Complete Story. ATALANTA.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVI, Issue I, 5 January 1901, Page 17

Complete Story. ATALANTA.

By

EDONARD ROD.

(Translated by Elizabeth Lister Mullins, from the French.)

You can emancipate women as some of them and a great many men demand; you can make them apothecaries, notaries, lawyers, voters, legislators, ministers, and as they do in I know not which State of the Union. National Guards. You can allow them the free disposal of their property and of their earnings, let them exercise in all the sports, strengthen their muscles and develop their brains; you can enact laws for them, grant the equality of the sexes, substitute freelove for matrimony; you can realise the most extravagant Utopias, the most whimsical sectaries, but you, will never prevent their being women. They are women incurably. When they cease to be so for an instant they soon return. Oh! we need not fear an upheaval of civilisation in which womankind will push us aside. They lose nothing we love in them. Even though it is necessary to suffer theii apostles to preaeh for a little more justice in the division of rights, of labour and of wages, that will not harm love. Existence could be made easier by a growth of independence, and as for those we do not love —we never would love them; the others, those we call “real, women,” because they are to us what we are to them, an inspiration of passion, we will always yield to them at the opportune moment, provided our egotism is not baffled by their beauty, their charms. I know very well that many fine minds dispute this and alarm themselves by calculating the perils to which Woman’s Rights expose the future of the race. But they are mistaken, as the story I am about to relate will testify. To tell the truth, it is but a story and I cannot ignore the fact that the case never comes to the point, that you will find in it support for all shades of opinion, and that it is poor logic to draw general conclusions from an incident. Only my story has the advantage over those of many novelists by being scrupulously true, and it seems to me what is called "representative.” You will object that it proves nothing. I admit it, but I will tell it anyhow, and I believe just as womanliness makes headway in the instance of Lucy Perceval, it will often repeat itself under different forms, varying according to the medium and the circumstances.

Lucy Perceval was fourteen when I saw her for the first time. Her father was an American gentleman, whom for a while the chances of travel made my neighbour in the country. A widower for several years, he looked quite young, although he was approaching forty; with a noble face, fine carriage and that independence in action and judgment which make the. habits and fortune of Anglo-Saxons. Quoting his own expression he “lived in Europe” and treated our old Continent as if it were a garden where he wandered at leisure, carrying his camp-stool under the shade of whatever tree pleased him. A faithful friend, I have had occasion to know it, he attached himself to no place. He has lived in London, Paris, Rome.Florence. Munich, on the banks of Lake Lucerne, and of Lake Geneva, in the south and in the Alps. The only attempt he had ever made to settle himself had not succeeded. One day he bought a chateau in Touraine, but the chateau burned while it was being repaired. Mr Perceval sustained a long suit against the company in which he had insured his property and lost it. He concluded from this misadventure that he was never meant to be a proprietor. and though he preserved the ruins of his chateau, which crumbled away year by year, to him it was never anything more than a subject of pleasantry. Through this wandering life Lucy’s education, as you can surmise, was entirely fantastical, her father taking charge of it himself, aid-

ed by professors recruited in the towns where they passed a month or a season. Never a governess. Lucy would not tolerate an indiscreet or tyrannical chaperon. She grew in freedom, learning what she pleased to learn and doing what she pleased to do, and thus becoming what her father called "a droll little fellow ," adding, not without pride, “she has her ideas. She positively wishes to be a man. We will see w’hat will become of her.”

Mr Perceval explained all this to me the day he introduced himself to a neighbour in the old house I lived in ten years ago at Champel. The curiosity he excited in me by describing his daughter contributed perhaps as much as the sympathy he inspired me with at first sight to my haste in returning his call. He received me in a large incongruous drawing-room, where two beautiful ancient chests contrasted with the. commonplace couches and armchairs of a hired apartment. Then he proposed to go out into the garden, the fine foliage of which I had so often admired from my windows. He looked round and called “Lucy!” A strong voice replied from the top of a fir tree “Father.” "Our neighbour, Mr Rod, is here, so come offer us a cup of tea.” “Yes, father.” Something came tumbling down from branch to branch, and then it, fell in front of us. I saw a mat of rather short, thick hair of a pretty light ash colour, -large sparkling eves that, planted themselves upon me with a. singular expression of audacious frankness, and the bright face of a merry little girl in good health. As for her costume, it would be difficult to describe it, for the usual terms would hardly suit. Her dress, for example, was not exactly a dress. In vented by Miss Lucy, it resembled as much as possible a boy’s blouse, reaching to the knee and caught at the waist by a. leather belt. It was made of grey corduroy, strong enough to defy wear and tear. At the neck of the waist she wore a large cravat, a perfect breastplate of bright red pierced by a gold pin in the form of a dagger. Lucy took my hand, shook it vigorously, and said in a hearty tone, "I am very glad to make your acquaintance, sir.” Then she turned round and went at a gallop towards the house, calling back, “I am goin<» to order th<e tea.”

A,s I followed her with a look, smiling a little, Mr Perceval said to me, “Doesn’t she run well? Racing is her forte. I have forewarned you she is a boy, or rather one of Shakspere’s pages. Reminds you of Rosalind in "As A ou Like It.” I do not object to fit at all.” What I saw during the afternoon shotted me that Mr Perceval had not exaggerated. He made me go through the house, and Lucy’s room astonished me even more than the young lady’s costume. You might have called it a cell. A plain iron bed, a square table, and three straw chairs were all the furniture. As for the decorations, they consisted in a map of tlhe world and a panoply of foils, pistols and whips. Lucy showed me the arms, spying, “These are my dolls.” Her voice and her gestures were always always those of a turbulent boy. She talked loudly, she laughed loudly, she entertained me with her projects for the future. She absolutely wanted “to do something,” to follow a man’s career; to be an agriculturist pleased her particularly, because her father owned large plantations in the Southern States. From time to time, whenever the woman would betray herself in her need of approbation, she would turn towards her father, asking, “Isn’t that so, father?” Mr Perceval assented. As they accompanied me to the gate, Lucy caught sight of the postman

hobbling along under his weight of letters and papers. “Isn’t he late? Poor old fellow.” Then. “I will run and get what he has for ua,” and away she darted like an arrow. When she returned at the same s|>eed I laughingly called her "Miss Atalanta.” “That is just it,” said Mr Perceval. “Atalanta. Atalanta.” “Who was Atalanta?” asked Lucy. I tried to recall my classics so as to reply, “She was a princess of ancient times. Miss Lucy, whose father, furious at having a daughter, had her raised in the woods. She was nourish, ed on the milk of a bear, and became in time a great huntress. She could run as fast as you. When she was of age to marry suitors presented themselves in great numbers, for she was. as we would say to-day, a good eatch. But she declared she would only marry the man who could outstrip her in a race. Those she outran were pitilessly put to death. You would not be so cruel, would you?” Lucy had been listening with great attention. Brought to a sudden stop, she said seriously. “ No. that is no longer our custom."

“Many youths have perished on her account, when a young prince presented himself, by the name of Meilanion. He was so handsome that Aphrodite had made him a gift of three golden apples, which saved him. for as he ran he let fall one after another. Atalanta. who despite all was a woman. stopped to pick them up. and thus she was finally vanquished.” Lucy burst out laughing. “ Oh, that is a good story.” she exclaimed. “ but Atalanta was a goose. As for me. when I run. I would never stop for such a trifle.”

We retained for Lucy the nickname of Atalanta, and later I was amazed to have found one so appropriate. Mr Perceval and his daughter returned for several years to spend the summer months at Chapel. They loved their beautiful garden, planted in old trees, and the fine bold landscape which stretched between the bare borders of the Saleve and the distant outline of the Jura. Until she was seventeen Miss Atalanta wore her peculiar garb, short hair, man’s cravat and boy’s hat. while racing remained her chief pleasure. Nothing delighted her more than to challenge a country neighbour on the highway and then to beat him. The humiliation of her victims amused her excessively, and she enjoyed it. I do not Ivelieve it was anything more than her personal vanity. as if her victory were an honour to her whole sex. The road, which wound between flowering hedges, broken by the cliffs of the Arve, was often witness to these sports, and the occupants of the neighbouring fields, honest folks, quiet and sedate, could not refrain from being scandalized. They would ask me. “ What is the matter with that strange young girl, who is so much like a boy ?” When I explained to them that she was an American they were reassured. Anything is allowed to persons from the other Continent, even their eccentricities do not clash with our usages. It was in the course of her eighteenth year that Lucy changed, in the spring I saw her return in the fashionable costume of her sex. and her magnificent hair smooth and glossy as silk. I recall almost word for word the conversation we had walking slowly along the road, where the year before she had raced at such a rate. •• Ami so. Miss Lucy, you have become a young lady in earnest.” She contented herself by saying “ Pshaw." with a slight pout which was to intimate as nearly as possible. “ A body could not always escape her sex. but it was not her fault anil I would rather talk of other things.” However. I had the malice to insist. ” Atalanta is'dead.” She cried out, "Oh. I still run !” “ Not so fast. 1 bet.” " No. no. very well. I assure you—only, you understand,” throwing a look of unmistakable hatred at her skirts, which explained to me that she had no longer the same freedom of action. " Long skirts, long hair and Jewels. Ah. ah, it is the woman that awakens. Eve. the mother of us all. you know.” She snapped her ungloved fingers in a gesture of indifference. “ Bah !” she said.

“ And soon that little blue flower, love.” She burst out laughing. “ As for that. no. bless me. never.” Her laugh sounded frank and clear, so the metamorphosis was evidently not due to the sentimental motives that I could not refrain from supposing. Notwithstanding, 1 persisted: " All young ladies say that, even those who cannot race.” She shrugged her shoulders. " Love,” she said, “is good enough for sentimental dolls.” “ It will come, nevertheless, in its time.” “ Never.” “ And you will marry.” “No, no, no.” She stamped the ground with her foot so as to raise the dust. Then, calming herself, she began, "Or rather ” “ If it is necessary for me to have a husband, let us see.” Then she described to me her ideal of a fiance, handsome, strong, manly, manly above all. He was the conquering prince of the legend, Meilanion overcoming Atalanta without resorting to the ruse of the golden apples, Siegfried subduing Brunehilde, the man of iron muscle, of sovereign will, a demi-god of heroic times, resuscitated in our days expressly to realise the dreams of Miss Lucy. Mr. Percival, who had rejoined us, listened with half-closed eyes, and a smile of approval in the corner of his lips, persuaded that his Lucy would never marry unless she met a Zeus, an Apollo, or at least a Perseus. As for me, I asked myself what life, that great demolisher of our dreams, reserved in her case, and I awaited in advance the future disappointments of my young friend, so confidant of her destiny. Oh, the bright to be, it opens like a frail and lovely flower, to throw its colours to the light, its perfume to the winds. She raced no more, but she rode a spirited horse, a superb Anglo-Norman that answered to the name of Aster. Her father usually acompanied her, but often she would go out alone disdainful of appearances or of what people would say. At the same time she worked earnestly, her father having at length consented to allow her to take up regular studies, and she was to leave for the University of Zurich when it reopened in the autumn. Things were at this stage when Mr. Perceval said to me one day, “We are going to have a companion in our hermitage, the son of a very intimate friend of mine who died several years ago. He has just lost his mother and is very wretched, for he is weak and infirm, so I have invited him to come and finish the summer with us. He is a man of twenty-five, and his name is Walter Leigh.” I knew enough of Mr Perceval’s beneficence under an exterior of indifference to guess that there was some kindness at the bottom of that tale, so I did not press him, but contented myself by saying I should be happy to help him divert his young friend. He thanked me for my offer, and said in accepting it, “I will certainly have to have recourse to your good will, for you understand that I cannot count upon Lucy occupying herself with him.”

“The fact is,” I replied laughing, “that I cannot picture to myself Miss Atalanta as a sister of charity, nursing a melancholy young invalid.” And I thought of the contempt she would hardly Im* able to repress at having this wretched being thrown by chance into her sphere of health and exuberance. When I saw him the day after his arrival this impression was even more lively. Walter Leigh, after the idea I had formed of him, was one of those poor deformed creatures to whom nature had been doubly cruel, having pent up in weak bodies fervent spirits and having inflicted them with a keen sense of their own inferiority. His deformity was not so great, he was slightly lame, his left limb was a little too short, with a crippled foot, but above all he was distressingly thin. Well over medium height, his leanness was almost, appalling, with his bones jutting out as if they were ready to break through his skin. His features had a certain beauty, nnd his great black velvet eyes were of unusual splendour, but his swarthy complexion betrayed a constant feverishness. while his poor weak hands with their bony fingers trembled like those of an old man. Moreover, accustomed to the indulgences of a mother who from his early infancy had cared for him like a frail object to be preserved

in wadding, he occupied himself ceaselessly about his precarious health with the unconscious incousiderateness of a valetudinarian. At the least breath of air he enveloped himself in mufflers, the very elegance of which eould not rescue him from ridicule. He only walked with measured steps. When you asked him how he felt he answered in detail —a man who knew each morning how often he had awakened during the night, who weighed his nourishment and eould lay his finger upon the exact spot of his forehead where he felt a twinge of neuralgia. With all that, a quick and highly strung intellect that seemed ever on the watch for ideas, which he would seize upon with a passionate violence and immediately treat them as a blessing, of which he was both proud and jealous. When he ceased to think of himself he would become eloquent and his deep voice, with its fine metallic tone, formed a striking contrast to his poor appearance.

Well, thought I, this is a species of humanity that will astonish Miss Atalanta. But from the first evening I saw them together it was I that was astonished. Before him the young girl was not the same. She hid the abruptness she rather atfected to assert wtih others. Very motherly, almost cajoling, she watched over him with the awkwardness of a big brother caring for a little sister. We were installed on the verandah, and the Saleve, great dull mass, spread out before us, sending us wafts of delicious fresh air. One of Lucy's chief pleasures was to inhale lungs full of that vivifying air, enjoying the invigoration without fearing the caprices of a climate subject to rapid change. After a scorching day, the freshness of the evening pouring in freely through the wide-open door, was truly delightful. All at once, looking anxiously toward that hospitable door left open to the balmy b.eeze, she asked, "Are you cold. Walter?” He answered tfmidly, “A little, Lucy.” Immediately she rose from her rocking chair to shut the door without a sign of annoyance; she even feigned to shiver, saying, “True, it is quite fresh this evening.” A little later I saw her rise again, go out and return with a shawl, which she spread over his wasted knees. Waller Leigh raised his great velvet eyes to hers with a look of ardour, of gratitude. They exchanged these words: “Are you comfortable. Walter?” “Very comfortable, thank you. very.” Then they became silent, and you heard no sound upon the verandah, for I was in the midst of a game of chess with Mr Perceval, who was considering a difficult move. At the end of the evening, when he accompanied me to the door. I said to him. “So your Amazon is serving her apprenticeship as nurse.”

With rather a forced smile, he answered. “She doesn’t do badly for a beginning.” Two or three days later I saw Mr Pereeval riding Aster. It was the first time I had ever met him without his daughter. “And Miss Lucy?” 1 asked. “She doesn’t ride these days.” “Is she ill?” “Oh. no; she is afraid of humiliating Walter Leigh, that is all. And Aster must be exercised.” The animal pawed the ground fretting to be off. Mr Perceval gave him the rein, and they set out at a quick pace.

Weeks passed, autumn arrived. Mr Perceval seemed preoccupied, and 1 saw cement between Whiter Leigh and Lucy that intimacy the birth of which had rather surprised me. Now you never met one without the other, and they l>oth changed as if they had mutually imprinted upon each other their most dissimilar traits. In long dresses, with coquettish hats poised on her beautiful light hair, Lucy had become almost like other young girls, her movements quiet and gentle, and her speech modest and harmonious, while Walter, in his turn, less preoccupied with his health, assumed a sort of an authority, which made him more like other men. You might have said that he gained in vigour what his friend had lost, and that he had become imbued with the energy she had laid aside for his sake. Often

they were seated side by side, with only one book for fhe two, and it was no longer the books that Lucy used to like, historical and scientific works, or the most adventurous novels, those that emitted a caustic savour, such as her father allowed her to read and which she devoured, her imagination carrying her to the extreme consequences of their doctrines, like “J ude the Obscure,” “The Elm Mall.” Now it was poets, sentimental novelists, a volume of Loti or of Tennyson. She read in a low voice, and he listened hanging upon her words. Then the book would fall from their hands, and they would discuss it in an undertone, as if they feared being overtaken in their confidences.

“What can they be talking about?” Mr Perceval asked me one day. indicating in a good-humoured way the lovely group they formed.

I answered, “1 do not know.” Indeed. I could not make out their words, but I could have bet upon knowing their sense. Doubtless they astonished. themselves, those two beings so different, by always thinking the same thing at the same time, by recognising each other everywhere in novels, in poems, in nature, hearing their inmost voices in the songs of birds, in the moan of the autumn winds, and not even being able to let their thoughts drift with the clouds without meeting at some |K>int in infinite space. And so astonished. enchanted, they abandoned themselves, not yet understanding that the law which governs beings is as powerful and more mysterious than that which controls the universe. Tenderly, without resistance. Lucy was making herself a slave that she might be the better served. They loved to go off for long walks. Walter, who at first feared walking, as he feared all physical exertion. Irecame indefatigable when it was a question of seeking seclusion for two. and they would sometimes go very far. so far that Mr Perceval, who was tiding Aster, would return astounded to have met them at such a distance.

One day. with a slightly anxious air. he imparted to me his astonishment.

I smiled maliciously, and that threw him into a rage. “ Lucy could never love that cripple,” he exclaimed violently. “ But if by chance,” I chanced to remark He interrupted me. regaining his usual coolness. “ Everyone is free to choose for themselves. However, you will see ” Mr Perceval was an optimist in his character of American, and never doubted the happy arrangement of all his difficulties. There are situations which could be prolonged indefinitely if life, like the readers of fiction, did not hold to the denouement. Walter Leigh was in love, he knew it ; but his poor heart trembled with the joy that he felt, so that he guarded his secret or thought thaj he guarded it. As for Lucy, far more naive than the young girls of her age. and ready to bristle up at any attempt at sentiment, she was unwittingly abandoning herself to an unconscious dream that was carrying her away. The awakening could not be long. How would she accept her defeat ? I thought of Brunhilde aroused from her long slee.p by Siegfried’s kiss. But oh. the jnor Siegfried, whom our Valkyrie should acknowledge her victor. Pedhaps fhe vague fears of this timid conqueror were only too well founded. Maybe, if suddenly persuaded of her incredible illusion, she would rise in her pride, break the still fragile chain and regain her liberty with laughter and indifference. Are not all women capable of playing cruel games ? It is true they are likewise capable of all errors, of all sacrifices. It was soon to lie proved whether Miss Atalanta. “ that fine little fellow ” of years gone by. belonged to her sex by that pity that makes victims ot that egotism which acts as hangmen. A curious observer of that little drama. I saw the slightest incident would provoke the denouement. But, as often happens in true life, that incident did not occur. Nothing came to pass but time. The meadow saffron made its appearance, spreading its soft carpet over the bare grass of early autumn, the trees were tinted in every Shade and variety, the sky full of floating clouds that hovered over the Saleve. while the first snows fell on the distant mountain peaks. About

the same time the year before Mr Perceval, who detested the cold, strapped his trunks for Italy. Why then did he avoid speaking ot the departure ? On her side Lucy seemed to ignore the fact that the University of Zurich was about to reopen. She, who two months before had talked with such enthusiasm about her future student life, seemed to Ire lapsing in her leisure into a perpetual vacation. As for Walter, whose plans were at first to spend the winter in Nice, he accommodated himself so well to the early frosts that he forgot his mufflers and shawls, he even neglected to catch cold. Evidently by tacit agreement they all dreaded the outcome of a separation. Lucy for the uncertainty it presented, Walter because of the miseries which he could perhaps discount, Mr Per-t-eval on account of the wound that menaced his i>erpetual pride, since, like the king in the old legend, he had never become reconciled to having a daughter instead of a son, and had long yielded to a delusion, the awakening from which would be painful. It was he, nevertheless, who finally raised the question, for it was not in his character to long sacrifice his decisions or his habits in maintaining a state of things of which he felt the fragility. One gloomy afternoon we were taking coffee on the verandah. A shower broke forth that had been threatening since morning. Mr Perceval arose from his rocking-chair, approached the window, his hands in the ]>ockets of his jacket, and return, ing. with a slight shiver, he said in a natural tone, “ Well the fine weather is breaking up. the frosts will follow quickly, so we will soon have to separate.”

Those words fell like the stroke of a knell sounded during a feast. Walter and Lucy, who were conversing in an undertone, raised their heads at the time with the same gesture, like a pair of startled ring-doves ready to take flight at the sound of a shot, and I saw them exchange a look of anguish. There was a moment of heavy silence and then Walter murmured. “ True, we will have to leave.” “ Not yet,” said Lucy. While lighting a cigar Mr Perceval basely insinuated, “And your univer•s'ty—then you are not thinking of it any more ? Nevertheless it is about to reopen.”

Lucy avoided her father’s eye. “ True.” she said with some constraint. “ there is the university.” The silence began again more painful than ever. As it became embarrassing on account of inexpressible circumstances I broke it by giving mv advice. » .

“You need not let to-dav’s bad weather hurry you. The month of October is often very fine here, and as for the university—gracious me! you are not obliged to be on hand the very day it reopens. Why. even the professors are sometimes late. And then after all you are free, and as von are very comfortable here, why not remain where you are?” In a voice that betrayed a slight impatience. Air Perceval replied-. “We have already been here too long.” “And so you have had of it. When then will you take root in some place?” He answered: “It was you who once used an expression to me that I have never forgotten, “Nowhere as goo. as — elsewhere.” . “As for my part.” said Lucy, “I nm tired of this ceaseless change.” Mr Perceval threw away his cigar that drew badly, took another, which he chose with great eare. and then asked me. “Will you take a hand at chess, my dear friend?” “Willingly.” He placed the chess board. The game had scarcely begun when I noticed both Walter and Lucy rise, stop for a moment at the window to observe thee louds. consult each other with their eyes and then go out. But their manoeuvre had not escaped Mr. Perceval, who. while taking up his knight, said the moment they opened the door. “Take eare. Walter, you will catch cold. It seems to me you are becoming very imprudent, my boy.” “But I assure you it is hardly even cool.” Walter answered, “and this rain does not amount to anything.” Mr. Perceval did not insist, but moved his knight and seemed to think of nothing more except his game, which he won.

Early the next morning he rang at my door as agitated as an American eould be. “Guess what has happened,” he said, after shaking hands as usual, “guess, try to guess.” I never doubted. Nevertheless I thought it discreet to feign complete ignorance. "Why, what is the matter?” “Ob. you will never guess, never,” but repeated, “because it is really too incredible. Fancy, just fancy •* It pained him to tell it, yet it could not keep it to himself. “Fancy—Lucy actually wants to marry Walter Leigh—an invalid—a cripple. You have had a suspicion of it—l? No, never! She who was almost a man.” I gently interlined “almost.” "She who wanted to become an agriculturist. She who is strong, who is sound, but she wants to. All that she has retained of her old self is her obstinacy. When once she has said I will there is an end to it. What can I do?” Mr Perceval walked up and down in my study, so troubled, so wretched, that I could not refrain from suggesting, “But Miss Lucy is not of age. You can gain time and sometimes, you know, time conquers love.” He shrugged his shoulders. “She wait.” said he. "you do not know her. and as for him—l talked it over with him last evening. I spoke and his health, his lameness, his sallowness, betraying a feverish condition, he drew himself up: my dear friend, he was six foot. ‘I love her, she loves me.’ Do you hear that? He also wants to; and. like her, he is an American.”

“And so are you. Therefore, if on your side you do not wish it, I hardly see how it will end.” Mr. Perceval seemed to reflect for an instant. “The will is a positive faculty,” he replied. “When a person wills he always does what he wills, but he can only will on his own account. Here are two with the same cause, hence they are the stronger, for I can do nothing to prevent them from willing.” All the genius of his race, its spirit, its independence, burst out in this argument, the justice of which forced itself upon him until it disarmed him Calmer, he seated himself in an armchair. With steady gaze and bowed head he sat motionless, reasoning it out for himself, no longer bothering about me. When he raised his head all traces of the storm had disappeared and he was the perfect master of himself. “I beg your pardon for having disturbed you,” he said. “Pray don’t ” “It is useless to struggle when you are conscious of being the weakest, isn’t it? It is lost energy.” 1 approved by a gesture that practical wisdom which nations and individuals having ignored have so often repented. Quietly he pursued his syllogism. “I am the weaker for two reasons—first it affects them not me; then I am reduced to the defensive, while they make the attack. Therefore. I must yield.” He heaved a deep sigh, “and I will yield.” I thought how in his place I would have resisted, fought, defended the ground inch by inch, but I should only have had to deal with European wills, and on our old Continent we do not view problems in the same light as they do over there. “Perhaps they will be very happy.” I said, to console him. “I hope so, indeed," he replied, in rising to take leave. “I accompanied him as far as the door, and watched him disappear with rapid strides. Mists rose from the banks of the Saleve, like the evening before, the rain began to fall and I thought of the three golden apples, of Aphrodite and of Meilanion. Walter Leigh had no need to resort to such a ruse. So true is it that myths are more complicated than life, and that the eternal tales which they relate are re-enacted from century to century. but even more simply.