Chapter XXIII: Part II: She Sang (3)

He had never known me to yield to him before. I had always revolted against his ill‐humor and harshness, whether just or not, and sometimes replied with an impertinence that justified his resentment. He was touched at seeing me in this new attitude, and, for the first time in his life, clasped me in his arms and kissed me with real affection. He then left the room, making a sign for Livia to follow him. She did so, but returned in a few minutes. Tears were in her eyes, and her lips were slightly tremulous—a sure indication in her of some sudden and profound emotion.

Mario had not told me every thing. His anger had died away, and he left it for kinder lips than his to communicate the rest.

V.

The affliction and repentance that so speedily followed the brief moment when I saw Flavio Aldini for the last time seemed to have effaced the transient impression produced at our only meeting, as a stream, suddenly swelled by a storm, washes away every trace left on the sand. I should have met him again with indifference, and perhaps even with aversion; for he would have been always associated with the first misfortune and first remorse of my life. Nevertheless, when Livia, after considerable hesitation, uttered the words, “_Flavio Aldini is dead_,” a cry almost of despair escaped from my lips; and the horrible thought at once occurred to me that Mario had deceived me—that he was the murderer, and that this flower, a thousand times abhorred, had cost the life of him who had obtained it through my vanity and thoughtlessness!...

The terrible lesson I had already received was not, however, to be carried to such an extent; but it was some minutes before I could be convinced of it. Livia herself had some difficulty in clearly relating the account she was charged with. At length I comprehended that Flavio, while pursuing a successful career of pleasure, was no less careful to improve every opportunity of repairing the inroads made on his fortune. Among these was the proposal to marry a wealthy heiress, which he acceded to without any scruple. But though he thus triumphed over a large number of suitors by means of his good looks and captivating manners, it was, in his eyes, only a lucky bargain and another light vow. He had been engaged only a few days, and the marriage was about to be publicly announced, when he met me at the ball. The sight of a new young face, and especially the _naïve_ inexperience of a girl it would be easy to dazzle, inspired the wish to try his power once more. But he had been followed to the ball‐room, and watched, by one of the unsuccessful suitors of the beautiful heiress. His encounter with Mario a few days after confirmed his rival’s suspicions, and afforded him a pretext for gratifying his hatred and jealousy. Consequently, when Flavio, after leaving Mario wounded on the field, returned to the villa he occupied at a short distance from Messina, he found a new opponent to bring him to an account for his faithlessness to his betrothed, on the plea of a distant relationship that gave him the right to declare himself her champion. In this second duel, fortune was adverse to Flavio. He lived several weeks, however, and had only died that very morning from the effects of his wounds!... The news had just arrived.... And this was what Livia had been commissioned to tell me of....

If it is true that our souls are like precious stones that only reveal all their brilliancy after much cutting and polishing, it is certain that for both the first blow must be the most trying.... My soul, over which my mother had watched, and which she said was dearer to her than her own life, or even than mine, was now undergoing this painful process; or, rather, had undergone it. But during the last hour, it was no longer the knife, but fire, that had been applied to my bleeding heart!

Though I had no direct cause for self‐reproach concerning this new catastrophe, as I at first feared, I did not feel myself wholly irresponsible. This was sufficient to deepen the solemn gravity of my reflections, in which I remained absorbed so long—motionless and silent—that poor Livia was seriously alarmed.

“Speak to me, Gina, I implore you. Oh! why, tell me why, _carina_, you have kept all this secret from your poor sister? Who could have dreamed you loved this unfortunate man; that you loved any one unbeknown to us all? Could we imagine such a thing possible? You know, dear child, I have never found fault with you, and I will not now. So tell me if it is true that you eluded the vigilance of your mother and Ottavia, in order to meet Flavio in the garden? Was it there you gave him the flower you wore in your hair? And is it true that more than once....”

Excessive surprise completely roused me from my stupor, and I eagerly interrupted her with a face as red as fire:

“Never! never! never!...” I exclaimed in a tone that would have convinced the most incredulous, for it had the indubitable accent of truth. “I did not love Flavio Aldini, and I never met him alone in my life.”

Livia, in her turn, looked at me with astonishment. “Did not love him? Never met him alone? Never gave him a bouquet or a single flower?”

“I will tell you the truth, Livia: once, and then I did not speak to him, I threw him from a distance the carnation I wore in my hair.”

“Once? From a distance? Ah! then tell me when and where you did it?”

I made no reply. A thousand thoughts flashed across my mind with the rapidity of lightning.... It was evident that, by some wonderful chance, no one knew exactly what had taken place. A vague story had been circulated, founded on Flavio’s exaggerated boasts. My father, brother, and sister had accepted this version—so far from the truth—without understanding the real extent of that which had been alleged against me. I felt that they considered me guiltier than I really was. And yet I would not have undeceived them for anything in the world. They judged me more severely than I deserved, but of what consequence was it? Was I not sufficiently culpable to accept this injustice with humility? Was it not enough, without complaining of anything else, to be at last assured that my secret was safe with my mother in heaven? Ought I not rather to bear all their reproaches without a murmur? There was only one that would have overwhelmed me, and that I was spared. All others were easy to bear, and, moreover, were merited by what they were ignorant of, if not by what they supposed true.

Livia patiently waited for me to break my long silence.

“You know I am incapable of telling you an untruth,” I said to her at last.

“Yes, and therefore I always believe you.”

“Well, then, I implore you to believe me now, Livia, without asking me anything more. And, moreover,” I added in a supplicating tone, “do not repeat what I have just told you, and make no effort to justify me to any one.”

My good sister looked at me attentively for a moment, and then gently drew my head against her shoulder.

“Poor Gina!” she said. “It shall be as you wish. I believe everything you say, and love you too well to annoy you with any more questions.”

Livia knew me thoroughly; for, notwithstanding her apparent simplicity, she had an eye that could read one’s soul. She saw the sincerity and repentance of mine, and read in my pale face and distressed look the extent of my sufferings, and her kind heart melted.... I was, indeed, very young to experience such a variety of emotions, and was still too weak to endure them. The habit of duelling, so unfortunately prevalent in Sicily, had, of course, accustomed me more than would have been the case anywhere else to occurrences similar to that I had just heard about. But to have my name connected with so fatal an affair; to feel that I was the cause of the blood shed in one of these encounters, and that the other had resulted in the tragical end of one who had flashed for an instant across my path, like one of those meteors that are the ominous forerunners of misfortune and death, ... was more than my young heart and feeble frame could endure. Livia perceived it.

“Come, _carina_,” she said, “lean against me. You need rest.”

I attempted to make my way to an old sofa, covered with red damask, at the other end of the vast and scantily‐furnished room; but I had no sooner risen than my strength failed me, and I was obliged to lean against a table to keep myself from falling. Livia hastened to procure some cold water, with which she sprinkled my face. I soon recovered, but was still pale and agitated when Ottavia came in. She had left me quite well an hour before, and, finding me now in such a state, she exclaimed with mingled impatience and alarm as she advanced: “Good heavens! what has happened to her? She was so well this morning.”... And giving Livia a furtive, distrustful glance, she extended the index and little finger of her hand, closing all the others; turning around as she made this gesture, the meaning of which is only too well known in our country.(89) This was done so quickly that I hoped I was the only one to perceive it.

“How foolish!” I angrily exclaimed to Ottavia, seizing her hand and covering it with mine. “Are you going to treat me always as if I were an invalid or an old woman? _Thanks to Livia_”—and I emphasized these words—“I have entirely recovered.”

Ottavia, half angry, half sorry, was about to go away; but Livia made a sign for her to remain, and, pressing my hand as she embraced me once more, left the room without uttering a word.

VI.

The little incident I have just related will doubtless excite some astonishment, and be regarded as scarcely confirming what I have said before about Ottavia’s piety and good sense. But whoever has lived in the southern part of Italy knows there are hundreds of people in that region whose education, and even religious instruction, are in no way deficient, and who, nevertheless, are not exempt from the singular superstition I have just referred to.

I leave it to the erudite to prove that Magna Græcia derived it from classical Greece, the mother country; that remote antiquity made use of the same absurd gesture to avert the effects of what it was still more absurd to believe; and that in those days, as well as now, people multiplied this very sign under the form of protective amulets—not only as jewels to be worn, but in the objects that surrounded them. I likewise leave to them the task of explaining why this evil has resisted the influence of time and the progress of civilization, as well as the spirit of Christianity. All that can be said, it seems to me, is that in those regions this superstition takes the place of all those that abound in the North of Europe, and from which Italy is exempt. For instance, we do not hear people there, as in Ireland, Scotland, and Sweden, talk of strange, weird apparitions, fairies, or malign spirits, under the name of bogies or banshees. They are not afraid, as in Russia, of meeting people clothed in black, of the number thirteen, and a thousand other absurd notions which Catholicism has condemned without being able to eradicate, and which Protestantism has been much more powerless against. Nor are the ruins, as in Germany, associated with wild legends or haunted by spirits. But, to make up for all this, the jettatura holds there its baleful sway. Though frequently ridiculed, it is feared more than any one is willing to admit; and there is no one, even among the most reasonable, who would suffer this dreaded epithet to be applied to himself, or any one he loved, without manifesting his displeasure. It would be impossible to account for the cause of this prejudicial notion in individual cases, or explain why this fearful term is sometimes applied to men of special merit, and women who are young, lovely, and amiable, as well as to those whom a pretext is wanted to avoid, or whose appearance has something repugnant. Sometimes it is sufficient that a person has accidentally witnessed some misfortune, and, if the same thing is known to occur again, the word escapes from the lips, flies from mouth to mouth, and the foolish prejudice is established. This had been the case with poor Livia. An accident once happened to me in my childhood when she was with me; shortly after, she was present when another occurred to one of our young friends; and a third time, she happened, in one of her charitable rounds, to be in the house of a poor man at the time of his death. This was spoken of at first as a mere jest; but it gradually became a source of mortification and humiliation to her, though none of us were ever allowed to make the least allusion to it in her presence. The repeated troubles of the past few weeks had disturbed the faithful Ottavia’s equilibrium and good sense to such an unusual degree that when she found me, pale and agitated, leaning on my sister’s shoulder, the first thought inspired by her terror caused her instantly to make this involuntary gesture.

I was so vexed at this occurrence that for a moment I forgot everything else. I felt angry with Ottavia, and threw myself on the old sofa without speaking, in a fit of mingled sorrow and displeasure.

I had always been fond of Livia, and now all the repressed and pent‐up tenderness of my heart was poured out on her. She seemed to be the only person in the world that still loved me—the only one that stood between me and what appeared like a great void. Yes, my mother was right in what she said about the great necessity of my nature. As a flower dies, deprived of the sun, so without affection I should soon cease to exist. I placed no reliance on the durability of that which my brother had just manifested. As to my father, his love seemed extinct in comparison with that of former times. And now that I knew the reason of his coldness and severity, I had no hope of overcoming them; for I felt sure he would less readily excuse the truth, were it revealed to him, than the error which had caused such a change in his manner.

Therefore for any one to wound the feelings of Livia, my darling sister, my indulgent and faithful friend, was at this time like piercing my very heart. I remained with my head on the cushions of the old sofa, while Ottavia was bustling about the chamber, as if trying to divert my attention from what had taken place. At last she approached and tried to get hold of my hand. I withdrew it.

“Come, dear signorina,” she said, “forgive your poor old Ottavia. I did wrong.”

“Yes, very wrong, Ottavia,” I replied in a tone almost severe.

“I know it, and feel as if I were listening to the blessed spirit of Donna Bianca herself when I hear you and see you! You resemble her so much, signorina!...”

“Well, Ottavia, what would she say to you, if she had been present?”

“She would tell me that my fear of the jettatura is both foolish and wrong; and that is only what I know myself, what I believe and realize when I am on my knees before God!... Oh! at such times I really feel that his will alone is everywhere accomplished; I only love that holy will; I am afraid of nothing, because I am convinced that will must prevail. And yet, after all, ... when my dear signorina seems to be in danger, or I imagine some one is going to bring her ill‐luck....”

“Ottavia!... Ottavia!”... I cried, suddenly interrupting her with an outburst that almost frightened her, “it is I, it is I, and not she, who bring ill‐luck to all I approach....”

I burst into tears as I spoke. This sudden return upon myself effaced, with the mobility of youth, the impression previously received, and brought back, to my confusion and remorse, all the reality of the present.

Ottavia, like the rest, had been told of my supposed fault, and was ignorant of what I had really done; but she was by no means in a mood now to add any reproaches to those I had already received from my brother. On the contrary, she tried to soothe me, not by any direct reply, but by speaking of that which she could talk best about. I had always been more or less piously inclined from my earliest childhood. How could it be otherwise under the excellent influence that had hitherto been the life of my life?... This piety did not obliterate my faults, but it existed in spite of them, and was to exist through all the perils reserved for me in the future. But it was, if I may so speak, intermittent. Sometimes it grew dormant, if not absolutely extinct; at other times it was kindled to a lively and ardent degree. Therefore I frequently recited my catechism with indifference and _ennui_; but when it was explained by Ottavia in her peculiar way; when she spoke of the sacraments, or dwelt on the life and sufferings of our Saviour, and more especially on the life to come, I was filled with delight. The loveliness of the natural world around me seemed to assume an additional charm; and when I considered that this was only a faint image of a far more beautiful realm, I longed at once to exchange this life for the other....

It was by such means the good Ottavia now gently endeavored to divert me, by speaking of God, of heaven, and various other sacred topics. By degrees she came back to more indifferent subjects, and finally to Livia, promising to make her forget the mortification she had experienced, and almost persuading me she had not perceived what had taken place.

I allowed her to talk on in this way without interruption until her somewhat monotonous tone produced a drowsiness that was beneficial to my over‐excited nerves. As soon as she saw my eyes grow heavy, she placed one of the large sofa‐cushions under my head, closed the window‐shutters to exclude the dazzling light, and then, after remaining beside me till she was persuaded I was fast asleep, softly left the chamber.

I was not, however, asleep. But my attitude and the profound silence and solitude of the room were very soothing, and I remained a long time absorbed in a thousand complex thoughts. Long years have passed away since that day, and other and more dangerous temptations have assailed me, but I have never forgotten the reflections of that hour. My vanity had been for ever shattered like the congealed surface of some deep lake by some sudden blow. It had not really been a part of my inner nature, but rather on the surface, and therefore not the most dangerous trait of my character. During the remainder of my life, I can only recall a single hour—and _only one!_ ... when it again blinded me.... But that hour was long after the one of which I have been speaking. At this time I could say with assurance that Mario’s wish was fulfilled—that I was effectually and radically cured of my vanity. Associated with so many poignant recollections, it had become horrible in my eyes.

My health was somewhat affected by the agitation I had undergone, and I took advantage of this to remain several days in my room, only leaving it to take the air on the terrace. I only saw my father for a moment, morning and night. The remainder of the day I passed with Livia. Whether she had forgotten what had distressed me so much, or it was owing to her self‐ control, or she really had not noticed it, it was impossible to tell from her manner, and I finally persuaded myself it was as I hoped.

Livia, in spite of her amiable disposition, had great firmness of character. She never allowed herself to be induced to tell anything she wished to conceal, or to do what was forbidden by others or by her own judgment. But what especially characterized her was her self‐ forgetfulness. This did not strike me at that time. When one is only fifteen years of age, one receives impressions without defining them: one is repelled or attracted by certain natures without being able to analyze them. But in looking back, not only over the events of my past life, but what transpired in the inner folds of my conscience, I clearly see the difference between my sister’s nature and mine. From her very childhood she had lived a life of self‐forgetfulness (sublime and simple way to heights but little known!), regardless of her own tastes and inclinations, and even of her own sufferings. Whereas, I was constantly endeavoring to fathom the workings of my heart and soul and mind, and to find food for them, as one tries to appease one’s hunger and thirst when importunate. Not but that I was capable of forgetting myself, and, so to speak, of being absorbed in the heart of another, as I had been in that of my mother, but solely on the condition of being to that other, in return, the object of an infinite predilection; ... for this word of such vast import does not seem to express more than my heart craved. But in spite of this difference, or rather on the very account of it, Livia and I were always at ease with each other, and it was not without regret I was at last obliged to resume my usual life. I regretted this the more because it had been regulated by my father in a way that indicated only too plainly how much he distrusted me. Nevertheless, I submitted with humility and docility to this unaccustomed _surveillance_, the cause of which was so evident.

I was only released from it during the early hours of the day, which I spent in my chamber with Livia. I was not allowed to go into the garden, except under Ottavia’s escort; and I was not permitted to leave the house, unless accompanied by my father or Mario. All the rest of my time I passed in my father’s cabinet, where he had a table placed for me near his own. There, for hours together, I read, wrote, or worked, varying my occupations according to my own tastes, but without any other liberty. To have passed my days in this way beside my father would have been delightful once; but now, though he was often kind and affectionate, there was a certain gravity in his affection that made me feel I was the object of unjust suspicion, and tortured me beyond expression. But I submitted to this torture without a murmur, acknowledging, as I did so, that it was only a merited chastisement.

This cabinet was like a vast hall in form, and, like all the other rooms of that old palace, grand in its proportions, but only furnished with what was absolutely essential. One side of the apartment was entirely lined with shelves filled with books and papers, and at each extremity stood a row of arm‐chairs. In the middle of the room, opposite two large windows, was my father’s writing‐table, near which was mine. Between the windows hung a large painting, which was the only ornament in the room; but, to compensate for this, the garden could be seen, and further off, beyond the verdure of the orange‐trees, stretched the blue outline of the sea.

My father received many of his friends and clients in the morning, but seldom admitted any of them into the room we occupied. A servant half opened the door to announce the visitors’ names, and my father went into the adjoining room to receive them. It was only on special occasions he gave orders for any one to be admitted where we were.

During the long hours I was thus left alone, I sometimes busily employed my time, but more frequently remained with my arms folded, plunged in a profound reverie. At such times I always avoided looking at the large painting that hung on the opposite panel between the two windows. This was a fine copy of Herodias’ Daughter, by Guido, the original of which I afterwards saw in the Palazzo Corsini, at Rome. The sweet, charming face of the girl who is holding with a smile the bleeding head of S. John had a kind of fascination for me. It seemed like the personification of vanity in a new form, giddy and thoughtless in its course and fatal in its results, and often inspired me with many silent, gloomy reflections.... I preferred looking at the foliage of the orange‐trees in the garden below, or gazing into the blue, illimitable heavens above. I often amused myself, likewise, before a cage, prettily painted and gilded, that hung in one of the windows, and contained a bird whose company was a great diversion in the life of disguised punishment I was condemned to. This bird, whose melody surpassed that of the nightingale in sweetness and power, was one of those called at Sorrento, where they are chiefly found, the _passero solitario_. I was so fond of its sweet music that my father had allowed me to hang the cage here, and more than once in the day I climbed up on a bench in the embrasure of the window to see there was no lack of the singularly copious and solid food which this bird of angelic notes daily requires.

One day, while I was thus perched at a considerable height from the floor, the door opened much wider than usual, and the old servant that announced the visitors said with a certain emphasis: “His Excellency the Duca di Valenzano.”

My first thought was to descend from the post I occupied; but before I had time to do so, the visitor entered the room, and stood regarding me with an air of surprise. My father rose to meet so unexpected a client; but the latter held out his hand to aid me in my descent, and followed me with his eyes, without speaking, as I hastily regained my usual seat, blushing with confusion. My father conducted him to the other end of the room, where stood the row of arm‐chairs, and both took seats. During the long conversation that followed, I could only hear the tones of their voices as they rose and fell. Sometimes my father’s predominated, and at other times the deep, sonorous voice of his visitor. I saw it was a question of business, for my father rose several times to search for different papers among the books arranged on the shelves of the library. Finally the conversation ended, and the new client proceeded towards the door. But when he arrived opposite the cage where my bird was singing, he said: “Really, one’s ears are charmed here no less than one’s eyes. It seems more like a palace of fairies than a rendezvous for all the contentions of Sicily....”

He was then standing directly before me.

“Don Fabrizio,” continued he, “is not this your daughter, Donna Ginevra, of whom I have so often heard? Do me the favor of presenting me to her.”

My father’s face assumed a severe, dissatisfied expression, and mine was covered with a livelier blush than before. “Heard of me so often?” Alas! he had probably heard me spoken unfavorably of! Perhaps this was the very thought that clouded my father’s brow. Nevertheless, after a moment’s hesitation, he said: “Rise, Ginevra, and pay your respects to the Duca di Valenzano.”

I rose, but without uttering a word; for I was disconcerted by the fixed, scrutinizing eye that seemed trying to read my face. I lowered my eyes, without being able to distinguish the features of this new acquaintance. I only remarked that he was tall, and had a noble air, in spite of his peculiar garb, that made him look more like a travelling artist than a person of high rank.

To Be Continued.

On The Wing. A Southern Flight. III.

“Vedi Napoli, e poi mori.”(90)

We left Rome in a storm of thunder and lightning. The rain poured in large, cold drops, pattering against the windows of the railway carriage, and adding considerably to the feelings of gloom and apprehension with which we thought of Rome—as Rome is now. When should we visit the Eternal City again? And would the veil of sadness which now falls on all that is dear and sacred to the Catholic be raised once more in our time? Mary was very silent for some hours of our long journey; and while I, with my habitual curiosity, was peering through the rain‐washed window to discover the beauties of the glorious country through which we were rushing, she lay back with closed eyes, absorbed in thought; while Frank, with a fixed frown on his face, was reading and rustling, and finally crumpling up, in paroxysms of anger, the numerous Italian papers that he had bought by handfuls at the station. Presently Mary opened her eyes once more, and condescended to recognize the great fact that we were travelling further and further to the glorious South. I do not think I felt less intensely than my sister the sorrow that attends all reflection on the present condition of the great centre of Christendom and the position of the Father of the faithful. But my grief is apt to take another form from that of Mary’s or Frank’s. Mary grows silent and outwardly calm. Frank becomes gloomy. I am more irritable; and irritability leads to activity. My mind was working with an incessant rapidity, and the impulse to catch sight once more of every shred that could carry me back to happier times, and recall once more the memories of the past, kept me straining my eyes to get a glimpse of Albano, where we had spent a long, happy summer when the Holy Father was at Castel Gandolfo. Should I catch sight of Lavinia, Æneas’ own city, the object of so many excursions in those happy days? Should I see those hills covered with chestnuts, bare of leaves now, beneath whose shade I had so often rested? Even Velletri, though not in itself a specially interesting place, had the charm of association. I remembered how I had gone to spend a long day there, and had wandered to the gates of some private house with a large garden. I had stood looking through the iron bars on a little paradise, but, as usual in Italy, a paradise in disorder. Stone vases stood on a balustrade, filled with bright flowers, but also with weeds. The fertile valley lay below, and beyond the blue and purple mountains rose in tiers one above another, with soft, violet shadows and dim blue mists; and here and there a peak of rugged rock, on which the sun struck bright and keen. A long avenue of shady plane‐trees was to my right. A solitary peasant drove his mule, with balanced panniers and pointed ears like two notes of admiration against the sky, far as my eye could reach down the green distance. I longed to wander on; to follow the flickering lights along that silent road, and know that it would lead me out to the Pontine Marshes, with the rugged Abruzzi beyond. Here, too, rests the body of Hyacinthe Mariscotti, a Franciscan nun, who died in 1640, and whose life, less known out of Italy than it deserves, is one of the most marvellous in its union of great graces and great sufferings.

The rain pelted hard; the lightning made me, from time to time, shrink back suddenly; but still I strained my eyes to catch sight of the shifting scene, and allowed memories to reawaken and imagination to throw its glamour over the past and the future.

Many of the stations along this road are at some distance from the towns whose name they bear; and this, of course, diminishes a little the interest of the journey. For instance, Aquino, the birthplace of the great father of the church, S. Thomas Aquinas, is about a mile off. Near here we were, for a time, to take leave of Frank. He had made up his mind to visit the cradle of the great saint before proceeding to Monte Casino, where he had made arrangements to spend at least a week. Our readers are no doubt well aware that Monte Casino is no longer what it was. Its glories have been shorn by the present government, as the rays of the sun are shorn by the twilight. There are comparatively very few monks of the order of S. Benedict still allowed to reside there. Amongst them, however, Frank had formed a real friendship; and for a month previous, at least, Mary and I had heard him descanting upon all the charms that he was to find in that wonderful retreat of learning and sanctity. Partly to tease him, and partly to be revenged for the fact that I must be for ever excluded, I generally replied to his enthusiasm by making a wry face and uttering the words, “Kid, rancid oil, and garlic.” Then he would toss back that tiresome stray lock which is always trying to shade his beautiful violet eyes, and reply, with a smile, “Oh! I shall not mind.” The train stops a very short time at San Germano, the station for the Monastery of Monte Casino, and we had a hurried leave‐taking. I was endeavoring to collect a few of his newspapers, which I thought he had not half read, and put them into his hand as he left the carriage. “No, no, dear Jane. Do you think I would pollute those sacred walls by carrying there all that blasphemous stuff.” And he leapt out just as we began to move on.

“O Mary!” I exclaimed, “how dreadful it would be, if Frank were to become a Benedictine monk.”

“What else do you want him to do?”

“Why, live at home, of course, as an English country gentleman should do, marry, and bring up a son to rule after him.”

“What a thorough conservative you are, Jane!” said Mary with a smile.

“I am not so sure of that. I have a dash of the liberal in me at times. But I do love the dirty acres; and I like to see them going down from father to son without a break.”

“You are right there. It is that permanence which is the back‐bone of England. I do not believe in the lasting stability of any country where there is a perpetual and ever‐recurring division of property. What a man _has_ should always survive what a man _is_, in a sufficiently substantial form to make the cradle of a future destiny. And where no one is sure of inheriting a large fortune with the large leisure that it secures, it tends to make all men equally mercenary. There should always be a class apart who have no need to fret about making money, but can afford to spend it.”

“But what if they do not spend it well?”

“That is an answer which in one shape or another you may make to the laying down of any principle. What if it be abused? It does not prove the falsity of the principle, but only once more calls to mind the truism that everything is open to abuse.”

“I suppose you think there are so many objects on which wealth may be advantageously expended that it is well to have an hereditary body whose business it is to do so.”

“Yes; and I would certainly include the cultivation of hot‐house grapes, and the elysium of fat porkers who are washed and combed twice a week. It is every man’s business to produce the best he can of whatever he has in hand, including pineapples and pigs.”

“Well done, Mary. You are a worse conservative than I am. But do you really think that modern civilization, as it is called, has its uses?”

“By modern civilization, Jane, I conclude you really mean material improvements. Civilization is a term which is so misused that it has become hardly safe to use it at all. It ought to mean something much higher than increased railway facilities, more looking‐glasses and buhl, hundreds of daily newspapers, and a French cook.”

“Oh! of course. Civilization ought to mean the intellectual and spiritual development of mankind from out of the rough block of his animal nature and his uneducated mind. If you add to this the refinement which self‐ respect and a perpetual inner consciousness of a Being greater and higher than ourselves, keeping all the man’s actions in harmony with himself and with a higher law, you have a really civilized man as distinct from a savage.”

“That is not a bad description of what civilization ought to be. But that is very different from the idea most people have in their minds when they use the term.”

“In point of fact, Mary, I mean material progress. How far is it useful?”

“How people would stare at you, Jane, for that query!—people who think there is nothing more glorious than to have invented a new machine or a fresh adjunct to luxury.”

“Yes, those are just the people who would not the least know what I meant by my implied doubts about the value of material progress. But you know what I mean and why I question its nature and deprecate its increase.”

“It is a difficult question to solve. But I have long since come to the conclusion that there is never any very great and generally diffused advance made by mankind in any one direction without its having some definite purpose in the Eternal Mind for the ultimate good of his creation. The progress of science is only second in importance to the progress of religion; and after these two comes the progress of the useful arts, which are the offspring of science, and often seem only to pander to luxury, but are really subsidiary aids in that march, in the accomplishment of which man is to fulfil his destiny of possessing the earth and filling it. Mankind is in no way benefited by the discovery, for instance, of a new perfume, whereby some silly woman may add to the already exaggerated expenses of her toilet; but the process by which that perfume has been produced is, in itself, of the utmost value, and exhibits mechanical invention and scientific principles that are of the last importance to mankind. The perfume is an accident—a little of the golden dust scattered by the wheels of material progress.”

“Just so; and dust, albeit golden, is not a good atmosphere to breathe in.”

“Decidedly not.”

“Then do you think, dear Mary, that material progress, or what we generally call improvements, conduces, on the whole, to human happiness?”

“Ah! there lies the really difficult question, and one which I have again and again striven to answer satisfactorily to myself. Happiness is a term generally used to cover more than it has any right to do. There is only one real happiness, and that is what man finds in himself, in union with his God. That happiness is positive, and there is no other positive. We begin it here, but with great drawbacks and frequent interruptions. We complete it in the light of glory. But outside that, hanging on to the skirts and fringes of real happiness, there are contentment, pleasure, ease, and last, but not least, comfort. No one can impart happiness, pure and simple, to another. The nearest approach to doing so is in a reciprocal affection. But God alone can satisfy the soul of man. What we can confer on others and on ourselves are various degrees of those lesser goods which I have enumerated. Now, all these enter into the general plan of God’s dealings with his creatures. The animal world is susceptible of them in its degree, and we ourselves in a far higher degree. As they enter into the general scheme, I am at liberty to conclude, not only from my own sensations, which might delude me, but from that very fact, that they are of very great importance, and that everything which augments the sum of them is a blessing. They are the ore out of which we coin our charities to others. They are therefore essentially God’s gifts, to be given by us again.”

“I know what you mean, Mary. I shall never forget the pleasure I had in taking one of your air‐cushions to that poor woman at T——, who was dying of cancer, and to whom the slightest pressure of even an ordinary pillow was so painful. Now, air‐cushions are a comparatively modern invention. Dear mother used to say no one ever heard of mackintoshes and gutta‐percha in her day.”

“No, Jane, nor yet of lucifer matches. It was terrible work to have to nurse the sick through the night, with a flint and steel and tinder as the only way of striking a light. I think I see now my old nurse, with her large frilled night‐cap, hammering away for what seemed to us children a good three minutes, because the rush‐light had gone out, and baby was crying. I can remember I had for that flint and steel very much the same feelings an Indian has for his fetish. I used to wonder how the flint hid the fire in its cold bosom, and why sometimes it seemed to require so many more persuasive knocks than at others before it gave out its sparks. But for the matter of that, as a child I had secretly embraced the earliest form of religion, the _animism_ of the lower races of savages—and I lent a soul to all inanimate, and even all inorganic, matter. I believe, if we could but find it out, all children do so more or less. The external world is so wonderful to them that they vaguely imagine a personality and a consciousness to exist in everything. There is not a little girl who does not, in her heart, believe that her doll is something more than wax and sawdust; and I would not give much for her, if she did not. The exuberance of faith leads to an exuberance of tenderness; and the girl who believes in her doll has the germ of a good mother in her.”

“You seemed just now to attach a great importance to comfort, Mary. I am surprised at that.”

“It arises, in a measure, from my own personal experience. Besides which, comfort may mean almost anything; for it is generally whatever we are used to. I remember so well, years ago, when the sorrows of my life first threatened to overpower me, how thankfully I felt the warm, soft arms of mere outward well‐being so closely round me. To me they were no more than comforts, because all my life I had been used to them. To others they would have seemed luxuries. When I used to go up to London alone to my father’s house, and find all ready to my hand—well‐appointed servants, large, warm rooms, and a good table, with nothing of meanness, or sparing, or pinching in the unextravagant but perfectly organized home that was open to me—I used often to lean back in my easy‐chair, and say to myself, ‘I am very unhappy; but, thank God, I am not uncomfortable!’ Later on, you know, it was not so. I was a Catholic, and doors that had been open to me before were closed for ever. Then came the time for discomfort. If I wanted to go to London, I had to go to a lodging. The furniture was shabby and dirty; the fires smoked; the food was badly cooked. I drove about in hired vehicles, perished with cold, and shaken to death. I knew I was in no way degraded by it all; but it was new and painfully strange to me, and I _felt_ degraded by an amount of discomforts which in my youth I had never approached. It did not, in itself, make me unhappy, but it added a thousandfold to the suffering from real causes for unhappiness. I used to say they were the splinters of my cross, though not my cross itself. Ever since then, I never see a person in sorrow without being anxious to make them at least comfortable. There is nothing, you see, approaching to asceticism in my view, dear Jane; but, at any rate, one is not bound to be ascetic for others.”

Mary and I were sitting side by side in the railway‐carriage, I having come from my seat opposite in order the better to hear. But now I returned to my old place, just as we paused at the station of Caserta, and saw the largest palace in Europe, now empty and almost deserted, not far off.

The great object in our visit to Naples was to be as near as possible to our friends, the Vernons. We were to go first to a hotel, and then look out for a villa at Posilippo, near the one occupied by themselves, which was called Casinelli, from the family of that name to whom it belonged. We had written to Ida Vernon to beg she would choose our hotel and our rooms. She had lodged us at a very comfortable _pension_ on the Chiaja, and wrote us word we must, on reaching the station at 10 o’clock at night, look out for their servant, Monica; and that she would wear a red handkerchief pinned across, gold earrings, and a blue skirt. We were not to expect the universal black hair and eyes of the Italian woman, as hers were soft brown. The station is very large and very badly lighted. But as soon as I got out, I ran to the grating—a high iron railing, behind which stood the crowd of people, friends, servants, porters, and mere lookers‐on, all pushing and squeezing to catch sight of those they expected by the train. I soon made out the blue skirt, and red kerchief, and the amiable, smiling face of Monica. She welcomed us exactly as if we had been old friends, and that it was a personal pleasure to herself that we had arrived. She had brought a carriage for us the size of a small house, but which refused (through the coachman) to take luggage. That was to follow in another kind of conveyance immediately after us. Every sort of injunction was given as to its destination, and, persuaded all was right, we rumbled over the large flags of the streets of Naples to the far end of the Chiaja, where we were to lodge. There were flowers in our room and a note from Ida; and the next morning we were to meet, after a separation of seven years. Meanwhile, our _impedimenta_ was slowly grinding its way past our door, up the steep hill of Strada Nuova, on to Posilippo, where our friends reside—a good twenty minutes from our abode—down the hill, through the vineyard, and up to the door of the Villa Casinelli, where, arriving about midnight, they thundered and thumped till the tired Monica had donned once more the blue skirt, while Lucia was screaming that there were robbers. Ida came forth in a warm wrapper; Elizabeth’s tall figure was draped in white; Helen peeped out of the half‐open door; and the good Padre Cataldo, their chaplain, in _beretta_ and _soutane_, had to emerge from his little sanctum, at the furthest end of the long, narrow house, before peace could be restored, and our mountain of huge black trunks, portmanteaus, and leather bags could be induced to retrace their needless steps, climb again that zig‐zag road up the steep tufa rock, and reach us, worn out with waiting and feverish with impatience for night‐gear, at about one o’clock in the morning.

Brilliant sunshine, streaming into the room the next day, woke us up to the sense of the joyous, bounding life of these delicious climes. O noisy Naples! what clamorous cries, what vibrating shouts, what shrill feminine voices, fill thy glaring streets through the livelong day and far into the unrestful night. The horses neigh as they do not neigh in any more tranquil climes. The usually silent ass is here a garrulous animal. The dogs bark and snarl in a dialect special to Naples. The women scream like cockatoos, and never address each other in lower tones than as if shouting a word of command on board a man‐of‐war in a gale of wind. Their habits are not conversational, but _scream_ational; and the most cordial civility is communicated like a threat, while an affectionate compliment is conveyed in sounds sufficient to startle the most supine into lively attention. Young girls hiss and squeal; infants bellow and roar. It is noise, noise, all day long; and over all a remorseless sunshine on white, glaring pavements of flag‐stones a quarter of a yard square and more, like the pavement of the ancient Romans, such as we still see it in the Via Sacra near the Colosseum, and which resounds to the metallic tread of donkey, mule, and horse, or to the softer, shuffling pit‐a‐pat of the herds of bearded goats that traverse the city at early morn and eventide.

Mary’s bed‐room opened into a large _loggia_ full of flowers—geraniums, petunias, and carnations in full blossom, though it was only the month of March; but so had they blossomed more or less all through the winter. A few orange‐trees in tubs were there with golden fruit and star‐like flowers. Then the blue sky and the bluer bay! Yes, it was the plenitude of life that one only knows in the South, with the delicious sense of the pleasure of mere existence, which tempts one to adopt the _dolce far niente_, and makes living and breathing seem a full accomplishment of the day’s duties.

Ida and Elizabeth Vernon came early to carry us off to Posilippo; first to call on Mrs. Vernon at Villa Casinelli, and then to decide on a lodging as near to them as possible. We found them living in a house whose foundations are washed by the sea, and commanding a view of wonderful beauty. The descent from the main road was too steep for any carriage, winding in and out through vines and fig‐trees, oranges and Japanese medlars, ending in a closely‐knit avenue of the white mulberry, which in the summer makes a dense shade.