own life?”
“My life,” Marianna replied, “is no more than the life of ivy on a wall. And as for the story of my heart, you must think me as devoid of pride as of modesty if you ask me to tell you that, after what you have just heard.”
“And from whom should I ask to hear it?” cried the count, passion already dimming his wits.
“From yourself,” Marianna replied. “Either you have already understood me, or you will never do so. Try asking yourself.”
“I shall, but you must hear me out. This hand which I take in mine—leave it there as long as you recognize my version as the truth.”
“I’m listening,” Marianna said.
“A woman’s life begins with her first passion,” Andrea said, “and my dear Marianna’s began only on the day she saw Paolo Gambara for the first time; she required a true passion to relish, and above all some interesting weakness to protect and support. The fine feminine organization with which she is endowed is less drawn to love, perhaps, than to maternity. You sigh, Marianna? I have touched one of your heart’s living wounds. What a fine role it was for you to play, young as you were, that of the guardian of a fine mind gone astray. You told yourself: Paolo will be my genius, I shall be his reason, and together we shall compose that semidivine being known as an angel, a sublime creature who delights and comprehends, in whom virtue and wisdom never stifle love. Then, in the first bloom of youth, you heard the myriad voices of nature which the poet sought to reproduce. Great was your enthusiasm when Paolo spread before you all the treasures of poetry while seeking their formula in the sublime but limited language of music, and you admired him even as a delirious exaltation carried him far away from you, for you wanted to believe that all this errant energy would eventually be returned to love. You knew nothing of the jealous tyranny thought exerts over minds obsessed with it. Gambara had surrendered himself, before ever knowing you, to that proud and vindictive mistress against whom you have vainly struggled to this very day. For one moment you glimpsed happiness: fallen from the heights where his mind continually soared, Paolo was amazed to find reality so sweet, and you supposed that his obsession would relax its grip in love’s arms. But soon music and the idea of music reclaimed its victim. The dazzling mirage which had suddenly transported you amid the joys of mutual passion darkened the solitary path you were now condemned to follow. In the account your husband has just given, as in the striking contrast between your features and his, I have glimpsed the secret anguish of your life, the painful mysteries of this ill-matched union in which you have received the sufferer’s share. If your conduct was always heroic, if your energy never flagged in the exercise of your arduous duties, perhaps in the silence of your solitary nights, that heart whose rhythm echoed so desperately in your breast protested more than once! Your cruelest torment was your husband’s very greatness: had he been less noble, less pure, you might have abandoned him; but his virtues sustained your own. Between your heroism and his, you wondered who would be the last to yield. You pursued the true greatness of your task, as Paolo Gambara pursued his chimera. If love of duty alone had sustained and guided you, perhaps triumph would have seemed easier; it would have sufficed to stifle your heart and to transport your life into the world of abstractions, religion would have absorbed the rest, and you would have lived within an idea, the way holy women extinguish nature’s instincts at the foot of the altar. But the charm that suffused your Paolo’s entire person, the elevation of his mind, the rare and touching evidences of his tenderness continually cast you out of this ideal world where virtue sought to keep you, arousing forces ceaselessly exhausted by the struggle against love’s phantom. And still
“My life,” Marianna replied, “is no more than the life of ivy on a wall. And as for the story of my heart, you must think me as devoid of pride as of modesty if you ask me to tell you that, after what you have just heard.”
“And from whom should I ask to hear it?” cried the count, passion already dimming his wits.
“From yourself,” Marianna replied. “Either you have already understood me, or you will never do so. Try asking yourself.”
“I shall, but you must hear me out. This hand which I take in mine—leave it there as long as you recognize my version as the truth.”
“I’m listening,” Marianna said.
“A woman’s life begins with her first passion,” Andrea said, “and my dear Marianna’s began only on the day she saw Paolo Gambara for the first time; she required a true passion to relish, and above all some interesting weakness to protect and support. The fine feminine organization with which she is endowed is less drawn to love, perhaps, than to maternity. You sigh, Marianna? I have touched one of your heart’s living wounds. What a fine role it was for you to play, young as you were, that of the guardian of a fine mind gone astray. You told yourself: Paolo will be my genius, I shall be his reason, and together we shall compose that semidivine being known as an angel, a sublime creature who delights and comprehends, in whom virtue and wisdom never stifle love. Then, in the first bloom of youth, you heard the myriad voices of nature which the poet sought to reproduce. Great was your enthusiasm when Paolo spread before you all the treasures of poetry while seeking their formula in the sublime but limited language of music, and you admired him even as a delirious exaltation carried him far away from you, for you wanted to believe that all this errant energy would eventually be returned to love. You knew nothing of the jealous tyranny thought exerts over minds obsessed with it. Gambara had surrendered himself, before ever knowing you, to that proud and vindictive mistress against whom you have vainly struggled to this very day. For one moment you glimpsed happiness: fallen from the heights where his mind continually soared, Paolo was amazed to find reality so sweet, and you supposed that his obsession would relax its grip in love’s arms. But soon music and the idea of music reclaimed its victim. The dazzling mirage which had suddenly transported you amid the joys of mutual passion darkened the solitary path you were now condemned to follow. In the account your husband has just given, as in the striking contrast between your features and his, I have glimpsed the secret anguish of your life, the painful mysteries of this ill-matched union in which you have received the sufferer’s share. If your conduct was always heroic, if your energy never flagged in the exercise of your arduous duties, perhaps in the silence of your solitary nights, that heart whose rhythm echoed so desperately in your breast protested more than once! Your cruelest torment was your husband’s very greatness: had he been less noble, less pure, you might have abandoned him; but his virtues sustained your own. Between your heroism and his, you wondered who would be the last to yield. You pursued the true greatness of your task, as Paolo Gambara pursued his chimera. If love of duty alone had sustained and guided you, perhaps triumph would have seemed easier; it would have sufficed to stifle your heart and to transport your life into the world of abstractions, religion would have absorbed the rest, and you would have lived within an idea, the way holy women extinguish nature’s instincts at the foot of the altar. But the charm that suffused your Paolo’s entire person, the elevation of his mind, the rare and touching evidences of his tenderness continually cast you out of this ideal world where virtue sought to keep you, arousing forces ceaselessly exhausted by the struggle against love’s phantom. And still
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