I had indirect news of Laura through my lawyer, who is also their
legal adviser. Mr. Davis is already in a lunatic asylum, and Laura at
Interlaken, at the foot of the Jungfrau. Perhaps she has some ideas
about climbing the mountain heights, drapes herself in Alps, eternal
snow, and rising sun, sails gracefully on the lake, and bends over
precipices. I expressed my regret at Mr. Davis's condition, and the
lady's, who at so early an age was left without protection. Thereupon
the old lawyer set my mind at rest, telling me that Count Maleschi, a
Neapolitan, and Laura's cousin, had gone to Switzerland. I know
him. He is beautiful as an Antinous, but an inveterate gambler, and
somewhat of a coward. It appears I was a little out of my reckoning
when I compared Laura to the tower of Pisa.
It has happened to me literally for the first time that the memory of
a woman whom I did not love, though I made her believe I did, rouses
within me much ill-feeling. I am so ungrateful and ungenerous to her
that it makes me feel ashamed. Plainly, what reason have I for any
ill-feeling, and what has she done to me that I cannot forgive? It is
because, as I said before, from the very beginning of our relations,
though not through any fault of hers, I did many things I have
never done before in my life. I did not respect my sorrow, had
no consideration for the weakness and helplessness of Davis, got
corrupted, slothful, and finally sent off that fatal letter.
It is all my fault! But the blind man when he stumbles over a stone,
curses the stone, not the blindness that made him stumble.