“And did you marry Marco with that desire?”
“With that desire. If not, I shouldn’t have married him; if not, I shouldn’t have forgiven his betrayal.”
“You pardoned, then, conditionally? With selfish intent? With a selfish desire? Not as a Christian?”
“No, mother, not as a Christian. I pardoned him as a woman, as a woman in love; that is, imperfectly, badly.”
“Yes, it is mine. If I question my heart it seems I am right, if I question my conscience I am wrong and the sin is mine. Don’t you see? I am childless. God has punished me; I shall never be a mother, never, never.”
“What will you do, Vittoria? What do you want to do?”
“Nothing, mother. I have nothing to do on this earth, neither for myself nor others. I go on living here because suicide is a great sin. I shall go on living here, forgotten, in a corner as usual, like everybody who hasn’t known how to do right in life. I am wrong, mother, I am wrong. That is why I don’t complain, that is why I mustn’t complain. Why did you make me speak? Forget all I have told you, and repeat it to nobody. Don’t expose me again to the pity of anybody: your pity, mother, yes; but nobody else’s.”
She looked at her with such an expression of suffering, nobly born, with such desire of silence and respect for her suffering, that Donna Arduina was deeply moved.
“Mother, let me be forgotten in a corner. Promise me you will say nothing.”
“I promise you, my daughter, I promise you; still I deeply sympathise with you,” said Donna Arduina, with a big sigh.
Donna Vittoria rose, bent her golden head to kiss her hand, and disappeared silently, she disappeared like a soft shadow to be forgotten in a corner of the world, in a corner of the house, like a poor, soft, little shadow which has never been right, which can never, never be right--which must always be wrong till death and beyond.
“Can I come in, Marco?” said a dear and well-known voice at the door.
“Always, always, mamma bella,” he cried vivaciously from his bed.
Donna Arduina entered, with slow and dignified tread, and approached the bed where her son was smoking a cigarette after his coffee. He threw the cigarette away at once to embrace her. Instinctively, with maternal care, she adjusted the pillow, and pulled the counterpane over a little. The son smiled as he let her do it. She looked at him, studied him, and found his appearance tired and run down. He leaned again on his pillow, as if still glad to repose. The mother sat by the bed quietly watching.