“You are,” he says, “and ever will be, my first thought.  But, at this moment, I am in a state most dreadful, not knowing which way to decide;—­on the one hand, fearing that I should compromise you for ever, by my return to Ravenna and the consequences of such a step, and, on the other, dreading that I shall lose both you and myself, and all that I have ever known or tasted of happiness, by never seeing you more.  I pray of you, I implore you to be comforted, and to believe that I cannot cease to love you but with my life.” [61] In another part he says, “I go to save you, and leave a country insupportable to me without you.  Your letters to F * * and myself do wrong to my motives—­but you will yet see your injustice.  It is not enough that I must leave you—­from motives of which ere long you will be convinced—­it is not enough that I must fly from Italy, with a heart deeply wounded, after having passed all my days in solitude since your departure, sick both in body and mind—­but I must also have to endure your reproaches without answering and without deserving them.  Farewell! in that one word is comprised the death of my happiness.” [62]

He had now arranged every thing for his departure for England, and had even fixed the day, when accounts reached him from Ravenna that the Contessa was alarmingly ill;—­her sorrow at their separation having so much preyed upon her mind, that even her own family, fearful of the consequences, had withdrawn all opposition to her wishes, and now, with the sanction of Count Guiccioli himself, entreated her lover to hasten to Ravenna.  What was he, in this dilemma, to do?  Already had he announced his coming to different friends in England, and every dictate, he felt, of prudence and manly fortitude urged his departure.  While thus balancing between duty and inclination, the day appointed for his setting out arrived; and the following picture, from the life, of his irresolution on the occasion, is from a letter written by a female friend of Madame Guiccioli, who was present at the scene:—­“He was ready dressed for the journey, his gloves and cap on, and even his little cane in his hand.  Nothing was now waited for but his coming down stairs,—­his boxes being already all on board the gondola.  At this moment, my Lord, by way of pretext, declares, that if it should strike one o’clock before every thing was in order (his arms being the only thing not yet quite ready), he would not go that day.  The hour strikes, and he remains!"[63]

The writer adds, “it is evident he has not the heart to go;” and the result proved that she had not judged him wrongly.  The very next day’s tidings from Ravenna decided his fate, and he himself, in a letter to the Contessa, thus announces the triumph which she had achieved.  “F * * * will already have told you, with her accustomed sublimity, that Love has gained the victory.  I could not summon up resolution enough to leave the country where you are, without, at least, once more seeing you.