BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE

"Nothing in sight? Not caught a glimpse of her sail yet?"

"No, Sir. But she'll be all right today. The wind's from the south-east; and the weather is glorious this morning."

"Yes, I know; but this lake of yours is full of shallows and whirlpools."

"La Signora sails her boat with so sure a hand, she might have been born and bred in Baveno!"

The gardener's voice faded away as he pottered about among the fish-tanks and continued to mutter to himself: "... born and bred in Baveno."

Andreas, who had called down to the old man from the top of a craggy eminence, dropped the hand he had raised to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun, so that he might put it to more immediate uses. The bunch of flowers he had gathered was so large that it needed both hands to hold the nosegay together.

"Narcissus!" exclaimed the poet, caressing the blossoms with sensitive fingers, while they swayed gently in the breeze. "Narcissus, fresh as the morning dew! Nothing else can rival Diana's fragrance. And yet—may she not have been akin to other flowers in the past, and may she not resemble yet others in the future? Likenesses ever changing, ever renewed? Would it have entered my head to compare her to the camellias blooming over there in chill white pyramids? Beautiful they are, proud of mien; but scentless and passionless. Perhaps some women are like that!"

The thought dumbfounded him, and he sank down on to a rocky seat. Pulling a notebook from the pocket of his purple dressing-gown, he scribbled assiduously for a while. Then he looked up, gazed at the flowers, jotted down a few more words. Finally he tore off the page and started afresh. He no longer took his eyes from the paper, but continued to write diligently until the sonnet was complete. He began to read it in an undertone, gradually allowing his voice to become louder, until at the eighth line he had achieved a resounding forte. After that he restrained the volume of sound, and finished up with a ritenuto, as if he were playing the final bars of a Bach fugue.

"How Diana will laugh," he thought. "She'll read it twice. Then she will open her mother-of-pearl box and lay this page on the top of the others. Quite unexpectedly one evening, one mild evening, the lines will slowly drop from her delicate lips. Othello must bring her up here when she lands. Othello!"

The Great Dane was snuffing the air as he stood on the landing-stage which gave access to the little island. As his master called him by name, the animal pricked up his ears, sought Andreas's whereabouts with eyes and nose. Having caught sight of the young man, Othello sprang upward over the rocks and pushed his way through the azaleas. The dog's movements were so swift that a trail of white and rose-coloured blossoms was wafted along in his wake.

He came to a halt, and stood attentive and watchful. Like Gothic columns, his forelegs rose to the graceful arch of his chest; his blue eyes had the glint of steel, cold, yet betraying the hidden fires within; his ears were twitching, his whole being was aquiver, and he seemed to be asking: "Well, Master, what do you wish me to do?" Andreas fondled the beast's Head, and the signs of eager expectation gradually disappeared. The muscles relaxed, a dreamy look came into the eyes, the dog yielded luxuriously to the caress, his left paw advancing slightly. As far as is possible to a dumb beast, Othello had approximated to the reflective mood and the attitude of his master.

"Keep still a moment," said the poet. "I want to fix my sonnet in your collar; ... so ... mind you don't lose it. It's for your mistress, as soon as she comes ashore. Understand? For Diana."

The dog had remained motionless, but at the name of Diana he whined, became restless, and, hardly waiting for Andreas to release the collar, darted away to take up his post of sentinel on the landing-stage.

Andreas sauntered towards the house. Occasionally he would kick a stone out of the path, would pluck a yellowing leaf, raise a trailing plant from the ground. He acted mechanically, like one who prefers things to be orderly, who loves tidiness. These minor occupations in the garden or the house unconsciously betrayed a certain restlessness of disposition. Suddenly, as so often happened after he had composed a poem, he felt inexpressibly tired.

"I wonder," he murmured, a faint smile puckering his lips, "I wonder if my fatigue is just the usual tiredness one experiences after a night of love? Diana was never so beautiful as she was last night. Was she still like a narcissus? Or did my imagination conjure up the passionate hour of which I have dreamed since earliest boyhood? I must be honest with myself. Has ever woman thrown herself into my arms with such whole-hearted abandonment as I into the arms of women? Sonia? She was nothing but a little savage. Francisca? She was merely sensuous. But Diana never promised anything. She is not called Diana for nothing! When have I ever before, either with my eyes or in fancy, actually or in a dream, been so dazzled by any woman?"

He turned to gaze once again over the waters of the lake. Scuds of foam seemed to rise from the surface. So absorbed was he in his contemplation of this phenomenon, that he forgot to watch for Diana's boat, a sight of which he so ardently coveted.

"I wonder how early she set sail? No matter the hour at which I wake in the morning, her place by my side is always empty, smooth and cold. She must creep away to her dressing-room on bare feet. When at last I awake, it is to the sound of her voice calling me. By that time she has been abroad two hours at least in the fresh air, and has a keen appetite for breakfast. But today? Even as I slept, I was conceited enough to imagine that after such delights she would surely not go for an early sail. She had been so full of ecstasy...."

Andreas strode forward into the blaze of the blossoming rhododendrons. The flowers stimulated his memory of the hours of passion and his body quivered in response. He raised his brows as he mused:

"Diana as Venus? Impious thought!"

He plucked idly at the stamens of the flowers in his hand, while his thoughts wandered. He was called back to reality by the dog, who approached with every sign of uneasiness.

"Well, Othello, what's up?"

He quickened his pace and glanced towards the house across the terrace where a wicker table was laid for breakfast. On reaching the top of the steps, he turned about, and once more gazed over the blue and gold surface of the waters.

"Domenico!"

"Yes, Sir," came the old gardener's voice in answer. Then after a pause: "I see nothing as yet. Signora usually crosses over by the south-eastern end of Isola Madre."

"I know; but what about Intra?"

"No sign of a sail there either."

Suddenly Andreas was seized with anxiety on account of his beloved, an anxiety which was rendered more acute by a vague presentiment of evil. Were the gods taking revenge because Diana had been delighting in joys which her name would imply her insensible to? Was the boon so recently granted him already to be snatched from his grasp? Had he been over-bold?

"What can it all mean? Why is the dog whining, I wonder?"

Still hoping to find her, he wandered through the low-ceilinged rooms of the house, through the cloistered archways which linked the rooms together, and up the steps which separated them. At his heels walked Othello, snuffing the same trail. Both seekers came to a halt in Diana's room. On the gaily coloured floor, in a green earthenware pot, were the tall sprays of broom she had brought home last night, waving her trophy aloft like an orange flag. The white curtains flapped in the breeze, and he glanced through the windows which gave a view from three angles on to the lake. Nearby was the writing-table on which was placed a silver vase filled with iris.

"The curtain might upset that," thought Andreas, with solicitude.

He grasped the vase, intending to transfer it to a place of security, and, as he touched the cold metal, a chill ran up his arm and struck him to the heart. His heart seemed to stop beating; then it fluttered wildly against his ribs. He had caught sight of a note propped against the vase: the cover bore his own name in Diana's handwriting. At once the truth flashed through his mind: "She has gone!"

The nosegay of narcissus slowly dropped from his hand. Then he seized the hard, white paper, while Othello, seeming to understand all that was afoot, rubbed himself against Andreas's knee. The young man gazed down at the missive of fate as it lay in his hand; then, delaying the evil moment, he thrust it deep into his pocket. His fingers fondled the paper, unseen, as though he were trying to warm the inexorable message with his life blood. He looked over towards the lake; then, again, his eyes travelled round the room. Leaning on the window sill, he drew the letter forth and at length read its contents. As he folded the sheet of paper, he stepped out on to the terrace, told the dog to lie down, and paced to and fro in the shade of the wistaria whose green leaves and lilac flowers were trained on a pergola overhead. Othello's steel-blue eyes followed every movement, from the wicker couch on to which he had flung himself in obedience to his master's command. His great head was pillowed on his crossed paws.

CHAPTER TWO

"My Dear,

"When I woke this morning I saw you lying before me, a boy asleep. Your dark, curly head was turned away so that I could hardly reach your beautiful forehead when I leaned across to kiss you. I gave you no more than a butterfly kiss on your closed eyelids; I did not venture to touch your lips, which were half open as you slept.

"The radiant weather calls me forth this morning. I shall sail away in the very boat that brought us—how many weeks ago?—to this island. With sail set, I shall make for Baveno. By the time you wake I shall be in Milan; by the time you read this, I do not know where I shall be.

"Do not try to find me. Did not your spirit leap towards me as, masked, we danced together amid the many other masked couples that night in the palace on the Piazza di Spagna? Did I not place my fullest trust in you, a stranger, whose name was unknown to me just as was mine to you? Did I not come with you willingly when, after the ball, we left Rome and travelled together till we alighted on the shores of this gracious lake? Let these dream days bask in their own beauty. Do not try to find reasons for my flight. Do not follow me.

"We were unchallenged monarchs of the island, hedged in by laurel groves, severed from the inquisitive eyes of the envious, united, you and I, both by day and by night.

"Poems fell from your lips, my poet; and morning after morning I found a fresh sonnet to my praise lying ambushed for my return in ever-renewed hiding places in our garden. Why trouble to wake? Your people are on your trail—I saw you trying to push your letters away out of my sight! Soon, your money will run short, and after one day of uneasiness, you would have to go to the town, a smile on your lips, hoping to delude me.

"What of myself? How often I have heard you say half mockingly and half in earnest: 'You are made for adventure.' Remember your own words. The spirit of adventure runs in my veins and has even affected you.

"Yesterday, in the gloaming, while we sat on the terrace watching the circle of lights along the shores of the lake, you spoke softly to me, gentle words that fell sweetly on my ears. Of a sudden, away there on the mainland, two fiery eyes appeared, and a snake uncoiled its glittering length alluringly beneath the precipitous side of the mountain. Now it would disappear, now shine out again; at one moment its voice would be stilled, to roar forth the instant after. It was the train from the Simplon. Never before had it made such an impression on me. I felt that this was the very snake, magical and glowing, within whose coils I had been spirited through the world in days gone by. That now it carried men and women who had sped away from Paris in the morning and would awaken as day dawned to find themselves in Milan. I could imagine them coming from far castles in the Scottish highlands to seek the warm air of Palermo. Who were they all and what plans had they for themselves? Unrest seethed within me. I felt I must get away from this enchanted isle, that a narrow arm of water was keeping me cloistered from the world, that the hurly-burly was summoning me to the fray—whither I knew not.

"My grateful thanks to you! Nothing repeats itself; and, even if fate should make our paths cross a second time, that which united us this night can never recur, any more than the silent kisses I gave you in farewell. Our island cannot be snatched from us: it is ours now as it has been during all these weeks. I am taking no more than the little mother-of-pearl box which contains your poems, and within which your spirit lies at rest. Nothing else goes with me, for, if they saw me packing up, your kindly old servants would want to know my destination. Forgive me for leaving the clothes you gave me, the clothes your appraising eye so often looked at as I dressed in the morning, and which your ardent hands pulled from my limbs at night with so much passion.

"In a minute or two Othello will, as usual, come down to the landing-stage, and wag his tail expectantly, hoping to be taken on board. I shall sail swiftly away before the wind, without turning for a last look; I must keep watch over myself lest the unbidden tears come to my eyes.

"The wind is blowing. Keep serene of heart, even though you may feel sad; and remember the motto inscribed on the escutcheon of your soul. Be grateful! Thank the gods, even as I do, for granting us this sweetest of springtimes. Ave Poeta!

"DIANA."

By the time Andreas had read the letter a third time he found himself on the landing-stage. An instinct urged him towards the water, her special element, and kept him away from the height whence, above the cypresses that barred the view from below, he might gaze southward over the lake. From that little eminence he could have seen Baveno and the coast line. Othello, who had not left Andreas's side the whole morning, stood beside the young man and endeavoured to lap the waves as they plashed over the landing-stage. But always, before his red tongue could reach them, the waters had withdrawn again.

Now, from round a rocky point, a little boat came in sight. It had come from the direction of Pallanza and another thirty strokes of the oars would bring it ashore. The great dog pricked up his ears as the oarsman waved a hand in greeting. Andreas leaped to his feet, and hailed the new arrival.

"Nikolai!"

"Andreas!" exclaimed a melodious voice in response.

"You, here?" A cross-fire of surmises rushed through the poet's brain. Uneasiness as to why his friend had come over the waters to intrude upon his solitude. This sudden arrival at such a moment seemed to smack of intrigue.

"Nikolai," he thought, "dearest of friends; Nikolai the wise, could he have lent himself to a plot of any kind? No, no, it cannot be!"

The feeling of mistrust was ephemeral, and Andreas soon pulled himself together, remembering his duties as host and as master of the island. Nikolai threw him the painter, and while tying it to the bollard, Andreas said with a note of irritation in his voice:

"This is a surprise!"

Nikolai was quick to perceive his friend's momentary annoyance. He felt quite unembarrassed as he thought: "Ah, well, these lovers' moods change from day to day!" Then, turning to Andreas, he asked courteously:

"Am I disturbing you? Don't you want my company after all?"

These words made Andreas yet more uneasy, for he concluded from them that Diana's flight was known to his friend and had, therefore, been planned some time ago. He stretched out his hand to help Nikolai to land, and as he did so he said:

"In what way could you ever disturb me, old man?"

At his master's first call across the water towards the oncoming boat, Othello had changed his bark of warning to a soft whine; and until the two men clasped hands, the dog's attitude had been one of alert defiance. Now he followed the two friends as they made their way up hill towards the house. He sniffed at their heels and at the leather satchel the oarsman held trailing from his hand. Both young men endeavoured to conceal their emotion behind a flow of conventional banalities. The new arrival continued to expatiate at frequent intervals upon the beauties of the island, while Andreas asked again and again if his friend had had a comfortable journey. At length Nikolai exclaimed:

"Of course I took the very first train from Milan, the eight o'clock, the sooner to be with you...."

Andreas stopped in his walk, looked squarely into his friend's grey eyes, and asked in surprise:

"Do you mean to say that you've come in answer to a summons?"

Even more amazed than his interlocutor, Nikolai delved into his pockets and after a little search produced a telegram which he handed over, saying:

"Didn't you send this?"

Andreas read the message: "Baveno. Please come as soon as possible to the little island to see your friend Andreas."

A light of understanding flashed through the poet's mind. Diana, herself fleeing from him, had sent his best friend to his side in order that the crushing solitude he would experience in the garden of their love might be rendered more bearable by Nikolai's presence. He stood stock still for a moment, biting his lips. Then he fondled Othello's head, as if by this caress he might compensate himself for the lack of a touch from Diana's loving hand. At length, steadying his voice with difficulty as he uttered the name of his mistress, he said:

"No. This must have been sent by Diana."

His friend was silent. Both men turned to go up the terrace steps.

"Have you quarrelled?"

"No."

"Where's she gone off to?"

"I don't know. She has sent you here to comfort me, no doubt." Then, hoping to conceal his wound, he added wryly: "Rather a painful mission, eh?"

Nikolai glanced at him and, cogitating upon the young man's equivocal situation, mused: "Least said, soonest mended!"

"What do you say to half an hour's row?" said Andreas coming suddenly to a halt. "Are you hungry? No? Hi! Domenico! Get the boat out!"

The Russian was quick to perceive that his friend fought shy of the house, and readily acquiesced in the plan. Soon the two of them were facing each other in the boat, one at the oars while his comrade steered. Andreas was still in his dressing-gown, hatless; Nikolai in white trousers, blue blazer, and a tight-fitting cap. They eyed one another surreptitiously, yet each was aware of his companion's scrutiny. Andreas's countenance made a strong appeal to Nikolai. It was a wilful face, crowned with a wealth of curly hair, which was not quite in keeping with the gentle curve of the mouth. He thought:

"I can well understand why women should prefer him to me."

Andreas, for his part, gazed fixedly at Nikolai, trying to extract the secret of his soul by a contemplation of his facial characteristics. Accustomed to reading people at a glance, he jumped now to the conclusion that the high cheek-bones prevalent among the Slavs denoted fanatical asceticism, the deep-set eyes betokened moderation in enjoyment, the thin, long nose must signify cautiousness when dealing with fellow mortals, the fine, rather thin growth of hair must prove that the owner had early experienced the joys of the flesh, the reticence of his deportment and the noble lines of the hand that lay on the gunwale showed him to be a man of taste and of aristocratic birth. The poet said to himself:

"I have known all this from the first day of our acquaintance."

"Shall we land?" The voice broke in on the silence as the boat neared Isola Madre.

Slowly the two friends climbed the hill. The morning freshness still pervaded the air. A bird trilled its rapture from bushes which scattered their leaves with lavish generosity over the yellow path, while, all around, the glittering expanse of the lake sent up dappled reflections amid the green. The youths strode forward on a carpet of moss and closely cropped ivy. At length they reached the warmer part of the island, passed through the flower-decked forest of rhododendrons, disappeared among thickets of pink camellias, brushed away the dew from the tall sprays of meadowsweet, and emerged amid the mimosas whose arid branches waved their ochre-tinted plumes like immense powder-puffs in the air. Sedate, delicate, and elastic, like well-trained German countesses, the cedars thrust their dark heads upward towards the sky, and the laurels, their branches constrained on espalier frames, or fettered together to form bouquets, or clipped into shapes and figurines, stretched out arms imploringly as if in longing for their leaves to be used to cool the fevered brows of inspired poets.

No word was spoken as the two friends slowly climbed the hill. Every turn in the path, every plant, every shade and sound and smell, brought the beloved woman visibly and palpably before Andreas's eyes. Here they had wandered together; this was her very world. She had felt all these things, had spoken of them romantically or with worldly wisdom, with irreverence or mystery, just as the spirit moved her. And all she said was impregnated with such a power of imaginative faculty as is only to be found as a rule among children of exceptional gifts.

They had reached the pergola of Chinese tea-roses through whose yellow blossoms glimpses of Monte Rosa could be seen amid a white-and-blue landscape. Suddenly Andreas came to a standstill, laid his hand affectionately on his companion's shoulder, and began talking as if the latter had actively participated in his whole train of thought. As he spoke he gesticulated, and his voice was agitated as if he were experiencing the excitement of a new discovery.

"An atmosphere of freedom envelops her—do you understand that, Nikolai? Freedom such as—such as hovers around that mountain over there, so that it can rear its crest of ice upward towards the sun, such as pervades this pergola whose roses have graciously permitted a gardener's hand to twine their shoots round the trellis, such freedom as the warm surface of this lake exhales at noon and yet enables it at midnight to mirror the coldly shining stars. Do you realize what it is we are ever in search of? Perfect art accompanied by innocent cheer. Fullness, mystery hand in hand with absolute clarity, the appropriate mood to every hour; wisdom and foolishness, surmise and knowledge, the past freed from sorrow, the magical recipe which will enable us to be bold and modest at one and the same moment, the masters of life and the servitors of fate.... Do you know Diana?"

He threw the four words at his friend as if they were a ball for Nikolai to catch. Before the Russian could answer, he exclaimed:

"You have seen her once, she told me so. Just once; for a few minutes. But that would be long enough for you to realize everything...."

"What did she say?" asked Nikolai, trying to recall the incidents of the encounter.

They sat down on two wrought-iron chairs which they found tilted against the balustrade of the uppermost terrace. Andreas threw one leg over the other, rested his elbows on the parapet, and propped up his head while his eyes travelled over the waters. Then his attention was caught by a stray branch which he carefully plaited into the trellis-work lest it should be broken. Though he was unaware of it, he had assumed Diana's characteristic pose. Without stirring, he resumed the thread of his discourse.

"One day, when I was sorting some papers, your photo tumbled out on to the floor. She picked it up and said: 'I know this face.' To which I replied: 'He's a friend of mine.'—'That's a good thing,' said she, 'I met him once, not so very long ago'—you know how vague she is about dates, and how definite is her remembrance of places—'it must have been in Milan last autumn, one day as I came out of the twilit cathedral. I was wearied with the darkness, and the mass I had been attending. Nevertheless the square with its noisy trams and people and loafing youths, disgusted me. Where could I creep away to quietude? I questioned the oracle. Should I go to right or left? Since the next comer approached me from the left, I determined to go in that direction. The oracle was favourable, for from the narrow street a shop-front beckoned me. I was rooted to the spot. Huge butterflies from Brazil were spread before me in cases. Their wings might have been made of precious stones, so dazzling were the colours. I seemed to be entering into a night of stars'—you are laughing?"

"I am only laughing because," protested Nikolai, "I remember standing at her side, studying the fearless line of her profile and marvelling at the fervour of her contemplation."

"At last she saw you and spoke to you," continued Andreas.

"'Conosce quello, Signore?' said a clear voice in my ear," and Nikolai, too, seemed unconsciously to assume one of Diana's characteristic poses. "But I had to admit that I knew nothing about them."

Andreas had not heard his friend's words. Yet he gathered Diana's question together as if it were some costly jewel worth studying in a good light. He turned the phrase over this way and that, untiringly reiterating: "Conosce quello, Signore? Conosce quello?"

Nikolai awaited his friend's pleasure in silence. At length, Andreas roused himself from his reverie with a laugh.

"Do forgive me! What else did she say? She never told me. All she confided to me was that, when you and she were looking at the specimens together and were talking about them, she had been struck by the melodiousness of your voice and by the fine shape of your hand as it rested on the glass."

"But the really remarkable thing was yet to come," exclaimed Nikolai. "At my request for information, she pointed to this specimen and to that, telling me the place in South America whence it came, the nature of the forests it inhabited, together with the lakes and swamps it needed for its well-being; she distinguished species from varieties; indeed, had I not surprised the initial look of imaginative delight she had cast on the scintillating assembly, I might have fancied her a member of a zoological academy—and incontinently taken to flight!"

Andreas nodded his appreciation, and said encouragingly:

"Well, and what did she say next?"

"She stretched out her hand towards me, and, with a look that glanced at me and then back to the butterflies again, in a tone that was charmingly candid and yet ambiguous, at once delighting me and imposing a barrier to further advance, she said: 'Beautiful!' Her lips remained slightly apart, and her curls were lifted in the breeze as she turned to go."

"You did not try to discover who she was?"

"I do not wantonly pry into the secrets of fate! Still, destiny held something in store for me. A week later, as I was leaving Countess Borromeo's, she came in, and the footman announced her name."

"I told her yours while she was here," observed Andreas. Then, impetuously, he held his hand out to his friend. Nikolai grasped it warmly, and said:

"When I learned last February that you and she had vanished after the carnival ball..."

"Were you uneasy?" interrupted Andreas with some acerbity, trying to withdraw his hand. Nikolai resisted the attempt, maintaining a firm grip and laying his left hand affectionately on the back of his friend's right.

"On the contrary, I felt perfectly happy. Remembering that you are a poet, I thought: 'He could not have fallen into better hands!'"

CHAPTER THREE

Twelve hours later, as they sat on the terrace of the white house, they were still talking of her. The coloured lampions overhead swayed gently in the breeze.

"She has bestowed many a beautiful hymn upon you," murmured Nikolai, closing the book upon his finger. "I should like to hear you read this one," he continued, handing over the volume wherein Andreas had copied the poems he had recently composed. The poet glanced through the one his friend had indicated. After turning a few pages, he paused, meditated a moment, then began reading aloud, making no effort to conceal his emotion. His voice hummed through the quiet May night. When he had finished, he sat motionless, gazing at the lights along the shore, the twinkling, moving lights.

"Movement," he said softly. "Poetry merely creates petrified images. Paper, written over with conventional signs ... and there, without, every day sees a mighty...."

"Be thankful for what you have," interposed his friend. "Could you expect greater treasures from yourself or from the world than...?"

"The world! The world! Greater treasures! The whole silly business sickens me. I want to do something totally different."

It seemed as if he had been controlling such an outbreak all day, as he flung out of his chair and strode to the edge of the terrace. He leaned upon the parapet, throwing his arms outward towards the lake as though he craved to grasp the world, the mainland, which in the twinkling lights seemed alluringly close to the island.

"I want to possess all that, do you hear? Possess it, not write poems about it. I don't want to capture rare and lovely things from the world! This evening I am filled with the feeling that all my six-and-twenty years have been passed on an island, passed in contemplation, a pencil in my hand, agog to catch a rhythm here or a harmony there—while, across the water the train on the Simplon railway was hurrying men and women through the world, day in day out for six-and-twenty years."

He turned abruptly, and marched towards his friend. Thumping the table so that the glasses rang, he exclaimed:

"You fancy that Diana is my muse because this sheaf of poems has fallen from her hand on to my field? Listen, Nikolai, you don't know her! She is a missile, an arrow, ever speeding in front of you, ever tempting you to run in emulation of its swift flight. You saw her for ten seconds; but have you gained nothing from her passage? You are a seer? Yet have you not penetrated to deeper things because you have seen her? Tell me, am I become clearer-sighted or madder since she went?"

He dropped to his knees beside his friend's chair and, fixing his blazing eyes upon Nikolai, seemed to wrench the words from the latter's lips.

"No, you are not mad. That very evening, after I had seen her, I went home vowing to make use of every year that was left to me of youth to cultivate all that was worth while in me. During the ensuing six months I wrote my book on morphology, a work which had remained on the stocks for so long."

"Have you finished it?"

"It's to be published this summer."

"Do tell me how you felt that evening...."

"I took the beautiful creature to be an apparition, a sign and a portent, a call to action. As far as I was concerned, she was nameless, and simple; as well-informed as she was charming. What did I care when, later, I discovered that she was a society dame, frequenting the palace of a princess, and possessing a name like any one else? She had been sent to me in the street where the butterflies were to inspire me with the will to put my plans into execution. Voicelessly she summoned me to work. Therefore—do you get on with your task, likewise!"

"How do you know that this is my work?" asked Andreas, tapping the book of poems. "You saw her only for a fleeting moment, and yet, what a stimulus she has been to you. But I have imbibed her very blood! You'll never guess what she said last night. She was leaning on this railing, pressing her knee against the balustrade, her silk dress aflutter in the wind; it was orange-coloured and clung to her lithe young body; tendrils of hair were gently caught by the breeze. Speaking very softly, she said: 'The swallows are coming north again. Though the road be long, they find their way unerringly. When they fly above a ship, there is a sound of rushing aloft as if fine steel wings were clashing one upon the other. How free they are! Free; and yet fate's hand is uplifted over them as it is over our heads. They are in the grip of fear, just as we ourselves are, as soon as one of their company shows signs of exhaustion. Half an hour more, a short half hour only, separates them from the island; their strength must last till then. One final sweep of the wings and they will reach their goal. It is will that drives them, will alone!'—Suddenly she began to sob. The paroxysm lasted but a minute while she was shaken by unseen forces. Then she dried her eyes and looked at me with a smile. After a while she laughed and, throwing her head back, pulled me towards her and kissed me, crying: 'Poet!'

"Believe me, Nikolai, at that moment she bade me farewell. Because of the daring mockery she was able to infuse into that one, perilous word, she had to leave me after uttering it. I was taken aback, and, since I am ever at a loss in such circumstances, all I found to say was: 'Are you hankering to join the flock, Diana? Do you want to go with the common herd across the waters of the lake?'—She laughed again, and as she lay lightly in my arms she said, with a complete change of voice and of manner as if her mood vacillated between coquetry and mystery: 'Perhaps, sometimes, why not? Among the herd, one is lost to sight!'"

Nikolai frowned, while with listless impatience he struck a light in spite of the fact that his cigarette was glowing cheerfully.

"Well, well, Poet, you can't hope to have things otherwise. Over the lake! Don't allow yourself to be misled by the dazzling lights of adventure. Many a promising lad has perished in the quest, to rue the day when he fell away from the right track. Diana was not mocking you when she called you poet; that is your true name. This little batch of poems is no more than a prelude. Remember the fine plans you dreamed of carrying out. When you are calmer, you must build upon her inspiration, and thus you will become reconciled to her flight."

Andreas faced his friend abruptly.

"What? Is this the same voice I once heard speaking to me from the shades of Tartarus? Reconciled? Is that all you have to say after a sublime experience? Was it not you who, just now, spoke of: 'A call to action'? I must get away."

Nikolai, who knew his friend's restless temperament from of old, who knew that the quiet days in love's garden were but an episode in the course of the ceaseless flow of turbulent waters, did not make direct answer, but merely asked: "Where do you intend to go?"

"On to the mainland! Away from my island! To active life! Into the fray!"

"Travel?"

"That's no more than play."

"To work in a factory?"

"That takes too long."

"Get into a ministerial post?"

"That would mean returning to Vienna which I left years ago. But I was wondering..."

"Well?"

"What about the diplomatic service?"

"In that career, too, you'll have to climb a ladder!"

"Maybe I'll climb ten rungs at a time right at the start!"

Nikolai said nothing, but he thought:

"Can that be the ideal aim of a poet? What has happened to the young people of today? They all want distraction, instead of concentrating on one activity. A hankering after adventures seems to fill them; even the strongest natures are led astray by dreams of power; the finest flower of Europe's young citizens is eagerly seeking for movement and ever more movement. Well, at any rate I've not been touched by the microbe!"

"I see you don't approve," said Andreas.

"Your best sonnet is of greater value than all your dreams of power and glory."

"Of greater value? To whom, pray?"

"To your own soul."

Nikolai, convinced that this evening would be a decisive one in their friendship, that they were here and now at the parting of the ways, which might sever them for many years, to bring them together again only after battles, and victories, and disappointments, rose from his chair, emptied his glass, reached out his hand to his friend, and said:

"It is late. I was up early this morning. I'll get along to bed."

But Andreas, in his passionate devotion, flung his arm round his friend's shoulders, and exclaimed:

"Don't give me up! Have confidence in my star."

Andreas lighted his candle and sought his own room, followed closely by Othello. The dog, who was always quick to understand changes in his master's life, realized that once more, as in former days, they were to live by themselves. Yet he was not happy at the prospect. He had not been jealous of Diana, as dogs are wont to be where a woman, and in especial where the beloved mistress of the master, is concerned. Each morning he had raised the latch of the bathroom door and had come to the bedside. Then, resting his forelegs on the coverlet at the foot, Ke had laid his massive head between them, near enough to sniff Diana's fragrance as she lay in her place next the wall. Thus would he remain, his earnest eyes never weary of looking at the young woman whom he allowed his master to house. He never attempted to fling himself across their bodies, well knowing that he would prove too heavy. Besides, a dog's proper place is at his master's feet, and Othello was not one to break the law.

Andreas guessed the Great Dane's thoughts, just as Othello guessed his master's. Without awaiting a sign, the dog took up his position on the white skin that served as bedside rug. He had never done this before. Andreas, for his part, flung himself half dressed on to the bed. He wished to avoid direct contact with the cool white pillow at his side. As he lay there gazing into the darkness, he seemed to hear a voice saying: "Te quiero!" The very words Diana had spoken to him at their first encounter that night of the masked ball! She had entered his life when taking part in a procession of masqueraders, in a fanciful get-up, sandals on her bare feet, a long yellow chiton flowing round her figure, a delicate crown of ivy in her wilful locks. The vision had floated past him as he sat on the steps heavy of heart and watchful. Then she had paused, had stepped out of the ranks, had flung her sun-kissed arm round his neck, and had said, her voice ringing like pure metal in his ear: "Io te quiero!" (I choose thee.)

That night they passed in an almost ceaseless dance together. Next day they found themselves in the Milan train, hastening northward. On the morrow they had reached the island.

Andreas roused himself. Had he not heard the closing of a door? She often went to shut the door leading on to the terrace.... "Othello, did you hear nothing? Where is Diana now?" The boyish eyes peered anxiously, almost defiantly, into the darkness. "Why? How could you mar the sweet harmony of our lives this way? Diana! Diana!"

His trembling lips breathed the name very softly. As he turned over on to the pillow where her head had lain, he suddenly drew back. Was not this the place where, in the cool of the night, he had leaned over the young body? Had he not, in the flickering candle-light, stroked the firm and satiny skin which had been bronzed by the sun; had his poet's hand not travelled over the deep bosom, on which the delicate breasts rose and fell as she breathed; had he not caressed those boyish hips so devoid of passionate desire—for always, until last night, she seemed rather to tolerate his hot wooing than to crave for it, seemed to be armed for battle rather than for the joys of the flesh.

Images of delight floated round the wearied youth, pictures of bliss he had experienced on this couch; and with all the power of a rich imagination he once again drew Diana into his arms.

Othello kept watch throughout the night, his great head resting on his crossed paws as he lay at his master's feet.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Wanted: lady with knowledge of many languages, Balkan tongues desirable, secretarial work. Call between 10 and 11. Second courtyard on left...."

Diana glanced down at her wrist-watch. Nine-thirty! She paid the bill for her breakfast, left the modest hotel where she had put up, and struck out through the park towards the centre of the town.

That morning when she had gone to Milan—was it only last Sunday?—she had been urged onward by an inner force which made her willingly look forward to undertaking almost any kind of work be it never so humdrum. She was tired of the south, and was filled with longing for a northern climate. Such restlessness often seized her towards May or June, and the north appealed to her at no other time of the year. She had clasped her hands and had examined them as if to sample their usefulness; her eyes had travelled up to the massive line of the Alps, that mysterious wall cutting her off from her second self in the north. Six years of untrammelled wandering had taught her to look upon chance happenings as the bridge of fate leading to the unknown.

"How long ago was it?" she asked herself that evening as she looked out of the window in the train. "Two years? No, it must be three since I took up a job because I needed to do so. Lack of money and the wish no longer to lead a quiet life always seem to coincide! Should I go to Paris? No, London would be better. But I went to Paris where I worked under Charpentier at the institute.... What extraordinary things developed out of that move! Of course the parting had been easier, Sidney was in good hands, and Father... Father..."

She laid her hot forehead against the cold window-pane and caught her own reflection in the glass. Suddenly she became aware of lights creeping by, slowly and stealthily when they were away there across the wide fields, and like a flash when they were near the line. "Other people's destinies are crossing my path through this transparent pane. Always these alien destinies, which I have not summoned, move athwart my eyes, and I am doomed, nay rather, I am blessed in being allowed to let them go by. Stars! I would that the starlight might once again delight my eyes...."

Diana looked up, but the sky was overcast. On reaching Milan the other day she found that her total cash amounted to fifteen hundred francs. One thousand she spent in buying underclothes, two hats, one evening gown, and a costume for day-time use. She was wearing the latter now, with a white blouse, a plain straw hat, and comfortable, low-heeled shoes. Neither jewellery nor flowers were there to relieve the Puritan simplicity of her toilet. But her efforts to assume the aspect of an ordinary office girl were unsuccessful. In the first place she did not trip along, or strut, or slouch; she just walked. Her carriage, too, betrayed her, for her head was well poised on the broad shoulders and her elastic body swayed rhythmically from the slender hips. She looked like one accustomed to much rowing and riding. Her arched brows gave her away, as did likewise her hands with their long, delicate fingers and the finely moulded wrists. Above all, her face denied her assumed profession. The bronzed profile was that of a young Sicilian, such as Antonello da Messina loved to portray. Everything in her belied the character she had endeavoured to suggest by means of clothes and her alias.

"This is a very fine park," she thought, "but the lawns should not have been fenced in, nor all the paths made into alley ways, nor every bush clipped into a round. How obsessed the north is with its dreams of the south! Fearing its own peculiarities it becomes a mere imitator, and tries to tame all that would fain be wild."

She turned into the central walk which ran in a perfectly straight line from entry to exit. Here the great town seemed inspired with the wish to hide its practical, everyday life behind luxuriant trees, while all the time the electric trams went screeching and roaring through the ancient forest. Diana sped on.

"Whenever I wake in this city I feel that it is in some small degree akin to me, that it responds to the northern half of my make-up. Did ever town spur one on to activity as this one does? Is London or New York so incorruptible? I am glad that I am going into its very heart. Here I shall be able to work just like other people; indeed I must! High time I began again...."

Diana had now been a week at her secretarial post. She had adopted a new name, determined to forget the past, determined to be an unknown unit in the metropolis and thus to avoid head-waggings and questions in regard to her changed circumstances. She was scared at the idea of repeating previous encounters on the same stage. Since she was entirely free from sentimentality, she fostered memories only when they could prove useful to her development. This time, she had resolved to bury them.

She sat in the little whitewashed room with its two doors always flung wide, while twenty voices could be heard clamouring simultaneously, the simplest sentence being uttered with the loudness characteristic of persons whose profession it is to be ever on the go. After a while she glanced up, and gazed at the patch of grey wall to be seen above the reflector which did its best to cast a little daylight into the dark office.

"It's one o'clock," she mused. "We should be coming from our swim. Andreas's bathing-wrap would fly open and he'd pick his way gingerly over the stones.... He never liked them! The Barbary doves used to fly out of our path and flutter overhead. Domenico would speak of the wind, and would tell us that the weather had set fair till the new moon.... Till the new moon, an eternity, two whole weeks! A fortnight of clear skies and sunshine and wind. When before did the days seem so long; when before had I ever wished them to be unending? What if Othello could trace me to this cell? ... He'd lay hold of our bald-headed editor who always comes singing into the office, and would shake him by the slack of the trousers! Only for a while, only for a little while I must hold out here...."

She set to work again. There were articles from Turkish newspapers to be translated, Serbian reports to run through, Greek pamphlets to be read. Everything had to be summarized as tersely as possible and at topmost speed. She found the task interesting, for she knew the countries well. Certain names would provoke her to laughter, for though they now stormed through a troubled Europe as signatures to telegrams, a year ago they were absolutely unknown save in the locality where their bearers dwelt; the names of petty lawyers, nervous young deputies, and the like. On the flowery island confronting Pallanza, she had dreamed away her days in blissful ignorance of events in the world without, events which her contemporaries in self-complacent optimism chose to call "historical."

"Fräulein Linke!"

Diana answered promptly.

"Yes, Herr Larisch."

"Have you any Belgrade left? We want another twenty lines of Belgrade stuff for tonight."

The owner of the voice now appeared in the doorway. The man was big and shapeless, wore his pince-nez astride a thick nose. His left hand was in his trouser pocket and was for ever fidgeting with the contents, while with his right he pulled the collar away from his neck as if to give himself more breathing space.

"Herr Mailuft has of course gone to sleep at the vital moment, and yet he's well paid and for a year and a half has had nothing to do but run up expenses! That comes of engaging literary men to do journalistic work. Do you know what the fellow did the day the prince was hunted out of Albania? He sent a long wire describing a sunset over the mountains of Epirus!"

Diana laughed. The speaker, who was delighted at her appreciation of his wit, continued:

"You may well laugh. They just sink into places others have prepared for them, and have no responsibilities. If their work is not done one day they can just as well do it the next. I wouldn't mind taking on a job like that.—How do you come to know all their mad tongues, Fräulein? Have you ever been there? A pretty sort of amusement. What are those people to us, I should like to know. It's the diplomats' fault when poor innocent nations are involved in such a crisis."

By now he had got into his stride, and had no difficulty in pursuing his discourse.

"The reason is obvious. Not until there is a parliamentary government which has assumed control over ministers of State and diplomatists, not until the responsibility of such persons to the duly elected representatives of the people has been enforced by a written constitution..."

"No disquisitions here, Larisch; that is the chief's prerogative. Here's the stuff for your evening edition, just count the words, I must see where it is best to break off...."

Larisch, crestfallen, withdrew to his own place in the neighbouring room, thus making way for the newcomer who stepped over to the writing-table where Diana was at work, and sat down opposite her. His mocking eyes twinkled at her from behind gold-rimmed spectacles, yet Diana could detect an underlying melancholy which may have been due to disappointment at lack of recognition for his talents. He looked at her placidly and kindly, folded his hands on the table, and said:

"Do you think Larisch is right?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued to hold forth in the way natural to those who have the gift of words and like to hear the sound of their own voices. "As if it were not thus in every country, as if, indeed, it were not highly desirable that the few should decide the fate of millions! As if, for instance, you, my good Larisch," he turned round and raised his voice, quite disregarding the fact that his words could be heard by the whole office, "as if you could sit there in peace and quiet were it not that our honoured father, the blessings of Allah be on him, pays you a monthly wage of nine hundred marks in beautiful blue bank-notes counted out to you by a grim-visaged Cerberus at the cash desk, not to mention pension insurance, Christmas bonuses, and all the rest...."

"Why are you inditing rhapsodies in terms of contracts?" cried the oily voice from the next room. "Besides, unless I am well paid for it, how can I sub-edit the precious material sent in by our worthy chief?" He modified his voice as he came in with the papers. "It's poor stuff again today. Not infrequently—what is it Horace says?—'dormitat Homerus'! 'Thoughts!' said Socrates. 'Thoughts, Gentlemen, if you please!' exclaimed Lassalle. A polished style is not enough to get us out of this coil. When I recall the happy days in which straightforward German was the fashion here! One had not then to overhaul every sentence in order to see whether Nietzsche might not have expressed the news-item more pithily. We're too refined nowadays, old chap...."

He suddenly cut short his eloquence. Scherer, the owner of the paper, stood on the threshold. The advent of this little god almighty before whom even the editor, according to Larisch's mythological hierarchy, was but as Mercury to Jupiter, had become so rare an occurrence that when he did appear his presence caused no small amount of perturbation. Scherer, the financier and head of the great publishing house, was still a comparatively young man. He was the son of the founder (God rest his soul) of this international journal; but there was no trace in him of the humble origin of his forbears, nor, indeed, could one detect any sign of degeneracy in him. He combined the maturity of a carefully trained successor with the reposeful qualities of the democrat of the second generation, and he clothed his whole being with so earnest a philosophical outlook that he was bound to attract the mistrust of every circle he came into contact with either in the realm of business or in the realm of thought.

The two male subordinates stood to attention as the big man entered, but Diana kept her seat and analysed his character by the mode of his entry. She looked him squarely in the face, undismayed by his prestige. His eyes were dark, and it seemed to her that they were out of place in their blond setting behind the horn spectacles. Or did they, perhaps, betoken a certain unrest in this head which seemed cast in metal, and over which an artificial constraint of silence had been imposed? Diana was quite unaware that she was gazing at him with as much concentration as a playgoer looking at an actor through opera glasses. The chief noticed her scrutiny, and thought:

"That's no ordinary secretary."

"Are you the one," he continued aloud, "who sent in this detailed statement, or, rather, this summary, yesterday?"

The two men withdrew, and closed the door with a great deal of noise as much as to say that they had not the slightest interest in what was to follow. Diana nodded. As she recognized her own handwriting the blood crept slowly upward into her face until she was blushing all over. Meanwhile, she was thinking:

"A metallic voice. I've no liking for tenors as a rule, but the voice suits the man...."

"It's very good, Fräulein..."

He waited for her to help him out with the name.

"Linke," said Diana, as if she had never been called anything else.

"Fräulein Linke, excellent. My name is Scherer. Were you ever in the Balkans? Correspondent?" He took the chair on the opposite side of the writing-table.

"I've not as yet done any newspaper work. I was travelling."

He looked at her more attentively, and thought:

"Proud. She says: 'Not as yet.' Avoids the word 'never'—which might serve her very well, for she must know that this first essay of hers has struck me very favourably."

Slowly, he set about questioning her, testing her:

"You were travelling?"

"Yes."

She threw the syllable into the air, raising her chin in the act and thus avoiding his scrutiny. The word rang forth with bell-like purity, shutting the door upon further questions; it verged on rebuff; was self-confident, full of a sense of responsibility, determined. A second or two passed while she felt his analytical gaze upon her. Then the clear-toned voice was saying;

"They told me that a woman had put this report together.... There's a good deal of noise here.... You are not as a matter of fact engaged to do editorial work. I'll find you an office over in the firm.... Will you step across with me?..."

They rose. Diana gathered her papers together. He did not attempt to help her. Arrived at the door, he made an almost imperceptible movement to allow her to pass out first.

The whole office was agog. The two eavesdroppers were immediately surrounded by an inquisitive crowd. It never entered any of their heads that Scherer had come to make gallant overtures—they knew him too well! Within their knowledge, there had never been the faintest rumour of such things in his connexion. What could he be after? Who was this new employee?

"What did he say?"—"What did she say?"—came from three or four typists simultaneously. Larisch answered evasively.

"Fish and find out, girls! Do you want a share of the good luck? You need only come to my department!"

"Your department? Oh, Herr Larisch!"

CHAPTER FIVE

It was still daylight as carriage after carriage drew up before the colonnade of the opera house. Although the beauty of this evening in May had called every one forth to enjoy the fresh air, the house was sold out. Diana had not thought of such a possibility, and was aggrieved, wellnigh humiliated, when she found herself unable to get in, and saw other women mounting the red carpeted stairway which she felt she should be treading in their stead. They were foes, making no effort to conceal their triumph! The sound of the call-bell irritated her; it seemed to go on interminably, summoning the audience to hurry. She gazed with longing eyes at the press of people entering the vestibule; then, slowly, she walked down the wide steps.

Home? The word sent a chill through her. She could not face going back defeated, to the little room which for two weeks now had served her as sleeping place.

She had spent every evening of the fortnight in solitude. It was her wont during such periods of vital change deliberately to impose seclusion upon herself. She had written to none of her friends, for she was saturated with a fatalistic sentiment of adventure which made her await developments. At night she would go for a walk along the water's edge; Sunday would be devoted to revisiting old favourites in the museums, old yet ever fresh as endowed with eternal youth; or, silently she would pursue her way along the streets, looking at new buildings. Then, again, the big shops and cafes would attract her critical eye, and she would study the present-day fashions and tastes. Such were her recreations. Her work in Scherer's office absorbed all her intellectual energies; and ambition, which ever acted as a spur to this woman, goaded her on to give of her best. Tonight, however, Carmen was to be played, and this was an opera which Diana could never bear to miss.

"Shut out! Here am I, not able to hear; and yet I belong to this tragedy far more vitally than do all those women who have only come to listen to the new singer. Shall I go for a drive? It would cost too much; besides it's too late, and my dress is all wrong!"

An open car drove up. A tall man in evening dress stepped out, flinging a black evening cloak over his arm. Diana was struck pleasantly by the gesture. She was likewise delighted with the look of the taxi, and moved forward to engage it. Suddenly she stopped, drew back a pace or two, and turned pale from mingled alarm and joy.

"Sidney!"

"Diana!"

The exclamations rang out almost simultaneously as brother and sister recognized one another. In three strides the young man was at her side, feeling rather embarrassed, and as if caught in the act of doing something he should not. He himself was at a loss to account for the feeling. He bent over her gloved hand, and asked with a smile:

"Are you startled?"

Yes, this was actually her brother. Those were his long, finely chiselled features, his slim, delicately moulded limbs, his fair, curly hair, which refused to submit to the discipline of a parting—much to the chagrin of this fashionably dressed young gentleman. How alike the two were! His skin, however, contrasted with hers in that it was of the tint of ivory, whereas hers was a golden brown. Her body too, as any one with an eye could guess in spite of her cloak and her gown, differed greatly from that of the frail, effeminate youth. If she displayed the physical vigour of a Tobias, he, on the contrary, was cut in the softer lines of the youthful Sebastian. For the moment, however, he was nothing but a slender young gentleman in evening dress.

Diana's face melted into an almost childlike laugh. She looked like a girl of seventeen. After years of being with persons of her own choice, she suddenly found herself in the company of one to whom she belonged through ties of kinship. Her proud nature was enchanted at the thought of being dependent for a moment upon this callow boy of nineteen whose senior she was by six years and upon whom she had always looked as a kind of son.

With the adaptability of lively natures, they soon recovered from their first surprise at the unexpected encounter, and, overcoming the innate reserve peculiar to them both, they asked one another a few pointed questions:

"Have you been here long?"

"A short while," was her answer.

"You wrote from Rome..."

"Did I?"

"Yes, a card with a pine tree on it and the words 'Via Appia' beneath."

"Where is Father?"

"In London, I fancy. I have not seen him since March."

"And you?"

"Oh, I," he paused for a moment, nonplussed. Then: "I'm going to the opera."

"There are no more tickets!"

"I've got a box."

"So well off?"

"I don't know. Did you think of going?"

"Are you alone?"

"Y—yes," he answered with some hesitancy.

"Andiamo," cried she, slipping her hand lightly through his arm. As they gaily ascended the steps she had recently come down in so disappointed a mood, she thought: "I've a brother. He's good-looking. He drove up in a taxi, through this town, on this evening, to the very opera I want to hear.... Life, O Life!"

The lights had been lowered. As Diana let fall her cloak, the orchestra struck up the first barbaric strains of the prelude. The sounds surged over her, submerging her. In two seconds she had completely forgotten her companion.

Sidney was deaf to the music. Withdrawn into a corner of the box, he sat obliquely behind Diana and contemplated her with an expression mature beyond his age. He had not seen her for three years. She had left London for Paris, in the middle of winter, and had disappeared. Had those been quiet days, he asked himself with the inner perturbation of a youth whose childhood had been an agitated one. She had been working in the British Museum Reading Room; every morning she had gone there, to a seat immediately on the left as you entered, beneath the huge glass dome. When he came to fetch her, she would take him to the galleries where the classical marbles were. Father would have tea with them at the little boarding-house, they'd chat together, the old man would pay the weekly bill and would give them some pocket money. Diana used to go out in the evening; he rarely knew who her companion was on these occasions.... She had no women friends, nor, indeed, had she ever had any. What could she be doing here? Was she having a good time? How lovely she looked in her green-and-white crêpe de chine dress! Mentally, he estimated its cost. Her arms are sunburned, she must have spent a long time in the country. He paused in his meditation, and blinked his eyes in the darkness. "All alone, without a ticket, at the opera.... And she is wearing a white camellia. Could this be a shield against love's attacks? In that case she must just have emerged from a passionate episode! Yes, that's what it is; and now she's in one of her ascetic periods. I could wager she was not on the look-out for any one. A romantic love affair ... somewhere away in the country.... Fairly long ... probably in the south ... the camellia for remembrance..."

The curtain went up on the chorus of young folk in the wide square of Seville. Diana, recovering from her absorption in the music and the darkness, turned her head towards her companion; her movement was deliberate, as if she hoped it would give her once again the pleasurable surprise of a few minutes ago. She liked him immensely, and touched his foot softly with the point of her slipper:

"Sidney! How tall you have grown! Ti amo!"

He whispered back:

"Diana, I'm ever so proud of you. Why shouldn't I... Why can't you be my sweetheart?"

"You're not old enough!"

Carmen's motif was being played; Carmen herself appeared. Diana's eyes dilated, she raised her brows so high that her forehead was wrinkled while with her right hand she seized the edge of the box as if to steady herself. Always when Carmen's voice fell on her ear, when the tragically bold glance shot across the footlights, Diana felt a premonitory flutter at her heart, a prophetic warning of something still far away, hidden in the night of the future. When, however, Carmen made her advances and withdrew again, when at one moment she was unrestrained and at another reserved, when she flung her sweet, mad song at the officer's head, and with an almost sexual bravado made as if to draw the young man into her arms, Diana relaxed her hold, sank back on her chair, and drew her wrap about her shoulders. She seemed to be the prey of a mood which her brother could not fathom.

The lights went up, and Diana hardly had time to pull herself together before the door of the box was thrown open and an officer came in. He brought his heels smartly together on the threshold, and then advanced to kiss Diana's hand. Diana sat quietly for a moment recovering from her surprise.

"You, Major!" she said at last.

"My presence here is far less surprising than yours, for I'm an habitué of the opera and have searched its seats in vain for a sight of you for three years now."

"My brother," said Diana who had been quick to observe her visitor's uneasy glance towards the corner where Sidney had ensconced himself.

"Oh, I beg your pardon.... Had I not the pleasure once...?" The words fell heavily like great drops of rain before a storm. Indeed, one could almost fancy that the growl of thunder was already in the air. "At that time I did not know," the officer continued cautiously, for he hardly believed in the kinship between the two, "that this lady was your sister...."

"I, too, had no idea that you had already met a member of my family," interposed the young man with subtle irony.

Diana thought:

"Our two terriers, Jack and Jill, used to snarl at one another in exactly the same way over their feeding bowl in the old days in London!"

She turned to the major: "Won't you stay?"

"With pleasure, if I may," he answered, looking a rather arrogant inquiry at Sidney.

"I shall be delighted, too. I am my sister's guest."

As the lights went out, the major took his place so close to Diana's side that he could whisper in her ear, very softly, hardly moving his lips as he spoke:

"You are simply wonderful!"

"Thanks."

"I've always been on the look-out for you. I knew that some day or other you'd return."

"And here I am."

"But you never wrote a line...."

"I could not. It had to be one thing or the other.— Still suffering from jealousy?"

"Horribly!"

"It really is my brother."

"Swear?"

"On your sword," she breathed, placing her hand on the hilt of his weapon as it thrust forward among the folds of her dress.

"Diana," he urged, pressing closer.

"No!"

Ostentatiously she drew away from him, and turned towards Sidney. The latter had heard the whispered exchange of words and had been watching the couple, wondering where he had seen the man before. Slowly came the remembrance of a somewhat shady night club. Yes, it was there they had met; the officer was in mufti, the encounter lasted no more than a few seconds. Could the man really have been an intimate of Diana's. Sisters should be sexless!

The major continued to whisper in Diana's ear, until the great scene in the second act, where Carmen sings her most seductive song, compelled him to silence. Then all she heard at her side was the heavy breathing of a man who was exercising fierce control over himself. But even this sound faded from the circle of her perceptions when the toreador embarked upon his triumphant pæan. She closed her eyes in the sensuous enjoyment of the final F. It seemed to her at that moment as if rushing wings drew near, to fold her in an embrace. Present experiences became less real to her than the premonitory murmur of the unknown future.

During the interval, Diana had made for the balcony with her two companions in order to enjoy a breath of fresh air, for the late spring weather was mild and the opera house felt hot and stuffy. As the trio strolled along, the major saluted a friend whom Diana recognized as Scherer, her chief. She was aware that the latter turned to look after her, and she hurried out on to the balcony. She was not a little annoyed at the encounter. The next thing would be that the publisher would question the major as to her identity, and then it would be all up with her incognito. This might cost her her employer's confidence which, during the week she had been working directly under him, she had won as much by her behaviour as by the excellence of her work.

The warm evening air was wafted up to them as they leaned upon the balustrade. The breeze caressed Diana's bare shoulders and arms so that she shivered slightly. She drew her wrap closer about her. The women as they walked to and fro were obviously living in the atmosphere of Seville; they coquetted with fans, flaunted their laces, displayed their uncomprehended passions in such a way as would have shocked their worthy burgher souls had they been consciously aware of what they were doing. The voluptuousness of the music and the balminess of the air were responsible for lingering touch of hand on hand as the men helped the ladies with cloak or shawl. But the major, whose erotic temperament was never allowed to encroach upon his courtesy and formal politeness, was careful to avoid any contact with Diana.

Now the opera pursued its course, ominous, poignant. As Carmen, laying out the cards, pronounced the word of doom, Diana shuddered. It seemed to her that all of a sudden she was quite alone, no longer young, cut off from liberty. She was annoyed at the meeting of these two men, a meeting which had at first seemed to her so piquant. Yet she could not leave the house until once again she had drunk the intoxicating rhythm of the toreador music; had seen the brilliant sunlight illuminating the bull ring; had relished to the full the medley of horses, soldiers, flags; had thrilled responsively to the hymn of triumph and the glamour of the bloodthirsty sport. Amid all the noise and brilliancy, she had been snatched away into another realm by the exquisite tenderness of Micaela's appeal....

At last the curtain fell on the final act. Clapping of hands, bows before the footlights, a rush to the exits. All were still under the spell of the music and the drama; all were silent; all seemed for the moment to be rudderless, adrift.

As the three friends pressed forward in the crowd, their movements were closely followed by Scherer. For a week now he had had this amazing woman under observation, and the more he was tempted to utilize her for his purposes, the more he was struck with the qualities chance happenings revealed. He had noticed the meeting in the box, had instantly recognized the woman as Diana and the officer as an old acquaintance; the younger man was unknown to him. Their gestures and general behaviour showed the trio to hail from cultured circles; but he was puzzled as to the relationship of one to the other.

"I wonder how they are going to spend the remainder of the evening," he mused. "To which of those men does she belong?"

The question continued to occupy his mind for the rest of the night. He followed them into one of the larger restaurants, and engaged a table near the wall whence he could watch them unobserved.

After the second glass of Chambertin, the spirits of the three rose. It was as if they had thrown off a load. The major began to feel that this brother of Diana's was not in his way, after all; while Sidney saw that the officer was a gentleman although their first encounter had taken place in so dubious a spot. Both men placed implicit faith in Diana, and she for her part was able by her tactful management to bring the two to a better understanding.

"Sidney, do you remember where we last met?"

"Yes, in London."

"Whereabouts?"

"In the British Museum, before the Assyrian fresco with the lion. You were showing me around. I was keen to learn. Three times a week for at least two months...."

"Do you still draw?..."

"Occasionally."

"Will you show me some of your work?..."

"Any time you please!"

"Have you tried your hand at a portrait of your sister yet?" asked the major.

"Not as far as I can remember."

"Oh, but you did," cried Diana, laughing, "you made a sketch of me once at Brighton when I was wearing that lilac bathing cloak." Then, suddenly: "Oh, how I long for the sea! I want to go south, to Athens! Not just now, later on. I know south-eastern Europe, and nearly half the East, but I've never been to Athens, the only place that really matters. I like all that far better than your Assyrian lions!"

"Isn't it in Athens that one sees those riders?" asked the major, his voice suddenly assuming a tone of genuine inquiry. "You know, the riders you once showed me a cast of?"

Diana looked at him with lively comprehension as she replied:

"Yes, the riders are to be seen there."

Sidney thought:

"I wonder what memories the riders bring back to them?"

The major thought:

"How mad we were that day in Mecklenburg... I locked the garden gates ... it was early morning ... and I sat her naked on the Irish stallion ... bareback, like the Grecian riders in the museum.... Will she ever be mine again?"

Diana thought:

"I rode in the sunlight, naked, and I felt the quivering sides of the beast against my thighs.... It was of a chestnut colour, just like a nut freshly taken from the husk. We were like children together, he and I. How long ago those days seem to me now."

At last she roused herself to ask:

"So you are in the garrison here?"

"I'm on the general staff," he said testily, in an endeavour to hide the turmoil within. A pause. Then: "At that time, the last time I had the good luck to meet you—exactly three years ago—you were kind enough to suggest that we might meet again...."

"Yes, we did speak of the matter," answered Diana airily, hoping to quell his excitement; for she saw while he was speaking that he winced at the recollection of all he had made her suffer through his jealousy and his pride, of all that had led to the final parting.

Her tone drew a look of gratitude from him, which Sidney was quick to intercept. The young man rose, trying to find an excuse for leaving them alone together.

"Excuse me a moment," he said, "there's old Heinz over there...."

He was away for a quarter of an hour, and amused himself by sketching a caricature of the cloakroom attendant.

The officer seized his opportunity.

"Diana," he cried, taking her hand and covering it with kisses, "I have you to thank for what I have become. At the time of our parting, I hated you, yes, hated you. I could not bear you to look at any one else.... But when you had gone I drew a line—please don't laugh, I have not given up love, but I no longer devote all my time to love. I started studying seriously, and in two years I got promoted to the general staff. In the ordinary course I could not have gone that far in less than five years, and only then by a fluke. Meanwhile I've been devoting my leisure to opera—not just the ballet—museums, exhibitions, books of travel." Suddenly he found he could speak in lighter vein again as he exclaimed: "I actually read, yes, read: a novelty in my family. My forefathers away there in the churchyard at home would turn in their graves if they could see me!"

Diana closed her eyes, listening as her friend paid her this belated homage, and tried to conceal his emotion under cover of a joke. When he ceased speaking, she lifted her glass, and, with a charming and dignified mien, toasted him thus:

"Here's to the golden laurel leaf on your red collar!"

He embraced her in his glance and raised his glass to clink with hers, his hand trembling as he did so.

"How long shall we be alone? I do so much want to tell you what I've been planning these three years past.—Diana, I'm sorry to make you such a request in all this racket, but won't you share with me what remains of my life?"

Her face stiffened; she looked thirty years old at least as she put her glass down, and said softly:

"Never try to repeat things, my friend. Do you want the pleasant things you have just been saying to lose their flavour? Is not this moment of greater value than all the remainder of your life, which may prove a hollow sham if we do what you propose? Do not try to tame the falcon. Let me fly in a free sky."

She shot a glowing look at him, but as she emptied her glass her companion saw that her eyes were moist with tears.

Sidney came back at this moment. Diana rose, saying:

"It is late. Good-bye. Please do not come with me."

Both men protested; but Diana, wearied of the male's everlasting suspicion of women, beckoned them both towards her and flashed:

"Can't you trust me to go home by myself?"

She got into a taxi, and even as it was starting Scherer's big bulk appeared in the doorway of the restaurant. He had witnessed their farewells, and was seeking a taxi wherein to follow her and find out what was her next move. The major, who on no account wanted to lose her trail, bade Sidney a hasty good-night, and jumped into another taxi which was drifting along across the street. Sidney, however, understood the officer's manœuvre. He felt curious as to his sister's relations with the major and in his turn hailed a taxi.

In the busier parts of the town the procession was not very noticeable, but as soon as Diana's cab reached the quiet neighbourhood where she lived it was evident that she was being followed by three vehicles in fairly close formation.... When her driver stopped in front of her door, the others drew up likewise. Three heads were cautiously poked out of three windows. Scherer at once knew who the other two men were, but they were puzzled as to his identity.

As Diana stepped up to the front door she took the whole comedy in at a glance, and laughed. She laughed again when she reached her room:

"I'll never succeed in making men believe that I am a virtuous woman!"

CHAPTER SIX

Scherer was determined to find out all about her. He knew that Paula Linke was not her real name, and the information bureau to which he applied was soon able to give him further particulars. Her father was a Pole by birth, had been naturalized a German, and had been vice-consul in Macedonia some twenty years ago. Rumour had it that he was a merchant and a dealer in furs. But according to another report he was a savant with private means, and had spent much of his time in exploring out-of-the-way parts of the world. He was now living in England. Diana herself had recently come from Italy, had been engaged in manifold activities, had worked in various institutions, had been a librarian. Her movements were even traced to a riding school in Munich where she had apparently given lessons in horsemanship. Three years ago she had been in this very town for a few months in the company of a certain countess, had been entertained by the Automobile Club, had been a competitor at the regatta, and was supposed to have spent one summer at a country house in Masuria.

Scherer's experience as a man of business had taught him that inquiry agents, when stumped for accurate information, are wont to spin fairy tales. He therefore chose to believe about half of this budget, and it was enough for him to know that the report contained nothing scandalous. As man of the world he exercised the utmost care in regard to his private life, avoiding intimacy with persons whose acquaintance was thrust upon him, and who he considered might be useful to him. He felt amply rewarded when his affairs in this field ran smoothly. On the other hand, as financier, he penetrated into alcoves, private clubs, and bedchambers, for he knew that more money was lost in such places than on the Stock Exchange.

He had been led to make his inquiries because he was possessed of the idea of utilizing Diana's services for a special mission, a mission for which her qualities made her particularly suitable. Every day brought him fresh surprises as to her abilities. He would constantly put her to new tests, would engage her in discussion of the political issues predominant in the countries they were at the moment chiefly concerned with; would ask questions whose answers he himself knew perfectly well; gave answers which he knew to be incorrect. He did not put these tests in any spirit of mockery; indeed, his respect for this woman's intelligence grew from day to day.

At the same time, both were careful to preserve the integrity of their business footing, and their precautions in this were all the greater in proportion as his information assumed a more confidential character. Scherer was pleased to note her aloofness, was delighted with the way in which she deliberately closed all the avenues to a more intimate approach. Yet as man of the world he could not ignore the investigatory gaze of this woman who concealed her inner self behind a veil of silence, while probing him to the core. It was her capacity for judging men and things (a capacity which he felt her exercising in regard to himself with just as fine a penetration as in respect of other personalities) which led him to consolidate his plans.

Yet this man who was bold enough to play with fate, scarcely realized that the magnetic spell of a woman was driving him, all unconscious, into ventures which, though they were not in Eros's realm, might prove no less hazardous in other fields than love.

Diana guessed his plans. She knew that he had big financial interests in the East. So much she had gathered from reports, from letters dealing with company and banking concerns, about which she was occasionally consulted—not always, of course, for she was not Scherer's secretary. "He'll need me down there," she thought, "perhaps he's going to send me...." When, after a while, she realized that he could not dispense with her services, she slipped him into the general machinery of her existence, and started to reckon upon him as a factor in her life, doing so all the more coolly seeing that she was not stirred by him as a man. The days following that night of the opera flowed peacefully by. When she entered her room late on the following day, she found a bunch of white carnations awaiting her. Despite the ill success of his advances, the major could not refrain from celebrating this happy meeting by sending her the loveliest flowers he could find. He was also influenced in his choice by the recollection of all that similar white carnations had meant to him one winter day in a snow-storm. At that time they had been her favourite flowers. His note ran:

"Don't be angry with me. Require of me that I await a sign from you, but do not ask me to take you at your word, for that would rob me of all hope of renewing the most beautiful days of my life. You have fresh conquests to record, the homage of young men and old in the East and in the West. I am turning grey, you saw as much quite clearly when I bent to kiss your lovely hand and that infernal lamp blazed down on me. You are more blooming than ever. I have asked you to share my life and my name. True, my request was bluntly made; I am nothing but a soldier. You have refused me. But I beg you to remember that I shall always look upon myself as your friend. I trust you to give me a chance to be of use to you. Believe me, in any danger that may arise, your unchangeable

"FELIX."

To which she replied:

"Your white carnations are as lovely today as those you gave me years ago. Thank you. I may be leaving before long. It would be nice to take a drive somewhere together. You will be my first thought if ever danger arises.

"DIANA."

As she slipped the note into its envelope and addressed it to him in his new rank, she thought of all the talks they had enjoyed together, talks which had lured him from his humdrum regimental occupations to put his gifts to finer uses, talks which had plucked him from the morass of stereotyped adventures, and, by stimulating his ambition, had led him to more intellectual spheres of activity. "——, Major on the General Staff." Surely that was better than an order, a prize-cup for good horsemanship, or the daily billet-doux in the scented envelope.

Diana loathed the idea of being a "general purveyor of happiness." For her, kindness was not a law unto itself, a regulative principle residing freely within her. Nay, rather, was it apprehended in a lively understanding of things, and was, therefore, easier to lavish upon animals and plants than upon mankind, for in the initial stages of her acquaintance with human beings her combative instinct was invariably aroused. Yet she had ever an urgent inclination towards spurring on to the utmost the individuals with whom she came into contact, and to this task she devoted herself with all the powers of a lively imagination, cultivating it as a fine art.

She glanced from the letter to the flowers and back. Then she smiled as she pondered the reasons for her brother's silence, for he had made no move. Sidney was of an undemonstrative temperament, in absolute contrast to the open-hearted candour of the major. This quality in her brother was an echo of her own character; like her, he was reluctant to show off his knowledge, preferred to withhold at least a portion for his own intimate use, to have reserves in his battle with the world. She knew that he, too, enjoyed observing others while himself remaining unobserved. These cogitations aroused a half-maternal sense of responsibility for Sidney, a feeling that had slumbered in her heart for years since she had first realized all the peril that life held for a man of his disposition. Thinking of him made her wish to find him.

"He must belong to some club or other," she mused. "He could not live without his club! There are four hundred clubs in the telephone book, I'll have to engage a messenger boy to find out the one Sidney belongs to...."

Her inquiry was not successful, and she was left troubled in her mind; for his appearance the other night, his handsome face, his elegance, showed him to be a man of leisure and of means. This seemed to her, in view of his youth, to be full of dangerous possibilities. She must, indeed, find his whereabouts.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The dinner was nearing its end. Among the little party of five men whom the old count had invited to dine with him at the Political Club, the minister for foreign affairs was obviously the guest of honour. True the table was a round one, chosen specially in order to obviate any question of precedence. Yet it was impossible to avoid the impression that the man tucked away in the corner was really the presiding genius. From his place he could keep his eyes on the remainder of the room. The host occupied the seat on the left of the minister. Since he was of a genial disposition, quite innocuous, and above all was no longer regarded as a possible competitor, the younger aspirants to power were glad of his company, for they ran no risk of being compromised, while at the same time they could flaunt a halo of disinterestedness.

To the left of the host sat a naval commander whose youthful face was surmounted by the bald dome of his head. The effect was all the more ludicrous because the sun and the sea air had tanned the face a deep mahogany, while above the line of his cap the skin was shiny and very white. Furthermore, the man was clean-shaven, so that his head gave the effect of an anatomical specimen. The commander was flanked by Diana's friend the major, whose whole countenance was in vivid contrast to that of his neighbour, the two men thus admirably illustrating in their persons the perennial antagonism between the naval and the military arms.

The fourth guest was a professor of economics whose lively bearing and mischievous doctrinairism showed him to be a man of the old school. With the typical arrogance of the learned, he looked down on the man of war to his right, and devoted himself exclusively to his left-hand neighbour. This was Scherer, whom the old count had invited that he and the minister might become acquainted.

When dessert had been placed on the table, the men pushed back their chairs and sat more comfortably. Scherer and the minister entered into close conversation. Thereupon, the other four instinctively drew together for a talk. Scherer sat quietly listening while his neighbour spoke; occasionally he would pull his short, fair moustache, but he said very little. The minister leaned heavily upon the arm of his chair; he was serious of mien, and gazed inquiringly at his companion. It was obvious that the task in hand was not the capture of the statesman, but, rather, that the financier and publisher was the quarry of the evening.

Yet the statesman did not abate by one jot or tittle the arrogant tone that was habitual to him. He was ten years Scherer's senior, it is true, was engaged in a struggle, and was filled with misgivings in regard to the twofold profession of his interlocutor. All this combined to make his subterranean fires glow the brighter, so that his rather heavy countenance was illuminated and made more vivacious by the fight. His face was swarthy and was framed in grizzled hair; his dark eyes were rendered preternaturally large by the huge convex glasses of his spectacles which gave him an unearthly fixation of gaze. Scherer, on the other hand, wore a pince-nez whose elegant poise merely served to enhance the fine line of his features.

"Do you really trust these orientals?" asked the minister softly and yet with precision, for he was coming to the kernel of the matter under discussion.

"There are as many varieties among the peoples of the East as among us westerners," answered Scherer, his metallic voice, as always, ringing true.

The statesman was somewhat irritated by an answer whose banality revealed a desire on Scherer's part to evade the issue. For a moment or two, he toyed with his fruit knife; then, speaking with deliberation:

"I have in mind the present situation. Should we base the whole of our colonial development on the good will of a nation whose resolves may change at any moment, whose French culture will require more than a generation to efface, and whose geographical position lays it open to the advances of any chance comer? The door over there has been flung wide. Is it right that I should order Turkish coffee to be served me in that room when I am not sure whether before I reach it, another member of this club may not bribe the manager to have the doors shut and may not commandeer all the coffee for his own use?"

"Did I hear the delicious words, Turkish coffee?" put in the professor, hoping thereby to bring both conversations to an end. "How would it be to stretch our legs a trifle after the solemn enjoyment of our repast? Pardon me, Count..."

But already the six chairs had been pushed back, and the men made for the stairs, walking in couples, the professor arm-in-arm with the count, while the statesman and Scherer brought up the rear, halting from time to time in order to emphasize some particular point and thereby holding up the remainder of the party, for the count was loath to get separated from his guests. Scherer, who was better acquainted with the East than was his companion, and who had come to realize that the statesman's ethnological arguments were based upon personal distrust of specific personages, now took up his parable from this side. He put a direct question: