Bettina must have been in despair, not knowing into whose hands her letter had fallen; to return it to her and thus to allay1 her anxiety, was therefore a great proof of friendship; but my generosity2, at the same time that it freed her from a keen sorrow, must have caused her another quite as dreadful, for she knew that I was master of her secret. Cordiani’s letter was perfectly4 explicit5; it gave the strongest evidence that she was in the habit of receiving him every night, and therefore the story she had prepared to deceive me was useless. I felt it was so, and, being disposed to calm her anxiety as far as I could, I went to her bedside in the morning, and I placed in her hands Cordiani’s note and my answer to her letter.
The girl’s spirit and talent had won my esteem6; I could no longer despise her; I saw in her only a poor creature seduced7 by her natural temperament8. She loved man, and was to be pitied only on account of the consequences. Believing that the view I took of the situation was a right one, I had resigned myself like a reasonable being, and not like a disappointed lover. The shame was for her and not for me. I had only one wish, namely, to find out whether the two brothers Feltrini, Cordiani’s companions, had likewise shared Bettina’s favours.
Bettina put on throughout the day a cheerful and happy look. In the evening she dressed herself for the ball; but suddenly an attack of sickness, whether feigned9 or real I did not know, compelled her to go to bed, and frightened everybody in the house. As for myself, knowing the whole affair, I was prepared for new scenes, and indeed for sad ones, for I felt that I had obtained over her a power repugnant to her vanity and self-love. I must, however, confess that, in spite of the excellent school in which I found myself before I had attained10 manhood, and which ought to have given me experience as a shield for the future, I have through the whole of my life been the dupe of women. Twelve years ago, if it had not been for my guardian11 angel, I would have foolishly married a young, thoughtless girl, with whom I had fallen in love: Now that I am seventy-two years old I believe myself no longer susceptible12 of such follies13; but, alas14! that is the very thing which causes me to be miserable15.
The next day the whole family was deeply grieved because the devil of whom Bettina was possessed16 had made himself master of her reason. Doctor Gozzi told me that there could not be the shadow of a doubt that his unfortunate sister was possessed, as, if she had only been mad, she never would have so cruelly ill-treated the Capuchin, Prospero, and he determined17 to place her under the care of Father Mancia.
This Mancia was a celebrated18 Jacobin (or Dominican) exorcist, who enjoyed the reputation of never having failed to cure a girl possessed of the demon19.
Sunday had come; Bettina had made a good dinner, but she had been frantic20 all through the day. Towards midnight her father came home, singing Tasso as usual, and so drunk that he could not stand. He went up to Bettina’s bed, and after kissing her affectionately he said to her: “Thou art not mad, my girl.”
Her answer was that he was not drunk.
“Thou art possessed of the devil, my dear child.”
“Yes, father, and you alone can cure me.”
“Well, I am ready.”
Upon this our shoemaker begins a theological discourse21, expatiating22 upon the power of faith and upon the virtue23 of the paternal24 blessing25. He throws off his cloak, takes a crucifix with one hand, places the other over the head of his daughter, and addresses the devil in such an amusing way that even his wife, always a stupid, dull, cross- grained old woman, had to laugh till the tears came down her cheeks. The two performers in the comedy alone were not laughing, and their serious countenance26 added to the fun of the performance. I marvelled27 at Bettina (who was always ready to enjoy a good laugh) having sufficient control over herself to remain calm and grave. Doctor Gozzi had also given way to merriment; but begged that the farce28 should come to an end, for he deemed that his father’s eccentricities29 were as many profanations against the sacredness of exorcism. At last the exorcist, doubtless tired out, went to bed saying that he was certain that the devil would not disturb his daughter during the night.
On the morrow, just as we had finished our breakfast, Father Mancia made his appearance. Doctor Gozzi, followed by the whole family, escorted him to his sister’s bedside. As for me, I was entirely30 taken up by the face of the monk31. Here is his portrait. His figure was tall and majestic32, his age about thirty; he had light hair and blue eyes; his features were those of Apollo, but without his pride and assuming haughtiness33; his complexion34, dazzling white, was pale, but that paleness seemed to have been given for the very purpose of showing off the red coral of his lips, through which could be seen, when they opened, two rows of pearls. He was neither thin nor stout35, and the habitual36 sadness of his countenance enhanced its sweetness. His gait was slow, his air timid, an indication of the great modesty37 of his mind.
When we entered the room Bettina was asleep, or pretended to be so. Father Mancia took a sprinkler and threw over her a few drops of holy water; she opened her eyes, looked at the monk, and closed them immediately; a little while after she opened them again, had a better look at him, laid herself on her back, let her arms droop38 down gently, and with her head prettily39 bent40 on one side she fell into the sweetest of slumbers41.
The exorcist, standing42 by the bed, took out his pocket ritual and the stole which he put round his neck, then a reliquary, which he placed on the bosom43 of the sleeping girl, and with the air of a saint he begged all of us to fall on our knees and to pray, so that God should let him know whether the patient was possessed or only labouring under a natural disease. He kept us kneeling for half an hour, reading all the time in a low tone of voice. Bettina did not stir.
Tired, I suppose, of the performance, he desired to speak privately44 with Doctor Gozzi. They passed into the next room, out of which they emerged after a quarter of an hour, brought back by a loud peal46 of laughter from the mad girl, who, when she saw them, turned her back on them. Father Mancia smiled, dipped the sprinkler over and over in the holy water, gave us all a generous shower, and took his leave.
Doctor Gozzi told us that the exorcist would come again on the morrow, and that he had promised to deliver Bettina within three hours if she were truly possessed of the demon, but that he made no promise if it should turn out to be a case of madness. The mother exclaimed that he would surely deliver her, and she poured out her thanks to God for having allowed her the grace of beholding47 a saint before her death.
The following day Bettina was in a fine frenzy48. She began to utter the most extravagant49 speeches that a poet could imagine, and did not stop when the charming exorcist came into her room; he seemed to enjoy her foolish talk for a few minutes, after which, having armed himself ‘cap-a-pie’, he begged us to withdraw. His order was obeyed instantly; we left the chamber50, and the door remained open. But what did it matter? Who would have been bold enough to go in?
During three long hours we heard nothing; the stillness was unbroken. At noon the monk called us in. Bettina was there sad and very quiet while the exorcist packed up his things. He took his departure, saying he had very good hopes of the case, and requesting that the doctor would send him news of the patient. Bettina partook of dinner in her bed, got up for supper, and the next day behaved herself rationally; but the following circumstance strengthened my opinion that she had been neither insane nor possessed.
It was two days before the Purification of the Holy Virgin51. Doctor Gozzi was in the habit of giving us the sacrament in his own church, but he always sent us for our confession52 to the church of Saint- Augustin, in which the Jacobins of Padua officiated. At the supper table, he told us to prepare ourselves for the next day, and his mother, addressing us, said: “You ought, all of you, to confess to Father Mancia, so as to obtain absolution from that holy man. I intend to go to him myself.” Cordiani and the two Feltrini agreed to the proposal; I remained silent, but as the idea was unpleasant to me, I concealed53 the feeling, with a full determination to prevent the execution of the project.
I had entire confidence in the secrecy54 of confession, and I was incapable55 of making a false one, but knowing that I had a right to choose my confessor, I most certainly never would have been so simple as to confess to Father Mancia what had taken place between me and a girl, because he would have easily guessed that the girl could be no other but Bettina. Besides, I was satisfied that Cordiani would confess everything to the monk, and I was deeply sorry.
Early the next morning, Bettina brought me a band for my neck, and gave me the following letter: “Spurn me, but respect my honour and the shadow of peace to which I aspire56. No one from this house must confess to Father Mancia; you alone can prevent the execution of that project, and I need not suggest the way to succeed. It will prove whether you have some friendship for me.”
I could not express the pity I felt for the poor girl, as I read that note. In spite of that feeling, this is what I answered: “I can well understand that, notwithstanding the inviolability of confession, your mother’s proposal should cause you great anxiety; but I cannot see why, in order to prevent its execution, you should depend upon me rather than upon Cordiani who has expressed his acceptance of it. All I can promise you is that I will not be one of those who may go to Father Mancia; but I have no influence over your lover; you alone can speak to him.”
She replied: “I have never addressed a word to Cordiani since the fatal night which has sealed my misery57, and I never will speak to him again, even if I could by so doing recover my lost happiness. To you alone I wish to be indebted for my life and for my honour.”
This girl appeared to me more wonderful than all the heroines of whom I had read in novels. It seemed to me that she was making sport of me with the most barefaced58 effrontery59. I thought she was trying to fetter60 me again with her chains; and although I had no inclination61 for them, I made up my mind to render her the service she claimed at my hands, and which she believed I alone could compass. She felt certain of her success, but in what school had she obtained her experience of the human heart? Was it in reading novels? Most likely the reading of a certain class of novels causes the ruin of a great many young girls, but I am of opinion that from good romances they acquire graceful62 manners and a knowledge of society.
Having made up my mind to shew her every kindness in my power, I took an opportunity, as we were undressing for the night, of telling Doctor Gozzi that, for conscientious63 motives64, I could not confess to Father Mancia, and yet that I did not wish to be an exception in that matter. He kindly65 answered that he understood my reasons, and that he would take us all to the church of Saint-Antoine. I kissed his hand in token of my gratitude66.
On the following day, everything having gone according to her wishes, I saw Bettina sit down to the table with a face beaming with satisfaction. In the afternoon I had to go to bed in consequence of a wound in my foot; the doctor accompanied his pupils to church; and Bettina being alone, availed herself of the opportunity, came to my room and sat down on my bed. I had expected her visit, and I received it with pleasure, as it heralded67 an explanation for which I was positively68 longing69.
She began by expressing a hope that I would not be angry with her for seizing the first opportunity she had of some conversation with me.
“No,” I answered, “for you thus afford me an occasion of assuring you that, my feelings towards you being those of a friend only, you need not have any fear of my causing you any anxiety or displeasure. Therefore Bettina, you may do whatever suits you; my love is no more. You have at one blow given the death-stroke to the intense passion which was blossoming in my heart. When I reached my room, after the ill-treatment I had experienced at Cordiani’s hands, I felt for you nothing but hatred70; that feeling soon merged45 into utter contempt, but that sensation itself was in time, when my mind recovered its balance, changed for a feeling of the deepest indifference71, which again has given way when I saw what power there is in your mind. I have now become your friend; I have conceived the greatest esteem for your cleverness. I have been the dupe of it, but no matter; that talent of yours does exist, it is wonderful, divine, I admire it, I love it, and the highest homage72 I can render to it is, in my estimation, to foster for the possessor of it the purest feelings of friendship. Reciprocate73 that friendship, be true, sincere, and plain dealing74. Give up all nonsense, for you have already obtained from me all I can give you. The very thought of love is repugnant to me; I can bestow75 my love only where I feel certain of being the only one loved. You are at liberty to lay my foolish delicacy76 to the account of my youthful age, but I feel so, and I cannot help it. You have written to me that you never speak to Cordiani; if I am the cause of that rupture77 between you, I regret it, and I think that, in the interest of your honour, you would do well to make it up with him; for the future I must be careful never to give him any grounds for umbrage78 or suspicion. Recollect79 also that, if you have tempted80 him by the same manoeuvres which you have employed towards me, you are doubly wrong, for it may be that, if he truly loves you, you have caused him to be miserable.”
“All you have just said to me,” answered Bettina, “is grounded upon false impressions and deceptive81 appearances. I do not love Cordiani, and I never had any love for him; on the contrary, I have felt, and I do feel, for him a hatred which he has richly deserved, and I hope to convince you, in spite of every appearance which seems to convict me. As to the reproach of seduction, I entreat82 you to spare me such an accusation83. On our side, consider that, if you had not yourself thrown temptation in my way, I never would have committed towards you an action of which I have deeply repented84, for reasons which you do not know, but which you must learn from me. The fault I have been guilty of is a serious one only because I did not foresee the injury it would do me in the inexperienced mind of the ingrate85 who dares to reproach me with it.”
Bettina was shedding tears: all she had said was not unlikely and rather complimentary86 to my vanity, but I had seen too much. Besides, I knew the extent of her cleverness, and it was very natural to lend her a wish to deceive me; how could I help thinking that her visit to me was prompted only by her self-love being too deeply wounded to let me enjoy a victory so humiliating to herself? Therefore, unshaken in my preconceived opinion, I told her that I placed implicit87 confidence in all she had just said respecting the state of her heart previous to the playful nonsense which had been the origin of my love for her, and that I promised never in the future to allude88 again to my accusation of seduction. “But,” I continued, “confess that the fire at that time burning in your bosom was only of short duration, and that the slightest breath of wind had been enough to extinguish it. Your virtue, which went astray for only one instant, and which has so suddenly recovered its mastery over your senses, deserves some praise. You, with all your deep adoring love for me, became all at once blind to my sorrow, whatever care I took to make it clear to your sight. It remains89 for me to learn how that virtue could be so very dear to you, at the very time that Cordiani took care to wreck90 it every night.”
Bettina eyed me with the air of triumph which perfect confidence in victory gives to a person, and said: “You have just reached the point where I wished you to be. You shall now be made aware of things which I could not explain before, owing to your refusing the appointment which I then gave you for no other purpose than to tell you all the truth. Cordiani declared his love for me a week after he became an inmate91 in our house; he begged my consent to a marriage, if his father made the demand of my hand as soon as he should have completed his studies. My answer was that I did not know him sufficiently92, that I could form no idea on the subject, and I requested him not to allude to it any more. He appeared to have quietly given up the matter, but soon after, I found out that it was not the case; he begged me one day to come to his room now and then to dress his hair; I told him I had no time to spare, and he remarked that you were more fortunate. I laughed at this reproach, as everyone here knew that I had the care of you. It was a fortnight after my refusal to Cordiani, that I unfortunately spent an hour with you in that loving nonsense which has naturally given you ideas until then unknown to your senses. That hour made me very happy: I loved you, and having given way to very natural desires, I revelled93 in my enjoyment94 without the slightest remorse95 of conscience. I was longing to be again with you the next morning, but after supper, misfortune laid for the first time its hand upon me. Cordiani slipped in my hands this note and this letter which I have since hidden in a hole in the wall, with the intention of shewing them to you at the first opportunity.”
Saying this, Bettina handed me the note and the letter; the first ran as follows: “Admit me this evening in your closet, the door of which, leading to the yard, can be left ajar, or prepare yourself to make the best of it with the doctor, to whom I intend to deliver, if you should refuse my request, the letter of which I enclose a copy.”
The letter contained the statement of a cowardly and enraged96 informer, and would certainly have caused the most unpleasant results. In that letter Cordiani informed the doctor that his sister spent her mornings with me in criminal connection while he was saying his mass, and he pledged himself to enter into particulars which would leave him no doubt.
“After giving to the case the consideration it required,” continued Bettina, “I made up my mind to hear that monster; but my determination being fixed98, I put in my pocket my father’s stilletto, and holding my door ajar I waited for him there, unwilling99 to let him come in, as my closet is divided only by a thin partition from the room of my father, whom the slightest noise might have roused up. My first question to Cordiani was in reference to the slander100 contained in the letter he threatened to deliver to my brother: he answered that it was no slander, for he had been a witness to everything that had taken place in the morning through a hole he had bored in the garret just above your bed, and to which he would apply his eye the moment he knew that I was in your room. He wound up by threatening to discover everything to my brother and to my mother, unless I granted him the same favours I had bestowed101 upon you. In my just indignation I loaded him with the most bitter insults, I called him a cowardly spy and slanderer102, for he could not have seen anything but childish playfulness, and I declared to him that he need not flatter himself that any threat would compel me to give the slightest compliance103 to his wishes. He then begged and begged my pardon a thousand times, and went on assuring me that I must lay to my rigour the odium of the step he had taken, the only excuse for it being in the fervent104 love I had kindled105 in his heart, and which made him miserable. He acknowledged that his letter might be a slander, that he had acted treacherously107, and he pledged his honour never to attempt obtaining from me by violence favours which he desired to merit only by the constancy of his love. I then thought myself to some extent compelled to say that I might love him at some future time, and to promise that I would not again come near your bed during the absence of my brother. In this way I dismissed him satisfied, without his daring to beg for so much as a kiss, but with the promise that we might now and then have some conversation in the same place. As soon as he left me I went to bed, deeply grieved that I could no longer see you in the absence of my brother, and that I was unable, for fear of consequences, to let you know the reason of my change. Three weeks passed off in that position, and I cannot express what have been my sufferings, for you, of course, urged me to come, and I was always under the painful necessity of disappointing you. I even feared to find myself alone with you, for I felt certain that I could not have refrained from telling you the cause of the change in my conduct. To crown my misery, add that I found myself compelled, at least once a week, to receive the vile108 Cordiani outside of my room, and to speak to him, in order to check his impatience109 with a few words. At last, unable to bear up any longer under such misery, threatened likewise by you, I determined to end my agony. I wished to disclose to you all this intrigue110, leaving to you the care of bringing a change for the better, and for that purpose I proposed that you should accompany me to the ball disguised as a girl, although I knew it would enrage97 Cordiani; but my mind was made up. You know how my scheme fell to the ground. The unexpected departure of my brother with my father suggested to both of you the same idea, and it was before receiving Cordiani’s letter that I promised to come to you. Cordiani did not ask for an appointment; he only stated that he would be waiting for me in my closet, and I had no opportunity of telling him that I could not allow him to come, any more than I could find time to let you know that I would be with you only after midnight, as I intended to do, for I reckoned that after an hour’s talk I would dismiss the wretch111 to his room. But my reckoning was wrong; Cordiani had conceived a scheme, and I could not help listening to all he had to say about it. His whining112 and exaggerated complaints had no end. He upbraided113 me for refusing to further the plan he had concocted114, and which he thought I would accept with rapture115 if I loved him. The scheme was for me to elope with him during holy week, and to run away to Ferrara, where he had an uncle who would have given us a kind welcome, and would soon have brought his father to forgive him and to insure our happiness for life. The objections I made, his answers, the details to be entered into, the explanations and the ways and means to be examined to obviate116 the difficulties of the project, took up the whole night. My heart was bleeding as I thought of you; but my conscience is at rest, and I did nothing that could render me unworthy of your esteem. You cannot refuse it to me, unless you believe that the confession I have just made is untrue; but you would be both mistaken and unjust. Had I made up my mind to sacrifice myself and to grant favours which love alone ought to obtain, I might have got rid of the treacherous106 wretch within one hour, but death seemed preferable to such a dreadful expedient118. Could I in any way suppose that you were outside of my door, exposed to the wind and to the snow? Both of us were deserving of pity, but my misery was still greater than yours. All these fearful circumstances were written in the book of fate, to make me lose my reason, which now returns only at intervals119, and I am in constant dread3 of a fresh attack of those awful convulsions. They say I am bewitched, and possessed of the demon; I do not know anything about it, but if it should be true I am the most miserable creature in existence.” Bettina ceased speaking, and burst into a violent storm of tears, sobs120, and groans121. I was deeply moved, although I felt that all she had said might be true, and yet was scarcely worthy117 of belief:
‘Forse era ver, ma non pero credibile
A chi del senso suo fosse signor.’
But she was weeping, and her tears, which at all events were not deceptive, took away from me the faculty122 of doubt. Yet I put her tears to the account of her wounded self-love; to give way entirely I needed a thorough conviction, and to obtain it evidence was necessary, probability was not enough. I could not admit either Cordiani’s moderation or Bettina’s patience, or the fact of seven hours employed in innocent conversation. In spite of all these considerations, I felt a sort of pleasure in accepting for ready cash all the counterfeit123 coins that she had spread out before me.
After drying her tears, Bettina fixed her beautiful eyes upon mine, thinking that she could discern in them evident signs of her victory; but I surprised her much by alluding124 to one point which, with all her cunning, she had neglected to mention in her defence. Rhetoric125 makes use of nature’s secrets in the same way as painters who try to imitate it: their most beautiful work is false. This young girl, whose mind had not been refined by study, aimed at being considered innocent and artless, and she did her best to succeed, but I had seen too good a specimen126 of her cleverness.
“Well, my dear Bettina,” I said, “your story has affected127 me; but how do you think I am going to accept your convulsions as natural, and to believe in the demoniac symptoms which came on so seasonably during the exorcisms, although you very properly expressed your doubts on the matter?”
Hearing this, Bettina stared at me, remaining silent for a few minutes, then casting her eyes down she gave way to fresh tears, exclaiming now and then: “Poor me! oh, poor me!” This situation, however, becoming most painful to me, I asked what I could do for her. She answered in a sad tone that if my heart did not suggest to me what to do, she did not herself see what she could demand of me.
“I thought,” said she, “that I would reconquer my lost influence over your heart, but, I see it too plainly, you no longer feel an interest in me. Go on treating me harshly; go on taking for mere128 fictions sufferings which are but too real, which you have caused, and which you will now increase. Some day, but too late, you will be sorry, and your repentance129 will be bitter indeed.”
As she pronounced these words she rose to take her leave; but judging her capable of anything I felt afraid, and I detained her to say that the only way to regain130 my affection was to remain one month without convulsions and without handsome Father Mancia’s presence being required.
“I cannot help being convulsed,” she answered, “but what do you mean by applying to the Jacobin that epithet131 of handsome? Could you suppose —?”
“Not at all, not at all — I suppose nothing; to do so would be necessary for me to be jealous. But I cannot help saying that the preference given by your devils to the exorcism of that handsome monk over the incantations of the ugly Capuchin is likely to give birth to remarks rather detrimental132 to your honour. Moreover, you are free to do whatever pleases you.”
Thereupon she left my room, and a few minutes later everybody came home.
After supper the servant, without any question on my part, informed me that Bettina had gone to bed with violent feverish133 chills, having previously134 had her bed carried into the kitchen beside her mother’s. This attack of fever might be real, but I had my doubts. I felt certain that she would never make up her mind to be well, for her good health would have supplied me with too strong an argument against her pretended innocence135, even in the case of Cordiani; I likewise considered her idea of having her bed placed near her mother’s nothing but artful contrivance.
The next day Doctor Olivo found her very feverish, and told her brother that she would most likely be excited and delirious136, but that it would be the effect of the fever and not the work of the devil. And truly, Bettina was raving137 all day, but Dr. Gozzi, placing implicit confidence in the physician, would not listen to his mother, and did not send for the Jacobin friar. The fever increased in violence, and on the fourth day the small-pox broke out. Cordiani and the two brothers Feitrini, who had so far escaped that disease, were immediately sent away, but as I had had it before I remained at home.
The poor girl was so fearfully covered with the loathsome139 eruption140, that on the sixth day her skin could not be seen on any part of her body. Her eyes closed, and her life was despaired of, when it was found that her mouth and throat were obstructed141 to such a degree that she could swallow nothing but a few drops of honey. She was perfectly motionless; she breathed and that was all. Her mother never left her bedside, and I was thought a saint when I carried my table and my books into the patient’s room. The unfortunate girl had become a fearful sight to look upon; her head was dreadfully swollen142, the nose could no longer be seen, and much fear was entertained for her eyes, in case her life should be spared. The odour of her perspiration143 was most offensive, but I persisted in keeping my watch by her.
On the ninth day, the vicar gave her absolution, and after administering extreme unction, he left her, as he said, in the hands of God. In the midst of so much sadness, the conversation of the mother with her son, would, in spite of myself, cause me some amount of merriment. The good woman wanted to know whether the demon who was dwelling144 in her child could still influence her to perform extravagant follies, and what would become of the demon in the case of her daughter’s death, for, as she expressed it, she could not think of his being so stupid as to remain in so loathsome a body. She particularly wanted to ascertain145 whether the demon had power to carry off the soul of her child. Doctor Gozzi, who was an ubiquitarian, made to all those questions answers which had not even the shadow of good sense, and which of course had no other effect than to increase a hundred-fold the perplexity of his poor mother.
During the tenth and eleventh days, Bettina was so bad that we thought every moment likely to be her last. The disease had reached its worst period; the smell was unbearable146; I alone would not leave her, so sorely did I pity her. The heart of man is indeed an unfathomable abyss, for, however incredible it may appear, it was while in that fearful state that Bettina inspired me with the fondness which I showed her after her recovery.
On the thirteenth day the fever abated147, but the patient began to experience great irritation148, owing to a dreadful itching149, which no remedy could have allayed150 as effectually as these powerful words which I kept constantly pouring into her ear: “Bettina, you are getting better; but if you dare to scratch yourself, you will become such a fright that nobody will ever love you.” All the physicians in the universe might be challenged to prescribe a more potent151 remedy against itching for a girl who, aware that she has been pretty, finds herself exposed to the loss of her beauty through her own fault, if she scratches herself.
At last her fine eyes opened again to the light of heaven; she was moved to her own room, but she had to keep her bed until Easter. She inoculated152 me with a few pocks, three of which have left upon my face everlasting153 marks; but in her eyes they gave me credit for great devotedness154, for they were a proof of my constant care, and she felt that I indeed deserved her whole love. And she truly loved me, and I returned her love, although I never plucked a flower which fate and prejudice kept in store for a husband. But what a contemptible155 husband!
Two years later she married a shoemaker, by name Pigozzo — a base, arrant156 knave157 who beggared and ill-treated her to such an extent that her brother had to take her home and to provide for her. Fifteen years afterwards, having been appointed arch-priest at Saint-George de la Vallee, he took her there with him, and when I went to pay him a visit eighteen years ago, I found Bettina old, ill, and dying. She breathed her last in my arms in 1776, twenty-four hours after my arrival. I will speak of her death in good time.
About that period, my mother returned from St. Petersburg, where the Empress Anne Iwanowa had not approved of the Italian comedy. The whole of the troop had already returned to Italy, and my mother had travelled with Carlin Bertinazzi, the harlequin, who died in Paris in the year 1783. As soon as she had reached Padua, she informed Doctor Gozzi of her arrival, and he lost no time in accompanying me to the inn where she had put up. We dined with her, and before bidding us adieu, she presented the doctor with a splendid fur, and gave me the skin of a lynx for Bettina. Six months afterwards she summoned me to Venice, as she wished to see me before leaving for Dresden, where she had contracted an engagement for life in the service of the Elector of Saxony, Augustus III., King of Poland. She took with her my brother Jean, then eight years old, who was weeping bitterly when he left; I thought him very foolish, for there was nothing very tragic158 in that departure. He is the only one in the family who was wholly indebted to our mother for his fortune, although he was not her favourite child.
I spent another year in Padua, studying law in which I took the degree of Doctor in my sixteenth year, the subject of my thesis being in the civil law, ‘de testamentis’, and in the canon law, ‘utrum Hebraei possint construere novas synagogas’.
My vocation159 was to study medicine, and to practice it, for I felt a great inclination for that profession, but no heed160 was given to my wishes, and I was compelled to apply myself to the study of the law, for which I had an invincible161 repugnance162. My friends were of opinion that I could not make my fortune in any profession but that of an advocate, and, what is still worse, of an ecclesiastical advocate. If they had given the matter proper consideration, they would have given me leave to follow my own inclinations163, and I would have been a physician — a profession in which quackery164 is of still greater avail than in the legal business. I never became either a physician or an advocate, and I never would apply to a lawyer, when I had any legal business, nor call in a physician when I happened to be ill. Lawsuits165 and pettifoggery may support a good many families, but a greater proportion is ruined by them, and those who perish in the hands, of physicians are more numerous by far than those who get cured strong evidence in my opinion, that mankind would be much less miserable without either lawyers or doctors.
To attend the lectures of the professors, I had to go to the university called the Bo, and it became necessary for me to go out alone. This was a matter of great wonder to me, for until then I had never considered myself a free man; and in my wish to enjoy fully138 the liberty I thought I had just conquered, it was not long before I had made the very worst acquaintances amongst the most renowned166 students. As a matter of course, the most renowned were the most worthless, dissolute fellows, gamblers, frequenters of disorderly houses, hard drinkers, debauchees, tormentors and suborners of honest girls, liars167, and wholly incapable of any good or virtuous168 feeling. In the company of such men did I begin my apprenticeship169 of the world, learning my lesson from the book of experience.
The theory of morals and its usefulness through the life of man can be compared to the advantage derived170 by running over the index of a book before reading it when we have perused171 that index we know nothing but the subject of the work. This is like the school for morals offered by the sermons, the precepts172, and the tales which our instructors173 recite for our especial benefit. We lend our whole attention to those lessons, but when an opportunity offers of profiting by the advice thus bestowed upon us, we feel inclined to ascertain for ourselves whether the result will turn out as predicted; we give way to that very natural inclination, and punishment speedily follows with concomitant repentance. Our only consolation174 lies in the fact that in such moments we are conscious of our own knowledge, and consider ourselves as having earned the right to instruct others; but those to whom we wish to impart our experience act exactly as we have acted before them, and, as a matter of course, the world remains in statu quo, or grows worse and worse.
When Doctor Gozzi granted me the privilege of going out alone, he gave me an opportunity for the discovery of several truths which, until then, were not only unknown to me, but the very existence of which I had never suspected. On my first appearance, the boldest scholars got hold of me and sounded my depth. Finding that I was a thorough freshman175, they undertook my education, and with that worthy purpose in view they allowed me to fall blindly into every trap. They taught me gambling176, won the little I possessed, and then they made me play upon trust, and put me up to dishonest practices in order to procure177 the means of paying my gambling debts; but I acquired at the same time the sad experience of sorrow! Yet these hard lessons proved useful, for they taught me to mistrust the impudent178 sycophants179 who openly flatter their dupes, and never to rely upon the offers made by fawning180 flatterers. They taught me likewise how to behave in the company of quarrelsome duellists, the society of whom ought to be avoided, unless we make up our mind to be constantly in the very teeth of danger. I was not caught in the snares181 of professional lewd182 women, because not one of them was in my eyes as pretty as Bettina, but I did not resist so well the desire for that species of vain glory which is the reward of holding life at a cheap price.
In those days the students in Padua enjoyed very great privileges, which were in reality abuses made legal through prescription183, the primitive184 characteristic of privileges, which differ essentially185 from prerogatives186. In fact, in order to maintain the legality of their privileges, the students often committed crimes. The guilty were dealt with tenderly, because the interest of the city demanded that severity should not diminish the great influx187 of scholars who flocked to that renowned university from every part of Europe. The practice of the Venetian government was to secure at a high salary the most celebrated professors, and to grant the utmost freedom to the young men attending their lessons. The students acknowledged no authority but that of a chief, chosen among themselves, and called syndic. He was usually a foreign nobleman, who could keep a large establishment, and who was responsible to the government for the behaviour of the scholars. It was his duty to give them up to justice when they transgressed188 the laws, and the students never disputed his sentence, because he always defended them to the utmost, when they had the slightest shadow of right on their side.
The students, amongst other privileges, would not suffer their trunks to be searched by customhouse authorities, and no ordinary policeman would have dared to arrest one of them. They carried about them forbidden weapons, seduced helpless girls, and often disturbed the public peace by their nocturnal broils189 and impudent practical jokes; in one word, they were a body of young fellows, whom nothing could restrain, who would gratify every whim190, and enjoy their sport without regard or consideration for any human being.
It was about that time that a policeman entered a coffee-room, in which were seated two students. One of them ordered him out, but the man taking no notice of it, the student fired a pistol at him, and missed his aim. The policeman returned the fire, wounded the aggressor, and ran away. The students immediately mustered191 together at the Bo, divided into bands, and went over the city, hunting the policemen to murder them, and avenge192 the insult they had received. In one of the encounters two of the students were killed, and all the others, assembling in one troop, swore never to lay their arms down as long as there should be one policeman alive in Padua. The authorities had to interfere193, and the syndic of the students undertook to put a stop to hostilities194 provided proper satisfaction was given, as the police were in the wrong. The man who had shot the student in the coffee-room was hanged, and peace was restored; but during the eight days of agitation195, as I was anxious not to appear less brave than my comrades who were patrolling the city, I followed them in spite of Doctor Gozzi’s remonstrances196. Armed with a carbine and a pair of pistols, I ran about the town with the others, in quest of the enemy, and I recollect how disappointed I was because the troop to which I belonged did not meet one policeman. When the war was over, the doctor laughed at me, but Bettina admired my valour. Unfortunately, I indulged in expenses far above my means, owing to my unwillingness197 to seem poorer than my new friends. I sold or pledged everything I possessed, and I contracted debts which I could not possibly pay. This state of things caused my first sorrows, and they are the most poignant198 sorrows under which a young man can smart. Not knowing which way to turn, I wrote to my excellent grandmother, begging her assistance, but instead of sending me some money, she came to Padua on the 1st of October, 1739, and, after thanking the doctor and Bettina for all their affectionate care, she bought me back to Venice. As he took leave of me, the doctor, who was shedding tears, gave me what he prized most on earth; a relic199 of some saint, which perhaps I might have kept to this very day, had not the setting been of gold. It performed only one miracle, that of being of service to me in a moment of great need. Whenever I visited Padua, to complete my study of the law, I stayed at the house of the kind doctor, but I was always grieved at seeing near Bettina the brute200 to whom she was engaged, and who did not appear to me deserving of such a wife. I have always regretted that a prejudice, of which I soon got rid, should have made me preserve for that man a flower which I could have plucked so easily.
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1
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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7
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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14
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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15
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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21
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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22
expatiating
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的现在分词 ) | |
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23
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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25
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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27
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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29
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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30
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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31
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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32
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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33
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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34
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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40
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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41
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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42
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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43
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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44
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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45
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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46
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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47
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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48
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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49
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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50
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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51
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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52
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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53
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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54
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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55
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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56
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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57
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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58
barefaced
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| adj.厚颜无耻的，公然的 | |
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59
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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60
fetter
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| n./vt.脚镣，束缚 | |
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61
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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62
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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64
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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65
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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67
heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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68
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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69
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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70
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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72
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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73
reciprocate
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| v.往复运动；互换；回报，酬答 | |
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74
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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75
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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76
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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78
umbrage
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| n.不快；树荫 | |
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79
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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80
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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81
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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82
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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83
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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84
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
ingrate
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| n.忘恩负义的人 | |
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86
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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87
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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88
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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91
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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92
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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93
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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94
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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95
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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96
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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97
enrage
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| v.触怒，激怒 | |
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98
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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99
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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100
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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101
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
slanderer
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| 造谣中伤者 | |
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103
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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104
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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105
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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106
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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107
treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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108
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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109
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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110
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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111
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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112
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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113
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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115
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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116
obviate
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| v.除去，排除，避免，预防 | |
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117
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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118
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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119
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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120
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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121
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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122
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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123
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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124
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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125
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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126
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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127
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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128
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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129
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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130
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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131
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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132
detrimental
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| adj.损害的，造成伤害的 | |
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133
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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134
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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135
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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136
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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137
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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138
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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139
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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140
eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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141
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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142
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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143
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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144
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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145
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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146
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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147
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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148
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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149
itching
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| adj.贪得的，痒的，渴望的v.发痒( itch的现在分词 ) | |
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150
allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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152
inoculated
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| v.给…做预防注射( inoculate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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154
devotedness
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155
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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156
arrant
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| adj.极端的；最大的 | |
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157
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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158
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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159
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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160
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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161
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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162
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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163
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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164
quackery
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| n.庸医的医术，骗子的行为 | |
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165
lawsuits
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| n.诉讼( lawsuit的名词复数 ) | |
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166
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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167
liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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168
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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169
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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170
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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171
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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172
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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173
instructors
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| 指导者，教师( instructor的名词复数 ) | |
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174
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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175
freshman
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| n.大学一年级学生(可兼指男女) | |
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176
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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177
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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178
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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179
sycophants
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| n.谄媚者，拍马屁者( sycophant的名词复数 ) | |
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180
fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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181
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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182
lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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183
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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184
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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185
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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186
prerogatives
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| n.权利( prerogative的名词复数 )；特权；大主教法庭；总督委任组成的法庭 | |
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187
influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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188
transgressed
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| v.超越( transgress的过去式和过去分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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189
broils
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| v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的第三人称单数 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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190
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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191
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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192
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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193
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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194
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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195
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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196
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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197
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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198
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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199
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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200
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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