Francesca Carrara/Chapter 41
CHAPTER XIV.
"Within the mirror of the past,
How sadly fair arise
The long-lost hues of early life,
The stars of Memory's skies."
Charles Swain.
There needed but little preparation for their departure; it is your leave-takings that lengthen out the time—and they had scarcely a living creature to whom they needed say farewell. Guido obtained an audience of Mazarin, who seemed surprised, and even vexed, when he heard that they were about to cross the channel.
"What will you do among those puritanical islanders, who hold pictures to be an abomination, and statues idolatry? The very sight of their white-washed churches will put your genius to flight, which, in the attempt to escape, will be lost in their fogs."
Guido half smiled, half sighed, as he urged the important family business which enforced their absence. The Cardinal then asked for Francesca, and the sudden gloom of his countenance showed that Madame de Mercœur's loss was still keenly remembered. He then added a few general offers of service, but offered as if he would be glad if they were accepted; and when Guido knelt for his parting benediction, it was given with a warmth and sincerity not often used by the apathetic and haughty minister.
But they were of his own country—were associated with the image of the dearest of his own family—dearer, because lost for ever. He was interested in their genuine, yet refined simplicity; and, moreover, the most worn and worldly natures vindicate their humanity by occasional preferences and motiveless likings. True, they are transitory, and soon both controlled and forgotten; but their very existence is evidence that the kindly feeling which clings to its race never wholly abandons even the most seemingly hardened and indifferent.
To Bournonville the whole history was revealed. They owed confidence to his friendship; but Francesca was at once chilled, mortified, and amused, by the warmth of his congratulations. It is a penance inflicted on all sensitive tempers by their more common-toned acquaintance. Her imagination had only dwelt on the renewal of affection—on the happiness of having a parent to look up to, and to love; but Bournonville saw the subject in another point of view, and was never weary of congratulating her on having found out a rich and noble father. Ah! who has not suffered from a similar annoyance, so easily felt, but so difficult to be described! How often have I had my ideal destroyed, my pleasant imaginings checked and debased, by the ill-timed remark that changed their whole bearing! Heaven knows, the observation was true enough; still there are two ways of putting a fact, and one prefers that which lends a little enchantment to the view.
Now that Francesca was about to leave France, she felt a softening of the heart towards Madame de Soissons. Hitherto she had chiefly dwelt on her unkindness and neglect; but absence, like charity, covers a multitude of sins; and the thought now paramount was, that she should see her no more.
She made a thousand excuses for her conduct—she even exaggerated the temptations by which she was surrounded. Her memory went back to the pleasant intercourse of their early days—and memory is a most affectionate faculty; somewhat of tenderness is inseparable from the past, and she earnestly desired to bid her former friend farewell. In this spirit was the following letter written:—
"Dearest Marie,—For at this moment, when my heart is full of our former affection, I can use no other epithet than the one which belongs to that time,—I cannot resist the temptation of writing to bid you farewell. Circumstances, which are too long for detail—perhaps they might not interest you—and which have made a great change in my prospects, induce me to leave France; and Guido and myself are on the point of embarking for England. In all human probability we shall meet no more. It would make me very happy to see you before my departure, to tell you of my future hopes, to offer you my best wishes, to believe that we shall preserve a kindly recollection of each other, and to talk a little of the past. Farewell! That the holy Madonna may have you in her keeping, is the affectionate prayer of "Francesca da Carrara."
This letter obtained no answer. Did we not daily observe them, we could not believe the instances of hard-heartedness evinced in social life—the neglect, the forgetfulness, and the ingratitude. The Comtesse de Soissons read Francesca's letter, and resolved to go that very day and see her; but the same morning the Duc d'Anjou gave a collation—so it was impossible. The next day she was to wait on Madame de Savoie; on the third she was languid, and visitor after visitor came in; and on the fourth, Francesca was gone. Madame de Soissons felt a momentary pang of shame and remorse; but she was to attend the Queen to a ballet that evening. She had not yet decided on her dress; and in half an hour's time Francesca's image was merged in the contemplation involving a decision, whether pale-yellow or lilac ribands would best suit her green dress.
Nothing is so soon lost in a crowd as affection; we are in too great a hurry to attach ourselves to anything or anybody. What bitter knowledge is brought us by experience!—what change is wrought in a few passing years! How do we grow cold, indifferent, and unbelieving—we, who were so affectionate, so eager, so confiding! Perhaps we expect too much from others. Because an individual likes you, from some sudden impulse, from the effect of circumstances which drew both out agreeably, you have no right to rely on the continuance of that feeling; a fresher impulse may counteract it—a newer situation lead it to some one else; and you ought rather to be thankful for even the temporary warmth, than feel disappointed at its cessation.
But though this is what it would be wise to do, it is not what we can do. Mutable as is our nature, it delights in the immutable: and we expect as much constancy as if all time, to say nothing of our own changeableness, had not shewn that ever "the fashion of this world passeth away."
And this alone would be to me the convincing proof of the immortality of the soul, or mind, or whatever is the animating principle of life. Whether it be the shadow cast from a previous existence, or an intuition of one to come, the love of that which lasts is an inherent impulse in our nature. Hence that constancy which is the ideal of love and friendship—that desire of fame which has originated every great effort of genius. Hence, too, that readiness of belief in the rewards and punishments of a future state held put by religion. From the commonest flower treasured, because its perfume out lives its beauty, to our noblest achievements where the mind puts forth all its power, we are prompted by that future which absorbs the present. The more we feel that we are finite, the more do we cling to the infinite.