The Diary of an Ennuyee Part 17

I agree with ---- who has just left me, that nothing can be more animating and improving than the conversation of intelligent and clever men, and that lady-society is in general very _fade_ and tiresome: and yet I truly believe that no woman can devote herself exclusively to the society of men without losing some of the best and sweetest characteristics of her s.e.x. The conversation of men of the world and men of gallantry, gives insensibly a taint to the mind; the unceasing language of adulation and admiration intoxicates the head and perverts the heart; the habit of _tete-a-tetes_, the habit of being always either the sole or the princ.i.p.al object of attention, of mingling in no conversation which is not personal, narrows the disposition, weakens the mind, and renders it incapable of rising to general views or principles; while it so excites the senses and the imagination, that every thing else becomes in comparison stale, flat, and unprofitable. The life of a coquette is very like that of a drunkard or an opium eater, and its end is the same--the utter extinction of intellect, of cheerfulness, of generous feeling, and of self-respect.

_St. Michel, Monday._--I know not why I open my book, or why I should keep accounts of times and places. I saw nothing of Turin but what I beheld from my window: and as soon as I could travel we set off, crossed Mount Cenis in a storm, slept at Lans-le-bourg, and reached this place yesterday, where I am again ill, and worse--worse than ever.

Is it not strange that while life is thus rapidly wasting, I should still be so strong to suffer? the pang, the agony is not less acute at this moment, than when, fifteen months ago, the poignard was driven to my heart. The cup, though I have nearly drained it to the last, is not less bitter now than when first presented to my lips. But this is not well; why indeed should I repine? mine was but a common fate--like a true woman, I did but stake my all of happiness upon one cast--and lost!

_Lyons, 19th._--Good G.o.d! for what purpose do we feel! why within our limited sphere of action, our short and imperfect existence have we such boundless capacity for enjoying and suffering? no doubt for some good purpose. But I cannot think as I used to think: my ideas are perplexed: it is all pain of heart and confusion of mind; a sense of bitterness, and wrong, and sorrow, which I cannot express, nor yet quite _suppress_. If the cloud would but clear away that I might feel and see to do what is right! but all is dark, and heavy, and vacant; my mind is dull, and my eyes are dim, and I am scarce conscious of any thing around me.

A few days pa.s.sed here in quiet, and kind Dr. P** have revived me a little.

All the way from Turin I have slept almost constantly, if that can be called _sleep_, which was rather the stupor of exhaustion, and left me still sensible of what was pa.s.sing round me. I heard voices, though I knew not what they said; and I felt myself moved from place to place though I neither knew nor cared whither.

All that I have seen and heard, all that I have felt and suffered, since I left Italy, recalls to my mind that delightful country. I should regret what I have left behind, had I not outlived all regrets--but one--for there, though

I vainly sought from outward forms to win The pa.s.sion and the life whose fountains are within;

all feeling was not yet worn out of my heart: I was not then blinded nor stupified by sorrow and weakness as I have been since.

There are some places we remember with pleasure, because we have been happy there; others, because endeared to us as the residence of friends. We love our country because it is _our country_; our home because it is _home_: London or Paris we may prefer, as comprehending in themselves, all the intellectual pleasures, and luxuries of life: but, dear Italy!--we love it, simply for its own sake: not as in general we are attached to places and things, but as we love a friend, and the face of a friend; there it was "_luxury to be_,"--there I would willingly have died, if so it might have pleased G.o.d.

Till this evening we have not seen a gleam of suns.h.i.+ne, nor a glimpse of the blue sky, since we crossed Mount Cenis. We entered Lyons during a small drizzling rain. The dirty streets, the black gloomy-looking house, the smoking manufactories, and busy looks of the people, made me think of Florence and Genoa, and their "fair white walls" and princely domes; and when in the evening I heard the whining organ which some wretched Savoyard was grinding near us, I remembered even with emotion the delightful voices I heard singing "_Di piacer mi balza il cor_" under my balcony at Turin--my last recollection of Italy: and to-night, when they opened the window to give me air, I felt, on recovering, the cold chill of the night breeze; and as I s.h.i.+vered, and shrunk away from it, I remembered the delicious and genial softness of our Italian evenings--

22.--No letters from England.

Now that it is past, I may confess, that till now, a faint--a very faint hope did cling to my heart. I thought it might have been just possible; but it is over now--_all_ is over!

We leave Lyons on Tuesday, and travel by short easy stages; and they think I may still reach Paris. I will hold up--if possible.

Yet if they would but lay me down on the road-side, and leave me to die in quietness! to rest is all I ask.

24.--St. Albin. We arrived here yesterday--

The few sentences which follow are not legible.

Four days after the date of the last paragraph, the writer died at Autun in her 26th year, and was buried in the garden of the Capuchin Monastery, near that city.--EDITOR.

THE END.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: First published in 1826.]

[Footnote B: It must not be forgotten that this was written ten years ago: the aspect of Paris is much changed since then.]

[Footnote C: By Christian Friederich Tieck.]

[Footnote D: "Rousseau, Voltaire, our Gibbon, and De Stael, Leman! those names are worthy of thy sh.o.r.e."

LORD BYRON.]

[Footnote E: The sentence which follows is so blotted as to be illegible.--ED.]

[Footnote F: This was indeed ignorance! (1834.)]

[Footnote G: Hail, O Maria, full of grace! the Lord is with thee!

blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, even JESUS. Holy Virgin Mary, mother of G.o.d! pray for us sinners--both now and in the hour of death! Amen.--ED.]

[Footnote H: The family of the Cenci was a branch of the house of Colonna, now extinct in the direct male line. The last Prince Colonna, left two daughters, co-heiresses, of whom one married the Prince Sciarra, and the other the Prince Barberini. In this manner the portrait of Beatrice Cenci cane into the Barberini family. The authenticity of this interesting picture has been disputed: but last night after hearing the point extremely well contested by two intelligent men, I remained convinced of its authenticity.]

[Footnote I: TRANSLATION, EXTEMPORE.

Love, by my fair one's side is ever seen, He hovers round her steps, where'er she strays, Breathes in her voice, and in her silence speaks, Around her lives, and lends her all his arms.

Love is in every glance--Love taught her song; And if she weep, or scorn contract her brow, Still Love departs not from her, but is seen Even in her lovely anger and her tears.

When, in the mazy dance she glides along Still Love is near to poize each graceful step: So breathes the zephyr o'er the yielding flower.

Love in her brow is throned, plays in her hair, Darts from her eye and glows upon her lip.

But, oh! he never yet approached her heart.]

[Footnote J: Poor Schadow died yesterday. He caught cold the other evening at the Duke of Bracciano's uncomfortable, ostentatious palace, where we heard him complaining of the cold of the Mosaic floors: three days afterwards he was no more. He is universally regretted.--_Author's note._]

[Footnote K: A chasm occurs here of about twenty pages, which in the original MS. are torn out. Nearly the whole of what was written at Naples has suffered mutilation, or has been purposely effaced; so that in many parts only a detached sentence, or a few words, are legible in the course of several pages.--EDITOR.]

[Footnote L: Was the letter addressed 'Alla Sua Excellenza _Seromfridevi_,' which caused so much perplexity at the Post Office and British Museum, and exercised the ac.u.men of a minister of state, from Salvador to his ill.u.s.trious correspondent?]

[Footnote M: Quid times? &c.]

[Footnote N: Wordsworth.]

[Footnote O: Beyond Fondi I remarked among the wild myrtle-covered hills, a wreath of white smoke rise as if from under ground, and I asked the postilion what it meant? He replied with an expressive gesture, "Signora,--i briganti!" I thought this was a mere trick to alarm us; but it was truth: within twenty hours after we had pa.s.sed the spot, a carriage was attacked; and a desperate struggle took place between the banditti and the sentinels, who are placed at regular distances along the road, and within hearing of each other. Several men were killed, but the robbers at length were obliged to fly.]

[Footnote P: It is understood that this beautiful group has since been executed in marble for Sir George Beaumont.--EDITOR.]

[Footnote Q: Written on an old pedestal in the gardens of the Villa Pamfili, yesterday (March 29th).]

[Footnote R: See the admirable and eloquent "Essays on Petrarch, by Ugo Foscolo," which have appeared since this Diary was written--EDITOR.]