It had
been very wretched on the ship going from Havre to New York. That he
told me about. And he told me about the gold-mines, the galleries, the
valley, the huts in the valley. But he had never really fretted for San
Gaudenzio whilst he was in California.
In real truth he was at San Gaudenzio all the time, his fate was riveted
there. His going away was an excursion from reality, a kind of
sleep-walking. He left his own reality there in the soil above the lake
of Garda. That his body was in California, what did it matter? It was
merely for a time, and for the sake of his own earth, his land. He would
pay off the mortgage. But the gate at home was his gate all the time,
his hand was on the latch.
As for Maria, he had felt his duty towards her. She was part of his
little territory, the rooted centre of the world. He sent her home the
money. But it did not occur to him, in his soul, to miss her. He wanted
her to be safe with the children, that was all. In his flesh perhaps he
missed the woman. But his spirit was even more completely isolated since
marriage. Instead of having united with each other, they had made each
other more terribly distinct and separate.
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