I shall never forget what you said to me once, when first I knew you; it was in Florence, and we were leaning out of window in my room.  I remember it the better because it was during this conversation that I ventured to put my arm round your waist for the first time.

“Now I call this pleasant!” you said.  “Here am I looking out of window with a nice girl’s arm round my waist, and right away from my mother.  She doesn’t even know where I am!”

I loved my mother so much that this shocked me extremely, and I told you so.  You flushed, I remember, and cried:—­

“Oh, but you don’t know what my life is!  You don’t know what it is to long with all your might to get away from somebody, somebody who has hung over you ever since you were born, so that she seemed to stand between you and the very air you breathed.”  And then you told me about your marriage; how, in order to be free from her, you took the husband, rich and infamous, into whose arms she threw you in your innocence; how, at the end of a few months, you returned home doubly a slave, to be crushed, year in, year out, by love that showed itself almost as hate; bound now in such a way that if any other love were offered you, you could not take it.

And how old are you now?  Twenty-four.  Still her puppet, her doll, for that is what you are; she dresses and undresses you from morning till night, then struts up and down the streets of Europe, showing her pretty plaything.  You say she has no thought but you, loves you so much that it would break her heart if you left her.  Look here, Constance:  you knew my mother; you know then what it means to live nobly and truly in the light of a greater goodness than the world yet understands.  God, or whoever made you, made your soul very white; how dare you let the smuts fall upon it?  How dare you tread among falsehoods, you that have heard of Truth?

Try, my dearest, try to be brave; surely it is the duty of each one of us to live the noblest life he can.  The world is so beautiful!  It is only ourselves and our mistakes that lie foul upon it.  When the most holy of human ties, defying nature, becomes the bane of those it binds, it is better to break it than to let one’s life cast a daily blot, as it were, on the sanctity of motherhood and the love of the child.

Come to me; live with me in peace awhile!  We will think and read together, master ourselves, and find some path to tread.  I, too, am in need of resolution.  Whilst my dear mother lived, she held me by the hand.  You know how, when two walk together, the weaker unconsciously leaves it to the stronger to lead the way?  Well, so it was with me; and now I must learn to find my path alone.  I know now what she meant when she said that the first use to which a man must put his courage is to being himself.

All good be with you, dear heart.

Emilia.

LETTER V.