Chapter XIII: Part VI: They Sang (9)

But is it true that our intellect “is limited by time and space”? No, it is not true. Imagination is indeed limited by time and space, as all our philosophers concede; but intellect understands things independently of either space or time. This is evident. For in what space do we place the universals? To what time do we confine mathematical truths? _Two and two are known to make four_ in all places and in all times—that is, without restriction or limit in space and time; and the same is true of all intellectual principles. Hence it is obvious that our understanding transcends both space and time, and can reach the infinite and the eternal. It is through abstraction, of course, and not by comprehension or by intuition, that we form such notions; for our intellect, though not limited by time and space, is limited in its own entity, and therefore it cannot conceive the unlimited, except by the help of the abstractive process—that is, by removing the limits by which the objective reality of the finite is circumscribed. That we can do this I need not prove _to you;_ for you admit that space is infinite, and pretend that matter itself is infinite, as I have just remarked; and consequently you cannot deny that we have the notion of infinity.

What shall I say of your next assertion, that, from being accustomed to find a cause for every effect, “we have _falsely_ concluded that there exists a primary cause of all things”? Do you think that the principle of causality has no other ground than experience? or that, when we do not “find” the cause of a certain effect, we are to conclude that the effect has had no cause? I hope you will not deny that the notions of cause and effect are so essentially connected that there is no need of experiment to compel the admission of a cause for every effect. Hence we are certain, not only that all the effects for which we have found a cause proceed from a cause, but also that all the effects for which we cannot find a cause likewise proceed from a cause. This amounts to saying that the principle of causality is analytical, not empirical, as you seem to hold. Now, if all effects must have a cause, on what ground do you assert that “we have _falsely_ concluded that there exists a primary cause of all things”? Our conclusion cannot be false, unless it be false that the world has been created; for if it was created, we must admit a Creator—that is, a primary cause. But the fact of creation is, even philosophically, undeniable, since the contingent nature of the world is manifestly established by its liability to continuous change. And therefore it is manifestly established that our admission of a primary cause is not a false conclusion. I might say more on this point; but what need is there of refuting assertions which have not even a shadow of plausibility? The primary cause, you say, “is perfectly inaccessible to our ideas.” I answer that, if the word “idea” means “concept,” your statement is perfectly wrong. You add that the existence of a primary cause “is contradicted by scientific experience.” I answer by challenging you to bring forward a single fact of experimental science which supports your blasphemous assertion.

You must agree, doctor, that a man who in a few phrases commits so many unconceivable blunders has no right to censure the metaphysicians or to attack revelation. It is rash, therefore, on your part, to declare that “however much metaphysicians may vainly attempt to define the absolute, however much religion may endeavor to excite faith in the absolute by the assumption of a revelation, nothing can conceal the defect of the definition.” Of what definition do you speak? Your own definition of the absolute, as “that which transcends the surrounding sensual world,” is certainly most deficient; but religion and metaphysics are not to be made responsible for it. Why did you not, before censuring the metaphysicians and the theologians, ascertain their definitions? We call _absolute_ a being whose existence does not depend on the existence of another being; and in this sense God alone is absolute. He is _the absolute_ antonomastically. And we call _absolute_ analogically any being also whose existence does not depend on any created being, although it depends on the creative and conservative action of God; and in this sense every created substance is absolute. And we call _absolute_ logically whatever is conceived through its own intrinsic constituents without reference to any other distinct entity; and in this sense we speak of absolute movement, absolute weight, absolute volume, etc. Without enumerating other less important meanings of the term, I simply observe that the absolute may be defined as that which is independent of extraneous conditions; and that the greater its independence, the more absolute and the more perfect is the being. Have you anything to say against this definition?

We must, then, conclude that all your argumentation is nothing but a shocking display of false assertions, and, I may add, of “intellectual jugglery.”

_Büchner._ I will accept your conclusion, if you can show that our conception of a God is not a childish delusion of our fancy. “An exact knowledge and unprejudiced observation of individuals and nations in an uncivilized state prove the contrary to be the fact. Only a prejudiced mind can, in the worship of animals practised by ancient and existing nations, find something analogous to a real belief in a God. It by no means corresponds to the idea of a God when we see man worshipping such animals as he from experience knows may injure or be useful to him.... A stone, a tree, a river, an alligator, a parcel of rags, a snake, form the idols of the negro of Guinea. Such a worship does not express the idea of an almighty being, governing the world and ruling nature and man, but merely a blind fear of natural forces, which frighten uncivilized man, or appear supernatural, as he is not able to trace the natural connection of things.... A god in the shape of an animal is no God, but a caricature” (pp. 184, 185).

_Reader._ True. But individuals and nations existing “in an uncivilized state” are scarcely to be appealed to for a decision of the question. The notion of worship implies the notion of a supreme being; but rude and brutal men, thinking of nothing but of the development of their animal nature and the pursuit of degrading pleasure, though they know that there is some superior being, are not the men we ought to consult about the nature and attributes of divinity. It seems, doctor, as if you had a great predilection for uncivilized and barbarous nations. You have already tried to countenance abortion and fœticide, on the ground that barbarians admitted the horrible practice; and now you would have us believe that our conception of a God is a childish delusion, on the ground that barbarians worship the snake, the alligator, or any other caricature of a god. This will not do.

_Büchner._ But civilized men are not much in advance of barbarians with regard to the notion of divinity. “No one has better expounded the purely human origin of the idea of God than Ludwig Feuerbach. He calls all conceptions of God and divinity _anthropomorphisms_—_i.e._, products of human fancies and perceptions, formed after the model of human individuality. Feuerbach finds this anthropomorphism in the feeling of dependence inherent in the human nature. ‘An extraneous and superhuman God,’ says Feuerbach, ‘is nothing but an extraneous and supernatural self, a subjective being placed, by transgressing its limits, above the objective nature of man.’ The history of all religions is indeed a continuous argument for this assertion; and how could it be otherwise? Without any knowledge or any notion of the absolute, without any immediate revelation, the existence of which is indeed asserted by all, but not proved by any religious sect, all ideas of God, no matter of what religion, can only be human; and as man knows in animated nature no being intellectually superior to himself, it follows that his conception of a supreme being can only be abstracted from his own self, and must represent a _self‐idealization_” (p. 190). Hence it is plain that our idea of a God is a mere delusion.

_Reader._ It is by no means plain, doctor. Feuerbach’s authority, you know, is worth very little. Your German philosophers, as you own, “have pretty much lost their authority, and are now but little attended to” (p. 158). On the other hand, “nothing,” says Herschel, “is so improbable but a German will find a theory for it” (p. 155). Therefore let Feuerbach alone.

As for the reasons which you adduce in support of the assumption, we need not go into deep reasonings to lay open their true value. Is “the history of all religions a continuous argument for Feuerbach’s assertion”? No. For the history of the Mosaic and of the Christian religion is a continuous refutation of such a slander. Are men “without any knowledge or any notion of the absolute”? No. This I have already shown to be entirely false. Men, however, are “without any immediate revelation.” This is true, but it has nothing to do with the question; first, because philosophy and reason are competent without supernatural revelation to ascertain the existence of a primary cause infinitely superior to all the natural beings; secondly, because, although we have no _immediate_ revelations, we have the old revelation transmitted to us by written and oral tradition, and by the teaching of the living church. That this revelation “is asserted by all, but not proved by any religious sect,” is one of those lies which it is quite unnecessary to refute, as there are whole libraries of Scriptural treatises, in which the truth of revelation is superabundantly vindicated. I would therefore conclude, without any further discussion, that it is to yourself, and not to your opponents, that you should apply that low criticism with which you close the twenty‐sixth chapter of your work. For it is you that “delight in hashing up cold meat with new phrases, and dishing them up as the last invention of the _materialistic_ kitchen” (p. 194).

To sum up: Do you admit that man is a finite being?

_Büchner._ Of course.

_Reader._ Do you admit that man had a beginning? That man is ignorant, weak, wicked, and subject to death?

_Büchner._ Who can doubt that?

_Reader._ Then man by _self‐idealization_ cannot form an anthropomorphic notion of a supreme being without involving limitation, ignorance, impotence, malice, an origin, and an end of existence. Such, and no other, would be the result of self‐idealization. Now, our notion of God is that of a being eternal, infinite, omniscient, omnipotent, holy, immense. Is this anthropomorphism?

To Be Continued.

Destiny.

From The French Of Louis Veuillot.

It is the lot of mortals here below That they shall ever crawl from bad to worse, Approaching step by step the dismal tomb— Instance an aching tooth, with no relief Save by its loss. Cure comes by sacrifice.

All victories are seeds of further strife— Of strife that never ends but in the grave, In which he only conquers who succumbs: And this is destiny.

Ye dreamers of love‐dreams, of glory, wealth, Who, growing old, are scouted by the world, And then swept on into forgetfulness! All disappears—laurels, affection, gold! Blame not your faults that so things come to pass, For this is destiny.

The Veil Withdrawn.

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

XXII.

The following day was as gloomy as might have been expected from the evening before. Never had I suffered such inexpressible anguish and distress.

It is useless to say that I went to church alone, as on the preceding Sunday, but I was not as calm and recollected as I was then. I was now in a state of irrepressible dissatisfaction with everything and everybody, myself not excepted, and yet I was very far from being in that humble disposition of mind which subdues all murmuring, extinguishes resentment, and throws a calm, serene light on the way one should walk in. I regretted my hastiness of the evening before, because I realized that a different course would have been more likely to further my wishes. In short, I felt I ought to have managed more skilfully, but it never occurred to me I might have been more patient. I found it difficult, above all, to calm the excessive irritation caused by the recollection of Lorenzo’s manner throughout our interview. I compared it with his appearance on the day when he spoke to me for the first time concerning her.

What tenderness he then manifested! What confidence! What respect even! Even while uttering her name—alas! with emotion—how manifest it was that, while desirous of repairing his wrongs towards her, he felt incapable of any towards me! Not a week had elapsed since that time, and yesterday how cold, how hard! What implacable and freezing irony! What an incredible change in his looks and words! Was it really Lorenzo who spoke to me in such a way? Was it really he who gave me so indifferent and almost disdainful a look?... No, he was no longer the same. A previous fascination had recovered its power, and the fatal charm over which I had so recently triumphed had regained its empire over a heart which I was, alas! too feeble to retain, because I had no sentiments more profound and elevated than those of nature to aid me!

As I have already said, I did not try to fathom Faustina’s motives. I ought, however, to say a few words concerning her, if only through charity for him whom she had followed, like an angel of darkness, to disturb his legitimate happiness!

That she had long loved him I do not doubt—loved him with the unbridled passion that sways all such hearts as hers. She thought he would return to her. She believed she was preparing for herself a whole life of happiness by two years of apparent virtue. Mistaken, wounded, and desperate, she had at first yielded to an impetuous desire of perhaps merely seeing him once more; perhaps, also, to avenge herself by destroying the happiness that had defeated her dearest hopes.

She had calculated on the extent of her influence, and had calculated rightly. But in order to exert it, I was necessary to her design, and she played with consummate art the scene of our first encounter. She wished to take a near view of the enemy she hoped to vanquish; she must sound the heart she wished to smite. Alas! all that was worthy of esteem in that heart was not perceived by him, and it was natural to underrate a treasure not appreciated by its owner. What could I do, then? What advantage had I over her, if, in Lorenzo’s eyes, I was not protected by a sacred, insurmountable barrier which he respected himself? What was my love in comparison with her passion? What was my intelligence in comparison with that which she possessed? My beauty beside the irresistible charm that had even fascinated me? Finally, my youth itself in comparison with all the advantages her unscrupulous vanity gave her over me? In fact, I think it seemed so easy at the first glance to vanquish me that she was almost disarmed herself. But I also believe she soon discovered something more in me than all she found so easy to eclipse. She saw I might in time succeed in acquiring an ascendency over Lorenzo that no human influence could destroy. She saw I might kindle a flame in his soul it would be impossible to extinguish—a flame very different from that which either of us could be the object of. She saw I might lead him into a world where she could no longer be my rival, and that I wished to do so. She discerned the ardent though confused desire that was in my heart. In a word, she had on her side an intuition equal to that which I had on mine. She perceived the good there was in me, as I had fathomed the evil there was in her, and she knew she must overpower my good influence, which would render him invulnerable whom she wished to captivate. She made use of all the weapons she possessed to conquer me, or rather, alas! to conquer him—weapons always deadly against hearts without defence. The very esteem she had heretofore won became a snare to him when her pride, her passion, changed their calculations—an additional snare, a danger that, combined with others, would be fatal!...

If I speak of her now in this way, it is not to gratify a resentment long since extinguished. Neither is it to palliate Lorenzo’s offences against me and against God. It is solely to explain their secret cause, and to repeat once more that human love, even the most tender, is a frail foundation of that happiness in which God has no part; and honor likewise, even the highest and most unimpeachable, is a feeble guarantee of a fidelity of which God is not the bond, the witness, and the judge!...

I saw Lorenzo barely for a moment in the morning. I clearly perceived he wished to make me forget what had passed between us the evening before, but I did not see the least shade of regret. It was evident, on the contrary, that he thought himself magnanimous in overlooking my reproaches, and felt no concern at having merited them. In short, we seemed to have changed _rôles_. As for me, I suffered so much on account of the outburst I had indulged in that it would have been easy to call forth acknowledgments that would have atoned for it. They only waited for the least word of affection, but not one did he utter. Lando came for him before two o’clock, and they went away together, leaving me with a sad, heavy heart. I was not to see him again till my return from the Hôtel de Kergy. Where would he pass the time meanwhile?... Would it really be in Lando’s company? And was the business they had to settle really such as to render it impossible for him to spend this last evening with me?... Would it not have been a thousand times better to have remained silent, and, as this was really our last day, and we were to leave on the next, would it not have been wiser in me to have spent it wholly with him, ... even if that included her?... Had I not committed an irreparable folly in yielding to this explosion of unmistakable anger? This was indubitable, but it was too late to remedy it. The die was cast. Lorenzo was gone! I passed the afternoon, like that of the Sunday before, at church, but was pursued by a thousand distractions which I had not now the strength to resist. On the contrary, I took pleasure in dwelling on them, and my mind wandered without any effort on my part to prevent it. I neglected, on the very day of my life when I had the most need of light, courage, and assistance, to have recourse to the only Source whence they are to be obtained, and I returned home without having uttered a prayer.

Two hours later I was at the Hôtel de Kergy, and in the same room where just a week before I had felt such lively emotion and conceived such delightful hopes! But, ah! what a contrast between my feelings on that occasion and those of to‐day! I seemed to have lived as many years since as there had been days!...

Mme. de Kergy advanced to meet me as I entered, and I saw she noticed the change in my face the moment she looked at me. I did not know how to feign what I did not feel, and she had had too much experience not to perceive I had undergone some pain or chagrin since the evening before. She asked me no questions, however, but, on the contrary, began to speak of something foreign to myself; and this did me good. I soon felt my painful emotions diminish by degrees, and a change once more in the atmosphere around me, as when one passes from one clime to another.

The guests were but few in number, and all friends of the family. Diana, prettier than ever, and so lively as to excite my envy, was delighted to see me, but did not observe the cloud on my brow; and if she had, she would have been incapable of fathoming the cause. She hastened to point out the various guests who had arrived.

“They are all friends,” said she; “for mother said you were coming to get a little respite from society.”

Mme. de Kergy presented them to me one by one, and among the persons introduced were several of celebrity, whom I regarded with all the interest a first meeting adds to renown. But I saw nothing of Diana’s brother among those present, and was beginning to wonder if I should never see him again, when, just as dinner was ready, he made his appearance. He bowed to me at a distance, appearing to have forgotten it was his place to escort me to the table. A sign from his mother seemed to bring him to himself, and he offered me his arm with some confusion, though without any awkwardness. But after taking a seat beside me, he remained for some moments without speaking, and then addressed his conversation to others instead of me. I saw he was for some reason embarrassed, and I was confused myself; for such things are contagious. He soon recovered his accustomed ease, however, and when he finally addressed me it was with a simplicity that set me, on my part, entirely at ease. His conversation surprised and pleased me, and I felt I conversed better with him than any one else. There was nothing trifling in what he said, and, above all, he refrained from everything like a compliment, direct or indirect, and even from every subject that might lead either to me or himself. Women generally like nothing so much as a style of conversation that shows the effect they produce, so it was not astonishing it had been employed with me as well as with others. But this language had always embarrassed and displeased me, and I now felt proportionately pleased with the unusual way in which I was addressed—a way that seemed to raise me in my own estimation. And yet he did not try to absorb my attention, but gave others an opportunity of taking part in the conversation.

It soon became general, and I stopped to listen. I had then the pleasure—a new one for me—of witnessing a kind of game in which thoughts and opinions fly from one to another, wit mingles with gravity, and the intellect is brightened by contact with the brilliancy of others. Gilbert was not the only one in this circle who knew how to interest without fatiguing, and excite, not by ridicule, but by a better kind of wit, the hearty, cordial laugh that wounds neither the absent nor the present!

What struck me especially was the interest and almost deference with which a man of well‐known eloquence, whose opinions had weight with every one, endeavored to draw forth the opinions of others. It might have been said he listened even better than he talked.

Thus during the whole time we were at table, and the evening that followed, I realized the true meaning of the word _conversation_ in a country where it originated, in the social world where it was coined, and in the language which is, of all mediums, the most delicate, the most perfect, and the most universal.

In spite of myself, I felt my sadness gradually vanish, and my laugh more than once mingled freely in the merriment of others. I saw that Mme. de Kergy observed this with pleasure, and a benevolent smile increased the habitual sweetness of her expression. She was a woman whose unvarying serenity was the result of great suffering, and who now sought nothing in this world but the happiness of others; to whose pains she was as fully alive as she was full of profound compassion.

She wore mourning, not only for her husband, but a number of children, of whom Gilbert and Diana were the sole survivors. But far from centring her affection on them, she seemed to have given to all who were young the love she had cherished for those who were gone, and the vacant places they had left in her maternal heart. I could not help regarding her with astonishment, for I belonged to a country where it is more common to die of grief than to learn how to live under its burden. I returned Mme. de Kergy’s smile, and for an hour felt gay and almost happy. But by degrees the burden, removed for an instant, fell back on my heart. The reality of my troubles, and the thought of bidding farewell to this delightful circle of friends, filled me with a melancholy it was impossible to repress. The regret that weighed on my heart was for a moment as profound as that we feel for our country when we fear never to behold it again.

I remained seated in an arm‐chair near the fire‐place, and fell into a revery which was favored by Diana, who was at the piano. She was at that moment playing with consummate skill an air of Chopin’s which seemed to give expression to my very thoughts....

I awoke from my long revery, and felt a blush mount to my very forehead when, raising my eyes, I found Gilbert’s fixed on mine.... And mine were veiled with tears! I hastily brushed them away, stammering with confusion that Chopin’s music always affected my nerves, and then, leaving my seat, I approached the piano, where Diana continued to play one air after another.... Gilbert remained with a pensive manner in the place where I left him, looking at me from a distance, and trying, perhaps, to conjecture the cause of my emotion.

But the approaching separation was sufficient to account for this. I was that very evening to bid a long farewell to these new friends, whom perhaps I should never meet again in this world! And when the hour came, and Mme. de Kergy clasped me for the last time in her arms, I made no effort to restrain my tears. Diana wept also, and, throwing her arms around my neck, said:

“Oh! do not forget me. I love you so much!”

Her mother added with a tearful voice:

“May God watch over you wherever you go, my dear Ginevra! I shall follow you in spirit with as much interest as if I had known you always!...”

Gilbert offered me his arm, and conducted me to the carriage without uttering a word; but as I was on the point of entering it he said:

“Those you leave behind are greatly to be pitied, madame.”

“And I am much more so,” I replied, my tears continuing to flow without restraint.

He remained silent an instant, and then said:

“As for me, madame, I may hope to see you again, for I shall go to Naples, ... _if I dare_.”

“And why should you not dare? You know well we shall expect you and welcome you as a friend.”

He made no reply, but after helping me into the carriage, and I had given him my hand, as I bade him adieu, he answered in a low tone: “_Au revoir!_”

XXIII.

Our journey through France and across the Alps did not in the least diminish the impressions of my last days in Paris. But everything was mingled in my recollections like the joy and regret I felt at my departure—joy and regret, both of which I had reason to feel, though I did not try to fathom their cause. I was only conscious that in more than one way the repose and happiness of our life were threatened, and it was necessary we should take flight. It seemed as if we could not go fast enough or far enough. The very rapidity with which we travelled by railway was delightfully soothing, for it seconded my wishes. The sudden change of scenery and climate, and the different aspect of the towns as soon as we crossed the mountains, also gave me pleasure, because all this greatly added in my imagination to the distance we had so rapidly come.

Lorenzo also, though doubtless for a different reason, seemed more at ease after we left Paris, and gradually resumed his usual manner towards me. He never mentioned Faustina’s name, and I had only ventured to speak timidly of her once. As we were on the point of leaving, I proposed writing her a farewell note, but he prevented me by hastily stammering something to this effect: that my absence the evening before was a sufficient explanation for not seeing her again, and it was useless to take the trouble of any further farewell.

This new attitude surprised me. He had changed his mind, then, since the day he urged me so strongly to be her friend!... It is true I had myself expressed a vehement desire—too vehement, perhaps!—to break off this friendship. But he did not try in the least to profit by my present good‐ will to renew it. It was evident he no longer desired it himself. His only wish seemed to be to make me forget the scene that had occurred, as well as the cause that led to it. Why was this? If I had really been in the wrong, would he have forgiven me so readily? If, instead of this, his conscience forced him to excuse me, did not the affection he now manifested prove his desire to repair wrongs he could not avow, and which perhaps I did not suspect?

These thoughts involuntarily crossed my mind and heart with painful rapidity. I loved Lorenzo, or rather, I felt the need of loving him, above all things. But if he himself loved me no longer, if he had become treacherous, unfaithful, and untrue to his word, could I continue to love him? Was this possible?... What would become of me in this case? Merciful heavens!... I asked myself these questions with a terror that could not have been greater had I been asking myself what would become of my eyes should they be deprived of light. And this comparison is just, for there could be no darker night than that which would have surrounded me had the ardent, predominant feeling of my heart been left without any object. I might suitably have taken for my motto: _Aimer ou mourir_—either love or die—words often uttered in a jesting, romantic, or trifling way, but which were to me full of profound, mysterious meaning. But this meaning was hidden from me, and the day was still far distant when its signification would be made manifest!

After crossing the Alps and the Apennines, and passing through Florence and Rome, we at length proceeded towards Naples by the delightful route that formerly crossed the Pontine Marshes, Terracina, and Mola di Gaëta. Every one who returns to Italy the first time after leaving it experiences a feeling of intoxication and joy a thousand times more lively than when one goes there for the first time. The eyes wander around in search of objects which once gave them pleasure and it had been a sacrifice to leave. I yielded to this enjoyment without attempting to resist it. Sadness, moreover, did not belong to my age, and, though intensely capable of it, it was by no means natural to me. During the first weeks after my return to Naples my mind was diverted from all my troubles and anxiety by novelties that everything contributed to render efficacious and powerful.

In the first place, I was glad to find myself once more in my delightful home, which, by the order of Lorenzo, had undergone a multitude of improvements during my absence, and was now additionally embellished with the contents of the boxes we had brought from Paris. It was Lorenzo’s taste, and not mine, which had dictated the choice of these numberless objects, the chief value of which in my eyes was derived from the estimation he attached to them himself.

The anxiety that clouded his face seemed to have disappeared. He appeared as delighted as I to find himself at home, and was quite disposed to resume his favorite occupation in his studio. Consequently, the clouds soon began to disperse from my soul; the sun once more began to brighten my life.

Lorenzo soon insisted, with an earnestness equal to that he had before shown to have me all to himself, that my door should now be constantly open. My drawing‐room was filled with people of the best society and highest rank in Naples, and, thanks to their cordiality and natural turn for sudden intimacies (a characteristic, charming trait in that delightful region), instead of feeling at all embarrassed among so many new acquaintances, I felt as if surrounded by friends I had always known and loved.

Above all, I at last saw Livia once more, and though through a double grate, which prevented me from embracing her, it afforded me an unalloyed happiness which left no regrets.

The monastery she entered was situated at one extremity of Naples, which could only be reached by traversing an endless number of narrow, gloomy, winding streets, in which it seemed impossible to move a step without knocking down the people on foot, overthrowing their shops, and even kitchens, established in the open air; and, if in a carriage, crushing the children playing, running about, or sleeping in the sun.

The first time a person ventures into such streets he is terrified at every step, and wonders he is allowed there. He feels guilty and like apologizing to every one he meets. But he soon sees he has done no harm; that everybody, young and old, mothers and children, the passers‐by, the coachmen, and even the horses themselves, are endowed with a dexterity, good‐humor, and at the same time an energy that make their way through everything. In a word, they all have such quickness of sight, hearing, and motion that not a day passes in which miracles of skill are not effected in these narrow streets, which not only prevent accidents from happening, but even from being feared, and you are at last unwilling to admit there is any crowd in Naples so compact, any street so narrow, or any descent so perilous, as to make it necessary to leave the vehicle you are in, or which the coachman who drives, and the horses he manages, cannot pass without danger.

At the end of some such way as I have described it was necessary, in addition to all this, in order to reach the monastery I am speaking of, to stop at the foot of an acclivity the horses could not ascend, not on account of its steepness, which would have been no obstacle, but because every now and then there were steps to facilitate the ascent of pedestrians, but which rendered it impassable for equipages of any kind whatever. It had therefore to be ascended on foot, and, when once at the top, there was still a flight of fifteen or twenty steps to climb before reaching the broad terrace or platform before the gate through which strangers were admitted to the convent.

If this ascent was difficult, it must be confessed one felt repaid for the trouble of making it by the view from the terrace. Here the visitor wandered along the narrow, gloomy streets through the old, historic city, as well as its more elegant quarters, towards that side of the bay where Vesuvius was to be seen in its most striking aspect, and from the summit of the volcano followed its descent to the vast, smiling plain, more charming even in that direction than that to the sea by Ottagno, Stabia, and Castellamare. On every side the eye reposed on the verdant orange‐ trees growing in numberless gardens. Such was the outer world that encircled my sister’s cloistered home. Such was the view from every window on this side of the convent. On the other there was a more quiet prospect, perhaps even better suited to contemplation—that of the cloister, with its broad arcades of fine architecture, which surrounded an enclosure planted with lemon‐trees, in the centre of which stood a massive antique fountain of marble. The pines of Capo di Monte stood out against the clear sky, further off were the heights of Sant’ Elmo, and along the horizon stretched the majestic line of mountains which form the background of the picture.

When able to tear my eyes from this magnificent prospect, lit up by all the fires of the setting sun, I suddenly found myself in the somewhat gloomy vestibule of the monastery, whence I was conducted to a large parlor divided by a grate, behind which fell a long, black curtain. Here I was left alone, with the assurance I should soon see my sister. I felt an emotion I had not anticipated, and for the first time it seemed as if the most horrible separation had taken place between us. The admiration I had just experienced, and my joy at the prospect of seeing her again, both vanished. My heart swelled with painful emotion, and it was with more terror than devotion I looked up at a large crucifix—the only ornament on the bare wall in front of the _grille_. As to the grate itself, it filled me with horror, and I did not dare look at it.

All at once I heard the sound of a light step, the curtain was drawn quickly aside, and a beloved voice softly uttered my name: “Gina!” Turning around, I saw Livia, my sister, standing before me! The shock I received could not have been greater if, supposing her dead, I had seen her descend from the skies and appear thus suddenly before me. She wore the white veil of a novice, and her habit, as well as the band across her forehead and the _guimpe_ around her neck, was of the same color. Her face was radiant. The dazzling rays of the setting sun suddenly poured in through the door of the cloister, left open behind her, and she seemed to be wholly enveloped in light. I gazed at her speechless with affection, surprise, and I know not what other indefinable emotion.... I was almost afraid to address her; but she did not appear to observe it. The words that rapidly fell from her lips were animated, natural, and affectionate as ever—more affectionate even. And there was the same tone of anxious solicitude. But she was calmer, more serene, and even more gentle, and, though at times she had the same tone of decision, there was no trace of the sadness and austerity she sometimes manifested, in spite of herself, in former times when an invisible cross darkened everything around her. The band that concealed her hair revealed more clearly the extreme beauty of her eyes, and while I stood gazing at her as if I had never studied her features before, I felt she spoke truly in saying “the grates of the convent should neither hide her face nor her heart from me.” Never had the one, I thought, so faithfully reflected the other.

As to her, she by no means perceived the effect she had produced. She was anxious to hear all I had been doing while absent, and asked me one question after another with the same familiarity with which we used to converse when side by side. Glad to be able to open my heart in this way, I forgot, when I began, all I had to say if I would conceal nothing from her. But my account soon became confused, and I suddenly stopped.

“Gina mia!” said she, “you do not tell me everything. Why is this? Is it because you think I no longer take any interest in your worldly affairs?”

“It is not that alone, Livia, but it is really very difficult to speak of Paris and the senseless life I led there before this grate and while looking at you as you are now.”

“I shall always take as much pleasure in listening to you,” said she, “as you do in talking to me. I admit, when our good aunt, Donna Clelia, comes to see me with her daughters, I often assume a severe air, and tell them what I think of the world; ... but I must confess my aunt does not get angry with me, for she depends on my vocation to procure husbands for Mariuccia and Teresina, who are worthy of them, because, as she says, a person who consecrates herself to God brings good‐luck to all the family. She no longer regards me as a _jettatrice_, I assure you!”

She laughed as she said this, and I could not help exclaiming with surprise and envy:

“Livia, how happy you are to be so cheerful!”

Her face resumed its usual expression of sweet gravity, as she replied:

“I am cheerful, Gina, because I am happy. But you were formerly livelier than I. Why are you no longer so, my dear sister? Cheerfulness is for those whose souls are at peace.”

“O Livia!” I cried, not able to avoid a sincere reply to so direct a question, “my heart is heavy with sorrow, I assure you, and the cheerfulness you speak of is frequently wanting.”

She started with surprise at these words, and questioned me with an angelic look.

I did not delay my reply. I felt the need of opening my heart, and resumed the account I had broken off. I described without any circumlocution the life of pleasure to which I had given myself up, at first through curiosity and inclination, and in the end with weariness and disgust. I spoke of the day at Paris when fervor, devotion, and good impulses awoke in my soul, my meeting Mme. de Kergy, and all I had seen and felt in the places I had visited in her company.

Finally, I endeavored, with a trembling voice, to explain all my hopes and wishes with respect to Lorenzo, and the nature of the projects and ambition I had for him. With a heart still affected at the remembrance I depicted the new happiness—the new and higher life I had dreamed of for him as well as myself!

Livia listened with joy to this part of my story, and her face brightened while I was speaking. But, without explaining the cause of my disappointment, I ended by telling her how complete it was, and this awoke so many bitter remembrances at once that I was suffocated with emotion, and for some moments I was unable to continue....

A cloud passed over her brow, and she suffered me to weep some moments in silence.

“Your wishes were good and holy, Ginevra,” said she at length, “and God will bless them sooner or later.”

I paid no heed to her words. A torrent of bitterness, jealousy, and grief inundated my heart, and, feeling at liberty to say what concerned no one but myself, I gave vent to thoughts I had often dwelt on in silence, but now uttered aloud with vehemence and without any restriction.

Livia listened without interrupting me, and seemed affected at my impetuosity. Standing motionless on the other side of the _grille_, her hands crossed under her long, white scapular, and her downcast, thoughtful eyes fastened on the ground, she seemed for a time to be listening rather to the interior voice of my soul than to the words I uttered. At length she slowly raised her eyes, and said with an accent difficult to describe:

“You say your heart feels the need of some object of affection—that not to love would be death? You need, too, the assurance that the one you love is wholly worthy of your affection?... Really,” continued she, smiling, “one would say you wish Lorenzo to be perfect, which of course he is not, even if as faultless as man is capable of being.”

She stopped, and the smile that played on her lips became almost celestial. One would have said a ray of sunlight beamed across her face. She continued:

“I understand you, Ginevra; I understand you perfectly, perhaps even better than you do yourself, but I am not capable of solving the enigma that perplexes you—of drawing aside the veil that now obscures the light.... Oh! if I could!” said she, clasping her hands and raising her eyes to heaven with fervor.“ To solve all your doubts—to give you the light necessary to comprehend this mystery clearly—would require a miracle beyond the power of any human being. God alone can effect this. May he complete his work! May you merit it!”

The bell rang, and we hastily took leave of each other. It was dusk when I left her. She assured me I could make her a similar visit every week, and this prospect made me happy. I was happy to have seen her—happy to feel she could still descend to my level from the holier region she inhabited, and that there was nothing to hinder me from enjoying in the future the sweet intercourse of the past.

But however fully I opened my heart to Livia, I should have considered it profaning the purity of the air I breathed in her presence to utter the name of Faustina Reali. And, without knowing why, neither did I mention the name of Gilbert de Kergy.

XXIV.

Naples at that time was styled by some one “a small capital and a large city,” and this designation was correct. The society, though on a small scale, was of the very highest grade, consisting of an aristocracy exempt from the least haughtiness, and retaining all the habits and manners of bygone times. However frivolous this society might be in appearance, its defects were somewhat redeemed by an originality and lack of affectation which wholly excluded the vexatious and insupportable _ennui_ produced by frivolity and pretension when, as often happens, they are found together. With a few exceptions, devoid of great talents or very profound acquirements, it had wit in abundance, as well as a singular aptitude for seizing and comprehending everything. If to all this we add the most cordial reception and the readiest, warmest welcome, it will at once be seen that those who were admitted to this circle could not help carrying away an ineffaceable remembrance of it.

But the special, characteristic trait which distinguished Naples from every other city, large or small, was, strange to say, and yet true, the utter absence of all gossip, slander, or ridicule. The women unanimously defended one another, and no man, under the penalty of being considered ill‐bred, ever ventured to speak ill of one of their number, unless perhaps by one of those slight movements of the features which constitute, in that country, a language apart—very eloquent, it is true, and perfectly understood by every one, but which never produces the same effect as actual words. It was generally said, and almost always with truth, whenever there was any new gossip in circulation, which sometimes happened, that “no doubt some stranger had a finger in it”! To complete this picture, we will add that there was a circle of ladies in Neapolitan society who fully equalled in beauty and grace the generation before them, which was celebrated in this respect throughout Italy.

It may be affirmed, therefore, without fear of denial on the part of any contemporary, that the general result of all this was to produce a kind of _beau‐ideal_ of gay society.

Among these ladies was one I particularly remarked, and who speedily became my friend. Lorenzo had predicted this the day (afterwards so fatally memorable to me) when for the first time the name of the Contessa Stella di San Giulio met my eyes. To tell the truth, this remembrance at first took away all desire to make her acquaintance. It seemed to me (yielding no doubt to a local superstition) that the day on which I first heard the name of Faustina could bring me no luck. But this prejudice was soon overcome. It was sufficient to see her to feel at once attracted towards her. At first sight, however, there was something imposing in her features and manner, but this impression immediately changed. As soon as she began to converse, her eyes, the pleasing outline of her face, and her whole person, were lit up by an enchanting smile on her half‐open lips—a smile that the pencil of Leonardo da Vinci alone could depict. It is among the women who served as models to this great, incomparable master that a likeness to Stella must be sought. It is by studying the faces of which he has left us the inimitable type we recognize, notwithstanding their smiling expression, a certain firmness and energy which exclude all idea of weakness, nonchalance, or indolence. Stella’s physiognomy, too, expressed courage and patience, and they were predominant traits in her character. She was, however, vivacious, versatile, and so lively as to seem at times to take too light a view of everything; but, when better known, no one could help admiring the rare faculty with which heaven enabled her to bear cheerfully the heavy trials of life, and feeling that her gayety was courage in its most attractive aspect.

Married at eighteen, she had seen this union, with which convenience had more to do than inclination, dissolved at the end of two years: her husband died soon after the birth of her only child. From that time family circumstances obliged her to live with an uncle, who was the guardian of her child, and had, in this capacity, the right to meddle with everything relating to both mother and daughter—a right which his wife, a woman of difficult and imperious temper, likewise arrogated in a manner that would have exhausted the patience of any one else; but Stella’s never failed her. Feeling it important for the future interests of her little Angiolina to accept the condition imposed by her widowhood, she submitted to it courageously without asking if there was any merit in so doing. Her liveliness, which had been so long subdued, returned beneath the smiles of her child, and, as often happens to those who are young, nature gained the ascendency and triumphed over all there was to depress her. Angiolina was now five years old, and was growing up without perceiving the gloomy atmosphere that surrounded the nest of affection and joy in which her mother sheltered her, and the latter found her child so sweet a resource that she no longer seemed to feel anything was wanting in her lot.

This intimacy added much to the happiness of a life which began to please me far beyond my expectations. The gay world, with which I thought myself so completely disgusted, took a new and more subtle aspect in my eyes than that I had so soon become weary of. But in yielding to this charm it seemed to me I was pleasing Lorenzo and seconding his desire to make our house one of the most brilliant in Naples. Nevertheless, he resumed his labors, and passed whole hours in his studio, where he seemed wholly absorbed, as formerly, in his art. I found him there more than anywhere else, as he was before our fatal journey. He had begun again with renewed ardor on his Vestal, which was now nearly completed, and was considered the most perfect work that ever issued from his hands. He attributed the honor of his success to his model, and, though formerly more annoyed than flattered by suffrages of this kind, I now welcomed the compliment as a presage of days like those of former times.

The first time I entered the studio after my return I sought with jealous anxiety some trace of the remembrance that haunted me, and seemed to find it on every hand. In a Sappho whose passionate, tragical expression alone had struck me before, and the Bacchante which seemed at once beautiful and repulsive, I imagined I could trace the features, alas! too perfect not to be graven in the imagination of a sculptor in spite of himself.... I saw them, above all, in a Proserpine, hidden by accident, or on purpose, in an obscure corner of the studio, which struck me as a sudden apparition of her fatal beauty. Finally, I saw them also in the other Vestal, to which the one I sat for was the pendant. It was then only I remembered with pleasure he said when he first began it that _no one before me_ had realized the ideal he was trying to embody.