They have sent me at last the Madonna by Sassoferrato. I handed it to
Aniela in presence of the elder ladies, as a thing left to her in my
father's will, and so she could not refuse it. Afterwards I hung it up
myself in her little sitting-room, and it looks very pretty there. I
am not fond of Madonnas by Sassoferrato, but this one is so simple and
so serene in its clear shades. I like to think that as often as she
looks at it she will remember that it was I who gave her that relic,
gave it her because I love her. In this way the love she considers
sinful must in her thought be united to holy things. It is a childish
comfort, but he who has no other must be satisfied even with that.
I had another crumb of comfort to-day. When the picture had been hung
in its place, Aniela came to thank me. As the armchair in which Pani
Celina sits was at the other end of the room, I held for a moment the
hand Aniela was about to withdraw, and asked in a low voice:--
"Is it true, Aniela, that you hate me?"
She only shook her little head, as if in sadness.
"Oh, no!" she replied quickly.
This one word expressed so much. It was a way of saying that if the
feeling of the loved woman were always to remain hidden in her breast,
it would be the same as not to be loved at all. No! it is not the
same. Let me have it, if only that. I would not give it up for
anything in the world. If this were taken from me, I should have
nothing to live for any more.