Our journey through France and across the Alps did not in the least
diminish the impressions of my last days in Paris. But everything was
mingled in my recollections like the joy and regret I felt at my
departure—joy and regret, both of which I had reason to feel, though I did
not try to fathom their cause. I was only conscious that in more than one
way the repose and happiness of our life were threatened, and it was
necessary we should take flight. It seemed as if we could not go fast
enough or far enough. The very rapidity with which we travelled by railway
was delightfully soothing, for it seconded my wishes. The sudden change of
scenery and climate, and the different aspect of the towns as soon as we
crossed the mountains, also gave me pleasure, because all this greatly
added in my imagination to the distance we had so rapidly come.
Lorenzo also, though doubtless for a different reason, seemed more at ease
after we left Paris, and gradually resumed his usual manner towards me. He
never mentioned Faustina’s name, and I had only ventured to speak timidly
of her once. As we were on the point of leaving, I proposed writing her a
farewell note, but he prevented me by hastily stammering something to this
effect: that my absence the evening before was a sufficient explanation
for not seeing her again, and it was useless to take the trouble of any
further farewell.
This new attitude surprised me. He had changed his mind, then, since the
day he urged me so strongly to be her friend!... It is true I had myself
expressed a vehement desire—too vehement, perhaps!—to break off this
friendship. But he did not try in the least to profit by my present good‐
will to renew it. It was evident he no longer desired it himself. His only
wish seemed to be to make me forget the scene that had occurred, as well
as the cause that led to it. Why was this? If I had really been in the
wrong, would he have forgiven me so readily? If, instead of this, his
conscience forced him to excuse me, did not the affection he now
manifested prove his desire to repair wrongs he could not avow, and which
perhaps I did not suspect?
These thoughts involuntarily crossed my mind and heart with painful
rapidity. I loved Lorenzo, or rather, I felt the need of loving him, above
all things. But if he himself loved me no longer, if he had become
treacherous, unfaithful, and untrue to his word, could I continue to love
him? Was this possible?... What would become of me in this case? Merciful
heavens!... I asked myself these questions with a terror that could not
have been greater had I been asking myself what would become of my eyes
should they be deprived of light. And this comparison is just, for there
could be no darker night than that which would have surrounded me had the
ardent, predominant feeling of my heart been left without any object. I
might suitably have taken for my motto: _Aimer ou mourir_—either love or
die—words often uttered in a jesting, romantic, or trifling way, but which
were to me full of profound, mysterious meaning. But this meaning was
hidden from me, and the day was still far distant when its signification
would be made manifest!
After crossing the Alps and the Apennines, and passing through Florence
and Rome, we at length proceeded towards Naples by the delightful route
that formerly crossed the Pontine Marshes, Terracina, and Mola di Gaëta.
Every one who returns to Italy the first time after leaving it experiences
a feeling of intoxication and joy a thousand times more lively than when
one goes there for the first time. The eyes wander around in search of
objects which once gave them pleasure and it had been a sacrifice to
leave. I yielded to this enjoyment without attempting to resist it.
Sadness, moreover, did not belong to my age, and, though intensely capable
of it, it was by no means natural to me. During the first weeks after my
return to Naples my mind was diverted from all my troubles and anxiety by
novelties that everything contributed to render efficacious and powerful.
In the first place, I was glad to find myself once more in my delightful
home, which, by the order of Lorenzo, had undergone a multitude of
improvements during my absence, and was now additionally embellished with
the contents of the boxes we had brought from Paris. It was Lorenzo’s
taste, and not mine, which had dictated the choice of these numberless
objects, the chief value of which in my eyes was derived from the
estimation he attached to them himself.
The anxiety that clouded his face seemed to have disappeared. He appeared
as delighted as I to find himself at home, and was quite disposed to
resume his favorite occupation in his studio. Consequently, the clouds
soon began to disperse from my soul; the sun once more began to brighten
my life.
Lorenzo soon insisted, with an earnestness equal to that he had before
shown to have me all to himself, that my door should now be constantly
open. My drawing‐room was filled with people of the best society and
highest rank in Naples, and, thanks to their cordiality and natural turn
for sudden intimacies (a characteristic, charming trait in that delightful
region), instead of feeling at all embarrassed among so many new
acquaintances, I felt as if surrounded by friends I had always known and
loved.
Above all, I at last saw Livia once more, and though through a double
grate, which prevented me from embracing her, it afforded me an unalloyed
happiness which left no regrets.
The monastery she entered was situated at one extremity of Naples, which
could only be reached by traversing an endless number of narrow, gloomy,
winding streets, in which it seemed impossible to move a step without
knocking down the people on foot, overthrowing their shops, and even
kitchens, established in the open air; and, if in a carriage, crushing the
children playing, running about, or sleeping in the sun.
The first time a person ventures into such streets he is terrified at
every step, and wonders he is allowed there. He feels guilty and like
apologizing to every one he meets. But he soon sees he has done no harm;
that everybody, young and old, mothers and children, the passers‐by, the
coachmen, and even the horses themselves, are endowed with a dexterity,
good‐humor, and at the same time an energy that make their way through
everything. In a word, they all have such quickness of sight, hearing, and
motion that not a day passes in which miracles of skill are not effected
in these narrow streets, which not only prevent accidents from happening,
but even from being feared, and you are at last unwilling to admit there
is any crowd in Naples so compact, any street so narrow, or any descent so
perilous, as to make it necessary to leave the vehicle you are in, or
which the coachman who drives, and the horses he manages, cannot pass
without danger.
At the end of some such way as I have described it was necessary, in
addition to all this, in order to reach the monastery I am speaking of, to
stop at the foot of an acclivity the horses could not ascend, not on
account of its steepness, which would have been no obstacle, but because
every now and then there were steps to facilitate the ascent of
pedestrians, but which rendered it impassable for equipages of any kind
whatever. It had therefore to be ascended on foot, and, when once at the
top, there was still a flight of fifteen or twenty steps to climb before
reaching the broad terrace or platform before the gate through which
strangers were admitted to the convent.
If this ascent was difficult, it must be confessed one felt repaid for the
trouble of making it by the view from the terrace. Here the visitor
wandered along the narrow, gloomy streets through the old, historic city,
as well as its more elegant quarters, towards that side of the bay where
Vesuvius was to be seen in its most striking aspect, and from the summit
of the volcano followed its descent to the vast, smiling plain, more
charming even in that direction than that to the sea by Ottagno, Stabia,
and Castellamare. On every side the eye reposed on the verdant orange‐
trees growing in numberless gardens. Such was the outer world that
encircled my sister’s cloistered home. Such was the view from every window
on this side of the convent. On the other there was a more quiet prospect,
perhaps even better suited to contemplation—that of the cloister, with its
broad arcades of fine architecture, which surrounded an enclosure planted
with lemon‐trees, in the centre of which stood a massive antique fountain
of marble. The pines of Capo di Monte stood out against the clear sky,
further off were the heights of Sant’ Elmo, and along the horizon
stretched the majestic line of mountains which form the background of the
picture.
When able to tear my eyes from this magnificent prospect, lit up by all
the fires of the setting sun, I suddenly found myself in the somewhat
gloomy vestibule of the monastery, whence I was conducted to a large
parlor divided by a grate, behind which fell a long, black curtain. Here I
was left alone, with the assurance I should soon see my sister. I felt an
emotion I had not anticipated, and for the first time it seemed as if the
most horrible separation had taken place between us. The admiration I had
just experienced, and my joy at the prospect of seeing her again, both
vanished. My heart swelled with painful emotion, and it was with more
terror than devotion I looked up at a large crucifix—the only ornament on
the bare wall in front of the _grille_. As to the grate itself, it filled
me with horror, and I did not dare look at it.
All at once I heard the sound of a light step, the curtain was drawn
quickly aside, and a beloved voice softly uttered my name: “Gina!” Turning
around, I saw Livia, my sister, standing before me! The shock I received
could not have been greater if, supposing her dead, I had seen her descend
from the skies and appear thus suddenly before me. She wore the white veil
of a novice, and her habit, as well as the band across her forehead and
the _guimpe_ around her neck, was of the same color. Her face was radiant.
The dazzling rays of the setting sun suddenly poured in through the door
of the cloister, left open behind her, and she seemed to be wholly
enveloped in light. I gazed at her speechless with affection, surprise,
and I know not what other indefinable emotion.... I was almost afraid to
address her; but she did not appear to observe it. The words that rapidly
fell from her lips were animated, natural, and affectionate as ever—more
affectionate even. And there was the same tone of anxious solicitude. But
she was calmer, more serene, and even more gentle, and, though at times
she had the same tone of decision, there was no trace of the sadness and
austerity she sometimes manifested, in spite of herself, in former times
when an invisible cross darkened everything around her. The band that
concealed her hair revealed more clearly the extreme beauty of her eyes,
and while I stood gazing at her as if I had never studied her features
before, I felt she spoke truly in saying “the grates of the convent should
neither hide her face nor her heart from me.” Never had the one, I
thought, so faithfully reflected the other.
As to her, she by no means perceived the effect she had produced. She was
anxious to hear all I had been doing while absent, and asked me one
question after another with the same familiarity with which we used to
converse when side by side. Glad to be able to open my heart in this way,
I forgot, when I began, all I had to say if I would conceal nothing from
her. But my account soon became confused, and I suddenly stopped.
“Gina mia!” said she, “you do not tell me everything. Why is this? Is it
because you think I no longer take any interest in your worldly affairs?”
“It is not that alone, Livia, but it is really very difficult to speak of
Paris and the senseless life I led there before this grate and while
looking at you as you are now.”
“I shall always take as much pleasure in listening to you,” said she, “as
you do in talking to me. I admit, when our good aunt, Donna Clelia, comes
to see me with her daughters, I often assume a severe air, and tell them
what I think of the world; ... but I must confess my aunt does not get
angry with me, for she depends on my vocation to procure husbands for
Mariuccia and Teresina, who are worthy of them, because, as she says, a
person who consecrates herself to God brings good‐luck to all the family.
She no longer regards me as a _jettatrice_, I assure you!”
She laughed as she said this, and I could not help exclaiming with
surprise and envy:
“Livia, how happy you are to be so cheerful!”
Her face resumed its usual expression of sweet gravity, as she replied:
“I am cheerful, Gina, because I am happy. But you were formerly livelier
than I. Why are you no longer so, my dear sister? Cheerfulness is for
those whose souls are at peace.”
“O Livia!” I cried, not able to avoid a sincere reply to so direct a
question, “my heart is heavy with sorrow, I assure you, and the
cheerfulness you speak of is frequently wanting.”
She started with surprise at these words, and questioned me with an
angelic look.
I did not delay my reply. I felt the need of opening my heart, and resumed
the account I had broken off. I described without any circumlocution the
life of pleasure to which I had given myself up, at first through
curiosity and inclination, and in the end with weariness and disgust. I
spoke of the day at Paris when fervor, devotion, and good impulses awoke
in my soul, my meeting Mme. de Kergy, and all I had seen and felt in the
places I had visited in her company.
Finally, I endeavored, with a trembling voice, to explain all my hopes and
wishes with respect to Lorenzo, and the nature of the projects and
ambition I had for him. With a heart still affected at the remembrance I
depicted the new happiness—the new and higher life I had dreamed of for
him as well as myself!
Livia listened with joy to this part of my story, and her face brightened
while I was speaking. But, without explaining the cause of my
disappointment, I ended by telling her how complete it was, and this awoke
so many bitter remembrances at once that I was suffocated with emotion,
and for some moments I was unable to continue....
A cloud passed over her brow, and she suffered me to weep some moments in
silence.
“Your wishes were good and holy, Ginevra,” said she at length, “and God
will bless them sooner or later.”
I paid no heed to her words. A torrent of bitterness, jealousy, and grief
inundated my heart, and, feeling at liberty to say what concerned no one
but myself, I gave vent to thoughts I had often dwelt on in silence, but
now uttered aloud with vehemence and without any restriction.
Livia listened without interrupting me, and seemed affected at my
impetuosity. Standing motionless on the other side of the _grille_, her
hands crossed under her long, white scapular, and her downcast, thoughtful
eyes fastened on the ground, she seemed for a time to be listening rather
to the interior voice of my soul than to the words I uttered. At length
she slowly raised her eyes, and said with an accent difficult to describe:
“You say your heart feels the need of some object of affection—that not to
love would be death? You need, too, the assurance that the one you love is
wholly worthy of your affection?... Really,” continued she, smiling, “one
would say you wish Lorenzo to be perfect, which of course he is not, even
if as faultless as man is capable of being.”
She stopped, and the smile that played on her lips became almost
celestial. One would have said a ray of sunlight beamed across her face.
She continued:
“I understand you, Ginevra; I understand you perfectly, perhaps even
better than you do yourself, but I am not capable of solving the enigma
that perplexes you—of drawing aside the veil that now obscures the
light.... Oh! if I could!” said she, clasping her hands and raising her
eyes to heaven with fervor.“ To solve all your doubts—to give you the
light necessary to comprehend this mystery clearly—would require a miracle
beyond the power of any human being. God alone can effect this. May he
complete his work! May you merit it!”
The bell rang, and we hastily took leave of each other. It was dusk when I
left her. She assured me I could make her a similar visit every week, and
this prospect made me happy. I was happy to have seen her—happy to feel
she could still descend to my level from the holier region she inhabited,
and that there was nothing to hinder me from enjoying in the future the
sweet intercourse of the past.
But however fully I opened my heart to Livia, I should have considered it
profaning the purity of the air I breathed in her presence to utter the
name of Faustina Reali. And, without knowing why, neither did I mention
the name of Gilbert de Kergy.