Naples at that time was styled by some one “a small capital and a large
city,” and this designation was correct. The society, though on a small
scale, was of the very highest grade, consisting of an aristocracy exempt
from the least haughtiness, and retaining all the habits and manners of
bygone times. However frivolous this society might be in appearance, its
defects were somewhat redeemed by an originality and lack of affectation
which wholly excluded the vexatious and insupportable _ennui_ produced by
frivolity and pretension when, as often happens, they are found together.
With a few exceptions, devoid of great talents or very profound
acquirements, it had wit in abundance, as well as a singular aptitude for
seizing and comprehending everything. If to all this we add the most
cordial reception and the readiest, warmest welcome, it will at once be
seen that those who were admitted to this circle could not help carrying
away an ineffaceable remembrance of it.
But the special, characteristic trait which distinguished Naples from
every other city, large or small, was, strange to say, and yet true, the
utter absence of all gossip, slander, or ridicule. The women unanimously
defended one another, and no man, under the penalty of being considered
ill‐bred, ever ventured to speak ill of one of their number, unless
perhaps by one of those slight movements of the features which constitute,
in that country, a language apart—very eloquent, it is true, and perfectly
understood by every one, but which never produces the same effect as
actual words. It was generally said, and almost always with truth,
whenever there was any new gossip in circulation, which sometimes
happened, that “no doubt some stranger had a finger in it”! To complete
this picture, we will add that there was a circle of ladies in Neapolitan
society who fully equalled in beauty and grace the generation before them,
which was celebrated in this respect throughout Italy.
It may be affirmed, therefore, without fear of denial on the part of any
contemporary, that the general result of all this was to produce a kind of
_beau‐ideal_ of gay society.
Among these ladies was one I particularly remarked, and who speedily
became my friend. Lorenzo had predicted this the day (afterwards so
fatally memorable to me) when for the first time the name of the Contessa
Stella di San Giulio met my eyes. To tell the truth, this remembrance at
first took away all desire to make her acquaintance. It seemed to me
(yielding no doubt to a local superstition) that the day on which I first
heard the name of Faustina could bring me no luck. But this prejudice was
soon overcome. It was sufficient to see her to feel at once attracted
towards her. At first sight, however, there was something imposing in her
features and manner, but this impression immediately changed. As soon as
she began to converse, her eyes, the pleasing outline of her face, and her
whole person, were lit up by an enchanting smile on her half‐open lips—a
smile that the pencil of Leonardo da Vinci alone could depict. It is among
the women who served as models to this great, incomparable master that a
likeness to Stella must be sought. It is by studying the faces of which he
has left us the inimitable type we recognize, notwithstanding their
smiling expression, a certain firmness and energy which exclude all idea
of weakness, nonchalance, or indolence. Stella’s physiognomy, too,
expressed courage and patience, and they were predominant traits in her
character. She was, however, vivacious, versatile, and so lively as to
seem at times to take too light a view of everything; but, when better
known, no one could help admiring the rare faculty with which heaven
enabled her to bear cheerfully the heavy trials of life, and feeling that
her gayety was courage in its most attractive aspect.
Married at eighteen, she had seen this union, with which convenience had
more to do than inclination, dissolved at the end of two years: her
husband died soon after the birth of her only child. From that time family
circumstances obliged her to live with an uncle, who was the guardian of
her child, and had, in this capacity, the right to meddle with everything
relating to both mother and daughter—a right which his wife, a woman of
difficult and imperious temper, likewise arrogated in a manner that would
have exhausted the patience of any one else; but Stella’s never failed
her. Feeling it important for the future interests of her little Angiolina
to accept the condition imposed by her widowhood, she submitted to it
courageously without asking if there was any merit in so doing. Her
liveliness, which had been so long subdued, returned beneath the smiles of
her child, and, as often happens to those who are young, nature gained the
ascendency and triumphed over all there was to depress her. Angiolina was
now five years old, and was growing up without perceiving the gloomy
atmosphere that surrounded the nest of affection and joy in which her
mother sheltered her, and the latter found her child so sweet a resource
that she no longer seemed to feel anything was wanting in her lot.
This intimacy added much to the happiness of a life which began to please
me far beyond my expectations. The gay world, with which I thought myself
so completely disgusted, took a new and more subtle aspect in my eyes than
that I had so soon become weary of. But in yielding to this charm it
seemed to me I was pleasing Lorenzo and seconding his desire to make our
house one of the most brilliant in Naples. Nevertheless, he resumed his
labors, and passed whole hours in his studio, where he seemed wholly
absorbed, as formerly, in his art. I found him there more than anywhere
else, as he was before our fatal journey. He had begun again with renewed
ardor on his Vestal, which was now nearly completed, and was considered
the most perfect work that ever issued from his hands. He attributed the
honor of his success to his model, and, though formerly more annoyed than
flattered by suffrages of this kind, I now welcomed the compliment as a
presage of days like those of former times.
The first time I entered the studio after my return I sought with jealous
anxiety some trace of the remembrance that haunted me, and seemed to find
it on every hand. In a Sappho whose passionate, tragical expression alone
had struck me before, and the Bacchante which seemed at once beautiful and
repulsive, I imagined I could trace the features, alas! too perfect not to
be graven in the imagination of a sculptor in spite of himself.... I saw
them, above all, in a Proserpine, hidden by accident, or on purpose, in an
obscure corner of the studio, which struck me as a sudden apparition of
her fatal beauty. Finally, I saw them also in the other Vestal, to which
the one I sat for was the pendant. It was then only I remembered with
pleasure he said when he first began it that _no one before me_ had
realized the ideal he was trying to embody.
Haunted by these recollections, I began to find my sittings in the studio
painful and annoying, but I did not manifest my feelings. I had acquired
some control over them, and felt it was not for my interest to revive, by
a fresh display of jealousy, a remembrance that seemed to be dormant, or
again excite a displeasure that appeared to be extinguished. Besides, the
likeness that haunted me so persistently became in time more vague and
uncertain, and seemed likely to disappear entirely. The current of gayety
and pleasure that now surrounded me absorbed me more and more. The very
light of the sun at Naples is a feast for the heart as well as the eyes.
It is a region that has no sympathy with gloom, or even the serious side
of life, and it must be confessed that the social ideal I have spoken of
is not the most salutary and elevated in the world. It must also be
acknowledged that if it is not absolutely true that this charming region
is the classic land of the _far niente_, as it has been called (for the
number of people everywhere who do nothing make me think all skies and all
climes favorable to them), it is nevertheless indubitable that every one
feels a mingled excitement and languor at Naples which oblige him to
struggle continually against the double temptation to enjoy at all hours
the beauty of the earth and sky, and afterwards to give himself up
unresistingly to the repose he feels the need of. When weary of this
struggle, when nothing stimulates his courage to continue it, he is soon
intoxicated and overpowered by the very pleasure of living. One day
follows another without thinking to ask how they have been spent. The
interest taken in serious things grows less, the strength necessary for
such things diminishes, all effort is burdensome; and as this joyous,
futile life does not seem in any way wrong or dangerous, he no longer
tries to resist it, but suffers the subtle poison which circulates in the
air to infuse inactivity into the mind, indifference and effeminacy in the
heart, and even to the depths of the soul itself.
Such were the influences to which I gave myself up, but not without some
excuse, perhaps. At my age this reaction of gayety and love of pleasure
was natural. After the experience I had passed through, I felt the need of
something to divert me—the need of forgetting. How, then, could I possibly
resist all there was around me to amuse and enable me to forget? Of course
I had not forgotten Mme. de Kergy, or Diana, or the eloquence of Gilbert,
but I had nearly lost all the pure, noble, and soul‐stirring sentiments my
acquaintance with them had awakened; and if any unacknowledged danger
lurked therein, it had so ephemeral an influence on me that all trace was
effaced, as a deadly odor passes away that we only inhaled for a moment.
As for my charming Stella, she no more thought of giving me advice than of
setting me an example. She shared with me her happiest hours in the day,
but I could not follow her in the courageous course of her hidden daily
life. I did not see her during the hours when, with a brow as serene, a
face as tranquil, as that with which she welcomed me at a later hour, she
immolated her tastes and wishes, and by the perpetual sacrifice of herself
earned the means of rendering her daughter as happy as she pleased. I saw
her, on the contrary, during my daily drive with her and Angiolina—one of
the greatest pleasures of the day for us all. To see them together, the
mother as merry as the child, one would have supposed the one as happy, as
fully exempt from all care, as the other!... We often took long drives in
this way, sometimes beyond the extreme point of Posilippo, sometimes to
Portici, or even to Capo di Monte. There we would leave our carriage and
forget ourselves in long conversations while Angiolina was running about,
coming every now and then to throw herself into her mother’s arms or mine.
I loved her passionately, and it often seemed to me, as I embraced her,
that I felt for her something of that love which is the strongest on
earth, and makes us endure the privation of all other affection. Angiolina
was, it is true, one of those children better fitted than most to touch
the maternal fibre that is hidden in every womanly heart. She had accents,
looks, and moods of silence which seemed to indicate a soul attentive to
voices that are not of this world, and sometimes, at the sight of her
expressive childish face, one could not help wondering if she did not
already hear those of heaven.
Lorenzo from time to time made a journey to the North of Italy, in order
to see to his property. His absence, always short, and invariably
explained, caused me neither pain nor offence. He seemed happy to see me
again at his return, and appeared to enjoy much more than I, even, the gay
life we both led. He devoted his mornings to work, but spent his evenings
with me, either in society or at the theatre of San Carlo, where,
according to the Italian custom in those days, we went much less to enjoy
the play, or even the music, than to meet our friends. As for gaming, I
had reason to believe he had entirely renounced it, for he never touched a
card in my presence. The twofold danger, therefore, which had threatened
my peace, seemed wholly averted, and I once more resumed my way with
confidence and security, as a bird, beaten by the tempest, expands its
wings at the return of the sun, and sings, as it flies heavenward, as if
clouds and darkness were never to return!
But in the midst of this new dawn of happiness I was gliding almost
imperceptibly but rapidly down, and suffering my days to pass in
constantly‐increasing indolence. It is true my good Ottavia, who had been
with me since Livia’s entrance at the convent, reminded me of the days and
hours assigned for the practices of devotion she had taught me in my
childhood, which, though not piety itself, serve to keep it alive. Without
her I should probably have forgotten them all. I thought of nothing but
how to be happy, and I was so because I seemed to have recovered absolute
empire over Lorenzo’s heart.... My lofty aspirations for him had vanished
like some fanciful dream no longer remembered. The charm of his mental
qualities and his personal attractions gave him a kind of supremacy in the
circle where he occupied the foremost rank, and had every desirable
pretext for gratifying his taste for display; while, on the other hand,
the aureola of genius that surrounded him prevented his life from
appearing, and even from being, wholly vain.
It was vain, however, as every one’s life is that has no light from above.
I was not yet wholly incapable of feeling this, but I was becoming more
and more incapable of suffering from it.
It is not in this way the vigor of the soul is maintained or renewed.
Livia alone had not lost her beneficent influence over me. A word from her
had the same effect as the strong, correct tone of the diapason, which
gives the ear warning when the notes begin to flatten. Every descent,
however gradual, is difficult to climb again, and I did not at all
perceive the ground I had lost till I found myself face to face with new
trials and new dangers.