FOR BREAD, FOR ITALY, FOR GOD
Eight months later, in September, 1855, Franco was occupying a miserable
attic in Via Barbaroux, Turin. In February he had obtained the post of
translator for the _Opinione_, with a monthly salary of eighty-five
lire. Later he began to write the parliamentary reports, and his salary
was raised to a hundred lire. Dina, the manager of the paper, was fond
of him, and procured him extra work outside the office, thus adding
twenty-five or thirty lire to his earnings. Franco lived on sixty lire a
month. The rest went to Lugano to be carried thence to Oria by the
faithful hands of Ismaele. To live a month on sixty lire took more
courage than Franco himself had believed he possessed. The hours at the
office, the translating--a laborious task for one full of scruples and
literary timidity--weighed more heavily upon him than the privations;
moreover he felt even sixty lire was too large a sum, and reproached
himself for not being able to do with less.
He had attached himself to six other refugees, some of whom were
Lombards, others Venetians. They ate together, walked together,
conversed together. With the exception of Franco and a young man from
Udine, all the others were between thirty and forty years of age. All
were extremely poor, and not one of them had ever consented to accept a
penny from the Piedmontese Government as a subsidy. The young man from
Udine came of a rich family, of Austrian tendencies, and received not a
penny from home. He was a good flutist, gave four or five lessons a
week, and played in the small orchestras of second-rate theatres. A
notary from Padua was copyist in Boggio's office. A lawyer from Caprino,
Bergamasco, who had seen service at Rome in 1849, was book-keeper at a
large establishment in Via Nuovo, where umbrellas and walking-sticks
were sold, and for this reason his friends had dubbed him "the knave of
clubs." A fourth, a Milanese, had been through the campaign of 1848 as
one of Carlo Alberto's scouts. His present occupation was to quarrel
continually with "the knave of clubs," for reasons of provincial
rivalry, to teach fencing in a couple of boarding schools, and in winter
to play the piano behind a mysterious curtain in halls where polkas were
danced at a penny each. The others lived on insufficient allowances from
their families. All except Franco were unmarried, and all were gay. They
called themselves, and were called by others, the "seven wise men," and
in their wisdom they dominated Turin from the elevated positions of
seven attics, scattered all over the city from Borgo San Dalmazzo to
Piazza Milano.
Franco's was the most wretched of these attics, the rent being only
seven lire a month. No member of this band had any services whatsoever
performed for them, save the notary from Padua, for whom the
doorkeeper's sister carried water to his attic, and had he not been the
calm philosopher he was, the merciless teasings of his friends would
have made him regret Marga's devotion. They all cleaned their own boots.
The most skilful with his hands was Franco, and it was his lot to sew on
his friends' buttons when they did not wish to humble themselves by
applying to the lawyer and his Marga, who, nevertheless, often had her
hands full, "poor, overworked woman that I am!" The young man from Udine
had a sweetheart, a little _tota_[N] from the first booth in Piazza
Castello on the corner of Po, but he was jealous, and would not allow
her to sew on buttons for any one. The friends took their revenge by
calling her "the puppet," because she sold puppets and dolls. However,
thanks to "the puppet," he was the only member of the band whose clothes
were always in order, and whose cravat was always tied in a graceful
knot. They took their meals at a restaurant in Vanchiglia, which they
had christened "Stomach-ache Tavern," and where they had lunch and
dinner for thirty lire a month.
Their only extravagance was the _bicierin_, a mixture of coffee, milk,
and chocolate, costing only fifteen centimes. They drank this in the
morning, the Venetians at the Cafe Alfieri, the others at Cafe Florio.
All except Franco, however. He went without the _bicierin_ and the
_torcett_, a cake costing a penny that went with it, in order that he
might lay by enough for a little trip to Lugano, and a trifling present
for Maria. In the winter they walked under the porticoes of Po, the
"wise ones" in the vicinity of the University, while the more
light-minded frequented the porticoes on the San Francesco side. After
their walk they would go to a coffee-house, where the one whose turn it
was would sip a cup of coffee, while the others read the newspapers and
looted the sugar basin. Once a week, to satisfy the "knave of clubs,"
they would betake themselves to a den in Via Bertola, where the purest
and most exquisite Giambava wine was to be had.
The flutist from Udine of course went to the theatres, and by his means
some of the others went _gratis_ from time to time, but always to the
play, and usually either to the Rossini or Gerbino theatres. For Franco
to be obliged to pass the posters at the Regio and the other opera
houses was a far greater trial than to be obliged to clean his own boots
and lunch off two square inches of omelet that was so thin it would have
served admirably to observe the spots on the sun through. He had had the
good fortune to make the acquaintance of a certain C., a Venetian, who
was secretary at the department of Public Works, and who presented him
to the family of a most distinguished major in the sanitary corps, also
Venetian, and who owned a piano and was in the habit of receiving a few
friends of an evening, on which occasions he would regale them with a
cup of most excellent coffee of a quality almost unique in the Turin of
those days. When, for one reason or another, the "seven wise men" did
not spend the evening together, Franco would go to this gentleman's
house in Piazza Milano, to make music, to converse on art with the
daughters, or to discuss politics with his hostess, a fierce Venetian
patriot, a woman of great talents, and possessed of a strenuous soul,
who had not only borne heroically all the hardships and the bitterness
of exile, but had sustained the courage of her husband, whose first
steps had been most painful and difficult; for those precious, honest
old numskulls of the inflexible Piedmontese administration had actually
obliged this already famous professor of the University of Padua to
submit to an examination, before they would admit him into the army as
surgeon.[O]
The correspondence between Turin and Oria did not indeed reflect the
true state of mind of Franco and Luisa; it ran on smoothly and
affectionately enough, but with great caution and reserve on either
side. Luisa had expected that Franco would answer her note, and resume
the great discussion. As he never mentioned either the note or what had
passed between them that last night, she risked an allusion. It was
allowed to pass unheeded. As a matter of fact Franco had several times
started to write with the intention of confuting his wife's opinions.
Before beginning he always felt himself strong, and was convinced that
with a little thought he could easily discover crushing arguments, and,
indeed, arguments he believed to be such would rush to his pen, but when
they were set down in writing, he would at once be forced to recognise
their inadequacy. Though surprised and grieved he would make another
attempt, but always with the same result. Nevertheless his wife was
certainly in error; this he never for a moment doubted, and there must
be a way of demonstrating it to her. He must study. But what, and how?
He consulted a priest to whom he had been to confession soon after his
arrival in Turin. This priest, a little misshapen old man, who was fiery
and very learned, invited him to his house in Piazza Paisana, and began
to help him enthusiastically, suggesting a number of books, some for his
own perusal, and others to be sent to his wife. He was a learned
Orientalist, and an enthusiastic Thomist, and had taken a great fancy to
Franco, of whose genius and culture he had formed an opinion which was
perhaps exaggeratedly favourable. At one time he was on the point of
proposing to him the study of Hebrew, and indeed insisted upon his
reading St. Thomas. He went so far as to sketch for Franco the outlines
of a letter to his wife, with a list of the arguments he must expound.
Franco had at once fallen in love with the enthusiastic little old man,
who, moreover, had the pure expression of a saint. He began to study St.
Thomas with great ardour, but did not persevere long. He felt he was
embarking upon a sea without beginning and without end, across which he
was unable to steer a straight course. The scholastic scheme of
treatment, that sameness in the form of argument for and against, that
icy Latin, dense with profound thought, and colourless on the surface,
had successfully routed all his good intentions at the end of three
days. Of the arguments contained in the sketch for the letter he
understood only a small part. He got the priest to explain them to him,
understood somewhat better, and prepared to open a campaign with them,
but found himself as much encumbered by them as was David by the armour
of Saul. They weighed upon him, he could not handle them, he felt they
were not his own and never would be. No, he could not present himself
before his wife with Professor G.'s priestly hat and tunic, a
theological lance in his hand, and entrenched behind a shield of
metaphysics. He recognised that he was not born to philosophise in any
way; he was destitute of the very power of strictly logical reasoning,
for indeed his glowing heart, rich in tenderness and indignation, would
too often interfere, speaking for or against, according to its own
passions. One evening at Casa C. he was playing the _andante_ of
Beethoven's twenty-eighth sonata, when, with quivering nerves and
flashing eyes, he said in a low tone: "Ah! This, this, this!" He was
reflecting that no theologian, no doctor, could communicate the
religious sentiment as Beethoven does. As he played on he put his whole
soul into the music, and longed for Luisa's presence that he might play
this divine _andante_ to her, that he might unite himself to her,
praying thus in an ineffable spasm of the spirit. But he did not reflect
that Luisa who, moreover, was far less sensitive to music than he was,
would probably have attributed another meaning to the _andante_, that of
the painful conflict between our affections and our convictions.
He went to G., returned the works of St. Thomas and confessed his utter
incapacity in such humble and feeling language, that after a few moments
of frowning and uneasy silence, the old priest forgave him. "There,
there, there!" said he, resignedly taking back the first volume of the
_Somma_. "Commend yourself to our Lord, and let us hope He Himself will
act." Thus ended Franco's theological studies.
All this pondering of his wife's opinions and his own, and above all
the Professor's advice: "Commend yourself to our Lord," were not
fruitless. He began to see that on some points Luisa was not mistaken.
When she had reproached him for not leading a life in conformity with
his faith, he had been more offended by this than by anything else. Now
a generous impulse carried him to the other extreme; he judged himself
severely, exaggerated his faults of idleness, of anger, even of greed,
and held himself responsible for Luisa's intellectual aberrations. He
felt a desire to tell her this, to humble himself before her, to
separate his own cause from the cause of God. When he obtained his
position on the _Opinione_, and regulated his own expenses in such a
manner as to be able to make an allowance to his family, his wife wrote
that this allowance was entirely too large in proportion to his
earnings, and that the thought of him, living in Turin on sixty lire a
month, gave her own food a bitter taste. He answered--and this was not
strictly true--that in the first place, he never went hungry, but that
he would, indeed, be glad to fast, because he felt an intense desire to
change his way of life, to expiate his past idleness, including the
hours he had wasted on his flowers and music, to expiate all past
softness, all past weaknesses, including the weakness for dainty dishes
and fine wines. He added that he had asked God's forgiveness for this
past life, and that he felt he must ask her forgiveness also. In fact
the Paduan, with whom Franco had become very intimate, and to whom he
read this passage in his letter as a sort of confirmation of previous
confessions, exclaimed: "That bit sounds for all the world like the
oration of Manasseh, king of Judaea!"
Luisa wrote most affectionately, but with less effusion. Franco's
silence on the painful subject displeased her, and she felt it would be
unwise on her part to allude to it in the face of a silence so
obstinate.
His good intentions concerning labour and self-sacrifice moved her
deeply; when she read that confession of great wickedness, followed by
the prayer for pardon to God and to herself, she smiled and kissed the
letter, feeling that this was an act of submission, and a humble
acceptance of the censure which had at first only irritated him. Poor
Franco! These were the impulses of his noble, generous nature! But would
they last? She answered at once, and if her emotion was apparent in her
answer, so also was her smile, which displeased Franco. At the end he
found these words: "When I read your many self-accusations I thought,
with remorse, of the accusations I brought against you, one sad night,
and I felt that you also had been thinking of them as you wrote,
although neither in this letter nor in any other are they alluded to. I
deeply regret those accusations, my own Franco, but how I wish we could
speak together as true friends, concerning those other questions of
which I think so much here in my solitude!"
Luisa's wish remained ungratified. In answering Franco did not even
touch on this point; indeed his next letter was somewhat cool, so Luisa
did not again revert to the subject. Only once, when speaking of Maria,
did she write: "If you could only see how Maria recites her 'Our Father'
every night and morning, and how well she behaves at Mass, on Sundays,
you would be satisfied."
He replied: "As to what you tell me concerning Maria's religious
exercises, I am satisfied, and I thank you!"
Both Luisa and Franco wrote almost every day, and sent their letters
once a week. Ismaele went to the post at Lugano every Tuesday, taking
the wife's letters and bringing back the husband's. In June Maria had
the measles, and in August Uncle Piero lost the sight of his left eye,
almost without warning, and for some time was greatly distressed. During
these two periods the letters from Oria were more frequent, but in
September the weekly correspondence was resumed. From the bundle of
letters I take the last that passed between Franco and Luisa, on the eve
of those events which overwhelmed them at the end of September.
LUISA TO FRANCO.
"_September 14, 1856._
"I do not think Pasotti will ever come to our house again. I am
sorry on poor Barborin's account, for I fear she will not be
able to come either, but I do not regret what I did.
"He has known perfectly well for some time that you are in
Turin. He even talked of it with the Receiver, so Maria Pon
told me. She was in the Romit chapel, and heard them talking on
their way down from Albogasio Superiore. When he came here he
would always pretend not to know, and would enquire for you
with his usual assumption of interest and friendship. To-day he
found me alone in the little garden and asked how much longer
you would be absent and whether you were in Milan at present. I
answered frankly that his question surprised me. He turned
pale. 'Why?' said he. 'Because you have been going about saying
that Franco is in an entirely different place.' He became
confused and protested angrily. 'You may protest as much as you
like!' I said. 'It is quite useless. You know that. At all
events Franco is very well off where he is. You may say as much
to whomever you please.' 'You wish to insult me!' he exclaimed.
I did not stop to think long, but retorted: 'That is quite
possible!' Then he rushed away without saluting me, and looking
as black as the ace of spades--that simile suits my present
mood! I am sure he will go to Cressogno this evening.
"Custant has sent us a present of a magnificent tench which he
caught this morning, much to the chagrin of Bianconi, who
fishes all day long, and never catches anything. He is furious
with the impudent tench because they snap their fingers--so to
speak--at His Imperial and Royal Majesty of Austria and his
Carlascia. 'Poor fellow!' says Signora Peppina. 'He is eating
his heart out!'
"However, he will get over it, he will get over it.
"_September 15._
"I related the Pasotti episode to Uncle Piero and he was very
much annoyed. 'Much good this will do you!' he said. Poor
Uncle! One might almost suspect him of being a utilitarian,
whereas he is really a philosopher. After all the strongest
argument he ever opposes to all my burning indignation against
the many ugly things in this world is: 'Worrying won't mend
it!'
"To-day the parish Mass was said at Albogasio Superiore. In
coming out of church with Maria I caught a despairing glance
from poor Barborin, who evidently had orders to avoid me.
However, Ester walked down with us and coming into the house
told me privately something I have been expecting to hear. She
began by begging me not to laugh, while all the time she was
laughing herself. I succeeded in gathering that the Professor,
by dint of great perseverance, has overcome her resistance,
although Ester still declares she does not know her own mind.
"'It is his nose!' she said this morning, laughing and hiding
her gay little face. Indeed that scandalous nose seems to me to
be prospering; it is redder than ever, and grows ever larger!
"_September 18._
"I have not written for three days, fearing I should not be
mistress of my pen, nor be able to confine my thoughts within
words which must not exceed certain bounds. Now I feel equal to
the task, and so I will set about it. But I must warn you,
Franco, that I am not sure of being able to control my feelings
all the way through.
"Well, then, your grandmother's agent came to me on the evening
of the fifteenth. As the half-yearly payment of your income is
due on the sixteenth, I concluded he had come to bring the five
hundred _svanziche_, and so I told him at once that I would go
and prepare the receipt for him. Then the most gracious Signor
Bellini informed me that my receipt would not be sufficient.
'How can that be?' I said. 'It was sufficient on the sixteenth
of March.' 'I don't know,' he replied. 'I have my orders.' 'But
Franco is not here.' 'I know that.' 'Then what did you come
here for?' 'I came to tell you that if Don Franco wishes to
draw his money he must present himself at the Signora
Marchesa's agency in Brescia.' 'And what if he cannot go to
Brescia?' Here Signor Bellini made a gesture that meant, 'That
is your affair.' I replied that it was all right, had coffee
brought for him, and told him I was anxious to purchase the
book-shelves in your old study at Cressogno from the Signora
Marchesa. Bellini turned yellow, and sneaked away like our old
dog Pato at Casa Rigey when he had been stealing.
"Most certainly the worthy Pasotti has had a finger in this
dirty business.
"The Prefect of Caravina was here yesterday and told us that
Pasotti went to Cressogno on the evening of the fourteenth. He
was very late, and reached your grandmother's house while they
were saying the rosary, so he had to mumble the prayers with
the others, which greatly amused the prefect, for it is his
opinion that Pasotti goes to Mass simply because he is an
Imperial and Royal pensioner, but that his only prayer is 'the
rats' Pater,' whatever that may be. He added that after the
others had gone out Pasotti remained in confabulation with your
grandmother, and that Bellini was also present. Bellini had
arrived that very day from Brescia. He probably brought the
money for you.
"We have enough left to live upon until the money comes from
you in October. That is all I wish to say.
"Maria sends you the cyclamen you will find enclosed. I must
also tell you the following incident. You can fancy she notices
the state of mind I am in. She often hears me discussing the
subject with Uncle Piero. The uncle is always the uncle! In his
whole life he has set down as rascals only such contractors as
offered him bribes, and another uncle his exact opposite, who,
after making use of his nephew for many years, died without
leaving him so much as a dried fig. He would never recognise
any other rascals, nor will he do so even now. Well, when I am
talking with him, Maria always wants to listen. I send her
away, but I sometimes fail to notice that she has returned very
softly. This morning she began saying her prayers. Oh, Franco!
your daughter is indeed very religious in your own way! The
last prayer she repeats is a _requiem_ for poor Grandmamma
Teresa. 'Mamma,' said she when she had finished, 'I want to
recite a _requiem_ for the grandmother in Cressogno also.'
Never mind my answer. My words were bitter; perhaps I did
wrong; I am even ready to confess I did wrong. Maria looked at
me, and said: 'Is the grandmother at Cressogno really wicked?'
'Yes.' 'But why does Uncle Piero say she is not really wicked?'
'Because Uncle Piero is so very good.' 'Then you are not so
very good?' My dear little innocent! I devoured her with
kisses, I could not help it! As soon as she was free to speak
she began again: 'You will not go to Paradise, you know, if you
are not so very good.' Paradise is her one idea. Poor Franco,
not to have her with you, you who would be so satisfied with
her! You are indeed making a great sacrifice! If it will give
you any pleasure I will tell you that the only possibility for
me to love God is through this child, for in her God becomes
visible and intelligible to me.
"Good-bye, Franco. I embrace you.
"LUISA.
"P. S. I must tell you that I have dismissed Veronica for the
first of October. This I did in the first place for reasons of
economy, and secondly because I have discovered that she is
flirting with a customs-guard. Oh! I almost forgot something
else! Half an hour ago Ester came to tell me she has decided to
say 'yes,' but she wishes to wait a day longer before seeing
the Professor. She has evidently succeeded in swallowing the
nose, but has not yet digested it."
FRANCO TO LUISA.
"TURIN, _September 14, 1855_.
"The 'knave of clubs' is threatened with dismissal by his
employer on account of the truly miserable state of his
clothes. The 'knave' is indeed given to extravagance, and has
not yet learned--_duris in rebus_--to handle a clothes brush,
but however that may be, the other 'wise men' have decided not
to lunch for a week in order that he may re-clothe himself. Now
observe the baseness of the human heart! The 'knave,'
overflowing with expressions of gratitude, calmly prepared to
go to his own lunch! This, however, we would not stand. So
to-day, instead of repairing to Stomach-ache Tavern, we spent
half an hour on the banks of the Po, near the Valentino,
watching the water flow past. The wise man from Udine had
brought his flute with him, because music should not be wanting
at an ideal lunch, at which the most Irimalchionian ideas of
food and beverages are handed round. He also had with him a
letter from his family, containing magnificent proposals for
his return to the fold. They even offer him a riding-horse. He
says he has written them that they will soon see him come
dashing up on one of King Victor Emmanuel's horses. Then the
Paduan, who is a wag, said to him with a great assumption of
seriousness, "Ah, my hero! So you are beginning to blow your
own trumpet as well as play the flute!" The flutist was wild,
but presently he calmed down, and played us a nice little tune.
The strange part of it all is that none of us felt hungry.
However, when the meeting was adjourned, we decided that the
'knave's' clothing should be simplified, and that he could get
along without the _justicoat_, known in modern parlance as the
waistcoat.
"Ah! We would all gladly do without dinner as well as lunch if
we could only cross the Ticino with the King in April, 1856! We
talked of this on our way back to the city after the ideal
lunch. The Paduan observed that the water is too cold in April
and that we had better wait until the end of June. We began to
talk about how great Italy will be without the Germans. I
assure you we were all enthusiastic, in spite of the emptiness
of our stomachs. All except the Paduan of course, but of him I
must tell you that if he is reduced almost to the verge of
starvation, it is because he will not tolerate the Austrians,
and that although he is knocking at the door of forty, he will
fight better than some of these young fellows who are now
devouring an Austrian for lunch, and two for dinner! He says we
shall once more become a cat and dog kingdom. 'Mark this, for
example,' he added. 'When the Germans shall have departed, each
of us will return to his own home, and woe to you if you come
and worry me in Padua!' I can almost fancy I am listening to
Uncle Piero, when, at Oria, we used to discuss the greatness
and the splendid future of Italy. 'Yes, yes, yes!' he would
say, 'Yes, yes, yes! The lake will turn into milk and honey,
and the Galbiga will become a Parmesan cheese!'
"We shall see! We shall see!
"_September 21._
"Your letter has awakened in me a tumult of feelings which
cannot be described in writing.
"Of course my grandmother's action and the indirect malevolence
of Pasotti grieve me deeply, but your too violent indignation
is far more painful to me. When some one holding my
power-of-attorney presents himself at Brescia, payment cannot
be refused. It is true that you, a woman, are not expected to
know these things. I can also forgive your anger, for in the
beginning I myself was not unmoved. Then I asked myself: Why
are you indignant? Why are you surprised? Were you not already
acquainted with that evil spirit, and have you not already
suffered greater insult from it?
"I am most deeply grieved that you did not succeed in hiding
your feelings from Maria; I am deeply moved to learn that you
repented of this; and deeply thankful that you love the Lord in
the child, and that you have confessed as much to me. Indeed I
feel I should not be so overjoyed at this, for the heavens and
the earth are always inviting us to love God; He is visible in
every ray of light, and His voice may be heard in every truth.
But, at least, you are beginning to hear this voice! I have
never touched upon this subject in my letters because I feel I
am not capable of speaking worthily and efficaciously of it to
you. And now I shall let God Himself speak to you through the
child, and once more resume my silence. But remember, I am
waiting in suspense; I am hoping and praying.
"How can I express to you what I feel for Maria? Who could
describe this emotion, this immense tenderness, this consuming
desire to clasp her for a moment, only for one moment, to my
heart? Do you believe I shall be able to wait until November?
No, no, no! I will write, I will copy, I will do the work of
others, but I must come to Lugano sooner! Cover her with kisses
for me, and meanwhile, tell her that Papa carries his Maria in
his heart always, and that he sends her his blessing. Ask her
what she wishes me to bring her and let me know, without
thinking too much about my poverty.
"With my whole soul I embrace you, my Luisa.
"FRANCO."
LUISA TO FRANCO. "_September 24, 1855._
"At last! Ever since you left I have been longing for you to
touch upon this question. How did I explain myself that night,
in my painful emotion? How did you understand me, in your
equally painful emotion? For months and months I have felt the
necessity of speaking of this to you, and I have never done so
because I lacked courage.
"You will remember you accused me of pride that night. I
implore you to believe that I am not proud. I cannot even
understand such an accusation.
"Your letter gives me the idea that you think I have returned
to a belief in God. But did I ever tell you that I do not
believe in God? I cannot have told you so, for the whole
history of my opinions is engraved upon my mind, and the
fright, the distressing thought that I might perhaps no longer
be able to believe in God, came to me after you left. I know
the day, the very hour. At S. Mamette I had heard them talking
of a great dinner your grandmother had given at Brescia, while
I could not even procure the food and wine necessary for the
diet the doctor--fearing the loss of the right eye--had
prescribed for our beloved Uncle. I struggled against these
awful shadows, Franco, and I conquered. It is true the victory
is due, in a great measure, to Maria. I mean that if all these
black clouds hide the existence of Supreme Justice from me, a
ray of light from it reaches me through Maria; and this ray of
light makes me believe, makes me hope in the Orb. For it would
be too horrible if the universe were not governed by justice!
"That night then, I can only have told you that I understood
religion in a different way from you; that prayers and acts of
Christian faith did not seem to me essential to the religious
idea, but rather love and actions for those who suffer, rather
indignation and actions against those who cause suffering!
"And you wish to resume your silence? No, you must not. You
feel weak, you say. Do you feel you yourself are weak, or your
_Credo_? Let us reason, let us discuss. Confess that one reason
why you who believe, love your beliefs, is because they are
comfortably restful to the intellect. You stretch yourselves at
your ease in them as in a hammock, suspended in the air by
innumerable threads spun by men and fastened by men to many
hooks. You are comfortable, and if any one examines or lays his
hand upon one only of these threads, you are troubled, and
afraid it will snap, because very probably its neighbour will
snap also, and after that one, another; and so, to your great
fright and pain, your fragile bed will come tumbling down from
the sky to the earth. I know this fright and this pain, I know
that the satisfaction of walking on solid ground must be
purchased at this cost, and therefore I am not deterred by a
pity that would be false from discussing with you. But I may
be mistaken, and perhaps it may be you who will lift me up, up
to your resting place of fragile threads and air. Maria is not
equal to this task. If Maria makes me believe in God, it does
not follow that she can make me believe in the Church as well.
And you yourself believe in the Church above all things.
Therefore try to convince me, and I also will listen in
suspense, and though I do not pray, at least I can hope,
because now my longing for a perfect union with you is stronger
than ever before. Now, together with my old affection, I feel a
new admiration for you, a new gratitude towards you.
"Will you take offence at this outpouring of mine? Remember
that you must have found a letter from me in your handbag,
eight months ago, and that I have waited eight months for an
answer!
"The Professor and Ester now meet at our house as fiances.
They, at least, are happy. She goes to church and he does not,
and neither of them thinks any more about it than they do about
the difference in the colour of their hair. And I believe nine
hundred and ninety-nine couples in a thousand do the same."
"I embrace you. Write me a long, long letter.
"LUISA."
This letter did not leave Lugano until September 26th, and Franco
received it on the 27th. On the 29th, at eight o'clock in the morning,
he received the following telegram, also from Lugano:
"Child dangerously ill. Come at once.
"UNCLE."
FOOTNOTES:
[N] _Tota_ is Piedmontese for young girl, often used in the sense of
_grisette_. [_Translator's note._]
[O] It must be remembered that Padua and its university were at that
time dominated by the Austrians, and that patriotism drove this "already
famous professor" to give up his position and migrate to free Piedmont.
[_Translator's note._]