"Before that fatal day at Pompeii—the first day of my real existence—I had a treasury of feelings, of impressions, of ideas, my own personal ones, by which my life was regulated, or rather by which it was disturbed; they were swept away, they were destroyed, they disappeared from my soul on that day. To you, who showed me how great my fault was, to you, who trampled down all that I had cared for, I bow my head, I bow my spirit. You were right. You are right. You only are right. You are always right. I want to convince you that I see the truth clearly now. Let me walk behind you, let me follow you, as a servant follows her master. Ah, give me a little strength you who are strong, you who have never erred, you who have conquered yourself and the world. Give me strength, you who seem to me the model of calmness and justice—above all hazards, because you have known how to suffer in silence, above all human joy, because you understand its emptiness; and yet so kind, so indulgent, so quick to forgive, because you are a man and never forget to be a man.
"You despise me, that is certain; for all strong natures must despise weakness. But it is also certain that you pity me, because I am buffeted about by the storms of life, without a compass, without a star. I have already once been wrecked; in that wreck I left behind me years of health and hope, the best part of my youthful faith. And now I am in danger of being wrecked again, utterly and for ever, unless you save me.
"Say what you will to me; do what you will with me. Insult me, after having despised me. But don't leave me to my weakness, don't withdraw your support from me. It is my only help.
"What shall I call you? Friend?
"Friend, I shall be lost if you do not save me, if you refuse to allow my soul to follow yours, strengthened by your strength, if you cast me out from your spiritual presence, if you do not give me the support that my life finds in yours. Friend, friend, friend, don't cast me off. Say what you will, do what you will, but don't separate me from you. If you do, I shall die. I, a beggar, knock at your door."
The letter continued—
"You wounded me profoundly when you said that it was perhaps Giustino Morelli, the man for whose sake I refused to marry Luigi Caracciolo. I can't hear the bare name of Morelli, without shuddering with contempt. It isn't that I am angry with him, no, no. It is that he does not exist for me; he is the vain shadow of a dead man. On the evening of "The Huguenots,"—ah me! that music sings constantly in my soul, I shall never forget it—he was there, and I didn't see him, I wouldn't see him. I don't hate him. He was a poor, weak fool; honest perhaps, for you have said so; but small in heart and mind! And thus my contempt for him is really contempt for myself, who made an idol of him. How was I ever able to be so blind? When I think of it, I wring my hands in desperation, for it was before him that I burned the first pure incense of my heart. I shall never forgive myself."
Cesare Dias read this letter twice through. Then he left his house to go about his affairs and his pleasures. Returning home, he read it for a third time. Thereupon he wrote the following note, which he immediately sent off.
"Dear Anna,—All that you say is very well; but I don't know yet who the man is that you love.—Very cordially, Cesare Dias."
She read it, and answered with one line: "I love you.—Anna Acquaviva."