Conjugal Love (16 page)

'But if you had to pronounce an opinion, what would it be?'

She hesitated, and then said, with sincerity: 'But one can't pronounce an opinion when one loves.'

And so we always came back again to the same point. There was, in this protestation of hers that she loved me, a touching persistence that moved me deeply. I took her hand and said: 'You're right. . . . And I too, just because I love you, although I know you very well, couldn't pass judgement upon you.'

With a flash of intelligence in her eyes, she exclaimed: 'It is so, isn't it? When one loves someone, one loves every aspect of that person - defects and all.'

I should have liked to say to her at that moment, with perfect sincerity: 'I love you as you are now, sitting up in bed, calm and serene in your beautiful nightdress, with your curls and your bunch of flowers and your clear, shining eyes. And I love you as you were a little time ago when you were dancing the dance of desire and gnashing your teeth and pulling up your dress and clinging to Antonio. . . . And I shall love you always.' But I said nothing of all this, because I realized that she understood that I knew everything, and that everything was now settled between us. Instead, I said: 'Perhaps one day I'll rewrite the story ... it's not finished with yet. . . . Some day, when I think I'm capable of expressing certain things.'

'I'm convinced too,' she said cheerfully, 'that you ought to rewrite it - after some time.'

I kissed her good night and went off to bed. I slept extremely well, with a deep, harsh sleep like the sleep of a child who has been beaten by its parents for some fault or caprice, and has screamed and wept a great deal and then, finally, been forgiven. Next morning I rose late, shaved myself and, after breakfast, suggested to my wife that we should go for a walk before lunch. She agreed and we went out together.

A little beyond the farm buildings, on the top of another mound, were the ruins of a small church. We climbed up to it by a mule-track and sat down on the low wall that ran round the churchyard, in full view of the vast panorama. The church was of great antiquity, as could be seen from the Romanesque capitals of the two pillars supporting the exterior porch. Apart from this porch, nothing was left but a portion of the walls, a fallen apse and the almost unrecognizable stump of a tower. The churchyard, paved with old grey stones, was all grass-grown, and beneath the little porch one could catch a glimpse, through the cracks in the gaping boards of the rustic door, of the rampant bushes, their foliage gleaming in the sunshine, that ran riot in the apse. Then, as I looked at the church, I noticed that there was a face or mask carved on one of the capitals. Time had worn and smoothed away the sculpture, which must have always been rather rudimentary and now seemed almost formless; not so much so, however, that one could not distinguish the sinister face of a demon, such as the sculptors of those days were in the habit of portraying in church bas-reliefs for the admonishment of the faithful. I was suddenly struck by a remote resemblance between this ancient, half-effaced grin and the grimace that I had seen upon my wife's face the previous night. Yes, it was the same grimace, and that stonemason of bygone times had certainly intended, by stressing the mournful sensuality of the heavy lips and the feverish, greedy expression in the eyes, to suggest the same kind of temptation. I turned my eyes from the capital and looked at Leda. She was gazing at the view and appeared to be meditating. Then she turned towards me and said: 'Listen. ... I was thinking last night about your story. ... I believe I know why it's not convincing.'

'Why?'

'You meant to represent yourself and me, didn't you?'

'Yes, to a certain extent.'

'Well, your facts were wrong, to start with.. . . What I mean is, one feels that when you wrote the story you didn't know me well enough, nor yourself either. . . . Perhaps it was too soon to talk about us two and our relationship. . .particularly about me; you haven't shown me as I really am.. . . You've idealized me too much.'

'Anything else?'

'No, nothing else. ... I think that, after some time, when we know each other better, you must take up the story again, as you said last night. . . . I'm sure you'll make something good out of it.'

I said nothing; all I did was to stroke her hand. And, as I did this, I was looking over her shoulder at the capital with the demon's face on it and thinking that, in order to take up the story again, I should have not merely to know the devil as well as the unknown stonemason had known him, but also to know his opposite. 'It'll take a long time,' I said softly, finishing my thought aloud.