“What—what on earth has happened to make you talk like this?” I
demanded, in a sort of gasp.
“I’ve been reflecting upon the futility of my life,” she said.
“I get up in the morning, and eat my breakfast. Then I fritter away an
hour or two, and eat my luncheon. Then I fritter away the afternoon, and
eat my dinner. Then I fritter away the evening, and go to bed. I live,
apparently, to eat and sleep, like the beasts that perish. We must
reform all that. I must do something to make myself of use in the world.
And since you seem disinclined to sanction a marriage with Ciccolesi,
what do you say to my joining some charitable sisterhood?”
She spoke lightly, even, if you will, half-jocosely. But there was a
real bitterness unmistakable behind her tone. There was a bitterness in
her smile.
And I—I was overwhelmed, penetrated, by a distress, by an emotion,
such as I had never known before. I looked at her through a sort of
mist—of pain, of passion; with a kind of aching helplessness; longing
to say something, to do something, I could not tell what. Her smile had
faded out; her face was white, set; her eyes were sombre. I looked at
her, I longed to say something, to do something, and I could not move
or speak. My mind was all a whirl, a bewilderment—till, somehow,
gradually, from some place in the background of it, her name, her
Christian name, struggled forward into consciousness. I seemed to see
it before me, like a written word, her name, Gabrielle. And then I heard
myself calling it.
“Gabrielle! Gabrielle!”
I heard my voice, I found myself kneeling beside her, holding her hands,
speaking close to her face.
“Gabrielle! I can’t let you—I can’t allow you to think such
things. Your life futile! Your beautiful, beautiful life! Gabrielle—my
love! Oh, my love, my love!”...
By-and-by, laughing, sobbing, her eyes melting with a heavenly
tenderness, she said, “It’s absurd, it’s impossible. You’re only
a boy. I’m a woman. I’m seven years older than you—in years. I’m
immeasurably older in everything else. But I can’t help it—I love
you. You’re only a boy—and yet—you’re such an honest, frank,
sweet boy—and my life has been passed with such artificial people,
such unreal people—you’re the only man I have ever known.”
The next morning one of her servants brought me a letter. Here it is.
“Dearest Friend,—Please do not come to see me this afternoon. I
shall not be at home. I am leaving town. I am going to the Convent of
Saint Veronica; I shall pass Lent there, with the good sisters.
“Dearest, do not be angry with me. I cannot accept your love, I have
no right to accept it. Our friendship, our companionship, has been
infinitely precious to me; it has given me a belief in human nature
which I never had before. But you are young, you are still growing—in
mind, in spirit. You must be free. I cannot cramp your youth, your
growth, by accepting your love. Look, my dear, it would be an impasse.
We could not marry. It would be monstrous if I should let you marry
me—at the end of a year, at the end of six months, you would hate me,
you would feel that I had spoiled your life. Yes, it is true. You must
be free—you must grow. You must not handicap yourself at twenty-two by
marrying a woman seven years your senior.
“Well, what then? Nothing but this—I must not accept your love,
dear, I must give you up. You will go on, on; you will grow, you will
outgrow the love you bear me now. You will live your life. And some day
you will meet a woman of your own age.
“I know the pain this letter will give you; I know, I know. You will
be unhappy, you will be angry with me. Dearest, try to forgive me. I am
doing the only thing there is for me to do. You will be glad of it in
the future. You will shudder to think, ’What if that woman had taken
me at my word!’—Oh, why weren’t you born ten years earlier, or I
ten years later?
“I am going to the Convent of Saint Veronica, to pass Lent. Perhaps
I shall stay longer. Perhaps—do not cry out, it is not a sudden
resolution—perhaps I shall remain there, as an oblate. I could teach
music, French. I must do something. I must not lead this idle futile
life. Do not think of me as undergoing hardships. The rule for an oblate
is not severe.
“Good-bye, dear. I pray God to bless you in every way.
“Good-bye, good-bye.
“Gabrielle.”
Don’t ask me what I felt, what I did....
Lent dragged itself away, but she did not return to Rome.
Then one day I received by post a copy of the Osservatore Romano, with
a marked paragraph. It announced that the Contessa Bracca had been
received into the Pious Community of Saint Veronica as a noble oblate.
Her letter, and that paragraph, cut from the Osservatore Romano, lie
before me now, on my writing-table. Don’t ask me what I feel, as I
look at them.