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Updated: June 14, 2025
He thought: "She knows my face, ravaged by time, my white hair, and she loves them in the picture, but I am ageing day by day; perhaps when she sees me this incredible love will be killed at a blow." He had reached Hergyswyl by boat some hours before her; she, leaving Basel in the morning, arrived by the Brünigbahn in the afternoon.
His wife read for him, made extracts, took notes. "I should so much like to go to Hergyswyl next summer," said she, "that you might write the last chapter of the book there, the chapter on Purity!"
Giovanni went out again to wander among the level gardens and orchards of Hergyswyl, breathing hard like a man exhausted by excess of feeling, blessing every stone and every leaf of this verdant corner of a foreign land, the lake, sleeping in its bosom, the crowd of great religious mountains; blessing God, who at his time of life had sent him such a love.
Sparkling with mirth, and at the same time trembling at the idea of the great danger she had encountered unawares, she protested that it was impossible; she had looked in the mirror of her nécessaire so many times before reaching Hergyswyl. Every moment of that hour passed two years before, they recalled together jestingly; she often kissing his breast, and he her hair.
When the waiter came in to light the fire in the little salon at Hergyswyl, Giovanni had dropped the beloved hand, and had said, while the servant still lingered: "The old log will surely burn on to the end, but who can tell how long the youthful flame will last?"
Then when they had arranged to meet, he coming from the Lake of Como, she from Brussels to Hergyswyl near Lucerne, both had been in a fever of apprehension. She reflected: "The portrait pleased him, but the bearing of the real person, a line, the colour of the garments, the manner of meeting, the first words, the tone of voice, may perhaps destroy his love at one blow."
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