“People say that the great master, to whom Miss Tottenham sent you, has said that you--”
“That you and your images suited Diamante, but nowhere else.”
“People think so, because you are so changed.”
“Why should you be one if you had been successful?”
“Ah, why--? You do not know,” he continued, with a laugh, “that my master in England himself was a socialist. You do not know that it was he who taught me these opinions--”
He paused, and did not go on with the controversy. He went over to the bench where he had been sitting when she came, and brought back a statuette. He handed it to Donna Micaela. He seemed to wish to say: “See for yourself if you are right.”
She took it, and held it up in the moonlight. It was a Mater Dolorosa in black marble. She could see it quite plainly.
She could also recognize it. The image had her own features. It intoxicated her for a moment. In the next she was filled with horror. He, a socialist; he, an unbeliever; he dared to create a Madonna! And he had given the image her features! He entangled her in his sin!
“I have done it for you, Donna Micaela,” he said.
Ah, since it was hers! She threw it out over the balustrade. It struck against the steep mountain side; fell deeper and deeper; broke loose stones, and certainly shattered itself to pieces. At last a splash was heard down in Simeto.
“What right have you to carve Madonnas?” she asked Gaetano.
He stood silent. He had never seen Donna Micaela thus.
In the moment when she rose up before him she had become tall and stately. The beauty that always came and went in her, like an uneasy guest, was enthroned in her face. She looked cold and inflexible; a woman to win and conquer.
“Then you still believe in God, since you carve Madonnas?” she said.
He breathed hurriedly. Now it was he who was paralyzed. He had been a believer himself. He knew how he had wounded her. He saw that he had forfeited her love. He had made a terrible, infinite chasm between them.
He must speak, must win her over to his side.
He began again, but feebly and falteringly.
She listened quietly for a while. Then she interrupted him almost compassionately.
“I thought of Sicily,” he said submissively.
“You thought of Sicily,” she repeated thoughtfully. “And why did you come home?”