CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Evening was drawing on. On the topmost step of the Parthenon, her left elbow resting on her knee and her chin in the cup of her hand, sat Diana in her long black draperies, motionless as a statue, her gaze towards the sea. Only a veil streaming out from behind the pillar gave evidence that between the rigid column and the woman seated there, the wind, a living creature, was at work.

Scherer's tall figure was seen mounting the white steps towards the Propylæum. He liked to visit the great antiques, and to ignore the little ones which the moderns have interspersed here and there as if to give relief. His expression was typical of a man thoroughly enjoying his leisure; he looked lively and his face was lit up by a smile of perfect contentment. Muscular, perhaps a trifle too broad in the shoulders in spite of his height, he might have been taken for an Englishman; and yet his thoughtful cast of countenance showed him to be in reality a member of the German confraternity. He was, indeed, more akin to the massive, square-cut structure of the Propylæum, than to the temple itself, and during his sojourn in Athens had made frequent pilgrimages to study the portal. When he reached the platform and turned his steps westward, he became aware of Diana's dark shape away there in the corner.

"Is solitude after all the fundamental need of this woman?" he wondered as he advanced towards her. "Or is it just that she is seeking refuge from me? She behaves differently to others, I feel it in my bones; does not succumb to these long meditative pauses, which at times develop into actual flight. I wonder whether, having refused my offer of a secure life, she will one day give herself to me freely.... She will not grow old; suddenly, she'll die; but she'll leave no heirs behind, leave no sign of her passage...."

She had caught sight of him now, and they had nodded recognition without uttering a word. Diana looked up at him, thinking:

"Modern clothes usually look so ridiculous up here among these noble columns; but he looks well, he's so elastic in his gait, and how earnest is his expression. He's as healthy an animal as I, and he thinks he acts up to the same laws--and yet in reality how different are our outlooks! He is devoted to me--but he would fight me tooth and nail. His love stirs me, and I could give him all, everything--except my personal freedom. That I must safeguard...."

His clear voice broke in on her musings.

"I'm late. Business. One can't get away from it completely."

"The sun is setting over Corinth--it must be past six o'clock."

"... Ah, you've been reading them," he said, taking his place beside her on the step and picking up a little book she had let fall.

"Yes, but I should have done better to refrain. Andreas's poems, the ones he wrote to me, are more delightful to read in his own delicate script than here in cold print, on hand-made paper...."

Scherer turned over the pages as one who knew the book well, seeking for a special poem of his choice. Then in his clear, metallic voice, which he subdued to the spirit of the verses and the place where he was sitting, he read the poem he loved. As his lips shaped the words, Diana was transported back to the isle where they had first been written; she forgot his proximity for a while, but as with the concluding words he let the book sink, and she was brought back to the present, she marvelled that he had been able to read so unfalteringly--for did they not apply to his case with special poignancy? Now he was saying:

"And--what about those he wrote to Countess Olivia?"

But her thoughts were elsewhere as she answered:

"At first I was troubled by such passion. I asked myself where it would find a suitable outlet. I wondered what dreams would come to play havoc with this young soul. Then he found Olivia." She paused a moment, and Scherer knew she was thinking of many things in her life with Andreas, things that were for her alone. "And then," again she paused. When she resumed, her voice trembled slightly. "Then I asked myself whether these verses had not been paid too dear, whether they were beautiful enough to warrant such an expenditure, whether the gods had been right to sacrifice Gregor the man of the world to Andreas the poet?"

"Well," said Scherer reassuringly, "maybe they would have been wrong if Münsterberg's work had gone down with him, if his opponent Muthesius had replaced him instead of Winterthur...."

"Yes, Winterthur has come," she affirmed, looking at her companion with steady fearlessness. "And was not that his achievement, the last work of a dying man? It seems almost as if he had bequeathed his convictions to his follower, a spiritual heritage, so that his nation might be safeguarded from war; or, if war comes nevertheless, that his people shall find a treaty awaiting them in an emergency where they expected to find a foe."

Scherer smiled.

"Is the world spirit to be rehabilitated? Is Hegel to oust Plato in order that a northern friend may be pleased?"

His tone was comradely, as it had been ever since the night of the carnival. He had deliberately assumed it as armour against his own too passionate feelings. Even today she let him have his little joke, for she well knew he merely wished for a confirmation of his own statement. She could not help smiling in her turn when she reflected that at another time and in another mood she would have been swayed by passion to give a far different judgment from the one she had spoken with such wise audacity.

She, therefore, left his question unanswered, saying brightly:

"And what are the northern friend's plans?"

"He must soon be off."

"When?" she asked with a sigh.

"At the end of the week."

She smiled.

"And today is Friday--I know, because Mary told me this morning."

As if to anchor herself to this land, she grasped the lip of the marble step. He noticed her movement, noticed how eagerly she leaned forward drinking in the landscape and the sea. After a while he said:

"You'll stay on here, I suppose. Of course. Only I'm afraid that in summer the heat may..."

His mien was solicitous; but she laughed.

"I'm in your service, and four months' leave is more than even an operatic tenor would expect! Let me have--shall we say four, or five, weeks more. Then I'll come back to the office again. On the first of May, when I come knocking at your door, I should be grateful to find you at home...."

END OF VOLUME ONE

BOOK FOUR