The long, strident whistle of the large white steamer, the Vierwaldstettersee, had already sounded twice in a vain appeal. The little landing-place at Fluelen was deserted. Every day, from the beginning of July to the middle of September, a varied crowd had arrived from Italy by the trains which cross the wonderful Gothard route, and from Switzerland especially, for familiar excursions to Tellsplatz and Altdorf, to take their places on the boat to cross to the winding flowery shores of the lake of the four cantons, to the large and small summer stations, and to the little villages gleaming white among the trees with their red roofs. But now no longer. It is October; the last travellers one by one have returned to their homes, and Fluelen is deserted. The white steamer, too, has been deserted for a long time, and performs a journey of obligation on a deserted lake among deserted shores.
However, a third call sounded longer, more stridulous and melancholy. A single traveller left the Hôtel de la Poste, directly opposite the landing-place, and approached the gangway with leisurely steps. He was still a young man, tall and slender, dressed not only neatly but fashionably. Beneath his hat, which was lowered over his eyes, could be noticed a handsome though slightly delicate physiognomy, a face a little too pale, with very black hair and moustaches, lips still fresh and vivid, and extremely soft eyes of a fascinating softness; but in general the features resulted in firmness and perhaps in obstinacy.
An expression of indifference, and sometimes even of intense boredom, passed over his face. A few paces behind, the hall-porter followed, carrying two large portmanteaux and a travelling-bag. The traveller crossed the gangway alone, and walked to the stern of the steamer, where, wet with moisture, the flag of the Swiss Confederation was hanging. He sat alone on one of the side benches, and slowly lit a cigarette, while the porter deposited the luggage a little way off.
“How long to Lucerne?” he asked, tipping the man.
“Two and a half hours,” replied the man, thanking him.
The steamer had now left the bank, the pilot was at his wheel with eyes fixed on the horizon, trying to penetrate the mist which was spreading and growing thicker. The pilot was a robust little man, firmly planted on two short legs encased in black oilskins, which seemed saturated with humidity. His face was broad and rugged beneath a black cap with a peak. For a little time he was the traveller’s only companion, who still sat on the bench, lighting one cigarette after the other, looking at the country now wrapped in clouds, now manifest through the broken edges of the mist with black and rugged rocks, with great stretches of snow in the clefts of the mountains, and in the far-off whiteness of the glaciers. But the glance which he threw around from time to time gave no sign either of curiosity or interest, the signs to be discovered were those of a vague weariness, of a persistent boredom, above all of a resigned and calm indifference.
The Vierwaldstettersee threaded its way through the grey waters. The white foam broke against the paddle-box, and the wake stretched behind through the mist which seemed to be following the white vessel. Not a human voice sounded on deck beneath the two large awnings from bow to stern. The first station came to view with its little houses on the bank among trees already bare, among little gardens where the flowers were dead, and where the chairs were bathed in moisture. The houses had their doors and windows closed, affording a glimpse, behind the tiny panes, of some little plant drawn in-doors by a provident hand, so as not to let it perish like the other plants; but not a person, not a voice, issued from the houses and gardens of the little square before the landing-place. The Crown Hotel, a little in the background, was hermetically closed. With a precise and methodical movement a man from the steamer threw a rope to another man on land, who had suddenly appeared, and bound it to a large wooden pile. The steamer stopped for some minutes, while the whistle sounded stridulously and in vain. The two men exchanged almost empty bags containing the mail. After having whistled, the Vierwaldstettersee started again amidst the grey mist, quite covered with moisture on its outerwork, brasses, sails and ropes, and dripping moisture from all sides. Every quarter of an hour or twenty minutes the halts were repeated, with the whistling, the throwing of the rope, and the exchange of mail bags, without ever a traveller coming on board. Gradually the solitary traveller had sunk at his place, ceasing from smoking, his gloved hands buried in the pockets of his ulster, his head fallen on his breast, and he himself, like the sky, the landscape, like the lake, and the steamer, seemed wrapped in the greyish mist, now of opaque silver, now transparent.
When half the voyage was over the steamer whistled twice and much longer on nearing a station, and another man in uniform appeared on deck from below, as well as a waiter, both, like everything else, enveloped in moisture. The traveller seemed to be dozing, since he never turned his head on seeing the deck populated with these two persons. The station was Vitznau, that village so crowded and so brilliant and pleasant in summer. It is the village whence the Rhigi is climbed, and is well known to every tourist. Even Vitznau, with its group of denuded trees on its gloomy bank, its two closed hotels, and its solitary funicular station, did not seem different to the other stations touched at. Only while the man threw the rope from the deck, and the other man of that place mechanically tied it, a woman appeared on the landing-place coming from the little funicular station. She was tall and elegant, in spite of the long travelling-cloak which completely covered and enveloped her. With a quiet step she crossed the gangway, climbed the few steps, presented her ticket to the man in uniform, and, walking on deck, sat down on the bench opposite to the other traveller. The man in uniform, while the steamer was drawing away from Vitznau on its course to Lucerne, approached her and asked her something, which she refused with a nod of her head, and after a minute the waiter came up with a question, and she answered him in the same way. Both the man in uniform and the waiter disappeared below.
It was rather difficult to discover the new traveller’s face through her veil, and for some time she kept her head towards the lake, gazing at it. Then she turned towards the steamer. Her glance wandered round and fixed itself on the traveller opposite so intensely, that he seemed to wake from his dream and shake himself from his torpor. He looked at the new traveller, looked at her much, and looked at her long. They were quite alone on the steamer, which was sailing like a phantom ship upon a lake of dreams and sadness, amidst the incomparably mournful clouds. The man got up and crossed the deck decidedly. He bowed deeply, remaining uncovered before her.
“Are you alone, Maria?”
“Alone, Marco; and are you alone?”
“Most alone.”
Their voices were calm, but so tired.
“May I sit beside you, Maria?” he asked, almost supplicatingly.
“Yes, do,” she replied, with a nod.
He placed himself beside her. Lightly and gently he took her gloved hand and pressed it between his for a minute, placing it to his lips. She bent her face just for a minute. The boat went on; the pilot fixed his eyes still more sharply on the mist, because it was getting late and the grey of sky and lake was becoming darker and even threatening.
“I didn’t know that you were travelling in these parts,” he said, trying to discover her face through her veil.
“Nor I that you were, Marco,” she murmured.
Each looked at the other at the same moment, as if they were about to say the same word to express the same idea thought by both, which each left unpronounced.
“Have you been travelling for some time, Maria?” he asked, after a few minutes’ silence.
“For more than three months, Marco,” she replied wearily.
“Always alone?”
“Always.”
“And where have you been, Maria, always alone? Tell me everything, please.”
Marco questioned her with penetrating sweetness, in which, however, weariness was mixed.
“I have been everywhere,” she replied, and he seemed to notice a tremor in her voice, “everywhere. One can go to a good many places in three months.”
“That’s true,” he added; “I started before you from Rome, a couple of months before.”
“I know, Marco. I was told so. Have you always been alone on your journey?”
“Like you, always.”
“Have you no regret for those you have left behind?” she asked in a still sadder accent.
“I have regret,” he confessed, “for one person only, Maria.”
“For one only?”
“Always for the same person, for her of former days, for her of always—for my mother,” and a rush of tenderness and sorrow pulsated in the words.
She placed her hand on his arm quickly for a moment without speaking, to calm him.
“Still I have left. I am far away, and I don’t want to return!” he exclaimed impetuously.
“Don’t you wish to return? Don’t you wish to?” and the accent had suddenly become spasmodical.
“I don’t wish to,” he rejoined gloomily, with decision.
She shook her head sorrowfully, and looked ahead among the fleeting clouds which were rising from the still waters, as if asking the secret of the riddle from those waves of vapour which were closing in on the horizon. The prow of the Vierwaldstettersee was directed to the last station, towards a little place on the bank, where an occasional tree was still in foliage, where among woods and meadows the white houses, with their red roofs and little windows full of flowers, did not seem so deserted and dead as the others. Two children, dressed in thick woollen as a protection against the Swiss autumn, were playing outside the inn.
“Maria, Weggis,” said Marco, almost in her ear.
“Yes, Weggis,” she replied quietly.
Slowly she raised her white gauze veil over the rim of her hat, showing her graceful, melancholy face, enchanting in every line, from the thoughtful, proud, and yet sweet eyes, to the expressively sorrowful and fresh mouth; showing the face which love had exalted to an invincible beauty, which love had deserted, leaving there all the serene sadness of things long dead, and all the proud melancholy of a brief, too brief, passion. Marco looked at the face without its veil, and she looked at him with her expression of calm sadness, finding in him singularly the same expression—a death in life, a love dead.
“Weggis,” he murmured, with melancholy, while the boat drew further away towards Lucerne.
“Weggis,” she murmured, with ever greater melancholy.
The image of the little flower-laden spot, where they had lodged modestly one very hot summer in passionate solitude, seemed far away amidst the autumn mists. It grew distant, and disappeared among the things of the past, of time, and of space, like their love had vanished. The gloaming was already descending to render the clouds browner and closer; already a colder and more penetrating breath of air struck the two travellers and caused them to shudder. A line of lights, lit for the approaching evening, stretched itself in the background, indicating the quay-side of Lucerne, and in the twilight the massive and bizarre buildings of hotels and villas grew whiter. Side by side the two travellers looked at the lights, and mechanically rose from their place to leave the Vierwaldstettersee, which had already reached the pier. The conductor of the omnibus of the Hôtel National took Marco’s luggage, and after an exchange of words in a low voice threw it on to the omnibus and drove off with it. The two travellers remained on a bench, bathed in moisture, silently seized by all that was in their souls. They were undecided and rather confused. At last Maria exclaimed, making an attempt to get away, “Good-night, Marco.”
“Where are you going?” he asked sadly and anxiously.
“Up there;” and she pointed to a little hill with her finger.
“Where then?”
“To Sonnenberg; I have been there for two weeks,” she added.
“Won’t you stay a little with me?” he begged anxiously.
“O Marco, don’t ask that!” she exclaimed, turning her head.
“Maria, Maria, remain a little,” he said in his tender voice. “What does a little time matter to you, Maria? What does it matter?”
She recognised that voice of a former time, the voice of moments of desolation, the voice which formerly asked succour when his soul had need of comfort; but it was not the voice of love but of sorrow.
“I am so wretched, and you mustn’t leave me this evening.”
She consented with a nod. Together in the evening’s shade, through the cold dampness which arose from the water, through the roads where no passer-by made his appearance; over the bridge, dripping in moisture, under whose arches the doves were sleeping; on the promenade, no longer shaded by the luxuriant foliage of the trees; among the lights distorted by the mist, they went towards the large hotel, which also seemed abandoned for some time with its hundred closed windows, with its flowerless gardens, with its iron seats on which no one seemed to have sat for years. The large hall was lit by a single electric lamp. Maria remained standing, looking through the windows vaguely without seeing anything, while Marco was discussing with the secretary. In that brief moment the woman saw Marco again as he used to be, when for months together they proceeded on their pilgrimage of love, and she marvelled that, ever since they had met on the deck of the boat, he had been able to accomplish the same acts; she marvelled that in all their actions they had been as formerly while their souls were so changed.
“Come, Maria,” Marco said, approaching her.
How often she had heard that invitation! She smiled strangely as she followed him, while they went up in the lift and entered a sitting-room, which was immediately illuminated. The waiter silently opened a door on the right and a door on the left, while they appeared not to notice.
“You would like some tea, wouldn’t you, Maria? it is so cold,” Marco asked in the gentle insinuating voice she recognised in all its modulations.
Maria smiled in consent. She drew a chair to the table and sat down. She untied her veil and drew out the pins from her hat, undid the hooks of her travelling-cloak and appeared in a close-fitting dress of pale mauve, with the usual string of pearls at the neck, which she never left off. Marco followed her with his eyes, and recognised again in Maria the woman he had so often seen make those quiet harmonious gestures. However, he felt that only the movements and the words were the same, but not the ideas and sentiments. But he expressed no surprise at it.
“Give me a cup of tea, dear Maria,” he said, speaking softly. She took off her gloves, poured out the tea and gave him a cup with a smile.
“Where is Sonnenberg, Maria?” he said.
“Over there, Marco, on the hill.”
“How does one get there?”
“It is a few minutes by the funicular.”
“It must be rather a sad place, Maria?”
“Yes, it is a little sad,” she murmured, raising her hair with her fingers.
“Any people there?”
“Oh, no; four of five persons besides myself.”
“Do you bore yourself there, Maria?”
“A little, as everywhere.”
“Are you going to stop there?”
“Yes, I think I shall stop there.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know; I know nothing, Marco,” she said, with a slightly pained expression.
“When will you return to Rome?” he asked, with a greater anxiety than he wished to show.
“I don’t know, I don’t know at all,” she replied monotonously.
“Still, still ... you have somebody there.”
“Somebody,” she repeated, underlining the word, “prefers my absence to my presence.”
“Really; is it really so?” Marco exclaimed.
“Yes,” she replied, with an expansive gesture of her hands.
“Have you left, Maria?”
“I have left. After having commented bitterly and brutally on my departure, somebody let me go free and alone without asking my itinerary, without asking me when I was returning. It is true he was tormented by my flight, but relieved that I had left alone. He was tortured, I believe, by the idea of not seeing me, of not being able to injure me, of not being able to throw my past in my face, but in fact content that I was far away.”
“And you, Maria?”
“I?” she exclaimed harshly; “I? Probably I shall never return again. Why should I return? I have nothing to do there for the good of any one. I can only do evil there to others and myself. Certainly, Marco, I shall never return—never.”
“Emilio will summon you; he will want you,” he said, with agitation.
“No,” she declared harshly, “he has driven me out.”
“Driven you out, Maria?”
“Not once, but many times, in moments of violence and coldness he said it would have been better if I had never returned. Certainly, certainly, Marco, I shall never return there. I shall go and live alone in a remote corner of the earth, and I shall die there.”
She spoke with vehemence and harshness, but still subduedly; he, too, spoke to her in the same subdued way. Their faces were pale and strained. An immense silence reigned in the deserted summer town and the equally deserted huge hotel. The flames flickered in the grate and the logs crackled.
“Are you so unhappy, Maria?” he said, taking her hand tenderly.
“So unhappy, really so unhappy. I dare not kill myself; and why should I? I should be ridiculous and grotesque. I am ashamed to kill myself. I have nothing to do with my life, really nothing.”
“You were a magnificent lover, Maria!” he exclaimed, with infinite regret.
“A soul of love like you, Marco, a heart of love,” she replied, with the same regret.
“We should have died when our love was over, Maria,” Marco said.
“That is true; we ought to have died then. We missed a beautiful death, Marco,” replied Maria gloomily.
“Now it is too late to die, too late.”
“It is too late.”
They were silent, with all the weight of their cold, arid, useless lives, which was weighing down their souls, with all the enormous weight of a dead love, dead after having done all the good which had vanished with it, dead after all the evil which was still living.
“Are you going to stop at Lucerne?” asked Maria at last dreamily.
“A day or two; no more,” he replied, as if awakened from a dream.
“Where shall you go?”
“To far-off countries. To Holland, and Denmark, always to the countries furthest off.”
“Why don’t you stay in Rome?” she asked.
“Not to debase myself under your eyes, Maria,” he replied seriously. “There is nothing left but vice for me, and I am ashamed to defile that which you have loved.”
“Your wife, Vittoria. What of her?”
“She is with my mother.”
“Surely she suffers by your absence?”
“Possibly; less, however, than she does by my presence.”
“Why did she suffer?”
“I suppose she suffered; but she has never told me she did, she never showed me, and I have never seen her tears. She always repulsed any consolation of mine for this supposed suffering of hers.”
“Poor Vittoria,” murmured Maria.
“She certainly deserves pity,” replied Marco coldly; “but she repulses it.”
“Still she deserved happiness.”
“Certainly; but she repulsed happiness, because she is not capable of being happy.”
“Why did you fly from her?”
“So as not to hate her, Maria; so as not to curse my marriage day as that of my slavery.”
“Are you sure that you have done all your duty as a man, as a friend, as a companion to Vittoria?”
“I am sure of it. I have done beyond my duty as a man, a companion, and a friend. But she didn’t want that, she demanded that I should become her lover.”
“And couldn’t you?”
“No, Maria,” he said seriously, “you know very well, you ought to know very well, that I couldn’t.”
“When shall you return to Rome?”
“I shall never re-enter Rome.”
“Are you in exile, then?”
“It is exile without any time limit.”
“And your mother?”
“I shall see her at Spello where Vittoria does not go, and she will come to Florence. It is very sad, but there it is.”
“And you?”
“If I were poor I should set to work to do something with my faculties and time. Unfortunately I am not even poor. A dissolute life, since I have loved you, fills me with horror.”
“We are two miserables, Marco,” she concluded gloomily; “far away in Rome there are two others more miserable than we are, and neither you nor I can do anything for them.”
“Neither you nor I can do anything for them,” he replied, like a dull echo.
“No one can do anything for any one,” said Maria desperately.
All that was colossal and indestructible in the fatality of existence, in its mysterious and rigorous laws, weighed upon them. In their youth, in their strength and beauty they felt lost and blind, unable to die and unable to live, groping in the shadows, their breasts full of sighs, and their ears closed to the cries of the two who were suffering alone and abandoned in Rome. They felt themselves incapable of being comforted and giving comfort, and they felt as well that their burning tears were useless, just as the tears of the two in Rome were as equally useless and unconsolable.
The woman rose pale and upright.
“I am going, Marco,” she said.
“Can’t I accompany you, Maria?” he begged desolately.
“No, remain here. Let me go.”
“Shan’t I see you to-morrow?”
“Why do you wish to see me?” she asked in a tremulous accent.
“To see the face of a friend, to hear the voice of a friend, not to feel myself so lonely and lost, to-morrow more than ever.”
“O Marco, wouldn’t it be better for us not to see each other to-morrow?” she asked, trembling still more.
“No, Maria, no. You need to see me, you are so lonely and lost. I will look for you to-morrow; and do you promise not to fly from me?”
A trembling seized her, which made her almost hesitate.
“Maria, promise that you won’t fly from me, only then will I let you go?”
“I promise,” she replied weakly.