ry; and, as long as he
lives, even if I had to walk on my hands, I would suffer and live. Who
knows what will happen, it is so long since the man in Florence (Charles
Edward) is ill, and still he lives, and it seems to me that he is made
of iron in order that we may all die. You will say, in order to console
me, that he can't last; but I see things clearly. This illness has not
made him younger, but he may live another couple of years. He may at any
moment be suffocated by the humours which have risen to his chest. What
a cruel thing to expect one's happiness from the death of another! O
God! how it degrades one's soul! And yet I cannot refrain from wishing
it. What a thing, what a horrible thing is life; and for me it has been
a continual suffering, all except the two years that I spent with my
friend, and even then I lived in the midst of tears. And you also are
probably not happy; with a heart like yours it is not possible that
you should be. Whoever is born with any feeling can scarcely enjoy
happiness. I recommend our friend to your care, particularly his health.
Mine is not so bad; I take care of myself and stay much in bed to kill
the time and to rest my nerves, which are very weak. Good-bye, dear
Signor Francesco, preserve your friendship for me; I deserve it, since I
appreciate you."

Later on she writes again:--

"Dear Signor Francesco, friend of ours. I do all I can to take courage.
I study as much as I can. Music alone distracts my thoughts, or rather
deadens them, and I play the harp many hours a day, and I do so also
because I know that my friend wishes me to get to play it well. I work
at it as hard as I can. I live only for him; without him life would be
odious to me, and I could not endure it. I do nothing in this world; I
am useless in it; and where is the use of suffering for nothing? But
there is my friend, and I must remain on this earth. I do not doubt of
him; I know how much he loves me. But in moments of suffering I have
fears lest he should find someone who would give him less pain than
myself, with whom he might live cheerful and happy. I ought to wish it,
but I have not got the strength to do so. But I believe so fully in him
that I am satisfied as soon as he tells me that such a thing cannot
happen. I love him more than myself; it is a union of feeling which
we only can understand. I find in him all that I can desire; he is
everything for me; and yet I must suffer separation from him. Certai