另一个可以与她相比的女人。她的一切都是最重要的，也是最重要的。他不能经常听到这种声音。但今晚她的第一句话就告诉了他她和利安达生活中的暴力危机，在她达到这一点之前，他以一种前所未有的兴趣听着她所说的一切。但他不会看她，因为他肯定把她抱在怀里，就像几个月前他曾经做过的那样。她是来寻求保护和帮助的，她的需要就是他荣誉的生命源泉。

当她继续说下去时，她的声音因情绪而变得色彩斑斓，她的双手时不时地做出简短而迅速的动作，她的黑眼睛燃烧着。她所拥有的奇妙的戏剧力量在她的错误的鞭打下爆发出来，她找到了她在那一刻才摸索出来的词语。她用严厉的蔑视描述了这个男人令人痛苦的神经衰弱，她的语气把他的缺点变成了邪恶的行为，她的蔑视把他的弱点变成了黑色的罪行；她嫉妒的愤怒紧紧围绕着弗朗西斯卡·坎波多尼科，将她的荣誉撕成碎片，将她的美德撕成可憎的破布。她燃烧的骄傲在对打她脸的胆小鬼的强烈仇恨和蔑视中燃烧起来。

“他把我的扇子打在我脸上！”她喊道，语调越来越高，愤怒仍在上升，而且更加美丽。 “他用它划破了我的脸，把它弄碎了，然后把碎片扔到了我的脚边！在那里，看它！那是他的工作——哦，还给他，为我杀死他，为我把他撕成碎片——让他感受到我今天的感受！”

她把棕色的帽子和面纱从头上推到了后面，湿漉漉的斗篷也早已从肩上掉了下来。当她同伴坐在她旁边时，一只笔直、苍白的手突然伸出来，握住了他的手臂，她对他钢铁般的力量充满了野蛮的信心，摇晃着它。

接下来是死一般的寂静，但破椅子燃起的火焰在低矮的砖壁炉上熊熊燃烧。男人目不转睛地盯着她，仿佛这是他的救赎，因为他觉得如果他看着她，他就会迷失方向。她来找他不是为了爱，而是为了保护，出于她自己的自愿。然而他觉得他的荣誉在他体内燃烧，如果她留在那里，他的生命就不会比那短暂而快速的火焰本身更短暂。他回答时声音浑厚，仿佛隔着天鹅绒的帷幕说话。

“如果他愿意战斗，我就杀了他。”他费力地回答道。 “我不会杀他，即使是为了你。”

她吃了一惊，因为她没有意识到他会如何理解她所说的话。在她有限的一生中，她没有遇到过绝望的男人。

“谋杀他？不！”她说着，从他的手臂上抽回了手。 “不，不！我从来没有这个意思。”

“我很高兴你没有这么做。如果你这样做了，我可能会崩溃并这样做来取悦你。但如果他像个男人一样战斗，我会杀了他来取悦我自己。现在我去叫辆马车送你回家。”

他站起来，转身离开她，走到角落里去拿一件大衣。她的目光追随着他，沉默不语。

“你就不怕被单独留下一刻钟吗？” “怎么了？”他一边问道，一边扣上外套的扣子，看向他的雨伞。

“先别走。”她轻声回答。

“我必须。时间不早了。再等下去就找不到马车了。我现在必须走了。”

“别去。”

她听到他一两次粗重的呼吸声。然后他快步走到她身边，对她说话。

“格洛丽亚，我受不了了——我警告你。我以一种你无法理解的方式爱你。你不应该把我留在这里。”

“别走。”她再次说道，声音低沉而柔和。

“我必须。”

他转身离开她，朝门口走去。她轻柔而迅速地跟着他，但在她的手放在他的手臂上之前，他已经进入了入口。外面已经快黄昏了。他停下来了。

“我无法回到他身边，”她说，他可以看到她眼中的光芒，以及他所爱的脸上微弱的红条。

“你应该——你没有其他地方可去，”他说，在黑暗中他的手找到了通往楼梯的门闩。

“不——没有别的地方了——我不能回到他身边，”她回答道，声音颤抖着，就像夜风在芦苇丛中叹息一样。

“你必须——你必须，”他试图说。

她的重量全部压在他的手臂上，但对他来说却毫无意义。他稳稳地把门栓拉了回来。他把脸转过来，这样就看不到她了。

当他向后仰起头时，她白皙的双手突然用力掐住了他强健的黑喉咙。

“你是我在这个世界上的全部！”她一半说，一半低声。 “我不会让你走！”

“你？”他的声音如同炮弹破裂一样爆发出来。

“是的。回来！”

他的手臂像铅一样垂在身侧。她轻轻地把他拉回书房门口。火焰的火焰射到了她的脸上。

“来吧，”她说。 “看看它燃烧得有多好。”

“是的，”他机械地说，“烧得很好。”

他在门口站了一会儿，让她过去。他的眼皮闭上了，脸变得僵硬，就像一个在激情中死去的人的死亡面具。仅一瞬间；然后他跟着她，轻轻关上了门。

在夜里下了一场大雨之后，这个明媚的冬日早晨有一种令人陶醉的感觉，当保罗·格里格斯穿过他的住所和科隆纳广场之间的狭窄街道时，他感到活着真好。他避开了科尔索；因为他不知道自己会遇到谁，而且除了安吉洛·雷安达之外，他也不想见到任何人。

自然地，他的第一个光荣冲动就是去找艺术家，告诉他一些真相，并给他一个机会，要求在一次充满敌意的会面中获得共同满足。他没有想到利安达不愿意与他交锋，并有机会结束他的生命。格里格斯并不是一个会拒绝这样的遭遇的人，在那一刻，他对自己充满了绝对的信心，以至于被杀的想法已经远离了他的想法。他在利安达家里询问时，并没有丝毫的情绪波动，但当他听说画家像往常一样在规定的时间出去时，他感到非常惊讶。他犹豫了一会儿，然后决定不留下一张卡片，因为他不可能在卡片上写下利安达可以理解的信息，而收到卡片的仆人也不应该理解。格里格斯决定在当天晚些时候写一份正式的便条。他理所当然地认为利安达一定是在寻找他的妻子。

他必须找到一个比弗雷扎大街更好的住所，并尽可能地为格洛丽亚提供舒适的住宿。他遇到了一个他还没有反思过的困难，尽管在过去的十二个小时里他不止一次隐约意识到这一点。

他几乎身无分文，而且没有办法在短时间内筹到钱。他从他工作的报纸上收到的报酬定期到账，但从那天起至少三周后才到期。独自一人过着单身生活，他本可以很好地度过这段时间，而且不会比他反复无常的禁欲主义本性经常强加给自己的困难更大。

他并不是一个缺乏远见的人，但在他孤独的存在中，他对未来的需要没有任何感觉，而他判断力中最薄弱的一点就是他不加区别的慷慨。对于金钱作为应对可能需要的储备的价值，他根本没有任何赞赏，并且他将超出他最紧迫需求的收入捐献给秘密的、常常是判断不善的慈善机构，只要有机会这样做，尽管如此。他从未寻求过。对于他自己来说，他能够靠面包和水维持生计，而微薄的食物对他强健的体质来说并不算什么。如果他碰巧没钱买燃料，他就会忍受寒冷，坐在桌边工作时把旧厚呢短夹克的扣子扣到喉咙处。他的自尊使他在衣着方面明智而谨慎，但在其他方面，许多手工艺人习惯于比他更奢侈。眼下他已经措手不及，发现自己陷入了巨大的困境。在下一次汇款到来之前，他只留下了勉强维持生计的钱，而这意味着只有很少的斯库迪；但他知道某些费用必须立即支付，几乎是在二十四小时内。首先要做的就是给格洛丽亚找到一个合适的住处。至少需要提前缴纳一个月的房租。就算他能做到这一点，他也会连日常开支都没有。他没有银行账户；因为他兑现了收到的汇票并将钱存放在自己的房间里。他从来没有向熟人借过钱，这个想法让他感到厌恶，而且是最丢脸的。如果他拥有任何珠宝或任何有价值的东西，他就会卖掉该物品，但他什么也没有。他的书实际上毫无价值，由他日常使用绝对需要的书籍组成，主要是廉价版本，装订不良且破旧。他至少需要五十个斯库多，但他还不够十个。三周前，他匿名寄了一百封信来帮助一位挨饿的艺术家摆脱债务。

那时他的处境只是非常令人羡慕，但明亮的北风似乎把他的烦恼从他面前吹走了，从他与利安达见面的无效尝试中走回家。毫无成就地回到自己的住处，这与这个人很不一样，但他几乎没有意识到这一点。古城的面貌顿时变了，似乎只要听任命运的安排，不受干扰，就不会出什么问题。他脚步轻快，脸上泛起些许血色。他试图思考自己应该做些什么来应对眼前的困难，但当他想到这些困难时，这些困难就被旋风带走了，无形的、无法辨认的，每呼吸一口清新干燥的空气，他都感到一种不可抗拒的力量。

他一边走，一边扫视着路过的房屋，有些门上贴着用奇怪的笔迹潦草地写着的小告示，告诉人们要出租一间住所。他偶尔会停下来，抬头看看，犹豫一下，然后继续说下去。困难突然摆在了他的面前，他知道即使他看了房间也租不到，因为他没有足够的钱来支付第一个月的房租。他立即尝试想出一些办法来筹集所需的资金，但在他到达下一个拐角之前，清朗的北风像蜘蛛网一样把麻烦吹走了。尽管他有力量、勤奋和决心，但他仍然是一个非常年轻的人，由于激情已经采取了自己的方式，所以困惑并没有困扰他。

他走到了自己所在街道的拐角处，静静地站了一会儿。当他停下来时，他几乎可以对自己微笑了。他已经出去一个多小时了，什么也没做，什么也没想，也没有为未来制定明确的计划。他现在的贫困已经够绝望的了，他戴上了狂欢节面具，可以说是在嘲笑他，而当他试图与它搏斗并正视它时，他却逃跑了。格洛丽亚就在那里，在那座高大的房子的楼上，早晨的阳光照耀着，其他的一切都不重要了。但如果有什么事情很重要，那么一起讨论并共同做出决定就会很简单。

突然，他为自己和自己智力的混乱感到羞愧。站在街角一动不动，看着路过的行人，听着推着手推车卖乡村蔬菜的人时不时地喊叫，看着那些卖菜的人的脸，有一种温顺和孩子气的感觉。就这样过去了，仿佛期待在那里找到某种解决困难的办法，而他的注意力受到干扰，却无法清楚地理解。他无法连贯地思考，更无法进行明智的推理。他朝自己的房子走了几步，然后又停了下来，问自己要做什么。他觉得自己没有权利回到格洛丽亚，除非他对未来做出了决定。他感觉自己就像一个被派去执行任务的男孩，回来后却忘记了自己要做什么。突然间，他失去了对常识逻辑的把握，当他摸索着一条可能引导他的线索时，他突然被幸福的火焰弄得眼花缭乱，又被自己喜悦的声音震耳欲聋。

他又继续前行，来到了自家门口。独眼鞋匠正在干活，他跨坐在小凳子上，旁边放着一罐棕色的煤。时不时地，当他把打蜡的纱线从两边的皮革中抽出来时，他就会吹进他黑色的手上。格里格斯一动不动地站着，茫然地看着他，只是挣扎着抵抗把他拉向楼梯的力量。

“一阵微弱的北风，”格里格斯说道，以此表示敬意。

“看来必须这么说，”老人咕哝道，在他正在补鞋的鞋底上打了一个新洞。 “对我来说，我的手指就说明了这一点。做鹅卵石一直是一门好生意。这是绅士的职业，因为人们总是坐着。”

“我要换个住处，”格里格斯说。

鞋匠抬起头来，肮脏的拳头放在鞋两侧的长凳上，一只手拿着锥子，另一只手套在皮套里，皮套因年代久远而变黑。

“这么多年过去了！”他惊呼道。 “世界也将迎来终结。我预计会的。现在你要住哪里？”

“我在哪里可以找到一个。我想要一间小公寓——”

“看来你的事情进展顺利了。”老者用一只眼睛审视着对方的脸，说道。

“不。没有更好的。这就是麻烦所在。我想要一套小公寓，但我不想在第一个月月底之前付清费用。”

“那就等到月底再行动吧，先生。”

“那是不可能的。”

“还有一个雌性。”鞋匠毫不犹豫地说。 “我明白。你为什么不这么说？

格里格斯犹豫了。男人的猜测让他大吃一惊。他想，老鞋匠是否知道格洛丽亚来了，都没有什么区别。

“有一位女士——我的一个亲戚——来到了罗马。”

“一位美丽的女士？很漂亮？长着小恶魔之眼？我见过。感谢上帝，一只眼睛仍然完好。你是黑暗的，你的家人是公平的。怎么能让我感兴趣呢？”

“什么？她出去了吗？”格里格斯突然焦虑地问道。 “什么时候？”

“我就猜到了！” “补鞋匠大笑一声，然后用精致的刷毛将纱线指向相反的方向，穿过他打的孔，一根纱线绕在锥子手柄上的结上，另一根纱线绕在皮套上。在他的左手上。他恶狠狠地一拉，把纱线拉紧到手臂的长度。

“夫人什么时候出去的？”格里格斯问道，重复了他的问题。

“可能是半小时前。中风了！你们的关系要是都这么美好该多好啊！”

但格里格斯已经朝楼梯走去。鞋匠把他叫了回来，他就站在台阶下一动不动。

“左边有间小公寓，在三楼。”那人说道。 “昨天，房客们都走了。我本来想请你给我写一张通知贴在门上。至于付钱，老板不会介意的，因为你是老房客了。这很好，你知道吗？有阳光。还有一个厨房。有五个房间，有入口。”

“我会接受的，”格里格斯立即说道，然后跑上楼梯。

当他走进工作室时，他因焦虑而喘不过气来，环顾四周，寻找可以告诉他格洛丽亚去了哪里的东西。他的目光几乎立刻就落在了他惯用的座位前的一张纸上。上面的字是她的。

“我已经去告诉他了。我很快就会回来。”

话虽如此，但这足以让透过窗户照在旧地毯上的阳光变黑。格里格斯坐下来，用手托着头。随着乌云挡在他和幸福之间，他的理智恢复了，在逻辑的预见中，他很快就看到了丈夫和妻子之间暴力和愤怒的场景，可能和解，但他的婚姻立即崩溃了。风暴驱动的爱情。不可能知道格洛丽亚会告诉利安达什么。

与此同时，他所处的困境也向他袭来，需要立即解决。他环顾四周，看看那间简陋的房间、简陋的家具和破旧的地毯，贫穷的恐惧袭来。他允许格洛丽亚来到他身边，他知道自己无法体面地支持她。在他短暂而冒险的一生中，他从未发现自己处于如此绝望的境地。当他独自一人遭受贫困时，他可以面对任何事情，但将痛苦强加给他所爱的女人是可怕的。

然后，他也问自己，如果利安达杀了他，格洛丽亚会怎么样，这是有可能的。如果他没有被杀，她的父亲达尔林普尔随时可能回来。没有人能预测苏格兰人会做什么。就像他除了拒绝再见到他的女儿之外什么也不做。但他也可能选择战斗，尽管他的英国传统会反对。无论如何，格洛丽亚面临着被孤立、被毁掉和不受保护的风险。

但目前的问题是一个更严重的问题，尽管其方式也同样令人绝望。他责备自己在案子如此紧急的情况下竟然浪费了一个小时。他不再犹豫，开始给他工作的编辑写信，请求他们帮忙预付下一笔汇款。即便如此，他也很难指望不到十天就能拿到钱，而且也没有人愿意向他求助。在一般情况下，他宁愿几天不吃东西，也不愿向熟人借东西，但他意识到，他必须在一两天内克服这种虚假的骄傲，冒着让格洛丽亚受苦的风险。

在最初的几个小时里，他并没有意识到所发生的事情是对还是错。从相当世俗的意义上来说，荣誉始终为他提供了所有其他道德考虑的位置。他所爱的女人受到丈夫的虐待，来到他这里寻求保护。尽管他很爱，他还是尽了最大的努力让她回去，而她知道如何拒绝。男人，作为男人，不会因为他所做的事而责备他。格洛丽亚作为一个女人，绝不能责怪他诱惑了她。他可能会因为自己的行为而受苦，但他绝不会因此而脸红。

与此同时，格洛丽亚独自外出，打算找到她的丈夫，并告诉他，木已成舟，她仓促而愤怒地离开了他，但她永远不会回到他的家。她觉得自己必须经历这一系列的情感，直到最后一环，直到她再也感觉不到为止。这就像她直接前往利安达，从她中断的地方继续战斗。她的愤怒来得很突然，但时间并不短暂。她已经摆脱了弱点，找到了自己的力量，她希望伤害她的男人能感受到她是多么坚强，以及她如何能够从他手中夺走自己的生命，并为自己保留它。并随心所欲地生活，不管他和谁。现在，她血管里流淌的狂野的血液是自由的，她的意思是，除了她自己，任何人都不应再有权利阻止它，告诉她的心脏，它应该在每一分钟内跳动很多次，不能再多了。她非常清楚，她正在用自己的自由接受社会的毁灭，但她长期以来对这个社会怀有怨恨，这个社会似乎为了弗朗西斯卡而在抗议中接受了她，她已经准备好背弃它了。在它最终下定决心将她降级到冷漠宽容的中等距离之前。

As for Reanda, on that first morning she hated him with all her soul, for himself, and for what he had done to her. She had words ready for him, and she turned and fitted them in her heart that they might cut him and stab him as long as he could feel. The selfishness with a tendency to cruelty which was a working spring of her father’s character was strong in her, and craved the satisfaction of wounding. A part of the sudden joy in life which she felt as she walked towards what had been her home, lay in the certainty of dealing back fourfold hurt for every real and fancied injury she had ever suffered at Reanda’s hands.

She felt quite sure of finding him. She did not imagine it possible that after what had happened he should go to the Palazzetto Borgia to work as usual. Besides, he must have discovered her absence by this time, and would in all probability be searching for her. She smiled at the idea, and she went swiftly on, keenly ready to give all the pain she could.

At her own door the servant seemed surprised to see her. Every one had supposed that she was still in her room, for it was not yet midday, and she sometimes slept very late. She glanced at the hall table and saw her key lying amongst the cards where she had thrown it when she had left the house. The servant did not see her take it, for she made a pretence of turning the cards over to find some particular one. She asked indifferently about her husband. The man said that Reanda had gone out as usual. Gloria started a little in surprise, and inquired whether he had left no message for her. On hearing that he had given none, she sent the servant away, went to her own room, and locked herself in.

With a curious Scotch caution very much at variance with her conduct, she reflected that as the servants were evidently not aware of what had taken place, they might as well be kept in the dark. In a few moments she gave the room the appearance which it usually had in the morning. With perfect calmness she dressed for the day, and then rang for her maid.

She told the woman that she had slept badly, had got up early, and had gone out for a long walk; that she now intended to leave Rome for a few days, for a change of air, and must have what she needed packed within an hour. She gave a few orders, clearly and concisely, and then went out again, leaving word that if Reanda returned he should be told that she was coming back very soon.

Clearly, she thought, he must have supposed that she was still sleeping, and he had gone to his painting without any further thought of her. Again she smiled, and a line of delicate cruelty was faintly shadowed about her lips. She left the house and walked in the direction of the Palazzetto. Reanda always came home to the midday breakfast, and it was nearly time for him to be on his way. Gloria knew every turning which he would take, and she hoped to meet him. Her eyes flashed in anticipation of the contest, and she felt that he would not be able to meet them. They would be too bright for him. There was a small mark on her cheek still, where one of the sharp edges of the ivory slats had scratched her fair skin, and there was a slight redness on that side, but the bright red bar was gone. She was glad of it, as she nodded to a passing acquaintance.

She wished to assure herself that her husband was really at the Palazzetto, and she inquired of the porter at the great gate whether Reanda had been seen that morning. The man said that he had come at the usual hour, and stood aside for her to pass, but she turned from him abruptly and went away without a word.

The blood rose in her cheeks, and her heart beat angrily. He had attached no more importance than this to what he had done, and had gone to his painting as though nothing had happened. He had not even tried to see her in the morning to beg her pardon for having struck her. Strange to say, in spite of what she herself had done, that was what most roused her anger. She demanded the satisfaction of his asking her forgiveness, as though she had no fault to find with herself. In comparison with his cowardly violence to her, her leaving him for Griggs was as nothing in her eyes.

She walked more slowly as she went homewards, and the unspoken bitterness of her heart choked her, and the sharp words she could not speak cut her cruelly. She compared the hand that had dared to hurt though it had not strength to kill, with that other, dearer, gentler, more terrible hand, which could have killed anything, but which would rather be burned to the wrist than let one of its fingers touch her roughly. She compared them, and she loved the one and she loathed the other, with all her heart. And with that same hand Reanda, at that same moment, was painting some goddess’s face, and it had forgotten whose divinely lovely cheek it had struck. It was painting unless, perhaps, it lay in Francesca’s. But Gloria had not forgotten, and she would repay before the day darkened.

Her husband, since he was calm enough to go to his work, would come home for his breakfast when he was hungry. Gloria went back to her room and superintended the packing of what she needed. But she was not so calm as she had been half an hour earlier, and she waited impatiently for her husband’s return and for the last scene of the drama. When the things were packed, she had the box taken out to the hall and sent for a cab. As she foresaw the situation, she would leave the house forever as soon as the last word was spoken. Then she went into the drawing-room and waited, watching the clock.

There, on the mantelpiece, lay the broken fan, where the fragments had been placed by the servant. Gloria looked at them, handled them curiously, and felt her cheek softly with her hand. He must have struck her with all his might, she thought, to have hurt her as he had with so light a weapon; and the whole quarrel came back to her vividly, in every detail, and with every spoken word.

She could not regret what she had done. With an attempt at self-examination, which was only a self-justification, she tried to recall the early days when she had loved her husband, and to conjure up the face with the gentle light in it. She failed, of course, and the picture that came disgusted her and was unutterably contemptible and weak and full of cowardice. The face of Paul Griggs came in its place a moment later, and she heard in her ears the deep, stern voice, quavering with strength rather than with weakness, and she could feel the arms she loved about her, pressing her almost to pain, able to press her to death in their love-clasp.

The hands of the clock went on, and Reanda did not come. She was surprised to find how long she had waited, and with a revulsion of feeling she rose to her feet. If he would not come, she would not wait for him. She was hungry, too. It was absurd, perhaps, but she would not eat his bread nor sit at his table, not even alone. She went to her writing-table and wrote a note to him, short, cruel, and decisive. She wrote that if her father had been in Rome she would have gone to him for protection. As he was absent, she had gone to her father’s best friend and her own—to Paul Griggs. She said nothing more. He might interpret the statement as he pleased. She sealed the note and addressed it, and before she went out of the house she gave it to the servant, to be given to Reanda as soon as he came home. The man-servant went downstairs with her, and stood looking after the little open cab; he saw Gloria speak to the coachman, who nodded and changed his direction before they were out of sight.

At the door in the Via della Frezza the cabman let down Gloria’s luggage and drove away. She stood still a moment and looked at the one-eyed cobbler.

“You have given the signore a beautiful fright,” observed the old man. “I told him you had gone out. With one jump he was upstairs. By this time he cries.”

Gloria took a silver piece of two pauls from her purse.

“Can you carry up these things for me?” she inquired, concealing her annoyance at the man’s speech.

“I am not a porter,” said the cobbler, with his head on one side. “But one must live. With courage and money one makes war. There are three pieces. One at a time. But you must watch the door while I carry up the box. If any one should steal my tools, it would be a beautiful day’s work. Without them I should be in the middle of the street. You will understand, Signora. It is not to do you a discourtesy, but my tools are my bread. Without them I cannot eat. There is also the left boot of Sor Ercole. If any one were to steal it, Sor Ercole would go upon one leg. Imagine the disgrace!”

“I will stay here,” said Gloria. “Do not be afraid.”

The cobbler, who was a strong old man, got hold of the trunk and shouldered it with ease. When he stood up, Gloria saw that he was bandy-legged and very short.

She turned and stood on the threshold of the street door as she had stood on the previous night. No one would have believed that a few hours earlier the rain had fallen in torrents, for the pavement was dry, and even under the arch thereseemed to be no dampness. Looking up the street towards the Corso, she saw that there was a wine shop, a few doors higher on the opposite side. Two or three men were standing before it, under the brown bush which served for a sign, and amongst them she saw a peasant in blue cloth clothes with silver buttons and clean white stockings. She recognized him as the man who had held his umbrella over her in the storm. He also saw her, lifted his felt hat and came forwards, crossing the street. His look was fixed on her face with a stare of curiosity as he stood before her.

“I hope you have not caught cold, Signora,” he said, with steady, unwinking eyes. “We passed a beautiful storm. Signora, I sell wine to that host. If you should need wine, I recommend him to you.” He pointed to the shop.

“You told me to ask for you at the Piazza Montanara,” said Gloria, smiling.

“With that water you could not see the shop,” answered Stefanone. “Signora, you are very beautiful. With permission, I say that you should not walk alone at night.”

“It was the first and last time,” said Gloria. “Fortunately, I met a person of good manners. I thank you again.”

“Signora, you are so beautiful that the Madonna and her angels always accompany you. With permission, I go. Good day.”

To the last, until he turned, he kept his eyes steadily fixed on Gloria’s face, as though searching for a resemblance in her features. She noticed his manner and remembered him very distinctly after the second meeting.

The cobbler came back again, closely followed by Griggs himself, who said nothing, but took possession of the small valise and bag which Gloria had brought in addition to her box. He led the way, and she followed him swiftly. Inside the door of his lodging he turned and looked at her.

“Please do not go away suddenly without telling me,” he said in a low voice. “I am easily frightened about you.”

“真？”

Gloria held out her two hands to meet him. He nodded as he took them.

“That is better than anything you have ever said to me.” She drew him to her.

It was natural, for she was thinking how Reanda had calmly gone back to his work that morning, without so much as asking for her. The contrast was too great and too strong, between love and indifference.

They went into the work-room together, and Gloria sat down on one of the rush chairs, and told Griggs what she had done. He walked slowly up and down while she was speaking, his eyes on the pattern of the old carpet.

“I might have stayed,” she said at last. “The servants did not even know that I had been out of the house.”

“You should have stayed,” said Griggs. “I ought to say it, at least.”

But as he spoke the mask softened and the rare smile beautified for one instant the still, stern face.

Reanda neither wished to see Gloria again, nor to take vengeance upon Paul Griggs. He was not a brave man, morally or physically, and he was glad that his wife had left him. She had put him in the right, and he had every reason for refusing ever to see her again. With a cynicism which would have been revolting if it had not been almost childlike in its simplicity, he discharged his servants, sold his furniture, gave up his apartment in the Corso, and moved back to his old quarters in the Palazzetto Borgia. But he did not acknowledge Gloria’s note in any other way.

She had left him, and he wished to blot out her existence as though he had never known her, not even remembering the long two years of his married life. She was gone. There was no Gloria, and he wished that there never had been any woman with her name and face.

On the third day, he met Paul Griggs in the street. The younger man saw Reanda coming, and stood still on the narrow pavement, in order to show that he had no intention of avoiding him. As the artist came up, Griggs lifted his hat gravely. Reanda mechanically raised his hand to his own hat and passed the man who had injured him, without a word. Griggs saw a slight, nervous twitching in the delicate face, but that was all. He thought that Reanda looked better, less harassed and less thin, than for a long time. He had at once returned to his old peaceful life and enjoyed it, and had evidently not the smallest intention of ever demanding satisfaction of his former friend.

Francesca Campodonico had listened in nervous silence to Reanda’s story.

“She has done me a kindness,” he concluded. “It is the first. She has given me back my freedom. I shall not disturb her.”

The colour was in Francesca’s face, and her eyes looked down. Her delicate lips were a little drawn in, as though she were making an effort to restrain her words, for it was one of the hardest moments of her life. Being what she was, it was impossible for her to understand Gloria’s conduct. But at the same time she felt that she was liberated from something which had oppressed her, and the colour in her cheeks was a flash of satisfaction and relief mingled with a certain displeasure at her own sensations and the certainty that she should be ashamed of them by and bye.

It was not in her nature to accept such a termination for Reanda’s married life, however he himself might be disposed to look upon it.

“You are to blame almost as much as Gloria,” she said, and she was sincerely in earnest.

She was too good and devout a woman to believe in duelling, but she was far too womanly to be pleased with Reanda’s indifference. It was wicked to fight duels and unchristian to seek revenge. She knew that, and it was a conviction as well as an opinion. But a man who allowed another to take his wife from him and did not resent the injury could not command her respect. Something in her blood revolted against such tameness, though she would not for all the world have had Reanda take Gloria back. Between the two opposites of conviction and instinct, she did not know what to do. Moreover, Reanda had struck his wife. He admitted it, though apologetically and with every extenuating circumstance which he could remember.

“Yes,” he answered. “I know that I did wrong. Am I infallible? Holy Saint Patience! I could bear no more. But it is clear that she was waiting for a reason for leaving me. I gave it to her, and she should be grateful. She also is free, as I am.”

“It is horrible!” exclaimed Francesca, with sorrowful emphasis.

She blamed herself quite as much as Reanda or Gloria, because she had brought them together and had suggested the marriage. Reanda’s thin shoulders went up, and he smiled incredulously.

“I do not see what is so horrible,” he answered. “Two people think they are in love. They marry. They discover their mistake. They separate. Well? It is finished. Let us make the sign of the cross over it.”

The common Roman phrase, signifying that a matter is ended and buried, as it were, jarred upon Francesca, for whom the smallest religious allusion had a real meaning.

“It is not the sign of the cross which should be made,” she said sadly and gravely, and the colour was gone from her face now. “There are two lives wrecked, and a human soul in danger. We cannot say that it is finished, and pass on.”

“What would you have me do?” asked Reanda, almost impatiently. “Take her back?”

“No!” exclaimed Francesca, with a sharp intonation as though she were hurt.

“Well, then, what? I do not see that anything is to be done. She herself can think of her soul. It is her property. She has made me suffer enough—let some one else suffer. I have enough of it.”

“You will forgive her some day,” said Francesca. “You are angry still, and you speak cruelly. You will forgive her.”

“Never,” answered Reanda, with emphasis. “I will not forgive her for what she made me bear, any more than I will forgive Griggs for receiving her when she left me. I will not touch them, but I will not forgive them. I am not angry. Why should I be?”

Francesca sighed, for she did not understand the man, though hitherto she had always understood him, or thought that she had, ever since she had been a mere child, playing with his colours and brushes in the Palazzo Braccio. She left the hall and went to her own sitting-room on the other side of the house. As soon as she was alone, the tears came to her eyes. She was hardly aware of them, and when she felt them on her cheeks she wondered why she was crying, for she did not often shed tears, and was a woman of singularly well balanced nature, able to control herself on the rare occasions when she felt any strong emotion.

In spite of Reanda’s conduct, she determined not to leave matters as they were without attempting to improve them. She wrote a note to Paul Griggs, asking him to come and see her during the afternoon.

He could not refuse to answer the summons, knowing, as he did, that he must in honour respond to any demand for an explanation coming from Reanda’s side. Gloria wished him to reply to the note, giving an excuse and hinting that no good could come of any meeting.

“It is a point of honour,” he answered briefly, and she yielded, for he dominated her altogether.

Francesca received him in her own small sitting-room, which overlooked the square before the Palazzetto. It was very quiet, and there were roses in old Vienna vases. It was a very old-fashioned room, the air was sweet with the fresh flowers, and the afternoon sun streamed in through a single tall window. Francesca sat on a small sofa which stood crosswise between the window and the writing-table. She had a frame before her on which was stretched a broad band of deep red satin, a piece of embroidery in which she was working heraldic beasts and armorial bearings in coloured silks.

She did not rise, nor hold out her hand, but pointed to a chair near her, as she spoke.

“I asked you to come,” she said, “because I wish to speak to you about Gloria.”

Griggs bent his head, sat down, and waited with a perfectly impassive face. Possibly there was a rather unusual aggressiveness in the straight lines of his jaw and his even lips. There was a short silence before Francesca spoke again.

“Do you know what you have done?” she asked, finishing a stitch and looking quietly into the man’s deep eyes.

He met her glance calmly, but said nothing, merely bending his head again, very slightly.

“It is very wicked,” said she, and she began to make another stitch, looking down again.

“I have no doubt that you think so,” answered Paul Griggs, slowly nodding a third time.

“It is not a question of opinion. It is a matter of fact. You have ruined the life of an innocent woman.”

“If social position is the object of existence, you are right,” he replied. “I have nothing to say.”

“I am not speaking of social position,” said Donna Francesca, continuing to make stitches.

“Then I am afraid that I do not understand you.”

“Can you conceive of nothing more important to the welfare of men and women than social position?”

“It is precisely because I do, that I care so little what society thinks. I do not understand you.”

“I have known you some time,” said Francesca. “I had not supposed that you were a man without a sense of right and wrong. That is the question which is concerned now.”

“It is a question which may be answered from more than one point of view. You look at it in one way, and I in another. With your permission, we will differ about it, since we can never agree.”

“There is no such thing as differing about right and wrong,” answered Donna Francesca, with a little impatience. “Right is right, and wrong is wrong. You cannot possibly believe that you have done right. Therefore you know that you have done wrong.”

“That sort of logic assumes God at the expense of man,” said Griggs, calmly.

Francesca looked up with a startled expression in her eyes, for she was shocked, though she did not understand him.

“God is good, and man is sinful,” she answered, in the words of her simple faith.

“Why?” asked Griggs, gravely.

He waited for her answer to the most tremendous question which man can ask, and he knew that she could not answer him, though she might satisfy herself.

“I have never talked about religion with an atheist,” she said at last, slowly pushing her needle through the heavy satin.

“I am not an atheist, Princess.”

“A Protestant, then—”

“I am not a Protestant. I am a Catholic, as you are.”

She looked up suddenly and faced him with earnest eyes.

“Then you are not a good Catholic,” she said. “No good Catholic could speak as you do.”

“Even the Apostles had doubts,” answered Griggs. “But I do not pretend to be good. Since I am a man, I have a right to be a man, and to be treated as a man. If the right is not given me freely, I will take it. You cannot expect a body to behave as though it were a spirit. A man cannot imitate an invisible essence, any more than a sculptor can imitate sound with a shape of clay. When we are spirits, we shall act as spirits. Meanwhile we are men and women. As a man, I have not done wrong. You have no right to judge me as an angel. Is that clear?”

“Terribly clear!” Francesca slowly shook her head. “And terribly mistaken,” she added.

“You see,” answered the young man. “It is impossible to argue the point. We do not speak the same language. You, by your nature, believe that you can imitate a spirit. You are spiritual by intuition and good by instinct, according to the spiritual standard of good. I am, on the contrary, a normal man, and destined to act as men act. I cannot understand you and you, if you will allow me to say so, cannot possibly understand me. That is why I propose that we should agree to differ.”

“And do you think you can sweep away all right and wrong, belief and unbelief, salvation and perdition, with such a statement as that?”

“Not at all,” replied Griggs. “You tell me that I am wicked. That only means that I am not doing what you consider right. You deny my right of judgment, in favour of your own. You make witnesses of spirits against the doings of men. You judge my body and condemn my soul. And there is no possible appeal from your tribunal, because it is an imaginary one. But if you will return to the facts of the case, you will find it hard to prove that I have ruined the life of an innocent woman, as you told me that I had.”

“You have! There is no denying it.”

“Socially, and it is the fault of society. But society is nothing to me. I would be an outcast from society for a much less object than the love of a woman, provided that I had not to do anything dishonourable.”

“Ah, that is it! You forget that a man’s honour is his reputation at the club, while the honour of a woman is founded in religion, and maintained upon a single one of God’s commandments—as you men demand that it shall be.”

Griggs was silent for a moment. He had never heard a woman state the case so plainly and forcibly, and he was struck by what she said. He could have answered her quickly enough. But the answer would not have been satisfactory to himself.

“You see, you have nothing to say,” she said. “But in one way you are right. We cannot argue this question. I did not ask you to come in order to discuss it. I sent for you to beg you to do what is right, as far as you can. And you could do much.”

“What should you think right?” asked Griggs, curious to know what she thought.

“You should take Gloria to her father, as you are his friend. Since she has left her husband, she should live with her father.”

“That is a very simple idea!” exclaimed the young man, with something almost like a laugh.

“Right is always simple,” answered Francesca, quietly. “There is never any doubt about it.”

She looked at him once, and then continued to work at her embroidery. His eyes rested on the pure outline of her maidenlike face, and he was silent for a moment. Somehow, he felt that her simplicity of goodness rebuked the simplicity of his sin.

“You forget one thing,” said Griggs at last. “You make a spiritual engine of mankind, and you forget the mainspring of the world. You leave love out of the question.”

“Perhaps—as you understand love. But you will not pretend to tell me that love is necessarily right, whatever it involves.”

“Yes,” answered the young man. “That is what I mean. Unless your God is a malignant and maleficent demon, the overwhelming passions which take hold of men, and against which no man can fight beyond a certain point, are right, because they exist and are irresistible. As for what you propose that I should do, I cannot do it.”

“You could, if you would,” said Francesca. “There is nothing to hinder you, if you will.”

“There is love, and I cannot.”

Paul Griggs left Francesca with the certainty in his own mind that she had produced no impression whatever upon him, but he was conscious that his opinion of her had undergone a change. He was suddenly convinced that she was the best woman he had ever known, and that Gloria’s accusations were altogether unjust and unfounded. Recalling her face, her manner, and her words, he knew that whatever influence she might have had upon Reanda, there could be no ground for Gloria’s jealousy. She certainly disturbed him strangely, for Gloria was perfect in his eyes, and he accepted all she said almost blindly. The fact that Reanda had struck her now stood in his mind as the sole reason for the separation of husband and wife.

Gloria was far from realizing what influence she had over the man she loved. It seemed to her, on the contrary, that she was completely dominated by him, and she was glad to feel his strength at every turn. Her enormous vanity was flattered by his care of her, and by his uncompromising admiration of her beauty as well as of her character, and she yielded to him purposely in small things that she might the better feel his strength, as she supposed. The truth, had she known it, was that he hardly asserted himself at all, and was ready to make any and every sacrifice for her comfort and happiness. He had sacrificed his pride to borrow money from a friend to meet the first necessities of their life together. He would have given his life as readily.

They led a strangely lonely existence in the little apartment in the Via della Frezza. The world had very soon heard of what had happened, and had behaved according to its lights. Walking alone one morning while Griggs was at work, Gloria had met Donna Tullia Meyer, whom she had known in society, and thoughtlessly enough had bowed as though nothing had happened. Donna Tullia had stared at her coldly, and then turned away. After that, Gloria had realized what she had already understood, and had either not gone out without Griggs, or, when she did, had kept to the more secluded streets, where she would not easily meet acquaintances.

Griggs worked perpetually, and she watched him, delighting at first in the difference between his way of working and that of Angelo Reanda; delighted, too, to be alone with him, and to feel that he was writing for her. She could sit almost in silence for hours, half busy with some bit of needlework, and yet busy with him in her thoughts. It seemed to her that she understood him—she told him so, and he believed her, for he felt that he could not be hard to understand.

He was as singularly methodical as Reanda was exceptionally intuitive. She felt that his work was second to her in his estimation of it, but that, since they both depended upon it for their livelihood, they had agreed together to put it first. With Reanda, art was above everything and beyond all other interests, and he had made her feel that he worked for art’s sake rather than for hers. There was a vast difference in the value placed upon her by the two men, in relation to their two occupations.

“I have no genius,” said Griggs to her one day. “I have no intuitions of underlying truth. But I have good brains, and few men are able to work as hard as I. By and bye, I shall succeed and make money, and it will be less dull for you.”

“It is never dull for me when I can be with you,” she answered.

As he looked, the sunshine caught her red auburn hair, and the love-lights played with the sunshine in her eyes. Griggs knew that life had no more dulness for him while she lived, and as for her, he believed what she said.

Without letting him know what she was doing, she wrote to her father. It was not an easy letter to write, and she thought that she knew the savage old Scotchman’s temper. She told him everything. At such a distance, it was easy to throw herself upon his mercy, and it was safer to write him all while he was far away, so that there might be nothing left to rouse his anger if he returned. She had no lack of words with which to describe Reanda’s treatment of her; but she was also willing to take all the blame of the mistake she had made in marrying him. She had ruined her life before it had begun, she said. She had taken the law into her own hands, to mend it as best she could. Her father knew that Paul Griggs was not like other men—that he was able to protect her against all comers, and that he could make the world fear him if he could not make it respect her. Her father must do as he thought right. He would be justified, from the world’s point of view, in casting her off and never remembering her existence again, but she begged him to forgive her, and to think kindly of her. Meanwhile, she and Griggs were wretchedly poor, and she begged her father to continue her allowance.

If Paul Griggs had seen this letter, he would have been startled out of some of his belief in Gloria’s perfection. There was a total absence of any moral sense of right or wrong in what she wrote, which would have made a more cynical man than Griggs was look grave. The request for the continuation of the allowance would have shocked him and perhaps disgusted him. The whole tone was too calm and business-like. It was too much as though she were fulfilling a duty and seeking to gain an object rather than appealing to Dalrymple to forgive her for yielding to the overwhelming mastery of a great passion. It was cold, it was calculating, and it was, in a measure, unwomanly.

When she had sent the letter, she told Griggs what she had done, but her account of its contents satisfied him with one of those brilliant false impressions which she knew so well how to convey. She told him rather what she should have said than what she had really written, and, as usual, he found that she had done right.

It was not that she would not have written a better letter if she had been able to compose one. She had done the best that she could. But the truth lay there, or the letter was composed as an expression of what she knew that she ought to feel, and was not the actual outpouring of an overfull heart. She could not be blamed for not feeling more deeply, nor for her inability to express what she did not feel. But when she spoke of it to the man she loved, she roused herself to emotion easily enough, and her words sounded well in her own ears and in his. To the last, he never understood that she loved such emotion for its own sake, and that he helped her to produce it in herself. In the comparatively simple view of human nature which he took in those days, it seemed to him that if a woman were willing to sacrifice everything, including social respectability itself, for any man, she must love him with all her heart. He could not have understood that any woman should give up everything, practically, in the attempt to feel something of which she was not capable.

In reply to her letter, Dalrymple sent a draft for a considerable sum of money, through his banker. The fact that it was addressed to her at Via della Frezza was the only indication that he had received her letter. In due time, Gloria wrote to thank him, but he took no notice of the communication.

“He never loved me,” she said to Griggs as the days went by and brought her nothing from her father. “I used to think so, when I was a mere child, but I am sure of it now. You are the only human being that ever loved me.”

She was pale that day, and her white hand sought his as she spoke, with a quiver of the lip.

“I am glad of it,” he answered. “I shall not divide you with any one.”

So their life went on, somewhat monotonously after the first few weeks. Griggs worked hard and earned more money than formerly, but he discovered very soon that it would be all he could do to support Gloria in bare comfort. He would not allow her to use her own money for anything which was to be in common, or in which he had any share whatever.

“You must spend it on yourself,” he said. “I will not touch it. I will not accept anything you buy with it—not so much as a box of cigarettes. You must spend it on your clothes or on jewels.”

“You are unkind,” she answered. “You know how much pleasure it would give me to help you.”

“Yes. I know. You cannot understand, but you must try. Men never do that sort of thing.”

And, as usual, he dominated her, and she dropped the subject, inwardly pleased with him, and knowing that he was right.

His strength fascinated her, and she admired his manliness of heart and feeling as she had never admired any qualities in any one during her life. But he did not amuse her, even as much as she had been amused by Reanda. He was melancholic, earnest, hard working, not inclined to repeat lightly the words of love once spoken in moments of passion. He meant, perhaps, to show her how he loved her by what he would do for her sake, rather than tell her of it over and over again. And he worked as he had never worked before, hour after hour, day after day, sitting at his writing-table almost from morning till night. Besides his correspondence, he was now writing a book, from which he hoped great things—for her. It was a novel, and he read her day by day the pages he wrote. She talked over with him what he had written, and her imagination and dramatic intelligence, forever grasping at situations of emotion for herself and others, suggested many variations upon his plan.

“It is my book,” she often said, when they had been talking all the evening.

It was her book, and it was a failure, because it was hers and not his. Her imagination was disorderly, to borrow a foreign phrase, and she was altogether without any sense of proportion in what she imagined. He did not, indeed, look upon her as intellectually perfect, though for him she was otherwise unapproachably superior to every other woman in the world. But he loved her so wholly and unselfishly that he could not bear to disappoint her by not making use of her suggestions. When she was telling him of some scene she had imagined, her voice and manner, too, were so thoroughly dramatic that he was persuaded of the real value of the matter. Divested of her individuality and transferred in his rather mechanically over-correct language to the black and white of pen and ink, the result was disappointing, even when he read it to her. He knew that it was, and wasted time in trying to improve what was bad from the beginning. She saw that he failed, and she felt that he was not a man of genius. Her vanity suffered because her ideas did not look well on his paper.

Before he had finished the manuscript, she had lost her interest in it. Feeling that she had, and seeing it in her face, he exerted his strength of will in the attempt to bring back the expression of surprise and delight which the earlier readings had called up, but he felt that he was working uphill and against heavy odds. Nevertheless he completed the work, and spent much time in fancied improvement of its details. At a later period in his life he wrote three successful books in the time he had bestowed upon his first failure, but he wrote them alone.

Gloria’s face brightened when he told her that it was done. She took the manuscript and read over parts of it to herself, smiling a little from time to time, for she knew that he was watching her. She did not read it all.

“Dedicate it to me,” she said, holding out one hand to find his, while she settled the pages on her knees with the other.

“Of course,” he answered, and he wrote a few words of dedication to her on a sheet of paper.

He sent it to a publisher in London whom he knew. It was returned with some wholesome advice, and Gloria’s vanity suffered another blow, both in the failure of the book which contained so many of her ideas and in the failure of the man to be successful, for in her previous life she had not been accustomed to failure of any sort.

“I am afraid I am only a newspaper man, after all,” said Paul Griggs, quietly. “You will have to be satisfied with me as I am. But I will try again.”

“No,” answered Gloria, more coldly than she usually spoke. “When you find that you cannot do a thing naturally, leave it alone. It is of no use to force talent in one direction when it wants to go in another.”

She sighed softly, and busied herself with some work. Griggs felt that he was a failure, and he felt lonely, too, for a moment, and went to his own room to put away the rejected manuscript in a safe place. It was not his nature to destroy it angrily, as some men might have done at his age.

When he came back to the door of the sitting-room he heard her singing, as she often did when she was alone. But to-day she was singing an old song which he had not heard for a long time, and which reminded him painfully of that other house in which she had lived and of that other man whom she never saw, but who was still her husband.

He entered the room rather suddenly, after having paused a moment outside, with his hand on the door.

“Please do not sing that song!” he said quickly, as he entered.

“Why not?” she asked, interrupting herself in the middle of a stave.

“It reminds me of unpleasant things.”

“Does it? I am sorry. I will not sing it again.”

But she knew what it meant, for it reminded her of Reanda. She was no longer so sure that the reminiscence was all painful.

In spite of all that Griggs could do, and he did his utmost, it was hard to live in anything approaching to comfort on the meagre remuneration he received for his correspondence, and his pride altogether forbade him to allow Gloria to contribute anything to the slender resources of the small establishment. At first, it had amused her to practise little economies, even in the matter of their daily meals. Griggs denied himself everything which was not absolutely necessary, and it pleased Gloria to imitate him, for it made her feel that she was helping him. The housekeeping was a simple affair enough, and she undertook it readily. They had one woman servant as cook and maid-of-all-work, a strong young creature, not without common-sense, and plentifully gifted with that warm, superficial devotion which is common enough in Italian servants. Gloria had kept house for her father long enough to understand what she had undertaken, and it seemed easy at first to do the same thing for Griggs, though on a much more restricted scale.

But the restriction soon became irksome. In a more active and interesting existence, she would perhaps not have felt the constant pinching of such excessive economy. If there had been more means within her reach for satisfying her hungry vanity, she could have gone through the daily round of little domestic cares with a lighter heart or, at least, with more indifference. But she and Griggs led a very lonely life, and, as in all lonely lives, the smallest details became important.

It was not long before Gloria wished herself in her old home in the Corso, not indeed with Reanda, but with Paul Griggs. He had made her promise to use only the money he gave her himself for their housekeeping. She secretly deceived him and drew upon her own store, and listened in silence to his praise of her ingenuity in making the little he was able to give her go so far. He trusted her so completely that he suspected nothing.

She expected that at the end of three months her father would send her another draft, but the day passed, and she received nothing, so that she at last wrote to him again, asking for money. It came, as before, without any word of inquiry or greeting. Dalrymple evidently intended to take this means of knowing from time to time that his daughter was alive and well. She would be obliged to write to him whenever she needed assistance. It was a humiliation, and she felt it bitterly, for she had thought that she had freed herself altogether and she found herself still bound by the necessity of asking for help.

It seemed very hard to be thus shut off from the world in the prime of her youth, and beauty, and talent. To a woman who craved admiration for all she did and could do, it was almost unbearable. Paul Griggs worked and looked forward to success, and was satisfied in his aspirations, and more than happy in the companionship of the woman he so dearly loved.

“I shall succeed,” he said quietly, but with perfect assurance. “Before long we shall be able to leave Rome, and begin life somewhere else, where nobody will know our story. It will not be so dull for you there.”

“It is never dull when I am with you,” said Gloria, but there was no conviction in the tone any more. “If you would let me go upon the stage,” she added, with a change of voice, “things would be very different. I could earn a great deal of money.”

But Paul Griggs was as much opposed to the project as Reanda had been, and in this one respect he really asserted his will. He was so confident of ultimately attaining to success and fortune by his pen that he would not hear of Gloria’s singing in public.

“Besides,” he said, after giving her many and excellent reasons, “if you earned millions, I would not touch the money.”

She sighed for the lost opportunities of brilliant popularity, but she smiled at his words, knowing how she had used her own money for him, and in spite of him. But for her own part she had lost all belief in his talent since the failure of the book he had written.

The long summer days were hard to bear. He was not able to leave Rome, for he was altogether dependent upon his regular correspondence for what he earned, and he did not succeed in persuading his editors to employ him anywhere else, for the very reason that he did so well what was required of him where he was.

The weather grew excessively hot, and it was terribly dreary and dull in the little apartment in the Via della Frezza. All day long the windows were tightly closed to keep out the fiery air, both the old green blinds and the glass within them. Griggs had moved his writing-table to the feeble light, and worked away as hard as ever. Gloria spent most of the hot hours in reading and dreaming. They went out together early in the morning and in the evening, when there was some coolness, but during the greater part of the day they were practically imprisoned by the heat.

Gloria watched the strong man and wondered at his power of working under any circumstances. He was laborious as well as industrious. He often wrote a page over two and three times, in the hope of improving it, and he was capable of spending an hour in finding a quotation from a great writer, not for the sake of quoting it, but in order to satisfy himself that he had authority for using some particular construction of phrase. He kept notebooks in which he made long indexed lists of words which in common language were improperly used, with examples showing how they should be rightly employed.

“I am constructing a superiority for myself,” he said once. “No one living takes so much pains as I do.”

But Gloria had no faith in his painstaking ways, though she wondered at his unflagging perseverance. Her own single great talent lay in her singing, and she had never given herself any trouble about it. Reanda, too, though he worked carefully and often slowly, worked without effort. It was true that Griggs never showed fatigue, but that was due to his amazing bodily strength. The intellectual labour was apparent, however, and he always seemed to be painfully overcoming some almost unyielding difficulty by sheer force of steady application, though nothing came of it, so far as she could see.

“I cannot understand why you take so much trouble,” she said. “They are only newspaper articles, after all, to be read to-day and forgotten to-morrow.”

“I am learning to write,” he answered. “It takes a long time to learn anything unless one has a great gift, as you have for singing. I have failed with one book, but I will not fail with another. The next will not be an extraordinary book, but it will succeed.”

Nothing could disturb him, and he sat at his table day after day. He was moved by the strongest incentives which can act upon a man, at the time when he himself is strongest; namely, necessity and love. Even Gloria could never discover whether he had what she would have called ambition. He himself said that he had none, and she compared him with Reanda, who believed in the divinity of art, the temple of fame, and the reality of glory.

In the young man’s nature, Gloria had taken the place of all other divinities, real and imaginary. His enduring nature could no more be wearied in its worship of her than it could be tired in toiling for her. He only resented the necessity of cutting out such a main part of the day for work as left him but little time to be at leisure with her.

She complained of his industry, for she was tired of spending her life with novels, and the hours hung like leaden weights upon her, dragging with her as she went through the day.

“Give yourself a rest,” she said, not because she thought he needed it, but because she wished him to amuse her.

“I am never tired of working for you,” he answered, and the rare smile came to his face.

With any other man in the world she might have told the truth and might have said frankly that her life was growing almost unbearable, buried from the world as she was, and cut off from society. But she was conscious that she should never dare to say as much to Paul Griggs. She was realizing, little by little, that his love for her was greater than she had dreamed of, and immeasurably stronger than what she felt for him.

Then she knew the pain of receiving more than she had to give. It was a genuine pain of its kind, and in it, as in many other things, she suffered a constant humiliation. She had taken herself for a heroic character in the great moment when she had resolved to leave her husband, intuitively sure that she loved Paul Griggs with all her heart, and that she should continue to love him to the end in spite of the world. She knew now that there was no endurance in the passion.

The very efforts she made to sustain it contributed to its destruction; but she continued to play her part. Her strong dramatic instinct told her when to speak and when to be silent, and how to modulate her voice to a tender appeal, to a touching sadness, to the strength of suppressed emotion. It was for a good object, she told herself, and therefore it must be right. He was giving his life for her, day by day, and he must never know that she no longer loved him. It would kill him, she thought; for with him it was all real. She grew melancholy and thought of death. If she died young, he should never guess that she had not loved him to the very last.

In her lonely thoughts she dwelt upon the possibility, for it was a possibility now. There was that before her which, when it came, might turn life into death very suddenly. She had moments of tenderness when she thought of her own dead face lying on the white pillow, and the picture was so real that her eyes filled with tears. She would be very beautiful when she was dead.

The idea took root in her mind; for it afforded her an inward emotion which touched her strangely and cost her nothing. It gained in fascination as she allowed it to come back when it would, and the details of death came vividly before her imagination, as she had read of them in books,—her own white face, the darkened room, the candles, Paul Griggs standing motionless beside her body.

One day he looked from his work and saw tears on her cheeks. He dropped his pen as though something had struck him unawares; and he was beside her in a moment, looking anxiously into her eyes.

“What is it?” he asked, and his hands were on hers and pressed them.

“It is nothing,” she answered. “It is natural, I suppose—”

“No. It is not natural. You are unhappy. Tell me what is the matter.”

“It is foolish,” she said, turning her face from him. “I see you working so hard day after day. I am a burden to you—it would be better if I were out of the way. You are working yourself to death. If you could see your face sometimes!” And more tears trickled down.

His strong hands shook suddenly.

“I am not working too hard—for me,” he answered, but his voice trembled a little. “One of your tears hurts me more than a hundred years of hard work. Even if it were true—I would rather die for you than live to be the greatest man that ever breathed—without you.”

She threw her arms about his neck, and hid her face upon his shoulder.

“Tell me you love me!” she cried. “You are all I have in the world!”

“Does it need telling?” he asked, soothing her.

Then all at once his arms tightened so that she could hardly draw breath for a moment, and his head was bent down and rested for an instant upon her neck as though he himself sought rest and refuge.

“I think you know, dear,” he said.

She knew far better than he could tell her, for the truth of his passion shook the dramatic and artificial fabric of her own to its foundations; and even as she pressed him to her, she felt that secret repugnance which those who do not love feel for those who love them overmuch. It was mingled with a sense of shame which made her hate herself, and she began to suffer acutely.

When she thought of Reanda, as she now often did, she longed for what she had felt for him, rather than for anything she had ever felt for Paul Griggs. In the pitiful reaching after something real, she groped for memories of true tenderness, and now and then they came back to her from beyond the chaos which lay between, as memories of home come to a man cast after many storms upon a desert island. She dwelt upon them and tried to construct an under-life out of the past, made up only of sweet things amongst which all that had not been good should be forgotten. She went for comfort to the days when she had loved Reanda, before their marriage—or when she had loved his genius as though it were himself, believing that it was all for her.

Beside her always, with even, untiring strength, Paul Griggs toiled on, his whole life based and founded in hers, every penstroke for her, every dream of her, every aspiration and hope for her alone. He was splendidly unconscious of his own utter loneliness, blankly unaware of the life-comedy—or tragedy—which Gloria was acting for him out of pity for the heart she could break, and out of shame at finding out what her own heart was. Had he known the truth, the end would have come quickly and terribly. But he did not know it. The woman’s gifts were great, and her beauty was greater. Greater than all was his whole-souled belief in her. He had never conceived it possible, in his ignorance of women, that a woman should really love him. She, whom he had first loved so hopelessly, had given him all she had to give, which was herself, frankly and freely. And after she had come to him, she loved him for a time, beyond even self-deception. But when she no longer loved him, she hid her secret and kept it long and well; for she feared him. He was not like Reanda. He would not strike only; he would kill and make an end of both.

But she might have gone much nearer to the truth without danger. It was not his nature to ask anything nor to expect much, and he had taken all there was to take, and knew it, and was satisfied.

The summer passed, with its monotonous heat. Rain fell in August and poisoned the campagna with fever for six weeks, and the clear October breezes blew from the hills, and the second greenness of the late season was over everything for a brief month of vintage and laughter. Then came November with its pestilent sirocco gales and its dampness, pierced and cut through now and then by the first northerly winds of winter.

And then, one day, there was a new life in the little apartment in the Via della Frezza. Fate, relentless, had brought to the light a little child, to be the grandson of that fated Maria Braccio who had died long ago, to have his day of happiness and his night of suffering in his turn and to be a living bond between Gloria and the man who loved her.

They called the boy Walter Crowdie for a relative of Angus Dalrymple, who had been the last of the name. It was convenient, and he would never need any other, nor any third name after the two given to him in baptism.

For a few days after the child’s birth, Griggs left his writing-table. He was almost too happy to work, and he spent many hours by Gloria’s side, not talking, for he knew that she must be kept quiet, but often holding her hand and always looking at her face, with the strong, dumb devotion of a faithful bloodhound.

Often she pretended to be sleeping when he was there, though she was wide awake and could have talked well enough. But it was easier to seem to be asleep than to play the comedy now, while she was so weak and helpless. With the simplicity of a little child Griggs watched her, and when her eyes were closed believed that she was sleeping. As soon as she opened them he spoke to her. She understood and sometimes smiled in spite of herself, with close-shut lids. He thought she was dreaming of him, or of the child, and was smiling in her sleep.

As she lay there and thought over all that had happened, she knew that she hated him as she had never loved him, even in the first days. And she hated the child, for its life was the last bond, linking her to Paul Griggs and barring her from the world forever. Until it had been there she had vaguely felt that if she had the courage and really wished it, she might in some way get back to her old life. She knew that all hope of that was gone from her now.

In the deep perspective of her loosened intelligence the endless years to come rolled away, grey and monotonous, to their vanishing point. She had made her choice and had not found heart to give it up, after she had made it, while there was yet time. Time itself took shape before her closed eyes, as many succeeding steps, and she saw herself toiling up them, a bent, veiled figure of great weariness. It was terrible to look forward to such truth, and the present was no better. She grasped at the past and dragged it up to her and looked at its faded prettiness, and would have kissed it, as though it had been a living thing. But she knew that it was dead and that what lived was horrible to her.

She wished that she might die, as she had often thought she might during the long summer months. In those days her eyes had filled with tears of pity for herself. They were dry now, for the suffering was real and the pain was in her bodily heart. Yet she was so strong, and she feared Paul Griggs with such an abject fear, that she played the comedy when she could not make him think that she was asleep.

“My only thought is for you,” she said. “It is another burden on you.”

He was utterly happy, and he laughed aloud.

“It is another reason for working,” he said.

And even as he said it she saw the writing-table, the poor room, his stern, determined face and busy hand, and herself seated in her own chair, with a half-read novel on her lap, staring at the grey future of mediocrity and mean struggling that loomed like a leaden figure above his bent head. Year after year, perhaps, she was to sit in that chair and watch the same silent battle for bare existence. It was too horrible to be borne. If only he were a man of genius, she could have suffered it all, she thought, and more also. But he himself said that he had no genius. His terrible mechanics of mind killed the little originality he had. His gloomy sobriety over his work made her desperate. But she feared him. The belief grew on her that if he ever found out that she did not love him, he would end life then, for them both—perhaps for them all three.

Surely, hell had no tortures worse than hers, she thought. Yet she bore them, in terror of him. And he was perfectly happy and suspected nothing. She could not understand how with his melancholy nature and his constant assertion that he had but a little talent and much industry for all his stock in trade, he could believe in his own future as he did. It was an anomaly, a contradiction of terms, a weak point in the low level of his unimaginative, dogged strength. She thought often of the poor book he had written. She had heard that talent was stirred to music by a great passion that strung it and struck it, till its heartstrings rang wild changes and breathed deep chords, and burst into rushing harmonies of eloquence. But his love was dumb and dull, though it might be deadly. There had been neither eloquence nor music in his book. It had been an old story, badly told. He had said that he was only fit to be a newspaper man, and it was true, so far as she could see. His letters to the paper were excellent in their way, but that was all he could do. And she had given him, in the child, another reason for being what he was, hard-working, silent—dull.

She looked at him and wondered; for there was a mystery in his shadowy eyes and still face, which had promised much more than she had ever found in him. There was something mysterious and dreadful, too, in his unnatural strength. The fear of him grew upon her, and sometimes when he kissed her she burst into tears out of sheer terror at his touch.

“They are tears of happiness,” she said, trembling and drying her eyes quickly.

She smiled, and he believed her, happier every day in her and in the child.

Then came the realization of the grey dream of misery. Again she was seated by the window in her accustomed chair, and he was in his place, pen in hand, eyes on paper, thoughts fixed like steel in that obstinate effort to do better, while she had the certainty of his failure before her. And between them, in a straw cradle with a hood, all gauze and lace and blue ribbons, lay the thing that bound her to him and cut her off forever from the world,—little Walter Crowdie, the child without a name, as she called him in her thoughts. And above the child, between her and Paul Griggs, floated the little imaginary stage on which she was to go on acting her play over and over again till all was done. She had not even the right to shed tears for herself without telling him that they were for the happiness he expected of her.

He would not leave her. He had scarcely been out of the house for weeks, though the only perceptible effect of remaining indoors so long was that he had grown a little paler. She implored him to go out. In a few days she would be able to go with him, and meanwhile there was no reason why he should be perpetually at her side. He yielded to her importunity at last, and she was left alone with the child.

It was a relief even greater than she had anticipated. She could cry, she could laugh, she could sing, and he was not there to ask questions. For one moment after she had heard the outer door close behind him she almost hesitated as to which she should do, for she was half hysterical with the long outward restraint of herself while, inwardly, she had allowed her thoughts to run wild as they would. She stood for a moment, and there was a vague, uncertain look in her face. Then her breast heaved, and she burst into tears, weeping as never before in her short life, passionately, angrily, violently, without thought of control, or indeed of anything definite.

Before an hour had passed Griggs came back. She was seated quietly in her chair, as when he had left her. The light was all behind her, and he could not see the slight redness of her eyes. Pale as she was, he thought she had never been more beautiful. There was a gentleness in her manner, too, beyond what he was accustomed to. He believed that perhaps she might be the better for being left to herself for an hour or two every day, until she should be quite strong again. On the following day she again suggested that he should go out for a walk, and he made no objection.

Again, as soon as he was gone, she burst into tears, almost in spite of herself, though she unconsciously longed for the relief they had brought her the first time. But to-day the fit of weeping did not pass so soon. The spasms of sobbing lasted long after her eyes were dry, and she had less time to compose herself before Griggs returned. Still, he noticed nothing. The tears had refreshed her, and he found that same gentleness which had touched him on the previous day.

Several times, after that, he went out and left her alone in the afternoon. Then, one day, while he was walking, a heavy shower came on, and he made his way home as fast as he could. He opened the door quickly and came upon her to find her sobbing as though her heart would break.

He turned very pale and stood still for a moment. There was terror in her face when she saw him, but in an instant he was holding her in his arms and kissing her hair, asking her what was the matter.

“I am a millstone around your neck!” she sobbed. “It is breaking my heart—I shall die, if I see you working so!”

He tried to comfort her, soothing her and laughing at her fears for him, but believing her, as he always did. Little by little, her sobs subsided, and she was herself again, as far as he could see. He tried to argue the case fairly on its merits.

She listened to him, and listening was a new torture, knowing as she did what her tears were shed for. But she had to play the comedy again, at short notice, not having had the time to compose herself and enjoy the relief she found in crying alone.

It was a relief which she sought again and again. When she thought of it afterwards, it was as an indescribable, half-painful, half-pleasant emotion through which she passed every day. When she felt that it was before her, as soon as Griggs was out of the house, she made a slight effort to resist it, for she was sensible enough to understand that it was becoming a habit which she could not easily break.

Even after she was quite strong again, Griggs often left her to herself for an hour, and he did not again come in accidentally and find her in tears. He thought it natural that she should sometimes wish to be alone.

One day, when she had dried her eyes, she took a sheet of paper from his table and began to write. She had no distinct intention, but she knew that she was going to write about herself and her sufferings. It gave her a strange and unhealthy pleasure to set down in black and white all that she suffered. She could look at it, turn it, change it, and look at it again. Constantly, as the pen ran on, the tears came to her eyes afresh, and she brushed them away with a smile.

Then, all at once, she looked at the clock—the same cheap little American clock which had ticked so long on the mantelpiece in Griggs’s old lodging upstairs. She knew that he would be back before long, and she tore the sheets she had covered into tiny strips and threw them into the waste-paper basket. When Griggs returned, she was singing softly to herself over her needlework.

But she had enjoyed a rare delight in writing down the story of her troubles. The utter loneliness of her existence, when Griggs was not with her, made it natural enough. Then a strange thought crossed her mind. She would write to Reanda and tell him that she had forgiven him, and had expiated the wrong she had done him. She craved the excitement of confession, and it could do no harm. He might, perhaps, answer her. Griggs would never know, for she always received the letters and sorted them for him, merely to save him trouble. The correspondence of a newspaper man is necessarily large, covering many sources of his information.

It was rather a wild idea, she thought, but it attracted her, or rather it distracted her thoughts by taking her out of the daily comedy she was obliged to keep up. There was in it, too, a very slight suggestion of danger; for it was conceivable, though almost impossible, that some letter of hers or her husband’s might fall into Griggs’s hands. There was a perverseness about it which was seductive to her tortuous mind.

At the first opportunity she wrote a very long letter. It was the letter of a penitent. She told him all that she had told herself a hundred times, and it was a very different production from the one she had sent to her father nearly a year earlier. There were tears in the phrases, there were sobs in the broken sentences. And there were tears in her own eyes when she sealed it.

She was going to ring for the woman servant to take it, and her hand was on the bell. She paused, looked at the addressed envelope, glanced furtively round the room, and then kissed it passionately. Then she rang.

Griggs came home later than usual, but he thought she was preoccupied and absent-minded.

“Has anything gone wrong?” he asked anxiously.

“Wrong?” she repeated. “Oh no!” She sighed. “It is the same thing. I am always anxious about you. You were a little pale before you went out and you had hardly eaten anything at breakfast.”

“There is nothing the matter with me,” laughed Griggs. “I am indestructible. I defy fate.”

She started perceptibly, for she was too much of an Italian not to be a little superstitious.

Stefanone was often seen in the Via della Frezza, for the host of the little wine shop was one of his good customers. The neighbourhood was very quiet and respectable, and the existence of the wine shop was a matter of convenience and almost of necessity to the respectable citizens who dwelt there. They sent their women servants or came themselves at regular hours, bringing their own bottles and vessels of all shapes and of many materials for the daily allowance of wine; they invariably paid in cash, and they never went away in the summer. The business was a very good one; for the Romans, though they rarely drink too much and are on the whole a sober people, consume an amount of strong wine which would produce a curious effect upon any other race, in any other climate. Stefanone, though his wife had formerly thought him extravagant, had ultimately turned out to be a very prudent person, and in the course of a thirty years’ acquaintance with Rome had selected his customers with care, judgment, and foresight. Whenever he was in Rome and had time to spare he came to the little shop in the Via della Frezza. He had stood godfather for one of the host’s children, which in those days constituted a real tie between parents and god-parents.

But he had another reason for his frequent visits since that night on which he had accompanied Gloria and had shielded her from the rain with his gigantic brass-tipped umbrella. He took an interest in her, and would wait a long time in the hope of seeing her, sitting on a rush-bottomed stool outside the wine shop, and generally chewing the end of a wisp of broom. He had the faculty of sitting motionless for an hour at a time, his sturdy white-stockinged legs crossed one over the other, his square peasant’s hands crossed upon his knee,—the sharp angles of the thumb-bones marked the labouring race,—his soft black hat tilted a little forward over his eyes, his jacket buttoned up when the weather was cool, thrown back and showing the loosened shirt open far below the throat when the day was warm.

Gloria reminded him of Dalrymple. The process of mind was a very simple one and needs no analysis. He had sought Dalrymple for years, but in vain, and Gloria had something in her face which recalled her father, though the latter’s features were rough and harshly accentuated. Stefanone had made the acquaintance of the one-eyed cobbler without difficulty and had ascertained that there was a mystery about Gloria, whom the cobbler had first seen on the morning after Stefanone had met her in the storm. It was of course very improbable that she should be the daughter of Dalrymple and Annetta, but even the faint possibility of being on the track of his enemy had a strong effect upon the unforgiving peasant. If he ever found Dalrymple, he intended to kill him. In the meanwhile he had found a simple plan for finding out whether Gloria was the Scotchman’s daughter or not. He waited patiently for the spring, and he came to Rome now every month for a week at a time.

More than once during the past year he had brought small presents of fruit and wine and country cakes for Gloria, and both she and Griggs knew all about him, and got their wine from the little shop which he supplied. Gloria was pleased by the decent, elderly peasant’s admiration of her beauty, which he never failed to express when he got a chance of speaking to her. When little Walter Crowdie was first carried out into the sun, Stefanone was in the street, and he looked long and earnestly into the baby’s face.

“There is the same thing in the eyes,” he muttered, as he turned away, after presenting the nurse with a beautiful jumble, which looked as though it had been varnished, and was adorned with small drops of hard pink sugar. “If it is he—an evil death on him and all his house.”

And he strolled slowly back to the wine shop, his hand fumbling with the big, curved, brass-handled knife which he carried in the pocket of his blue cloth breeches.

He was certainly mistaken about the baby’s eyes, which were remarkably beautiful and of a very soft brown; whereas Dalrymple’s were hard, blue, and steely, and it was not possible that anything like an hereditary expression should be recognizable in the face of a child three weeks old. But his growing conviction made his imagination complete every link which chanced to be missing in the chain.

One day, in the spring, he met Griggs when the latter was going out alone.

“A word, Signore, if you permit,” he said politely.

“Twenty,” replied Griggs, giving the common Roman answer.

“Signore, Subiaco is a beautiful place,” said the peasant. “In spring it is an enchantment. In summer, I tell you nothing. It is as fresh as Paradise. There is water, water, as much as you please. Wine is not wanting, and it seems that you know that. The butcher kills calves twice a week, and sometimes an ox when there is an old one, or one lame. Eh, in Subiaco, one is well.”

“I do not doubt it when I look at you,” answered Griggs, without a smile.

“Thanks be to Heaven, my health still assists me. But I am thinking of you and of your beautiful lady and of that little angel, whom God preserve. In truth, you appear to me as the Holy Family. I should not say it to every one, but the air of Subiaco is thin, the water is light, and, for a house, mine is of the better ones. One knows that we are country people, but we are clean people; there are neither chickens nor children. If you find a flea, I will have him set in gold. You shall say, ‘This is the flea that was found in Stefanone’s house.’ In that way every one will know. I do not speak of the beds. The pope could sleep in the one in the large room at the head of the staircase, the pope with all his cardinals. They would say, ‘Now we know that this is indeed a bed.’ Do you wish better than this? I do not know. But if you will bring your lady and the baby, you will see. Eyes tell no lies.”

“And the price?” inquired Griggs, struck by the good sense of the suggestion.

“Whatever you choose to give. If you give nothing, we shall have had your company. In general, we take three pauls a day, and we give the wine. You shall make the price as you like it. Who thinks of these things? We are Christians.”

When Griggs spoke of the project to Gloria, she embraced it eagerly. He said that he should be obliged to come to Rome every week on account of his correspondence. But Subiaco was no longer as inaccessible as formerly, and there was now a good carriage road all the way and a daily public conveyance. He should be absent three days, and would spend the other four with her.

It was a sacrifice on his part, as she guessed from the way in which he spoke, but it was clearly necessary that Gloria and the child should have country air during the coming summer. He had often reproached himself with not having made some such arrangement for the preceding hot season, but he had seen that she did not suffer from the heat, and his presence in the capital had been very necessary for his work. Now, however, it looked possible enough, and before Stefanone went back to the country for his next trip a preliminary agreement had been made.

Gloria looked forward with impatience to the liberty she was to gain by his regular absences, for her life was becoming unbearable. She felt that she could not much longer sustain the perpetual comedy she was acting, unless she could get an interval of rest from time to time. At first, the hour he gave her daily when he went out alone had been a relief and had sufficed. The tears she shed, the letters she wrote to Reanda, rested her and refreshed her. For she had written others since that first one, though he had never answered any of them. But the small daily interruption of her acting was no longer enough. The taste of liberty had bred an intense craving for more of it, and she dreamed of being alone for days together.

She wrote to Reanda now without the slightest hope of receiving any reply, as madmen sometimes write endless letters to women they love, though they have never exchanged a word with them. It was a vent for her pent-up suffering. It could make no difference, and Griggs could never know. Her strange position put the point of faithfulness out of the question. She was in love with her husband, and the man who loved her held her to her play of love by the terror she felt of what lay behind his gentleness. She dreamed once that he had found out the truth, and was tearing her head from her body with those hands of his, slowly, almost gently, with mysterious eyes and still face. She woke, and found that the heavy tress of her hair was twisted round her throat and was choking her; but the impression remained, and her dread of Griggs increased, and it became harder and harder to act her part.

At the same time the attraction of secretly writing to her husband grew stronger, day by day. She did not send him all she wrote, nor a tenth part of all, and the greater portion of her outpourings went into the fire, or they were torn to infinitesimal bits and thrown into the waste-paper basket. She was critical, in a strangely morbid way, of what she wrote. The fact that she was acting for Griggs, and knew it, made her dread to write anything to Reanda which could possibly seem insincere. No aspiring young author ever took greater pains over his work than she sometimes bestowed upon the composition of these letters, or judged his work more conscientiously and severely than she. And the result was that she told of her life with wonderful sincerity and truth. Truth was her only luxury in the midst of the great lie she had to sustain. She revelled in it, and yet, fearing to lose it, she used it with a conscientiousness which she had never exhibited in anything she had done before. It was her single delight, and she treasured it with scrupulous and miserly care. In her letters, at least, she could be really herself.

But the strain was telling upon her visibly, and Griggs was very anxious about her, and hastened their departure for Subiaco as soon as the weather began to grow warm, hoping that the mountain air would bring the colour back to her pale cheeks. For her beauty’s sake, he could almost have deprecated the prospect, strange to say, for she had never seemed more perfectly beautiful than now. She was thinner than she had formerly been, and her pallor had refined her by softening the look of hard and brilliant vitality which had characterized her before she had left Reanda. There is perhaps no beauty which is not beautified by a touch of sadness. Griggs saw it, and while his eyes rejoiced, his heart sank.

He knew what an utterly lonely life she was leading, even as he judged her existence, and the tender string was touched in his deep nature. She had sacrificed everything for him, as he told himself many a time in his solitary walks. All the love he had given and had to give could never repay her for what she had given him. Marriage, he reflected, was often a bargain, but such devotion as hers was a gift for which there could be no return. She had ruined herself in the eyes of the world for him, but the world would never accuse him, nor shut its doors upon him because he had accepted what she had so freely given. He was not an emotional man, but even he longed for some turn of life in which for her sake he might do something above the dead level of that commonplace heroism which begins in hard work and ends in the attainment of ordinary necessities. He felt his strength in him and about him, and he wished that he could let it loose upon some adversary in the physical satisfaction of fighting for what he loved. It was not a high aspiration, but it was a manly one.

He drew upon his resources to the utmost, in order to make her comfortable in Subiaco when they should get there. He was not a dreamer, though he dreamed when he had time. It was his nature to take all the things which came to him to be done and to do them one after another with untiring energy. He worked at his correspondence, and got additional articles to write for periodicals, though it was no easy matter in that day when the modern periodical was in its infancy.

Gloria, acting her part, complained sadly that he worked too hard. Work as he might, he had no such stress to fear as was wearing out her life. She hated him, she feared him, and she envied him. Sometimes she pitied him, and then it was easier for her to act the play. As for Griggs, he laughed and told her for the hundredth time that he was indestructible and defied fate.

So far as he could see what he had to deal with, he could defy anything. But there was that beyond of which he could not dream, and destiny, with leaden hands, was already upon him, on the day when a great, old-fashioned carriage, loaded with boxes and belongings, brought him and his to the door of Stefanone’s house in Subiaco.

Sora Nanna, grey-haired, and withered as a brown apple, but tough as leather still, stood on the threshold to receive them. She no longer wore the embroidered napkin on her hair, for civilization had advanced a generation in Subiaco, and a coloured handkerchief flapped about her head, and she had caught one corner of it in her teeth to keep it out of her eyes, as the afternoon breeze blew it across her leathery face.

First at the door of the carriage she saw the baby, held up by its nurse, and the old woman threw up her hands and clapped them, and crowed to the child till it laughed. Then Griggs got out. And then, out of the dark shadow of the coach, a face looked at Sora Nanna, and it was a face she had known long ago, with dark eyes, beautiful and deadly pale, and very fateful.

She turned white herself, and her teeth chattered.

“Madonna Santissima!” she cried, shrinking back.

She crossed herself, and did not dare to meet Gloria’s eyes again for some time.

Sora Nanna showed her new lodgers their rooms. They were the ones Dalrymple had occupied long ago, together with a third, opening separately from the same landing. In what had been the Scotchman’s laboratory, and which was now turned into a small bedroom, a large chest stood in a corner, of the sort used by the peasant women to this day for their wedding outfits.

“If it is not in your way, I will leave it here,” said Sora Nanna. “There are certain things in it.”

“What things?” asked Gloria, idly, and for the sake of making acquaintance with the woman, rather than out of curiosity.

“Things, things,” answered Nanna. “Things of that poor girl’s. We had a daughter, Signora.”

“Did she die long ago?” inquired Gloria, in a tone of sympathy.

“We lost her, Signora,” said Nanna, simply. “Look at these beds! They are new, new! No one has ever slept in them. And linen there is, as much as you can ask for. We are country people, Signora, but we are good people. I do not say that we are rich. One knows—in Rome everything is beautiful. Even the chestnuts are of gold. Here, we are in the country, Signora. You will excuse, if anything is wanting.”

But Gloria was by no means inclined to find fault. She breathed more freely in the mountain air, she was tired with the long drive from Tivoli, where they had spent the previous night, and she was more hungry than she had been for a long time.

It was not dark when they sat down to supper in the old guest chamber which opened upon the street. Nanna was anxious and willing to bring them their supper upstairs, but Gloria preferred the common room. She said it would amuse her, and in reality it was easier for her not to be alone with Griggs, and by going downstairs on the first evening she meant to establish a precedent for the whole summer. He had told her that he must go back to Rome for his work on the next day but one, and she counted the hours before her up to the minute when she should be free and alone.

They sat down at the old table at which Dalrymple had eaten his solitary meals so often, more than twenty years earlier. There was no change. There were the same solid, old-fashioned silver forks and spoons, there were plates of the same coarse china, tumblers of the same heavy pressed glass. Had Dalrymple been there, he would have recognized the old brass lamp with its three beaks which poor Annetta had so often brought in lighted when he sat there at dusk. On the shelf in the corner were the selfsame decanters full of transparent aniseed and pink alchermes and coarse brown brandy. Stefanone came in, laid his hat upon the bench, and put his stick in the corner just as he had always done. There was no change, except that Annetta was not there, and the husband and wife had grown almost old since those days.

“How often does the post go to Rome?” Gloria asked of Sora Nanna, while they were at supper.

“Every evening, at one of the night, Signora. There are also many occasions of sending by the carters.”

“I can write to you every day when you are away,” said Gloria in English to Griggs.

She was thinking of those letters which she wrote to Reanda almost in spite of herself, but the loving smile did not play her false, and Griggs believed her.

In her, the duality of her being had created two distinct lives. For him, the two elements of consciousness and perception were merged in one by his love. All that he felt he saw in her, and all that he saw in her he felt. The perfection of love, while it lasts, is in that double certainty from within and from without, which, if once disturbed, can never be restored again. Singly, the one part or the other may remain as of old, but the wholeness of the two has but one chance of life.

On that first night Gloria had an evil dream. She had fallen asleep, tired from the journey and worn out with the endless weariness of her secret suffering. She awoke in the small hours, and moonlight was streaming into the room. She was startled to find herself in a strange place, at first, and then she realized where she was, and gazed at the clouded panes of common glass as her head lay on the pillow, and she marked the moonlight on the brick floor by the joints of the bricks, and watched how it crept silently away. For the moon was waning, and had not long risen above the black line of the hills.

Her eyelids drooped, but she saw it all distinctly still—more distinctly than before, she thought. The level light rose slowly from the floor; very, very slowly, stiff and straight as a stark, shrouded corpse, and stood upright between her and the window. She felt the heavy hair rising on her scalp, and an intense horror took possession of her body, and thrilled through her from head to foot and from her feet to her head. But she could not move. She felt that something held her and pressed on her, as though the air were moulded about her like cast iron.

The thing stood between her and the window, stiff and white. It showed its face, and the face was white, too. It was Angelo Reanda. She knew it, though there seemed to be no eyes in the white thing. She felt its dead voice speaking to her.

“An evil death on you and all your house,” it said.

The face was gone again, but the thing was still there. Very, very slowly, stiff and white, it lay back, straight from the heel upwards, unbending as it sank, till it laid itself upon the floor, and she was staring at the joints of the bricks in the moonlight.

Then she shrieked aloud and awoke. The moonlight had moved a foot or more, and she knew that she had been asleep.

“It was only a dream,” she said to Griggs in the morning. “I thought I saw you dead, dear. It frightened me.”

“I am not dead yet,” he laughed. “It was that salad—there were potatoes in it.”

She turned away; for the contrast between the triviality of what he said and the horror of what she had felt brought an expression to her face which even her consummate art could not have concealed.

The impression lasted all day, and when she went to bed she carefully closed the shutters so that the moonlight should not fall upon the floor. The dream did not return.

“It must have been the salad,” said Griggs, when she told him that she had not been disturbed again.

But Gloria was thinking of death, and his words jarred upon her horribly, as a trivial jest would jar on a condemned man walking from his cell to the scaffold. In the evening Griggs went by the diligence to Rome, and Gloria was left alone with her child and the nurse.

Then she sat down and wrote to Reanda with a full heart and a trembling hand. She told him of her dream, and how the fear of his death had broken her nerves. She implored him to come out and see her when Griggs was in Rome. She could let him know when to start, if he would write one word. It was but a little journey, she said, and the cool mountain air would do him good. But if he would not come, she besought him to write to her, if it were only a line, to say that he was alive. She could not forget the dream until she should know that he was safe.

She was not critical of her writing any more, for she was no longer in fear of being misunderstood, and she wrote desperately. It seemed to her that she was writing with her blood. She had sent him many letters without hope of answer, but something told her that she could not appeal in vain forever, and that he would at last reply to her.

Two days passed, and she spent much of her time with the child. She felt that in time she might love it, if Griggs were not beside her. Then he came back, and in the great joy of seeing her again after that first short separation, the stern voice grew as soft as a woman’s, and the still face was moved. She had looked forward with dread to his return, and she shivered when he touched her; she would have given all she had if only he would not kiss her. Then, when she felt that he might have found her cold to him at the first moment, that he might guess, that he might find out her secret, she shivered again from head to heel, in fear of him, and she forced the smile upon her face with all her will.

“I am so glad, that I am almost frightened!” she cried, and lest the smile should be imperfect, she hid it against his shoulder.

She could have bitten the cloth and the tough arm under it, as she felt him kiss the back of her neck just at the roots of the hair; as it was, she grasped his arm convulsively.

“How strong you are!” he laughed, as he felt the pressure of her fingers.

“Yes,” she answered. “It is the mountain air—and you,” she added.

And, as ever, it seemed to him true. The days he spent with her were heavenly to him as they were days of living earthly hell to her. He did not even leave her alone for an hour or two, as he had done in the city, for when he was in Rome without her he did double work and shortened his sleep by half, that he might lengthen the time he was to have with her. The heat of the capital and the late hours brought out dark shadows under his eyes, and gave her another excuse for saying that he was overworking for her sake, and that she was a burden upon him—she and the child.

On the morning before he next went to Rome, she received a letter from Reanda. The blood rushed scarlet to her face, but Griggs was busy with his own letters and did not see it.

She went to the baby’s room. The child had been taken out by the nurse, and she sat down in the nurse’s chair by the empty cradle and broke the seal of the note. There was a big sheet of paper inside, on which were written these lines in the artist’s small, nervous handwriting:—

“I am perfectly well, but I understand your anxiety about my health. I do not wish to see you, but as human life is uncertain I have given instructions that you may be at once informed of the good news of my death, if you outlive me.”

Gloria’s hand closed upon the sheet of paper, and she reeled forward and sideways in the chair, as though she had received a stunning blow. She heard heavy footsteps on the brick floor in the next room and with a desperate effort at consciousness she hid the crumpled letter in her bosom before the door opened. But the room swam with her as she grasped the straw cradle and tried to steady herself.

In an agony of terror she heard the footsteps coming nearer and nearer, then retreating again, then turning back towards her. She prayed to God at that moment that Griggs might not open the door. To gain strength, she forced herself to rise to her feet and stand upright, but with the first step she took, she stumbled against the chest that contained Annetta’s belongings. The physical pain roused her. She drew breath more freely, and listened. Griggs was moving about in the other room, probably putting together some few things which he meant to take to Rome with him that evening. It seemed an hour before she heard him go away, and the echo of his footsteps came more and more faintly as he went down the stairs. He evidently had not guessed that she was in the little room which served as a nursery—the room which had once been Dalrymple’s laboratory.

She did not read the letter again, but she found a match and set fire to it, and watched it as it burned to black, gossamer-like ashes on the brick floor. It was long before she had the courage to go down and face Griggs and say that she was ready for the daily walk together before the midday meal. And all that day she went about dreamily, scarcely knowing what she did or said, though she was sure that she did not fail in acting her part, for the habit was so strong that the acting was natural to her, except when something waked her to herself too suddenly.

He went away at last in the evening, and she was free to do what she pleased with herself, to close the deadly wound she had received, if that were possible, to forget it even for an hour, if she could.

But she could not. She felt that it was her death-wound, for it had killed a hope which she had tended and fostered into an inner life for herself. She felt that her husband hated her, as she hated Paul Griggs.

She was impelled to fall upon her knees and pray to Something, somewhere, though she knew not what, but she was ashamed to do it when she thought of her life. That Something would turn upon her and curse her, as Reanda had cursed her in her dream—and in the cruel words he had written.

She hardly slept that night, and she rose in the morning heavy-eyed and weary. Going out into the old garden behind the house she met Sora Nanna with a basket of clothes on her head, just starting to go up to the convent, followed by two of her women.

“Signora,” said the old woman, with her leathern smile, “you are consuming yourself because the husband is in Rome. You are doing wrong.”

Gloria started, stared at her, and then understood, and nodded.

“Come up to the convent with us,” said Nanna. “You will divert yourself, and while they take in the clothes, I will show you the church. It is beautiful. I think that even in Rome it would be a beautiful church. I will show you where the sisters are buried and I will tell you how Sister Maria Addolorata was burned in her cell. But she was not buried with the rest. When you come back, you will eat with a double appetite, and I will make gnocchi of polenta for dinner. Do you like gnocchi, Signora? There is much resistance in them.”

Gloria went with the washerwomen. She was strong and kept pace with them, burdened as they were with their baskets. It was good to be with them, common creatures with common, human hearts, knowing nothing of her strange trouble. Sora Nanna took her into the church and showed her the sights, explaining them in her strident, nasal voice without the slightest respect for the place so long as no religious service was going on. The woman showed her the little tablet erected in memory of Maria Addolorata, and she told the story as she had heard it, and dwelt upon the funeral services and the masses which had been said.

“At least, she is in peace,” said Gloria, in a low voice, staring at the tablet.

“Poor Annetta used to say that Sister Maria Addolorata sinned in her throat,” said Nanna. “But you see. God can do everything. She went straight from her cell to heaven. Eh, she is in peace, Signora, as you say. Requiesca’. Come, Signora, it takes at least three-quarters of an hour to make gnocchi.”

And they did not know. She was standing on her daughter’s grave, and the tablet was a memorial of the mother of the woman beside her.

“You make me think of her, Signora,” said the peasant. “You have her face. If you had her voice, to sing, I should think that you were she, returned from the dead.”

“Could she sing?” asked Gloria, dreamily, as they left the church.

“Like the angels in Paradise,” answered Nanna. “I think that now, when she sings, they are ashamed and stand silent to listen to her. If God wills that I make a good death, I shall hear her again.”

She glanced at her companion’s dreamy, fateful face.

“Let us not speak of the dead!” she concluded. “To-day we will make gnocchi of polenta.”

In the afternoon Gloria called Sora Nanna to move the chest against which she had stumbled in the morning. It would be more convenient, she said, to put it under the bed, if it could not be taken away altogether. It was a big, old-fashioned chest of unpainted, unvarnished wood, brown with age, and fastened by a hasp, through which a splinter of white chestnut wood had been stuck instead of a padlock. Gloria saw that it was heavy, as Sora Nanna dragged it and pushed it across the room. She remarked that, if it held only clothes, it must be packed very full.

Sora Nanna, glad to rest from her efforts, stood upright with her hand on her hip and took breath.

“Signora,” she said, “who knows what is in it? Things, certain things! There are the clothes of that poor girl. This I know. And then, certain other things. Who knows what is in it? It may be a thousand years since I looked. Signora, shall we open it? But I think there are certain things that belonged to the Englishman.”

“The Englishman?” asked Gloria, with some curiosity.

She was glad of anything which could interest her a little. For the moment she had not yet the courage to begin to write again after Reanda’s message. Anything which had power to turn the current of her thoughts was a relief. She was sitting in the same chair beside the cradle in which she had sat in the morning, for she had called Nanna to move the box at a time when the child had been taken out for its second airing. She leaned back, resting her auburn hair against the bare wall, the waxen whiteness of her face contrasting with the bluish whitewash.

“What Englishman?” she asked again, wearily, but with a show of interest in her half-closed eyes.

“Who knows? An Englishman. They called him Sor Angoscia.” Nanna sat down on the heavy box, and dropped her skinny hands far apart upon her knees. “We have cursed him much. He took our daughter. It was a night of evil. In that night the abbess died, and Sister Maria Addolorata was burned in her cell, and the Englishman took our daughter. He took our one daughter, Signora. We have not seen her more, not even her little finger. It will be twenty-two years on the eve of the feast of St. Luke. That is in October, Signora. He took our daughter. Poor little one! She was young, young—perhaps she did not know what she did.”

Gloria leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand and her elbow on her knee, gazing at the old woman.

“She was a flower,” said Nanna, simply. “He tore her from us with the roots. Who knows what he did with her? She will be dead by this time. May the Madonna obtain grace for her! Signora, she seemed one of those flowers that grow on the hillside, just as God wills. Rain, sun, she was always fresh. Then came the storm. Who could find her any more? Poor little one!”

“Poor child!” exclaimed Gloria.

And she made Nanna tell all she knew, and how they had found the girl’s peasant dress in a corner of that very room.

“Signora, if you wish to see, I will content you,” said Nanna, rising at last.

She opened the box. It exhaled the peculiar odour of heavy cloth which has been worn and has then been kept closely shut up for years. On the top lay Annetta’s carpet apron. Nanna held it up, and there were tears in her eyes, glistening on her dry skin like water in a crevice of brown rock.

“Signora, there are moths in it, see! Who cares for these things? They are a memory. And this is her skirt, and this is her bodice. Eh, it was beautiful once. The shoes, Signora, I wore them, for we had the same feet. What would you? It seemed a sin to let them mould, because they were hers. The apron, too, I might have worn it. Who knows why I did not wear it? It was the affection. We are all so, we women. And now there are moths in it. I might have worn it. At least it would not have been lost.”

Gloria peered into the box, and saw under the clothes a number of books packed neatly with a box made of English oak. She stretched down her hand and took one of the volumes. It was an English medical treatise. She looked at the fly-leaf.

A loud cry from Gloria startled the old woman.

“Angus Dalrymple—but—” Gloria read the name and stared at Nanna.

“Eh, eh!” assented Nanna, nodding violently and smiling a little as she at last recognized the Scotchman’s name which she had never been able to pronounce. “Yes—that is it. That was the name of the Englishman. An evil death on him and all his house! Stefanone says it always. I also may say it once. It was he. He took our daughter. Stefanone went after them, but they had the beast of the convent gardener. It was a good beast, and they made it run. Stefanone heard of them all the way to the sea, but the twenty-four hours had passed, and the war-ship was far out. He could see it. Could he go to the war-ship? It had cannons. They would have killed him. Then I should have had neither daughter nor husband. So he came back.”

The long habit of acting had made Gloria strong, but her hands shook on the closed volume. She had known that her mother had been an Italian, that they had left Italy suddenly and had been married on board an English man-of-war by the captain, that same Walter Crowdie, a relative of Dalrymple’s, after whom Gloria and Griggs had named the child. More than that Dalrymple had never been willing to tell her. She remembered, too, that though she had once or twice begged him to take her to Tivoli and Subiaco, he had refused rather abruptly. It was clear enough now. Her mother had been this Annetta whom Dalrymple had stolen away in the night.

And the wrinkled, leathery old hag, with her damp, coarse mouth, her skinny hands, and her cunning, ignorant eyes, was her grandmother—Stefanone was her grandfather—her mother had been a peasant, like them, beautified by one of nature’s mad miracles.

There could be no doubt about it. That was the truth, and it fell upon her with its cruel, massive weight, striking her where many other truths had struck her before this one, in her vanity.

She grasped the book tightly with both hands and set her teeth. After that, she did not know what Nanna said, and the old woman, thinking Gloria was not paying a proper attention to her remarks, pushed and heaved the box across the room rather discontentedly. It would not go under the bed, being too high, so she wedged it in between the foot of the bedstead and the wall. There was just room for it there.

“Signora, if ever your one child leaves you without a word, you will understand,” said Nanna, a little offended at finding no sympathy.

“I understand too well,” answered Gloria.

Then she suddenly realized what the woman wanted, and with great self-control she held out her hand kindly. Nanna took it and smiled, and pressed it in her horny fingers.

“You are young, Signora. When you are old, you will understand many things, when evils have pounded your heart in a mortar. Oil is sweet, vinegar is sour; with both one makes salad. This is our life. Rest yourself, Signora, for you walked well this morning. I go.”

Gloria felt the pressure of the rough fingers on hers, after Nanna had left her. The acrid odour of peeled vegetables clung to her own hand, and she rose and washed it carefully, though she was scarcely conscious of what she was doing. Suddenly she dropped the towel and went back to the box. It had crossed her mind that the single book she had opened might have been borrowed from her father and that she might find another name in the others—that Nanna might have been mistaken in thinking that she recognized the English name—that it might all be a mistake, after all.

With violent hands she dragged out the moth-eaten clothes and threw them behind her upon the floor, and seized the books, opening them desperately one after the other. In each there was the name, ‘Angus Dalrymple,’ in her father’s firm young handwriting of twenty years ago. She threw them down and lifted out the oak box. A little brass plate was let into the lid, and bore the initials, ‘A. D.’ There was no doubt left. The books all bore dates prior to 1844, the year in which, as she knew, her father had been married. It was impossible to hesitate, for the case was terribly clear.

She rose to her feet and carried the box to the window and set it upon a chair, sitting down upon another before it. It was not locked. She raised the lid, and saw that it was a medicine chest. There was a drawer, or little tray, on the top, full of small boxes and very minute vials, lying on their sides. Lifting this out, she saw a number of little stoppered bottles set in holes made in a thin piece of board for a frame. One was missing, and there were eleven left. She counted them mechanically, not knowing why she did so. Then she took them out and looked at the labels. The first she touched contained spirits of camphor. It chanced to be the only one of which the contents were harmless. The others were strong tinctures and acids, vegetable poisons, belladonna, aconite, and the like, sulphuric acid, nitric acid, hydrochloric acid, and others.

Gloria looked at them curiously and set them back, one by one, put in the little tray and closed the lid. Then she sat still a long time and gazed out of the window at the rugged line of the hills.

Between her and the pale sky she saw her own life, and the hideous failure of it all, culminating in the certainty that she was of the blood of the old peasant couple to whose house a seeming chance had brought her to die. She felt that she could not live, and would not live if she could. It was all too wildly horrible, too utterly desolate.

The only human being that clung to her was the one of all others whom she most feared and hated, whose very touch sent a cold shiver through her. She and fate together had pounded her heart in a mortar, as the old woman had said. With a bitterness that sickened her she thought of her brief married life, of her poor social ambition, of her hopeless efforts to be some one amongst the great. What could she be, the daughter of peasants, what could she have ever been? Probably some one knew the truth about her, in all that great society. Such things might be known. Francesca Campodonico’s delicate noble face rose faintly between her and the sky, and she realized with excruciating suddenness the distance that separated her from the woman she hated, the woman who perhaps knew that Gloria Dalrymple was the daughter of a peasant and a fit wife by her birth for Angelo Reanda, the steward’s son.

The ruin of her life spread behind her and before her. She could not face it. The confusion of it all seemed to blind her, and the confusion was pierced by the terrible thought that on the next day but one Griggs would return again, the one being who would not leave her, who believed in her, who worshipped her, and whom she hated for himself and for the destruction of her existence which had come by him.

In the box before her was death, painful perhaps, but sure as the grave itself. She was not a coward, except when she was afraid of Paul Griggs, and the fear lest he, too, should find out the truth was worse than the fear of mortal pain.

She sat still in her place, staring out of the window. After a long time, the nurse came in, carrying the child asleep in her arms, covered with a thin gauze veil. Gloria started, and then smiled mechanically as she had trained herself to smile whenever the child was brought to her. The nurse laid the small thing in its cradle, and Gloria, as in a dream, put the books and the clothes back into the box, and was glad that the nurse asked no questions. When she had shut down the lid, she rose to her feet and saw that she had left the medicine chest on the chair. She took it into the bedroom and set it upon the table.

Then she sat down and wrote to Reanda. There was no haste in the writing, and her head was clear and cool, for she was not afraid. Griggs could not return for two days, and she had plenty of time. She went over her story, as she had gone over it many times before in her letters. She told him all, but not the discovery she had just made. That should die with her, if it could. It would be easy enough, on the next day, when the nurse was out, to open the box again, and to tear out the fly-leaf from each book and so destroy the name. As for the medicine chest, Griggs might see that it had belonged to her father, but he would suppose that she had brought it amongst her belongings. He would never guess that it had lain hidden in the old box for more than twenty years. That was her plan, and it was simple enough. But she should have to wait until the next day. It was better so. She could think of what she was going to do, and nobody would disturb her. She finished her letter.

“You have killed me,” she wrote at the end. “If I had not loved you to the very end, I would tell you that my death is on your soul. But it is not all your fault, if I have loved you to death. I would not die if I could be free in any other way, but I cannot live to be touched and caressed again by this man whom I loathe with all my soul. I tell you that when he kisses me it is as though I were stung by a serpent of ice. It is for your sake that I hate him as I do. For your sake I have suffered hell on earth for more than a whole year. For your sake I die. I cannot live without you. I have told you so again and a hundred times again, and you have not believed me. You write to-day and you tell me that I shall be free, when you die, to marry Paul Griggs. I would rather marry Satan in hell. But I shall be free to-morrow, for I shall be dead. God will forgive me, for God knows what I suffer. Good-bye. I love you, Angelo. I shall love you to-morrow, when the hour comes, and after that I shall love you always. This is the end. Good-bye. I love you; I kiss your soul with my soul. Good-bye, good-bye.

“Gloria.”

She cut a lock from her auburn hair and twisted it round and round her wedding ring, and thrust it into the envelope.

Two days later, Paul Griggs stood beside Gloria. She was not dead yet, but no earthly power could save her. She lay white and motionless on the high trestle bed, unconscious of his presence. They had sent a messenger for him, and he had come. The door was locked. Stefanone and his wife whispered together on the landing. In the third room, beyond, the nurse was shedding hysterical tears over the sleeping child.

The strong man stood stone still with shadowy, unblinking eyes, gazing into the dying face. Not a muscle moved, not a feature was distorted, his breath was regular and slow, for his grief had taken hold upon his soul, and his body was unconscious of time, as though it were already dead.

She had suffered horrible agonies for two nights and one day, and now the end was very near, for the wracked nerves could no longer feel. She lay on her back, lightly covered, one white arm and hand above the coverlet, the other hidden beneath it.

The room was very hot, and the sun streamed through the narrow aperture of the nearly closed shutters, and made a bright streak on the red bricks, for it was morning still.

The purple lids opened, and Gloria looked up. There was no shiver now, as she recognized the man she feared, for the nerves were almost dead. Perhaps there was less fear, for she knew that it was almost over. The dark eyes were fixed on his with a mysterious, wondering look.

He tried to speak, and his lips moved, but he could make no sound, and his chest heaved convulsively, once. He knew what she had done, for they had told him. He knew, now that he tried to speak and could not, that he was half killed by grief. She saw the effort and understood, and faintly smiled.

“为什么？”

He wrenched the single broken word out of himself by an enormous effort, and his throat swelled and was dry. Suddenly a single great drop of sweat rolled down his pale forehead.

“I could not live,” she answered, in a cool, far voice beyond suffering, and still she smiled.

“为什么？ 为什么？”

The repeated word broke out twice like two sobs, but not a feature moved. The dying woman’s eyelids quivered.

“I was a burden to you,” she said faintly and distinctly. “You are free now, you have—only the child.”

His calm broke.

“Gloria, Gloria! In the name of God Almighty, do not leave me so!”

He clasped her in his arms and lifted her a little, pressing his lips to her face. She was inert as a statue. She feared him still, and she felt the shiver of horror at his touch, but it could not move her limbs any more. Her eyes opened and looked into his, very close, but his were shut. The mask was gone. The man’s whole soul was in his agonized face, and his arm shook with her. Her mind was clear and she understood. She was still herself, acting her play out in the teeth of death.

“I could not live,” she said. “I could not be a millstone, dragging you down, watching you as you killed yourself in working for me. It was to be one of us. It was better so.”

In his agony he laid his head beside hers on the pillow.

“Gloria—for Christ’s sake—don’t leave me—” The deep moan came from his tortured heart.

“Bring—the child—Walter—” she said very faintly.

Even in death she could not bear to be alone with him. He straightened himself, stood up, and saw the light fading in her eyes. Then, indeed, a shiver ran through her and shook her. Then the lids opened wide, and she cried out loudly.

“Quick—I am going—”

Rather than that she should not have what she wished, he tore himself away and wrenched the door open, forgetting that it was locked.

“Bring the child!” he cried, into the face of old Nanna, who was standing there, and he pushed her towards the door of the other room with one hand, while he already turned back to Gloria.

He started, for she was sitting up, with wide eyes and outstretched hands, gazing at the patch of sunlight on the floor. Dying, she saw the awful vision of her dream again, rising stiff and stark from the bricks to its upright horror between her and the light. Her hands pointed at it and shook, and her jaw dropped, but she was motionless as she sat.

Nanna, sobbing, came in suddenly, holding up the little child straight before her, that it might see its mother before she was gone forever. The baby hands feebly beat its little sides, and it gasped for breath.

Words came from Gloria’s open mouth, articulate, clear, but very far in sound.

“An evil death on you and all your house!” the words said, as though spoken by another.

The outstretched hands sank slowly, as the vision laid itself down before her, straight and corpse-like. The beautiful head fell back upon Griggs’s arm, and the eyes met his.

Nanna prayed aloud, holding up the child mechanically, and the small eyes were fixed, horrorstruck, upon the bed. A low cry trembled in the air. Stefanone, his hat in his hand, stood against the door, bowed a little, as though he were in church. The cry came again. Then there was a sort of struggle.

In an instant Gloria was standing up on the bed to her full height. And the hot, still room rang with a burst of desperate, ear-breaking song, in majestic, passionate, ascending intervals.

The last great, true note died away. For one instant she stood up still, with outstretched hands, white, motionless. Then the flame in the dark eyes broke and went out, and Gloria fell down dead.

“Maria Addolorata! Maria Addolorata!” Nanna screamed in deadly terror, as she heard the transcendent voice that one time, like a voice from the grave.

She sank down, fainting upon the floor, and the little child rolled from her slackened arms upon the coarse bricks and lay on its face, moaning tremulously. No one heeded it.

Stefanone, with instinctive horror of death, turned and went blindly down the steps, not knowing what he had seen, the death notes still ringing in his ears.

On the bed, the man lay dumb upon the dead woman. Only the poor little child seemed to be alive, and clutched feebly at the coarse red bricks, and moaned and bruised its small face. It bore the slender inheritance of fatal life, the inheritance of vows broken and of faith outraged, and with it, perhaps, the implanted seed of a lifelong terror, not remembered, but felt throughout life, as real and as deadly as an inheritance of mortal disease. Better, perhaps, if death had taken it, too, to the lonely grave of the outcast and suicide woman, among the rocks, out of earshot of humanity. Death makes strange oversights and leaves strange gleanings for life, when he has reaped his field and housed his harvest.

They would not give Gloria Christian burial, for it was known throughout Subiaco that she had poisoned herself, and those were still the old days, when the Church’s rules were the law of the people.

Paul Griggs took the body of the woman he had loved, and loved beyond death, and he laid her in a deep grave in a hollow of the hillside. Such words as he had to speak to those who helped him, he spoke quietly, and none could say that they had seen the still face moved by sorrow. But as they watched him, a human sort of fear took hold of them, at his great quiet, and they knew that his grief was beyond anything which could be shown or understood. It was night, and they filled the grave after he had thrown earth into it with his hands. He sent them away, and they left him alone with the dead, leaving also one of their lanterns upon a stone near by.

All that night he lay on the grave, dumb. Then, when the dawn came upon him, he kissed the loose earth and stones, and got upon his feet and went slowly down the hillside to the town beyond the torrent. He went into the house noiselessly, and lay down upon the bed on which she had died. And so he did for two nights and two days. On the third, a great carriage came from Rome, bringing twelve men, singers of the Sistine Chapel and of the choir of Saint Peter’s and of Saint John Lateran, twelve men having very beautiful voices, as sweet as any in the world. He had sent for them when he had been told that she could not have Christian burial.

They were talking and laughing together when they came, but when they saw his face they grew very quiet, and followed him in silence where he led them. Two little boys followed them, too, wondering what was to happen, and what the thirteen men were going to do, all dressed in black, walking so steadily together.

When they all came to the hollow in the hillside, they saw a mound, as of a grave, amidst the stones, and on it there lay a cross of black wood. The singers looked at one another in silence, and they understood that whoever lay in the grave had been refused a place in the churchyard, for some great sin. But they said nothing. The man who led them stood still at the head of the cross and took off his hat, and looked at his twelve companions, who uncovered their heads. They had sheets of written music with them, and they passed them quietly about from one to another and looked towards one who was their leader.

Overhead, the summer sky was pale, and there were twin mountains of great clouds in the northwest, hiding the sun, and in the southeast, whence the parching wind was blowing in fierce gusts. It blew the dry dust from the clods of earth on the grave, and the dust settled on the black clothes of the men as they stood near.

The voices struck the first chord softly together, and the music for the dead went up to heaven, and was borne far across the torrent to the distance in the arms of the hot wind. And one voice climbed above the others, sweet and clear, as though to reach heaven itself; and another sank deep and true and soft in the full close of the stave, as though it would touch and comfort the heart that was quite still at last in the deep earth.

Then one who was young stood a little before the rest, a strong, pale singer, with an angel’s voice. And he sang alone to the sky and the dusty rocks and the solemn grave. He sang the ‘Cujus animam gementem pertransivit gladius’ of the Stabat Mater, as none had sung it before him, nor perhaps has ever sung it since that day—he alone, without other music.

They came also to the words ‘Fac ut animæ donetur Paradisi gloria,’ and the word was a name to him who listened silently in their midst.

Besides these they sang also a ‘Miserere,’ and last of all, ‘Requiem eternam dona eis.’

Then there was silence, and they looked at the still face, as though asking what they should do. The mysterious eyes met theirs with shadows. The pale head bent itself in thanks, twice or thrice, but there were no words.

So they turned and left him there on the hillside, and went back to the town, awestruck by the vastness of the man’s sorrow. And afterwards, for many years, when any of them heard of a great grief, he shook his head and said that he and those who had sung with him over a lonely grave in the mountains, alone knew what a man could feel and yet live.

And Paul Griggs lived through those days, and is still alive. His grief could not spend itself, but his stern strength took hold of life again, and he took the child with him and went back to Rome, to work for it from that time forward, and to shield it from evil if he could, and to bring it up to be a man, ignorant of what had happened in Subiaco in those summer days, ignorant of the tie that made it his, to be a man free from the burden of past fates and sins and broken vows and trampled faith, and of the death his dead mother had died, having a clean name of his own, with which there could be no memories of misery and fear and horror.

He wrote a few short words to Angus Dalrymple, now Lord Redin at last, to tell him the truth as far as he knew it. The hand that had laboured so bravely for Gloria could hardly trace the words that told of her death.

Then, when the summer heat was passed, he took little Walter Crowdie with him, hiring an Englishwoman to tend the child, and he crossed the ocean and gave it to certain kinsfolk of his in America, telling them that it was the child of one who had been very dear to him, that he had taken it as his own, and would provide for it and take it back when it should be older. And so he did, and little Walter Crowdie grew up with an angel’s voice, and other gifts which made him famous in his day. But many things happened before that time came.

He could do no better than that. For a time he strove to earn money with his pen in his own country. But the land was still trembling from the convulsion of a great war, and there were many before him, and he was little known. After a year had passed, he saw that he could not then succeed, and very heavy at heart he set his face eastward again, to toil at his old calling as a correspondent for a great London paper, to earn bread for himself and for the one living being that he loved.

Not long after this Dalrymple returned to Rome, after an absence of several years. Family affairs had kept him in England and Scotland during his daughter’s married life with Reanda; and after she had left the latter, it was natural that he should not wish to be in the same city with her, considering the view he took of her actions. Then, after he had learned from Griggs’s brief note that she was dead, he felt that he could not return at once, hard and unforgiving as he was. But at last the power that attracted him was too strong to be resisted any longer, and he yielded to it and came back.

He took up his abode in a hotel in the Piazza di Spagna, not far from his old lodgings. Long as he had lived in Rome, he was a foreigner there and liked the foreigners’ quarter of the city. He intended once more to get a lodging and a servant, and to live in his morose solitude as of old, but on his first arrival he naturally went to the hotel. He did not know whether Griggs were in Rome. Reanda was alive, and living at the Palazzetto Borgia; for the two had exchanged letters twice a year, written in the constrained tone of mutual civility which suited the circumstances in which they were placed towards each other.

In Dalrymple’s opinion, Reanda had been to blame to a certain extent, in having maintained his intimacy with Francesca when he was aware that it displeased his wife. At the same time, the burden of the fault was undoubtedly the woman’s, and her father felt in a measure responsible for it. Whether he felt much more than that it would be hard to say. His gloomy nature had spent itself in secret sorrow for his wife, with a faithfulness of grief which might well atone for many shortcomings. It is certain that he was not in any way outwardly affected by the news of Gloria’s death. He had never loved her, she had disgraced him, and now she was dead. There was nothing more to be said about it.

He was not altogether indifferent to the inheritance of title and fortune which had fallen to him in his advanced middle age. But if either influenced his character, the result was rather an increased tendency to live his own life in scorn and defiance of society, for it made him conscious that he should find even less opposition to his eccentricities than in former days, when he had been relatively a poor man without any especial claim to consideration.

Two or three days after he had arrived in Rome, he went to the Palazzetto Borgia and sent in his card, asking to see Francesca Campodonico. In order that she might know who he was, he wrote his name in pencil, as she would probably not have recognized him as Lord Redin. In this he was mistaken, for Reanda, who had heard the news, had told her of it. She received him in the drawing-room. She looked very ill, he thought, and was much thinner than in former times, but her manner was not changed. They talked upon indifferent subjects, and there was a constraint between them. Dalrymple broke through it roughly at last.

“Did you ever see my daughter after she left her husband?” he asked, as though he were inquiring about a mere acquaintance.

Francesca started a little.

“No,” she answered. “It would not have been easy.”

She remembered her interview with Griggs, but resolved not to speak of it. She would have changed the subject abruptly if he had given her time.

“It certainly was not to be expected that you should,” said Lord Redin, thoughtfully. “When a woman chooses to break with society, she knows perfectly well what she is doing, and one may as well leave her to herself.”

Francesca was shocked by the cynicism of the speech. The colour rose faintly in her cheeks.

“She was your daughter,” she said, reproachfully. “Since she is dead, you should speak less cruelly of her.”

“I did not speak cruelly. I merely stated a fact. She disgraced herself and me, and her husband. The circumstance that she is dead does not change the case, so far as I can see.”

“Do you know how she died?” asked Francesca, moved to righteous anger, and willing to pain him if she could.

He looked up suddenly, and bent his shaggy brows.

“No,” he answered. “That man Griggs wrote me that she had died suddenly. That was all I heard.”

“She did not die a natural death.”

“确实？”

“She poisoned herself. She could not bear the life. It was very dreadful.” Francesca’s voice sank to a low tone.

Lord Redin was silent for a few moments, and his bony face had a grim look. Perhaps something in the dead woman’s last act appealed to him, as nothing in her life had done.

“Tell me, please. I should like to know. After all, she was my daughter.”

“Yes,” said Francesca, gravely. “She was your daughter. She was very unhappy with Paul Griggs, and she found out very soon that she had made a dreadful mistake. She loved her husband, after all.”

“Like a woman!” interjected Lord Redin, half unconsciously.

Francesca paid no attention to the remark, except, perhaps, that she raised her eyebrows a little.

“They went out to spend the summer at Subiaco—”

“At Subiaco?” Dalrymple’s steely blue eyes fixed themselves in a look of extreme attention.

“Yes, during the heat. They lodged in the house of a man called Stefanone—a wine-seller—a very respectable place.”

Lord Redin had started nervously at the name, but he recovered himself.

“Very respectable,” he said, in an odd tone.

“You know the house?” asked Francesca, in surprise.

“Very well indeed. I was there nearly five and twenty years ago. I supposed that Stefanone was dead by this time.”

“No. He and his wife are alive, and take lodgers.”

“Excuse me, but how do you know all this?” asked Lord Redin, with sudden curiosity.

“I have been there,” answered Francesca. “I have often been to the convent. You know that one of our family is generally abbess. A Cardinal Braccio was archbishop, too, a good many years ago. Casa Braccio owns a good deal of property there.”

“Yes. I know that you are of the family.”

“My name was Francesca Braccio,” said Francesca, quietly. “Of course I have always known Subiaco, and every one there knows Stefanone, and the story of his daughter who ran away with an Englishman many years ago, and never was heard of again.”

Lord Redin grew a trifle paler.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Does every one know that story?”

There was something so constrained in his tone that Francesca looked at him curiously.

“Yes—in Subiaco,” she answered. “But Gloria—” she lingered a little sadly on the name—”Gloria wrote letters to her husband from there and begged him to go and see her.”

“He could hardly be expected to do that,” said Lord Redin, his hard tone returning. “Did you advise him to go?”

“He consulted me,” answered Francesca, rather coldly. “I told him to follow his own impulse. He did not go. He did not believe that she was sincere.”

“I do not blame him. When a woman has done that sort of thing, there is no reason for believing her.”

“He should have gone. I should have influenced him, I think, and I did wrong. She wrote him one more letter and then killed herself. She suffered horribly and only died two days afterwards. Shall I tell you more?”

“If there is more to tell,” said Lord Redin, less hardly.

“There is not much. I went out there last year. They had refused her Christian burial. Paul Griggs bought a piece of land amongst the rock, on the other side of the torrent, and buried her there. It is surrounded by a wall, and there is a plain slab without a name. There are flowers. He pays Stefanone to have it cared for. They told me all they knew—it is too terrible. She died singing—she was out of her mind. It must have been dreadful. Old Nanna, Stefanone’s wife, was in the room, and fainted with terror. It seems that poor Gloria, oddly enough, had an extraordinary resemblance to that unfortunate nun of our family who was burned to death in the convent, and whom Nanna had often seen. She sang like her, too—at the last minute Nanna thought she saw poor sister Maria Addolorata standing up dead and singing. It was rather strange.”

Lord Redin said nothing. He had bowed his head so that Francesca could not see his face, but she saw that his hands were trembling violently. She thought that she had misjudged the man, and that he was really very deeply moved by the story of his daughter’s death. Doubtless, his emotion had made him wish to control himself, and he had overshot the mark and spoken cruelly only in order to seem calm. No one had ever spoken to him of his wife, and even now he could hardly bear to hear her name. It was long before he looked up. Then he rose almost immediately.

“Will you allow me to come and see you occasionally?” he asked, with a gentleness not at all like his usual manner.

Francesca was touched at last, misunderstanding the cause of the change. She told him to come as often as he pleased. As he was going, he remembered that he had not asked after his son-in-law. Reanda had always seemed to belong to Francesca, and it was natural enough that he should inquire of her.

“Where is Reanda to be found?” he asked.

“He is very ill,” said Francesca, in a low voice. “I am afraid you cannot see him.”

“Where does he live? I will at least inquire. I am sorry to hear that he is ill.”

“He lives here,” she answered with a little hesitation. “He is in his old rooms upstairs.”

“Oh! Yes—thank you.” Their eyes met for a moment. Lord Redin’s glittered, but Francesca’s were clear and true. “I am sure you take good care of him,” he added. “Good-bye.”

He left her alone, and when he was gone, she sat down wearily and laid her head back against a cushion, with half-closed eyes. Her lips were almost colourless, and her mouth had grown ten years older.

Reanda was dying, and she knew it, and with him the light was going out of her life, as it had gone out long ago from Dalrymple’s, as it had gone out of the life of Paul Griggs. The idea crossed her mind that these two men, with herself, were linked and bound together by some strange fatality which she could not understand, but from which there was no escape, and which was bringing them slowly and surely to the blank horror of lonely old age.

The same thought occurred to Lord Redin as he slowly threaded the streets, going back to his hotel, to his lonely dinner, his lonely evening, his lonely, sleepless night. He alone of the three now knew all that there was to know, and in the chronicle of his far memories all led back to that day at Subiaco, long ago, when he had first knocked at the convent gate—beyond that, to the evening when poor Annetta had told him of the beautiful nun with the angel’s voice. Many lives had been wrecked since that first day, and every one of them owed its ruin to him. He felt strangely drawn to Francesca Campodonico. There was something in her face that very faintly reminded him of his dead wife, her kinswoman, and of his dead daughter, another of her race. His gloomy northern nature felt the fatality of it all. He never could repent of what he had done. The golden light of his one short happiness shone through the shrouding veil of fatal time. In his own eyes, with his beliefs, he had not even sinned in taking what he had loved so well. But all the sorrow he saw, came from that deed. Francesca Campodonico’s eyes were as clear and true as her heart. But he knew that Reanda’s life was everything on earth to her, and he guessed that she was to lose that, too, before long. He would willingly have parted with his own, but through all his being there was a rough, manly courage that forbade the last act of fear, and there was a stern old Scottish belief that it was wrong—plainly wrong.

He did not wish to see Paul Griggs any more than he had wished to see his daughter after she had left her husband. But no thought of vengeance crossed his mind. It seemed to him fruitless to think of avenging himself upon fate; for, after all, it was fate that had done the dire mischief. Possibly, he thought, as he walked slowly towards his hotel, fate had brought him back to Rome now, to deal with him as she had dealt with his. He should be glad of it, for he found little in life that was not gloomy and lonely beyond any words. He did not know why he had come. He had acted upon an impulse in going to see Francesca that day.

When he reached the Corso, instead of going to his hotel he walked down the street in the direction of the Piazza del Popolo. He wished to see the house in which Gloria had lived with Griggs, and he remembered the street and the number from her having written to him when she wanted money. He reached the corner of the Via della Frezza, and turned down, looking up at the numbers as he went along. He glanced at the little wine shop on the left, with its bush, its red glass lantern, and its rush-bottomed stools set out by the door. In the shadow within he saw the gleam of silver buttons on a dark blue jacket. There was nothing uncommon in the sight.

He found the house, paused, looked up at the windows, and looked twice at the number.

“Do you seek some one?” inquired the one-eyed cobbler, resting his black hands on his knees.

“Did Mr. Paul Griggs ever live here?” asked Lord Redin.

“Many years,” answered the cobbler, laconically.

“Where does he live now?”

“Always here, except when he is not here. Third floor, on the left. You can ring the bell. Who knows? Perhaps he will open. I do not wish to tell lies.”

The old man grunted, bent down over the shoe, and ran his awl through the sole. He was profoundly attached to Paul Griggs, who had always been kind to him, and since Gloria’s death he defended him from visitors with more determination than ever.

Lord Redin stood still and said nothing. In ten seconds the cobbler looked up with a surly frown.

“If you wish to go up, go up,” he growled. “If not, favour me by getting out of my light.”

The Scotchman looked at him.

“You do not remember me,” he observed. “I used to come here with the Signore.”

“Well? I have told you. If you want him, there is the staircase.”

“No. I do not want him,” said Lord Redin, and he turned away abruptly.

“As you please,” growled the cobbler without looking up again.

Paul Griggs had gone back to the house in the Via della Frezza after his return from America, and lived alone in the little apartment in which the happy days of his life had been spent. He was a man able to live two lives,—the one in the past, the other in the active present. It was his instinct to be alone in his sorrow, and alone in the struggle which lay before him, for himself and his child. But he would have with him all that could make the memory of Gloria real. The reality of such things softened with their contrast the hardness of life.

He had taken the same rooms again. Out of boxes and trunks stored in a garret of the house, he had taken many things which had belonged to Gloria. Alone, he had arranged the rooms as they used to be. His writing-table stood in the same place, and near it was Gloria’s chair; beside it, the little stand with her needlework, her silks, her scissors, and her thimble, all as it used to be. A novel she had once read when sitting there lay upon the chair. Many little objects which had belonged to her were all in their accustomed places. On the mantelpiece the cheap American clock ticked loudly as in old days.

Day after day, as of old, he sat in his place at work. He had made the room so alive with her that sometimes, looking up from a long spell of writing, he forgot, and stared an instant at the bedroom door, and listened for her footstep. Those were his happiest moments, though each was killed in turn by the vision of a lonely grave among rocks.

With intensest longing he called her back to him. In his sleep, the last words he had spoken to her were spoken again by his unconscious lips in the still, dark night. Everything in him called her, his living soul and his strong bodily self. There were times when he knew that if he opened his eyes, shut to see her, he should see her really, there in her chair. He looked, trembling, and there was nothing. In dreams he sought her and could not find her, though he wandered in dark places, across endless wastes of broken clods of earth and broken stone. It was as though her grave covered the whole world round, and his path lay on the shadowed arms of an infinite great cross. And again the grey dawn awoke him from the search, to feel that, for pity’s sake, she must be alive and near him. But he was always alone.

Silent, iron-browed, iron-handed, he faced the world alone, doing all that was required of him, and more also. As he had said to Gloria in that very room, he was building up a superiority for himself, since genius was not his. He had in the rough ore of his strength the metal which some few men receive as a birth-gift from nature, ready smelted and refined, ready for them to coin at a single stroke, and throw broadcast to the applauding world. He had not much, perhaps, but he had something of the true ore, and in the furnace of his untiring energy he would burn out the dross and find the precious gold at last. It could not be for her, now. It was not for himself, but it was to be for the little child, growing up in a far country with a clean name—to be his father’s friend, and nothing more, but to be happy, for the dead woman’s sake who bore him.

As in all that made a part of Paul Griggs, there was in his memory of Gloria and in his sorrow for her that element of endurance which was the foundation of his nature. That portion of his life was finished, and there could never be anything like it again; but it was to be always present with him, so long as he lived. He was sure of that. It would always be in his power to close his eyes and believe that she was near him. If it were possible, he loved her more dead than he had loved her living.

And she had loved him to the last, and had given her life in the mad thought of lightening his burden. Her last words to him had told him so. Her last wish had been to see the child. And the greatest sacrifice he could now make to her was to separate himself from the child, and let him grow up to look upon the man who provided for him as his friend, but as nothing more. It was an exaggerated idea, perhaps, though it was by far the wisest course. Yet in doing what he did, Griggs deprived himself for months at a time of something that was of her, and he did it for her sake. He knew that in her heart there had been the unspoken shame of her ruined life. Shame should never come near little Walter Crowdie. The secret could be kept, and Paul Griggs meant to keep it, as he kept many things from the world.

All his lonely life grew in the perfect memory, cut short though it was by fate’s cruel scythe-stroke. Even that one fearful day held no shadow of unfaithfulness. She had been mad, but she had loved him. She had done a deed of horror upon herself, but she had loved him, and madly had done it for his sake. She had laid down her life for him. All that he could do would be nothing compared with that. All that he could tear from the world and lay tenderly as an offering at her feet would be but a handful of dust in comparison with what she had done in the madness of love.

His heart strings wound themselves about their treasure, closer and closer, stronger and stronger. The two natures that strove together in him, the natures of body and soul, were at one with her, and drew life from her though she was gone. It seemed impossible that they could ever again part and smite one another for the mastery, as of old, for one sorrow had overwhelmed them both, and together they knew the depths of one grief.

Again, as of old, he defied fate. Death could take the child from him, but could not separate the three in death or life. So long as the child lived, to do or die for him was the question, while life should last. But Paul Griggs defied fate, for fate’s grim hand could not uproot his heart from the strong place of his great dead love, to buffet it and tear it again. He was alone, bodily, but he was safe forever.

Out of the dimness of twilight shadows the pale face came to him, and the sweet lips kissed his; in a light not earthly the dark eyes lightened, and the red auburn hair gleamed and fell about him. In the darkness, a tender hand stole softly upon his, and words yet more tender stirred the stillness. He knew that she was near him, close to him, with him. The truth of what had been made the half dream all true. Only in his sleep he could not find her, and was wandering ever over a dreary grave that covered the whole world.

So his life went on with little change, inwardly or outwardly, from day to day, in the absolute security from danger which the dead give us of themselves. The faith that had gone beyond her death could go beyond his own life, too. He defied fate.

Then fate, silent, relentless, awful, knocked at his door.

He was at work as usual. It was a bright winter’s day, and the high sun of the late morning streamed across one corner of his writing-table. He was thinking of nothing but his writing, and upon that his thoughts were closely intent in that everlasting struggle to do better which had nearly driven poor Gloria mad.

The little jingling bell rang and thumped against the outer door to which it was fastened. He paid no attention to it, till it rang again, an instant later. Then he looked up and waited, listening. Again, again, and again he heard it, at equal intervals, five times in all. That was the old cobbler’s signal, and the only one to which Griggs ever responded. He laid down his pen and went to the door. The one-eyed man, his shoemaker’s apron twisted round his waist, stood on the landing, and gave him a small, thick package, tied with a black string, under which was thrust a note. Griggs took it without a word, and the bandy-legged old cobbler swung away from the door with a satisfied grunt.

Griggs took the parcel back to his work-room, and stood by the window looking at the address on the note. He recognized Francesca Campodonico’s handwriting, though he had rarely seen it, and he broke the seal with considerable curiosity, for he could not imagine why Donna Francesca should write to him. He even wondered at her knowing that he was in Rome. He had never spoken with her since that day long ago, when she had sent for him and begged him to take Gloria back to her father. He read the note slowly. It was in Italian, and the language was rather formal.

“Signore:—My old and dear friend, Signor Angelo Reanda, died the day before yesterday after a long illness. During the last hours of his life he asked me to do him a service, and I gave him the solemn promise which I fulfil in sending you the accompanying package. You will see that it was sealed by him and addressed to you by himself, probably before he was taken ill, and he saw it before he died and said that it was the one he meant me to send. That was all he told me regarding it, and I am wholly ignorant of the contents. I have ascertained that you are in Rome, and are living, as formerly, in the Via della Frezza, and to that address I send the parcel. Pray inform me that you have received it.

“Believe me, Signore, with perfect esteem,

“Francesca Campodonico.”

Griggs read the note twice through to the end, and laid it upon the table. Then he thrust his hands into his pockets, and turned thoughtfully to the window without touching the parcel, of which he had not even untied the black string.

So Reanda was dead at last. It was nothing to him, now, though it might have meant much if the man had died two years earlier. Living people were very little to Paul Griggs. They might as well be dead, he thought. Nevertheless, the bald fact that Reanda was gone, made him thoughtful. Another figure had disappeared out of his life, though it had not meant very much. He believed, and had always believed, that Reanda had loved Francesca in secret, though she had treated him as a mere friend, as a protectress should treat one who needs her protection.

Griggs turned and took up the note to look at it keenly, for he believed himself a judge of handwriting, and he thought that he might detect in hers the indications of any great suffering. The lines ran down a little at the end, but otherwise the large, careful hand was the same as ever, learned in a convent and little changed since, even as the woman herself had changed little. She was the same always, simple, honest, strangely maidenlike, thoroughly good.

He turned to the window again. So Reanda was dead. He would not find Gloria, to whatsoever place he was gone. The shadow of a smile wreathed itself about the mouth of the lonely man—the last that was there for a long time after that day. Gloria was dead, but Gloria was his, and he hers, for ever and ever. Neither heaven nor hell could tear up his heart nor loosen the strong hold of all of him that clung to her and had grown about her and through her, till he and she were quite one.

Then, all at once, he wondered what it could be that Reanda had wished to send him from beyond the grave. He turned, took the parcel, and snapped the black string with his fingers, and took off the paper. Within was the parcel, wrapped in a second paper and firmly tied with broad tape. A few words were written on the outside.

“To be given to Paul Griggs when I am dead. A. R.”

The superscription told nothing, but he looked at it curiously as one does at such things, when the sender is beyond answer. He cut the white tape, for it was tied so tightly that he could not slip a finger under it to break it. There was something of hard determination in the way it was tied.

It contained letters in their envelopes, as they had reached Reanda through the post, all of the same size, laid neatly one upon the other—a score or more of them.

Griggs felt his hand shake, for he recognized Gloria’s writing. His first impulse was to burn the whole package, as it was, reverently, as something which had belonged to Gloria, in which he had no part, or share, or right. He laid his hand upon the pile of letters, and looked at the small fire to see whether it were burning well. Under his hand he felt something hard inside the uppermost envelope. His fate was upon him—the fate he had so often defied to do its worst, since all that he had was dead and was his forever.

Without another thought, he took from the envelope the letter it contained, and the hard thing which was inside the letter. He held it a moment in his hand, and it flamed in the beam of sunlight that fell across the end of the table, and dazzled him. Then he realized what it was. It was Gloria’s wedding ring, and twisted round and round it and in and out of it was a lock of her red auburn hair, serpent-like, flaming in the sunshine, with a hundred little tongues that waved and moved softly under his breath.

An icy chill smote him in the neck, and his strong limbs shook to his feet as he laid the thing down upon the corner of the table. There was a fearful fascination in it. The red gold hairs stirred and moved in the sunlight still, even when he no longer breathed upon them. It was her hair, and it seemed alive.

In his other hand he still held the letter. Fate had him now, and would not let him go while he could feel. Again and again the cruel chill smote him in the back. He opened the doubled sheet, and saw the date and the name of the place,—Subiaco,—and the first words—’Heart of my heart, this is my last cry to you’—and it was to Angelo Reanda.

Rigid and feeling as though great icy hands were drawing him up by the neck from the ground, he stood still and read every word, with all the message of loathing and abject fear and horror of his touch, which every word brought him, from the dead, through the other dead.

Slowly, regularly, without wavering, moved by a power not his own, his hands took the other letters and opened them, and his eyes read all the words, from the last to the first. One by one the sheets fell upon the table, and all alone in the midst the lock of red auburn hair sent up its little lambent flame in the sunshine.

Paul Griggs stood upright, stark with the stress of rending soul and breaking heart.

As he stood there, he was aware of a man in black beside him, like himself, ghastly to see, with shadows and fires for eyes, and thin, parted lips that showed wolfish teeth, strong, stern, with iron hands.

“You are dead,” said his own voice out of the other’s mouth. “You are dead, and I am Gorlias.”

Then the strong teeth were set and the lips closed, and the gladiator’s unmatched arms wound themselves upon the other’s strength, with grip and clutch and strain not of earthly men.

Silent and terrible, they wrestled in fight, arm to arm, bone to bone, breath to breath. Hour after hour they strove in the still room. The sun went westering away, the shadows deepened. The night came stealing black and lonely through the window. Foot to foot, breast to breast, in the dark, they bowed themselves one upon the other, dumb in the agony of their reeling strife.

Late in the night, in the cold room, Paul Griggs felt the carpet under his hands as he lay upon his back.

His heart was broken.

Lord Redin had barely glanced at the man in the blue jacket with silver buttons, whom he had seen in the deep shadow of the little wine shop as he strolled down the Via della Frezza. But Stefanone had seen him and had gone to the door as he passed, watching him when he stood talking to the one-eyed cobbler, and keeping his keen eyes on him as he passed again on his homeward way. And all the way to the hotel in the Piazza di Spagna Stefanone had followed him at a distance, watching the great loose-jointed frame and the slightly stooping head, till the Scotchman disappeared under the archway, past the porter, who stood aside, his gold-laced cap in his hand, bowing low to the ‘English lord.’

Stefanone waited a few moments and then accosted the porter civilly.

“Do you know if the proprietor wishes to buy some good wine of last year, at a cheap rate?” he asked. “You understand. I am of the country. I cannot go in and look for the proprietor. But you are doubtless the director and you manage these things for him. That is why I ask you.”

The porter smiled at the flattery, but said that he believed wine had been bought for the whole year.

“The hotel is doubtless full of rich foreigners,” observed Stefanone. “It is indeed beautiful. I should prefer it to the Palazzo Borghese. Is it not full?”

“Quite full,” answered the porter, proud of the establishment.

“For instance,” said Stefanone, “I saw a great signore going in, just before I took the liberty of speaking with you. I am sure that he is a great English signore. Not perhaps a mylord. But a great signore, having much money.”

“What makes you think that?” inquired the porter, with a superior smile.

“Eh, the reasons are two. First, you bowed to him, as though he were some personage, and you of course know who he is. Secondly, he lifted his hat to you. He is therefore a real signore, as good perhaps as a Roman prince. We say a proverb in the country—’to salute is courtesy, to answer is duty.’ Therefore when any one salutes a real signore, he answers and lifts his hat. These are the reasons why I say this one must be a great one.”

“For that matter, you are right,” laughed the porter. “That signore is an English lord. What a combination! You have guessed it. His name is Lord Redin.”

Stefanone’s sharp eyes fixed themselves vacantly, for he did not wish to betray his surprise at not hearing the name he had expected.

“Eh!” he exclaimed. “Names? What are they, when one is a prince. Prince of this. Duke of that. Our Romans are full of names. I daresay this signore has four or five.”

But the porter knew of no other, and presently Stefanone departed, wondering whether he had made a mistake, after all, and recalling the features of the man he had followed to compare them with those younger ones he remembered so distinctly. He went back to the Via della Frezza and drank a glass of wine. Then he filled the glass again and carried it carefully across the street to his friend the cobbler.

“Drink,” he said. “It will do you good. A drop of wine at sunset gives force to the stomach.”

The one-eyed man looked up, and smiled at his friend, a phenomenon rarely observed on his wrinkled and bearded face. He shrugged one round shoulder, by way of assent, held his head a little on one side and stretched out his black hand with the glass in it, to the light. He tasted it, smelt it, and looked up at Stefanone before he drank in earnest.

“Black soul!” he exclaimed by way of an approving asseveration. “This is indeed wine!”

“He took it for vinegar!” observed Stefanone, speaking to the air.

“It is wine,” answered the cobbler when he had drained the glass. “It is a consolation.”

Then they began to talk together, and Stefanone questioned him about his interview with the tall gentleman an hour earlier. The cobbler really knew nothing about him, though he remembered having seen him several times, years ago, before Gloria had come.

“You know nothing,” said Stefanone. “That signore is the father of Sor Paolo’s signora, who died in my house.”

“You are joking,” returned the cobbler, gravely. “He would have come to see his daughter while she lived—requiescat!”

“And I say that I am not joking. Do you wish to hear the truth? Well. You have much confidence with Sor Paolo. Tell him that the father of the poor Signora Gloria came to the door and asked questions. You shall hear what he will say. He will say that it is possible. Then he will ask you about him. You will tell him, so and so—a very tall signore, all made of pieces that swing loosely when he walks, with a beard like the Moses of the fountain, and hard blue eyes that strike you like two balls from a gun, and hair that is neither red nor white, and a bony face like an old horse.”

“It is true,” said the cobbler, reflectively. “It is he. It is his picture.”

“You will also say that he is now an English lord, but that formerly they called him Sor Angoscia. You, who are friends with Sor Paolo, you should tell him this. It may be that Sor Angoscia wishes him evil. Who knows? In this world the combinations are so many!”

It was long before the cobbler got an opportunity of speaking with Griggs, and when he had the chance, he forgot all about it, though Stefanone reminded him of it from time to time. But when he at last spoke of the matter he was surprised to find that Stefanone had been quite right, as Griggs admitted without the least hesitation. He told Stefanone so, and the peasant was satisfied, though he had long been positive that he had found his man at last, and recognized him in spite of his beard and his age.

After that Stefanone haunted the Piazza di Spagna in the morning, talking a little with the models who used to stand there in their mountain costumes to be hired by painters in the days when pictures of them were the fashion. Many of them came from the neighbourhood of Subiaco, and knew Stefanone by sight. When Lord Redin came out of the hotel, as he generally did between eleven and twelve if the day were fine, Stefanone put his pipe out, stuck it into his breeches’ pocket with his brass-handled clasp-knife, and strolled away a hundred yards behind his enemy.

If Lord Redin noticed him once or twice, it was merely to observe that men still came to Rome wearing the old-fashioned dress of the respectable peasants. Being naturally fearless, and at present wholly unsuspicious, it never struck him that any one could be dogging his footsteps whenever he went out of his hotel. In the evening he went out very little and then generally in a carriage. Two or three times, on a Sunday, he walked over to Saint Peter’s and listened to the music at Vespers, as many foreigners used to do. Stefanone followed him into the church and watched him from a distance. Once the peasant saw Donna Francesca, whom he knew by sight as a member of the Braccio family, sitting within the great gate of the Chapel of the Choir, where the service was held. Lord Redin always followed the frequented streets, which led in an almost direct line from the Piazza di Spagna by the Via Condotti to the bridge of Saint Angelo. It was the nearest way. He never went back to the Via della Frezza, for he had no desire to see Paul Griggs, and his curiosity had been satisfied by once looking at the house in which his daughter had lived. He spent his evenings alone in his rooms with a bottle of wine and a book. Luxury had become a habit with him, and he now preferred a draught of Château Lafitte to the rough Roman wine barely a year old, while three or four glasses of a certain brandy, twenty years in bottle, which he had discovered in the hotel, were a necessary condition of his comfort. He had the intention of going out one evening, in cloak and soft hat, as of old, to dine in his old corner at the Falcone, but he put it off from day to day, feeling no taste for the coarser fare and the rougher drink when the hour came.

He often went to see Francesca Campodonico in the middle of the day, at which hour the Roman ladies used to be visible to their more intimate friends. An odd sort of sympathy had grown up between the two, though they scarcely ever alluded to past events, and then only by an accident which both regretted. Francesca exercised a refining influence upon the gloomy Scotchman, and as he knew her better, he even took the trouble to be less rough and cynical when he was with her. In character she was utterly different from his dead wife, but there was something of family resemblance between the two which called up memories very dear to him.

Her influence softened him. In his wandering life he had more than once formed acquaintances with men of tastes more or less similar to his own, which might have ripened into friendships for a man of less morose character. But in that, he and Paul Griggs were very much alike. They found an element in every acquaintance which roused their distrust, and as men to men they were both equally incapable of making a confidence. Dalrymple’s life had not brought him into close relations with any woman except his wife. For her sake he had kept all others at a distance in a strange jealousy of his own heart which had made her for him the only woman in the world. Then, too, he had hated, for her, the curiosity of those who had evidently wished to know her story. That had been always a secret. He had told it to his father, and his father had died with it. No one else had ever known whence Maria had come, nor what her name had been. If Captain Crowdie had ever guessed the truth, which was doubtful, he had held his tongue.

But Angus Dalrymple was no longer the man he had been in those days. He had changed very much in the past two or three years; for though he had almost outlived the excesses into which he had fallen in his first sorrow, his hardy constitution had been shaken, if not weakened, by them. Physically his nerves were almost as good as ever, but morally he was not the same man. He felt the need of sympathy and confidence, which with such natures is the first sign of breaking down, and of the degeneration of pride.

That was probably the secret of what he felt when he was with Francesca. She had that rarest quality in women, too, which commands men without inspiring love. It is very hard to explain what that quality is, but most men who have lived much and seen much have met with it at least once in their lives.

There is a sort of manifested goodness for which the average man of the world has a profound and unreasonable contempt. And there is another sort which most wholly commands the respect of that man who has lived hardest. From a religious point of view, both may be equally real and conducive to salvation. The cynic, the worn out man of the world, the man whose heart is broken, all look upon the one as a weakness and the other as a strength. Perhaps there is more humanity in the one than in the other. A hundred women may rebuke a man for something he has done, and he will smile at the reproach, though he may smile sadly. The one will say to him the same words, and he will be gravely silent and will feel that she is right and will like her the better for it ever afterwards. And she is not, as a rule, the woman whom such men would love.

“I have never before met a woman whom I should wish to have for my friend,” said Lord Redin, one day when he was alone with Francesca. “I daresay I am not at all the kind of man you would select for purposes of friendship,” he added, with a short laugh.

Francesca smiled a little at the frankness of the words, and shook her head.

“Perhaps not,” she said. “Who knows? Life brings strange changes when one thinks that one knows it best.”

“It has brought strange things to me,” answered Lord Redin.

Then he was silent for a time. He felt the strong desire to speak out, for no good reason or purpose, and to tell her the story of his life. She would be horrorstruck at first. He fancied he could see the expression which would come to her face. But he held his peace, for she had not met him half-way, and he was ashamed of the weakness that was upon him.

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, after a little pause. “You must have had a strange life, and a very unhappy one. You speak of friendship as men speak who are in earnest, because there is no other hope for them. I know something of that.”

She ceased, and her clear eyes turned sadly away from him.

“I know you do,” he answered softly.

She looked at him again, and she liked him better than ever before, and pitied him sincerely. She had discovered that with all his faults he was not a bad man, as men go, for she did not know of that one deed of his youth which to her would have seemed a monstrous crime of sacrilege, beyond all forgiveness on earth or in heaven.

Then she began to speak of other things, for her own words, and his, had gone too near her heart, and presently he left her and strolled homeward through the sunny streets. He walked slowly and thoughtfully, unconscious of the man in a blue jacket with silver buttons, who followed him and watched him with keen, unwinking eyes set under heavy brows.

But Stefanone was growing impatient, and his knife was every day a little sharper as he whetted it thoughtfully upon a bit of smooth oilstone which he carried in his pocket. Would the Englishman ever turn down into some quiet street or lane where no one would be looking? And Stefanone’s square face grew thinner and his aquiline features more and more eagle-like, till the one-eyed cobbler noticed the change, and spoke of it.

“You are consuming yourself for some female,” he said. “You have white hair. This is a shameful thing.”

But Stefanone laughed, instead of resenting the speech—a curiously nervous laugh.

“What would you have?” he replied. “We are men, and the devil is everywhere.”

As he sat on the doorstep by the cobbler’s bench, which was pushed far forward to get the afternoon light, he took up the short sharp shoemaker’s knife, looked at it, held it in his hands and pared his coarse nails with it, whistling a little tune.

“That is a good knife,” he observed carelessly.

The cobbler looked up and saw what he was doing.

“Black soul!” he cried out angrily. “That is my welt-knife, like a razor, and he pares his hoofs with it!”

But Stefanone dropped it into the little box of tools on the front of the bench, and whistled softly.

“You seem to me a silly boy!” said the cobbler, still wrathful.

“Apoplexy, how you talk!” answered Stefanone. “But I seem so to myself, sometimes.”

The life of Paul Griggs was not less lonely than it had been before the day on which he had received and read Gloria’s letters to Reanda, but it was changed. Everything which had belonged to the dead woman was gone from the room in which he sat and worked as usual. Even the position of the furniture was changed. But he worked on as steadily as before.

Outwardly he was very much the same man as ever. Any one who knew him well—if such a person had existed—would have seen that there was a little difference in the expression of his impassive face. The jaw was, if possible, more firmly set than ever, but there was a line in the forehead which had not been there formerly, and which softened the iron front, as it were, with something more human. It had come suddenly, and had remained. That was all.

But within, the difference was great and deep. He felt that the man who sat all day long at the writing-table doing his work was not himself any longer, but another being, his double and shadow, and in all respects his slave, except in one.

That other man sometimes paused in his work, fingering the pen unconsciously, as men do who hold it all day long, and thinking of Gloria with an expression of horror and suffering in his eyes. But he, the real Paul Griggs, never thought of her. The link was broken, the thread that had carried the message of dead love between him and the lonely grave beyond Subiaco was definitely broken. Stefanone came to receive the small sum which Griggs paid him monthly for his care of the place, and Griggs paid him as he would have paid his tailor, mechanically, and made a note of the payment in his pocket-book. When the man was gone, Griggs felt that his double was staring at the wall as a man stares at the dark surface of the pool in which the thing he loves has sunk for the last time.

It was always the other self that felt at such moments. He could abstract himself from it, and feel that he was watching it; he could direct it and make it do what he pleased; but he could neither control its thoughts nor feel any sympathy for them. Until the fatal day, the world had all been black to him; only by closing his eyes could he bring into it the light that hovered about a dead woman’s face.

But now the black was changed to a flat and toneless white in which there was never the least variation. Life was to him a vast blank, in which, without interest or sensation, he moved in any direction he pleased, and he pleased that it should be always the same direction, from the remembrance of a previous intention and abiding principle. But it might as well have been any other, backwards, or to right or left. It was all precisely the same, and it was perfectly inconceivable to him that he should ever care whether in the endless journey he ever came upon a spot or point in the blank waste which should prove to him that he had moved at all. Nothing could make any difference. He was beyond that state in which any difference was apprehensible between one thing and another.

His double had material wants, and was ruled by material circumstances. His double was a broken-hearted creature, toiling to make money for a little child to which it felt itself bound by every responsibility which can bind father to son; acknowledging the indebtedness in every act of its laborious life, denying itself every luxury, and almost every comfort, that there might be a little more for the child, now and in time to come; weary beyond earthly weariness, but untiring in the mechanical performance of its set task; fatally strong and destined, perhaps, to live on through sixty or seventy years of the same unceasing toil; fatally weak in its one deep wound, and horribly sensitive within itself, but outwardly expressionless, strong, merely a little more pale and haggard than Paul Griggs had been.

This was the being whom Paul Griggs employed, as it were, to work for him, which he thoroughly understood and could control in every part except in its thoughts, and they were its own. But he himself existed in another sphere, in which there were neither interests nor responsibilities, nor landmarks, nor touches of human feeling, neither memories for the dead nor hopes for the living; in which everything was the same, because there was nothing but a sort of universal impersonal consciousness, no more attached to himself than to the beings he saw about him, or to that particular being which was his former self,—in which he chose to reside, merely because he required a bodily evidence of some sort in order to be alive—and there was no particular reason why he should not be alive. He therefore did not cease to live, but a straw might have turned the balance to the side of death.

It was certainly true that, so far as it could be said that there was any link between him and humanity, it lay in the existence of the little boy beyond the water. But it would have been precisely the same if little Walter Crowdie had died. He did not wish to see the child, for he had no wishes at all. Life being what it was, it would be very much better if the child were to die at once. Since it happened to be alive, he forced his double to work for it. It was no longer any particular child so far as he himself was concerned. It belonged to his double, which seemed to be attached to it in an unaccountable way and did not complain at being driven to labour for it.

At certain moments, when he seemed to have got rid of his double altogether for a time, a question presented itself to his real self. The question was the great and old one—What was it for? And to what was it tending? Then the people he saw in the streets appeared to him to be very small, like ants, running hither and thither upon the ant-hill and about it, moved by something which they could not understand, but which made them do certain things with an appearance of logical sequence, just as he forced his double to work for little Walter Crowdie from morning till night. So the people ran about anxiously, or strolled lazily through the hours, careful or careless, as the case might be, but quite unconscious that they were of no consequence and of no use, and that it was quite immaterial whether they were alive or dead. Most of them thought that they cared a good deal for life on the whole, and that it held a multitude of pleasant and interesting things to be liked and sought, and an equal number of unpleasant and dangerous things to be avoided; all of which things had no real existence whatever, as the impersonal consciousness of Paul Griggs was well aware. He watched the people curiously, as though they merely existed to perform tricks for his benefit. But they did not amuse him, for nothing could amuse him, nor interest him when he had momentarily got rid of his double, as sometimes happened when he was out of doors.

One day, the month having passed again, Stefanone came for his money. It was very little, and the old peasant would willingly have undertaken that the work should be done for nothing. But he was interested in Paul Griggs, and he was growing very impatient because he could not get an opportunity of falling upon Lord Redin in a quiet place. He had formed a new plan of almost childlike simplicity. When Griggs had paid him the money, he lingered a moment and looked about the room.

“Signore, you have changed the furniture,” he observed. “That chair was formerly here. This table used to be there. There are a thousand changes.”

“Yes,” said Griggs, taking up his pen to go on with his work. “You have good eyes,” he added good-naturedly.

“Two,” assented Stefanone; “each better than the other. For instance, I will tell you. When that chair was by the window, there was a little table beside it. On the table was the work-basket of your poor Signora, whom may the Lord preserve in glory! Is it truth?”

“Yes,” answered Griggs, with perfect indifference. “It is quite true.”

The allusion did not pain him, the man who was talking with Stefanone. It would perhaps hurt the other man when he thought of it later.

“Signore,” said Stefanone, who evidently had something in his mind, “I was thinking in the night, and this thought came to me. The dead are dead. Requiescant! It is better for the living to live in holy peace. You never see the father of the Signora. There is bad blood between you. This was my thought—let them be reconciled, and spend an evening together. They will speak of the dead one. They will shed tears. They will embrace. Let the enmity be finished. In this way they will enjoy life more.”

“You are crazy, Stefanone,” answered Griggs, impatiently. “But how do you know who is the father of the Signora?”

“Every one knows it, Signore!” replied the peasant, with well-feigned sincerity. “Every one knows that it is the great English lord who lives at the hotel in the Piazza di Spagna this year. Signore, I have said a word. You must not take it ill. Enmity is bad. Friendship is a good thing. And then it is simple. With maccaroni one makes acquaintance again. There is the Falcone, but it would be better here. We will cook the maccaroni in the kitchen; you will eat on this table. What are all these papers for? Study, study! A dish of good paste is better, with cheese. I will bring a certain wine—two flasks. Then you will be friends, for you will drink together. And if the English lord drinks too much, I will go home with him to the hotel in the Piazza di Spagna. But you will only have to go to bed. Once in a year, what is it to be a little gay with good wine? At least you will be good friends. Then things will end well.”

Griggs looked at Stefanone curiously, while the old peasant was speaking, for he knew the people well, and he suspected something though he did not know what to think.

“Perhaps some day we may take your advice,” he said coldly. “Good morning, Stefanone; I have much to write.”

“I remove the inconvenience,” answered Stefanone, in the stock Italian phrase for taking leave.

“No inconvenience,” replied Griggs, civilly, as is the custom. “But I have to work.”

“Study, study!” grumbled Stefanone, going towards the door. “What does it all conclude, this great study? Headache. For a flask of wine you have the same thing, and the pleasure besides. It is enough. Signore,” he added, reluctantly turning the handle, “I go. Think of what I have said to you. Sometimes an old man says a wise word.”

He went away very much discontented with the result of the conversation. His mind was a medley of cunning and simplicity backed by an absolutely unforgiving temper and great caution. His plan had seemed exceedingly good. Lord Redin and Griggs would have supped together, and the former would very naturally have gone home alone. Stefanone was oddly surprised that Griggs should not have acceded to the proposition at once, though in reality there was not the slightest of small reasons for his doing so.

It was long since anything had happened to rouse Griggs into thinking about any individual human being as anything more than a bit of the world’s furniture, to be worn out and thrown away in the course of time, out of sight. But something in the absolutely gratuitous nature of Stefanone’s advice moved his suspicions. He saw, with his intimate knowledge of the Roman peasant’s character, the whole process of the old wine-seller’s mind, if only, in the first place, the fellow had the desire to harass Dalrymple. That being granted, the rest was plain enough. Dalrymple, if he really came to supper with Griggs, would stay late into the night and finish all the wine there might be. On his way home through the deserted streets, Stefanone could kill him at his leisure and convenience, and nobody would be the wiser. The only difficulty lay in establishing some sufficient reason why Stefanone should wish to kill him at all, and in this Griggs signally failed, which was not surprising.

All at once, as generally happened now, he lost all interest in the matter and returned to his work; or rather, to speak as he might have spoken, he set his mechanical self to work for him, while his own being disappeared in blank indifference and unconsciousness. But on the following day, which chanced to be a Sunday, he went out in the morning for a walk. He rarely worked on Sundays, having long ago convinced himself that a day of rest was necessary in the long run.

As he was coming home, he saw Lord Redin walking far in front of him down the Corso, easily recognizable by his height and his loose, swinging gait. Griggs had not proceeded many steps further when Stefanone passed him, walking at a swinging stride. The peasant had probably seen him, but chose to take no notice of him. Griggs allowed him to get a fair start and then quickened his own pace, so as to keep him in view. Lord Redin swung along steadily and turned up the Via Condotti. Stefanone almost ran, till he, too, had turned the corner of the street. Griggs, without running, nearly overtook him as he took the same turn a moment later.

It was perfectly clear that Stefanone was dogging the Scotchman’s steps. The latter crossed the Piazza di Spagna, and entered the deep archway of his hotel. The peasant slackened his speed at once and lounged across the square towards the foot of the great stairway which leads up to the Trinità de’ Monti. Griggs followed him, and came up with him just as he sat down upon a step beside one of the big stone posts, to take breath and light his pipe. The man looked up, touched his hat, smiled, and struck a sulphur match, which he applied to the tobacco in the red clay bowl before the sulphur was half burned out, after the manner of his kind.

“You have taken a walk, Signore,” he observed, puffing away at the willow stem and watching the match.

“You walk fast, Stefanone,” answered Griggs. “You can walk as fast as Lord Redin.”

Stefanone did not show the least surprise. He pressed down the burning tobacco with one horny finger, and carefully laid the last glowing bit of the burnt-out wooden match upon it.

“For this, we are people of the mountains,” he answered slowly. “We can walk.”

“Why do you wish to kill that signore?” inquired Griggs, calmly.

Stefanone looked up, and the pale lids of his keen eyes were contracted as he stared hard and long at the other’s face.

“What are you saying?” he asked, with a short, harsh laugh. “What is passing through your head? What have I to do with the Englishman? Nothing. These are follies!”

And still he gazed keenly at Griggs, awaiting the latter’s reply. Griggs answered him contemptuously in the dialect.

“You take me for a foreigner! You might know better.”

“I do not know what you mean,” answered Stefanone, doggedly. “It is Sunday. I am at leisure. I walk to take a little air. It is my affair. Besides, at this hour, who would follow a man to kill him? It is about to ring midday. There are a thousand people in the street. Those who kill wait at the corners of streets when it is night. You say that I take you for a foreigner. You have taken me for an assassin. At your pleasure. So much the worse for me. An assassin! Only this was wanting. It is better that I go back to Subiaco. At least they know me there. Here in Rome—not even dogs would stay here. Beautiful town! Where one is called assassin for breakfast, without counting one, nor two.”

By this time Griggs was convinced that he was right. He knew the man well, and all his kind. The long speech of complaint, with its peculiar tone, half insolent, half of injured innocence, was to cover the fellow’s embarrassment. Griggs answered him in his own strain.

“A man is not an assassin who kills his enemy for a good reason, Stefanone,” he observed. “How do I know what he may have done to you?”

“To me? Nothing.” The peasant shrugged his sturdy shoulders.

“Then I have made a mistake,” said Griggs.

“You have made a mistake,” assented Stefanone. “Let us not talk about it any more.”

“很好。”

Griggs turned away and walked slowly towards the hotel, well aware that Stefanone was watching him and would think that he was going to warn Lord Redin of his danger. That, indeed, was Griggs’s first impulse, and it was probably his wisest course, whatever might come of the meeting. But the Scotchman had made up his mind that he would not see Griggs under any circumstances, and though the latter had seen him enter the hotel less than ten minutes earlier, the servant returned almost immediately and said that Lord Redin was not at home. Griggs understood and turned away, thoughtfully.

Before he went down the Via Condotti again, he looked over his shoulder towards the steps, and he saw that Stefanone was gone. As he walked along the street, the whole incident began to fade away in his mind, as all real matters so often did, nowadays. All at once he stopped short, and roused himself by an effort—directing his double, as he would have said, perhaps. There was no denying the fact that a man’s life was hanging in the balance of a chance, and to the man, if not to Griggs, that life was worth something. If it had been any other man in the world, even that fact would have left him indifferent enough. Why should he care who lived or died? But Dalrymple was a man he had injured, and he was under an obligation of honour to save him, if he could.

There was only one person in Rome who could help him—Francesca Campodonico. She knew much of what had happened; she might perhaps understand the present case. At all events, even if she had not seen Lord Redin of late, she could not be supposed to have broken relations with him; she could send for him and warn him. The case was urgent, as Griggs knew. After what he had said to Stefanone, the latter, if he meant to kill his man, would not lose a day.

It was past midday when Paul Griggs reached the Palazzetto Borgia and inquired for Donna Francesca. He was told that she was out. It was her custom, the porter said, always to breakfast on Sundays with her relatives, the Prince and Princess of Gerano. Griggs asked at what time she might be expected to return. The porter put on a vague look and said that it was impossible to tell. Sometimes she went to Saint Peter’s on Sunday afternoon, to hear Vespers. Vespers began at twenty-two o’clock, or half-past twenty-two—between half-past three and four by French time, at that season of the year.

Griggs turned away, and wandered about for half an hour in the vicinity of the palace, uncertain as to what he should do, and yet determined not to lose sight of the necessity for immediate action of some sort. At last he went back to the Piazza di Spagna, intending to write a word of warning to Lord Redin, though he knew that the latter would pay very little attention to anything of such a nature. Like most foreigners, he would laugh at the idea of being attacked in the streets. Even in an interview it would not be easy to persuade him of the truth which Griggs had discovered more by intuition and through his profound knowledge of the Roman character than by any chain of evidence.

Lord Redin had gone out, he was told. It was impossible to say with any certainty whether this were true or not, and Griggs wrote a few words on his card, sealed the latter in an envelope, and left it to be delivered to the Scotchman. Then he went back to the Via della Frezza, determined to renew his attempt to see Francesca Campodonico, at a later hour.

At the door of the little wine shop Stefanone was seated on one of the rush stools, his hat tilted over his eyes, and his white-stockinged legs crossed. He was smoking and looking down, but he recognized Griggs’s step at some distance, and raised his eyes. Griggs nodded to him familiarly, passing along on the other side of the narrow street, and he saw Stefanone’s expression. There was a look of cunning and amusement in the contraction of the pale lids, which the younger man did not like. Stefanone spoke to him across the street.

“You are well returned, Signore,” he said, in the common phrase of greeting after an absence.

The words were civil enough, but there was something of mockery in the tone. Griggs might not have noticed it at any other time, but his thoughts had been occupied with Stefanone during the last two hours, and he resented what sounded like insolence. The tone implied that he had been on a fool’s errand, and that Stefanone knew it. He said nothing, but stood still and scrutinized the man’s face. There was an unwonted colour about the cheek bones, and the keen eyes sparkled under the brim of the soft hat. Stefanone had a solid head, and was not given to drinking, especially in the morning; but Griggs guessed that to-day he had drunk more than usual. The man’s next words convinced him of the fact.

“Signore,” he said, slowly rising, “will you favour us by tasting the wine I brought last week? There is no one in the shop yet, for it is early. If you will, we can drink a glass.”

“Thank you,” answered Griggs. “I have not eaten yet.”

“Then Sor Angoscia did not ask you to breakfast!” laughed Stefanone, insolently. “At midday, too! It was just the hour! But perhaps he invited you to his supper, for it is ordered.”

And he laughed again. Griggs glanced at him once more, and then went quietly on towards his own door. He saw that the man had drunk too much, and the idea of bandying words in the attempt to rebuke him was distasteful. Griggs had very rarely lost his temper, so far as to strike a man, even in former days, and it had seemed to him of late that he could never be really angry again. Nothing could ever again be of enough importance to make it worth while. If a man of his own class had insulted him, he would have directed his double, as it were, to resent the offence, but he himself would have remained utterly indifferent.

The one-eyed cobbler was not in his place, as it was Sunday. If he had been there, Griggs would very possibly have told him to watch Stefanone and to try and keep him in the wine shop until he should grow heavy over his wine and fall asleep. In that state he would at least be harmless. But the cobbler was not there. Griggs went up to his rooms to wait until a later hour, when he might hope to find Francesca.

Stefanone, being left alone, sat down again, pulled his hat over his eyes once more and felt in his pocket for his clasp-knife. His mind was by no means clear, for he had eaten nothing, he had swallowed a good deal of strong wine, and he had made up his mind that he must kill his enemy on that day or never. The intention was well-defined, but that was all. He had put off his vengeance too long. It was true that he had not yet caught Dalrymple alone in a quiet street at night, that is to say, under the most favourable circumstances imaginable; but more than once he might have fallen upon him suddenly from a doorway in a narrow lane, in which there had been but a few women and children to see the deed, if they saw it at all. He knew well enough that in Rome the fear of being in any way implicated in a murder, even as a witness, would have made women, and probably men, too, run indoors or out of the way, rather than interfere or pursue him. He told himself therefore that he had been unreasonably cautious, and that unless he acted quickly Lord Redin, being warned by Griggs, would take measures of self-defence which might put him beyond the reach of the clasp-knife forever. Stefanone’s ideas about the power of an ‘English lord’ were vague in the extreme.

He had not been exactly frightened by Griggs’s sudden accusation that morning, but he had been made nervous and vicious by the certainty that his intentions had been discovered. Peasant-like, not being able to hit on a plan for immediate success, he had excited himself and stimulated his courage with drink. His eyes were already a little bloodshot, and the flush on his high cheek bones showed that he was in the first stage of drunkenness, which under present circumstances was the most dangerous and might last all day with a man of his age and constitution, provided that he did not drink too fast. And there was little fear of that, for the Roman is cautious in his cups, and drinks slowly, never wishing to lose his head, and indeed very much ashamed of ever being seen in a helpless condition.

By this time he was well acquainted with Lord Redin’s habits; and though Griggs had been told that the Scotchman was out, Stefanone knew very well that he was at home and would not leave the hotel for another hour or more.

Leaning back against the wall and tipping the stool, he swung his white-stockinged legs thoughtfully.

“One must eat,” he remarked aloud, to himself.

He held his head a little on one side, thoughtfully considering the question of food. Then he turned his face slowly towards the low door of the shop and sniffed the air. Something was cooking in the back regions within. Stefanone nodded to himself, rose, pulled out a blue and red cotton handkerchief, and proceeded to dust his well-blacked low shoes and steel buckles with considerable care, setting first one foot and then the other upon the stool.

Let us eat,” he said aloud, folding his handkerchief again and returning it to his pocket.

He went in and sat down at one of the trestle tables,—a heavy board, black with age. The host was nodding on a chair in the corner, a fat man in a clean white apron, with a round red face and fat red prominences over his eyes, with thin eyebrows that were scarcely perceptible.

Stefanone rapped on the board with his knuckles; the host awoke, looked at him with a pleased smile, made an interrogatory gesture, and having received an affirmative nod for an answer retired into the dark kitchen. In a moment he returned with a huge earthenware plate of soup in which a couple of large pieces of fat meat bobbed lazily as he set the dish on the table. Then he brought bread, a measure of wine, an iron spoon, and a two-pronged fork.

Stefanone eat the soup without a word, breaking great pieces of bread into it. Then he pulled out his clasp-knife and opened it; the long blade, keen as a razor and slightly curved, but dark and dull in colour, snapped to its place, as the ring at the back fell into the corresponding sharp notch. With affected delicacy, Stefanone held it between his thumb and one finger and drew the edge across the fat boiled meat, which fell into pieces almost at a touch, though it was tough and stringy. The host watched the operation approvingly. At that time it was forbidden to carry such knives in Rome, unless the point were round and blunt. The Roman always stabs; he never cuts his man’s throat in a fight or in a murder.

“It is a prohibited weapon,” observed the fat man, smiling, “but it is very beautiful. Poor Christian, if he finds it between his ribs! He would soon be cold. It is a consolation at night to have such a toy.”

“Truly, it is the consolation of my soul,” answered Stefanone.

“Say a little, dear friend,” said the fat man, sitting down and resting his bare elbows upon the table, “that arm, has it ever sent any one to Paradise?”

“And then I should tell you!” exclaimed Stefanone, laughing, and he sipped some wine and smacked his lips. “But no,” he added presently. “I am a pacific man. If they touch me—woe! But I, to touch any one? Not even a fly.”

“Thus I like men,” said the host, “serious, full of scruples, people who drink well, quiet, quiet, and pay better.”

“So we are at Subiaco,” answered Stefanone.

He cleaned his knife on a piece of bread very carefully, laid it open beside him, and threw the crust to a lean dog that appeared suddenly from beneath the table, as though it had come up through a trap-door; the half-famished creature bolted the bread with a snap and a gulp and disappeared again as suddenly and silently, just in time to avoid the fat man’s slow, heavy hand.

When he had finished eating, Stefanone produced his little piece of oilstone, which he carried wrapped in dingy paper, and having greased it proceeded to draw the blade over it slowly and smoothly.

“Apoplexy!” ejaculated the host. “Are you not contented? Or perhaps you wish to shave with it?”

“Thus I keep it,” answered the peasant, smiling. “A minute here, a minute there. The time costs nothing. What am I doing? Nothing. I digest. To pass the time I sharpen the knife. I am like this. I say it is a sin to waste time.”

Every now and then he sipped his wine, but there was no perceptible change in his manner, for he was careful to keep himself just at the same level of excitement, neither more nor less.

Half an hour later he was smoking his pipe in the Piazza di Spagna, lounging near the great fountain in the sunshine, his eyes generally turned towards the door of the hotel. He waited a long time, and replenished his pipe more than once.

“This would be the only thing wanting,” he said impatiently and half aloud. “That just to-day he should not go out.”

But Lord Redin appeared at last, dressed as though he were going to make a visit. He looked about the square, standing still on the threshold for a moment, and a couple of small open cabs drove up. But he shook his head, consulted his watch, and strode away in the direction of the Propaganda.

Stefanone guessed that he was going to the Palazzetto Borgia, and followed him as usual at a safe distance, threading the winding ways towards the Piazza di Venezia. There used to be a small café then under the corner of that part of the Palazzo Torlonia which has now been pulled down. Lord Redin entered it, and Stefanone lingered on the other side of the street. A man passed him who sold melon seeds and aquavitæ, and Stefanone drank a glass of the one and bought a measure of the other. The Romans are fond of the taste of the tiny dry kernel which is found inside the broad white shell of the seed. Presently Lord Redin came out, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, and went on. Stefanone followed him again, walking fast when his enemy had turned a corner and slackening his speed as soon as he caught sight of him again.

Francesca was out. He saw Lord Redin’s look of annoyance as the latter turned away after speaking with the porter, and he fell back into the shadow of a doorway, expecting that the Scotchman would take the street by which he had come. But Dalrymple turned down the narrow lane beside the palace, in the direction of the Tiber. Stefanone’s bloodshot eyes opened suddenly as he sprang after him; with a quick movement he got his knife out, opened it, and thrust his hand with it open into the wide pocket of his jacket. Lord Redin had never gone down that lane before, to Stefanone’s knowledge, and it was a hundred to one that at that hour no one would be about. Stefanone himself did not know the place.

Dalrymple must have heard the quick and heavy footsteps of the peasant behind him, but it would not have been at all like him to turn his head. With loose, swinging gait he strode along, and his heavy stick made high little echoes as it struck the dry cobble-stones.

Stefanone was very near him. His eyes glared redly, and his hand with the knife in it was half out of his pocket. In ten steps more he would spring and strike upwards, as Romans do. He chose the spot on the dark overcoat where his knife should go through, below the shoulder-blade, at the height of the small ribs on the left side. His lips were parted and dry.

There was a loud scream of anger, a tremendous clattering noise, and a sound of feet. Stefanone turned suddenly pale, and his hand went to the bottom of his pocket again.

On an open doorstep lay a copper ‘conca’—the Roman water jar—a wretched dog was rushing down the street with something in its mouth, in front of Lord Redin, a woman was pursuing it with yells, swinging a small wooden stool in her right hand, to throw it at the dog, and the neighbours were on their doorsteps in a moment. Stefanone slunk under the shadow of the wall, grinding his teeth. The chance was gone. The streets beyond were broader and more populous.

Lord Redin went steadily onward, evidently familiar with every turn of the way, down to the Tiber, across the Bridge of Quattro Capi, and over the island of Saint Bartholomew to Trastevere, turning then to the right through the straight Lungaretta, past Santa Maria and under the heights of San Pietro in Montorio, and so to the Lungara and by Santo Spirito to the Piazza of Saint Peter’s. He walked fast, and Stefanone twice wiped the perspiration from his forehead on the way, for he was nervous from the tension and the disappointment, and felt suddenly weak.

The Scotchman never paused, but crossed the vast square and went up the steps of the basilica. He was evidently going to hear the Vespers. Then Stefanone, instead of following him into the church, sat down outside the wine shop on the right, just opposite the end of the Colonnade. He ordered a measure of wine and prepared to wait, for he guessed that Lord Redin would remain in the church at least an hour.

Lord Redin lifted the heavy leathern curtain of the door on the right of the main entrance to the basilica, and went into the church. For some reason or other, the majority of people go in by that door rather than the other. It may be that the reason is a very simple one, after all. Most people are right handed, and of any two doors side by side leading into the same place, will instinctively take the one on the right. The practice of passing to the left in the street, in almost all old countries, was for the sake of safety, in order that a man might have his sword hand towards any one he met.

The air of the church was warm, and had a faint odour of incense in it. The temperature of the vast building varies but little with the seasons; going into it in winter, it seems warm, in summer it is very cold. On that day there were not many people in the nave, though a soft sound of unceasing footsteps broke the stillness. Very far away an occasional strain of music floated on the air from the Chapel of the Choir, the last on the left before the transept is reached. Lord Redin walked leisurely in the direction of the sound.

The chapel was full, and the canons were intoning the psalms of the office. At the conclusion of each one the choir sang the ‘Gloria’ from the great organ loft on the right. It chanced that there were a number of foreigners on that day, and they had filled all the available space within the gate, and there was a small crowd outside, pressing as close as possible in order to hear the voices more distinctly. Lord Redin was taller than most men, and looking over the heads of the others he saw Francesca Campodonico’s pale profile in the thick of the press. She evidently wished to extricate herself, and she seemed to be suffering from the closeness, for she pressed her handkerchief nervously to her lips, and her eyes were half closed. Lord Redin forced his way to her without much consideration for the people who hindered him. A few minutes later he brought her out on the side towards the transept.

“Thank you,” said Francesca. “I should like to sit down. I had almost fainted—there was a woman next to me who had musk about her.”

They went round the pillar of the dome to the south transept where there are almost always a number of benches set along the edges of a huge green baize carpet. They sat down together on the end of one of the seats.

“We can go back, by and bye, and hear the music, if you like,” said Francesca. “The psalms will last some time longer.”

“I would rather sit here and talk, since I have had the good luck to meet you,” answered Lord Redin, resting his elbows on his knees, and idly poking the green carpet with the end of his stick. “I went to your house, and they told me that you would very probably be here.”

“Yes. I often come. But you know that, for we have met here before. I only stay at home on Sundays when it rains.”

“Oh! Is that the rule?”

“Yes, if you call it a rule,” answered Francesca.

“I like to know about the things you do, and how you spend your life,” said the Scotchman, thoughtfully.

“Do you? Why? There is nothing very interesting about my existence, it seems to me.”

“It interests me. It makes me feel less lonely to know about some one else—some one I like very much.”

Francesca looked at her companion with an expression of pity. She was lonely, too, but in a different way. The little drama of her life had run sadly and smoothly. She was willing to give the man her friendship if it could help him, rather because he seemed to ask for it in a mute fashion than because she desired his.

“Lord Redin,” she said, after a little pause, “do you always mean to live in this way?”

“Alone? Yes. It is the only way I can live, at my age.”

“At your age—would it make any difference if you were younger?” asked Francesca. She dropped her voice to a low key. “You would never marry again, even if you were much younger.”

“Marry!” His shoulders moved with a sort of little start. “You do not know what you are saying!” he added, almost under his breath, though she heard the words distinctly.

She looked at him again, in silence, during several seconds, and she saw how the colour sank away from his face, till the skin was like old parchment. The hand that held the heavy stick tightened round it and grew yellow at the knuckles.

“Forgive me,” she said gently. “I am very thoughtless—it is the second time.”

He did not speak for some moments, but she understood his silence and waited. The air was very quiet, and the enormous pillar of the dome almost completely shut off the echo of the distant music. The low afternoon sun streamed levelly through the great windows of the apse, for the basilica is built towards the west. There were very few people in the church that day. The sun made visible beams across the high shadows overhead.

Suddenly Lord Redin spoke again. There was something weak and tremulous in the tone of his rough voice.

“I am very much attached to you, for two reasons,” he said. “We have known each other long, but not intimately.”

“That is true. Not very intimately.”

Francesca did not know exactly what to say. But for his manner and for his behaviour a few moments earlier, she might have fancied that he was about to offer himself to her, but such an idea was very far from her thoughts. Her woman’s instinct told her that he was going to tell her something in the nature of a confidence.

“Precisely,” he continued. “We have never been intimate. The reason why we have not been intimate is one of the reasons why I am more attached to you than you have ever guessed.”

“That is complicated,” said Francesca, with a smile. “Perhaps the other reason may be simpler.”

“It is very simple, very simple indeed, though it will not seem natural to you. You are the only very good woman I ever knew, who made me feel that she was good instead of making me see it. Perhaps you think it unnatural that I should be attracted by goodness at all. But I am not very bad, as men go.”

“No. I do not believe you are. And I am not so good as you think.” She sighed softly.

“You are much better than I once thought,” answered Lord Redin. “Once upon a time—well, I should only offend you, and I know better now. Forgive me for thinking of it. I wish to tell you something else.”

“If it is something which has been your secret, it is better not told,” said Francesca, quietly. “One rarely makes a confidence that one does not regret it.”

“You are a wise woman.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “And yet you must be very young.”

“No. But though I have had my own life apart, I have lived outwardly very much in the world, although I am still young. Most of the secrets which have been told me have been repeated to me by the people in whom others had confided.”

“All that is true,” he answered. “Nevertheless—” He paused. “I am desperate!” he exclaimed, with sudden energy. “I cannot bear this any longer—I am alone, always, always. Sometimes I think I shall go mad! You do not know what a life I lead. I have not even a vice to comfort me!” He laughed low and savagely. “I tried to drink, but I am sick of it—it does no good! A man who has not even a vice is a very lonely man.”

Francesca’s clear eyes opened wide with a startled look, and gazed towards his averted face, trying to catch his glance. She felt that she was close to something very strong and dreadful which she could not understand.

“Do not speak like that!” she said. “No one is lonely who believes in God.”

“God!” he exclaimed bitterly. “God has forgotten me, and the devil will not have me!” He looked at her at last, and saw her face. “Do not be shocked,” he said, with a sorrowful smile. “If I were as bad as I seem to you just now, I should have cut my throat twenty years ago.”

“Hush! Hush!” Francesca did not know what to say.

His manner changed a little, and he spoke more calmly.

“I am not eloquent,” he said, looking into her eyes. “You may not understand. But I have suffered a great deal.”

“Yes. I know that. I am very sorry for you.”

“I think you are,” he answered. “That is why I want to be honest and tell you the truth about myself. For that reason, and because I cannot bear it any longer. I cannot, I cannot!” he repeated in a low, despairing tone.

“If it will help you to tell me, then tell me,” said Francesca, kindly. “But I do not ask you to. I do not see why we should not be the best of friends without my knowing this thing which weighs on your mind.”

“You will understand when I have told you,” answered Lord Redin. “Then you can judge whether you will have me for a friend or not. It will seem very bad to you. Perhaps it is. I never thought so. But you are a Roman Catholic, and that makes a difference.”

“Not in a question of right and wrong.”

“It makes the question what it is. You shall hear.”

He paused a moment, and the lines and furrows deepened in his face. The sun was sinking fast, and the long beams had faded away out of the shadows. There was no one in sight now, but the music of the benediction service echoed faintly in the distance. Francesca felt her heart beating with a sort of excitement she could not understand, and though she did not look at her companion, her ears were strained to catch the first word he spoke.

“I married a nun,” he said simply.

Francesca started.

“A Sister of Charity?” she asked, after a moment’s dead silence. “They do not take vows—”

“No. A nun from the Carmelite Convent of Subiaco.”

His words were very distinct. There was no mistaking what he said. Francesca shrank from him instinctively, and uttered a low exclamation of repugnance and horror.

“That is not all,” continued Lord Redin, with a calm that seemed supernatural. “She was your kinswoman. She was Maria Braccio, whom every one believed was burned to death in her cell.”

“But her body—they found it! It is impossible!” She thought he must be mad.

“No. They found another body. I put it into the bed and set fire to the mattress. It was burned beyond recognition, and they thought it was Maria. But it was the body of old Stefanone’s daughter. I lived in his house. The girl poisoned herself with some of my chemicals—I was a young doctor in those days. Maria and I were married on board an English man-of-war, and we lived in Scotland after that. Gloria was the daughter of Maria Braccio, the Carmelite nun—your kinswoman.”

Francesca pressed her handkerchief to her lips. She felt as though she were losing her senses. Minute after minute passed, and she could say nothing. From time to time, Lord Redin glanced sideways at her. He breathed hard once or twice, and his hands strained upon his stick as though they would break it in two.

“Then she died,” he said. When he had spoken the three words, he shivered from head to foot, and was silent.

Still Francesca could not speak. The sacrilege of the deed was horrible in itself. To her, who had grown up to look upon Maria Braccio as a holy woman, cut off in her youth by a frightful death, the truth was overwhelmingly awful. She strove within herself to find something upon which she could throw the merest shadow of an extenuation, but she could find nothing.

“You understand now why, as an honourable man, I wished to tell you the truth about myself,” he said, speaking almost coldly in the effort he was making at self-control. “I could not ask for your friendship until I had told you.”

Francesca turned her white face slowly towards him in the dusk, and her lips moved, but she did not speak. She could not in that first moment find the words she wanted. She felt that she shrank from him, that she never wished to touch his hand again. Doubtless, in time, she might get over the first impression. She wished that he would leave her to think about it.

“Can you ever be my friend now?” he asked gravely.

“Your friend—” she stopped, and shook her head sadly. “I—I am afraid—” she could not go on.

Lord Redin rose slowly to his feet.

“No. I am afraid not,” he said.

He waited a moment, but there was no reply.

“May I take you to your carriage?” he asked gently.

“No, thank you. No—that is—I am going home in a cab. I would rather be alone—please.”

“那再见。”

The lonely man went away and left her there. His head was bent, and she thought that he walked unsteadily, as she watched him. Suddenly a great wave of pity filled her heart. He looked so very lonely. What right had she to judge him? Was she perfect, because he called her good? She called him before he turned the great pillar of the dome.

“Lord Redin! Lord Redin!”

But her voice was weak, and in the vast, dim place it did not reach him. He went on alone, past the high altar, round the pillar, down the nave. The benediction service was not quite over yet, but every one who was not listening to the music had left the church. He went towards the door by which he had entered. Before going out he paused, and looked towards the little chapel on the right of the entrance. He hesitated, and then went to it and stood leaning with his hands upon the heavy marble balustrade, that was low for his great height as he stood on the step.

A single silver lamp sent a faint light upwards that lingered upon the Pietà above the altar, upon the marble limbs of the dead Christ, upon the features of the Blessed Virgin, the Addolorata—the sorrowing mother.

Bending a little, as though very weary, the friendless, wifeless, childless man raised his furrowed face and looked up. There was no hope any more, and his despair was heavy upon him whose young love had blasted the lives of many.

His teeth were set—he could have bitten through iron. He trembled a little, and as he looked upward, two dreadful tears—the tears of the strong that are as blood—welled from his eyes and trickled down upon his cheeks.

“Maria Addolorata!” he whispered.

Francesca had half risen from her seat when she had seen that Lord Redin did not hear her voice, calling to him. Then she realized that she could not overtake him without running, since he had got so far, and she kept her place, leaning back once more, and trying to collect her thoughts before going home. The music was still going on in the Chapel of the Choir, and though it was dusk in the vast church, it would not be dark for some time. The vergers did not make their rounds to give warning of the hour of closing until sunset. Francesca sat still and tried to understand what she had heard. She was nervous and shaken, and she wished that she were already at home. The great dimness of the lonely transept was strangely mysterious—and the tale of the dead girl, burned to take the place of the living, was grewsome, and made her shiver with disgust and horror. She started nervously at the sound of a distant footstep.

But the strongest impression she had, was that of abhorrence for the unholy deeds of the man who had just left her. To a woman for whom religion in its forms as well as in its meaning was the mainstay of life on earth and the hope of life to come, the sacrilege of the crime seemed supernatural. She felt as though it must be in some way her duty to help in expiating it, lest the punishment of it should fall upon all her race. And as she thought it over, trying to look at it as simply as she could, she surveyed at a glance the whole chain of the fatal story, and saw how many terrible things had followed upon that one great sin, and how very nearly she herself had been touched by its consequences. She had been involved in it and had become a part of it. She had felt it about her for years, in her friendship for Reanda. It had contributed to the causes of his death, if it had not actually caused it. She, in helping to bring about his marriage with the daughter of her sinning kinswoman, had unconsciously made a link in the chain. Her friendship for the artist no longer looked as innocent as formerly. Gloria had accused him of loving her, Francesca. Had she not loved him? Whether she had or not, she had done things which had wounded his innocent young wife. In a sudden and painful illumination of the past, she saw that she herself had not been sinless; that she had been selfish, if nothing worse; that she had craved Reanda’s presence and devoted friendship, if nothing more; that death had taken from her more than a friend. She saw all at once the vanity of her own belief in her own innocence, and she accused herself very bitterly of many things which had been quite hidden from her until then.

She was roused by a footstep behind her, and she started at the sound of a voice she knew, but which had changed oddly since she had last heard it. It was stern, deep, and clear still, but the life was gone out of it. It had an automatic sound.

“I beg your pardon, Princess,” said Paul Griggs, stopping close to her behind the bench. “May I speak to you for a moment?”

She turned her head. As the sun went down, the church grew lighter for a little while, as it often does. Yet she could hardly see the man’s eyes at all, as she looked into his face. They were all in the shadow and had no light in them.

“Sit down,” she said mechanically.

She could not refuse to speak to him, and, indeed, she would not have refused to receive him had she been at home when he had called that day. Socially speaking, according to the standards of those around her, he had done nothing which she could very severely blame. A woman he had dearly loved had come to him for protection, and he had not driven her away. That was the social value of what he had done. The moral view of it all was individual with herself. Society gave her no right to treat him rudely because she disapproved of his past life. For the rest, she had liked him in former times, and she believed that there was much more good in him than at first appeared.

She was almost glad that he had disturbed her solitude just then, for a nervous sense of loneliness was creeping upon her; and though there had been nothing to prevent her from rising and going away, she had felt that something was holding her in her seat, a shadowy something that was oppressive and not natural, that descended upon her out of the gloomy heights, and that rose around her from the secret depths below, where the great dead lay side by side in their leaden coffins.

“Sit down,” she repeated, as Griggs came round the bench.

He sat down beside her. There was a little distance between them, and he sat rather stiffly, holding his hat on his knees.

“I should apologize for disturbing you,” he began. “I have been twice to your house to-day, but you were out. What I wish to speak of is rather urgent. I heard that you might be here, and so I came.”

“Yes,” she said, and waited for him to say more.

“What is it?” she asked presently, as he did not speak at once.

“It is about Dalrymple—about Lord Redin,” he said at last. “You used to know him. Do you ever see him now?”

Francesca looked at him with a little surprise, but she answered quietly, as though the question were quite a natural one.

“He was here five minutes ago. Yes, I often see him.”

“Would you do him a service?” asked Griggs, in his calm and indifferent tone.

He was forcing himself to do what was plainly his duty, but he was utterly incapable of taking any interest in the matter. Francesca hesitated before she answered. An hour earlier she would have assented readily enough, but now the idea of doing anything which could tend to bring her into closer relations with Lord Redin was disagreeable.

“I do not think you will refuse,” said Griggs, as she did not speak. “His life is in danger.”

She turned quickly and scrutinized the expressionless features. In the glow of the sunset the church was quite light. The total unconcern of the man’s manner contrasted strangely with the importance of what he said. Francesca felt that something must be wrong.

“You say that very coolly,” she observed, and her tone showed that she was incredulous.

“And you do not believe me,” answered Griggs, quite unmoved. “It is natural, I suppose. I will try to explain.”

“Please do. I do not understand at all.”

Nevertheless, she was startled, though she concealed her nervousness. She had not spoken with Griggs for a long time; and as he talked, she saw what a great change had taken place. He was very quiet, as he had always been, but he was almost too quiet. She could not make out his eyes. She knew of his superhuman strength, and his stillness seemed unnatural. What he said did not sound rational. An impression got hold of her that he had gone mad, and she was physically afraid of him. He began to explain. She felt a singing in her ears, and she could not follow what he said. It was like an evil dream, and it grew upon her second by second.

He talked on in the same even, monotonous tone. The words meant nothing to her. She crossed her feet nervously and tried to get a soothing sensation by stroking her sable muff. She made a great effort at concentration and failed to understand anything.

All at once it grew dark, as the sunset light faded out of the sky. Again she felt the desire to rise and the certainty that she could not, if she tried. He ceased speaking and seemed to expect her to say something, but she had not understood a word of his long explanation. He sat patiently waiting. She could hardly distinguish his face in the gloom.

The sound of irregular, shuffling footsteps and low voices moved the stillness. The vergers were making their last round in a hurried, perfunctory way. They passed across the transept to the high altar. It was so dark that Francesca could only just see their shadows moving in the blackness. She did not realize what they were doing, and her imagination made ghosts of them, rushing through the silence of the deserted place, from one tomb to another, waking the dead for the night. They did not even glance across, as they skirted the wall of the church. Even if they had looked, they might not have seen two persons in black, against the blackness, sitting silently side by side on the dark bench. They saw nothing and passed on, out of sight and out of hearing.

“May I ask whether you will give him the message?” inquired Griggs at last, moving in his seat, for he knew that it was time to be going.

Francesca started, at the sound of his voice.

“I—I am afraid—I have not understood,” she said. “I beg your pardon—I was not paying attention. I am nervous.”

“It is growing late,” said Griggs. “We had better be going—I will tell you again as we walk to the door.”

“Yes—no—just a moment!” She made a strong effort over herself. “Tell me in three words,” she said. “Who is it that threatens Lord Redin’s life?”

“A peasant of Subiaco called Stefanone. Really, Princess, we must be going; it is quite dark—”

“Stefanone!” exclaimed Francesca, while he was speaking the last words, which she did not hear. “Stefanone of Subiaco—of course!”

“We must really be going,” said Griggs, rising to his feet, and wondering indifferently why it was so hard to make her understand.

She rose to her feet slowly. Lord Redin’s story was intricately confused in her mind with the few words which she had retained of what Griggs had said.

“Yes—yes—Stefanone,” she said in a low voice, as though to herself, and she stood still, comprehending the whole situation in a flash, and imagining that Griggs knew the whole truth and had been telling it to her as though she had not known it. “But how did you know that Lord Redin took the girl’s body and burnt it?” she asked, quite certain that he had mentioned the fact.

“What girl?” asked Griggs in wonder.

“Why, the body of Stefanone’s daughter, which he managed to burn in the convent when he carried off my cousin! How did you know about it?”

“I did not know about it,” said Griggs. “Your cousin? I do not understand.”

“My cousin—yes—Maria Braccio—Gloria’s mother! You have just been talking about her—”

“I?” asked Griggs, bewildered.

Francesca stepped back from him, suddenly guessing that she had revealed Lord Redin’s secret.

“Is it possible?” she asked in a low voice. “Oh, it is all a mistake!” she cried suddenly. “I have told you his story—oh, I am losing my head!”

“Come,” said Griggs, authoritatively. “We must get out of the church, at all events, or we shall be locked in.”

“Oh no!” answered Francesca. “There is always somebody here—”

“There is not. You must really come.”

“Yes—but there is no danger of being locked in. Yes—let us walk down the nave. There is more light.”

They walked slowly, for she was too much confused to hasten her steps. Her inexplicable mistake troubled her terribly. She remembered how she had warned Lord Redin not to tell her any secrets, and how seriously she, the most discreet of women, had resolved never to reveal what he had said. But the impression of his story had been so much more direct and strong than even the first words Griggs had spoken, that so soon as she had realized that the latter was speaking approximately of the same subject, she had lost the thread of what he was saying and had seemed to hear Lord Redin’s dreadful tale all over again. She thought that she was losing her head.

It was almost quite dark when they reached the other side of the high altar. Griggs walked beside her in silence, trying to understand the meaning of what she had said.

The gloom was terrible. The enormous statues loomed faintly like vast ghosts, high up, between the floor and the roof, their whiteness glimmering where there seemed to be nothing else but darkness below them and above them. A low, far sound that was a voice but not a word, trembled in the air. Francesca shuddered.

“They have not gone yet,” said Griggs. “They are still talking. But we must hurry.”

“No,” said Francesca, “that was not any one talking.” And her teeth chattered. “Give me your arm, please—I am frightened.”

He held out his arm till she could feel it in the dark, and she took it. He pressed her hand to his side and drew her along, for he feared that the doors might be already shut.

“Not so fast! Oh, not so fast, please!” she cried. “I shall fall. They do not shut the doors—”

“Yes, they do! Let me carry you. I can run with you in the dark—there is no time to be lost!”

“No, no! I can walk faster—but there is really no danger—”

It is a very long way from the high altar to the main entrance of the church. Francesca was breathless when they reached the door and Griggs lifted the heavy leathern curtain. If the door had been still open, he would have seen the twilight from the porch at once. Instead, all was black and close and smelled of leather. Francesca was holding his sleeve, afraid of losing him.

“It is too late,” he said quietly. “We are probably locked in. We will try the door of the Sacristy.”

He seized her arm and hurried her along into the south aisle. He struck his shoulder violently against the base of the pillar he passed in the darkness, but he did not stop. Almost instinctively he found the door, for he could not see it. Even the hideous skeleton which supports a black marble drapery above it was not visible in the gloom. He found the bevelled edge of the smoothly polished panel and pushed. But it would not yield.

“We are locked in,” he said, in the same quiet tone as before.

Francesca uttered a low cry of terror and then was silent.

“Cannot you break the door?” she asked suddenly.

“No,” he answered. “Nothing short of a battering-ram could move it.”

“Try,” she said. “You are so strong—the lock might give way.”

To satisfy her he braced himself and heaved against the panel with all his gigantic strength. In the dark she could hear his breath drawn through his nostrils.

“It will not move,” he said, desisting. “We shall have to spend the night here. I am very sorry.”

For some moments Francesca said nothing, overcome by her terror of the situation. Griggs stood still, with his back to the polished door, trying to see her in the gloom. Then he felt her closer to him and heard her small feet moving on the pavement.

“We must make the best of it,” he said at last. “It is never quite dark near the high altar. I daresay, too, that there is still a little twilight where we were sitting. At least, there is a carpet there and there are benches. We can sit there until it is later. Then you can lie down upon the bench. I will make a pillow for you with my overcoat. It is warm, and I shall not need it.”

He made a step forwards, and she heard him moving.

“Do not leave me!” she cried, in sudden terror.

He felt her grasp his arm convulsively in the dark, and he felt her hands shaking.

“Do not be frightened,” he said, in his quiet voice. “Dead people do no harm, you know. It is only imagination.”

She shuddered as he groped his way with her toward the nave. They passed the pillar and saw the soft light of the ninety little flames of the huge golden lamps around the central shrine below the high altar. Far beyond, the great windows showed faintly in the height of the blackness. They walked more freely, keeping in the middle of the church. In the distant chapels on each side a few little lamps glimmered like fireflies. Before the last chapel on the right, the Chapel of the Sacrament, Francesca paused, instinctively holding fast to Griggs’s arm, and they both bent one knee, as all Catholics do, who pass before it. But when they reached the shrine, Francesca loosed her hold and sank upon her knees, resting her arms upon the broad marble of the balustrade. Griggs knelt a moment beside her, by force of habit, then rose and waited, looking about him into the depths of blackness, and reflecting upon the best spot in which to pass the night.

She remained kneeling a long time, praying more or less consciously, but aware that it was a relief to be near a little light after passing through the darkness. Her mind was as terribly confused as her companion’s was utterly calm and indifferent. If he had been alone he would have sat down upon a step until he was sleepy and then he would have stretched himself upon one of the benches in the transept. But to Francesca it was unspeakably dreadful.

The strangeness of the whole situation forced itself upon her more and more, when she thought of rising from her knees and going back to the bench. She felt a womanly shyness about keeping close to her companion, her hand on his arm, for hours together, but she knew that the terror she should feel of being left alone, even for an instant, or of merely thinking that she was to be left alone, would more than overcome that if she went away from the lights. She would grasp his arm and hold it tightly.

Then she felt ashamed of herself. She had always been told that she came of a brave race. She had never been in danger, and there was really no danger now. It was absurd to remain on her knees for the sake of the lamps. She rose to her feet and turned. Griggs was not looking at her, but at the ornaments on the altar. The soft glimmer lighted up his dark face. A moment after she had risen he came forward. She meant to propose that they should go back to the transept, but just then she shuddered again.

“Let us sit down here, on the step,” she said, suddenly.

“If you like,” he answered. “Wait a minute,” he added, and he pulled off his overcoat.

He spread a part of it on the step, and rolled the rest into a pillow against which she could lean, and he held it in place while she sat down. She thanked him, and he sat down beside her. At first, as she turned from the lamps, the nave was like a fathomless black wall. Neither spoke for some time. Griggs broke the silence when he supposed that she was sufficiently recovered to talk quietly, for he had been thinking of what she had said, and it was almost clear to him at last.

“I should like to speak to you quite frankly, if you will allow me,” he said gravely. “May I?”

“当然。”

“The few words you said about Lord Redin’s story have explained a great many things which I never understood,” said Griggs. “Is it too much to ask that you should tell me everything you know?”

“I would rather not say anything more,” answered Francesca. “I am very much ashamed of having betrayed his secret. Besides, what is to be gained by your knowing a few more details? It is bad enough as it is.”

“It is more or less the story of my life,” he said, almost indifferently.

She turned her head slowly and tried to see his face. She could just distinguish the features, cold and impassive.

“I came to you to ask you to warn Dalrymple of a danger,” he continued, as she did not speak. “I knew that fact, but not the reason why his life was and is threatened. Unless I have mistaken what you said, I understand it now. It is a much stronger one than I should ever have guessed. Lord Redin ran away with your cousin, and made it appear that he had carried off Stefanone’s daughter. Stefanone has waited patiently for nearly a quarter of a century. He has found Dalrymple at last and means to kill him. He will succeed, unless you can make Dalrymple understand that the danger is real. I have no evidence on which I could have the man arrested, and I have no personal influence in Rome. You have. You would find no difficulty in having Stefanone kept out of the city. And you can make Dalrymple see the truth, since he has confided in you. Will you do that? He will not believe me, and you can save him. Besides, he will not see me. I have tried twice to-day. He has made up his mind that he will not see me.”

“I will do my best,” said Francesca, leaning her head back against the marble rail, and half closing her eyes. “How terrible it all is!”

“Yes. I suppose that is the word,” said Griggs, indifferently. “Sacrilege, suicide, and probably murder to come.”

She was shocked by the perfectly emotionless way in which he spoke of Gloria’s death, so much shocked that she drew a short, quick breath between her teeth as though she had hurt herself. Griggs heard it.

“有什么事？” 他问。

“没什么，”她说。

“I thought something hurt you.”

“没什么。”

她又沉默了。

“Yes,” he continued, in a tone of cold speculation, “I suppose that any one would call it terrible. At all events, it is curious, as a sequence of cause and effect, from one tragedy to another.”

“Please—please do not speak of it all like that—” Francesca felt herself growing angry with him.

“How should I speak of it?” he asked. “It is an extraordinary concatenation of events. I look upon the whole thing as very curious, especially since you have given me the key to it all.”

Francesca was moved to anger, taking the defence of the dead Gloria, as almost any woman would have done. At the moment Paul Griggs repelled her even more than Lord Redin. It seemed to her that there was something dastardly in his indifference.

“Have you no heart?” she asked suddenly.

“No, I am dead,” he answered, in his clear, lifeless voice, that might have been a ghost’s.

The words made her shiver, and she felt as though her hair were moving. From his face, as she had last seen it, and from his voice, he might almost have been dead, as he said he was, like the thousands of silent ones in the labyrinths under her feet, and she alone alive in the midst of so much death.

“What do you mean?” she asked, and her own voice trembled in spite of herself.

“It is very like being dead,” he answered thoughtfully. “I cannot feel anything. I cannot understand why any one else should. Everything is the same to me. The world is a white blank to me, and one place is exactly like any other place.”

“But why? What has happened to you?” asked Francesca.

“You know. You sent me those letters.”

“什么字母？”

“The package Reanda gave you before he died.”

“Yes. What was in it? I told you that I did not know, when I wrote to you. I remember every word I wrote.”

“I know. But I thought that you at least guessed. They were Gloria’s letters to her husband.”

“Her old letters, before—” Francesca stopped short.

“No,” he answered, with the same unnatural quiet. “All the letters she wrote him afterwards—when we were together.”

“All those letters?” cried Francesca, suddenly understanding. “Oh no—no! It is not possible! He could not, he would not, have done anything so horrible.”

“He did,” said Griggs, calmly. “I had supposed that she loved me. He had his vengeance. He proved to me that she did not. I hope he is satisfied with the result. Yes,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, “it was the cruelest thing that ever one man did to another. I spent a bad night, I remember. On the top of the package was the last letter she wrote him, just before she killed herself. She loathed me, she said, she hated me, she shivered at my touch. She feared me so that she acted a comedy of love, in terror of her life, after she had discovered that she hated me. She need not have been afraid. Why should I have hurt her? In that last letter, she put her wedding ring with a lock of her hair wound in and out of it. Reanda knew what he was doing when he sent it to me. Do you wonder that it has deadened me to everything?”

“Oh, how could he do it? How could he!” Francesca repeated, for the worst of it all to her was the unutterable cruelty of the man she had believed so gentle.

“I suppose it was natural,” said Griggs. “I loved the woman, and he knew it. I fancy few men have loved much more sincerely than I loved her, even after she was dead. I was not always saying so. I am not that kind of man. Besides,men who live by stringing words together for money do not value them much in their own lives. But I worked for her. I did the best I could. Even she must have known that I loved her.”

“I know you did. I cannot understand how you can speak of her at all.” Francesca wondered at the man.

“She? She is no more to me than Queen Christina, over there in her tomb in the dark! For that matter, nothing else has any meaning, either.”

For a long time Francesca said nothing. She sat quite still, resting the back of her head against the marble, in the awful silence under the faint lights that glimmered above the great tomb.

“You have told me the most dreadful thing I ever heard,” she said at last, in a low tone. “Is she nothing to you? Really nothing? Can you never think kindly of her again?”

“No. Why should I? That is—” he hesitated. “I could not explain it,” he said, and was silent.

“It does not seem human,” said Francesca. “You would have a memory of her—something—some touch of sadness—I wonder whether you really loved her as much as you thought you did?”

Griggs turned upon Francesca slowly, his hands clasped upon one knee.

“You do not know what such love means,” he said slowly. “It is God—faith—goodness—everything. It is heaven on earth, and earth in heaven, in one heart. When it is gone there is nothing left. It went hard. It will not come back now. The heart itself is gone. There is nothing for it to come to. You think me cold, you are shocked because I speak indifferently of her. She lied to me. She lied and acted in every word and deed of her life with me. She deceived herself a little at first, and she deceived me mortally afterwards. It was all an immense, loathsome, deadly lie. I lived through the truth. Why should I wish to go back to the lie again? She died, telling me that she died for me. She died, having written to Reanda that she died for him. I do not judge her. God will. But God Himself could not make me love the smallest shadow of her memory. It is impossible. I am beyond life. I am outside it. My eternity has begun.”

“Is it not a little for her sake that you wish to save her father?” asked Francesca.

“No. It is a matter of honour, and nothing else, since I injured him, as the world would say, by taking his daughter from her husband. Do you understand? Can you put yourself a little in my position? It is not because I care whether he lives or dies, or dies a natural death or is stabbed in the back by a peasant. It is because I ought to care. I do many things because I ought to care to do them, though the things and their consequences are all one to me, now.”

“It cannot last,” said Francesca, sadly. “You will change as you grow older.”

“No. That is a thing you can never understand,” he answered. “I am two individuals. The one is what you see, a man more or less like other men, growing older—a man who has a certain mortal, earthly memory of that dead woman, when the real man is unconscious. But the real man is beyond growing old, because he is beyond feeling anything. He is stationary, outside of life. The world is a blank to him and always will be.”

His voice grew more and more expressionless as he spoke. Francesca felt that she could not pity him as she had pitied poor Lord Redin when she had seen him going away alone. The man beside her was in earnest, and was as far beyond woman’s pity as he was beyond woman’s love. Yet she no longer felt repelled by him since she had understood what he had suffered. Perhaps she herself, suffering still in her heart, wished that she might be even as he was, beyond the possibility of pain, even though beyond the hope of happiness. He wanted nothing, he asked for nothing, and he was not afraid to be alone with his own soul, as she was sometimes. The other man had asked for her friendship. It could mean nothing to Paul Griggs. If love were nothing, what could friendship be?

Yet there was something lofty and grand about such loneliness as his. She could not but feel that, now that she knew all. She thought of him as she sat beside him in the monumental silence of the enormous sepulchre, and she guessed of depths in his soul like the deepness of the shadows above her and before her and around her.

“My suffering seems very small, compared with yours,” she said softly, almost to herself.

Somehow she knew that he would understand her, though perhaps her knowledge was only hope.

“Why should you suffer at all?” he asked. “You have never done anything wrong. Nothing, of all this, is your fault. It was all fatal, from the first, and you cannot blame yourself for anything that has happened.”

“I do,” she answered, in a low voice. “Indeed I do.”

“You are wrong. You are not to blame. Dalrymple was—Maria Braccio—I—Gloria—we four. But you! What have you done? Compared with us you are a saint on earth!”

She hesitated a moment before she spoke. Then her voice came in a broken way.

“I loved Angelo Reanda. I know it, now that I have lost him.”

Griggs barely heard the last words, but he bent his head gravely, and said nothing in answer.

The stillness was all around them and seemed to fold them together as they sat side by side. A deep sigh quivered and paused and was drawn again almost with a gasp that stirred the air. Suddenly Francesca’s face was hidden in her hands, and her head was bowed almost to her knees. A moment more, and she sobbed aloud, wordless, as though her soul were breaking from her heart.

In the great gloom there was something unearthly in the sound of her weeping. The man who could neither suffer any more himself nor feel human pity for another’s suffering, turned and looked at her with shadowy eyes. He understood, though he could not feel, and he knew that she had borne more than any one had guessed.

She shed many tears, and it was long before her sobbing ceased to call down pitiful, heart-breaking echoes from the unseen heights of darkness. Her head was bent down upon her knees as she sat there, striving with herself.

He could do nothing, and there was nothing that he could say. He could not comfort her, he could not deny her grief. He only knew that there was one more being still alive and bearing the pain of sins done long ago. Truly the judgment upon that man by whom the offence had come, should be heavy and relentless and enduring.

At last all was still again. Francesca did not move, but sat bowed together, her hands pressing her face. Very softly, Griggs rose to his feet, and she did not see that he was no longer seated beside her. He stood up and leaned upon the broad marble of the balustrade. When she at last raised her head, she thought that he was gone.

“Where are you?” she asked, in a startled voice.

Then, looking round, she saw him standing by the rail. She understood why he had moved—that she might not feel that he was watching her and seeing her tears.

“I am not ashamed,” she said. “At least you know me, now.”

“是的。 我知道。”

She also rose and stood up, and leaned upon the balustrade and looked into his face.

“I am glad you know,” she said, and he saw how pale she was, and that her cheeks were wet. “Now that it is over, I am glad that you know,” she said again. “You are beyond sympathy, and beyond pitying any one, though you are not unkind. I am glad, that if any one was to know my secret, it should be you. I could not bear pity. It would hurt me. But you are not unkind.”

“Nor kind—nor anything,” he said.

“No. It is as though I had spoken to the grave—or to eternity. It is safe with you.”

“Yes. Quite safe. Safer than with the dead.”

“He never knew it. Thank God! He never knew it! To me he was always the same faithful friend. To you he was an enemy, and cruel. I thought him above cruelty, but he was human, after all. Was it not human, that he should be cruel to you?”

“Yes,” answered Griggs, wondering a little at her speech and tone. “It was very human.”

“And you forgive him for it?”

“I?” There was surprise in his tone.

“Yes,” she answered. “I want your forgiveness for him. He died without your forgiveness. It is the only thing I ask of you—I have not the right to ask anything, I know, but is it so very much?”

“It is nothing,” said Griggs. “There is no such thing as forgiveness in my world. How could there be? I resent nothing.”

“But then, if you do not resent what he did, you have forgiven him. Have you not?”

“I suppose so.” He was puzzled.

“Will you not say it?” she pleaded.

“Willingly,” he answered. “I forgive him. I remember nothing against him.”

“Thank you. You are a good man.”

He shook his head gravely, but he took her outstretched hand and pressed it gently.

“Thank you,” she repeated, withdrawing hers. “Do not think it strange that I should ask such a thing. It means a great deal to me. I could not bear to think that he had left an enemy in the world and was gone where he could not ask forgiveness for what he had done. So I asked it of you, for him. I know that he would have wished me to. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Griggs, thoughtfully. “I understand.”

Again there was silence for a long time as they stood there. The tears dried upon the woman’s sweet pale face, and a soft light came where the tears had been.

“Will you come with me?” she asked at last, looking up.

He did not guess what she meant to do, but he left the step on which he was standing and stood ready.

“It must be late,” he said. “Should you like to try and rest? I will arrange a place for you as well as I can.”

“Not yet,” she answered. “If you will come with me—” she hesitated.

“是？”

“I will say a prayer for the dead,” she said, in a low voice. “I always do, every night, since he died.”

Griggs bent his head, and she came down from the step. He walked beside her, down the silent nave into the darkness. Before the Chapel of the Sacrament they both paused and bent the knee. Then she hesitated.

“I should like to go to the Pietà,” she said timidly. “It seems so far. Do you mind?”

He held out his arm silently. She felt it and laid her hand upon it, and they went on. It was very dark. They knew that they were passing the pillars when they could not see the little lights from the chapels in the distance on their left. Then by the echo of their own footsteps they knew that they were near the great door, and at last they saw the single tiny flame in the silver lamp hanging above the altar they sought.

Guided by it, they went forward, and the solitary ray showed them the marble rail. They knelt down side by side.

“Let us pray for them all,” said Francesca, very softly.

She looked up to the marble face of Christ’s mother, the Addolorata, the mother of sorrows, and she thought of that sinning nun, dead long ago, who had been called Addolorata.

“Let us pray for them all,” she repeated. “For Maria Braccio, for Gloria—for Angelo Reanda.”

She lowered her head upon her hands. Then, presently, she looked up again, and Griggs heard her sweet voice in the darkness repeating the ancient Commemoration for the Dead, from the Canon of the Mass.

“Remember also, O Lord, thy servants who are gone before us with the sign of faith, and sleep the sleep of peace. Give them, O Lord, and to all who rest in Christ, a place of refreshment, light, and peace, for that Christ’s sake, who liveth and reigneth with Thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

Once more she bent her head and was silent for a time. Then as she knelt, her hands moved silently along the marble and pressed the two folded hands of the man beside her, and she looked at him.

“Let us be friends,” she said simply.

“Such as I am, I am yours.”

Then their hands clasped. They both started and looked down, for the fingers were cold and wet and dark.

It was the blood of Angus Dalrymple that had sealed their friendship.

The swift sure blade had struck him as he stood there, repeating the name of his dead wife. There had been no one near the door and none to see the quick, black deed. Strong hands had thrown his falling body within the marble balustrade, that was still wet with his heart’s blood.

There Paul Griggs found him, lying on his back, stretched to his length in the dim shadow between the rail and the altar. He had paid the price at last, a loving, sinning, suffering, faithful, faultful man.

But the friendship that was so grimly consecrated on that night, was the truest that ever was between man and woman.