severe, even to me. A total disbelief in the goodness and in the principles of women took the place of his former indulgence and kindness. He took orders as a priest, and in a few months his great talents, his fiery enthusiasm, and indomitable will made him recognised as one of the most promising young ecclesiastics of the Court of Rome. He became absorbed in politics. One of his favourite dreams was, to make use of the influence of Austria to deepen and extend the Papal power. He became personally ambitious; he seemed pleased at the promise of my beauty, and would talk a good deal of the necessity of a Colonna making a great alliance. It was about this time that his intercourse with political characters introduced him to the Austrian minister at Rome, the Count Rabenfels. He brought him to our house. Count Rabenfels was struck with my appearance, and, though thirty years my senior, did not hesitate to make proposals for me to my parents. My father and mother were pleased with my brilliant prospects. However unworldly for themselves, parents are often worldly for their children; but they left the decision to me. To me it seemed impossible, for the simple reason that to make any change in the life I had led hitherto, appeared out of the question. No other objection entered my head.
“I was free and light-hearted as a child. The manners, the appearance, the conversation of Count Rabenfels were all in his favour. He was so much in love that he entirely waived the question of dowry. He was so enormously rich that the few thousand scudi of a Roman girl’s portion was immaterial to him. I do not know how far these advantages would have influenced my father alone, but when backed by my brother they became irresistible. His strong and pertinacious support of the alliance imposed it on my parents as a duty. He assured them that I myself would be grateful for having it enforced upon me. He said that my ignorance and inexperience were the only motives of my opposition. He talked to me, and as, after all, my objections were to the marriage and not to the bridegroom, it was not difficult to overrule them. I consented with some girlish reluctance and some girlish pleasure in the very natural gratification of giving pleasure to others. All were delighted; and I received as my reward the most submissive and flattering homage from the stately and dignified man, who was certainly then the most powerful personage at Rome. All my young friends envied me, and vied with each other in assuring me I was the happiest girl in the world. I was bewildered by the rapidity of the preparations for my marriage, and kept in a constant state of excitement. My brother never left me; he was kinder to me than ever. There was but one dissentient voice—that of an aunt—a sister of my father’s, the abbess of the Convent of ‘Le Vive Sepolte’ in Rome.
“I was taken to receive her blessing, as was usual once a year, but the time was anticipated for this purpose on account of my marriage. She saw me alone. For some time she was silent. She looked at me fixedly.
“‘What capacities for enjoyment,’ she said, ‘are here! and also what capacities for suffering! Child! is it too late to retract?’
“‘I am to be married the day after to-morrow, dear aunt,’ I replied; ‘but why retract? Everyone is pleased, and I am happy.’
“‘Are you happy only because they are pleased?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Then you marry a man you do not love—poor, poor Santa!’
“I do not know what there was in her voice and in her look, but I felt the blood rise slowly to my forehead and a suffocating sensation swelled at my heart. In that oratory, vowed to penance, mortification and prayer, and by that austere woman, emaciated and worn down by fasts and vigils, the first veil was lifted which, till then, had concealed the mysteries of my being. The great needs of my nature rose apparent. I was psychologised as it were. I saw unutterable things—I heard unspeakable words; dimly the beatitude of love was made manifest. It was but for a moment. I was still kneeling on the cushion at my aunt’s feet. She leant forward in her high carved oak chair, holding my hands and looking into my face. Deep under her brows gleamed her dark eyes, piercing yet sad. The story of a repressed life could be read there. A restless eagerness lay coiled in their depths; but round the pale, discoloured lips there was a great sweetness and repose, and the forehead though very wan was majestic in its calm. There might still be struggle and regret, but she had overcome. I did not at once analyse all this, but the impression made on me I shall never forget. I afterwards learnt, by a bitter experience, to account for and understand, the fierce, unsatisfied longing which was the Promethean torture of this wasted life,—that hunger and thirst for human love to which some are condemned.
“‘Poor child,’ she at last said, ‘what a fate!’
“‘But indeed I shall be happy,’ I replied; and I looked round the room as if I would have said, ‘You can scarcely judge here.’
“She smiled mournfully.
“‘Santa! there are “Vive Sepolte” in the world as well as in the cloister. My youth, womanhood and age have been passed here. What I have suffered, God alone knows; and yet, at the very time when I suffered most, I knew there were griefs I should have found harder to bear. I have thought so much on this very subject—a woman’s destiny. I have written many pages on it. When I am dead they shall be sent to you.’[1]
“‘But now, my dear child, I must give you my gift, too.’ She went to a small carved cabinet, and took out of it an old-fashioned ornament. It was a cross, anchor, and heart; but instead of the hackneyed motto of Love, Faith and Hope, inscribed on it in pearls, sapphires,- ↑ I received a packet some years afterwards. I showed it to a celebrated French author, and it was published. It contains the most masterly and lucid exposition of woman’s nature, position, and mission, considered physiologically, morally, and intellectually. There was too much boldness in it, in some respects;—too much hardness and severity in others. Still it was admirable; but written in too dry a style to become popular.—I. B.
