Anthony had entered with extreme precipitation the
enchanted gardens of Armida saying to himself "At last!" As to Armida,
herself, he was not going to offer her any violence. But now he had
discovered that all the enchantment was in Armida herself, in Armida's
smiles. This Armida did not smile. She existed, unapproachable, behind
the blank wall of his renunciation. His force, fit for action,
experienced the impatience, the indignation, almost the despair of his
vitality arrested, bound, stilled, progressively worn down, frittered
away by Time; by that force blind and insensible, which seems inert and
yet uses one's life up by its imperceptible action, dropping minute after
minute on one's living heart like drops of water wearing down a stone.
He upbraided himself. What else could he have expected? He had rushed
in like a ruffian; he had dragged the poor defenceless thing by the hair
of her head, as it were, on board that ship. It was really atrocious.
Nothing assured him that his person could be attractive to this or any
other woman. And his proceedings were enough in themselves to make
anyone odious.
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