and carbuncles, were the words—Volere, Sapere, Ardire, To will, to know, to dare. She clasped it on my arm, and then kissed my forehead and lips. ‘I bless you, my child; remember my one counsel to you, is—Be true. All else is scarcely in our power—passions, temptations, circumstances, may overcome us; but there is one thing in the power of all—Truth.’ She again looked me steadfastly in the face, and murmured: ‘Both the shadow and the light—both the curse and the blessing are there. What a sensitive mouth, what a firm forehead! the eyes, too, are of that royal shape which contain so many tears.’[1] I never saw her again.
“I married. I had not been married three months, and was still surprised and confused by my new duties, when I lost my mother. She died happily, with her hand in mine, thinking she left me safely sheltered and protected. My father survived her but a week; they had been married thirty years. Her life was the mainspring of his; without her the machine stopped.
“It was while suffering from the sorrow of these bereavements that I began to awake to the cold, selfish character of my husband. At first he was politely sympathetic, but soon my continued dejection bored him. My brother was appealed to. He would come occasionally and preach resignation to me. I was disappointed in him also. I began to realise the hardness of his character. His views of life and the world jarred upon me. He and my husband talked in a manner that was entirely incomprehensible to me. All private ties or duties were ignored. Life was to be used for public and political purposes only; state intrigues were the aim of existence—expediency its principle. A dreadful loneliness seemed to grow around me. I began to feel like the child whose fairy gifts all withered in her grasp. A husband, a brother, a gay and brilliant circle of which I was the centre,—and yet I was alone.
“We went to Vienna about eighteen months after my marriage. I was nearly nineteen and in the bloom of such beauty as I possessed. My Italian face pleased. My manners were more impulsive and animated than was the conventional mode at Court, and I became the fashion. My husband was enchanted at the admiration I received, childishly so, as it seemed to me. It mortified me that he should seem to value me more, because others appreciated his choice. How much I had to learn!
“I used to rise early, and till our late breakfast read with avidity all which fell into my way. Music I was a proficient in, but books were a new treasure. I rarely saw my husband alone. He was engaged with his letters and despatches, and our conversation was usually monosyllabic. There was something arid and monotonous in this way of life. Sometimes a poem, a song, a picture would rouse me from my lethargy, and I had a brief vision of what life might be—but it was transitory. I would look at my bracelet and wonder at its signification.
“‘How can women will, know, and dare?’ I would ask myself.
“I was as bandaged in mind as our Italian babes are in body; my perceptions were left free—but all my other faculties were dormant.
“I was a great favourite in the circle in which I moved. The highest personage in it looked upon me with a favour which placed me high in the admiration of all.
“One day, my husband informed me he was obliged to return to Rome. To my infinite surprise he said I was to remain at Vienna with his sister.
“‘Impossible, Ferdinand! I beseech you to let me go with you.’ (I had still a childish regard and confidence in him.)
“‘It is impossible, mon enfant,’ he said. ‘I go for a very short time—it will be more convenient for me to live en garçon while at Rome. There, there, never mind; you must amuse yourself as much as you can here. Your poor husband has the cares of life, you see, but he leaves you its joys.’
“I looked steadfastly in my husband’s face.
“There was an expression of irony he could not control! I must say he had not much of the hypocrite about him. I do not know whether he read incipient rebellion in my eyes; for he assumed a stern look, and said:
“‘It is my wish, Santa, that you remain,’ and left the room.
“I was too timid to follow him, but my heart swelled as if it would burst. I had a vague sense of wrong, and yet what had I to complain of? I felt I must appear unreasonable and exacting.
“I did not again see my husband till that evening at Court. The Emperor was even more gracious than usual. He spoke to me of Rome, mentioned his intention of going to Venice and Milan, in short I saw I was more than usually distinguished by him this evening. I read it in the countenances around. I read it still more distinctly in my husband’s face, as our eyes met, after a pause in my conversation with my sovereign. His eyes flashed with conscious pride, and rested on me, with a delight he could not conceal. Still when we retired, and he led me to the carriage, there was the same expression of irony on his face, that I had seen in the morning. The clever man of the world was, however, too clever. He did not understand the innocence and guilelessness of my nature. He thought my womanly vanity had been pleased at the homage I had received, and that I had already forgotten my wish of the morning. When we reached home, he said:
“‘I will now take leave of you. I go so early to-morrow that I should not like to disturb you.’
“‘Ferdinand, I entreat you to take me with you. I do not like being left alone.’
“‘Alone, when you are surrounded by friends and admirers! You had quite a triumph to-night.’
“‘I care for no triumph, but to please you. Let me go with you.’
“‘How beautiful you are!’ he said admiringly, ‘there is a power of expression in your countenance I have seen in no other—but you must be very prudent.’
“He took my arm: on it I wore my aunt’s bracelet.
- ↑ Chateaubriand.
