Part 19 (1/2)
”What are you doing, Anna, what are you doing?”
”Why, undressing.”
She wanted to say this in a natural voice, but had not succeeded. He replied with an inarticulate exclamation, a cry from his heart, which was touched to the quick. Stupefaction, desperate regret, and also the flash of an inconceivable hope agitated him, oppressed him.
”You are my husband.”
”Oh,” he said, ”you know I am nothing.” He spoke feebly in a tragic tone. ”Married for form's sake,” he went on, stammering out fragmentary, incoherent phrases. ”I knew it, I knew it--formality--our conventions--”
She stopped, with her hand hesitating on her blouse like a flower, and said:
”You are my husband. It is your right.”
He made a faint gesture of denial. She quickly corrected herself.
”No, no, it is not your right. I want to do it.”
I began to understand how kind she was trying to be. She wished to give this man, this poor man who was sinking at her feet, a reward that was worthy of her. She wanted to bestow upon him the gift of the sight of her body.
But the thing was harder than the mere bestowal of a gift. It must not look like the mere payment of a debt. He would not have consented to that. She must make him believe it was a voluntary wifely act, a willing caress. She must conceal her suffering and repugnance like a vice. Feeling the difficulty of giving this delicate shade to her sacrifice, she was afraid of herself.
”No, Anna--dear Anna--think--” He was going to say, ”Think of Michel,”
but he did not have the strength at that moment to use this one decisive argument, and only murmured, ”You, you!”
”I want to do it,” she repeated.
”But I do not want you to. No, no.”
He said this in a weaker voice now, overcome by love. Through instinctive n.o.bility, he covered his eyes with his hand, but gradually his hand surrendered and dropped.
She continued to undress, with uncertain movements that showed she hardly knew what she was doing. She took off her black waist, and her bust emerged like the day. When the light shone on her she quivered and crossed her s.h.i.+ning arms over her chest. Then she started to unhook the belt of her skirt, her arms curved, her reddened face bent down and her lips tightly compressed, as if she had nothing in mind but the unhooking of her skirt. It dropped to the ground and she stepped out of it with a soft rustle, like the sound the wind makes in a leafy garden.
She leaned against the mantelpiece. Her movements were large, majestic, beautiful, yet dainty and feminine. She pulled off her stockings. Her legs were round and large and smooth as in a statue of Michael Angelo's.
She s.h.i.+vered and stopped, overcome by repugnance.
”I feel a little cold,” she said in explanation and went on undressing, revealing her great modesty in violating it.
”Holy Virgin!” the man breathed in a whisper, so as not to frighten her.
I have never seen a woman so radiantly beautiful. I had never dreamed of beauty like it. The very first day, her face had struck me by its regularity and unusual charm, and her tall figure--taller than myself-- had seemed opulent, yet delicate, but I had never believed in such splendid perfection of form.
In her superhuman proportions she was like some Eve in grand religious frescoes. Big, soft and supple, broad-shouldered, with a full beautiful bosom, small feet, and tapering limbs.
In a dreamy voice, going still further in the bestowal of her supreme gift, she said: