Alas! my dear and only friend, for nearly ten years now I have been struggling.  This battle with men and things, in which I have unceasingly poured out my strength and energy, and so constantly worn the springs of desire, has, so to speak, undermined my vitality.  With all the appearance of a strong man of good health, I feel myself a wreck.  Every day carries with it a shred of my inmost life.  At every fresh effort I feel that I should never be able to begin again.  I have no power, no vigor left but for happiness; and if it should never come to crown my head with roses, the me that is really me would cease to exist, I should be a ruined thing.  I should wish for nothing more in the world.  I should want to cease from living.  You know that power and fame, the vast moral empire that I crave, is but secondary; it is to me only a means to happiness, the pedestal for my idol.

“To reach the goal and die, like the runner of antiquity!  To see fortune and death stand on the threshold hand in hand!  To win the beloved woman just when love is extinct!  To lose the faculty of enjoyment after earning the right to be happy!—­Of how many men has this been the fate!

“But there surely is a moment when Tantalus rebels, crosses his arms, and defies hell, throwing up his part of the eternal dupe.  That is what I shall come to if anything should thwart my plan; if, after stooping to the dust of provincial life, prowling like a starving tiger round these tradesmen, these electors, to secure their votes; if, after wrangling in these squalid cases, and giving them my time—­the time I might have spent on Lago Maggiore, seeing the waters she sees, basking in her gaze, hearing her voice —­if, after all, I failed to scale the tribune and conquer the glory that should surround the name that is to succeed to that of Argaiolo!  Nay, more than this, Leopold; there are days when I feel a heady languor; deep disgust surges up from the depths of my soul, especially when, abandoned to long day-dreams, I have lost myself in anticipation of the joys of blissful love!  May it not be that our desire has only a certain modicum of power, and that it perishes, perhaps, of a too lavish effusion of its essence?  For, after all, at this present, my life is fair, illuminated by faith, work, and love.

“Farewell, my friend; I send love to your children, and beg you to
remember me to your excellent wife.—­Yours,
“ALBERT.”

Rosalie read this letter twice through, and its general purport was stamped on her heart.  She suddenly saw the whole of Albert’s previous existence, for her quick intelligence threw light on all the details, and enabled her to take it all in.  By adding this information to the little novel published in the Review, she now fully understood Albert.  Of course, she exaggerated the greatness, remarkable as it was, of this lofty soul and potent will, and her love for Albert thenceforth became a passion, its violence enhanced