I know why I am wretched, I know why God has forsaken me. Always when
God forsakes me, when all the living springs of my soul are dry, and the
living germs are parched, and my heart becomes as a dead sea, I know the
reason why. It is because I have heard sweet music behind me, and have
looked back; or because the wind has brought me the scent of blossoming
fields beside my path, and I have paused; or because the mist has risen
before me, and I have been afraid; or because a thorn has pierced my
foot, and I have felt vexation. Moments, flashes, but in that moment the
door opens, an evil breath enters! It is always thus: an earnest glance,
a word of praise enjoyed, an image lingered over, an offence recalled,
any one of these suffices; the evil breath has time to enter.
And now all of these causes are joined together! Darkness descended upon
my path; I set my foot in the soft grass, I felt it; I withdrew my foot,
but not at once. Why do I speak in figures? Write, write the naked
truth, cowardly hand! Write that this house is a nest of ease, and that,
if I have enjoyed the soft bed, the fine linen, the odour of lavender, I
have delighted still more in the conversation of Giovanni Selva, in the
readings, which have filled me with the joys of the intellect, in the
presence of two young and pure women, cultured and full of grace, in
their secret admiration, in the perfume of a sentiment which I believe
one of them harbours, in the vision of a life of retirement in this
nest, with these beings, far from all that is vulgar, all that is low,
unclean, and loathsome.
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