Wicked Appetite

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Wicked Appetite

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.
without thinking for a moment of your “empirical basis.” For we
know that it is a silly thought, that of endeavoring to find an
empirical basis for a purely intellectual truth. But if by the want of an
empirical basis you mean a want of known facts from which to show
God's existence and infinite perfection, then your duty would have
been to substantiate your assertion by showing that such facts are
not real facts, or have no connection with the existence of a
supreme being. This you have omitted to do, and thus all your
argument consists of bold assertions, not only without proofs, but
without the possibility of proof.

Is it not strange, then, that you [pg 449] fancy to have cornered
your readers, and compelled them to resort to the most absurd
fictions to uphold the existence of a creative power? You say, in fact,
that they have no other resource but to admit “the singular notion
that the creative power had suddenly and without any occasion
arisen out of nothing, had created the world (out of what?), and had
again, in the moment of completion, collapsed within itself, and, so
to say, dissolved itself in the universe” (p. 7). Indeed, were we as
stupid as any creature can be, we would still find it impossible to
dream of such a foolish assumption. You add that “philosophers and
others have ever cherished this latter notion, believing that they
could, by this mode of reasoning, reconcile the indisputable fact of a
fixed and unchangeable law in the economy of the universe with the
belief in an individual creative power” (ibid.) I do not hesitate to tell
you, doctor, that nothing but hatred of truth could prompt you to
utter such a gross lie.

Büchner. Yet “all religious conceptions lean more or less towards this
idea” (p. 7).

Reader. This I deny.

Büchner. Let me explain. Philosophers admit the idea, “with this

difference: that they conceive the spirit of the world reposing after
the creation, but yet, as an individual, capable of again suspending
his own laws” (p. 7).

Reader. This explanation is not to the point. Your assertion implied

that philosophers and others ever cherished the notion that the
creative power had suddenly arisen out of nothing, and that all
religious conceptions lean more or less towards this idea. This is
what I challenged you to show. Does your explanation show it? On
the contrary, it shows that the idea towards which religious
conceptions lean is quite different.

Büchner. Be this as it may, “conceptions of this kind cannot concern

us, not being the result of philosophical reasoning. Individual human
qualities and imperfections are transferred to philosophical notions,
and belief is made to occupy the place of actual knowledge” (p. 7).

Reader. I perceive, doctor, that you are persistently wrong. It seems

as though you could not open your mouth without uttering some
false or incongruent assertion. What are those conceptions which
“cannot concern us”? Are they not the dreams you have just
imagined? How, then, do you insinuate that the existence of a
creative power does not concern us, because your dreams are not
the result of philosophical reasoning? And pray, who ever
“transferred individual human qualities and imperfections to
philosophical notions”? Has this phrase any intelligible meaning?
Lastly, it is evidently false that, in order to admit a creative power,
“belief is made to occupy the place of actual knowledge.” The
existence of God is a philosophical truth; now, philosophy is a
method of knowledge, not of belief.

I trust I have sufficiently exposed your “intellectual jugglery” to let

you see that you are at best a charlatan, not a philosopher.

To Be Continued.
[pg 450]
Dante's Purgatorio. Canto Fourteenth.

Note.—This canto, like the preceding (XIII.), illustrates the sin of

envy, which Dante deems a special vice of the Florentines, against
whom and the other inhabitants of Valdarno he inveighs with a
bitterness that savors more of the style of the Inferno than of “the
milder shade of Purgatory.”

In the Thirteenth Canto, Envy has been rebuked by voices of love

and gentleness; as, for instance, the kindly comment of the Virgin at
the marriage feast of Cana, “They have no wine.” These and similar
words are the scourge which the envious have to endure. But the
bridle, Dante says, are tones of a contrary import, such as the
terrific voice of Cain, who passes by in a peal of thunder, but
invisible, followed by the dreadful cry of Aglauros, described in the
concluding paragraph of this canto.

“What man is this who round our mountain goes,

Before that death has let his pinions free,
Who doth at will his eyelids ope and close?”
“I know not; but am sure not sole is he:
Demand thou of him who the nearest art,
And gently ask, that he may deign reply.”
Thus to the right two spirits there, apart,
Bent each toward each, conferred as I came nigh;
Then turning up their faces as to speak,
One said: “O soul! that still in mortal hold
Art on the way thy home in heaven to seek,
For charity console us, and unfold
Whence comest, and who art thou? for the grace
Accorded thee in us the wonder wakes
Due unto things which ne'er before had place.”
And I: “Through middle Tuscany there flows
A brook whose founts in Falterona spring,
Nor do an hundred miles its current close:
From that stream's banks this body of mine I bring:
'Twere vain to tell you how my title goes;
For yet my name hath not much heralding.”
“If well I probe the sense thou hast conveyed
With intellect,” the first who spake replied:
“Thou meanest Arno!”—and the other shade
Said to the former: “Wherefore did he hide
That river's name as men are wont to do
Of things most horrible?”—and then the one
Whom that inquiry was directed to,
Discharged him thus:

[pg 451]
Guido Del Duca.

“Why he that name doth shun

I cannot tell: but meet it is the name
Of such a valley perish from the earth!
Since from its head (where so abounds the same
Great alpine chain which cast Pelorus forth,
With springs that few spots are impregnate more)
To where it seeks, arriving at the main,
What the sky sucks from ocean to restore
(Whence rivers have what waters they contain),
Virtue by all is hunted for a foe
As 'twere a snake;—whether from fault of place
Or evil custom goading nature so:
Wherefore that miserable valley's race
Have changed their kind to that degree 'twould seem
Circe had pastured them. Among brute swine,
More fit for mast than human food, the stream
Winds its poor way; then, lower down its line,
Finds curs that snarl beyond their power to bite,
 And turns from them his nostril as in scorn.
Falling it goes, and more it grows in might,
The curst ditch finds that of those dogs are born
A pack of wolves. Through many a whirlpool then
He comes to foxes in deceit so deep
They fear no catching by more crafty men.
What though o'erheard, no silence will I keep!
And well for this man, if in mind he bear
What my true spirit unfolds. One of thy blood
Shall hunt those wolves. I see thy grandson there
Harrowing the borders of that savage flood;
All fly before him, all are in despair:
He makes a market of their living flesh,
Then, like old beasts for slaughter, lays them low:
Staining his fame with many a murder fresh;
He comes all bloody from that wood of woe,
Leaving such wreck that in a thousand years
To its primeval state it shall not grow.”

Like one whose visage alters when he hears

Ill hap foretold, as 'twere in dread which way
The blow may strike, I saw that other soul
Stand turned to hear, disturbed and in dismay,
Soon of those words as he had grasped the whole.
His troubled air, and what the other said,
[pg 452]
To know their names wrought in me such a thirst
That I with prayers direct inquiry made.
Wherefore the shade who had addrest me first
Began again: “Thou wouldest that I deign
Do thee a grace I did in vain beseech;
But since the will of God in thee so plain
Doth favor show, I will not stint my speech;
Therefore know this: Guido del Duca am I.
My blood with envy was so burnt, so bad,
Thou mightst have seen me livid grow and dry
 Had I but seen another's face look glad.
Such of my sowing is the straw I reap!
O human race! why bring your wishes down
To pleasures that exclude all partnership?
This is Rinieri; this the prize and crown
Of Casa Calboli, whereof no child
Hath made himself an heir of his renown.
Nor yet alone hath his blood been despoiled,
'Twixt Po, the Pennine, Reno and the shore,
Of what best needs for truth and happiness;
For through those borders there be plenty more
Of stock so bad, to make their venom less
By cultivation 'twere but vain to try.
Where is good Lizio? and Mainardi? Where
Pier Traversaro and Carpigna's Guy?
O Romagnuoles! what bastard shoots ye bear,
When sprouts a Fabbro in Bologna, when
Bernardin Fosco makes Faenza heir
From coarse grass to a growth of gentlemen!
No wonder, Tuscan, at my weeping thus
While I recall, remembering them so well,
Guido of Prata when himself with us,
And Ugolin of Azzo, used to dwell:
Frederic Tignoso and his goodly troop;
The Traversara, Anastagi race;
Now disinherited both houses droop!
Ladies and knights, the toils repose and grace
They wrapt us in of courtesy and love
There where the best blood such bad hearts debase!
“O Brettinoro! why dost thou not move
From thy proud seat, thy family wholly gone,
And many more, to shun corruption's course?
Bagnacaval does well to have no son,
And Castrocaro ill, and Conio worse
To breed such Counties taking further pains:
And well enough too, when their devil is dead,
 May the Pagani do, though some remains
Bear witness 'gainst them of impureness fled.
O Ugolin de' Fantoli! most sure
Is thy good name, since no degenerate head
[pg 453]
Is looked for now its brightness to obscure.
But go thy ways now, Tuscan! more delight
I find in weeping than in words—too stirred
By this talk of our country.” We were quite
Sure those dear souls our way's direction heard,
And from their silence knew that we went right.

Soon as proceeding we became alone,

A voice, like lightning when it strikes, did say,
Rushing on tow'rds us with its thunderous tone,
“Whoever findeth me the same shall slay!”97
Then fled as thunder, when the bolt is thrown
From the torn cloud, in rumbling dies away.
When on our ears a moment's truce there fell,
Another crash came of like rattling shock
As of a rapid thunder, peal on peal:
“I am Aglauros, who became a rock!”
On this, I drew back from my forward pace
To cling for shelter close behind the bard,
And when the air was hushed in all its space,
He said to me: “That was the bit98 full hard
Which should each man within his limit stay.
You take the bait so fondly that the small
Hook of th' old enemy makes you his prey,
And bridle boots you naught, nor warning call.
Heaven calleth to you, and the eternal round
Shows you of beauties that about you roll,
And still your eye is grovelling on the ground;
Wherefore He smites you who discerns the whole.”
[pg 454]
The Veil Withdrawn.

Translated, By Permission, From The French Of Madame Craven,

Author Of “A Sister's Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.

VII.

Lorenzo, Duca di Valenzano, belonged to one of the noblest families

of upper Italy; but his mother was a native of Sicily, and it was from
her he inherited his title as well as the fortune already in his
possession, which would be considerably increased if an important
lawsuit (the usual accompaniment of a Sicilian inheritance), which
brought a great part of it into litigation, should terminate
successfully. His object in coming to see my father was to place this
business in his hands; and, after his first visit, he usually came once
or twice a week. At first he merely bowed to me as he passed, or, at
most, addressed me a few words on leaving the room. The
remainder of the time was spent in looking over voluminous
documents with my father. Nevertheless, these visits soon became a
little incident in my monotonous life, and I began to look forward to
them with a certain impatience.

The duke, at this time, was scarcely more than thirty years of age;
but he by no means seemed young in my eyes. A few premature
wrinkles and an observant, thoughtful look imparted a gravity to his
face which was not, however, its prevailing expression; for it was
frequently ironical and sarcastic to the last degree, and so mobile
that it was not always easy to decide on the impression it left. His
general appearance, however, was noble and striking, as well as the
tone of his voice, which involuntarily commanded attention to all he
said.

Several weeks elapsed without any other variety than the few
moments, more or less prolonged, which he passed at my table at
the end of each visit. He generally made some unimportant remarks
respecting my lessons, my bird, or my flowers, which he noticed I
cultivated with a care somewhat unusual in our clime. In fact, he
only spoke to me as he would to a child. I replied in a corresponding
tone, and, very soon, not only without embarrassment, but with a
pleasure I made no attempt to conceal. I had begun to be devoured
by ennui in so inactive and solitary a life, and I eagerly welcomed
any diversion that came in my way. My father, at such times,
remained silent and grave, and seemed somewhat impatient when
these brief conversations were prolonged a little more than usual.

One day, when the duke approached my table as usual, I had a large
atlas open before me, and he noticed that I was examining the map
of Asia. I was studying without any effort, and yet with a certain
interest resulting from curiosity which, added to an excellent
memory, made me an unusually good scholar. The duke looked at
the map a moment, and, after some observations that excited my
interest, he pointed to a place near [pg 455] the Himalaya
mountains, and remarked: “One year ago to-day I was there.” I
knew his extensive travels had rendered him celebrated, as well as
his success as a sculptor, doubly surprising in a man of his rank and
so enterprising an explorer. I had acquired this information from
conversations respecting the duke since his arrival at Messina, where
his presence had caused a sensation.

On this occasion, seeing my interest strongly excited, he seemed to

take pleasure in giving an account of that remote region, which I
sometimes interrupted by questions that appeared to surprise him.
The facility with which I was endowed made me really superior in
many respects to most girls of my age; and as for information, I
might have been considered a phenomenon in my own country.
The conversation that day might have been indefinitely prolonged
had not my father found a pretext for abridging it by suddenly
proposing to take the duke to the further end of the garden, in order
to examine some ruins and a Greek portico on a height from which
there was an admirable view. The duke looked at me, as if he
wished I could join in the walk; but my father not seconding this
mute suggestion, he was forced to accompany him, not, however,
without giving me, as he left the room, a look that seemed to
express compassion, interest, and respect.

As soon as I was alone, I abruptly closed my atlas, rose from my

seat, and abandoned myself to a violent fit of irritation and grief, as
I hurried with long steps through the extensive gallery, exclaiming
aloud against the undue sternness and severity of my father.... He
did not see that he was thus rendering the seclusion he had imposed
upon me beyond my strength to bear—a seclusion that would have
been transformed by one word of affection, sympathy, or even
kindness. Instead of this, did he not even appear to be annoyed that
I should receive any from this stranger?

It was impossible for me to resume my studies. I had an hour to

wait before Ottavia would come, as she did every day, to accompany
me to the garden—as if I were a mere child, instead of being
allowed to wander at my own pleasure till sunset. Hitherto I had
endured everything humbly; but my patience was now exhausted,
and I felt a disposition to revolt which I only repressed with difficulty.
Was this merely against a régime of such excessive severity, or was
it the result of a slight return of confidence in myself inspired by the
interest, and almost deference, which this stranger had just
manifested? It was doubtless both; and the consequence was, I felt
an agitation I could not subdue, and an irrepressible longing for any
change whatever in a mode of life that had become insupportable.
Tired of walking up and down, I at last took a seat by the window,
where I could, at a distance, see my father and his client. I watched
them with an attention that soon diverted my thoughts and ended
by wholly absorbing me.
I at once noticed that, instead of proceeding to the end of the
garden to see the ruin my father had spoken of, they had stopped in
a broad alley leading from the house to a white marble basin, in the
form of a vase, which stood in the centre. This alley, bordered with a
clipped hedge of box, extended beyond the basin to a small grove of
olive-trees leading to the hill it was necessary [pg 456] to ascend in
order to see the ruin. They seemed to have wholly lost sight of the
proposed object of their walk; for when I first saw them, they had
scarcely reached the basin, and were now slowly returning towards
the house. The duke appeared to be listening to my father, every
now and then striking the hedge they were passing with a stick he
held in his hand. All at once he stopped, and, passing his arm
through my father's, he led him to a bench, on which they both sat
down. I could see them distinctly, and, without hearing what they
said, could distinguish the sound of their voices. It was the duke's I
now heard. At first he spoke with his head bent down, as if with
some hesitation, but by degrees with more animation and fire, and
finally with clasped hands, as if pleading some cause or asking some
favor.... Once he raised his eyes towards the window where I was,
though he could not see me. Was he speaking of me?... Had he
ventured to intercede in my behalf?... I looked at my father
anxiously. His face expressed the greatest surprise as well as
extreme dissatisfaction, but it gradually changed. He became very
attentive; and when at last the duke extended his hand, he took it in
his, and seemed to be making some promise. Then they rose and
resumed the way to the house, but by a shady path where my eyes
could no longer follow them.

That day our dinner was less gloomy than usual. My father
conversed with Mario as he had not done for a long time, and the
latter, with satisfaction, attributed to himself this change (which, to
do him justice, had been the object of persevering effort). But Livia,
who had more penetration, saw there was some other reason; for
she speedily observed that this change was especially evident
towards me. In fact, for the first time since the fatal day that
seemed like a dividing line in my young life, I once more saw in my
father's eyes the fond look I was formerly accustomed to; and this
paternal and almost forgotten expression gave me new life and a
sensation of joy and happiness that made me raise my head as a
flower beaten down by the storm looks up at the first return of the
sun.

The explanation was not long delayed. The next day my father sent
for me at an earlier hour than I generally went to him, and after a
preamble which I scarcely comprehended, and which by no means
served to prepare me for what I was about to hear, he informed me
that the Duca di Valenzano had asked for my hand. I remained
stupefied with astonishment, and my father continued: “It was
impossible to expect a proposal like this for one of my daughters;
but however brilliant it may be, I should unhesitatingly decline it
were not the duke personally worthy of love and esteem. As to this I
am satisfied from all I hear respecting him. But it is for you to decide
about accepting his hand. I will not impose my will on you. Consider
the subject, Ginevra. The Duca di Valenzano will come this evening
to receive your reply.”

My father might have said much more without my thinking of

interrupting him. I was in such a state of utter amazement that I
could hardly realize what he said, and the perspective thus suddenly
opened before me conveyed no definite idea to my mind. It was
easier to believe he was jesting with me than to suppose such a [pg
457] man as the duke would propose for me to become his wife!...

I returned to my chamber extremely agitated, and this feeling was

not diminished by witnessing my sister's emotion and Ottavia's noisy
demonstrations of joy when I told them of the proposal that had just
been communicated to me. The Duca di Valenzano was not only a
person of high rank, but he was thought to possess every
accomplishment, and it was evident that every one looked upon my
consent as a matter of course.
Un homme accompli! Before going any further, I cannot help
stopping to remark here to what a degree the world, generally so
severe, shows itself indulgent in certain cases; and how often this
indulgence is shared even by those who try to think they are not
influenced by external circumstances! Assuredly neither my father,
nor my sister, nor the simple Ottavia attributed the favorable
impression produced on their minds to the brilliant position of this
unexpected suitor, or the special merit he had acquired in their eyes,
to the mere fact of his having thought of sharing his lot with me.

It would have been difficult for me to express my own feelings, for I

hardly understood their nature. I was flattered; I was touched; I was
even very grateful, for it was evident that the duke had begun by
pleading my cause with my father, and hitherto he had been by no
means unpleasing to me. Why, then, could I not think of him now
without a kind of repugnance, fear, and aversion? And why did I feel
as if I should prefer never to see him again? I asked myself these
questions, at first silently, and then aloud, as was often my habit
when with Livia and Ottavia, who, though so different from each
other, were nevertheless so alike in their affection for me.

“That is quite natural, carina,” replied Livia. “You scarcely know the
Duca di Valenzano, and the very word marriage is one of serious
import, and even fearful, when it falls for the first time on the ears
of a young girl. But this will pass away.”

“Do you think so?”

“Oh! yes. I am sure of it. When you know him better, and especially
when he, in his turn, comprehends the qualities of your mind, and
heart, and soul, he will conceive such an affection for my dear
Ginevra that she will soon love him in return, and not a little, I
imagine.”

“I think so, too,” said Ottavia, laughing. “They say he is very

captivating, to say nothing of his being one of the greatest and
wealthiest noblemen of Italy. Ah! ah! what a different tone those
wicked people will assume who say....”

Livia looked at Ottavia, who stopped short.

“Livia! do not stop her,” I exclaimed. “Go on, Ottavia; I insist upon it.
I wish to know what wicked people you refer to, and what they say.”

Ottavia once more regretted her precipitation, and would rather

have remained silent; but I continued to question her till she
acknowledged some people had taken the liberty of saying I should
never marry on account of “what had taken place.”

“What a vague, cruel way of speaking!” exclaimed Livia indignantly.

“Everybody knows now there was nothing, absolutely nothing at all,
in that gossip; that it was all a mere falsehood.”

“Everybody?” ... I said with [pg 458] sudden emotion. “But has not
my father continued to treat me as if I were culpable?” Then after a
moment's silence, I added: “Do you think these falsehoods have
come to the ears of the Duca di Valenzano?”

“How can I tell?” replied Livia. “And of what consequence is it? His
proposal shows that he is sure, as well as we, that you have nothing
at all to reproach yourself for.”

I made no reply. A new thought struck me, and I felt the necessity
of being alone, in order to reflect on what had been suggested by
her words. I therefore left my two companions abruptly, and took a
seat at the end of the terrace on a little parapet that looked on the
sea, and there I remained nearly an hour.

That night, when the Duca di Valenzano returned, my father, at my

solicitation, told him that, before coming to any decision, I wished to
have some private conversation with him. It was not without
difficulty I induced my father to convey this message; but the duke
immediately assented, and with so much eagerness that it might
have been supposed my request had only anticipated a wish of his
own.

VIII.

I was in my usual place in the gallery, and alone, when the duke
entered at the appointed hour. I rose, and extended my hand. He
was astonished, I think, to find me so calm, and perhaps so grave,
and looked at me a moment in silence, as if he would divine what I
was going to say to him. Seeing that I remained silent, he at length
said:

“Donna Ginevra, I thought myself skilled in reading the expression of

your eyes; but in looking at you now, I cannot tell whether the word
that is about to fall from your lips is yes or no.”

I found it difficult to reply; but overcoming my embarrassment at

last, I succeeded in saying:

“Yes or no?.... If I only had that to say, M. le Duc, I could have

charged my father with it.... But before speaking of the reply I am to
make, I must make one request. You must tell me sincerely what
you think of me, and I will afterwards tell you with the utmost
frankness wherein you are mistaken.”

He looked at me with an attentive air, and then smiled, as he said:

“Tell you what I think of you?... That might lead me to say more
than I have yet the right to say. But I will tell you, Donna Ginevra,
what I do not think, and, in so doing, I shall, I imagine, comply with
your request. Let me fully assure you I attach no importance
whatever to the words of a coxcomb; and I would call any one a liar,
and treat him as such, who would dare to repeat them!...”
He saw, by the expression of joy that flashed from my eyes, that he
had guessed aright.

“Poor child! ... poor angel!” he continued, “it would be strange

indeed if I took any other attitude than this before you.” And he was
about to kneel at my feet, when I eagerly prevented him.

“Do not do that, I beg of you!” I exclaimed. “And say, if you like, that
I am a child, but do not call me an angel.... Oh! no, never say
anything so far from the truth! Listen to me, for I requested [pg
459] this interview only that you might know all—what is true as
well as what is false.”

“What is true?” he said in a slight tone of surprise.

“Yes. Listen to me. I thank you for not having believed what ... what
was said concerning me, for that, indeed, was false. I am, however,
culpable, and it is right you should know it. Perhaps you will then
change your mind, and think no more about me.”

He looked at me again, as if he would read the depths of my soul.

“Is it with this design,” he said, “that you speak so frankly?”

I knew not what reply to make, for I no longer knew what I wished.
I found a charm in the mingled tenderness and respect of which I so
suddenly felt myself the object. Besides, I had suffered greatly from
my long seclusion, and my heart involuntarily turned towards him
who was trying to deliver me from it.... My fear and repugnance
vanished beneath his sympathetic look.

“No,” I said at last, “it is not for that reason.”

“Then speak frankly,” he said, “and let me hear this important

revelation, whatever it may be.”

“And will you promise solemnly never to reveal my secret?”

“Yes, I solemnly promise.”

In spite of the solemnity of his words, I saw it was with difficulty he

repressed a smile. But when he saw the agitation produced by the
recollections thus awakened, his expression became serious. For a
moment a cloud came over his face; but in proportion as I entered
into the details of that last night of my mother's life—my
thoughtlessness, my shock, and, finally, my despair and repentance
—he became affected, and listened with so much emotion that his
look inspired me with confidence, and I finished without fear the
account I had begun with a trembling voice.

As has been seen, I thought myself more guilty than I should have
been had there been any truth in the vague, unmerited reproaches I
had endured; for the slight fault I had really committed seemed
indissolubly connected with the fearful calamity that followed!... That
was why I thought myself unpardonable, and why I preferred to
endure the most unfounded suspicions concerning me rather than
reveal the truth to any one in the world—above all, to my father. But
it seemed to me I ought not, for the same reason, to conceal it from
him who had so generously offered me his hand, whatever might be
the result. I therefore continued, and he listened without
interrupting me. When I had ended, he spoke in his turn, and what
he said decided the fate of my life.

I already felt relieved by the complete revelation of a secret I had

hitherto kept with an obstinacy that was perhaps a little childish. And
in listening to the soft accents of his sonorous, penetrating voice, my
heart was more and more comforted, and soon allowed itself to be
persuaded into what it was sweet and consoling to believe—that, as
he said, I exaggerated the consequence of my thoughtlessness; that
if I had afflicted my mother, I had time to ask and obtain her
forgiveness; that I was ignorant of her dangerous condition, and,
when I became aware of it, I supposed I had been the cause; ... but
all this was unreasonable.... And as to the flower.... Here he
stopped, and his brow darkened for a moment. “Answer [pg 460]
me frankly,” he said slowly; “if Flavio Aldini were still alive, if he were
here under this window to-day, and implored you to give him that
little sprig of jasmine I see in your belt....”

He had not time to finish.

“Is it possible,” I exclaimed, “you, who say you understand me, who
pretend to have read my heart, can mention a name that has
become so odious to me?...”

Then I continued, I imagine to his great surprise:

“You are the first to whom I have acknowledged the fault he made
me commit, for I do not consider the ear of the priest to whom I
confessed it as that of man. There I experienced the indulgence of
heaven, and was forgiven by God as well as my mother.... But would
you know what cost me the most that day? Not, certainly, my sorrow
for the past; not my firm resolutions as to the future; nor even the
humble acceptation of all the humiliations that have been inflicted on
me.... No, what cost me the most was to promise to overcome my
resentment, to subdue the bitterness awakened by the very name of
Flavio, and to utter it every day in prayer for the repose of his
soul!...”

I was, in speaking thus, very remote from the regions familiar to

Lorenzo. While I was uttering these words, my face was lit up with
an expression very different from any he had ever seen there. He
gazed at me without seeming to hear what I said, and at length
replied with evident emotion:

“I thank you for telling me this, though one look at you is sufficient
to efface all doubt, as darkness vanishes before the approach of
day.”

After a moment's silence, he resumed: “And now, Ginevra, I implore

you to delay no longer the reply I have come to receive.”
The recollections of the past had made me forget for a few moments
the present; but these words recalled it, and I looked at him as if
confounded. There was a moment's silence. My heart beat loudly. At
length I silently took from my belt the little sprig of jasmine he had
just spoken of, and gave it to him.

He understood the reply, and his eyes lit up with gratitude and joy. I
felt happier than I had anticipated. Was not this, in fact, what I had
dreamed of, what I had longed for—to be loved? And would it not be
easy to love in return such a man as this?

As these thoughts were crossing my mind, and I lowered my eyes

before his, he suddenly said:

“Do you know how beautiful you are, Ginevra?”

At these words I frowned, and a blush rose to my forehead which

once might have been caused by gratified vanity, but now was only
occasioned by sincere, heart-felt displeasure. “Never speak to me of
my face, I beg of you,” I said to him, “unless you wish to annoy or
displease me.”

He looked at me with the greatest astonishment, though he felt no

doubt as to my perfect sincerity, and, taking my hand in his, said:

“You are a being apart, Ginevra, and resemble no one else in any
respect. It will be difficult sometimes to obey your request, but I will
do so.”

Had I been able to read Lorenzo's heart, I should, in my turn, have

been astonished, and perhaps frightened, at the motives that had
[pg 461] induced him to link so suddenly his life with mine.

The beauty of which I was no longer vain; the talents I possessed

without being aware of it; the strangeness of finding me in a kind of
captivity, and the somewhat romantic satisfaction of delivering me
from it and changing my condition by a stroke of a wand—such were
the elements of the attraction to which he yielded; and if it had
occurred to any one to remind him that the girl who was about to
become his wife had a soul, he would very probably have replied by
a glance of surprise, a sarcastic smile, or a slight shrug of his
shoulders, as if to say: “Perhaps so, but it does not concern me.”

It happened in this case, as often happens in many other

circumstances, that a word, a look, or the tone of a voice impresses,
persuades, and influences, and yet (perhaps for the happiness of the
human race) does not reveal the inner secrets of the soul.

My engagement was announced the next day, and the last of May
appointed for the marriage. There was a month before the time—a
month the remembrance of which still stands out in my life like a
season of enchantment. The restored confidence of my father, joined
to the thought of our approaching separation, had revived all the
fondness of his former affection. Lorenzo had succeeded in making
him regret the excess of his severity towards me. Indebted to him,
therefore, for the return of my father's love as well as the gift of his
own, he seemed like some beneficent genie who had dispersed
every cloud, and restored to my youth the warm, golden light of the
sun. I thanked him for this without any circumlocution, and
sometimes in so warm a manner that he must have been the most
unpresuming of men to suppose me indifferent to the sentiments he
so often expressed, though not so ardently as to disturb me. He
respected the request I made the first day. He suffered me to remain
the child I still was, in spite of having experienced such varied
emotions. Perhaps the strong contrast he thus found in me formed a
study not devoid of interest to a man blasé by all he had seen and
encountered in the world.

The preparations for so brilliant a marriage completely filled up the

time of the busy Ottavia, who was charged by my father to omit
nothing in the way of dress requisite for the fiancée of the Duca di
Valenzano. Mario, prouder than he was willing to acknowledge of an
alliance that reflected lustre on the whole family, showed himself
friendly and satisfied. Besides, the transformation that had taken
place in my whole appearance within a few months, as well as in my
way of life, had softened his manner towards me; and the more
because he attributed the merit of it to himself, and often repeated
that, had it not been for him, my father would not have had the
courage to persevere in a severity that had had so salutary a result.
He loved me, however, as I have had occasion in the course of my
life to know; but as there are people in the world who are kind, and
yet are not sympathetic, so there are also many who on certain
occasions manifest some feeling, and yet are not kind. Mario was of
the latter class. At certain times, on great occasions, he seemed to
have a heart capable of affection and devotedness; but, as a general
thing, it was rather evil than good he discovered in [pg 462]
everything and everybody, without excepting even those with whom
he was most intimately connected, and perhaps in them above all.

Livia alone, after the first few days, seemed to have a shade of
thoughtfulness and anxiety mingled with her joy, and Mario, who
observed it, unhesitatingly declared it was caused by the prospect of
remaining an old maid, doubly vexatious now her younger sister was
about to ascend before her very eyes to the pinnacle of rank and
fortune. But I knew Livia better than he, and, though unable to read
all that was passing in her soul at that time, I was sure that no
comparison of that kind, or any dissatisfied consideration of herself,
had ever crossed her mind.

But I did not suspect that her pure, transparent nature, as well as
the instinct of clear-sighted affection, enabled her to see some
threatening signs in the heavens above me that seemed to every
one else so brilliant with its sun and cloudless azure. But the die was
cast, and it would have been useless to warn as well as dangerous
to disturb me. She therefore confined herself to reminding me of all
my mother's pious counsels. She made me promise never to forget
them, and she, too, promised to pray for me. But when I told her
she must continue to aid me with her advice, and remain true to her
rôle of my guardian angel, she shook her head, and remained silent.
One day, when I spoke in this way, she replied: “Do not be under
any illusion, Ginevra. Marriage is like death. One may prepare for it,
one may be aided by the counsels, the prayers, and the
encouragement of friends till the last moment; but once the line is
crossed, as the soul after death finds itself alone in the presence of
its God, its heavenly bridegroom, to be eternally blessed by his love
or cursed by its privation, so the wife finds herself alone in the world
with her husband. There is no happiness for her but in their mutual
affection. If this exists, she possesses the greatest happiness this
world can afford. If deprived of it, she lacks everything. The world
will be only a void, and she may still consider herself fortunate, if
this void is filled by sorrow, and not by sin!...”

“What you say is frightful.”

“Yes, it is frightful; therefore I have never been able to covet so

terrible a bondage. O my dear Gina! may God watch over you....”

“You terrify me, Livia. I assure you I should never have regarded
marriage under so serious an aspect, from the way in which people
around us enter into it.”

Livia blushed, and her eyes, generally so soft, assumed an

expression of thoughtfulness and severity.

“I am nearly twenty-six years old,” she said, “and am therefore no

longer a girl, as you still are. But in a few days you will assume the
duties of womanhood. You will place your hand in Lorenzo's, and
pronounce the most fearful vow there is in the world. Let me
therefore say one thing to you, which I am sure is the faithful echo
of your mother's sentiments, and what she would certainly tell you
likewise. Ginevra, rather than imitate any of those to whom you
refer, rather than seek away from your own fireside a happiness
similar to theirs, it would be better for God to call you to himself this
very hour. Yes,” she continued with unwonted energy, “sooner than
[pg 463] behold this, I would rather—I who love you so much—I
would far rather see those beautiful eyes, now looking at me with so
much surprise, close this very instant never to open again!”

I was, indeed, surprised. For were not these words, or at least the
idea they conveyed, what I had found written in the little book Livia
had never read, and was it not my mother herself who actually
spoke to me now through the voice of my sister?...

IX.

This conversation left a profound and painful impression on me, but

it was counteracted by the increasing attachment Lorenzo inspired.
During this phase of my life I only perceived his charming, noble
qualities, the unusual variety of his tastes, his mental endowments,
and, above all, his love for me, which it seemed impossible to return
too fully. It would have required a degree of penetration not to be
expected of one of my age to lift the brilliant veil and look beyond.
Therefore the natural liveliness of my disposition, which had been
prematurely extinguished by successive trials of too great a severity,
gradually revived. It was no unusual thing now to hear me laugh and
sing as I used to. The influence of this new cheerful life
counteracted the effects of the factitious life I had led the previous
year. Under Lorenzo's protection, and escorted by Mario, I was
allowed to take long rides on horseback, which restored freshness to
my cheeks, and inspired that youthful feeling which may be called
the pleasure of living—a feeling that till now I had been a stranger
to. My mind was developed by intercourse with one so superior to
myself, and who endeavored to interest and instruct me. In a word,
my whole nature developed and expanded in every way, and for
awhile I believed in the realization here below of perfectly unclouded
happiness.
A sad accident, however, occurred, which cast a shadow over the
brief duration of those delightful days. It was now the last day but
one before our marriage, and for the last time we were to make an
excursion on horseback, which was also to be an adieu to the
mountains, the sea, and the beautiful shore that had been familiar to
me from my infancy. For, immediately after, we were to leave
Messina; and though it was to go to Naples, I thought more of what
I was about to leave than what I was to find, and the melancholy of
approaching separation seemed diffused over all nature around me.
Our horses were waiting at a gate at the end of the garden, which,
on that side, opened into the country. Mario and Lorenzo had gone
before, and I was walking slowly along to join them, holding my skirt
up with one hand, and leaning with the other on Livia, who was
going to see our cavalcade set off.

Mario had already mounted his horse, but Lorenzo, on foot beside
Prima, my pretty pony, was waiting to help me mount. He held out
his hand. I placed my foot on it, and sprang gaily up. As soon as I
was seated, he stepped back to mount his own horse, while Livia
remained beside me to arrange the folds of my long habit. Just then
the wind blew off her light straw hat, to which was attached a long,
blue veil, and both passing suddenly [pg 464] across my horse's
eyes before I had fairly gathered up the bridle, he took fright. I was
unable to check him. He sprang madly away, bearing me along the
narrow alley leading from the garden to the highway. I heard the
screams of those who remained motionless behind, but nothing
afterwards except a hum in my ears. A flash seemed to pass before
my eyes, but I retained my consciousness. I realized that I was lost.
The alley, like that in the garden, was bordered with a thick hedge of
box extending to the road, which was here at an immense height
along a cliff overlooking the sea and protected by a low parapet. My
ungovernable horse was evidently about to leap over it and
precipitate me below.... I recommended myself to God, dropped the
bridle, gathered up the folds of my habit with both hands, and,
murmuring the words, Madonna santa, aiutate mi!99 I allowed myself
to fall on the hedge which bordered the alley. I might have been