For the first time, and because of
his impotence to force his body to feel as his spirit wished it to feel,
he doubted if there were a future for the soul, if there were such a
condition as immortality. He reached Villa d'Este in a condition of
profound depression, almost bordering on despair.
Meanwhile Viola, standing by the garden wall, had watched the boat that
carried Robin disappear on the water. Till it was only a speck she
watched. It vanished. Evening came on. Still she stood there. She did not
feel very sad. The strange, dreamlike sensation of the preceding day had
returned to her, but with a larger vagueness that robbed it of some of
its former poignancy. It seemed to her that she felt as a spirit might
feel--detached. She remembered once seeing a man, who called himself an
"illusionist," displaying a woman's figure suspended apparently in
mid-air. He took a wand and passed it over, under, around the woman to
show that she was unattached to anything, that she did not rest upon
anything. Viola thought that she was like that woman. She was not
embittered. She was not even crushed. Her impulse of pity, when she
understood what Robin was feeling, had been absolutely genuine. It had
rushed upon her. It remained with her. But now it was far less definite,
and embraced not only Robin but surely other men whom she had never known
or even seen. They could not help themselves. It was not their fault.
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