Chapter XI: Front Matter (11)

There is, however, a still better safeguard—the use of photography. The transit will record itself more minutely and more accurately than any ordinary observations for measurement could do. Various plans will be used. One proposed is to have one hundred and eighty prepared and highly sensitive plates along the circumference of a suitable wheel made to revolve regularly by clock‐work. During three minutes, these plates come, one every second, successively into position to receive and record the images of the transit, as the planet for those three minutes is entering on the sun. Other plates, at stated and accurately measured intervals of time, will similarly record its regular progress across the sun; and another wheel, with one hundred and eighty other plates, will record the successive changes each second for the three minutes occupied by its exit over the sun’s border. These are all, of course, negatives on glass. From them any number of impressions can be taken, in the usual way, for general distribution among the scientists. In order that such impressions may still serve for the finest measurements, despite of any variations of expansion, contraction, or warping which the atmospheric changes may produce, a system of fine, spider‐web lines is placed inside the telescope, producing on the photograph itself a network of fine lines, some running north and south, others crossing them east and west. These lines are at equal distances apart, and serve admirably for measuring the position of the planet on the solar face. If the photographic sheet should become quite distorted, these lines would show it; for they would of course follow the distortion, and yet, after that distortion, they would still guide us to accurate measurements. It is hoped that this means and the many other photographic devices to be used will secure a degree of accuracy far beyond what Halley anticipated and would have been satisfied with.

The spectroscope comes in also to aid in determining the contacts with the utmost precision. The light of the solar photosphere, or body of the sun, when made to pass through the prisms of a spectroscope, spreads into a continuous band of various colors, and crossed by many faint, dark lines. Other bodies, raised to a certain heat, and emitting light, give a spectrum of a totally different character. We see only bright upright lines. There is no continuous band or spectrum of prismatic colors. Now, just outside the solar photosphere, and between it and the chromosphere, is a layer of solar atmosphere which gives just such upright, bright lines. This was first discovered not many years ago during a total solar eclipse, when the direct light of the photosphere was cut off by the interposing moon. Knowing what to look for, the astronomers have since been able so to manipulate their telescopes as to catch these bright lines, even when there is no eclipse. They find them, of course, as they examine, a narrow ring apparently encircling the sun, and immediately around his circumference. Now, when the moment of the beginning of the transit is at hand, the spectroscope is turned to the precise point where Venus will touch the sun’s rim, and these lines are clearly brought into vision. So long as they shine, the way is open for the light of that narrow layer or belt to reach the earth. The instant their bright flash disappears, the observer knows that the planet has so moved as to intercept the rays of light, and is just in contact. Their reappearance, at the proper time, on the other side of the sun, will indicate the instant when Venus will have quitted the disk and the transit is over.

It is confidently expected that by some one or by all of these methods the uncertainties of 1761 and 1769 will be avoided, and that the instants of the commencement and the conclusion of each line of the transit may be so accurately determined that for neither of them will the error as to their duration exceed one second. Did the time occupied by Venus in making the transit, as seen from one station, differ from the time as seen at the other by only one minute, the uncertainty of one second would be less than two per cent. But, in fact, the times will differ by fifteen minutes, and, by skilfully choosing the places, a difference of twenty minutes may be obtained. In that case, the error or uncertainty would be less than one‐ tenth of one per cent. For the present, the scientific world will be satisfied with that degree of exactness.

Let us return to our supposition of two stations north and south, 6,000 miles apart. The two lines of transit, as seen from them, are separated about 35 of an arc. This is as the lines are seen from the earth. If we recur to Kepler’s proportion, as stated before—that the distance of the earth from the sun is to the distance of Venus from the sun as 10,000,000 is to 7,233,324—we can make use of a trigonometrical calculation, and easily ascertain that those same lines on the sun, seen by an observer on Venus, would appear about 48‐½" apart. Moreover, the lines from the sun to Venus, forming this angle, cross each other at the planet, and, if prolonged, will reach the two stations on the earth. Hence, since opposite interior angles are equal, this (48‐½") must be the angle at which the same observer on Venus, turning towards the earth, would see the two stations. We arrive thus at a triangle, in which the base is known—6,000 miles; the angle at the vertex on Venus is also known—48‐½"; and the angles at the base are easily ascertainable. A simple calculation leads to the distance of Venus from the earth—about 25,300,000 miles. Again, applying Kepler’s formula to this number, we obtain as the result, for the earth’s distance from the sun, about 91,450,000 miles. If we give here only rough approximations, we are, after all, as near the truth as the astronomers of to‐day can boast of being. In a minute calculation, subsidiary but important points are to be brought in, complicating the calculation and influencing the result.

After this statement of the general character of Halley’s method, we may be brief in our notice of the yet more beautiful mode of Delisle. He proposed it before the transits of the last century. But its efficiency so entirely depends on an accurate knowledge of the longitudes of the stations, and the longitudes of distant stations were then so uncertain, that it could not then be used with success.

In this mode, two stations are necessary, east and west, or, rather, along that line on the earth’s surface from all points of which the transit will show the same line on the solar disk. The further apart the stations are, the better; for the base between them will be larger. To know the distance between them, we must know their longitudes as accurately as their latitudes. From the longitudes we ascertain with precision the difference of time between them. At one of those stations, the first exterior contact is seen, and the exact time is noted. As Venus moves on, the shadow of this first contact flies along that line of the earth’s surface like the shadow of a cloud in spring traversing the fields. It is only after the lapse of a certain length of time that the contact is seen and timed at the other station. This certain length of time is the key to the solution. It may be determined by observations on any one or on all the contacts, or by the observation of any other points of the transit examined and timed at both stations. It is obvious that the contacts, being the most unmistakable in their character, will be all used to check and control each other; the more so, as they serve also, as we saw, for Halley’s method. The most careful use of the telescope will be supplemented by the photograph and the spectroscope.

Let two such stations be chosen which, by their longitudes and latitudes, we know to be 5,000 miles apart. It will be found that the transit, or any special point of it, will be seen at the second station about three minutes of time later than at the first. This means that the shadow of Venus travels 5,000 miles in three minutes on the earth’s surface or at the earth’s distance from the sun. Applying Kepler’s formula, we find that, to produce this effect, Venus herself must have travelled about 3,860 miles in those three minutes. There‐fore in 224.7 days—her solar year—she would travel about 416 millions of miles, supposing that, during the transit, she was moving at her mean velocity. This, then, is the length of her periphery of her orbit around the sun. Observations have determined its shape. Now that we know its size, it is not difficult to ascertain what her mean distance from the sun must be. It is about 66,300,000 miles. From this, the usual formula leads us to the earth’s distance from the sun—91,650,000 miles. We merely indicate the salient points of the process, and that with summary numbers. An astronomer would enter into minor questions: how far the earth had travelled in her orbit during those three minutes, and what had been the special motion of the second station during the same time, on account of the diurnal revolution of the earth on its axis. He would carefully establish the proportion of the distances between the sun and Venus and the earth, during the transit, to their mean distances as contemplated in Kepler’s law, and he would compare the velocity of Venus at that time with her mean velocity. Other points, too, would have to be brought in, complicating the whole process to an extent that would soften the brain of any one but a calculating astronomer.

In Halley’s method, the effort is to obtain two transit lines on the sun as widely apart as possible. For that purpose, the stations must differ in latitude as widely as possible. In Delisle’s method, on the contrary, the longitude becomes of primary importance. The latitude can be easily determined. Hence, in the last century, Halley’s method was almost exclusively adopted. But now we can use both; for we have better instruments and better star catalogues, and can determine longitudes by astronomical observations much more accurately than could ordinarily be done a century ago. In addition, we have now almost faultless chronometers. Besides all these means, we have, and will use to a great extent, the grand American invention of determining the longitude by the electric telegraph with an accuracy which leaves nothing to be desired.

While each method requires at least two stations, a greater number would support and control each other, and allow us to take the average result of a greater number of observations. Four stations at the corners of a large quadrangle on the surface of the earth might give two sets of stations for each method. But this year the stations may be nearer a hundred.

Careful preliminary studies have already determined on what portion of the earth the transit will be visible. The most available points will be turned to account for stations. We say available; for, unfortunately, much of that space is occupied by oceans, while astronomical stations must perforce be situated on firm land. Some of the best points, too, seem almost inaccessible. Still, there is a vast line of posts determined on in the northern hemisphere, and quite a number, to correspond with them, in the southern. Beginning at Alexandria, in Egypt, the line stretches northward and eastward through Palestine, Georgia, Tartary, Middle Asia, and Northern China to Yeddo, in Japan, perhaps to Honolulu, in the Sandwich Islands. Along a great part of this line, the Russian telegraphic wires will give exact longitudes, thus affording a fine field for the use of Delisle’s method. In the southern hemisphere, the line may be set down as commencing near the Cape of Good Hope, bending southeastwardly to the lately discovered Antarctic lands, passing south of Australia, then turning upwards towards the equator, and terminating at Nukahiva, in the Sandwich Islands, in the South Pacific Ocean. Along this line, at Crozet Island, at St. Paul’s, at Reunion, at Kerguelen Land—further south, if the southern summer will have sufficiently melted the snows and driven back the ice‐barrier to allow the observers to land and work—at Campbell Land, in New Caledonia, and in other places, stations will be established, between which and corresponding stations in the northern line Halley’s method may be used.

Time, learning, skill, energy, money, everything that man can give, will be devoted to ensure success in the astronomical work to be done on the 8th of December next. Such earnestness commands respect, and wins our sympathy and best wishes.

May the day itself—the festival of the Immaculate Virgin Mother—be an augury of success! Astronomers, as a body, are less infected with the virus of modern scepticism and materialism than any other class of our scientists of to‐day. On the contrary, not a few, standing in the front rank among them, are devout children of the church. Some of their chiefs are even numbered among her clergy. They will not omit on that day to invoke the blessing of heaven and the intercession of their Holy Mother. May their fervent prayers be heard, and may He who “has ordered all things in measure and number and weight”(66) bless and give success to their labors!

Yet they can only look for an approximation to the truth, not the truth itself. They will see more clearly than before how the heavens declare the glory of God. But there will remain obscurity and uncertainty enough to teach them humility in his presence. For “God hath made all things good in their time, and hath delivered the world to the consideration of the sons of men, so that man cannot find out the work which God hath made, from the beginning to the end.” This was true when the inspired Ecclesiastes wrote, and is still, and must ever be, true. The history of the progress of physical sciences is practical, tangible evidence of it. Each generation has to correct the mistakes and discard the errors of a preceding generation, and must acknowledge the uncertainty of much that it continues to hold or boasts of having discovered.

No greater absurdity is conceivable than that of a man puffed up with pride because of the little knowledge he has gained—little indeed, though he may think it a great deal—who sets his intellect against the infinite wisdom and the revelation of God. The more man really knows, the more conscious he becomes of his own failures in many things, and of the vast extent of his ignorance.

The Veil Withdrawn.

Translated, By Permission, From The French of Madame Craven, Author Of “A Sister’s Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.

“The one thing worth showing to mankind is a human soul.”—_Browning_

I.

SEPTEMBER 1, 1871.

It was at Messina, July 15, 18—. I have never forgotten the date. It was just after my fifteenth birthday. The balcony of the room where I was sitting overlooked the sea. From time to time, but more and more faintly, could be heard the noise of the waves breaking against the shore. It was the hour called in Italy the _contr’ ora_—the hour when, in summer, the whole horizon is aflame with the scorching rays of the already declining sun, which are no longer tempered by the gentle wind from the sea that every morning refreshes the shore. The windows, that had been open during the earlier part of the day, were now shut, the blinds lowered, and the shutters half closed. Profound silence reigned within doors and without. For many, this is the hour of a siesta; and for all, a time of inaction and repose.

I was holding a book in my hand, not from inclination or pleasure, but simply through obedience, because I had a lesson to learn. But that was no task. I took no pleasure in studying, nor was it repugnant to me, for I learned without any difficulty. The chief benefit of study was therefore lost on me. It required no effort.

I had not yet even taken the trouble to open my book, for I saw by the clock I had ample time. At six I always went into the garden, which I was not allowed to enter during the heat of the day. There was still an hour before me, and I knew that a quarter of that time would be sufficient to accomplish my task. I therefore remained indolently seated on a low chair against the wall, near the half‐open shutter, motionless and dreaming, my eyes wandering vaguely through the obscurity that surrounded me.

The room I occupied was a large _salon_. The ceiling covered with frescos, and the stuccoed walls brilliantly ornamented with flowers and arabesques, prevented this vast apartment from seeming gloomy or ill‐furnished. And yet, according to the tastes I have since acquired, it was absolutely wanting in everything signified by the word “comfort,” which, though now fully understood in our country, has nevertheless no corresponding term in our language. A clumsy gilt _console_, on which stood a ponderous clock, with an immense looking‐glass above, occupied the further end of the room; and in the middle stood a large, round, scagliola table under a magnificent chandelier of Venetian glass. This chandelier, as well as the mirrors that hung around, not for use, but to ornament the walls with their handsome gilt frames and the figures painted on their surface, were the richest and most admired objects in the room. A few arm‐chairs systematically arranged, a long sofa that entirely filled one of the recesses, and here and there some light chairs, were usually the only furniture of this vast apartment; but that day a small couch stood near the window, and on it reclined my mother—my charming young mother!—her head resting on a pillow, and her eyes closed. On her knee lay a small book, open at a scarcely touched page, which, with the ink‐stand on a little table before her, and the pen fallen at her feet, showed she had been overpowered by sleep or fatigue while she was writing.

My mother at that time was barely thirty‐two years of age. People said we looked like sisters, and there was no exaggeration in this. I was already taller than she, and those who saw me for the first time thought me two years older than I really was; whereas my mother, owing to the delicacy of her features and the transparency of her complexion, retained all the freshness of twenty years of age. I looked at her. Her beautiful hair, parted on her pale brow, fell on the pillow like a frame around her face, which looked more lovely than ever to me. There was a deeper flush than usual on her cheeks, and her half‐open lips were as red as coral.... I smilingly gazed at her with admiration and love! Alas! I was too much of a child to realize that this beauty was ominous, and that I had much more reason to weep!...

My mother was left an orphan at fifteen years of age without any protector, and poverty would have been added to her other privations had not Fabrizio dei Monti, a friend of her father’s, and a celebrated lawyer, succeeded in snatching the young heiress’ property from the hands of a grasping relative who had been contending for it. This law‐suit had been going on several years, and the result was still doubtful when Count Morani, Bianca’s father, died.

He who rendered the young orphan so signal a service was then about thirty‐five years old. He was a widower, and the father of two children, to whom he devoted all the time left him by his numerous clients, whom his reputation for ability brought from all parts of Sicily—famed, as every one knows, for the most complicated and interminable law‐suits. Fabrizio, after his wife’s death, had given up all intercourse with society, except what was imposed on him by the obligations of his profession. With this exception, his life was spent in absolute retirement with an austerity as rare among his fellow‐citizens as his long fidelity to the memory of the wife he had lost.

But when, after advocating Bianca’s cause, he found himself to be her only protector, he at once felt the difficulty and danger of such a situation, and resolved to place her, without any delay, under the guardianship of a husband of her own choice. He therefore ran over the names of the many aspirants to the hand of the young heiress, and gave her a list of those he thought the most worthy of her.

“You have forgotten one,” said Bianca in a low tone, after glancing over it.

“Whom?” ... inquired Fabrizio in an agitated tone, not daring to interpret the glance that accompanied her words.

Bianca still retained all the simplicity of a child, and the timidity of womanhood had not yet come over her. Accordingly, she said, as she looked directly towards him, that she should never feel for any one else the affection she had for him; and if he would not have her, she would go into a convent, and never be married.

It was thus my mother became Fabrizio dei Monti’s wife, and, in spite of the difference of their ages, there never was a nobler, sweeter union. A happier couple could not have been found in the world during the fourteen years that followed my birth. But for several months past, my father had appeared depressed and anxious. Sometimes I could see his eyes blinded by tears as he looked at my mother, but the cause I did not understand. It is true, she often complained of fatigue, and remained in bed for hours, which became more and more prolonged. And now and then she passed the whole day there. But when she was up, as she had been that day, she did not look ill. On the contrary, I never saw her look more beautiful than while I was thus gazing at her with admiration and a love amounting to idolatry....

After remaining for some time in the same attitude, I at length took my book, and endeavored to give my whole attention to my lesson. But the heat was stifling, and, after a few moments, I was, in my turn, overpowered by an irresistible drowsiness, to which I insensibly yielded without changing my position, and soon sank into a profound slumber.

I had been asleep some time, when I was suddenly awakened by a remote, indistinct sound that seemed like the continuation of the dream it had interrupted. This sound was the footsteps of a horse....

I sprang up without taking time for a moment’s reflection. I raised the blinds, hurriedly opened the shutters and the window, and sprang out on the balcony.... The room was at once flooded with light and filled with the evening air. The sun had just disappeared, and a fresh breeze fanned my cheeks.... I heard my mother cough feebly, but did not turn back. I was overpowered by one thought, which made me forget everything else—everything!—even _her_!... I leaned forward to see if I was mistaken. No, it was really _he_!... I saw him appear at the end of the road that connected our house with the shore. He rode slowly along on his beautiful horse, which he managed with incomparable grace. As he came nearer, he slackened his pace still more, and, when beneath the balcony, stopped, and, taking off his hat, bowed profoundly, the wind meanwhile blowing about the curls of his jet‐black hair. Then he raised his eyes, of the color and tempered clearness of agate, and with a beseeching, passionate look seemed to implore me for some favor.... I knew what he meant.... Foolish child that I was! I snatched from my hair the carnation I had placed there an hour before, and threw it towards him!...

At that instant I heard a piercing cry—a cry that still rings in my heart, and the memory of which will never be effaced—“Ginevra!”.... Hurrying in, I found my mother standing in the floor, pale and gasping for breath, with her arms extended towards me.... I instantly realized I had been guilty of an indiscretion which had afflicted and displeased her. I was at once filled with sorrow, and on the point of throwing myself at her feet to beg her forgiveness; but before I had time to speak, or even reach her, she fell back on her couch in a semi‐unconscious state that I should have thought a swoon, had not a spasmodic groan from time to time escaped from her breast, and when I did prostrate myself, had she not seized one of my hands, which she continued to hold with a strong grasp in hers....

We remained thus for some minutes without my being able to leave her to call for assistance, though the frightful change in her face filled me with inexpressible terror as well as the keenest anguish. I withdrew my hand at last, and threw my arms around her neck, exclaiming repeatedly amid my sobs: “Forgive me! Answer me! Oh! tell me that you forgive me!...” She made no reply, however, but by degrees she returned to herself and grew calm. Then, taking me in her arms, she held me a long time closely embraced, as if she felt there was no safety for me anywhere else, and longed in some way for the power of taking me once more into her maternal breast, that I might live with her life, or die if she died!...

O Almighty God! the prayer that then rose from her heart in behalf of her poor child thou alone didst hear! But when I recall all the errors of my past life and thy wonderful mercy towards me, I feel it was in answer to that prayer thou hast bestowed on me so many benefits! I know that at that instant a new source of grace was opened to me never to be exhausted—a look of mercy vouchsafed that nothing has ever extinguished!...

My mother still remained speechless, but her respiration became more and more regular, though, alas! still too rapid, and her features resumed their usual appearance. But her bright color had given place to a deadly paleness, and a large dark ring encircled her sweet, expressive eyes, now fastened on me with a look I had never read there before. She bent down and kissed me, and I felt two great tears fall on my forehead, as her pale lips murmured these words:

“O my God! since it is thy will I should die and leave her behind me, I commit her to thy care. Watch over her, I pray thee, better than I have done.”

“Die!” ... my mother die!... I sprang up with a sudden, violent bound, as if smitten to the heart, and stood motionless like one petrified. A frightful vision appeared before me!... a vision I had not been prepared for by the slightest apprehension, or anxiety, or suspicion. Notwithstanding the too precocious development of my sensibilities, there was something child‐like in my peculiar temperament that had blinded my eyes, now so suddenly opened! I tried to recall the words I had just heard, but my mind grew confused, and was conscious of nothing but a sharp pang I had never yet experienced, but the cause of which had faded from my remembrance. I turned away, perhaps with the vague thought of calling assistance, perhaps to close the window, but staggered, as if dizzy, and fell to the ground behind the curtain of the window.

At that instant the door opened. I heard the mingled voices of my father and several other persons. Some one sprang forward, exclaiming: “The window open at this late hour!... Who could have been so imprudent?” Then I was conscious that they were gathering around my mother. My father took her up in his arms, and carried her out of the room.... No one had perceived me in the increasing obscurity, as I lay on the floor, half concealed by the curtain. I had not fainted, but I was in a partially insensible state, incapable of any clear notions except the wish to lose all consciousness of suffering in a sleep from which I should never awake!...

II.

I know not how long I remained in this condition. When I opened my eyes, the moon was shining so brightly that the room was as light as day. I rose up, and threw a terrified glance around. Everything in the moonlight wore an ominous aspect, and I shuddered as my eyes fell on the couch and the white pillow on which I had seen my mother’s face resting. What had happened?... A long time seemed to have elapsed, and I felt as if on the edge of an abyss—an abyss of sorrow into which I was about to be precipitated. O my God! was it a mere dream, or was it a frightful reality? I could not tell. I soon became conscious of an excruciating pain in my head, and my teeth began to chatter with a violent chill. I rose up to go out, but it was only with the greatest difficulty that I reached my mother’s couch, on which I threw myself in despair, burying my face in the pillow where she had reposed her dear head. I burst into sobs, and this explosion of grief afforded me momentary relief.

I then attempted to leave the room, and was proceeding towards the door, when my attention was attracted to something that had fallen on the floor. It was my mother’s little book, the silver clasp of which glittered in the light of the moon. I picked it up, and had just concealed it, when the door opened, and my sister Livia (my father’s oldest daughter) appeared with a light in her hand.

“Gina!” she exclaimed, “how you frightened me! What are you doing here, child, at this late hour? I thought you were in the garden. How long have you been here?”

I made no reply. I felt as if I should die of mortification, should any one learn what had taken place before my mother’s ill turn; but Livia did not repeat her question. She was pale and preoccupied, and her eyes were red with weeping.

What could have happened? My heart throbbed with suspense, but I had not courage enough to ask a single question. She had come for the pillow left on the couch, and seemed to be hunting for something she could not find. Perhaps it was my mother’s note‐book, which at night she always laid on a table beside her bed. But I did not give it to her. I wished to restore it myself, and, though generally frank with Livia, said nothing about finding it. Agitated as I was, I felt that this little book was a treasure that belonged solely to me—a treasure of which I must never allow any one to deprive me. She made me hold a light to aid her in her vain search, but, not finding it, she took the rest of the things on the stand, and left the room. I followed her, and we walked along together through the gallery that led to my mother’s chamber, which was at the end.

This gallery, or, rather, open _loggia_, looked down on the inner court of the old palace we lived in, and extended entirely around it. The landing of the principal staircase to the first story connected with the gallery, was precisely opposite the place where we were, when, all at once, we heard in that direction a sound—confused at first, and then more distinct—of chanting and the measured steps of several people, mingled with the constant ringing of a bell. Presently a bright light shone through all that side of the gallery, and through the arches we saw a long procession appear, and proceed around towards the door directly before us, ... the door of my mother’s chamber.... Livia knelt down, and made a sign for me to do the same, but I remained standing, my eyes staring wide open before me in a kind of stupor. I saw the long file of white penitents as they came with lighted torches in their hands; then appeared the canopy under which walked Don Placido, my mother’s aged confessor, carrying the Divine Host in a silver Ciborium.... I could see his long, white beard, his bowed head, his sad, recollected look, and that was all. In an instant the truth flashed across my mind; then everything vanished.

This new shock followed the other so quickly that it caused a deeper and more dangerous swoon; and when I was taken up senseless, and carried to my chamber, it was with the fear that this fatal night would be the last for the daughter as well as the mother....

I have no recollection of what took place for a long while after. I only remember that, opening my eyes one day, I saw Ottavia (my mother’s nurse, who had brought me up) beside my bed. I recognized her, and stammered a few words.... She murmured: “Blessed be God!” but did not add another word. A thousand thoughts rushed across my mind, but I could not analyze them, and the one which might seem of the least importance was that which I gave utterance to first.

“My mother’s book,” ... I said repeatedly.

Ottavia, without speaking, at once raised the lid of a large ebony coffer that stood on the table not far from my bed, and took out the little book with the silver clasp. She held it up, and then replaced it in the box, which she locked. Turning to me, she put her finger on her lips. I obeyed the sign, and remained silent, but I slept no more till evening. By degrees my mind grew clear, and my confused recollections distinct. The fever that had brought me so near to death’s door now abated, and from that day my convalescence was rapid. But the chief thing that renewed life and strength restored, was the faculty of suffering, and comprehending in all its fulness the reality of my misfortune.

My mother was no more. She did not live to see the morrow of the day when she embraced me for the last time. My father’s agitated face revealed this terrible fact more clearly even than the mourning he wore.... But I did not learn the details of her last hours till a long time after the day when, for the second time, he lost the light of his fireside. Knowing the keen impetuosity of my disposition, a violent explosion of grief had been anticipated. But it was not so. On the contrary, I fell into a state of gloomy silence that gave rise to fresh anxiety to those who had so long trembled for my life.

The physician, however, advised my father, my sister Livia, and Ottavia, who took turns at my bedside, to leave everything to time without attempting to oppose me. I therefore passed day after day without appearing to notice their presence. But on other days, I silently made some sign of gratitude, which would bring a smile to my father’s pale face. Then Livia would embrace me, saying: “Courage, _bambina_!(67) Try to love God’s holy will.” Or Ottavia, as she used to do when I was only four years old, would hold up the silver cross on her cornelian rosary, which I always looked at with pleasure. And when they saw me kiss it for the first time, they began to hope, in spite of my silence, for the return of my reason. But my eyes would become fixed again, and I would cease to recognize any one. And when my pillow was found wet with my tears, as was often the case, the physician would say: “That is a good sign; let her weep. It is a relief she needs.” But days passed, and my mental condition remained the same.

My strength nevertheless returned. I was able to get up, and several times I walked a few steps on the terrace leading from my chamber without any injury. But nothing could break the unnatural silence that transformed into an inanimate statue the girl whose excessive vivacity and unrestrained liveliness had sometimes disturbed, sometimes enlivened, the whole house, filling it throughout with the sense of her presence.

One day I was sitting on my terrace, looking off over the gulf, when Ottavia approached, and, as usual, began to talk with the vain hope of drawing forth some reply. I generally listened in silence, but that day a new train of thought came into my mind, which I felt the power of pursuing clearly, calmly, and with a certain persistence that proved my physical strength was at last beginning to triumph over the kind of mental paralysis which made my convalescence seem like a new phase of my disease.

Ottavia had placed a number of books on a small table beside me. She knew nothing of them but the covers, but she offered them to me one by one, hoping to induce me to read—a diversion it was desirable I should take to. At last I shook my head, and for the first time pushed away the book she offered me. Then I spoke, and the sound of my voice was a joyful surprise to my faithful attendant:

“No, Ottavia, not that one. I want another book, and that alone—the one you put away there,” with a gesture and glance towards the further end of my chamber.

Ottavia understood me, but hesitated between the joyful hope of my cure awakened by my reply, and the fear of causing fresh excitement which might bring on another relapse. But after all the means that had been used to rouse me from the state of apathy into which I had fallen, it did not seem prudent to oppose that which I had chosen myself. She therefore obeyed my request, and, without any reply, opened the ebony coffer where she had put my mother’s book, as if it were a relic, and placed it in my hands.

“Thank you, Ottavia,” I said. And putting my arms around her neck, I kissed her, causing big tears of joy to roll down her cheeks. “And now leave me, I beg of you; leave me alone for an hour.”

She hesitated a moment, and looked at me uneasily, but then complied as before with my wish, and, after seeing that I was sheltered from the sun and wind, noiselessly left the balcony through my room.

I then kissed the cover of the book I held in my hand, and opened it with awe. It seemed to me I was about to hear my mother’s voice from the depths of the tomb!

III.

MAY 15, 18—

——Ginevra! It is to her I consecrate these pages—the child that at once fills my heart with inexpressible anxiety and the tenderest affection—the child whom I love so dearly, but whom my hands perhaps are too feeble to guide. And yet I shudder at the thought of leaving her behind me. My strength, however, is rapidly failing, and I feel that my poor child will soon be left alone.

Alone! This word may seem harsh to you, Fabrizio mio, and, lest this should meet your eye, I will explain my meaning.

I know you have as tender a heart as mine, and your prudence is far greater; but, to tell you the truth, you likewise are too fond of her! You know how many times I have taken her from your arms to make room for poor Livia, so often grieved by your involuntary forgetfulness, but not offended with her little sister, because she too, like every one else, felt that Ginevra from her infancy had the power of charming every eye and heart around her!...

But though to Livia you were sometimes indifferent, you were never severe, whereas, though generally too indulgent to Ginevra, when you detected some fault in her, I have often seen you inclined to go from one extreme to another, and been obliged to beg you to leave the correction to time or to her mother.

She has grown up, as she is, in our midst, like one of the flowers of our clime which put forth their beauty almost without cultivation, rejoicing our hearts and our eyes, and intoxicating us all with the perfume of her grace and caressing affection.

O yes! it is nothing but intoxication, and I have perhaps yielded to it with too much delight; but I repeat it, it is I alone, among all who have loved her, whose delight has been unmingled with blindness.

Perhaps this was because (pardon me, Fabrizio) I loved her more than any one else, and because the affection of a mother has something divine in its clearness of vision. I see this charming child, to whom I have given birth, as she is. I understand her real nature. I look into her pure soul as into the limpid waters of some beautiful lake. But clouds are now passing over its surface. Others are rising and gathering, and I tremble to think a storm may some day rise up to overwhelm and crush her!

JUNE 1.

This is Ginevra’s fifteenth birthday. I will describe her, not only as she appears to me, but to every one else.

She is slender and graceful in form, and an inch or two taller than I. There is an habitual sweetness and languor in her large, brown eyes; but when they are suddenly lit up with surprise, wonder, or any other unexpected emotion, they glow with wonderful expression and brilliancy. Her hair, of a golden hue which is as beautiful as it is rare in our country, parts on a pure white brow which forms almost a continued straight line with a nose of perfect regularity, so that her profile would be quite faultless were not her mouth larger than is consistent with the standard of classical beauty. But this blemish is redeemed by the expression of her mouth, sometimes grave and thoughtful enough to excite anxiety, sometimes half open with a child‐like smile, and often extended with hearty laughter, like that of a peasant, displaying two beautiful rows of small, white teeth.

And now, O my child! I would with the same sincerity describe the lineaments of your soul, which is far dearer to me than your face—yes, dearer to me than my own life, or even than yours!

In the inner recesses of this soul—and I thank God for it!—is hidden, even from her, a jewel of purity and truth which it would be far easier to crush than deface. Then, like a strong wind that cannot shake this foundation, but seeks entrance through every pore, beats a loving nature that cannot be denied its food, which is the predominant trait in her character. Passing over her other good qualities and her defects, and speaking merely of her outward appearance, it must be confessed that she manifests the excessive vanity of a child, and a want of reflection that would be surprising in a girl of ten years old, mingled with a passionate ardor that would excite anxiety in one of twenty!

Such is my poor child—such are the attractive but alarming traits that constitute the peculiar nature she has inherited.

O Almighty God! ... two more years of life, ... that I may watch over her till the day I am able to entrust her to the care of some one she can regard with the true devotion of a wife!

Alas! this desire is consuming my life. It is shortening my days. It is hastening my end, which I regard with calmness when I merely consider myself, but which fills me with terror when I think only of her.

JUNE 15.

It was your wish, Fabrizio, and I yielded to it. But it was not without repugnance I saw her go to this ball. You say your sister will watch over her; but I know Donna Clelia better than you. She has no eyes but for her own daughters, and will think she has done her duty to Ginevra by seeing, when she arrives, that her dress has not been crumpled on the way, and, at her return, that she has lost none of her ribbons. She will separate her from her own daughters, you may be sure, lest she eclipse them, and leave her alone—alone in the gay world where she appears for the first time.... You smiled when you saw her ready to start. You whispered with pride that a lovelier creature never was seen.... Ah! Fabrizio, at that moment how I wished she were less charming, or, at least, that her beauty could be hidden from every eye!...

Do you remember the assertion of a queen of France about which we were conversing only a few days since? You thought it too severe, but to me it only seems reasonable; for it gives expression to the most earnest wish of my heart. O yes! like her, I would rather see the child I love so passionately—a thousand times rather—see her die than contract the slightest stain!...

The hours are passing away, and I must seek calmness in prayer. I feel as if in this way I shall still be able to protect her....

Clelia promised to bring her home at eleven. The clock has just struck twelve, and she has not yet arrived....

JUNE 25.

I have been ill for a few days past, and unable to write. To‐day I feel somewhat better, and, though my mind has been greatly disturbed, will try to collect my thoughts.

I was not deceived in my presentiment. I thought the day of the ball would be a fatal one, and I was not mistaken. As I said, at midnight she had not returned. I awaited her arrival with increased anxiety of mind, lying awake a whole hour after that, listening to every sound, and repeatedly mistaking the noise of the sea for that of the carriage bringing her home.... At last, about half‐past one, I heard the rumbling of the wheels, and presently recognized her light step in the gallery. She passed my door without stopping, and had arrived at her own chamber, when Ottavia, who had been sitting up with me, went after her to say I was not yet asleep, if she wished to come and bid me good‐night. As she entered the door, the light in Ottavia’s hand shone across her face. It was by no means the same as at her departure. The excitement of dancing, and the fatigue of remaining up to so unusual an hour, were doubtless sufficient to account for her disordered hair, her pale face, and the striking brilliancy of her eyes; but her troubled look, her trembling lips, and the care she took to avoid looking me in the face when she fell on my neck, showed there was something more which I must wait till another day to question her about....

JULY 1.

To continue the account interrupted the other day:

I know everything now, for she never deceives me. She is always as sincere as she is affectionate. Yes, she had scarcely entered the ball‐room before she was, as I foretold, separated from her cousins, and left in a group of young ladies, who, treating her as a mere child, immediately proposed she should take a seat at a table where there were sweetmeats and games. Just then the orchestra began a dance, and the two oldest of the group stationed themselves in front to attract the attention of those in search of partners, while a third kept Ginevra in her seat by showing her pictures, and patronizingly promising in a whisper to dance with her presently. But at the sound of the music, Ginevra could not be restrained from springing up and advancing to look at the preparations for the dance. This change of position attracted the observation of a young gentleman who was slowly entering the room with an absent air without appearing to wish to take any part in the dance.

“There is Flavio Aldini,” said one of the young ladies; “he will not condescend to come this way. He looks upon us as mere school‐girls, and only dances with those ladies whose elegance has already made them the fashion.”

“I never saw him before, but he looks very much as I supposed from the description I had of him. Is he not said to be engaged to a rich heiress?”

“He? No; he does not dream of marrying, I assure you. I tell you he never looks at us young ladies.”

“And yet, my dear, he seems to be looking rather earnestly in this direction now.”

She was right. At that very moment, the person of whom they were speaking eagerly approached the place where Ginevra was standing, and, without glancing at her companions, accosted her, begging she would give him the pleasure of being her partner in the quadrille about to begin.

This was a triumph for my poor Ginevra, and all the greater after the vexation caused by her companions’ patronizing airs. She went away radiant—intoxicated.... Hitherto she had been petted as a child; now she suddenly realized how much admiration a woman can inspire, and this knowledge, like a mischievous spark, fell from the look and smile of Flavio Aldini into her very heart!

Flavio Aldini! You will understand, Fabrizio, the terror I felt at the mere name of this presuming fellow; so well calculated, alas! to please young eyes like hers, and capable of taking advantage of the impression he could not help seeing he had made on her inexperience....

How agitated the poor child was in repeating all his dangerous compliments! And how flattering to her pride a success that attracted the attention of every one in the room, and made her an object of envy to those who had just humiliated her by their condescension!... I allowed her to go on.... I was glad, at all events, to see she did not manifest the least shade of deception—the usual consequence of vanity—but I trembled as I listened!

He begged for the little bunch of flowers she wore in her bosom. She was strongly tempted to grant his request, and was only prevented from doing so by the fear of being observed.

JULY 5.

I have not been able to continue. I have been growing weaker and weaker, and can only write a few lines at a time without fatigue. Since the 15th of June, I have been constantly worried and anxious. I cannot bear for her to leave me now for a single instant. I want to keep her constantly under my eyes and near my heart. Yesterday I saw her start at the sound of a horse passing under the balcony. To‐day she was standing there with her eyes dreamily turned towards the road that connects our house with the shore.... I called her, and she listened as I talked kindly to her, hoping to give a new turn to her thoughts, instead of trying to check them by remonstrances. She is easily influenced and guided by kindness but it is difficult to make her yield to authority. Oh! there never was a child who needed more than she the tender guidance of a mother!...

But let thy will, O God! be done. Help me to say this without a murmur. Let me not forget that my love for her is nothing—nothing at all—in comparison with that.

JULY 15.

It is only with great effort I can write to‐day. I do not know as I shall be able to write more than a few lines. But I wish to remind you once more, Fabrizio, of the conversation we had yesterday evening. Who knows but it was the last we shall ever have in this world! My time here is short. Do not forget my request. Lose no time in uniting her to some one she can love and will consent to be guided by. Though still young, he should be several years older than she, in order to inspire her with respect, which is so sweet when mingled with affection, as no one knows better than I, Fabrizio. Has not the mingled respect and love with which you have filled my heart constituted the happiness of my life? I would bless you once more for this, as I close. I have not strength enough to continue.... I must stop.... And yet I would speak once more of her—of my Ginevra—my darling child. I would implore you to be always mild and patient with her, and if ever....