schemes you dream up. I observe that your health suffers from occupations that involve you in too intense meditation. Moreover, I see that the fruit of such labour must be very slight, for the interest of the world will be short, and the dissension, malignity and envy of the literati may cause you grave anxiety. My son, if you must consume yourself, let it be for things that bear real fruit. And what is this real fruit, other than the reward you can expect from the Lord?â Canon, now Bishop, Tosi was still hoping Manzoni would resume his Morale cattolica. Manzoni replied: âSince you have deigned to show some anxiety for the ill effects which the work on which I am at present engaged may produce on my health and my peace of mind, I will admit, as for the first, that the research I am absorbed in is indeed somewhat fatiguing, but I try to combine work and rest so that the former shall cause me no serious indisposition, and indeed for some time, apart from the occasional grey day, I have been keeping quite well. As for literary hostility, I think I can rest assured that the publication of my scribblings will provoke none. Since I trace ideas as carefully as possible and commit them faithfully to paper as I find them, it is true I find myself in opposition to many people, but not in league with any party. . . My lone, dispassionate opinions may seem exravagant or foolish, but not provocative; and the poor author may perhaps inspire scornful pity, but, I hope and think, no anger. â
âI still donât know how Iâll set out, â Fauriel wrote in October. âThey want to embark me with a great Russian gentleman whom I donât know, and who, they say, would be very pleased to take me to Italy, where he is going. I will see him, but I donât think Iâll accept this mode of travel, however convenient it may seem. On the other hand, I have promised two English ladies, who are at present in Switzerland preparing to go on to Italy, to pick them up if I should happen to travel at the same time as them; I donât quite know what detour or delay this promise might involve; in short, itâs not certain whether I will descend, like Hannibal, from Mont Cenis, or, like so many others, from the Simplon. If we discount the Russian, it seems likely that Iâll set out with Fanny. â
Fauriel arrived in Milan, at via del Morone, a month later. The two English ladies were with him, so he had stopped in Switzerland, and probably always intended to do so. The two English ladies took lodgings at the Pension Suisse. They were a mother and daughter called Clarke; with the daughter, Mary Clarke, Fauriel was having an amorous relationship which had begun a few months before Sophie died.
Mary Clarke was then twenty-nine. She was born in London, her mother in Scotland; the mother, a captainâs widow, had settled in France with her two daughters when her husband died. Mary Clarke had brown curly hair, and was small and graceful though very slightly hunch-backed; she was attractive rather than beautiful. She painted; she loved paintings and music, and liked to travel and to meet artists.
This is how the relationship between Mary Clarke and Fauriel had begun; she had written to Fauriel asking him to pose for her; she intended to give the portrait to Augustin Thierry: âYou are more dear to him than anyone, and nothing could please him more. Â She had had a relationship with Augustin Thierry which she wanted to bring to an end. Fauriel wrote agreeing to the proposal; he was not happy about this portrait, because he did not like the idea that his picture should be a farewell present for poor Thierry: âBut if I am to have only one opportunity in my life of obeying you, I shall obey you sadly, but with all my heart.â
Fauriel posed for Mary Clarke, and the portrait was completed; then she left for England and a steady exchange of letters began between them. Mon ange, she wrote to him;
âI still donât know how Iâll set out, â Fauriel wrote in October. âThey want to embark me with a great Russian gentleman whom I donât know, and who, they say, would be very pleased to take me to Italy, where he is going. I will see him, but I donât think Iâll accept this mode of travel, however convenient it may seem. On the other hand, I have promised two English ladies, who are at present in Switzerland preparing to go on to Italy, to pick them up if I should happen to travel at the same time as them; I donât quite know what detour or delay this promise might involve; in short, itâs not certain whether I will descend, like Hannibal, from Mont Cenis, or, like so many others, from the Simplon. If we discount the Russian, it seems likely that Iâll set out with Fanny. â
Fauriel arrived in Milan, at via del Morone, a month later. The two English ladies were with him, so he had stopped in Switzerland, and probably always intended to do so. The two English ladies took lodgings at the Pension Suisse. They were a mother and daughter called Clarke; with the daughter, Mary Clarke, Fauriel was having an amorous relationship which had begun a few months before Sophie died.
Mary Clarke was then twenty-nine. She was born in London, her mother in Scotland; the mother, a captainâs widow, had settled in France with her two daughters when her husband died. Mary Clarke had brown curly hair, and was small and graceful though very slightly hunch-backed; she was attractive rather than beautiful. She painted; she loved paintings and music, and liked to travel and to meet artists.
This is how the relationship between Mary Clarke and Fauriel had begun; she had written to Fauriel asking him to pose for her; she intended to give the portrait to Augustin Thierry: âYou are more dear to him than anyone, and nothing could please him more. Â She had had a relationship with Augustin Thierry which she wanted to bring to an end. Fauriel wrote agreeing to the proposal; he was not happy about this portrait, because he did not like the idea that his picture should be a farewell present for poor Thierry: âBut if I am to have only one opportunity in my life of obeying you, I shall obey you sadly, but with all my heart.â
Fauriel posed for Mary Clarke, and the portrait was completed; then she left for England and a steady exchange of letters began between them. Mon ange, she wrote to him;
Similar Books
