“Who are you?” I asked.
They smiled.
“Who are you?” I repeated.
“We are Toni,” Antonia answered.
“Both Toni?”
They nodded.
“Are you one or two?”
“We are one and two.”
“Where did I meet you before?”
“You met me…far, far away,” said Antonia, speaking like a child that is telling a fairy tale.
“And me still farther,” added Antonio with boyish eagerness.
“He always tries to outdo me, Count. It is the vanity of the male…”
“Silence, woman!” the boy commanded. “Man is the master.”
“No!” she exclaimed.
“Woman must remain the inferior of man—always,” the boy insisted.
“Toni!” she exclaimed. “How can you say that?”
“Except you, my dear. But you are not a woman.”
“Well, I shall be one.”
“Never!”
“Yes…and I shall be the queen of a great nation where women rule over men.”
“Do you not think that woman is the equal of man, Count?” Antonia asked.
“Some women are the equal of goddesses.”
“See?”
“Then some men are the equal of gods, Count.”
“They are.”
“And is not a god greater than a goddess?”
“Sex distinctions are not important among the gods…”
“See, Toni? But Count, tell us the story you promised!”
They pulled their chairs nearer to me.
“Ready!” they both exclaimed.
“Once upon a time, there were two children—a boy and a girl– —”
“No, no, Count.”
“We are no longer children.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
“Some of the things I shall tell, you may not understand.”
They laughed.
“Count,” Antonio whispered, “we have read Aretino and Boccaccio.”
Antonia blushed a little and nodded.
“What!” I exclaimed in mock reproof.
For a moment, they were nonplussed but, catching a faint smile about my lips, they burst into laughter. Each placed an arm upon my shoulders, and their voices mingling into one, said: “You cannot deceive us, Count. You too believe that the beautiful is the good. Uncle sometimes tries to appear severe on moral questions. Dear uncle—he considers himself responsible for our welfare. But you are like an older brother. You can afford to be candid with us…”
“You are right, little sister and brother.”
“Don’t call us little,” Antonia reprimanded me. “Call us sister and brother.”
I placed my arms about their waists. “Brother and sister, you are supremely good, because you are supremely beautiful…and as long as you will be beautiful, you will be good. Ugliness is the only sin…”
“Tediousness is the only evil,” Antonia added sagely.
I related divers experiences. By merely calling the centuries years and the years months, I discovered that, after all, one could squeeze upon a tiny canvas what had been spread leisurely upon an enormous wall. Although I used various names to hide my identity, they knew perfectly well that I was telling my own experiences.
Salome and Ulrica intrigued Antonia, Flower-of-the-Evening and Damis fascinated Antonio. They asked questions, apparently very innocently and merely for the sake of elucidation, but in reality they showed that uncanny prescience of sex which sometimes startles us in the very young.
I thought of the white rose, symbol of purity, whose perfume and pollen are but sexual allurement to entice the bee and the butterfly. Under the petal of their youth, the children’s senses were stirred, and the perfume of their desire was wafted to me.
They snuggled against me. Suddenly, Antonia stood up. “Why, my dear, the Count must be thirsty and hungry too.”
Antonio clapped his hands. “Why, of course! You will never be a woman, sister. You will never think of important trifles.”
She smiled. Was her smile irony? Was it wisdom? Was it pity? Was she a daughter of the Sphinx?
A servant entered. Antonia ordered wine and cakes and fruits in such abundance that I burst out laughing.
“You overestimate my capacity.”
Antonia filled our cups. We drank to beauty, which is truth, and to truth which is beauty.
“Oh,” she exclaimed suddenly, “we have forgotten him.” She pointed to Kotikokura who was smiling, his eyes half-closed. “He is such a queer and dear fellow,” she whispered.
She filled a cup for him and brought him some cakes and fruit.
I told them anecdotes about Africa and India. Cheered by the wine, they laughed uproariously.
“What a strange ring you have, Count. Is it from India?”
“No, Toni—this ring belonged to one of Mohammed’s nephews…it brings good luck to its wearer.”
“Has it brought good luck to you?”
“I have had the good fortune of meeting you.”
“It is rather the other way, then, Count. He who wears it brings good luck to those with whom he comes in contact.”
“Do you really think it beautiful?”
“Very.”
“Well, then, I shall have it cut and made into two rings, and if you will allow me, I shall present each of you with one, so that you may always have good luck or bring good luck to others.”
“Oh, Count, you are too good to us, really!” they exclaimed, their fingers pecking at my sleeves like small birds.
“We shall remember you—always,” Antonio said.
“Whenever we are unaccountably happy, we shall think of you.” Antonia added.
“Will you think of us, too?” the boy asked.
“I shall think of you—long after you have forgotten me.”
“Count, would you like to see the rings our mother gave us before she died?”
“Oh, yes, Toni, bring the little box.”
Antonio went out. Antonia placed her small hand in mine and leaned her head against my shoulder.
“Count…who are you?”
I was startled.
“Who are you?”
I kissed her dark tresses gently, and equally gently removed my hand from hers. This bud was too tender, too beautiful, to be plucked.
Antonio returned. He opened a small gold box, with two rings livid with exquisite rubies. Centuries of mystery and of passion seemed to slumber in the depths of the stones.
“How beautiful!” I exclaimed.
“Mother told us to wear them when we are happy. Shall we not wear them tonight, brother?” And the two rings blazed on the hands of the children, flaming like rose leaves, scarlet like drops of blood.
Kotikokura snored, his head resting upon one of the dogs, their shadow mingling and forming a bulky elephant whose trunk made a semicircle.
We talked, intoxicated by something that was not wine. At last nature demanded her toll. The sandman strewed his ware into the golden eyes of the two children. Antonio yawned. Antonia blinked.
“It is time to retire,” I said.
They were reluctant, but finally yielded.
At the door, Antonia threw me a kiss. Antonio raised his hand half-way, checked himself, and blushed.
I was about to draw the curtains of my bed, when I heard footsteps, hardly heavier than those of a cat, approach. I strained my eyes, but I could see nothing. The hall was very long, and I had time to conjecture.
A soft-tipped finger pressed against my lips. “Sh…” I moved slowly toward the wall. The bed hardly felt the weight of her.—She pressed her lips on mine.—My hands were many mouths, drinking nectar.—A long kiss.—A pressure of breast against breast, a mingling of lips, a moan…
Like some white weightless feather which a zephyr wafts about a garden, she rose and disappeared in the blackness of the room.—Thoughts like many-colored confetti fell softly upon my brain, making beautiful patterns which bore no names.– —
Suddenly, I heard the soft footsteps again. Was she returning? Did her lips ache for another kiss…? Again the pressure of a finger against my lips. “Sh…” Again a kiss, tender and impetuous. Did my hands deceive me? Was not beauty a flame? Was not joy a slow swooning?