ill. God would not lay upon me the burden of having to die before

Alberto. God does not recall those who have a mission upon earth until it is accomplished. This thought so supports me that I feel as if triple strength had been given to me. On the other hand, Caterina, it is necessary that I should leave my home. My father cannot bear me near him. He would willingly have left me at the College, had it not been for regard to public opinion. I have already told you as much. He is an egotist, and indifferent to all human suffering. From morning till night he finds something to complain of in my attire, the furniture of my poor rooms, my friends, the time they stay with me, and what he is pleased to call my 'fatal’ attitude. Every day he wounds me cruelly. He says the most dreadful things to me: that his friends consider me eccentric; that my behaviour is mad; that I am the worst coquette of his acquaintance. How have I wept; how have I writhed; poor victim that I am, eternally held up to martyrdom by the Philistine! I bend my head without attempting to reply to him. I am an obstruction in my own house, Caterina. I have had to make a painful effort in asking Galimberti to discontinue his frequent visits; they were the subject of vulgar, scandalous gossip among the servants, who made a laughing-stock of him. Poor, beloved friend, I have been forced to sacrifice thee to the world; at the very moment when thou hadst need of the consolation of my friendship, just at the moment when the College authorities had, with barbarous injustice, turned thee away! I write to him from time to time, if only not to break off too suddenly. I fear that he is very miserable. I try, in my letters to him, to write the sweetest words that sympathy has ever inspired. Now you see what my father has done for me! The truth is that my presence casts a gloom over his house, where he would fain have mirth and laughter. The truth is that he is younger at forty-two than I am at twenty; that he wishes I were married, so that he may be free of me. The horrible truth is that he, who has been a widower for fifteen years, is waiting for the hour of deliverance, the hour of my marriage, to marry again himself.

“So that all and everything combines to draw me closer to Alberto. In marrying I please my father, I give happiness to my affianced husband, and peace to my conscience. I need not say to you, who know me, that no idea of self-interest influences me. Alberto is much better off than I am; but what are his riches to me? We shall not receive, we shall only keep two horses in our stable, for the invalid’s drives; I shall dress simply in black; mourning for a blighted existence.... We shall have but few servants, having so few wants.... Neither pomp, nor luxury, nor fêtes, nor balls; the state of Alberto’s health does not admit of them. I shall be content if he will give me something for my poor. I shall have to administer our fortune, for he cannot do so. I will bend my neck under this hard, dry, ungrateful yoke; I will drink the last drop in the bitter chalice I have prepared for myself....

“But tell me, Caterina, is not this beautiful? Tell me, my placid critic, if my self-imposed task is not a holy one? Is not my mission sublime? Is not the act I am about to perform all but a divine one? Do I not set the crown on my life, with this motto, which henceforward shall be mine: 'All for others, naught for self?’ Am I not giving to others a fine example of altruism? I will have no praise; I will accomplish it in all humility, as one unworthy, but chosen. Give me your opinion, clearly, sincerely, loyally, as you have ever given it me, in all vital moments of my life. To you I can repeat that none have been more vital than is this one. Write me on a scrap of paper: 'Right, Lucia;’ or only 'Lucia, wrong.’ And return, Caterina, return, to one who loves thee as surely no other friend was ever loved.

“LUCIA.”

The pure sonorous voice of the reader began to give way towards the last, and grew hoarse as if from fatigue. She folded up the transparent sheets, put them back in their envelope, and waited for her husband to speak. Andrea had sipped two glasses of _vermouth_, and left half of a third one; his cigar had gone out once or twice.

“What do you think of it, Nini?” he said at last, as if he were waking out of a trance.

“I? I don’t know; I have no ideas of my own. I never had any.”

“And what are you going to write her?”

“What you tell me.”

“I would have you observe,” he said, coldly, “that the Altimare did not tell you to read her letter to me, or to ask for my advice. She does not mention me.”

“But, you see ...” she began, deprecatingly.

“Yes, I see, and I don’t see. Anyhow, it appears to me to be an unfortunate marriage.”

“To me, too.”

“You are always of my opinion. That Alberto is such a wretched creature, he does not deserve a woman like Lucia.”

“True, I will write her ... that she is doing wrong.”

“Yes. Write to her. She won’t listen to you, but you will have warned her in time. Or rather ... wait until to-morrow to write.”

They said no more about it, but all that evening they were absent and preoccupied. They hardly spoke to each other. They went to the play, but did not stay for the last act. Andrea passed a disturbed night; between sleeping and waking, Caterina could hear him turn from side to side, drawing long breaths and tossing his coverings about. She called out sleepily to ask what was the matter with him.

“It’s the coffee! it was too strong,” he muttered.

Next morning, he took her aside out of her maid’s hearing, and made her the following short discourse:

“Listen, Nini. Don’t let us get entangled in other people’s affairs. We are not infallible, we mustn’t assume responsibilities that are too serious for us. Let the Altimare marry whom she will. She may be happy with Alberto. We have no charge of souls. We might give her bad advice. After all, no one can tell how a marriage may turn out. Write that it’s all right.”

She obeyed, for her whole business in life was to believe in the worth and wisdom of her husband.