Three Weeks by Elinor Glyn
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Elinor Glyn >> Three Weeks
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But when the launch came in full view, he perceived no lady was
there--only Dmitry's black form stood alone by the chairs.
Paul's heart sank like lead. He could hardly contain his anxiety until the
servant stepped ashore and handed him a letter, and this was its contents:
"My beloved one--I am not well to-day--a foolish chill. Nothing of
consequence, only the cold wind of the lake I could not face. At one
o'clock, when Lucerne is at lunch, come to me by the terrace gate. Come to
me, I cannot live without you, Paul."
"What is it, Dmitry?" he said anxiously. "Madame is not ill, is she? Tell
me--"
"Not ill--oh no!" the servant said, only Paul must know Madame was of a
delicacy at times in the cold weather, and had to be careful of herself.
He added, too, that it would be wiser if Paul would lunch early before
they started, because, as he explained, it was not for the people of the
hotel to know he was there, and how else could he eat?
All of which advice was followed, and at one o'clock they landed at
Lucerne, and Paul walked quickly towards his goal, Dmitry in front to see
that the way was clear. Yes--there was no one about for the moment, and
like ghosts they glided through the little terrace door, and Paul went
into the room by the window, while Dmitry held the heavy curtains, and
then disappeared.
It was empty--the fact struck a chill note, in spite of the great bowls of
flowers and the exquisite scent. His tiger was there, and the velvet
pillows of old. All was warm and luxurious, as befitting the shrine of his
goddess and Queen. Only he was alone--alone with his thoughts.
An incredible excitement swept through him, his heart beat to suffocation
in the longing for her to come. Was it possible--was it true that soon she
would be in his arms? A whole world of privation and empty hours to make
up for in their first kiss.
Then from behind the screen of the door to her room she came at last--a
stately figure in long black draperies, her face startlingly white, and
her head wrapped in a mist of black veil. But who can tell of the note of
gladness and welcome she put into the two words, "My Paul!"?
And who can tell of the passionate joy of their long, tender embrace, or
of their talk of each one's impossible night? His lady, too, had not
slept, it appeared. She had cried, she said, and fought with her pillow,
and been so wicked to Anna that the good creature had wept. She had torn
her fine night raiment, and bitten a handkerchief through! But now he had
come, and her soul was at rest. What wonder, when all this was said in his
ear with soft, broken sighs and kisses divine, that Paul should feel like
a god in his pride!
Then he held her at arms'-length and looked at her face. Yes, it was very
pale indeed, and the violet shadows lay under her black lashes. Had she
suffered, his darling--was she ill? But no, the fire in her strange eyes
gave no look of ill-health.
"I was frightened, my own," he said, "in case you were really not well. I
must pet and take care of you all the day. See, you must lie on the sofa
among the cushions, and I will sit beside you and soothe you to rest." And
he lifted her in his strong arms and carried her to the couch as if she
had been a baby, and settled her there, every touch a caress.
His lady delighted in these exhibitions of his strength. He had grown to
understand that he could always affect her when he pretended to dominate
her by sheer brute force. She had explained it to him thus one day:
"You see, Paul, a man can always keep a woman loving him if he kiss her
enough, and make her feel that there is no use struggling because he is
too strong to resist. A woman will stand almost anything from a passionate
lover. He may beat her and pain her soft flesh; he may shut her up and
deprive her of all other friends--while the motive is raging love and
interest in herself on his part, it only makes her love him the more. The
reason why women become unfaithful is because the man grows casual, and
having awakened a taste for passionate joys, he no longer gratifies
them--so she yawns and turns elsewhere."
Well, there was no fear of her doing so if he could help it! He was more
than willing to follow this receipt. Indeed, there was something about her
so agitating and alluring that he knew in his heart all men would feel the
same towards her in a more or less degree, and wild jealousy coursed
through his veins at the thought.
"My Paul," she said, "do you know I have a plan in my head that we shall
go to Venice?"
"To Venice!" said Paul in delight. "To Venice!"
"Yes--I cannot endure any more of Lucerne, parted from you, with only the
prospect of snatched meetings. It is not to be borne. We shall go to that
home of strange joy, my lover, and there for a space at least we can live
in peace."
Paul asked no better gift of fate. Venice he had always longed to see, and
now to see it with her! Ah! the very thought was ecstasy to him, and made
the blood bound in his veins.
"When, when, my darling?" he asked. "Tomorrow? When?"
"To-day is Friday," she said. "One must give Dmitry time to make the
arrangements and take a palace for us. Shall we say Sunday, Paul? I shall
go on Sunday, and you can follow the next day--so by Tuesday evening we
shall be together again, not to part until--the end."
"The end?" said Paul, with sinking heart.
"Sweetheart," she whispered, while she drew his face down to hers, "think
nothing evil. I said the end--but fate alone knows when that must be. Do
not let us force her hand by speculating about it. Remember always to live
while we may."
And Paul was more or less comforted, but in moments of silence all through
the day he seemed to hear the echo of the words--The End.
CHAPTER XV
It was a beautiful apartment that Dmitry had found for them on the Grand
Canal in Venice, in an old palace looking southwest. A convenient door in
a side canal cloaked the exit and entry of its inhabitants from curious
eyes--had there been any to indulge in curiosity; but in Venice there is a
good deal of the feeling of live and let live, and the _dolce far niente_
of the life is not conducive to an over-anxious interest in the doings of
one's neighbours.
Money and intelligence can achieve a number of things in a short space of
time, and Dmitry had had both at his command, so everything, including a
_chef_ from Paris and a retinue of Italian servants, was ready when on the
Tuesday evening Paul arrived at the station.
What a wonderland it seemed to him, Venice! A wonderland where was
awaiting him his heart's delight--more passionately desired than ever
after three days of total abstinence.
As after the Friday afternoon he had spent more or less in hiding in the
terrace-room, his lady had judged it wiser for him not to come at all to
Lucerne, and on the Saturday had met him at a quiet part of the shore of
the lake, beyond the landing-steps of the _funiculaire,_ and for a few
short hours they had cruised about on the blue waters--but her sweetest
tenderness and ready wit had not been able entirely to eliminate the
feeling of unrest which troubled them. And then there were the nights, the
miserable evenings and nights of separation. On the Sunday she had
departed to Venice, and after she had gone, Paul had returned for one day
to Lucerne, leaving again on the Monday, apparently as unacquainted with
Madame Zalenska as he had been the first night of his arrival.
He had not seen her since Saturday. Three whole days of anguishing
longing. And now in half an hour at least she would be in his arms. The
journey through the beautiful scenery from Lucerne had been got through at
night--all day from Milan a feverish excitement had dominated him, and
prevented his taking any interest in outward surroundings. A magnetic
attraction seemed drawing him on--on--to the centre of light and joy--his
lady's presence.
Dmitry and an Italian servant awaited his arrival; not an instant's delay
for luggage called a halt. Tompson and the Italian were left for that, and
Paul departed with his trusty guide.
It was about seven o'clock, the opalescent lights were beginning to show
in the sky, and their reflection in the water, as he stooped his tall head
to enter the covered gondola. It was all too beautiful and wonderful to
take in at once, and then he only wanted wings the sooner to arrive, not
eyes to see the passing objects. Afterwards the strange soft cry of the
gondoliers and the sights appealed to him; but on this first evening every
throb of his being was centred upon the one moment when he should hold his
beloved one to his heart.
He could hardly contain his impatience, and walk sedately beside Dmitry
when they ascended the great stone staircase--he felt like bounding up
three steps at a time. Dmitry had been respectfully silent. Madame was
well--that was all he would say. He opened the great double door with a
latch-key, and Paul found himself in vast hall almost unfurnished but for
some tapestry on the walls, and a huge gilt marriage-chest, and a couple
of chairs. It was ill lit, and there was something of decay and gloom in
its aspect.
On they went, through other doors to a salon, vast and gloomy too, and
then the glory and joy of heaven seemed to spring upon Paul's view when
the shrine of the goddess was reached--a smaller room, whose windows faced
the Grand Canal, now illuminated by the setting sun in all its splendour,
coming in shafts from the balcony blinds. And among the quaintest and most
old-world surroundings, mixed with her own wonderful personal notes of
luxury, his lady rose from the tiger couch to meet him.
His lady! His Queen!
And, indeed, she seemed a queen when at last he held her at arms'-length
to look at her. She was garbed all ready for dinner in a marvellous
garment of shimmering purple, while round her shoulders a scarf of
brilliant pale emerald gauze, all fringed with gold, fell in two long
ends, and on her neck and in her ears great emeralds gleamed--a
pear-shaped one of unusual brilliancy fell at the parting of her waves
of hair on to her white smooth forehead. But the colour of her eyes he
could not be sure of--only they were two wells of love and passion
gazing into his own.
All the simplicity of the Bürgenstock surroundings was gone. The flowers
were in the greatest profusion, rare and heavy-scented; the pillows of the
couch were more splendid than ever; cloths of gold and silver and
wonderful shades of orange and green velvet were among the purple ones he
already knew. Priceless pieces of brocade interwoven with gold covered the
screens and other couches; and, near enough to pick up when she wanted
them, stood jewelled boxes of cigarettes and bonbons, and stands of
perfume.
Her expression, too, was altered. A new mood shone there; and later, when
Paul learnt the history of the wonderful women of _cinquecento_ Venice, it
seemed as if something of their exotic voluptuous spirit now lived in her.
This was a new queen to worship--and die for, if necessary. He dimly felt,
even in these first moments, that here he would drink still deeper of the
mysteries of life and passionate love.
_"Beztzenny-moi,"_ she said, "my priceless one. At last I have you again
to make me _live_. Ah! I must know it is really you, my Paul!"
They were sitting on the tiger by now, and she undulated round and all
over him, feeling his coat, and his face, and his hair, as a blind person
might, till at last it seemed as if she were twined about him like a
serpent. And every now and then a narrow shaft of the glorious dying
sunlight would strike the great emerald on her forehead, and give forth
sparks of vivid green which appeared reflected again in her eyes. Paul's
head swam, he felt intoxicated with bliss.
"This Venice is for you and me, my Paul," she said. "The air is full of
love and dreams; we have left the slender moon behind us in Switzerland;
here she is nearing her full, and the summer is upon us with all her
richness and completeness--the spring of our love has passed."
Her voice fell into its rhythmical cadence, as if she were whispering a
prophecy inspired by some presence beyond.
"We will drink deep of the cup of delight, my, lover, and bathe in the
wine of the gods. We shall feast on the tongues of nightingales, and rest
on couches of flowers. And thou shalt cede me thy soul, beloved, and I
will give thee mine--"
But the rest was lost in the meeting of their lips.
* * * * *
They dined on the open loggia, its curtains drawn, hiding them from the
view of the palaces opposite, but not preventing the soft sounds of the
singers in the gondolas moored to the poles beneath from reaching their
ears. And above the music now and then would come the faint splash of
water, and the "Stahi"--"Premé" of some moving gondolier.
The food was of the richest, beginning with strange fishes and quantities
of _hors d'oeuvres_ that Paul knew not, accompanied by _vodka_ in several
forms. And some of the _plats_ she would just taste, and some send
instantly away.
And all the while a little fountain of her own perfume played from a group
of sportive cupids in silver, while the table in the centre was piled with
red roses. Dmitry and two Italian footmen waited, and everything was done
with the greatest state. A regal magnificence was in the lady's air and
mien. She spoke of the splendours of Venice's past, and let Paul feel the
atmosphere of that subtle time of passion and life. Of here a love-scene,
and there a murder. Of wisdom and vice, and intoxicating emotion, all
blended in a kaleidoscope of gorgeousness and colour.
And once again her vast knowledge came as a fresh wonder to Paul--no
smallest detail of history seemed wanting in her talk, so that he lived
again in that old world and felt himself a Doge.
When they were alone at last, tasting the golden wine, she rose and drew
him to the loggia balustrade. Dmitry had drawn back the curtains and
extinguished the lights, and only the brilliant moon lit the scene; a
splendid moon, two nights from the full. There she shone straight down
upon them to welcome them to this City of Romance.
What loveliness met Paul's view! A loveliness in which art and nature
blended in one satisfying whole.
"Darling," he said, "this is better than the Bürgenstock. Let us go out on
the water and float about, too."
It was exceedingly warm these last days of May, and that night not a
zephyr stirred a ripple. A cloak and scarf of black gauze soon hid the
lady's splendour, and they descended the staircase hand in hand to the
waiting open gondola.
It was a new experience of joy for Paul to recline there, and drift away
down the stream, amidst the music and the coloured lanterns, and the
wonderful, wonderful spell of the place.
The lady was silent for a while, and then she began to whisper passionate
words of love. She had never before been thus carried away--and he must
say them to her--as he held her hand--burning words, inflaming the
imagination and exciting the sense. It seemed as if all the other nights
of love were concentrated into this one in its perfect joy.
Who can tell of the wild exaltation which filled Paul? He was no longer
just Paul Verdayne, the ordinary young Englishman; he was a god--and this
was Olympus.
"Look, Paul!" she said at last. "Can you not see Desdemona peeping from
the balcony of her house there? And to think she will have no happiness
before her Moor will strangle her to-night! Death without joys. Ah! that
is cruel. Some joys are well worth death, are they not, my lover, as you
and I should know?"
"Worth death and eternity," said Paul. "For one such night as this with
you a man would sell his soul."
It was not until they turned at the opening of the Guidecca to return to
their palazzo that they both became aware of another gondola following
them, always at the same distance behind--a gondola with two solitary
figures in it huddled on the seats.
The lady gave a whispered order in Italian to her gondolier, who came to a
sudden stop, thus forcing the other boat to come much nearer before it,
too, arrested its course. There a moonbeam caught the faces of the men as
they leant forward to see what had occurred. One of them was Dmitry, and
the other a younger man of the pure Kalmuck type whom Paul had never seen.
"Vasili!" exclaimed the lady, in passionate surprise. "Vasili! and they
have not told me!"
She trembled all over, while her eyes blazed green flames of anger and
excitement. "If it is unnecessary they shall feel the whip for this."
Her cloak had fallen aside a little, disclosing a shimmer of purple
garment and flashing emeralds. She looked barbaric, her raven brows knit.
It might have been Cleopatra commanding the instant death of an offending
slave.
It made Paul's pulses bound, it seemed so of the picture and the night.
All was a mad dream of exotic emotion, and this was just an extra note.
But who was Vasili? And what did his presence portend? Something fateful
at all events.
The lady did not speak further, only by the quiver of her nostrils and the
gleam in her eyes he knew how deeply she was stirred.
Yes, one or the other would feel the whip, if they had been over-zealous
in their duties!
It seemed out of sheer defiance of some fate that she decided to go on
into the lagoon when they passed San Georgio. It was growing late, and
Paul's thoughts had turned to greater joys. He longed to clasp her in his
arms, to hold her, and prove her his own. But she sat there, her small
head held high, and her eyes fearless and proud--thus he did not dare to
plead with her.
But presently, when she perceived the servants were no longer following,
her mood changed, the sweetness of the serpent of old Nile fell upon her,
and all of love that can be expressed in whispered words and tender
hand-clasps, she lavished upon Paul, after ordering the gondolier to
hasten back to the palazzo. It seemed as if she, too, could not contain
her impatience to be again in her lover's arms.
"I will not question them to-night," she said when they arrived, and she
saw Dmitry awaiting her on the steps. "To-night we will live and love at
least, my Paul. Live and love in passionate bliss!"
But she could not repress the flash of her eyes which appeared to
annihilate the old servant. He fell on his knees with the murmured words
of supplication:
_"O Imperatorskoye!"_ And Paul guessed it meant Imperial Highness, and a
great wonder grew in his mind.
Their supper was laid in the loggia again, and under the windows the
musicians still played and sang a gentle accompaniment to their sighs of
love.
But later still Paul learnt what fiercest passion meant, making other
memories as moonlight unto sunlight--as water unto wine.
CHAPTER XVI
To some natures security hath no charm--the sword of Damocles suspended
over their heads adds to their enjoyment of anything. Of such seemed Paul
and his lady. It was as if they were snatching astonishing pleasures from
the very brink of some danger, none the less in magnitude because unknown.
They did not breakfast until after one o'clock the next day, and then she
bade him sleep--sleep on this other loggia where they sat, which gave upon
the side canal obliquely, while looking into a small garden of roses and
oleanders below. Here were shade and a cool small breeze.
"We are so weary, my beloved one," the lady said. "Let us sleep on these
couches of smooth silk, sleep the heavy hours of the afternoon away, and
go to the Piazza when the heat of the sun has lessened in measure."
An immense languor was over Paul--he asked nothing better than to rest
there in the perfumed shade, near enough to his loved one to be able to
stretch out his arm and touch her hair. And soon a sweet sleep claimed
him, and all was oblivion and peace.
The lady lay still on her couch for a while, her eyes gleaming between
their half-closed lids. But at last, when she saw that Paul indeed slept
deeply, she rose stealthily and crept from the place back to the room, the
gloomy vast room within, where she summoned Dmitry, and ordered the man
she had called Vasili the night before into her presence. He came with
cringing diffidence, prostrating himself to the ground before her, and
kissing the hem of her dress, mute adoration in his dark eyes, like those
of a faithful dog--a great scar showing blue on his bronzed cheek and
forehead.
She questioned him imperiously, while he answered humbly in fear. Dmitry
stood by, an anxious, strained look on his face, and now and then he put
in a word.
Of what danger did they warn her, these two faithful servants? One came
from afar for no other purpose, it seemed. Whatever it was she received
the news in haughty defiance. She spoke fiercely at first, and they
humbled themselves the more. Then Anna appeared, and joined her
supplications to theirs, till at last the lady, like a pettish child
chasing a brood of tiresome chickens, shooed them all from the room,
'twixt laughter and tears. Then she threw up her arms in rage for a
moment, and ran back to the loggia where Paul still slept. Here she sat
and looked at him with burning eyes of love.
He was certainly changed in the eighteen days since she had first seen
him. His face was thinner, the beautiful lines of youth were drawn with a
finer hand. He was paler, too, and a shadow lay under his curly lashes.
But even in his sleep it seemed as if his awakened soul had set its seal
upon his expression--he had tasted of the knowledge of good and evil now.
The lady crept near him and kissed his hair. Then she flung herself on her
own couch, and soon she also slept.
It was six o'clock before they awoke, Paul first--and what was his joy to
be able to kneel beside her and watch her for a few seconds before her
white lids lifted themselves! An attitude of utter weariness and _abandon_
was hers. She was as a child tired out with passionate weeping, who had
fallen to sleep as she had flung herself down. There was something even
pathetic about that proud head laid low upon her clasped arms.
Paul gazed and gazed. How he worshipped her! Wayward, tigerish, beautiful
Queen. But never selfish or small. And what great thing had she not done
for him--she who must have been able to choose from all the world a
lover--and she had chosen him. How poor and narrow were all the thoughts
of his former life, everywhere hedged in with foolish prejudice and
ignorant certainty. Now all the world should be his lesson-book, and some
day he would show her he was worthy of her splendid teaching and belief in
him, and her gift of an awakened soul. He bent still lower on his knees,
and kissed her feet with deepest reverence. She stirred not. She was so
very pale--fear came to him for an instant--and then he kissed her mouth.
Her wonderful eyes unclosed themselves with none of the bewildered stare
people often wake with when aroused suddenly. It seemed that even in her
sleep she had been conscious of her loved one's presence. Her lips parted
in a smile, while her heavy lashes again swept her cheeks.
"Sweetheart," she said, "you could awake me from the dead, I think. But we
are living still, my Paul--waste we no more time, in dreams."
They made haste, and were soon in the gondola on their way to the Piazza.
"Paul," she said, with a wave of her hand which included all the beauty
around, "I am so glad you only see Venice now, when your eyes can take it
in, sweetheart. At first it would have said almost nothing to you," and
she smiled playfully. "In fact, my Paul would have spent most of his time
in wondering how he could get exercise enough, there being so few places
to walk in! He would have bought a nigger boy with a dish for his father,
and some Venetian mirrors for his aunts, and perhaps--yes--a piece of Mr.
Jesurum's lace for his mother, and some blown glass for his friends. He
would have walked through St. Mark's, and thought it was a tumble-down
place, with uneven pavements, and he would have noticed there were a
'jolly lot of pigeons' in the square! Then he would have been captious
with the food at his hotel, grumbled at the waiters, scolded poor
Tompson--and left for Rome!"
"Oh! darling!" said Paul, laughing too, in spite of his protest. "Surely,
surely, I never was so bad as that--and yet I expect it is probably true.
How can I ever thank you enough for giving me eyes and an understanding?"
"There--there, beloved," she said.
They walked through the Piazza; the pigeons amused Paul, and they stopped
and bought corn for them, and fed the greedy creatures, ever ready for the
unending largess of strangers. One or two, bolder than the rest, alighted
on the lady's hat and shoulder, taking the corn from between her red lips,
and Paul felt jealous even of the birds, and drew her on to see the
Campanile, still standing then. They looked at it all, they looked at the
lion, and finally they entered St. Mark's.
And here Paul held her arm, and gazed with bated breath. It was all so
beautiful and wonderful, and new to his eyes. He had scarcely ever been in
a Roman Catholic church before, and had not guessed at the gorgeous beauty
of this half-Byzantine shrine. They hardly spoke. She did not weary him
with details like a guide-book--that would be for his after-life
visits--but now he must see it just as a glorious whole.
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