attached to the very rocks and trees, and it seems to me that all created things are friends whom God has given me.”
“You encourage me to explain, in my turn, what passes within me. I have a genuine affection for the objects that are, so to speak, my daily companions, and every night, before going to my tower, I come here to take leave of the glaciers of Ruitorts, the dense woods of Mont St. Bernard, and the fantastic peaks that overlook the valley of the Rhine. Though the power of God is as evident in the creation of an ant as in that of the whole universe, the grand spectacle of yonder mountains fills me with greater awe. I cannot look at those lofty elevations, covered with eternal glaciers, without being filled with solemn wonder. But in the vast landscape spread out before me, I have favorite views to which I turn with special pleasure. Among these is the hermitage you see yonder on the top of Mount Charvensod. Alone in the woods, near a deserted pasture, it catches the last rays of the setting sun. Though I have never been there, I feel a peculiar pleasure in looking at it. When the daylight is fading away, seated in my garden, I turn my eyes toward that lonely hermitage, to seek rest for my imagination. I have learned to look upon it as a kind of property. It seems as if I had some confused reminiscence of once living there in happier days which I cannot fully recall. I love especially to gaze at the distant mountains, which look like a cloud on the horizon. Distance, like the future, inspires me with hope. My overburdened heart imagines there may be a far-off land where, at some future time, I may at length taste the happiness for which I sigh, and which a secret instinct is constantly assuring me is possible.”
“With such an ardent soul as yours, you must have passed through many struggles in resigning yourself to your lot, instead of yielding to despair.”
“I should deceive you in allowing you to think I have always been resigned to my lot. I have not attained that self-abnegation to which some anchorites have arrived. The entire sacrifice of all human affection has not yet been accomplished. My life has been one continual combat, and the powerful influences of religion itself are not always able to repress the flights of my imagination. It often draws me, in spite of myself, into a whirlpool of vain desires, which tend toward a world I have no knowledge of, but strange visions of which are ever present to torment me.”
“If you could read my soul and learn my opinion of the world, all your desires and your regrets would instantly vanish.”
“Books have vainly taught me the perversity of mankind, and the misfortunes inseparable from humanity: my heart refuses to believe them. I am continually representing to myself circles of sincere and virtuous friends; suitable marriages full of the happiness resulting from health, youth, and fortune. I imagine them wandering together through groves greener and fresher than the trees above me, with a sun more dazzling than that which brightens my world, and their lot seems worthy of envy in proportion to the misery of mine. At the beginning of spring, when the wind from Piedmont blows through our valley, I feel its vivifying warmth penetrating me, and a thrill passes over me in spite of myself. I have an inexplicable desire, and a confused notion of a boundless happiness that I am capable of enjoying, but which is denied me. Then I fly from my cell, and wander in the fields,
that I may breathe more freely. I avoid the very sight of the men whom my heart longs to embrace, and from the top of the hill, concealed among the bushes like a wild beast, I gaze towards the city of Aosta. With envious eyes I see afar off its happy inhabitants, to whom I am scarcely known. I stretch forth my hands towards them, and, with groans, ask for my share of happiness. In my agony—shall I acknowledge it?—I have sometimes thrown my arms around the trees of the forest, imploring Almighty God to infuse life into them that I may have a friend! But the trees make no response, their coldness repels me, they have nothing in common with my throbbing heart, which is aflame. Overcome by fatigue, weary of life, I drag myself back again to my asylum, I lay my torments before God, and prayer restores somewhat of calmness to my soul.”
“So, poor, unfortunate man, you suffer at once all the ills of soul and body?”
“The latter are not the most severe!”
“Then you are sometimes freed from them?”