November 27.—She is here, she has become kind to me now, only kind and gentle; I am no longer afraid of her love. I have been ill again, and she has taken care of me, she has taken me away from this horrible Giudecca. I look out on a great garden, in which I can forget there is any water in Venice; I am near the land and I see nothing but trees. The house is full of pictures, beautiful old Venetian things; it is like living in another century, yet in the midst of a comfort which rests me. I am no longer afraid of her love; I seem to have become a child, and her love is maternal. When I look at her I can see her face as it was, as it is, without a scar; I see that she is beautiful. If I get well again I will never leave her.
December 12.—There is a phrase of Balzac which turns over and over in my head. It is in the story called 'Sur Catherine de Médicis,' and he is speaking of the Calvinist martyr, who is recovering after being tortured. 'On ne saurait croire' says Balzac, 'à quel point un homme, seul dans son lit et malade, devient personnel.' Since I have been lying in bed, in this queer fever which keeps me shaking and hot (some Venetian chill which has got into my very bones), I have had so singularly little feeling of personality, I seem to have become so suddenly impersonal, that I wonder if Balzac was right. The world, ideas, sensations, all are fluid, and I flow through them, like a gondola carried along by the current; no, like a weed adrift on it.
The journal ends there, and the writing of the last page is faint and unsteady.
Here I might leave the matter, but I am impelled to mention a circumstance which I always associate in my mind with the tragical situation revealed in poor Luxulyan's journal. A year after it had come into my hands, and while I was still hesitating whether or not to have it printed, I happened to be passing through Rome, where the Eckensteins had gone to live; and a sort of curiosity, I suppose, more than any friendly feeling I had for them, suggested to me that I should call upon them in the palace which they had taken in the Via Giulia. The concierge was not in his loge, and I went up the first flight of broad low marble stairs and rang at the door. It was opened by a servant in livery. 'Is the Baroness von Eckenstein at home?' I asked; and as the man remained silent, I added, 'Will you send in my card?' He still stared at me without replying, and I repeated my question. At last he said: 'Madame la Baronne died the day before yesterday. She was buried this morning.'
I can hardly say that I was profoundly grieved, but the suddenness of the announcement struck me with a kind of astonishment. I inquired for the Baron; he was in, and I was taken through one after another of the vast marble rooms which, in Roman palaces, lead to the reception-room. Every room was crowded with pictures, statues, rare Eastern vases, tables and cases of bibelots, exotic plants, a profusion of showy things brought together from the ends of the world. The Baron received me with almost more than his usual ceremony. His face wore an expression of correct melancholy, he spoke in a subdued and slightly mournful voice. He told me that his beloved wife had succumbed to a protracted illness, that she had suffered greatly, but, at the end, through the skilful aid of the best surgeons in Europe, she had passed into a state of somnolency, so that her death had been almost unconscious. He raised his eyes with an air of pious resignation, and said that he thanked God for having taken to himself so admirable, so perfect a being, whose loss, indeed, must leave him inconsolable for the rest of his life on earth. He spoke in measured syllables, and always in the same precise and mournful tone. I found myself unconsciously echoing his voice and reflecting his manner, and it seemed to me as if we were both playing in a comedy, and repeating words which we had learnt by heart. I went through my part mechanically, and left him. When I found myself in the street I dismissed the cab which was waiting to take me to the Vatican. I wanted to walk. I do not know why I felt a cold shiver run through me, for the sky was cloudless, and it was the month of June.
Transcriber's Notes:
- hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in the original (other than as listed below)
Page 35, 'Lavengro" took my thoughts ==> 'Lavengro' took my thoughts
Page 37, trembled with ecstacy ==> trembled with ecstasy
Page 60, immensly, and especially ==> immensely, and especially
Page 93, mortages left just enough ==> mortgages left just enough
Page 116, in an ecstacy ==> in an ecstasy
Page 129, a little pale and she ==> a little pale, and she
Page 162, these confectionaries. ==> these confectionaries.'
Page 196, Arlesian women one was ==> Arlesian women: one was
Page 209, Allee des Tombeaux ==> Allée des Tombeaux
Page 214, grown up, like Peter? ==> grown up, like Peter?'
Page 229, divine will aright?' ==> divine will aright?
Page 259, But what if only ==> but what if only
Page 261, which is insensative ==> which is insensitive
Page 262, artifically attached ==> artificially attached
Page 275, in whose pyschology ==> in whose psychology
Page 288, first of her chilhood ==> first of her childhood
Page 291, agony as the vitrol ==> agony as the vitriol