No More Learning

We oscillate between desire
and remorse: for we depend entirely upon the opinions of oth-
ers; and it is that which many people praise and seek after, not
that which deserves to be praised and sought after, which we
consider to be best. Nor do we take any heed of whether our
road be good or bad in itself; but we value it by the number


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SENECA
of footprints upon it, among which there are none of any who
have returned. You will say to me: "Seneca, what are you
doing? do you desert your party? I am sure that our Stoic phi-
losophers say we must be in motion up to the very end of our
life: we will never cease to labor for the general good, to help
individual people, and when stricken in years to afford assist-
ance even to our enemies. We are the sect that gives no dis-
charge for any number of years' service; and in the words of
the most eloquent of poets,-
'We wear the helmet when our locks are gray. '
We are they who are so far from indulging in any leisure until
we die, that if circumstances permit it, we do not allow ourselves
to be at leisure even when we are dying. Why do you preach
the maxims of Epicurus in the very headquarters of Zeno? nay,
if you are ashamed of your party, why do you not go openly
altogether over to the enemy rather than betray your own side? "
I will answer this question straightway: What more can you
wish than that I should imitate my leaders? What then follows?
I shall go whither they lead me, not whither they send me.
Now I will prove to you that I am not deserting the tenets
of the Stoics; for they themselves have not deserted them: and
yet I should be able to plead a very good excuse even if I did
follow, not their precepts, but their examples. I shall divide
what I am about to say into two parts: first, that a man may
from the very beginning of his life give himself up entirely to
the contemplation of truth; secondly, that a man when he has
already completed his term of service has the best of rights-
that of his shattered health-to do this; and that he may then
apply his mind to other studies, after the manner of the Vestal
Virgins, who allot different duties to different years,-first learn
how to perform the sacred rites, and when they have learned
them, teach others.
—
I will show that this is approved of by the Stoics also: not
that I have laid any commandment upon myself to do nothing
contrary to the teaching of Zeno and Chrysippus, but because the
matter itself allows me to follow the precepts of those men; for
if one always follows the precepts of one man, one ceases to be
a debater and becomes a partisan. Would that all things were
already known; that truth were unveiled and recognized, and that
none of our doctrines required modification! but as it is, we have


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to seek for truth in the company of the very men who teach it.
The two sects of Epicureans and Stoics differ widely in most
respects, and on this point among the rest; nevertheless, each of
them consigns us to leisure, although by a different road. Epi-
curus says, "The wise man will not take part in politics, except
upon some special occasion. " Zeno says, "The wise man will take
part in politics, unless prevented by some special circumstance. "
The one makes it his aim in life to seek for leisure, the other
seeks it only when he has reasons for so doing; but this word
«< reasons » has a wide signification. If the State is so rotten as to
be past helping, if evil has entire dominion over it, the wise man
will not labor in vain or waste his strength in unprofitable efforts.
Should he be deficient in influence or bodily strength, if the State
refuse to submit to his guidance, if his health stand in the way,
then he will not attempt a journey for which he is unfit; just as
he would not put to sea in a worn-out ship, or enlist in the army
if he were an invalid. Consequently, one who has not yet suffered
either in health or fortune has the right, before encountering any
storms, to establish himself in safety, and thenceforth to devote
himself to honorable industry and inviolate leisure, and the serv-
ice of those virtues which can be practiced even by those who
pass the quietest of lives. The duty of a man is to be useful to
his fellow-men; if possible, to be useful to many of them; fail-
ing this, to be useful to a few; failing this, to be useful to his
neighbors; and failing them, to himself: for when he helps others,
he advances the general interests of mankind. Just as he who
makes himself a worse man does harm not only to himself, but
to all those to whom he might have done good if he had made
himself a better one,- so he who deserves well of himself does
good to others by the very fact that he is preparing what will
be of service to them.
Let us grasp the fact that there are two republics: one vast
and truly "public," which contains alike gods and men, in which
we do not take account of this or that nook of land, but make
the boundaries of our State reach as far as the rays of the sun;
and another to which we have been assigned by the accident of
birth. This may be that of the Athenians or Carthaginians, or
of any other city which does not belong to all men but to some
especial ones. Some men serve both of these States, the greater
and the lesser, at the same time; some serve only the lesser,
some only the greater. We can serve the greater commonwealth


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13130
even when we are at leisure: indeed, I am not sure that we
cannot serve it better when we are at leisure to inquire into
what virtue is, and whether it be one or many; whether it be
nature or art that makes men good; whether that which contains
the earth and sea and all that in them is, be one, or whether
God has placed therein many bodies of the same species.
"But," say you, "it makes a difference whether you adopt the
contemplative life for the sake of your own pleasure, demanding
nothing from it save unbroken contemplation without any result;
for such a life is a sweet one and has attractions of its own. "
To this I answer you: It makes just as much difference in what
spirit you lead the life of a public man; whether you are never
at rest, and never set apart any time during which you may
turn your eyes away from the things of earth to those of heaven.
It is by no means desirable that one should merely strive to
accumulate property without any love of virtue, or do nothing
but hard work without any cultivation of the intellect; for these
things ought to be combined and blended together: and similarly,
virtue placed in leisure without action is but an incomplete and
feeble good thing, because she never displays what she has
learned. Who can deny that she ought to test her progress in
actual work; and not merely think what ought to be done, but
also sometimes use her hands as well as her head, and bring her
conceptions into actual being? But if the wise man be quite
willing to act thus, -if it be the things to be done that are
wanting, not the man to do them,- will you not then allow him
to live to himself? What is the wise man's purpose in devot-
ing himself to leisure? He knows that in leisure as well as in
action he can accomplish something by which he will be of serv-
ice to posterity. Our school at any rate declares that Zeno and
Chrysippus have done greater things than they would have done
had they been in command of armies, or filled high offices, or
passed laws; which latter indeed they did pass, though not for
one single State, but for the whole human race. How then can
it be unbecoming to a good man to enjoy a leisure such as this,
by whose means he gives laws to ages to come, and addresses
himself not to a few persons, but to all men of all nations, both
now and hereafter? To sum up the matter, I ask you whether
Cleanthes, Chrysippus, and Zeno lived in accordance with their
doctrine? I am sure that you will answer that they lived in
the manner in which they taught that men ought to live; yet no


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13131
one of them governed a State. "They had not," you reply, "the
amount of property or social position which as a rule enables
people to take part in public affairs. " Yet for all that, they did
not live an idle life: they found the means of making their
retirement more useful to mankind than the perspirings and
runnings to and fro of other men; wherefore these persons are
thought to have done great things, in spite of their having done
nothing of a public character.
Moreover, there are three kinds of life, and it is a stock ques-
tion which of the three is the best: the first is devoted to pleas-
ure, the second to contemplation, the third to action. First let
us lay aside all disputatiousness and bitterness of feeling, which,
as we have stated, causes those whose paths in life are different
to hate one another beyond all hope of reconciliation; and let us
see whether all these three do not come to the same thing,
although under different names: for neither he who decides for
pleasure is without contemplation, nor is he who gives himself up
to contemplation without pleasure; nor yet is he whose life is
devoted to action, without contemplation. "It makes," you say,
"all the difference in the world, whether a thing is one's main
object in life or whether it be merely an appendage to some
other object. " I admit that the difference is considerable: never-
theless, the one does not exist apart from the other; the one man
cannot live in contemplation without action, nor can the other
act without contemplation: and even the third, of whom we all
agree in having a bad opinion, does not approve of passive pleas-
ure, but of that which he establishes for himself by means of
reason; even this pleasure-seeking sect itself, therefore, practices
action also. Of course it does; since Epicurus himself says that
at times he would abandon pleasure and actually seek for pain,
if he became likely to be surfeited with pleasure, or if he thought
that by enduring a slight pain he might avoid a greater one.
With what purpose do I state this? To prove that all men are
fond of contemplation. Some make it the object of their lives:
to us it is an anchorage, but not a harbor.


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ACCOMMODATION TO CIRCUMSTANCES
S⁰
UPPOSE however that your life has become full of trouble, and
that without knowing what you were doing, you have fallen
into some snare which either public or private fortune has
set for you, and that you can neither untie it nor break it:
then remember that fettered men suffer much at first from the
burdens and clogs upon their legs; afterwards, when they have
made up their minds not to fret themselves about them, but to
endure them, necessity teaches them to bear them bravely, and
habit to bear them easily. In every station of life you will find
amusements, relaxations, and enjoyments; that is, provided you be
willing to make light of evils rather than to hate them. Know-
ing to what sorrows we were born, there is nothing for which
Nature more deserves our thanks than for having invented habit
as an alleviation of misfortune, which soon accustoms us to the
severest evils. No one could hold out against misfortune if it
permanently exercised the same force as at its first onset. We
are all chained to fortune: some men's chain is loose and made
of gold, that of others is tight and of meaner metal; but what
difference does this make? We are all included in the same cap-
tivity; and even those who have bound us are bound themselves,
unless you think that a chain on the left side is lighter to bear.
One man may be bound by public office, another by wealth; some
have to bear the weight of illustrious, some of humble birth;
some are subject to the commands of others, some only to their
own; some are kept in one place by being banished thither, oth-
ers by being elected to the priesthood. All life is slavery; let
each man therefore reconcile himself to his lot, complain of it as
little as possible, and lay hold of whatever good lies within his
reach. No condition can be so wretched that an impartial mind
can find no compensations in it. Small sites, if ingeniously
divided, may be made use of for many different purposes; and
arrangement will render ever so narrow a room habitable. Call
good sense to your aid against difficulties: it is possible to soften
what is harsh, to widen what is too narrow, and to make heavy
burdens press less severely upon one who bears them skillfully.


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13133
MATILDE SERAO
(1856-)
MONG the novel-writers of the present generation in Italy,
Matilde Serao occupies a place of honor and popularity.
She was born on March 7th, 1856, in Patras, a seaport of
Greece; so that Italian is in reality for her an acquired language.
Her mother was a Greek, and descended from the princes Scanavy,
who gave emperors to Trebizond. Her father was a Neapolitan
exile, who returned to his native city only when Matilde was twelve
years of age. Signora Serao superintended the early education of
her daughter, who is said to have been a lazy child, with a strong
dislike of study. She found reading a pleasant pastime, however,
and was interested in people and in the general routine of life.
When sent to school in France she fed her mind on the novels
of the French realistic school, and soon began to write on her own
account. When seventeen years of age she published her first story,
which was entitled 'Opal. ' This tale created some little stir; and
De Zerbi, editor of the Neapolitan Piccolo, offered her a place on
his journal. The Serao family was poor, and this offer was eagerly
accepted. In order to do better work as a reporter, she assumed a
man's dress and cropped her hair. The adaptability of her tempera-
ment enabled her to write to order with great facility. When her
talent was left entirely free she usually wrote sensuous love tales, in
which the dews of the fields and the stars of the sky were called
upon to witness the raptures and the sorrows of her heroes and
heroines. With equal ease, however, she produced sermons and criti-
cisms. Her teeming imagination overflowed the restriction of sub-
ject. Despite her versatility and her need of money, it seems to
have been always her aim to do the best of which she was capable;
and thus her work was always a means of development to her talent.
She married Signor Eduardo Scarfoglio, and with him established
the Corriere di Roma. They afterwards removed to Naples, where
they edited the Corriere di Napoli. In 1881 and 1883 she published
two long romances, and gathered into volumes those of her short
stories which she deemed worthy to live. She is fond of studying
child life; and in her story 'Little Minds,' written for grown peo-
ple, she pictures the little woes and pleasures and philosophies of
children with that detail and objective passion which is characteristic
of her.


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13134
MATILDE SERAO
'An Unsteady Heart' was her first long novel, and was followed
by 'Fantasia. This is the story of a morbid and fanatically reli-
gious invalid, who through her sickly romanticism is led into sinful
feeling. She infatuates the husband of her dearest friend, and finally
leaves her own husband to run away with him; but, overcome with
remorse, evades her lover, and smothers herself with charcoal, to
secure the happiness of the deserted wife.
Madame Serao's plots are usually tragedies, and are worked out
with precision and refinement of passion. She is a painter of details;
no incident or expression is too trivial for her observation, and she
loves the minutest traceries of life, which she sees purely from its
emotional side. She is sometimes called "La petite Sand Italienne":
but while her mind has perhaps been influenced by French realists,
her stories are essentially the creations of a more southern tempera-
ment. She is the best exponent of the new literary movement in
Italy, which was born among the hot breezes of Naples.
FROM A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM ›
M
ASSIMO was alone. A friend of his youth whom he had not
seen for years until to-day, when he had accidentally met
him in the street, had returned to dine with him at seven
o'clock after the happy recognition took place. Massimo was en-
during wearily the burden of a summer in town. Always before
he had gone to the country in June; but he had looked forward to
this as a happy evening of memories in the companionship of his
recovered friend. Between the pleasures of dinner, of cigarettes,
and of wine, they had indeed passed two cozy hours in chatting
of old times. They began all their sentences by saying "Do you
remember? " They laughed deliciously at dear memories which
crowded upon their minds; interrupting each other occasionally
by an exclamation of regret or a sigh of longing for the return
of those old days.
Yet in the very midst of the friendly merriment which filled
their hearts, they had become conscious of a sense of melancholy.
The two men had traveled different paths through life, and had
become very unlike in everything. They had set out from the
same point, and had studied together. But the friend was now a
well-known lawyer in one of the provinces; he had a wife and
family, was guided by simple, practical ideas, and by a mind and


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13135
temperament somewhat slow and deliberate. Massimo, on the
contrary, had wandered for ten or fifteen years in foreign coun-
tries, connected now with this legation, now with that; a diplo-
mat without enthusiasm; indolent, and unable on account of his
laziness to build up a career. He was content or not, according
to his mood, with his position of secretary. He was a handsome
man of the southern type, but had already lost the freshness of
youth; his hair was growing thin over his forehead, and his
eyes were lustreless. He had comfortable means without being
extremely rich, and was now playing the martyr in Naples on a
leave of absence; his friends called it a penance. Massimo was
refined, and a man of spirit and intelligence; but he was con-
sumed by the monotony of his existence, and also oppressed by
private cares and sorrows. His friend was a man of talents, but
strong and quiet; rather stout and lethargic in his appearance;
controlled always by sound provincial common-sense, which con-
demns originality as folly, and sacrifices the pleasures of the
present for the sake of enjoying a too distant future.
Thus, while one man told the story of his life, the other
listened and judged it according to his temperament; judged it
coldly in his heart, though for the sake of the old friendship he
was not too honest in his expressions, but gently modified his
speech. Nevertheless, they felt the distance which was between
them. At one juncture they even searched each other's face
in doubt, so much like strangers did they seem; but they said
nothing. Perhaps in his heart Massimo envied the provincial
lawyer of reputation, with his limited ambition and his power
of assiduous work, envied him his fat, peaceful family, so well
sheltered from the storms of life, and his comfortable house,
which had been the house of his ancestors and which would
become the home of his descendants; envied him his practicality,
his seriousness and equilibrium, and indeed all those possessions
which were lacking to himself. And the lawyer envied Massimo
his vagabond life of an aristocrat in foreign courts; his future,
which he had the power to make splendid; his bachelor freedom,
and the adventures of his ideal existence; and the elegant and
exquisite apartments which he shared with no one. These were
dreams which had never disturbed his provincial sleep.
Simultaneously they sighed. The evening was hot; the door
was open between the room where they smoked and the balcony,
but no breath of air came to them; only a heavy fragrance of


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13136
MATILDE SERAO
jessamine. They were conscious of having grown sad. They
had recalled too much of the past, had unearthed too many
buried monuments, evoked too many lost friends who had once
been dear, and too many dead loves. This cannot be done with-
out a mingled feeling of sadness and pleasure; and the pleasure
soon vanishes, while the sadness remains. They smoked on in
silence, their heads resting on the high back of the sofa. Then
the lawyer looked at his watch, and said out of courtesy:
―
"Will you come out with me? "
Had they not said all which they had to say? Had they
not, perhaps, done foolishly in telling so much? Massimo replied
politely that he was obliged to write some urgent letters, but
that he would be at the villa later, at about eleven o'clock. The
lawyer replied in an indifferent tone that he too would be there
then; and the friends separated, each assured that they would not
meet again this evening,- perhaps indeed that they would never
meet again. However sweet the past has been, it is dead; and
phantoms, however beautiful they may be, trouble the soul of the
most courageous.
When he was alone, Massimo regretted that he had brought
this friend to his house. So many closed wounds had begun
again to bleed in these last two hours! While he continued to
smoke, he heard his servant arranging things in the small dining-
room. After a little, the boy came to ask if his master had
need of him this evening; if not, he wanted to go out with a
few friends and find relief from the heat. Massimo dismissed
him readily; the door closed, and he was entirely alone. But his
evening was lost. He had imprudently ascended the river of the
past in company with a person whom he had loved; the voyage
had discouraged him, had made him lose all which had remained
to him of moral force, through which he had been enabled to
endure the loneliness and discomforts of a Neapolitan summer.
In his hours of rebellion, when he was spiritually prostrated and
the victim of excessive physical inertia, and when his heart rose
within him resentfully, he was wont to smoke certain soothing
Egyptian cigarettes, which usually in the end quieted him. On
this summer evening, however, the cigarettes went out between
his drawn lips, and he threw them away one by one when they
were but partly burned. He went to the balcony. He lived on
the third floor of a large palace in the Via Gennaro Serra; and
because on account of the slope of the street the houses in front


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MATILDE SERAO
13137
of him were lower than his, he had a glimpse of the sea and saw
a great sweep of starry sky.
The night was most beautiful; the Milky Way was trembling
luminously: but no breeze stirred, and the air hung heavy. His
head seemed on fire. Though alone and weary, he could not keep
still; he took a pen and tried to write. Suddenly his face grew
whiter than the paper in front of him; it was as though he had
seen a vision among the shadows of the room. There was a con-
tinuous rumble of carriages in the Via Gennaro Serra.
Serra. All the
people were coming out of their houses and walking the streets in
search of air to breathe; they wanted to look at the stars, and to
enjoy the Neapolitan night, beautiful, and even cool in the small
hours. Again he went to the balcony; he was suffocating. He
returned to his desk to write, but was unable to do so. Why
should he write? Of what use are black letters traced on white
paper when one is suffering from passionate loneliness? The
parent or friend or sweetheart to whom they are addressed will
perhaps read them aloud to some stranger, and laugh unsympa-
thetically at their expressions. Too much time and too many
events lie between the moment of writing and that of reading.
A hand-organ began to play in the Piazza Monte de Dio. It
played in slow, measured time a song which should have been
gay, but which thus became curiously sad. Massimo was irritated.
by this sentimental or tired organ-grinder, who changed a taran-
tella into a funeral march. Perhaps he was old, however; per-
haps his day had been poor: surely he must be an unhappy
creature, or he would not grind out such a mournful funeral
dirge. Massimo leaned over the balcony railing, and impulsively
threw him a two-franc piece. After a moment the music ceased,
and Massimo was sorry. He felt more lonely, more comfortless,
more desperate, than ever before during his stay in Naples.
What could he do? Where could he go? where could he carry
his weary soul and body? Was there any one at hand whom he
knew, in whose company, no matter how insipid and unpleasing
it might be, he could pass this summer night? He felt that he
could not sleep. He knew indeed that there was no help for his
melancholy.
XXII-822


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MATILDE SERAO
[The passages from 'Fantasy' are reprinted with the permission of the Amer-
ican Publishers' Corporation, publishers. ]
THE BOARDING-SCHOOL
From 'Fantasy. ' Copyright 1890, by Henry Harland
HE discipline for to-morrow is this," said the preacher, read-
from a small card: "You will sacrifice to the Virgin
Mary all the sentiments of rancor that you cherish in
your hearts, and you will kiss the schoolfellow, the teacher, or
the servant whom you think you hate. "
In the twilight of the chapel there was a slight stir among
the grown-up girls and teachers: the little ones remained quiet;
some of them were asleep, others yawned behind tiny hands, and
their small round faces twitched with weariness. The sermon
had lasted an hour, and the poor children had not understood
a word of it. They were longing for supper and bed. The
preacher had now descended from the pulpit, and Cherubina
Friscia, the teacher who acted as sacristan, was lighting the
candles with a taper. By degrees the chapel became flooded
with light. The cheeks of the dazed, sleepy little girls flushed
pink under it; their elders stood immovable, with blinking startled
eyes and weary indifferent faces. Some prayed with bowed
heads, while the candle-light played with the thick plaits of their
hair coiled close to their neck, and with certain blonde curls.
that no comb could restrain. Then when the whole chapel was
lighted for the recital of the 'Rosary,' the group of girl scholars
in white muslin frocks, with black aprons, and the various colored
ribbons by which the classes were distinguished, assumed a gay
aspect, despite the general weariness. A deep sigh escaped Lucia
Altimare.
"What ails thee? " queried Caterina Spaccapietra, under her
breath.
“I suffer, I suffer," murmured the other dreamily. "This
preacher saddens me. He does not understand Our Lady, he
does not feel her. " And the black pupils of her eyes, set in
bluish-white, dilated as in a vision. Caterina did not reply. The
directress intoned the 'Rosary in a solemn voice, with a strong
Tuscan accent. She read the Mystery' alone. Then all the
voices in chorus, shrill and low, accompanied her in the 'Gloria
Patri' and in the 'Pater. '
I


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13139
She repeated the 'Ave Maria' as far as the "Frutto del tuo
ventre"; the teachers and pupils taking up the words in unison.
The chapel was filled with music, the elder pupils singing with a
fullness of voice that sounded like the outpouring of their souls:
but the little ones made a game of it. While the directress,
standing alone, repeated the verses, they counted the time, so
that they might all break in at the end with a burst; and nudg-
ing each other, tittered under their breath.
Some of them would
lean over the backs of the chairs, assuming a devout collected-
ness; but in reality pulling out the hair of the playfellows in
front of them. Some played with their rosaries under their pina-
fores, with an audible click of the beads. The vigilant eye of the
directress watched over the apparently exemplary elder girls: she
saw that Carolina Pentasuglia wore a carnation at the buttonhole
of her bodice, though no carnations grew in the college gardens;
that a little square of paper was perceptible in the bosom of
Ginevra Avigliana, beneath the muslin of her gown; that Arte-
misia Minichini, with the short hair and firm chin, had as usual
crossed one leg over the other, in contempt of religion: she saw
and noted it all. Lucia Altimare sat leaning forward, with wide-
open eyes fixed upon a candle, her mouth drawn slightly on one
side; from time to time a nervous shock thrilled her. Close to
her, Caterina Spaccapietra said her prayers in all tranquillity, her
eyes void of sight as was her face of motion and expression.
The directress said the words of th 'Ave Maria' without think-
ing of their meaning; absent, preoccupied, getting through her
prayers as rapidly as possible.
The restlessness of the little ones increased. They twisted
about, and lightly raised themselves on their chairs, whispering
to each other, and fidgeting with their rosaries. Virginia Friozzi
had a live cricket in her pocket, with a fine silken thread tied
round its claw; at first she had covered it with her hand to
prevent its moving, then she had allowed it to peep out of the
opening of her pocket: then she had taken it out and hidden it
under her apron; at last she could not resist showing it to the
neighbors on her right and on her left. The news spread, the
children became agitated, restraining their laughter with difficulty,
and no longer giving the responses in time. Suddenly the cricket
dragged at the thread, and hopped off,- limping into the midst
of the passage which divided the two rows of chairs. There was
a burst of laughter.


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MATILDE SERAO
13140
"Friozzi will not appear in the parlor to-morrow," said the
directress severely.
The child turned pale at the harshness of a punishment which
would prevent her from seeing her mother.
Cherubina Friscia, the sacristan-teacher, of cadaverous com-
plexion and worn anæmic face, descended the altar steps and
confiscated the cricket. There was a moment of silence, and
then they heard the gasping voice of Lucia Altimare murmuring,
"Mary Mary Divine Mary! "
"Pray silently, Altimare," gently suggested the directress.
The Rosary' began again, this time without interruption.
All knelt down, with a great noise of moving chairs; and the
Latin words were recited, almost chanted, in chorus. Caterina
Spaccapietra rested her head against the back of the chair in
front of her. Lucia Altimare had thrown herself down, shudder-
ing, with her head on the straw seat and arms hanging slack at
her side.
"The blood will go to your head, Lucia," whispered her
friend.
-
"Leave me alone," said Lucia.
The pupils rose from their knees. One of them, accompanied
by a teacher, had mounted the steps leading to the little organ.
The teacher played a simple devotional prelude for the 'Litany
to the Virgin. ' A pure fresh voice, of brilliant quality, rang out
and permeated the chapel, waking its sleeping echoes; a young
yearning voice, crying with the ardor of an invocation, “Sancta
Maria! " And from below, all the pupils responded in the minor
key, "Ora pro nobis! " The singer stood in the light on the
platform of the organ, her face turned towards the altar.
was Giovanna Casacalenda, a tall girl whose white raiment did
not conceal her fine proportions; a girl with a massive head, upon
which her dark hair was piled heavily, and with eyes so black
that they appeared as if painted. She stood there alone, isolated,
infusing all the passion of her youth into her full mellow voice,
delighting in the pleasure of singing as if she had freed herself
and lived in her song. The pupils turned to look at her, with
the joy in music which is inherent in childhood. When the voice
of Giovanna came down to them, the chorus rising from below
answered, "Ora pro nobis! " She felt her triumph. With head
erect, her wondrous black eyes swimming in a humid light, her
right hand resting lightly on the wooden balustrade, her white


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throat throbbing as if for love, she intoned the medium notes,
ran up to the highest ones, and came down gently to the lower,
giving full expression to her song: "Regina Angelorum! " One
moment of silence, in which to enjoy the last notes; then from
below, in enthusiastic answer, came childish and youthful voices:
"Ora pro nobis! " The singer looked fixedly at the altar, but she
seemed to see or hear something beyond it—a vision or music
inaudible to the others. Every now and then a breath passed
through her song, lending it warmth, making it passionate; every
how and then the voice thinned itself to a golden thread, that
sounded like the sweet trill of a bird, while occasionally it sank
to a murmur, with a delicious hesitation.
"Giovanna sees heaven," said Ginevra Avigliana to Artemisia
Minichini.
"Or the stage," rejoined the other skeptically.
Still, when Giovanna came to the poetic images by which the
Virgin is designated,- Gate of Heaven, Vase of Election, Tower
of David, the girls' faces flushed in the ecstasy of that won-
drous music: only Caterina Spaccapietra, who was absorbed, did
not join in, and Lucia Altimare, who wept silently. The tears
coursed down her thin cheeks. They rained upon her bosom and
her hands; they melted away on her apron; and she did not
dry them. Caterina quietly passed her handkerchief to her, but
she took no notice of it. The preacher, Father Capece, went
up the altar steps for the benediction. The Litany ended with
the 'Agnus Dei. ' The voice of the singer seemed overpowered
by sheer fatigue. Once more all the pupils knelt, and the priest
prayed. Giovanna, kneeling at the organ, breathed heavily. After
five minutes of silent prayer, the organ pealed out again slowly
over the bowed heads, and a thrilling resonant voice seemed to
rise from mid-air towards heaven, lending its splendor to the
sacrament in the Tantum Ergo. ' Giovanna was no longer tired;
indeed her song grew in power, triumphant and full of life,
with an ebb and flow that were almost voluptuous. The throb
of its passion passed over the youthful heads below, and a mys-
tic sensation caused their hearts to flutter. In the intensity of
their prayer, in the approach of the benediction, they realized
the solemnity of the moment. It dominated and terrified them,
until it was followed by a painful and exquisite prostration. All
was silent; then a bell rang three peals. For an instant Arte-
misia Minichini dared to raise her eyes; she was alone, looking at
(
―――――――


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MATILDE SERAO
the inert forms upon the chairs, looking boldly at the altar; after
which, overcome by childish fear, she dropped her eyes again.
The holy sacrament, in its sphere of burnished gold, raised
high in the priest's hands, shed its blessing on those assembled
in the church.
"I am dying," gasped Lucia Altimare.
Ar the door of the chapel, in the long gas-lighted corri-
dor, the teachers were waiting to muster the classes, and lead
them to the refectory. The faces were still agitated; but the
little ones hopped and skipped about, and prattled together, and
pinched each other, in all the joyous exuberance of childhood
released from durance vile. As their limbs unstiffened, they
jostled each other, laughing the while. The teachers, running
after some of them, scolding others, half threatening, half coax-
ing, tried to range them in a file of two and two. They began
with the little ones, then came the elder children, and after them
the grown-up girls. The corridor rang with voices, calling:
«< The Blues, where are the Blues? " "Here they are, all of
them. " "Friozzi is missing. " "Where is Friozzi of the Blues? "
"Here! " "In line, and to the left, if you please. " "The Greens,
in line the Greens, or no fruit for dinner to-morrow. " "Quick!
the refectory bell has rung twice already. " "Federici of the
Reds, walk straight! " "Young ladies of the White-and-Greens,
the bell is ringing for the third time. " "Are the Tricolors all
here? " "All. " "Casacalenda is missing. " "She is coming;
she is still at the organ. " "Altimare is missing. "
"Where is Altimare? "
"She was here just now,- she must have disappeared in the
bustle; shall I look for her? "
"Look; and come to the refectory with her. "
Then the corridor emptied, and the refectory filled with light
and merriment. With measured, almost rhythmic step, Caterina
went to and fro in the deserted passages, seeking her friend
Altimare. She descended to the ground floor, called her twice.
from the garden: no answer. Then she mounted the stairs
again, and entered the dormitory. The white beds formed a line
under the crude gaslight: Lucia was not there. A shade of
anxiety began to dawn on Caterina's rosy face. She passed by
the chapel twice, without going in. But the third time, finding
the door ajar, she made up her mind to enter. It was dark


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13143
inside. A lamp burning before the Madonna scarcely relieved.
the gloom. She passed on, half intimidated despite her well-
balanced nerves; for she was alone in the darkness, in church.
Along one of the altar steps, stretched out on the crimson
velvet carpet, a white form was lying, with open arms and pallid
face, a spectral figure. It was Lucia Altimare, who had fainted.
―
THE fan of Artemisia Minichini, made of a large sheet of
manuscript, waved noisily to and fro. .
«Minichini, you disturb the professor," said Friscia, the assist-
ant teacher, without raising her eyes from her crochet work.
"Friscia, you don't feel the heat? " returned Minichini inso-
lently.
"No. "
"You are lucky to be so insensible. "
In the class-room where the Tricolor young ladies were tak-
ing their lesson in Italian history, it was very hot. There were
two windows opening upon the garden, a door leading to the
corridor, three rows of benches, and twenty-four pupils. On a
high raised step stood the table and arm-chair of the professor.
The fans waved hither and thither, some vivaciously, some lan-
guidly. Here and there a head bent over its book as if weighted
with drowsiness. Ginevra Avigliana stared at the professor, nod-
ding as if in approval, though her face expressed entire absence.
of mind. Minichini had put down her fan, opened her pince-nez,
and fixed it impudently upon the professor's face. With her nose
tip-tilted, and a truant lock of hair curling on her forehead, she
laughed her silent laugh that so irritated the teachers. The pro-
fessor explained the lesson in a low voice.
He was small, spare,
and pitiable. He might have been about two-and-thirty; but his
emaciated face, whose dark coloring had yellowed with the pal-
lor of some long illness, proclaimed him a convalescent. A big
scholarly head surmounting the body of a dwarf, a wild thick
mane in which some white hairs were already visible, proud yet
shy eyes, a small, dirty-black beard, thinly planted towards the
thin cheeks, completed his sad and pensive ugliness.
He spoke without gesture, his eyes downcast; occasionally
his right hand moved ever so slightly. Its shadow on the wall
seemed to belong to a skeleton, it was so thin and crooked. He
proceeded slowly, picking his words. These girls intimidated
him some because of their intelligence, others because of their


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13144
impertinence, others simply because of their sex. His scholastic
austerity was perturbed by their shining eyes, by their graceful
and youthful forms; their white garments formed a kind of mi-
rage before his eyes. A pungent scent diffused itself throughout
the class, although perfumes were prohibited; whence came it?
And at the end of the third bench, Giovanna Casacalenda, who
paid not the slightest attention, sat, with half-closed eyes, furi-
ously nibbling a rose. Here in front, Lucia Altimare, with hair
falling loose about her neck, one arm hanging carelessly over the
bench, resting her brow against her hand and hiding her eyes,
looked at the professor through her fingers; every now and then
she pressed her handkerchief to her too crimson lips, as if to
mitigate their feverishness. The professor felt upon him the
gaze that filtered through her fingers; while, without looking at
her, he could see Giovanna Casacalenda tearing the rose to
pieces with her little teeth. He remained apparently imperturba-
ble, still discoursing of Carmagnola and the conspiracy of Fiesco,
addressing himself to the tranquil face of Caterina Spaccapietra,
who penciled rapid notes in her copy-book.
"What are you writing, Pentasuglia? " asked the teacher
Friscia, who had been observing the latter for some time.
"Nothing," replied Pentasuglia, reddening.
"Give me that scrap of paper. "
"What for? There is nothing on it. "
«Give me that scrap of paper. "
"It is not a scrap of paper," said Minichini audaciously, tak-
ing hold of it as if to hand it to her. "It is one, two, three,
four, five, twelve useless fragments"
To save her schoolfellow, she had torn it to shreds. There
was silence in the class: they trembled for Minichini. The
teacher bent her head, tightened her thin lips, and picked up her
crochet again as if nothing had happened. The professor ap-
peared to take no notice of the incident, as he looked through
his papers; but his mind must have been inwardly disturbed. A
flush of youthful curiosity made him wonder what those girls
were thinking of; what they scribbled in their little notes; for
whom their smiles were meant, as they looked at the plaster bust
of the King; what they thought when they drew the tricolor
scarves round their waists. But the ghastly face and false gray
eyes of Cherubina Friscia, the governess, frightened him
"Avigliana, say the lesson. "


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13145
The girl rose, and began rapidly to speak of the Viscontis,
like a well-trained parrot. When asked to give a few historical
comments, she made no reply: she had not understood her own
words.
>>>
"Minichini, say the lesson.
"Professor, I don't know it. "
"And why? "
"Yesterday was Sunday, and we went out, so I could not
study. "
The professor made a note in the register; the young lady
shrugged her shoulders.
"Casacalenda? "
This one made no answer. She was gazing with intense ear-
nestness at her white hands, - hands that looked as if they were
modeled in wax.
"Casacalenda, will you say the lesson ? "
Opening her great eyes as if she were dazed, she began,
stumbling at every word, puzzled, making one mistake upon
another; the professor prompted, and she repeated, with the win-
ning air of a strong, beautiful young animal; she neither knew
nor understood nor was ashamed- maintaining her sculpturesque
placidity, moistening her rustic Diana-like lips, contemplating her
pink nails.
The professor bent his head in displeasure, not dar-
ing to scold that splendid stupid creature, whose voice had such
enchanting modulations.
He made two or three other attempts; but the class, owing
to the preceding holiday, had not studied. This was the expla-
nation of the flowers, the perfumes, and the little notes: the
twelve hours' liberty had upset the girls. Their eyes were full
of visions; they had seen the world yesterday. He drew himself
together, perplexed; a sense of mingled shame and respect kept
every mouth closed. How he loved that science of history! His
critical acumen measured its widest horizons; his was a vast
ideal, and he suffered in having to offer crumbs of it to those
pretty, aristocratic, indolent girls, who would have none of it.
Still young, he had grown old and gray in arduous study; and
now, behold-gay and careless youth, choosing rather to live
than to know, rose in defiance against him. Bitterness welled up
to his lips, and went out towards those creatures, thrilling with
life and contemptuous of his ideal; bitterness in that he could not
like them be beautiful and vigorous, and revel in heedlessness,


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13146
MATILDE SERAO
and be beloved. Anguish rushed through his veins, from his
heart, and poisoned his brain, that he should have to humiliate
his knowledge before those frivolous, scarcely human girls. But
the gathering storm was held back; and nothing of it was per-
ceptible save a slight flush on his meagre cheek bones.
"Since none of you have studied," he said slowly, in a low
voice, none of you can have done the composition. "
«<
"Altimare and I have done it," answered Caterina Spaccapie-
tra. "We did not go home," she added apologetically, to avoid
offending her friends.
"Then you read, Spaccapietra: the subject is, I think, Beatrice
di Tenda. "
"Yes: Beatrice di Tenda. "
Spaccapietra stood up and read, in her pure, slow voice:-
"Ambition had ever been the ruling passion of the Viscontis of
Milan, who shrank from naught that could minister to the mainte-
nance of their sovereign power. Filippo Maria, son of Gian Galeazzo,
who had succeeded his brother Gian Galeazzo, differed in no way
from his predecessors. For the love of gain, this prince espoused
Beatrice di Tenda, the widow of a condottiere (a soldier of fortune);
a virtuous and accomplished woman of mature age. She brought
her husband in dowry the dominions of Tortona, Novara, Vercelli,
and Alessandria; but he tired of her as soon as he had satisfied his
thirst for wealth. He caused her to be accused of unfaithfulness to
her wifely duty, with a certain Michele Orombello, a simple squire.
Whether the accusation was false or made in good faith, whether
the witnesses were to be relied upon or not, Beatrice di Tenda was
declared guilty, and with Michele Orombello mounted the scaffold in
the year 1418, which was the forty-eighth of her life, she having
been born in 1370,"
Caterina had folded up her paper, and the professor was still
waiting; two minutes elapsed.
"Is there no more? "
"No. "
«<
Really, is that all? »
"All. "
"It is a very meagre composition, Spaccapietra. It is but
the bare narrative of the historical fact, as it stands in the text-
book. Does not the hapless fate of Beatrice inspire you with any
sympathy? "


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13147
"I don't know," murmured the young scholar, pale with emo-
tion.
"Yet you are a woman. It so happens that I had chosen a
theme which suggests the manifestation of a noble impulse; say
of pity, or contempt for the false accusation. But in this form the
story turns to mere chronology. The composition is too meagre.
You have no imagination, Spaccapietra. "
"Yes, professor," replied the young girl submissively, as she
took her seat again, while tears welled to her eyes.
"Let us hear Altimare. "
Lucia appeared to start out of a lethargy. She sought for
some time among her papers, with an ever increasing expres-
sion of weariness. Then, in a weak inaudible voice, she began
to read, slowly, dragging the syllables, as if overpowered by an
invincible lassitude.