While so much apparent, as well as real, gloom was gathering around my
path, there was no diminution in the interior brightness of my soul; which
was only manifested, however, by an activity, and at the same time
tranquillity, that greatly surprised my brother and all my friends,
especially my aunt, whose agitation was extreme.
I will not say that Donna Clelia felt in the least that pleasure at the
misfortunes of others attributed by a great satirist to all mankind, but
the change in our respective situations which now afforded her an
opportunity of pitying and protecting instead of envying me, was by no
means displeasing to her pride or kindness of heart.
She offered me the most unlimited hospitality. She wished to establish me
in her _palazzo_ on the Toledo, and give up the largest of her spacious
drawing‐rooms to my sole use. She did not comprehend how I could remain in
my house when it was being stripped of all the magnificence that had
placed me, in her eyes, on the very pinnacle of happiness. But I refused
to the last to leave my chamber and the terrace, with its incomparable
view, the privation of which I should have felt more than anything else. I
remained, therefore, in the corner (a very spacious one, however) of my
beautiful home I had reserved for myself, encouraged by Stella, who,
without surprise or wonder, comprehended my motives, and assisted me in
making preparations for my departure. She always brought Angiolina with
her, which added to our enjoyment; for she continually hovered around,
enlivening us with her prattle. So, in spite of the sadness of my
position, I was able, without much effort, to rise above my dejection and
gloom.
Weeks passed away, however, and, though I had not renounced the hope of
overcoming Lorenzo’s obstinacy, I began to grow impatient, and was
thinking of starting without his consent; for it seemed to me, when once
near him, he could not refuse to see me. This uncertainty was the most
painful feature of my present situation, and the rainy season, meanwhile,
added its depressing influence to all the rest. But to disturb my peace of
mind and diminish my courage would have required a trial more severe and
painful than that.
The sky once more became clear, and we were at length able to return to
the terrace, from which we had so long been banished by the rain. The
clumps of verdure in the garden, the perfume of the flowers, the blueness
of the mountains, sea, and sky—in short, all nature seemed to atone by her
unusual brilliancy for having been so long forced to veil her beautiful
face. But Stella, instead of being charmed and transported, as usual, with
the prospect, looked gravely and silently around for some time, then, with
a sudden explosion of grief, threw herself on my neck.
“Ginevra, what will become of Angiolina and me when you are gone?... Ah! I
ought to love nobody in the world but her!”
She sat down on one of the benches on the terrace, and took up the child,
who had not left us an instant during the day, to play, as she usually
did. And when Angiolina, with her eyes full of tears, begged her to
prevent her dear Zia Gina from going away, all Stella’s firmness gave way
for an instant, and she burst into tears.
Oh! how strongly I then felt, in my turn, the difference there is between
the sacrifice of exterior objects and the interior sacrifices that rend
the soul! The infinite love that tempers all the sufferings of this world
exempts no one from these trials. I might even say it increases them, for
it enlarges the capacity of our affection and pity: it makes us fully
realize what suffering is, and gives it its true meaning.
I could not, therefore, look at Stella in her present mood without being
overcome by a sadness I had never felt before at the thought of our
separation. Her tears, which she was generally so well able to suppress,
continued to flow, as she rocked her child in silence. She remained thus
without uttering a word, even in reply to my questions, until little
Angiolina, after quietly weeping a long time, fell into a heavy, profound
sleep in her mother’s arms.
It was the first time I had ever known Stella to lose courage. Mine failed
me at the sight, and this hour—the last we were to pass together on the
terrace so full of pleasant associations, and so often trod by Angiolina’s
little feet—this hour was sad beyond all expression, and in appearance
beyond all reason. The serenity of the soul, like the sky of Italy, is
thus obscured at times by clouds that trouble and afflict the more because
the light they veil is habitually so bright and serene! Neither Stella nor
I, however, were disposed to believe in presentiments. Besides, our
sadness was too well founded to be surprising. Nevertheless, something
darker hovered over us than we foresaw at the moment: the morrow already
threw its gloom over this last evening!
The sun was going down. Stella suddenly started from her reverie and awoke
Angiolina. It was time to take her home. But the child’s eyes, generally
so bright, were now heavy. She hardly opened them when I approached to
embrace her. Her little mouth made a slight movement to return my kiss,
and she fell asleep again immediately. Her mother, surprised, and somewhat
alarmed at her unwonted languor, hastily wrapped a shawl around her to
protect her as much as possible from the evening air, and carried her
away.
The following day, of sorrowful memory, rose bright and radiant for me;
for when I awoke, I found a letter from Lorenzo awaiting me—a letter which
put an end to all my perplexities, and justified, beyond all my hopes, the
confidence with which I had expected it.
“Ginevra, you have prevailed. I venture at last to beg your forgiveness,
for your letters have inspired the hope of some day meriting it. I no
longer fear, therefore, to meet you again. Come! It is my wish. I am
waiting for you.
“LORENZO.”
These last lines contained the surest promise of happiness I had ever
received in my life, and I kissed them with tears. I longed to start that
very hour, and it will not seem surprising now that I looked around the
sumptuous dwelling I was about to leave for ever without regret, and even
at the enchanting prospect my eyes were never weary of gazing at! It was
by no means these exterior objects that inspired the deep, unalterable joy
of my soul. I did not owe to them the vision of happiness I thought I now
caught the first ray of. My only regret, therefore, was that I could not
start as soon as I wished. All my preparations were made, and I longed to
take my departure at once. But I had to wait three days before the first
boat on which I could embark would leave for Marseilles—a delay that
seemed so long! Alas! I was far from foreseeing how painful and short I
should find them!
Stella had passed every day with me for the last few weeks, and I now
awaited her arrival to communicate my joy. But the usual hour for her to
come had gone by. She did not appear. I was surprised at this delay, and,
instead of waiting any longer, I proceeded on foot to her house, which was
only at a short distance from mine. The previous evening had left me no
anxiety, and its sadness had been dispersed with the joy of the morning.
When I arrived, I found the door open. No servant was there to announce
me. I went through the gallery, a large drawing‐room, and a cabinet,
without meeting a person. At length I came to Stella’s chamber, where
Angiolina also slept in a little bed beside her mother’s. I entered....
Oh! how shall I describe the sight that met my eyes! How express all my
feelings of amazement, pity, affection, and grief!
My dear, unhappy Stella was seated in the middle of the room with her
child extended on her knees, pale, motionless, and apparently without
life!
She did not shed a tear; she did not utter a word. She raised an instant
her large eyes, which were unusually dilated, and looked at me. What a
look! O God! it expressed the grief that mothers alone can feel, and which
no other on earth can surpass!... I fell on my knees beside her. Angiolina
still breathed, but she was dying. She opened her beautiful eyes a
moment.... A look of recognition crossed them.... They turned from her
mother to me, and from me to her mother, and then grew dim. A convulsive
shudder ran over her, and it was all over. The angel was in heaven. The
mother was bereft, for this life, of her only child!...
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
The longest years cannot efface the memory of such an hour, and time,
which at last subdues all grief, never gave me the courage to dwell on
this. Mothers who have been pierced by such a sword cannot speak of it;
others dare not. The woman who has no child, in the presence of one who
has just lost hers, can only bend in silence and respect before the
sovereign majesty of grief!
I will merely state, with respect to what preceded, that the drowsiness of
the child the night before was a symptom of the violent malady which
suddenly attacked her in the middle of the night. After abating towards
day, it came on again an hour later, and kept increasing without any
relaxation to the end.
As for me, who had given Angiolina the place that had remained vacant in
my heart, the excess of my grief enabled me to form an estimate of hers
whose heart was filled with far greater anguish at being so suddenly
robbed of her all by death. I shuddered at the thought of a sorrow greater
than mine, and did not dare dwell on my own troubles in the presence of a
grief that cast into the shade all the sufferings I had ever witnessed
before. What a remedy for the imaginary or exaggerated woes of life it is
to suddenly be brought to witness the reality of the most terrible of
misfortunes!
What a price was I now to pay for the journey I had so long looked forward
to—the reunion I had longed for with so many prayers and obtained by so
many efforts!
To leave Stella in her affliction was a trial I had not anticipated, and
one which the most imperious duty alone could have induced me to consent
to. I had to do it, however, but not till I had succeeded in gratifying
the only remaining wish of her broken heart—“to leave the world for a few
months, that she might be alone, free to abandon herself entirely to the
dear, angelic memory of her lost joy....”
Stella uttered no complaint. Her grief was mute. But she had expressed
this desire, and it was granted. Livia obtained a place of retreat for her
in a part of her convent that was not cloistered. It was there I left her,
in the shadow of that sweet sanctuary, near the tenderest, strongest heart
she could have to lean on, in presence of the magnificent prospect before
her, and beneath the brilliant canopy of that glorious sky, beyond which
she could follow in spirit the treasure she had been deprived of, but
which she felt sure of some day finding again!