No
passion, save of the senses; no holy tenderness, nor the delicacy
that results from this. Externally they bear a close resemblance to
other men, and have perhaps all save the finest grace; but when a
woman wrecks herself on such a being, she ultimately finds that the
real womanhood within her has no corresponding part in him. Her
deepest voice lacks a response; the deeper her cry, the more dead his
silence. The fault may be none of his; he cannot give her what never
lived within his soul. But the wretchedness on her side, and the
moral deterioration attendant on a false and shallow life, without
strength enough to keep itself sweet, are among the most pitiable
wrongs that mortals suffer.
Now, as I looked down from my upper region at this man and woman,--
outwardly so fair a sight, and wandering like two lovers in the
wood,--I imagined that Zenobia, at an earlier period of youth, might
have fallen into the misfortune above indicated. And when her
passionate womanhood, as was inevitable, had discovered its mistake,
here had ensued the character of eccentricity and defiance which
distinguished the more public portion of her life.
Seeing how aptly matters had chanced thus far, I began to think it
the design of fate to let me into all Zenobia's secrets, and that
therefore the couple would sit down beneath my tree, and carry on a
conversation which would leave me nothing to inquire. No doubt,
however, had it so happened, I should have deemed myself honorably
bound to warn them of a listener's presence by flinging down a
handful of unripe grapes, or by sending an unearthly groan out of my
hiding-place, as if this were one of the trees of Dante's ghostly
forest.
Pages:
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134