My mother, in portraying the lineaments of my youthful soul, once spoke of
a precious jewel hidden in its depths. She doubtless referred to the
inclination for what is right and the lively horror of evil she discovered
there. But does not this jewel exist with more or less purity and
brilliancy in the depths of every human soul, requiring only a perverted
will to crush it utterly, or a feeble, undecided will to tarnish its
lustre and diminish its value? My life, though not very culpable in
appearance, was now drawing me in its soft current into that state of
sluggishness, inaction, and weakness which is a dissolvent of this
supernatural jewel without any equal in the natural world.
Lorenzo, notwithstanding his jealous vigilance during the earlier period
of our married life, did not hesitate to take me to all the theatres, and
at Paris he placed in my hands some of the most celebrated romances of the
day. This somewhat disturbed the equilibrium of my mind, and produced a
certain agitation of soul, which is the natural consequence of an
unhealthy interest in works to which genius and talent have the cruelty to
lend their irresistible power. When we reflect on the value of these
divine gifts, the source from which they emanate, and their power of
diffusing light and awakening the mental faculties, we cannot help
thinking how cruel it is to employ them in kindling everywhere a fire so
destructive to the human soul—the only real, irrevocable death.
But, in spite of the inevitable effect spoken of above, the strong disgust
and repugnance they speedily produced in my mind prevented their poisonous
emanations from affecting me seriously. Now, after being so long exposed
to influences doubtless less deleterious than those, but by no means
strengthening, a more subtle snare was laid for me.... The letter I held
in my hand was not an effusion that should instantly have aroused my
conscience, which, though torpid, was not hardened; no, its language was
such that I read and reread it, and allowed the sentiments it expressed to
penetrate my very heart. And yet, what was the substance of this letter;
what was its real signification? However noble and superior to other men
Gilbert might appear in my eyes, of what avail was this nobleness, this
superiority, this purity of his soul even, when he began to tread the
lower path of common mortals with the vain thought that he could maintain
a straight course better than others; ... that he could make me so
decidedly explicit a declaration, and promise me an inviolable respect,
which he immediately deviated from the first time he had the
opportunity?...
But this truth did not at that time appear in the light in which I saw it
at a later day, and a terrible struggle took place in my heart. Illusion
was no longer possible. I could no longer say I had a sure, faithful
friend whose attachment was allowable, and yet I could not decide to give
it up. I tried to persuade myself, with all those arguments that present
themselves as soon as one is ready to listen to them, that this sacrifice
was unnecessary. In the bottom of my soul, however, another voice made
itself heard, repeating more strongly the warning of the night before—a
sweet, divine voice, scarcely audible in the midst of all this agitation,
and, when heard, was not listened to!
That was the day I usually went to see Livia, but it was quite late before
I remembered it. My first thought was to omit going for once, but as I had
always been punctual at these interviews, in spite of every obstacle, and
Saturday was the only day I could be received, after some minutes’
hesitation I surmounted the temptation to remain at home.
During the whole period of frivolous gayety that marked the first months
of my life at Naples, far from wishing to avoid seeing Livia, I took
pleasure, on the contrary, in asking her advice, which I was by no means
as afraid of, even in Carnival time, as my Aunt Clelia. I was something
like a place besieged and almost surrounded by the enemy, but still not
wholly inaccessible to the friendly power disposed to deliver it. As I
have said elsewhere, Livia’s voice always took a correct pitch,
unmistakable to the ear, and I loved to listen to it, even when mine was
too weak to sound the same note with like power and clearness.
But from the day of Lorenzo’s departure, so doubly fatal, instead of the
careless gayety I usually went to the convent to acknowledge and correct,
I was filled with a sadness and anxiety Livia was not slow to perceive,
and, instead of gently shaking her head, as she smiled at my account of
the somewhat too gay a life into which I had been led by Lorenzo, she now
fastened a grave, anxious look on me, to which I replied by pouring out
all the bitterness of my fresh grievances without any restraint. After
this explanation, which sufficiently accounted for the change she had
remarked, I spoke no more of myself, and never once mentioned Gilbert’s
name. I was angry with myself for this reserve. I longed to overcome it,
and tell her, as I had often told myself, that in Gilbert heaven had sent
me a friend whose influence was delightful, salutary, elevated, pure, and
so on. These words came to my lips, but I could not utter them before her.
Once (it was the Saturday before) there was a new change in the expression
of my face—a change which reflected, I suppose, the insecure and dangerous
happiness to which I had unscrupulously yielded. Seeing me appear with a
smiling air and a calm, untroubled face, she at first seemed pleased, but,
after observing me for some time, said:
“Has Lorenzo returned?”
“No.”
She looked thoughtful.
“Do you know when he will return?”
“I do not know,” said I bitterly; “and, in fact, I begin never to expect
him, and almost not to wish him to return.”
I saw a slight movement of her clasped hands like a shudder. She raised
her large eyes, and, looking me in the face, said:
“Take care.”
Her look and words greatly troubled me, and I did not recover from the
impression till it was time for Gilbert to arrive in the evening, when his
presence made me forget it. I thought of this to‐day, and perhaps the
remembrance added to the repugnance I felt to go to the convent. Perhaps
it also caused the unusual emotion I experienced when I found myself once
more in the parlor—the very parlor that filled me with so much terror the
first time I entered it, but which I afterwards forgot, so different were
the impressions that followed.
But whatever the joy, the trouble, the agitation, or, as to‐day, the
anguish, with which I came, a few minutes sufficed to put me in harmony
with the inexpressible tranquillity that reigned around me. The pulsations
of my heart diminished, and I experienced the effect a pure, vivifying air
produces on one who has just come from a heavy, feverish atmosphere. The
bare walls, the wooden seats, the extreme simplicity and austerity on
every side, inspired me with a kind of attraction that would have
surprised those who daily saw me in my sumptuous home, surrounded by all
that wealth and the most refined taste could procure. This attraction,
incomprehensible to myself, was like that vague perfume the traveller
breathes when approaching some unknown shore which he does not yet
perceive....
But on this occasion these things, instead of producing their usually
beneficial, soothing effect, caused me a kind of uneasiness akin to
remorse, and I soon found the solitude so difficult to endure that I had
some idea of profiting by the interval that remained in order to leave the
convent under some pretext without seeing my sister. But the strength of
mind that, thank heaven, I still possessed prevented me from leaving the
place, and I became absorbed in thoughts I dared not fathom, so utterly
discordant were they with everything around me, and so different from what
they seemed in the light by which I regarded them only an hour before.
At last the door opened, the curtain was drawn aside, and Livia made her
appearance.
“You are late, Gina,” said she. “I was afraid I should not see you to‐
day.”
I stammered some excuse, as she gave me a scrutinizing look with her usual
expression of extreme sweetness.
“You do not look so happy as you did last Saturday, Ginevra. You are
agitated and excited to‐day. Will you not tell me the reason?”
I was tempted to make her a thorough, sincere confession; but the moment I
was about to begin I was struck with the impossibility of speaking in that
angelic place of what seemed elsewhere only natural, excusable, and almost
legitimate.
Seeing I made no reply, she gently said:
“Lorenzo has not yet come home. Of course his absence afflicts you. Be
patient and forbearing, I conjure you, Ginevra.”
Her words caused me a kind of irritation, though I was glad to elude her
previous question, and I hastily replied:
“Livia, you require too much of me. Some day I may become patient and
forbearing, but at present it is impossible.”
“Gina, Gina, do not say so,” said she in the tone in which she used to
correct the faults of my childhood.
“O Livia! your poor sister finds life hard, I assure you. How happy you
are!...”
“Yes, I am happy,” she softly replied.
“Who would have said it, however,” I continued in an agitated tone, “when
Lorenzo came to woo me with so many assurances of affection, so many
promises of happiness?... That all this should prove false and
illusory!... Oh! when I think of it, I no longer have the strength to....”
“Ginevra!” said Livia, suddenly interrupting me in a tone of authority,
“it is useless to talk in that manner. You speak like a child!”
She seldom spoke to me in this way, and I stopped.
“At the time you are speaking of,” she resumed, “do you remember my
telling you one day—it was only a short time before your marriage....”