still far off, immobile, where they had left it.
âJust a little farther, Elena! A little farther! Do you want me to carry you?
Andrea, taken by an unstoppable lyrical impetus, abandoned himself to words.
âWhy did she want to leave? Why did she want to break the enchantment? Werenât their
destinies
bound together, by now, forever? He needed her in order to live, her eyes, her voice, her thoughts . . . He was completely penetrated by that love; all his blood was adulterated as if by poison, with no remedy. Why did she want to flee? He would wind himself around her, he would first suffocate her against his chest. No, it could not be. Never! Never!â
Elena listened, her head bent, struggling against the wind, without answering. After a while, she lifted her arm to make a sign to the coachman to approach. The horses pawed the ground.
âStop at Porta Pia, the lady cried, mounting the carriage together with her lover.
And with a sudden movement she offered herself to his desire. He kissed her mouth, her forehead, her hair, her eyes, her throat, avidly, rapidly, without breathing any longer.
âElena! Elena!
A fiery scarlet glow entered the carriage, reflected by the brick-colored houses. The trotting sound of many horses came closer.
Elena, leaning on the shoulder of her lover with immensely sweet submission, said:
âFarewell, love! Farewell! Farewell!
As she straightened up, to the left and to the right ten or twelve scarlet-clothed horsemen passed at a rapid trot, returning from foxhunting. One of them, the Duke of Beffi, passing very close by, arched up to see inside the carriage window.
Andrea did not speak anymore. He now felt his entire being becoming faint, falling into an infinite depression. The puerile weakness of his nature, the initial upliftment having ebbed away, now brought him to the need for tears. He would have liked to bow down before her, humble himself, arouse the womanâs pity with his tears. He had a confused, dull sensation of dizziness; and a sharp chill assaulted the nape of his neck and penetrated the roots of his hair.
âFarewell, Elena repeated.
The carriage was stopping under the archway of Porta Pia so that he could alight.
In this way, hence, while waiting, Andrea saw that far-off day once more in his mindâs eye; he once more saw all the gestures, heard all the words. What had he done as soon as Elenaâs carriage had disappeared in the direction of the Four Fountains? Nothing extraordinary, in truth. Even then, as always, as soon as the immediate object from which his spirit drew that type of fatuous exaltation distanced itself, he had almost immediately regained his tranquillity, his everyday consciousness, his equilibrium. He had mounted a public carriage to return home; there he had put on a black suit, as usual, not omitting any elegant detail; and he had gone to lunch at his cousinâs, as on every other Wednesday, at Palazzo Roccagiovine. Everything in his external existence exerted upon him a great power of oblivion, kept him occupied, aroused him to the swift enjoyment of worldly pleasures.
That evening, in fact, contemplation had come to him quite late, namely, when returning to his home he saw shining on a table the small tortoiseshell comb forgotten there by Elena two days before. Then, in compensation, he had suffered all night and with many tricks of the mind he had intensified his pain.
But the moment was nearing. The clock of Trinità deâ Monti sounded three forty-five. He thought, with profound trepidation:
In a few minutes Elena will be here. What shall I do when receiving her? What words shall I say to her?
The anxiety in him was real, and love for that woman had truly reawoken in him; but the verbal and plastic expression of feelings in him was, as always, so artificial and so far from simplicity and sincerity that he resorted, by habit, to rehearsing even the most profound emotions of the soul.
He
âJust a little farther, Elena! A little farther! Do you want me to carry you?
Andrea, taken by an unstoppable lyrical impetus, abandoned himself to words.
âWhy did she want to leave? Why did she want to break the enchantment? Werenât their
destinies
bound together, by now, forever? He needed her in order to live, her eyes, her voice, her thoughts . . . He was completely penetrated by that love; all his blood was adulterated as if by poison, with no remedy. Why did she want to flee? He would wind himself around her, he would first suffocate her against his chest. No, it could not be. Never! Never!â
Elena listened, her head bent, struggling against the wind, without answering. After a while, she lifted her arm to make a sign to the coachman to approach. The horses pawed the ground.
âStop at Porta Pia, the lady cried, mounting the carriage together with her lover.
And with a sudden movement she offered herself to his desire. He kissed her mouth, her forehead, her hair, her eyes, her throat, avidly, rapidly, without breathing any longer.
âElena! Elena!
A fiery scarlet glow entered the carriage, reflected by the brick-colored houses. The trotting sound of many horses came closer.
Elena, leaning on the shoulder of her lover with immensely sweet submission, said:
âFarewell, love! Farewell! Farewell!
As she straightened up, to the left and to the right ten or twelve scarlet-clothed horsemen passed at a rapid trot, returning from foxhunting. One of them, the Duke of Beffi, passing very close by, arched up to see inside the carriage window.
Andrea did not speak anymore. He now felt his entire being becoming faint, falling into an infinite depression. The puerile weakness of his nature, the initial upliftment having ebbed away, now brought him to the need for tears. He would have liked to bow down before her, humble himself, arouse the womanâs pity with his tears. He had a confused, dull sensation of dizziness; and a sharp chill assaulted the nape of his neck and penetrated the roots of his hair.
âFarewell, Elena repeated.
The carriage was stopping under the archway of Porta Pia so that he could alight.
In this way, hence, while waiting, Andrea saw that far-off day once more in his mindâs eye; he once more saw all the gestures, heard all the words. What had he done as soon as Elenaâs carriage had disappeared in the direction of the Four Fountains? Nothing extraordinary, in truth. Even then, as always, as soon as the immediate object from which his spirit drew that type of fatuous exaltation distanced itself, he had almost immediately regained his tranquillity, his everyday consciousness, his equilibrium. He had mounted a public carriage to return home; there he had put on a black suit, as usual, not omitting any elegant detail; and he had gone to lunch at his cousinâs, as on every other Wednesday, at Palazzo Roccagiovine. Everything in his external existence exerted upon him a great power of oblivion, kept him occupied, aroused him to the swift enjoyment of worldly pleasures.
That evening, in fact, contemplation had come to him quite late, namely, when returning to his home he saw shining on a table the small tortoiseshell comb forgotten there by Elena two days before. Then, in compensation, he had suffered all night and with many tricks of the mind he had intensified his pain.
But the moment was nearing. The clock of Trinità deâ Monti sounded three forty-five. He thought, with profound trepidation:
In a few minutes Elena will be here. What shall I do when receiving her? What words shall I say to her?
The anxiety in him was real, and love for that woman had truly reawoken in him; but the verbal and plastic expression of feelings in him was, as always, so artificial and so far from simplicity and sincerity that he resorted, by habit, to rehearsing even the most profound emotions of the soul.
He
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