# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 55

CHAPTER XXVIII.
"And feel the shadow of the grave Long ere the grave Itself be gained." L. E. L.
"Are you equal, dearest Guido, to hearing a letter read which has arrived this morning from Richard Arden?" said Francesca, approaching the bedside of the invalid with that light step which seems born of the stillness of a sick room—lost in the deep-drawn breath of exhaustion and pain.
"I have been thinking so much about him!" exclaimed Guido. "Are we likely to see him again? Methinks he must return; none can with impunity sever every link that binds them to their kindred and to their country. Earth were too desolate without some resting-place."
"He has, indeed, found a resting-place, but a gloomy one. He has by this time entered the monastery of La Trappe." ​ "Holy Virgin!" exclaimed Guido, "He has annihilated the present and the future. How will he ever endure the perpetual presence of the past?"
"Think," replied Francesca, "How much he needs repose."
"He can have it," answered he, "in no shape but torpor—at least on this side the grave. But do read the letter."
Francesca seated herself beside the pillow, and began the following epistle:—
"Dearest Children, "I had deemed that my words of farewell, when I left my brother's house, were the last I should ever address to the only objects of earth to which my heart yet clings. But it is very hard to break at once all the bonds whereby our vain affections fetter us. I still think of you, still wish to be remembered by you, still believe that you take an interest in my fate; that you will wish to know where my weary steps have found rest, and my wretchedness sought a place of refuge at last.
"It was very sad to leave you; but deep in my inmost soul was written, that the happiness of loving and being loved was not for me. I lived in one perpetual fear of the evil that I might bring upon those for whose welfare I would have laid ​down my life. My spirits grew lighter as I increased my distance from you, however the weakness of my human nature might pine to return. I knew that I was removing the curse far from you; and my sorrow, my suffering—had I not stored them up for myself?
"I arrived in Paris, but a residence there was insupportable. The noise, the gay crowds, vexed me with a constant self-consciousness. I could never call up, vivid almost as life, the image of her I loved so deeply. She, who of late had so often stood beside me, with softened look and forgiving eyes, came upon my solitude no more; there was no quiet in that stirring and troubled city. I had no part in its pleasures, I took no concern in its business; why was I to be haunted with their echo?
"I left Paris, and wandered forth by chance;—by chance, did I say?—by that fate which has governed my whole life, and has relented towards me at last. The long shadows of the summer twilight rested on the venerable building as I approached; the soft gray light seemed scarcely to penetrate the arched windows, and not a breath of air stirred the huge boughs of the old trees that spread their quiet around the place. Repose was in the atmosphere—so calm, and so subdued. ​The sky, where the passionate hues of sunset had faded into a clear cold blue—the noiseless leaves, which drooped from the heavy branches—the ancient pile, where the ivy hung undisturbed—the stillness, unbroken by a sound—all seemed to whisper to my soul, 'Here is rest.'
"I entered the chapel, and above the altar hung a picture of the Virgin. A gleam of light came from a western window, and fell upon the face of my Beatrice! Her face—but calm, beautiful, and unearthly. I met the radiant eyes turned towards me, and they looked pardon and peace. For the first time I hid my brow in my hands, and wept bitterly; and it was as if these tears washed away the weight which had oppressed me. I looked up again, and still met that sweet look of hope and love. A longing for death seemed to take possession of me; or, if I could not die, to assimilate life to death as much as possible. All the busy concerns of daily existence were utterly abhorrent to me. I loathed the sound of others' voices—I hated to be mixed up with their petty routine of ordinary cares; here was an asylum offered to me—here I might lay down all the offices of humanity, and dwell beside that grave whose rest was now my only desire.
"To-morrow I take the vows of La Trappe— ​not in a vain belief that penance may efface the past;—no, if years of desperate despair—of that agony which lays prostrate body and mind—may not avail, no form, no prayer, may, can have greater power. I enter the gloomy abbey, because its solitude offers me all that I seek. I desire no communion with my fellow-men; in the treasury of my remembrance are garnered the few thoughts that are precious, and they are sacred to myself alone. I do not need to speak of them—to me language has long lost its sweetness and its privilege. To live so mechanically that nothing in life can break in upon my meditations—to gaze on that most lovely and beloved face, and dream that even so it will meet me beyond the grave—to be so utterly by myself that no evil influence of mine can extend to those still very dear—is all I ask on this side the tomb.
"I feel calm—even content. The quiet of the sacred walls is on me even now. I could deem, that they had power to sanctify my words; and I almost—yes, I do—dare to say, God bless you! and farewell!
"R. Arden."
Francesca's tears fell fast upon the scroll, and some time elapsed before either could speak. Guido was the first to break the silence.
​ "What a vain dream it is," exclaimed he, "which we call life! First comes the fever, and then the exhaustion. We wear ourselves out with hopes that, night after night, haunt a sleepless pillow—with daily exertions whereof we reap not the fruit. We love, and are unrequited—we believe, and are deceived; and from first to last, our existence is a mockery—the fulfilled hope and the realised desire the worst of all; for then we find how utterly worthless is that for which we craved, and for which we have toiled even unto weariness. We talk of our energies and of our will—we are the mere playthings of subtle and malignant chances."
"And yet," returned Francesca, "the secret of Arden's sufferings seems to have been in himself. From earliest youth he indulged in vain contrasts and repinings, and even his very love was selfish and cruel. Think how much happiness he lost by his perpetual exaggerations!"
"And from what did that exaggeration arise, but from his morbid and sensitive temperament? Could he help that?"
Francesca felt instantly that Guido had made the subject a personal one—that he was speaking of Arden, but thinking of himself. It could do no good to contradict one whom now it was her dearest ​wish to soothe; and, by way of attracting his attention, she said,—"Was it not you, Guido, who were telling me of a young maiden, whose lover, in some sudden passion of jealousy or despair, had taken the vows at La Trappe, and who, disguising her sex, followed him to his gloomy retreat, wore the habit, observed the ordinances of that mournful body, and preserved her secret till death? Of all the many instances of woman's strong and enduring affection, none ever produced upon me an impression so forcible. Think of a young, beautiful, and delicately nurtured female, giving up not only the world, with its vanities and its pleasures, but all comfort, all companionship, all feminine employment, not denied to the nun of the strictest order. She renounced them all to live in seclusion, silence, and perpetual dread; for what but a cruel death could have awaited her had her secret been discovered save when dying. And this melancholy, this isolated existence, was dragged on, unsupported by any hope, for no change of circumstance could affect her position; and unsoothed by the thought that her great devotion was held precious by him for whom it was exercised. Not one of the ordinary motives—the vanity or the selfishness which people call by the name of love—actuated her through this long trial; she had ​everything to fear, and nothing to expect. What creation of the poet ever exceeded this terrible reality of love sepulchred in this living tomb? I often marvel to myself what were her feelings when a shadow fell across the path, and she looked upon one of those shrouded and flitting shapes, and dared not ask if the cowl hid the face which she most desired to see!—and yet this went on for years!"
"Enough, my sister!" exclaimed Guido; "I do not like to think of it. What is this story but another instance of the cruel fate whose iron rule is over our world. The love wasted in this pitiless cloister would have made the happiness of a life."