When I returned to the drawing‐room, I found scarcely any one left. Leslie
came to tell me Stella had gone away without bidding me good night,
because she was in a hurry to take Angiolina home as soon as the
collection was ended. Presently nobody remained. Silence once more
reigned, and I found myself alone, face to face with myself!
But I by no means experienced the happiness that so often results from the
accomplishment of a duty, or the consummation of a sacrifice. On the
contrary, I felt a desolation which was the prelude of a state of mind
which was to render the following days gloomy beyond any I ever spent in
my life—gloomy! yes, as the profound darkness of night just before the
dawn!
While Gilbert remained, I did not allow myself to analyze my feelings for
fear of shaking my resolution. I was able to maintain it to the end; but
as soon as he was gone, I gave free course to every thought that could
aggravate my sufferings. I now experienced that isolation which, from
childhood, I had dreaded more than death! Lorenzo no longer cared for me,
I should never behold Gilbert again, and the friendship of Stella, the
only one who comprehended and pitied me, I was not sure of preserving!
I now began to recall, and study, so to speak, all that had taken place
during the evening just at an end, but this only seemed to increase the
conviction that had taken such strong possession of my mind. I felt
determined, however, to ascertain the truth. I would satisfy my mind. I
would question her till she told me exactly all that was passing in her
heart.
But Stella, with all her gaiety, was not a person who could readily be
induced to make a confidential disclosure of her most secret thoughts.
Without the least dissimulation, she was impenetrable. She knew how to
enter fully into the feelings of others—their joys and, above all, their
sufferings. But if, on the other hand, any one sought to participate in
hers, a smile, the opening of her large eyes, or a slight movement of her
lips and shoulders, seemed to forbid looking beneath the serene expression
of her smiling face. The truth was, she thought very little about herself.
There was no duplicity in the habit she had acquired of never lifting the
veil that concealed the inner workings of her heart, for she did not try
to raise it herself, and was by no means curious to fathom all that was
passing there.
When I saw her again, I found her, therefore, nearly the same as usual—a
little graver, perhaps, and somewhat more quiet, but that was all. As to
questioning her, I did not dare to, and the query soon rose in my mind:
Have I read her heart aright? And to this immediately succeeded another:
Has she read mine? I dwelt on these questions a long time without being
able to answer them to my satisfaction.
What inclined me to decide in the affirmative was the care we both took to
avoid mentioning Gilbert’s name, the tacit agreement we made not to
prolong our interview, and the facility with which, under some trifling
pretext, she excused herself from driving out with me, though she
consented to let me take her little Angiolina.
I set off, therefore, with the child, and drove beyond Posilippo where the
road descends to the water’s edge. There I left the carriage, and taking
the child, I went down to the shore and seated myself so near the sea that
the waves died softly away at my feet. I had a particular fancy for this
spot. Seated there in full view of Nisita, with Ischia, Procida, Capo
Miseno, and Baja in the distance, Pozzuoli at the right, and the heights
of Posilippo and Camaldoli at the left and behind, I seemed to be a
thousand leagues from the inhabited world, in a spot where it was easier
than anywhere else to forget all the rest of the universe.
While I sat there silently gazing around me, Angiolina was running about
gathering sea‐shells to fill the little basket she had brought for the
purpose. Occasionally she stopped and clapped her hands with delight as
she looked around. More than ever did I at that moment envy Stella the
happiness that prevented her from feeling the isolation and intolerable
void in which I was plunged! I envied her, and forgot to pity her! I
forgot, moreover, to tremble for her! One would have thought the saying:
“_Aux légers plaisirs les souffrances légères; aux grands bonheurs les
maux inouis_,” or, at least, the evident truth they contain, had never
struck my mind!
At that time I only dreamed of human happiness under every conceivable
form—a happiness that seemed to be accorded and permitted to others, but
of which I was for ever deprived. And while Angiolina continued to ramble
about, not far off, I ceased admiring the spectacle before me, and
suddenly burying my face in my hands, I burst into tears. At the same
instant I felt Angiolina’s little arms around my neck.
“Zia Gina!” she exclaimed (she had heard her mother call me Gina, as well
as sister, and composed therefrom the name she always gave me). “Zia Gina,
what makes you cry?”
“I am sad, Lina,” said I, my tears falling on her beautiful fair curls.
“Why?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Can you tell the good God?”
What a singular question!... She made me blush, and, after a moment’s
reflection, I replied somewhat evasively:
“One can tell him everything, Lina, for he is our Father.”
“Yes, I know he is our Father; I call him so every day.”
Her attention was diverted an instant by a butterfly she saw floating by.
She watched it till it flew away, and then resumed:
“Then, my dear Zia Gina, you must pray God to console you.”
“Pray for me, _carina_.”
After some reflection, she said: “I only know two prayers—the Our Father
and Ave Maria: which shall I say for you?”
“Say both of them.”
“Yes, certainly: Our Father first; I like it so much.”
And there on the shore she folded her hands, raised her eyes, as blue as
the heavens to which she raised them, and with her clear, silvery voice
softly repeated the divine words. If ever there were lips on earth worthy
of being the echo of that voice which once uttered this prayer that we
might learn it, they were certainly the innocent lips now repeating it
beside me! I too clasped my hands and joined in her prayer.
When it was ended, she stopped a moment with a thoughtful air, and then
repeated: “Deliver us from all evil.”
“But, as I am praying for you, ought not I to say to Our Father: Deliver
Zia Gina from all evil?”
“Yes, my darling,” exclaimed I, embracing her: “yes, pray always in this
way for me, and may God hear and bless you!”
Her angelic face, her piety and innocence, completely diverted my mind
from my sorrows. I only felt an infinite joy at not having rendered myself
unworthy to hear the words she had just uttered. I had suffered; I still
suffered, of course; but I had prayed, and still prayed, to be delivered
from temptation and sin, and it seemed to me a ray from heaven had fallen
on me in answer to this angel’s prayer!
But this impression, though lively and consoling, was only momentary, I
had to return to the reality of life, and this reality was painful. It
became much more so the following day when Lorenzo at last returned.
He did not, of course, appear like a man who returns to the fireside he
loves and respects. Nor could he be expected to present himself in the
attitude of a penitent. I was far from being prepared, however, for the
stand he took and the complete change I found in him, but Lorenzo had been
endowed by Divine Providence with such rare gifts that, in giving himself
up to evil instead of good impulses, he had to suffer from the law which
condemns those to stray further away and fall lower who would perhaps have
become guides to others had they not erred from the right way. The serious
errors into which he had fallen, less excusable than they would have been
at any other epoch of his life, were this time accompanied by a
shamelessness and indifference to scandal that at once wounded and
disgusted me. The consciousness of faults he would not acknowledge caused
him insupportable uneasiness, and this produced a complete change in the
expression of his face, his language, and even in his manners, formerly so
dignified and courteous, but now haughty and not unfrequently rude. But
what was specially evident was, the fatal fascination he did not cease to
feel. The fact was, he had not been driven from her by disgust: repentance
and duty had not led him to return to me. She who had forsaken him still
reigned in his heart, and the influence I had over him so short a time
before, was now utterly destroyed!
All this was clearly perceptible from the first day of his return. I saw
he was even rather irritated than pleased at having no reproach to make
me. In fact, he did not propose peace, but imposed it, on the condition of
absolute silence on my part. The slightest reproach from me, I felt, would
have been the cause of a violent scene and perhaps of open rupture!
Such was the aspect my life assumed at Lorenzo’s return. Will any one be
astonished at the revolt I felt in my heart in spite of my apparent
submission, which was only a mixture of pride and disdain? Will any one
wonder at the harrowing regrets, dangerous recollections, and profound
discouragement which threw me into the deepest melancholy, and sometimes
into utter despair? I began my life over again in imagination with
Gilbert, and dwelt on what it might have been, that I might suffer the
more for what it was!
This remembrance seemed to be my only resource: these vain desires and
regrets my only solace. I gave myself up to them with my whole heart, and
thus, while I considered myself irreproachable, I was as much separated
from Lorenzo as he was from me, and I allowed myself to live interiorly in
a world over which I had no scruple in allowing another to reign almost
absolutely!
The following Saturday I was at the grate of the convent parlor a long
time before my usual hour. The anguish of my soul was at its height, and
for the first time, without regard to the place where I was, and perhaps I
ought to say, to her who listened to me, I made known all my troubles to
Livia, not only Lorenzo’s new offences, but also my other trials, my
inclinations, my regrets, and what at the same time I called my
“courageous sacrifice.”
She turned pale as she listened to me, and an expression of grief, such as
I had never seen her wear, came over her face, which remained anxious,
even when I told her that she unawares had given me the strength to
accomplish it.
“So much the better,” said she; adding, with a grave smile, “If that is
the case, I certainly did not this time play the part of a
_jettatrice_!... But, Ginevra, you escaped a less fearful peril the day I
saw you borne by that furious horse towards the abyss. You were saved when
I saw you again, whereas to‐day....”
“To‐day?... Are you not satisfied? Have I not obeyed what I felt were your
wishes?”
“Yes, my poor Gina, you have made an effort, a courageous effort; and yet
you deceive yourself like a child. Lorenzo certainly ought to conduct
himself very differently; but even if he did, you would still be deprived
of the happiness you dream of. As to that other mirage,” continued she
with a shudder. “O merciful heavens! do you not see whence comes the light
that has caused it? Ginevra, I can only say one thing to you—what I have
said before: pray!”
“I pray every day.”
“With fervor?”
“Yes, Livia, with all my heart, I assure you, I pray as well as I know
how. I tell you the truth.”
As I uttered these words, a celestial smile came over her face for the
first time since the beginning of our conversation, and she exclaimed:
“O dearest sister!”...and then stopped.
Rather vexed than consoled by the manner in which she received my
communications, I remained with my forehead leaning against the _grille_,
feeling for the first time how truly it separated us, that my sister felt
no pity for me, did not render me justice as she ought, and that she knew
neither the world, nor its difficulties, nor its temptations, nor its
pains. My tears fell like rain as I made these reflections, but it seemed
as if Livia, usually so compassionate, beheld me weep with indifference.
All at once she asked:
“Ginevra, is it long since you went to confession?”
I abruptly, raised my head, my tears ceased to flow, and I wiped my eyes
with a gesture of impatience. It was certain Livia could find nothing to
say that did me any good. I made no reply.
“You will not tell me. Why not, _carina_?”
Was I really out of humor with her—with Livia? And on the point of showing
it? . . . Oh! no; I at once felt it was impossible. Besides, the touch of
severity that chilled me had disappeared. She now spoke in a tone I never
had refused to listen to. I therefore replied without any further
entreaty:
“Yes, Livia, longer than usual.”
No sooner had I uttered these words, than a lively color suffused my whole
face. It at once occurred to me that the time corresponded exactly with
the length of Gilbert’s visit at Naples. Livia did not observe my
confusion, and calmly resumed:
“Listen, Gina. You believe, as well as I, that the Sacrament of Penance is
a remedy, do you not? It has been called, I think, ‘the divine
prescription for the maladies of the soul,’ and you are conscious, I
trust, that your soul is really ill.”
“Oh! yes, my soul, my heart, my mind, my body, my whole being! O Livia! I
suffer every way!”
“Well, if you were physically ill, you would certainly consult the best
physician in the city, and, who knows? if there were a better one still at
the other end of Europe, you would perhaps, like many others, undertake a
long journey to consult him as to the remedy.”
“Perhaps so! What then?”
“Listen, dear Gina. I have just thought of a piece of advice to give you,
and as it has occurred to me in a moment of pity for you, when my whole
heart is filled with affection and sympathy, perhaps it is a good
inspiration you would do well to follow.”
“O Livia!” I exclaimed, greatly affected, for I recognized the accent of
affection I had been so doubtful about—an affection more than human,
because it was an emanation of divine charity: “Yes, tell me, dear sister,
what it is. Say anything you please. Command me, and I will obey you.”
She proceeded to inform me that a saintly monk had recently arrived at
Naples who was universally known and respected on account of his extensive
knowledge, and was remarkable for the unpretending simplicity of his
manners. His words went to the heart, led sinners to return to God, and
made those who were pious better than they were before.
“Go to him humbly, I beseech you, and open your heart to him before
God—your whole heart. I feel a conviction he will be able to give you the
remedy you need, and if you have the courage to apply this remedy,
whatever it be, I feel the assurance, Ginevra, you will be healed.”