The first days of mourning, anxiety, and expectation were spent almost
entirely alone. I only left the house to go to the convent, and saw no one
at home but Stella and my aunt, who, though she resembled her brother but
little, loved him tenderly, and was inconsolable at his loss.
A week passed by, and I began to be surprised at not having received any
news from Lorenzo. The lawsuit must be over. It was time for him to
return, or, at least, for me to receive a letter from him. But none had
come, and I remained in this state of suspense a length of time that was
inexplicable. At last I received two lines written in haste, not from him,
but from my brother:
“I shall arrive the day after this note, and will then tell you
everything. Do not lose courage.
“MARIO.”
Lando was present when this note arrived, and I read it aloud.
“O heavens!” he exclaimed, “you have lost your cause! That is evident. He
tells you so plainly enough!... And I cannot see what he can have worse to
tell you.”
He kept on talking for some time, but I did not listen to him. I read the
note over and over again. Why had not Lorenzo written? Why was Mario
coming, and why did he not say Lorenzo was to accompany him? Why did he
not even mention his name?... I did not dare acknowledge to myself the
terrible fear that passed through my mind; but I recalled his mysterious
words, his look, his voice, and his whole manner when he bade me farewell,
and everything assumed an ominous look. A possibility flashed across my
mind which I did not dare dwell on for fear of losing my reason, and, with
it, the blessed remembrance that was the only support of my life! I
suffered that night as I had not suffered since the hours of grief and
remorse that followed the death of my mother!
The next day, at a late hour, I at last perceived the boat from Sicily
slowly coming up the bay, struggling against a violent out‐wind; for,
after a long continuation of fine weather, now came a succession of
dismal, stormy days, such as often cast a gloom over the end of spring at
Naples. My first impulse was to go to meet Mario at the landing; but I
changed my mind, and concluded to remain at home, that I might be alone
when I should receive the news he was bringing me.
I found it difficult, however, to control my impatience, for I had to wait
nearly an hour longer. But at last I heard his step on the stairs; then my
door opened, and he made his appearance. What I experienced when I saw he
was really alone showed to what an extent I had flattered myself Lorenzo
would return with him. I gazed at him without stirring from my seat,
without the strength to ask a single question. He came to me, took me in
his arms with more tenderness than he had ever shown in his life, and when
he kissed me I saw his eyes were filled with tears.
“Lorenzo! Where is Lorenzo?” I exclaimed as soon as I could speak.
“Be calm, sister,” said he—“be calm, I beg of you.... I will tell you the
whole truth without the slightest evasion.”
“But before anything else, tell me where Lorenzo is, and why he did not
come with you.”
“Ginevra, I cannot tell you, for I do not know yet. I am quite as ignorant
as you what has become of him.”
At this reply the beating of my heart became so violent that I thought I
should faint away; but I struggled to overcome the anguish that seized me,
and said in a hoarse voice:
“At least, tell me all you know, Mario, without delay or reticence.”
Mario drew from his pocket a letter carefully sealed, but still seemed to
hesitate about giving it to me. But I recognized the writing, and cut
short all explanation by snatching it from his hands, and ran to a seat in
the most retired corner of the room, where I could read it at my ease, and
my brother could not guess its contents by my face till it should suit me
to communicate them.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
“Ginevra, you will doubtless have learned, before opening this letter,
that I have lost my cause—in other words, that I am ruined, irrevocably
ruined. I had a presentiment of this when the only one who could bring it
to a favorable issue was taken away by death at the critical moment; and
when I embraced you at my departure, I felt convinced I was bidding you
adieu for ever.... Whatever I may be, this word will no doubt startle you.
Though the loss of a very bad husband is by no means irreparable, you will
shudder, I am sure, at the thought of all so desperate a state of affairs
may render me capable of, and the most fearful of extremities has already
crossed your mind, I have no doubt. Well, you are not wrong. I confess it
was my intention, and you may be glad to know it was _you_ who caused me
to change it. Yes, Ginevra, the thought of you occurred to my mind, and I
was unwilling to add another horrible remembrance to those I had already
left you, and render a catastrophe, already sufficiently terrible, still
more tragical. It would, however, have restored you to liberty, and
permitted your young life to resume its course and find a happiness I can
no longer promise you. This thought furnished an additional reason to all
those suggested by despair; but the sweet, suppliant look you gave me, the
inexplicable, celestial expression you wore when we separated, arrested
me. The remembrance of that look still haunts me. What did you wish to say
to me, Ginevra? What had you to ask me? What could be the prayer that
seemed to hover on your lips! I can repair nothing now. The past is no
longer in my power, and the future is blighted. The captivating charm of
your beauty has not been powerful enough to enable me to overcome myself.
It is now too late, as you see yourself. All is over. My faults have led
to the most fatal consequences. I have only to endure them, whatever they
may be. I resign myself to the struggle, then. The very word stimulates
me, for to struggle is to labor, and work I love to excess! Why did I not
give my whole soul up to it instead of other things! Ah! if the past could
only be restored!... But let us return to the present. I will work, then;
yes, work, Ginevra, _to gain my livelihood_. However great a sybarite I
have appeared, and am, I am equal to it. I can and will labor, but far
from you—separated from you. Thanks to your brother’s generosity and the
means still at my disposal, which will be communicated to you, this great
reverse will entail no privation on you. This is my only hope, my only
comfort; for, after having clouded the fairest portion of your life, to
invite you to participate in the bitterness of my misfortunes would make
me despise myself and fill me with despair. Be happy, therefore, if you do
not wish me to put an end to my life. And now _adieu_. This word is used
for a brief absence, for the separation of a day. What will be the length
of ours?... A lifelong one, apparently.... May my life be short, that I
may not long deprive you of your freedom!
“Ginevra, you are young, you are beautiful. You are calculated to love and
please, and, however unfaithful and inconstant I have been, I am jealous!
But I leave you without fear, under the protection of that something
mysterious and incomprehensible within you that is a safeguard to your
youth and beauty! I have forfeited the right to love and protect you, but
I know and venerate you as a holy, angelic being. Ginevra, I ought to say,
I wish I could say, forgive me; but that word is vain when it is a
question of the irreparable. I shall do better, then, to say—forget me!