I pretended to be very much surprised the next morning when Lando informed
me Gilbert was obliged to take his departure the following day in order to
join an English friend of his who was to accompany him to Egypt and had
sent a despatch he should be at Malta by the end of the week.
I recollect nothing more concerning that morning except my depression,
which only increased as the day advanced. Towards night this sadness
assumed a new character, and became still deeper in consequence of a
letter from Lorenzo, announcing his return the following day.
He had left Milan, and was now at Bologna. He was really there this time,
and not pretending to be, as when he went to Sorrento to see Donna
Faustina! Oh! what bitter thoughts, what feelings of indignation, were
awakened by the perusal of this letter, at once devoid of affection and
sincerity! He doubtless supposed a scandal published in so many
newspapers, though only the initials of the persons concerned were given,
had come to my knowledge, but he was in that sort of humor in which the
wrongs one has to endure produce an irritation against those who have the
most to suffer in consequence. It was evident he felt some regret for the
past, but there was not a symptom of repentance; and though he did not say
so directly, his letter seemed intended to warn me, as he had once done,
with regard to questions, advice, and promises, that he was not disposed
to endure the slightest reproach. Not a word that appealed to my
generosity, not one that could touch my heart! I could see nothing to
cheer and console me in that direction. All was dark and cold. Such was my
conviction on reading this letter. But I did not appear the less cheerful
when evening came to remind me that my interior struggle would be over in
a few hours, and the next day I should feel at liberty to yield without
restraint to thoughts I should no longer be afraid to betray.
The large drawing‐room on the ground floor which opened into the small
garden after the fashion of Pompeii, with its pillared portico, had been
arranged for the occasion by Lando, who had constructed a platform,
ornamented with lights and flowers, where the concert he had improvised
was to take place, varied by speeches.
Gilbert was to explain its object at the commencement, and at the end,
Angiolina, for whom Lando had begged this exceptionally long evening, was
to go around with a basket to collect the money intended for the poor
people whose lives had been saved by her mother.
Lando excelled in such arrangements, and, to tell the truth, he had left
nothing here to be desired. I must also add that all of our little
coterie, except Gilbert, Stella, and myself, eagerly participated in the
work.
My aunt, in particular, looked with a favorable eye on this mixture of
charity and amusement, which at once satisfied her kind heart and
gratified her dominant passion. It seemed to her a more delightful
invention had never been brought from beyond the Alps. Besides, she had
that very day made a discovery which put an end to her maternal indecision
with regard to her daughter’s fate. This indecision, in consequence of
Lando’s intentions, which became more and more evident, was caused neither
by the frivolity for which he might have been reproached, nor by the
extravagance with which he had squandered his modest patrimony, nor by any
other motive dictated by prudence, but solely by a difficulty which
vanished in the twinkling of an eye as soon as my aunt discovered a fact
she was before ignorant of, to wit, that Lando Landini, like a great many
younger sons of good family in Italy, had a right to assume, on marrying,
a title he had not heretofore borne. Oh! from that instant nothing more
was wanting. She had always found Don Landolfo nearly faultless, but now
he could offer her daughter the charming title of the Countess _del
Fiore_, he was perfection itself. After such a revelation, her consent was
not deferred for an instant. Lando, in the midst of the preparations he
was making, had taken time to come in haste to communicate the news. This
explained the air of triumph, as well as joy, with which my aunt made her
appearance in the evening, and the unusual brilliancy of Teresina’s black
eyes, greatly set off by the white dress and coral ornaments she wore. Her
sister had also something in her manner that evening that differed a
little from the unmeaning placidity which usually characterized her. She
was not as pretty as Teresina, but she had a more agreeable expression,
and a better right to the epithet of _simpatica_ which was sometimes given
her. Their faces were both flushed with the excitement produced in advance
by the pleasure of singing in company when it could be done without fear
and without any doubt of success. And my cousins had voices of superior
quality, such as are often met with in Italy, and harmonized wonderfully
together. They were, moreover, very good musicians, and though their style
was not perfect, every one listened to them with pleasure, more especially
the young amateur of music who had been appointed to accompany them that
evening. For some time, the Baron von Brunnenberg had regarded Mariuccia
in a most sentimental manner; but hitherto the handsome young Englishman,
Harry Leslie, seemed to please her more than the baron, and consequently
she had always treated the latter with more or less coldness. It was
evident, however, that Leslie, since the evening on Mt. Vesuvius, had not
a thought or look, or scarcely a word, for any body but Stella. I often
wondered if this had any effect on her, as I observed her occasionally
pensive air so unlike her usual self. However the case might be, Mariuccia
had drawn therefrom a practical conclusion for her own personal benefit:
Leslie did not care for her; she must therefore resign herself and turn to
some one else. This resignation led her to favor the baron with such
smiles as he had never obtained before, so that he also was radiant, and
the group around the piano presented an appearance of the utmost
satisfaction. I felt a sensation of surprise as I looked at their smiling
faces and heard their merry voices. I seemed to be separated from them by
an impassable grate that permitted me to see and hear them, but absolutely
prevented me from approaching to participate in their liveliness and joy.
“Happiness ... gaiety ... hope ... all these are at an end for me!” said I
to myself. Nevertheless, I fulfilled all it was incumbent on me to do, and
succeeded in appearing nearly the same as usual.
At length, all the company arrived, and when they had taken their places
and every eye was turned towards the platform, I took Angiolina, and,
going to the embrasure of a window, I sat down where I was half concealed,
and took the child on my knee. The company of this angelic little creature
was not only always delightful and soothing, but she had a singularly
precocious instinct of the beautiful which excited my wonder and made me
keep my eyes on her while she was listening to music, and even to poetry
whose rhythm delighted her ear even when the words were beyond her
comprehension, especially when it was her mother who was repeating it. At
such times nothing was more touching than to behold the animated
expression of her sparkling blue eyes and the tremulous movement of her
childish mouth!... I now clasped her in my arms, and it seemed as if the
agitation of my heart subsided as I embraced her!
The baron first played, by way of overture, a piece of Mendelssohn’s which
disposed the audience to be attentive: then, after a moment’s silence,
Gilbert made his appearance. He was extremely pale, and seemed to be
making a great effort to rise above some great moral or physical
suffering. This was so evident that he might have claimed the indulgence
of the audience and excused himself on the plea of a real or pretended
indisposition. But presently his voice grew stronger, the orator was
roused, and his manner, usually so unpretending, became what it always was
when he spoke in public—imposing, brilliant, and impressive. What he said
at first I cannot tell. Too many recollections crowded on my mind at once
as he made his appearance, reminding me of the day when I first heard him
at the Hôtel de Kergy. I remembered what I was then, what my feelings,
what my hopes were. I thought of all the changes that had since taken
place, and what a singular coincidence it was that he should appear before
me on the day of our separation in the same way as when we met for the
first time! My attention was soon drawn to the words of the speaker by the
murmur of approbation, that soon increased to enthusiastic applause, with
which they were received. To speak of Vesuvius at Naples, and to
Neapolitans, in a way to excite their interest, requires a _tour de
force_, and this feat he was able to accomplish. With the ready
appreciation of ability which characterized his audience, the difficulty
he had to surmount was felt, and lively spontaneous applause interrupted
him at every instant, as he mingled poetry, art, and history with an
originality and grace that did not permit the least appearance of pedantry
to diminish the charm of his profound, unstudied erudition. But when he
finally came to the account he was appointed to give of our recent
excursion, and began by describing the spot where we had witnessed the
eruption together, I could not repress a thrill of emotion. I fancied, his
eyes had detected me in the corner where I was concealed, and when he
added _that he felt in the presence of that spectacle a profound emotion
the remembrance of which could never be effaced, however long the duration
of his life_! I leaned my forehead against Angiolina’s fair head as if
everybody could understand the double meaning of his words, and for some
minutes I heard nothing but the rapid beating of my heart....
All at once the child looked eagerly up, and touching my cheek with her
little hand to attract my attention, she said in a joyful tone:
“Listen, listen to what he is saying about mamma!”
Then everything else was forgotten for an instant but the pleasure of
hearing Stella’s courageous deed related in the noble, incomparable
language peculiar to Gilbert. There was a burst of applause on all sides,
and I was about to add mine when my attention was suddenly attracted and
concentrated in an unexpected direction, as if dazzled by one of those
repeated flashes of lightning that set the heavens aflame, and which is
distinguished from the others by a more terrible brilliancy.
It had occurred to Lando to ornament the platform with shrubs and flowers,
in order to conceal from the spectators those who were to take part in the
performance till it was their turn to appear. Stella was in this way
concealed from everybody but me. From the place to which I had betaken
myself I could see her distinctly, and follow every movement she made,
without her being aware of it. I was soon surprised and struck with the
effect of the address she was listening to. It was not merely attention;
it was not interest; it was a breathless emotion which contracted her
features, and to such a degree that I thought she was going to faint. I
had already risen to go to her assistance, when I was struck with a sudden
idea which nailed me to the spot—an idea that no sooner crossed my mind
than it became a certainty, and caused me such terrible anguish that I was
frightened. I looked at her steadily, trying to imagine and read her
thoughts, and while penetrating to the depths of her heart, I felt mine
sink within me. Alas! Why should the discovery I thought I had made thus
cause me to tremble and shudder? Why did it seem as if I had been struck
by an arrow that pierced me to the heart?
I endeavored to overcome the repugnance I was so weak as to feel in my
soul. Yes, I tried to regard Stella in the new light that had just dawned
on me, and to consider him in this same light—him!... I tried to say to
myself without shrinking that before me was the very one of whom I had
spoken the evening before; who was at once beautiful, good, noble‐hearted,
and worthy of him—and one whom he could love without fear, without
scruple, without remorse. I tried to do all this, and like every effort to
rise above self, this did me good, perhaps, and rendered me stronger; but
I did not gain the victory.
As soon as Gilbert finished speaking, I watched him, in spite of myself,
while Stella’s name was mingled with his in the enthusiastic acclamations
of the audience, and—shall I avow it?—I noticed with pleasure that he left
the platform without the least thought of approaching her. He slipped away
as quickly as he could through a little door that opened on the portico,
and from the shadowy recess where I was sitting, I could see him in the
moonlight leaning against a pillar in the attitude of one who is reposing
after some great effort or long constraint.
I was for some time incapable of giving the least attention to what was
going on around me. I vaguely listened to _A te sacrai Regina_, to which
Mariuccia’s fine contralto voice gave wonderful expression; and after this
duet from _Semiramis_, various other pieces were played by the baron. One
of these gave me a thrill, and brought me back to a sense not only of the
present but of the past. It was the air of Chopin’s which Diana de Kergy
played at Paris on that other farewell occasion! Everything to‐night
seemed combined to overwhelm me with recollections and emotion! I could
hardly bear to listen to this music, it so overpowered me with its
heartrending, passionate character. My eyes, in spite of my efforts, were
already filled with tears when the young amateur abruptly stopped and
struck up a waltz from Strauss, with so much spirit and _brio_ that
Angiolina jumped down, as if drawn by some irresistible impulse, and began
to whirl around, holding her little dress up with both hands. All those in
the assembly who were still in their teens seemed strongly tempted to
follow her example; but the waltz soon ended, silence was restored, and
Angiolina returned to my side as Stella, in her turn, made her appearance.
The object of the _soirée_ sufficiently accounted for the acclamations
with which she was received—a marked homage to the noble deed that had
just been eulogized in such eloquent terms. When these subsided, the
silence became profound.
Stella remained motionless while all these demonstrations were going on
around her in her honor, and did not seem to be aware of them. I can see
her still in her white dress, the flowing sleeves of which displayed her
hands and arms. Her only ornament was a circlet of gold, which confined
the waving masses of her thick, brown hair. She did not look paler than
usual, for her complexion, of dazzling whiteness, rarely had any color;
her eyelashes and eyebrows were as dark as her hair, and her eyes, when
nothing animated her, were of a rather dull gray; but at the least emotion
the pupils seemed to dilate, and deepen in hue, and then nothing could
surpass their brilliancy! This change was especially remarkable when she
exercised the natural talent for declamation which she possessed without
having ever cultivated it. Her sense of the poetic was profound and
accurate, and her voice, full and sonorous, was precisely adapted to
express what she felt at the moment in her heart. To this were added
simple, natural gestures, which the mere movement of her beautiful hands
and arms always rendered noble and graceful. There was no affectation
about her, and yet her face, usually animated by extreme gaiety, possessed
a strange tragical power. Such was Stella’s talent—a sufficiently faithful
reflection of the character of her soul.
During the noisy manifestations that greeted her appearance, she was
apparently very calm, as I have just described her; but her hands were
clasped nervously together, and an almost imperceptible movement of her
lips indicated more agitation than she manifested outwardly. But this
repressed emotion added to the very charm of her voice when she began with
incomparable grace a sonnet from Zappi; and when, striking another chord,
she repeated a scene from one of Manzoni’s finest tragedies, there was a
genuine thrill of admiration in the audience. I noticed poor Harry Leslie,
in particular, who was touched, excited, amazed. I looked around for
Gilbert—and (pardon me, O my God!—forgive me, Stella!) I was glad to see
he was not present. The very power which each of them possessed in a
different way of moving an audience seemed to establish a relationship
between them, the bare thought of which made me suffer, and this suffering
was as harrowing as remorse!
Finally, Stella began the canto at the end of the _Divina Commedia_, which
commences with this prayer—certainly the most beautiful ever inspired by
genius and piety: “_O Vergin Madre! figlia del tuo Figlio!_”(153) At that
moment Gilbert reappeared. He did not enter the room, but remained leaning
against the door. Nevertheless, I saw a slight flush pass over Stella’s
brow; I heard her voice tremble; and I knew she was aware of his presence
and had lost some of her self‐control. As for him, I saw he was surprised
and astonished. He added his applause to that of the whole assembly. But
when they all rose at the end to crowd around Stella, his eyes turned in a
different direction, and it was evident he thought of her no longer.
At that instant, little Angiolina, who was leaning against my shoulder,
mutely contemplating her mother, and only saying from time to time in a
low voice, “How beautiful! Isn’t it beautiful?” as if she were listening
to some musical strain, was borne away by Harry Leslie, who, as was
appropriate, had been appointed to accompany the little _quêteuse_. There
was now a bustle and general confusion, as is often the case after
prolonged silence and attention, and everybody seemed wild with gaiety. To
this merriment was added the noise of a deafening march which the baron
played, as he said, by way of accompaniment to the triumphant progress of
the child borne around the room on Leslie’s shoulder to receive the
contributions that were to end the _soirée_.
The contrast between the state of my mind and all this tumult, animation,
and gaiety, only served to heighten the agitation of my soul to the
utmost. All the doors and windows of the room were open, and I
mechanically went out and leaned for a moment against the same pillar
where I had seen Gilbert only a short time before. While standing there, I
suddenly heard his voice beside me:
“Adieu! madame,” said he in a low, trembling tone.
“Adieu, Gilbert! May heaven protect you!” I replied, extending my hand. He
took it, pressed it to his lips, gave it a slight pressure, and that was
all.... He was gone! I followed him with my eyes, by the bright moonlight,
till he disappeared under the trees of the avenue.
I remained motionless in the place where I was, looking alternately at the
garden around me bathed in the light of the moon, and at the brilliantly
illuminated _salon_ within. And while my eyes wandered from one to the
other, it seemed as if everything before me disappeared never to return,
that these bright lights were about to be extinguished never to be
relighted again, this numerous assembly dispersed never to be reunited,
and it was the last time I was to mingle in the gay world surrounded by
all the display that wealth could afford. The impression was singular; but
what is certain, I felt at that very moment all my happiness was over,
that which was dangerous as well as that which was legitimate, pleasure as
well as repose, joy as well as peace, memory as well as hope! It was a
moment of agony, but the sufferings of such agony, however terrible they
may be, are they not, like a mother’s throes, the signs and prelude of
life?