Our Excursion — Parting From Clementine — I Leave Milan With Croce’s Mistress My Arrival At Genoa

The ancients, whose fancy was so fertile in allegory, used to figure Innocence as playing with a serpent or with a sharp arrow. These old sages had made a deep study of the human heart; and whatever discoveries modern science may have made, the old symbols may still be profitably studied by those who wish to gain a deep insight into the working of man’s mind.

I went to bed, and after having dismissed Clairmont I began to reflect on my relations with Clementine, who seemed to have been made to shine in a sphere from which, in spite of her high birth, her intelligence, and her rare beauty, her want of fortune kept her apart. I smiled to myself at her doctrines, which were as much as to say that the best way of curing appetite was to place a series of appetising dishes before a hungry man, forbidding him to touch them. Nevertheless I could but approve the words which she had uttered with such an air of innocence — that if one resists desires, there is no danger of one being humiliated by giving way to them.

This humiliation would arise from a feeling of duty, and she honoured me by supposing that I had as high principles as herself. But at the same time the motive of self-esteem was also present, and I determined not to do anything which would deprive me of her confidence.

As may be imagined, I did not awake till very late the next morning, and when I rang my bell Clementine came in, looking very pleased, and holding a copy of the Pastor Fido in her hand. She wished me good day, and said she had read the first act, and that she thought it very beautiful, and told me to get up that we might read the second together before dinner.

“May I rise in your presence?”

“Why not? A man has need of very little care to observe the laws of decency.”

“Then please give me that shirt.”

She proceeded to unfold it, and then put it over my head, smiling all the time.

“I will do the same for you at the first opportunity,” said I.

She blushed and answered, “It’s not nearly so far from you to me as it is from me to you.”

“Divine Hebe, that is beyond my understanding. You speak like the Cumaean sibyls, or as if you were rendering oracles at your temple in Corinth.”

“Had Hebe a temple at Corinth? Sardini never said so.”

“But Apollodorus says so. It was an asylum as well as a temple. But come back to the point, and pray do not elude it. What you said is opposed to all the laws of geometry. The distance from you to me ought to be precisely the same as from me to you.”

“Perhaps, then, I have said a stupid thing.”

“Not at all, Hebe, you have an idea which may be right or wrong, but I want to bring it out. Come, tell me.”

“Well, then, the two distances differ from each other with respect to the ascent and descent, or fall, if you like. Are not all bodies inclined to obey the laws of gravitation unless they are held back by a superior force?”

“Certainly.”

“And is it not the case that no bodies move in an upward direction unless they are impelled?”

“Quite true.”

“Then you must confess that since I am shorter than you I should have to ascend to attain you, and ascension is always an effort; while if you wish to attain me, you have only to let yourself go, which is no effort whatever. Thus it is no risk at all for you to let me put on your shirt, but it would be a great risk for me if I allowed you to do the same service for me. I might be overwhelmed by your too rapid descent on me. Are you persuaded?”

“Persuaded is not the word, fair Hebe. I am ravished in an ecstacy of admiration. Never was paradox so finely maintained. I might cavil and contest it, but I prefer to keep silence to admire and adore.”

“Thank you, dear Iolas, but I want no favour. Tell me how you could disprove my argument?”

“I should attack it on the point of height. You know you would not let me change your chemise even if I were a dwarf.”

“Ah, dear Iolas! we cannot deceive each other. Would that Heaven had destined me to be married to a man like you!”

“Alas! why am I not worthy of aspiring to such a position?”

I do not know where the conversation would have landed us, but just then the countess came to tell us that dinner was waiting, adding that she was glad to see we loved one another.

“Madly,” said Clementine, “but we are discreet.”

“If you are discreet, you cannot love madly.”

“True, countess,” said I, “for the madness of love and wisdom cannot dwell together. I should rather say we are reasonable, for the mind may be grave while the heart’s gay.”

We dined merrily together, then we played at cards, and in the evening we finished reading the Pastor Fido. When we were discussing the beauties of this delightful work Clementine asked me if the thirteenth book of the “AEneid” was fine.

“My dear countess, it is quite worthless; and I only praised it to flatter the descendant of the author. However, the same writer made a poem on the tricks of countryfolk, which is by no means devoid of merit. But you are sleepy, and I am preventing you from undressing.”

“Not at all.”

She took off her clothes in a moment with the greatest coolness, and did not indulge my licentious gaze in the least. She got into bed, and I sat beside her; whereupon she sat up again, and her sister turned her back upon us. The Pastor Fido was on her night- table, and opening the book I proceeded to read the passage where Mirtillo describes the sweetness of the kiss Amaryllis had given him, attuning my voice to the sentiment of the lines. Clementine seemed as much affected as I was, and I fastened my lips on hers. What happiness! She drew in the balm of my lips with delight, and appeared to be free from alarm, so I was about to clasp her in my arms when she pushed me away with the utmost gentleness, begging me to spare her.

This was modesty at bay. I begged her pardon, and taking her hand breathed out upon it all the ecstasy of my lips.

“You are trembling,” said she, in a voice that did but increase the amorous tumult of my heart.

“Yes, dearest countess, and I assure you I tremble for fear of you. Good night, I am going; and my prayer must be that I may love you less.”

“Why so? To love less is to begin to hate. Do as I do, and pray that your love may grow and likewise the strength to resist it.”

I went to bed ill pleased with myself. I did not know whether I had gone too far or not far enough; but what did it matter? One thing was certain, I was sorry for what I had done, and that was always a thought which pained me.

In Clementine I saw a woman worthy of the deepest love and the greatest respect, and I knew not how I could cease to love her, nor yet how I could continue loving her without the reward which every faithful lover hopes to win.

“If she loves me,” I said to myself, “she cannot refuse me, but it is my part to beg and pray, and even to push her to an extremity, that she may find an excuse for her defeat. A lover’s duty is to oblige the woman he loves to surrender at discretion, and love always absolves him for so doing.”

According to this argument, which I coloured to suit my passions, Clementine could not refuse me unless she did not love me, and I determined to put her to the proof. I was strengthened in this resolve by the wish to free myself from the state of excitement I was in, and I was sure that if she continued obdurate I should soon get cured. But at the same time I shuddered at the thought; the idea, of my no longer loving Clementine seemed to me an impossibility and a cruelty.

After a troubled night I rose early and went to wish her good morning. She was still asleep, but her sister Eleanore was dressing.

“My sister,” said she, “read till three o’clock this morning. Now that she has so many books, she is getting quite mad over them. Let us play a trick on her; get into the bed beside her; it will be amusing to see her surprise when she wakes up.”

“But do you think she will take it as a joke?”

“She won’t be able to help laughing; besides, you are dressed.”

The opportunity was too tempting, and taking off my dressing-gown, I gently crept into the bed, and Eleanore covered me up to my neck. She laughed, but my heart was beating rapidly. I could not give the affair the appearance of a joke, and I hoped Clementine would be some time before she awoke that I might have time to compose myself.

I had been in this position for about five minutes, when Clementine, half asleep and half awake, turned over, and stretching out her arm, gave me a hasty kiss, thinking I was her sister. She then fell asleep again in the same position. I should have stayed still long enough, for her warm breath played on my face, and gave me a foretaste of ambrosia; but Eleanore could restrain herself no longer, and, bursting into a peal of laughter, forced Clementine to open her eyes. Nevertheless, she did not discover that she held me in her arms till she saw her sister standing laughing beside the bed.

“This is a fine trick,” said she, “you are two charmers indeed!”

This quiet reception gave me back my self-composure, and I was able to play my part properly.

“You see,” said I, “I have had a kiss from my sweet Hebe.”

“I thought I was giving it to my sister. ’Tis the kiss that Amaryllis gave to Mistillo.”

“It comes to the same thing. The kiss has produced its effects, and Iolas is young again.”

“Dear Eleanore, you have gone too far, for we love each other, and I was dreaming of him.”

“No, no,” said her sister, “Iolas is dressed. Look!”

So saying, the little wanton with a swift movement uncovered me, but at the same time she uncovered her sister, and Clementine with a little scream veiled the charms which my eyes had devoured for a moment. I had seen all, but as one sees lightning. I had seen the cornice and the frieze of the altar of love.

Eleanore then went out, and I remained gazing at the treasure I desired but did not dare to seize. At last I broke the silence.

“Dearest Hebe,” said I, “you are certainly fairer than the cupbearer of the gods. I have just seen what must have been seen when Hebe was falling, and if I had been Jupiter I should have changed my mind.”

“Sardini told me that Jupiter drove Hebe away, and now I ought to drive Jupiter away out of revenge.”

“Yes; but, my angel, I am Iolas, and not Jupiter. I adore you, and I seek to quench the desires which torture me.”

“This is a trick between you and Eleanore.”

“My dearest, it was all pure chance. I thought I should find you dressed, and I went in to wish you good day. You were asleep and your sister was dressing. I gazed at you, and Eleanore suggested that I should lie down beside you to enjoy your astonishment when you awoke. I ought to be grateful to her for a pleasure which has turned out so pleasantly. But the beauties she discovered to me surpass all the ideas I had formed on the subject. My charming Hebe will not refuse to pardon me.”

“No, since all is the effect of chance. But it is curious that when one loves passionately one always feels inquisitive concerning the person of the beloved object.”

“It is a very natural feeling, dearest. Love itself is a kind of curiosity, if it be lawful to put curiosity in the rank of the passions; but you have not that feeling about me?”

“No, for fear you might disappoint me, for I love you, and I want everything to speak in your favour.”

“I know you might be disappointed, and consequently I must do everything in my power to preserve your good opinion.”

“Then you are satisfied with me?”

“Surely. I am a good architect, and I think you are grandly built.”

“Stay, Iolas, do not touch me; it is enough that you have seen me.”

“Alas! it is by touching that one rectifies the mistakes of the eyes; one judges thus of smoothness and solidity. Let me kiss these two fair sources of life. I prefer them to the hundred breasts of Cybele, and I am not jealous of Athys.”

“You are wrong there; Sardini told me that it was Diana of Ephesus who had the hundred breasts.”

How could I help laughing to hear mythology issuing from Clementine’s mouth at such a moment! Could any lover foresee such an incident?

I pressed with my hand her alabaster breast, and yet the desire of knowledge subdued love in the heart of Clementine. But far from mistaking her condition I thought it a good omen. I told her that she was perfectly right, and that I was wrong, and a feeling of literary vanity prevented her opposing my pressing with my lips a rosy bud, which stood out in relief against the alabaster sphere.

“You apply your lips in vain, my dear Iolas, the land is barren. But what are you swallowing?”

“The quintessence of a kiss.”

“I think you must have swallowed something of me, since you have given me a pleasurable sensation I have never before experienced.”

“Dear Hebe, you make me happy.”

“I am glad to hear it, but I think the kiss on the lips is much better.”

“Certainly, because the pleasure is reciprocal, and consequently greater.”

“You teach by precept and example too. Cruel teacher! Enough, this pleasure is too sweet. Love must be looking at us and laughing.”

“Why should we not let him enjoy a victory which would make us both happier?”

“Because such happiness is not built on a sure foundation. No, no! put your arms down. If we can kill each other with kisses, let us kiss on; but let us use no other arms.”

After our lips had clung to each other cruelly but sweetly, she paused, and gazing at me with eyes full of passion she begged me to leave her alone.

The situation in which I found myself is impossible to describe. I deplored the prejudice which had constrained me, and I wept with rage. I cooled myself by making a toilette which was extremely necessary, and returned to her room.

She was writing.

“I am delighted to see you back,” said she, “I am full of the poetic frenzy and propose to tell the story of the victory we have gained in verse.”

“A sad victory, abhorred by love, hateful to nature.”

“That will do nicely. Will each write a poem; I to celebrate the victory and you to deplore it. But you look sad.”

“I am in pain; but as the masculine anatomy is unknown to you, I cannot explain matters.”

Clementine did not reply, but I could see that she was affected. I suffered a dull pain in that part which prejudice had made me hold a prisoner while love and nature bade me give it perfect freedom. Sleep was the only thing which would restore the balance of my constitution.

We went down to dinner, but I could not eat. I could not attend to the reading of the translation which M. Vigi had brought with him, and I even forgot to compliment him upon it. I begged the count to hold the bank for me, and asked the company to allow me to lie down; nobody could tell what was the matter with me, though Clementine might have her suspicions.

At supper-time Clementine, accompanied by a servant, brought me a delicate cold collation, and told me that the bank had won. It was the first time it had done so, for I had always taken care to play a losing game. I made a good supper, but remained still melancholy and silent. When I had finished Clementine bade me good night, saying that she was going to write her poem.

I, too, was in the vein: I finished my poem, and made a fair copy of it before I went to bed. In the morning Clementine came to see me, and gave me her piece, which I read with pleasure; though I suspect that the delight my praises gave was equal to mine.

Then came the turn of my composition, and before long I noticed that the picture of my sufferings was making a profound impression on her. Big tears rolled down her cheeks, and from her eyes shot forth tender glances. When I had finished, I had the happiness of hearing her say that if she had known that part of physiology better, she would not have behaved so.

We took a cup of chocolate together, and I then begged her to lie down beside me in bed without undressing, and to treat me as I had treated her the day before, that she might have some experience of the martyrdom I had sung in my verses. She smiled and agreed, on the condition that I should do nothing to her.

It was a cruel condition, but it was the beginning of victory, and I had to submit. I had no reason to repent of my submission, for I enjoyed the despotism she exercised on me, and the pain she must be in that I did nothing to her, whilst I would not let her see the charms which she held in her hands. In vain I excited her to satisfy herself, to refuse her desires nothing, but she persisted in maintaining that she did not wish to go any further.

“Your enjoyment cannot be so great as mine,” said I. But her subtle wit never left her without a reply.

“Then,” said she, “you have no right to ask me to pity you.”

The test, however, was too sharp for her. She left me in a state of great excitement, giving me a kiss which took all doubts away, and saying that in love we must be all or nothing.

We spent the day in reading, eating, and walking, and in converse grave and gay. I could not see, however, that my suit had progressed, as far as the events of the morning seemed to indicate. She wanted to reverse the medal of Aristippus, who said, in speaking of Lois, “I possess her, but she does not possess me.” She wanted to be my mistress, without my being her master. I ventured to bewail my fate a little, but that did not seem to advance my cause.

Three or four days after, I asked Clementine in the presence of her sister to let me lie in bed beside her. This is the test proposed to a nun, a widow, a girl afraid of consequences, and it nearly always succeeds. I took a packet of fine English letters and explained their use to her. She took them examined them attentively, and after a burst of laughter declared them to be scandalous, disgusting, horrible in which anathema her sister joined. In vain I tried to plead their utility in defence, but Clementine maintained that there was no trusting them, and pushed her finger into one so strongly that it burst with a loud crack. I had to give way, and put my specialties in my pocket, and her final declaration was that such things made her shudder.

I wished them good night, and retired in some confusion. I pondered over Clementine’s strange resistance, which could only mean that I had not inspired her with sufficient love. I resolved on overcoming her by an almost infallible method. I would procure her pleasures that were new to her without sparing expense. I could think of nothing better than to take the whole family to Milan, and to give them a sumptuous banquet at my pastry-cook’s. “I will take them there,” I said to myself, “without saying a word about our destination till we are on our way, for if I were to name Milan the count might feel bound to tell his Spanish countess, that she might have an opportunity of making the acquaintance of her sisters-in-law, and this would vex me to the last degree.” The party would be a great treat to the sisters, who had never been in Milan, and I resolved to make the expedition as splendid as I possibly could.

When I awoke the next morning I wrote to Zenobia to buy three dresses of the finest Lyons silk for three young ladies of rank. I sent the necessary measurements, and instructions as to the trimming. The Countess Ambrose’s dress was to be white satin with a rich border of Valenciennes lace. I also wrote to M. Greppi, asking him to pay for Zenobia’s purchases. I told her to take the three dresses to my private lodgings, and lay them upon the bed, and give the landlord a note I enclosed. This note ordered him to provide a banquet for eight persons, without sparing expense. On the day and hour appointed, Zengbia was to be at the pastrycook’s ready to wait on the three ladies. I sent the letter by Clairmont, who returned before dinner, bearing a note from Zenobia assuring me that all my wishes should be carried out. After dessert I broached my plan to the countess, telling her that I wanted to give a party like the one at Lodi, but on two conditions: the first, that no one was to know our destination till we were in the carriages, and the second, that after dinner we should return to St. Angelo.

Out of politeness the countess looked at her husband before accepting the invitation, but he cried out, without ceremony, that he was ready to go if I took the whole family.

“Very good,” said I, “we will start at eight o’clock to-morrow, and nobody need be at any trouble, the carriages are ordered.”

I felt obliged to include the canon, because he was a great courtier of the countess, and also because he lost money to me every day, and thus it was he, in fact, who was going to pay for the expedition. That evening he lost three hundred sequins, and was obliged to ask me to give him three day’s grace to pay the money. I replied by assuring him that all I had was at his service.

When the company broke up I offered my hand to Hebe, and escorted her and her sister to their room. We had begun to read Fontenelle’s “Plurality of Worlds,” and I had thought we should finish it that night; but Clementine said that as she had to get up early, she would want to get to sleep early also.

“You are right, dearest Hebe, do you go to bed, and I will read to you.”

She made no objection, so I took the Ariosto, and began to read the history of the Spanish princess who fell in love with Bradamante. I thought that by the time I had finished Clementine would be ardent, but I was mistaken; both she and her sister seemed pensive.

“What is the matter with you, dearest? Has Ricciardetto displeased you?”

“Not at all, he has pleased me, and in the princess’s place I should have done the same; but we shall not sleep all night, and it is your fault.”

“What have I done, pray?”

“Nothing, but you can make us happy, and give us a great proof of your friendship.”

“Speak, then. What is it you want of me? I would do anything to please you. My life is yours. You shall sleep soundly.”

“Well, then, tell us where we are going to-morrow.”

“Have I not already said that I would tell you just as we are going?”

“Yes, but that won’t do. We want to know now, and if you won’t tell us we shan’t sleep, all night, and we shall look frightful to-morrow.”

“I should be so sorry, but I don’t think that you could look frightful.”

“You don’t think we can keep a secret. It is nothing very important, is it?”

“No, it is not very important, but all the same it is a secret.”

“It would be dreadful if you refused me.”

“Dearest Hebe! how can I refuse you anything? I confess freely that I have been wrong in keeping you waiting so long. Here is my secret: you are to dine with me to-morrow.”

“With you? Where?”

“Milan.”

In their immoderate joy they got out of bed, and without caring for their state of undress, threw their arms round my neck, covered me with kisses, clasped me to their breasts, and finally sat down on my knees.

“We have never seen Milan,” they cried, “and it has been the dream of our lives to see that splendid town. How often I have been put to the blush when I have been forced to confess that I have never been to Milan.”

“It makes me very happy,” said Hebe, “but my happiness is troubled by the idea that we shall see nothing of the town, for we shall have to return after dinner. It is cruel! Are we to go fifteen miles to Milan only to dine and come back again? At least we must see our sister-in-law.”

“I have foreseen all your objections, and that was the reason I made a mystery of it, but it has been arranged. You don’t like it? Speak and tell me your pleasure.”

“Of course we like it, dear Iolas. The party will be charming, and perhaps, if we knew all, the very conditions are all for the best.”

“It may be so, but I may not tell you any more now.”

“And we will not press you.”

In an ecstasy of joy she began to embrace me again, and Eleanore said that she would go to sleep so as to be more on the alert for the morrow. This was the best thing she could have done. I knew the fortunate hour was at hand, and exciting Clementine by my fiery kisses, and drawing nearer and nearer, at last I was in full possession of the temple I had so long desired to attain. Hebe’s pleasure and delight kept her silent; she shared my ecstasies, and mingled her happy tears with mine.

I spent two hours in this manner, and then went to bed, impatient to renew the combat on the following day more at my ease and with greater comfort.

At eight o’clock we were all assembled round the breakfast-table, but in spite of my high spirits I could not make the rest of the company share them. All were silent and pensive; curiosity shewed itself on every face. Clementine and her sister pretended to partake the general feeling, and were silent like the rest while I looked on and enjoyed their expectancy.

Clairmont, who had fulfilled my instructions to the letter, came in and told us that the carriages were at the door. I asked my guests to follow me, and they did so in silence. I put the countess and Clementine in my carriage, the latter holding the baby on her lap, her sister and the three gentlemen being seated in the other carriage. I called out, with a laugh,

“Drive to Milan.”

“Milan! Milan!” they exclaimed with one voice. “Capital! capital!”

Clairmont galloped in front of us and went off. Clementine pretended to be astonished, but her sister looked as if she had known something of our destination before. All care, however, had disappeared, and the highest spirits prevailed. We stopped at a village half-way between St. Angelo and Milan to blow the horses, and everybody got down.

“What will my wife say?” asked the count.

“Nothing, for she will not know anything about it, and if she does I am the only guilty party. You are to dine with me in a suite of rooms which I have occupied incognito since I have been at Milan; for you will understand that I could not have my wants attended to at your house, where the place is already taken.”

“And how about Zenobia?”

“Zenobia was a lucky chance, and is a very nice girl, but she would not suffice for my daily fare.”

“You are a lucky fellow!”

“I try to make myself comfortable.”

“My dear husband,” said the Countess Ambrose, “you proposed a visit to Milan two years ago, and the chevalier proposed it a few hours ago, and now we are on our way.”

“Yes, sweetheart, but my idea was that we should spend a month there.”

“If you want to do that,” said I, “I will see to everything.”

“Thank you, my dear sir; you are really a wonderful man.”

“You do me too much honour, count, there is nothing wonderful about me, except that I execute easily an easy task.”

“Yes; but you will confess that a thing may be difficult from the way in which we regard it, or from the position in which we find ourselves.”

“You are quite right.”

When we were again on our way the countess said —

“You must confess, sir, that you are a very fortunate man.”

“I do not deny it, my dear countess, but my happiness is due to the company I find myself in; if you were to expel me from yours, I should be miserable”

“You are not the kind of man to be expelled from any society.”

“That is a very kindly compliment.”

“Say, rather, a very true one.”

“I am happy to hear you say so, but it would be both foolish and presumptuous for me to say so myself.”

Thus we made merry on our way, above all at the expense of the canon, who had been begging the countess to intercede with me to give him leave to absent himself half an hour.

“I want to call on a lady,” said he; “I should lose her favour forever if she came to know that I had been in Milan without paying her a visit.”

“You must submit to the conditions,” replied the amiable countess, “so don’t count on my intercession.”

We got to Mila............