CHAPTER XXIV. — BEATRICE’S JOURNAL
BRANDON HALL
September 1, 1848.—Paolo Langhetti used to say that it was useful to keep a diary; not one from day to day, for each day’s events are generally trivial, and therefore not worthy of record; but rather a statement in full of more important events in one’s life, which may be turned to in later years. I wish I had begun this sixteen months ago, when I first came here. How full would have been my melancholy record by this time!
Where shall I begin?
Of course, with my arrival here, for that is the time when we separated. There is no need for me to put down in writing the events that took place when he was with me. Not a word that he ever spoke, not a look that he ever gave, has escaped my memory. This much I may set down here.
Alas! the shadow of the African forest fell deeply and darkly upon me. Am I stronger than other women, or weaker? I know not. Yet I can be calm while my heart is breaking. Yes, I am at once stronger and weaker; so weak that my heart breaks, so strong that I can hide it.
I will begin from the time of my arrival here.
I came knowing well who the man was and what he was whom I had for my father. I came with every word of that despairing voyager ringing in my ears—that cry from the drifting Vishnu, where Despard laid down to die. How is it that his very name thrills through me? I am nothing to him. I am one of the hateful brood of murderers. A Thug was my father—and my mother who? And who am I, and what?
At least my soul is not his, though I am his daughter. My soul is myself, and life on earth can not last forever. Hereafter I may stand where that man may never approach.