To Ralph the Sienese air was not only breathable but intoxicating. The sun, treading the earth like a vintager, drew from it heady fragrances, crushed out of it new colours. All the values of the temperate landscape were reversed: the noon high-lights were white, but the shadows had unimagined colour. On the blackness of cork and ilex and cypress lay the green and purple lustres, the coppery iridescences, of
old bronze; and night after night the skies were wine-blue and bubbling with stars. Ralph said to himself that no one who had not seen Italy thus prostrate beneath the sun knew what secret treasures she could yield.
As he lay there, fragments of past states of emotion, fugitive felicities of thought and sensation, rose and floated on the surface of his thoughts. It was one of those moments when the accumulated impressions of life converge on heart and brain, elucidating, enlacing each other, in a mysterious confusion of beauty. He had had glimpses of such a state before, of such mergings of the personal with the general life that one felt oneself a mere wave on the wild stream of being, yet thrilled with a sharper sense of individuality than can be known within the mere bounds of the actual. But now he knew the sensation in its fulness, and with it came the releasing power of language. Words were flashing like brilliant birds through the boughs overhead; he had but to wave his magic wand to have them flutter down to him. Only they were so beautiful up there, weaving their fantastic flights against the blue, that it was pleasanter, for the moment, to watch them and let the wand lie.
He stared up at the pattern they made till his eyes ached with excess of light; then he changed his position and looked at his wife.
Undine, near by, leaned against a gnarled tree with the slightly constrained air of a person unused to sylvan abandonments. Her beautiful back could not adapt itself to the irregularities of the tree-trunk, and she moved a little now and then in the effort to find an easier position. But her expression was serene, and Ralph, looking up at her through drowsy lids, thought her face had never been more exquisite.
‘You look as cool as a wave,’ he said, reaching out for the hand on her knee. She let him have it, and he drew it closer, scrutinizing it as if it had been a bit of precious porcelain or ivory. It was small and soft, a mere featherweight, a puff-ball of a hand – not quick and thrilling, not a speaking hand, but one to be fondled and dressed in rings, and to leave a rosy
blur in the brain. The fingers were short and tapering, dimpled at the base, with nails as smooth as rose-leaves. Ralph lifted them one by one, like a child playing with piano-keys, but they were inelastic and did not spring back far – only far enough to show the dimples.
He turned the hand over and traced the course of its blue veins from the wrist to the rounding of the palm below the fingers; then he put a kiss in the warm hollow between. The upper world had vanished: his universe had shrunk to the palm of a hand. But there was no sense of diminution. In the mystic depths whence his passion sprang, earthly dimensions were ignored and the curve of beauty was boundless enough to hold whatever the imagination could pour into it. Ralph had never felt more convinced of his power to write a great poem; but now it was Undine’s hand which held the magic wand of expression.
She stirred again uneasily, answering his last words with a faint accent of reproach.
‘I don’t
feel
cool. You said there’d be a breeze up here.’
He laughed.
‘You poor darling! Wasn’t it ever as hot as this in Apex?’
She withdrew her hand with a slight grimace.
‘Yes – but I didn’t marry you to go back to Apex!’
Ralph laughed again; then he lifted himself on his elbow and regained the hand. ‘I wonder what you
did
marry me for?’
‘Mercy! It’s too hot for conundrums.’ She spoke without impatience, but with a lassitude less joyous than his.
He roused himself. ‘Do you really mind the heat so much? We’ll go, if you do.’
She sat up eagerly. ‘Go to Switzerland, you mean?’
‘Well, I hadn’t taken quite as long a leap. I only meant we might drive back to Siena.’
She relapsed listlessly against her tree-trunk. ‘Oh, Siena’s hotter than this.’
‘We could go and sit in the cathedral – it’s always cool there at sunset.’
‘We’ve sat in the cathedral at sunset every day for a week.’
‘Well, what do you say to stopping at Lecceto on the way? I haven’t shown you Lecceto yet; and the drive back by moonlight would be glorious.’
This woke her to a slight show of interest. ‘It might be nice – but where could we get anything to eat?’
Ralph laughed again. ‘I don’t believe we could. You’re too practical.’
‘Well, somebody’s got to be. And the food in the hotel is too disgusting if we’re not on time.’
‘I admit that the best of it has usually been appropriated by the extremely good-looking cavalry-officer who’s so keen to know you.’
Undine’s face brightened. ‘You know he’s not a Count; he’s a Marquis. His name’s Roviano; his palace in Rome is in the guidebooks, and he speaks English beautifully. Céleste found out about him from the head-waiter,’ she said, with the security of one who treats of recognized values.
Marvell, sitting upright, reached lazily across the grass for his hat. ‘Then there’s all the more reason for rushing back to defend our share.’ He spoke in the bantering tone which had become the habitual expression of his tenderness; but his eyes softened as they absorbed in a last glance the glimmering submarine light of the ancient grove, through which Undine’s figure wavered nereid-like above him.
‘You never looked your name more than you do now,’ he said, kneeling at her side and putting his arm about her. She smiled back a little vaguely, as if not seizing his allusion, and being content to let it drop into the store of unexplained references which had once stimulated her curiosity but now merely gave her leisure to think of other things. But her smile was no less lovely for its vagueness, and indeed, to Ralph, the loveliness was enhanced by the latent doubt. He remembered afterward that at that moment the cup of life seemed to brim over.
‘Come, dear – here or there – it’s all divine!’
In the carriage, however, she remained insensible to the soft spell of the evening, noticing only the heat and dust, and
saying, as they passed under the wooded cliff of Lecceto, that they might as well have stopped there after all, since with such a headache as she felt coming on she didn’t care if she dined or not.
Ralph looked up yearningly at the long walls overhead; but Undine’s mood was hardly favourable to communion with such scenes, and he made no attempt to stop the carriage. Instead he presently said: ‘If you’re tired of Italy, we’ve got the world to choose from.’
She did not speak for a moment; then she said: ‘It’s the heat I’m tired of. Don’t people generally come here earlier?’
‘Yes. That’s why I chose the summer: so that we could have it all to ourselves.’
She tried to put a note of reasonableness into her voice. ‘If you’d told me we were going everywhere at the wrong time, of course I could have arranged about my clothes.’
‘You poor darling! Let us, by all means, go to the place where the clothes will be right: they’re too beautiful to be left out of our scheme of life.’
Her lips hardened. ‘I know you don’t care how I look. But you didn’t give me time to order anything before we were married, and I’ve got nothing but my last winter’s things to wear.’
Ralph smiled. Even his subjugated mind perceived the inconsistency of Undine’s taxing him with having hastened their marriage; but her variations on the eternal feminine still enchanted him.
‘We’ll go wherever you please – you make every place the one place,’ he said, as if he were humouring an irresistible child.
‘To Switzerland, then? Céleste says St Moritz is too heavenly,’ exclaimed Undine, who gathered her ideas of Europe chiefly from the conversation of her experienced attendant.
‘One can be cool short of the Engadine. Why not go south again – say to Capri?’
‘Capri? Is that the island we saw from Naples, where the
artists go?’ She drew her brows together. ‘It would be simply awful getting there in this heat.’
‘Well, then, I know a little place in Switzerland where one can still get away from the crowd, and we can sit and look at a green waterfall while I lie in wait for adjectives.’
Mr Spragg’s astonishment on learning that his son-in-law contemplated maintaining a household on the earnings of his Muse was still matter for pleasantry between the pair; and one of the humours of their first weeks together had consisted in picturing themselves as a primeval couple setting forth across a virgin continent and subsisting on the adjectives which Ralph was to trap for his epic. On this occasion, however, his wife did not take up the joke, and he remained silent while their carriage climbed the long dusty hill to the Fontebranda gate. He had seen her face droop as he suggested the possibility of an escape from the crowds in Switzerland, and it came to him, with the sharpness of a knife-thrust, that a crowd was what she wanted – that she was sick to death of being alone with him.
He sat motionless, staring ahead at the red-brown walls and towers on the steep above them. After all there was nothing sudden in his discovery. For weeks it had hung on the edge of consciousness, but he had turned from it with the heart’s instinctive clinging to the unrealities by which it lives. Even now a hundred qualifying reasons rushed to his aid. They told him it was not of himself that Undine had wearied, but only of their present way of life. He had said a moment before, without conscious exaggeration, that her presence made any place the one place; yet how willingly would he have consented to share in such a life as she was leading before their marriage? And he had to acknowledge that their months of desultory wandering from one remote Italian hill-top to another must have seemed as purposeless to her as balls and dinners would have been to him. An imagination like his, peopled with such varied images and associations, fed by so many currents from the long stream of human experience, could hardly picture the bareness of the
small half-lit place in which his wife’s spirit fluttered. Her mind was as destitute of beauty and mystery as the prairie school-house in which she had been educated; and her ideals seemed to Ralph as pathetic as the ornaments made of corks and cigar-bands with which her infant hands had been taught to adorn it. He was beginning to understand this, and learning to adapt himself to the narrow compass of her experience. The task of opening new windows in her mind was inspiring enough to give him infinite patience; and he would not yet own to himself that her pliancy and variety were imitative rather than spontaneous.
Meanwhile he had no desire to sacrifice her wishes to his, and it distressed him that he dared not confess his real reason for avoiding the Engadine. The truth was that their funds were shrinking faster than he had expected. Mr Spragg, after bluntly opposing their hastened marriage on the ground that he was not prepared, at such short notice, to make the necessary provision for his daughter, had shortly afterward (probably, as Undine observed to Ralph, in consequence of a lucky ‘turn’ in the Street) met their wishes with all possible liberality, bestowing on them a wedding in conformity with Mrs Spragg’s ideals and up to the highest standard of Mrs Heeny’s clippings, and pledging himself to provide Undine with an income adequate to so brilliant a beginning. It was understood that Ralph, on their return, should renounce the law for some more paying business; but this seemed the smallest of sacrifices to make for the privilege of calling Undine his wife; and besides, he still secretly hoped that, in the interval, his real vocation might declare itself in some work which would justify his adopting the life of letters.
He had assumed that Undine’s allowance, with the addition of his own small income, would be enough to satisfy their needs. His own were few, and had always been within his means; but his wife’s daily requirements, combined with her intermittent outbreaks of extravagance, had thrown out all his calculations, and they were already seriously exceeding their income.
If any one had prophesied before his marriage that he would find it difficult to tell this to Undine he would have smiled at the suggestion; and during their first days together it had seemed as though pecuniary questions were the last likely to be raised between them. But his marital education had since made strides, and he now knew that a disregard for money may imply not the willingness to get on without it but merely a blind confidence that it will somehow be provided. If Undine, like the lilies of the field, took no care, it was not because her wants were as few but because she assumed that care would be taken for her by those whose privilege it was to enable her to unite floral insouciance with Sheban elegance.
She had met Ralph’s first note of warning with the assurance that she ‘didn’t mean to worry’; and her tone implied that it was his business to do so for her. He certainly wanted to guard her from this as from all other cares; he wanted also, and still more passionately after the topic had once or twice recurred between them, to guard himself from the risk of judging where he still adored. These restraints to frankness kept him silent during the remainder of the drive, and when, after dinner, Undine again complained of her headache, he let her go up to her room and wandered out into the dimly lit streets to renewed communion with his problems.
They hung on him insistently as darkness fell, and Siena grew vocal with that shrill diversity of sounds that breaks, on summer nights, from every cleft of the masonry in old Italian towns. Then the moon rose, unfolding depth by depth the lines of the antique land; and Ralph, leaning against an old brick parapet, and watching each silver-blue remoteness disclose itself between the dark masses of the middle distance, felt his spirit enlarged and pacified. For the first time, as his senses thrilled to the deep touch of beauty, he asked himself if out of these floating and fugitive vibrations he might not build something concrete and stable, if even such dull common cares as now oppressed him might not become the
motive power of creation. If he could only, on the spot, do something with all the accumulated spoils of the last months – something that should both put money into his pocket and harmony into the rich confusion of his spirit! ‘I’ll write – I’ll write: that must be what the whole thing means,’ he said to himself, with a vague clutch at some solution which should keep him a little longer hanging half-way down the steep of disenchantment.