Bernardo and Annunciata, and about Lara, who became inexpressibly dear to her.  I also endeavoured to make her reconsider her decision to take the veil and immure herself for life; but her whole education and inclination tended towards that goal.  At last the day itself came—­a day of great solemnity and state.  Flaminia was dead and buried—­and Elizabeth the nun, the bride of Heaven, arose from the bier!

V.—­The Sorrowful Wayfarer

In my sadness of heart I thought of my childhood and old Domenica, whom I had not seen for many months.  I went out to the Campagna.  Domenica had died six months back!  When I returned I was seized by a violent fever, from which I recovered but slowly.  It was six months after Flaminia had taken the veil that the doctor allowed me to go out.

My first walk was to the grey convent where she now passed her monotonous days.  Every evening I returned, and often I stood gazing at her prison and thinking of Flaminia as I used to know her.  One evening Fabiani found me thus, and made me follow him home.  He spoke to me with unusual solemnity in his voice, but with great kindness.  I was ill.  Travelling, change of scene, would do me good.  I was to move about for a year, and then return to show what the world had made of me.

I went to Venice.  Dreary, sad and quiet seemed to me the Queen of the Adriatic.  In the gently swaying gondola I thought with bitterness of Annunciata.  I felt a grudge even against innocent, pious Flaminia, who preferred the convent to my strong, brotherly love.  Then my thoughts floated between Lara, the image of beauty, and Santa, the daughter of sin.

One day I took a boat to the Lido to breathe the fresh air of the sea.  On the beach I came across Poggio, a young Venetian nobleman with whom I had made friends; and as a storm hung threatening in the sky I decided to accept his invitation for dinner.  We watched the fury of the storm from the window, and then joined a crowd of women and children anxiously watching a fishing boat out at sea.  Before our very eyes the boat was swallowed by the waves, and with aching hearts we witnessed the prayers, shrieks, and despair of the anxious watchers whose husbands and fathers perished thus within their sight.

Next evening there was a reception at my banker’s.  The storm became a topic of conversation; and Poggio related the death of the fishermen, trying to enlist sympathy for the poor survivors.  But nobody seemed to understand his intention.  Then I was asked to improvise.  I was quickly determined.  “I know of an emotion,” I exclaimed, “which awakens supreme happiness in everybody, and I have the power of exciting it in every heart.  But this art cannot be given, it must be purchased.  He who gives most will be most deeply initiated.”  Money and jewels were quickly forthcoming; and I began to sing of the proud sea and the bold mariners and fishermen.  I described what I had seen; and my art succeeded where Poggio’s words had failed.  A tumult of applause arose.  A young lady sank at my feet, seized my hand, and with her beautiful, tear-filled eyes gave me a look of intense gratitude, which agitated me in strange fashion.  Then she withdrew as if in horror at what she had done.