"Oh, I thought of a lot of things to do--to show that she, too, loved _Turiddu_ and that she had as much right to love--and to be loved--as _Santuzza_ had._Santuzza_ had had her chance, and had failed."Brent was highly amused."You seem to forget that _Lola_ was a married woman--and that if _Santuzza_ didn't get a husband she'd be the mother of a fatherless child."Never had he seen in her face such a charm of sweet melancholy as at that moment."I suppose the way I was born and the life I've led make me think less of those things than most people do," replied she."I was talking about natural hearts--what people think inside--the way they act when they have courage.""When they have courage," Brent repeated reflectively."But who has courage?""A great many people are compelled to have it," said she.
"I never had it until I got enough money to be independent.""I never had it," said Susan, "until I had no money."He leaned against the big table, folded his arms on his chest, looked at her with eyes that made her feel absolutely at ease with him.Said he:
"You have known what it was to have no money--none?"Susan nodded."And no friends--no place to sleep--worse off than _Robinson Crusoe_ when the waves threw him on the island.
I had to--to suck my own blood to keep alive.""You smile as you say that," said he.
"If I hadn't learned to smile over such things," she answered, "I'd have been dead long ago."He seated himself opposite her.He asked:
"Why didn't you kill yourself?"
"I was afraid."
"Of the hereafter?"
"Oh no.Of missing the coming true of my dreams about life.""Love?"
"That--and more.Just love wouldn't satisfy me.I want to see the world--to know the world--and to be somebody.I want to try _everything_."She laughed gayly--a sudden fascinating vanishing of the melancholy of eyes and mouth, a sudden flashing out of young beauty."I've been down about as deep as one can go.I want to explore in the other direction.""Yes--yes," said Brent, absently."You must see it all."He remained for some time in a profound reverie, she as unconscious of the passing of time as he for if he had his thoughts, she had his face to study.Try as she would, she could not associate the idea of age with him--any age.He seemed simply a grown man.And the more closely she studied him the greater her awe became.He knew so much; he understood so well.She could not imagine him swept away by any of the petty emotions--the vanities, the jealousies, the small rages, the small passions and loves that made up the petty days of the small creatures who inhabit the world and call it theirs.Could he fall in love? Had he been in love?
Yes--he must have been in love many times--for many women must have taken trouble to please a man so well worth while, and he must have passed from one woman to another as his whims or his tastes changed.Could he ever care about her--as a woman?
Did he think her worn out as a physical woman? Or would he realize that body is nothing by itself; that unless the soul enters it, it is cold and meaningless and worthless--like the electric bulb when the filament is dark and the beautiful, hot, brilliant and intensely living current is not in it?
Could she love him? Could she ever feel equal and at ease, through and through, with a man so superior?
