They would air their idyll on the hillside
of Fiesole in a September as mild as April, and the cypresses of
Montughi would not be less kind to them than the cypresses of
Schifanoja.
'Would it were true! Would it were true!' sighed Maria.
'You don't believe me?'
'Oh yes, I believe you; but my heart tells me that all these sweet
things will remain a dream.'
She made Andrea take her in his arms and hold her there for a long time;
and she leaned upon his breast, silently crouching into his embrace as
if to hide herself, with the shiver of a sick person or of one who seeks
protection from some threatening danger. She asked of Andrea only the
delicate caresses that in the language of affection she called 'kisses
of the soul' and that melted her to tears sweeter than any more carnal
delights. She could not understand how in these moments of supreme
spirituality, in these last sad hours of passion and farewell her lover
was not content to kiss her hands.
'No--no, dear love,' she besought him, half repelled by Andrea's crude
display of passion, 'I feel that you are nearer to me, closer to my
heart, more entirely one with me, when you are sitting at my side, and
take my hand in yours and look into my eyes and say the things to me
that you alone know how to say. Those other caresses seem to put us far
away from each other, to set some shadow between you and me----I don't
know how to express my thought properly----And afterwards it leaves me
so sad, so sad--I don't know what it is----I feel then so tired--but a
tiredness that has something evil about it----!'
She entreated him, humbly, submissively, fearing to make him angry.
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