bear it.
“Stop that,” she said. She did not mean to be cruel.
All the motion faded out of his body, and his head jerked towards her self-consciously. She had diminished him.
“I mean I’m cold,” she said. “Oh, I don’t know what I mean.” She put her face in her hands. She put him back in his box like a naughty doll, and she would have given anything not to have done that, but it was too late.
He found the candle and lit it again. She drew away, formally , and they stood together in the stone shadow of the tombs, surrounded by the quiet effigies. He was a trifle shorter than she was, and that, as she stroked the back of his head, gave her back her sense of place and some command over him, and therefore over herself.
“We had better go,” she said.
“There is only Cariola with you.”
“Only Cariola,” she said, and felt a pang of fear. Cariola would only have to look at her to know. She picked up her skirts and moved uneasily towards the grille. She had thought of rank as only a barrier between them. Now she saw that rank was a system of self-control, an armour to protect us from ourselves . The difference between a gentleman and a Duchess is greater than that between a Duchess and a peasant. For his sake, then, let it remain so.
He scooped up the copes and returned them to the vestry. Then they went outside.
The broken silhouettes of the town were black against the paler black of the sky. The night was cold and crisp. She sat on the pillion of his horse, while he led it by the bridle.
They passed across the church square. At the top of the stairs leading up to it, the church’s green bronze doors stood open like the doors of a rifled crypt. Both breathed easier once they had regained the narrow lanes.
The palace was cut off from the town by a wall built entirely across the cliff, a wall with a narrow gate of wrought iron. The horse halted and the Duchess slid down to the ground. She half-moved towards Antonio, thought better of it, opened the gate, and fled inside, shutting the grille on his anguished face.
The white gravel path was thick with shadows, and borderedwith clipped yew and absurd Grecian hermæ. Despite herself, she glanced back, and he was still standing motionless, his white face a blur, gazing forlornly after her.
The palace lay to her left, very small, very low, and without a window on the garden side. She had done right. She had sent him away. But she could not face Cariola yet.
Instead she pushed hurriedly between the diamond-speckled shrubs, as the rain water ricocheted off on her dress, and went right to the gazebo. Far below her the fishing boats were out, each leaning heavily towards the water, on the side to which its net was attached. There was now a ghost of a moon. A thin, turbulent mist lay over the sea. Each boat carried a flare to daze the fish, and the sea was dotted with them, shimmering delusively in the mist, like fox fire in an autumn bog. The wind stirred her dress. She looked down. But even so she saw his abandoned face staring solemnly back at her, superimposed on the sea. Love, say the poets, is the only felicity. But love in great ladies is as culpable as crime.
VII
Ravello made her restless. So did Cariola. She was only too aware that Cariola knew that something had happened. She was equally aware of the church and tomb-house standing empty across the valley. None the less she forced herself to remain in Ravello a week, for she told herself that by the end of that time Antonio would have forgotten the incident.
At the end of the week she rode down to Amalfi along the cliff road. Since there was no freedom for her anywhere, it did not seem to her to matter where she went. She saw that we merely move from a larger to a smaller, a smaller to a larger cell in the prison of the world, at the whim of our gaolers, and are lucky if once in ten years we hear someone from the next cell scratching on the wall. And though commoners may take some comfort from being
“Stop that,” she said. She did not mean to be cruel.
All the motion faded out of his body, and his head jerked towards her self-consciously. She had diminished him.
“I mean I’m cold,” she said. “Oh, I don’t know what I mean.” She put her face in her hands. She put him back in his box like a naughty doll, and she would have given anything not to have done that, but it was too late.
He found the candle and lit it again. She drew away, formally , and they stood together in the stone shadow of the tombs, surrounded by the quiet effigies. He was a trifle shorter than she was, and that, as she stroked the back of his head, gave her back her sense of place and some command over him, and therefore over herself.
“We had better go,” she said.
“There is only Cariola with you.”
“Only Cariola,” she said, and felt a pang of fear. Cariola would only have to look at her to know. She picked up her skirts and moved uneasily towards the grille. She had thought of rank as only a barrier between them. Now she saw that rank was a system of self-control, an armour to protect us from ourselves . The difference between a gentleman and a Duchess is greater than that between a Duchess and a peasant. For his sake, then, let it remain so.
He scooped up the copes and returned them to the vestry. Then they went outside.
The broken silhouettes of the town were black against the paler black of the sky. The night was cold and crisp. She sat on the pillion of his horse, while he led it by the bridle.
They passed across the church square. At the top of the stairs leading up to it, the church’s green bronze doors stood open like the doors of a rifled crypt. Both breathed easier once they had regained the narrow lanes.
The palace was cut off from the town by a wall built entirely across the cliff, a wall with a narrow gate of wrought iron. The horse halted and the Duchess slid down to the ground. She half-moved towards Antonio, thought better of it, opened the gate, and fled inside, shutting the grille on his anguished face.
The white gravel path was thick with shadows, and borderedwith clipped yew and absurd Grecian hermæ. Despite herself, she glanced back, and he was still standing motionless, his white face a blur, gazing forlornly after her.
The palace lay to her left, very small, very low, and without a window on the garden side. She had done right. She had sent him away. But she could not face Cariola yet.
Instead she pushed hurriedly between the diamond-speckled shrubs, as the rain water ricocheted off on her dress, and went right to the gazebo. Far below her the fishing boats were out, each leaning heavily towards the water, on the side to which its net was attached. There was now a ghost of a moon. A thin, turbulent mist lay over the sea. Each boat carried a flare to daze the fish, and the sea was dotted with them, shimmering delusively in the mist, like fox fire in an autumn bog. The wind stirred her dress. She looked down. But even so she saw his abandoned face staring solemnly back at her, superimposed on the sea. Love, say the poets, is the only felicity. But love in great ladies is as culpable as crime.
VII
Ravello made her restless. So did Cariola. She was only too aware that Cariola knew that something had happened. She was equally aware of the church and tomb-house standing empty across the valley. None the less she forced herself to remain in Ravello a week, for she told herself that by the end of that time Antonio would have forgotten the incident.
At the end of the week she rode down to Amalfi along the cliff road. Since there was no freedom for her anywhere, it did not seem to her to matter where she went. She saw that we merely move from a larger to a smaller, a smaller to a larger cell in the prison of the world, at the whim of our gaolers, and are lucky if once in ten years we hear someone from the next cell scratching on the wall. And though commoners may take some comfort from being
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