![Python for Data Analysis
by Wes McKinney
Copyright © 2013 Wes McKinney. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Published by O’Reilly Media, Inc., 1005 Gravenstein Highway North, Sebastopol, CA 95472.
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Illustrator: Rebecca Demarest
October 2012: First Edition.
Revision History for the First Edition:
2012-10-05 First release
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While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume
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tained herein.
ISBN: 978-1-449-31979-3
[LSI]
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Python for Data Analysis Data Wrangling with Pandas NumPy and IPython 1st Edition Wes Mckinney
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- 8. Python for Data Analysis by Wes McKinney Copyright © 2013 Wes McKinney. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. Published by O’Reilly Media, Inc., 1005 Gravenstein Highway North, Sebastopol, CA 95472. O’Reilly books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. Online editions are also available for most titles (http://my.safaribooksonline.com). For more information, contact our corporate/institutional sales department: 800-998-9938 or [email protected]. Editors: Julie Steele and Meghan Blanchette Production Editor: Melanie Yarbrough Copyeditor: Teresa Exley Proofreader: BIM Publishing Services Indexer: BIM Publishing Services Cover Designer: Karen Montgomery Interior Designer: David Futato Illustrator: Rebecca Demarest October 2012: First Edition. Revision History for the First Edition: 2012-10-05 First release See http://oreilly.com/catalog/errata.csp?isbn=9781449319793 for release details. Nutshell Handbook, the Nutshell Handbook logo, and the O’Reilly logo are registered trademarks of O’Reilly Media, Inc. Python for Data Analysis, the cover image of a golden-tailed tree shrew, and related trade dress are trademarks of O’Reilly Media, Inc. Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book, and O’Reilly Media, Inc., was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed in caps or initial caps. While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information con- tained herein. ISBN: 978-1-449-31979-3 [LSI] 1349356084
- 9. Table of Contents Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi 1. Preliminaries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 What Is This Book About? 1 Why Python for Data Analysis? 2 Python as Glue 2 Solving the “Two-Language” Problem 2 Why Not Python? 3 Essential Python Libraries 3 NumPy 4 pandas 4 matplotlib 5 IPython 5 SciPy 6 Installation and Setup 6 Windows 7 Apple OS X 9 GNU/Linux 10 Python 2 and Python 3 11 Integrated Development Environments (IDEs) 11 Community and Conferences 12 Navigating This Book 12 Code Examples 13 Data for Examples 13 Import Conventions 13 Jargon 13 Acknowledgements 14 2. Introductory Examples . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 1.usa.gov data from bit.ly 17 Counting Time Zones in Pure Python 19 iii
- 10. Counting Time Zones with pandas 21 MovieLens 1M Data Set 26 Measuring rating disagreement 30 US Baby Names 1880-2010 32 Analyzing Naming Trends 36 Conclusions and The Path Ahead 43 3. IPython: An Interactive Computing and Development Environment . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 IPython Basics 46 Tab Completion 47 Introspection 48 The %run Command 49 Executing Code from the Clipboard 50 Keyboard Shortcuts 52 Exceptions and Tracebacks 53 Magic Commands 54 Qt-based Rich GUI Console 55 Matplotlib Integration and Pylab Mode 56 Using the Command History 58 Searching and Reusing the Command History 58 Input and Output Variables 58 Logging the Input and Output 59 Interacting with the Operating System 60 Shell Commands and Aliases 60 Directory Bookmark System 62 Software Development Tools 62 Interactive Debugger 62 Timing Code: %time and %timeit 67 Basic Profiling: %prun and %run -p 68 Profiling a Function Line-by-Line 70 IPython HTML Notebook 72 Tips for Productive Code Development Using IPython 72 Reloading Module Dependencies 74 Code Design Tips 74 Advanced IPython Features 76 Making Your Own Classes IPython-friendly 76 Profiles and Configuration 77 Credits 78 4. NumPy Basics: Arrays and Vectorized Computation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 The NumPy ndarray: A Multidimensional Array Object 80 Creating ndarrays 81 Data Types for ndarrays 83 iv | Table of Contents
- 11. Operations between Arrays and Scalars 85 Basic Indexing and Slicing 86 Boolean Indexing 89 Fancy Indexing 92 Transposing Arrays and Swapping Axes 93 Universal Functions: Fast Element-wise Array Functions 95 Data Processing Using Arrays 97 Expressing Conditional Logic as Array Operations 98 Mathematical and Statistical Methods 100 Methods for Boolean Arrays 101 Sorting 101 Unique and Other Set Logic 102 File Input and Output with Arrays 103 Storing Arrays on Disk in Binary Format 103 Saving and Loading Text Files 104 Linear Algebra 105 Random Number Generation 106 Example: Random Walks 108 Simulating Many Random Walks at Once 109 5. Getting Started with pandas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111 Introduction to pandas Data Structures 112 Series 112 DataFrame 115 Index Objects 120 Essential Functionality 122 Reindexing 122 Dropping entries from an axis 125 Indexing, selection, and filtering 125 Arithmetic and data alignment 128 Function application and mapping 132 Sorting and ranking 133 Axis indexes with duplicate values 136 Summarizing and Computing Descriptive Statistics 137 Correlation and Covariance 139 Unique Values, Value Counts, and Membership 141 Handling Missing Data 142 Filtering Out Missing Data 143 Filling in Missing Data 145 Hierarchical Indexing 147 Reordering and Sorting Levels 149 Summary Statistics by Level 150 Using a DataFrame’s Columns 150 Table of Contents | v
- 12. Other pandas Topics 151 Integer Indexing 151 Panel Data 152 6. Data Loading, Storage, and File Formats . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155 Reading and Writing Data in Text Format 155 Reading Text Files in Pieces 160 Writing Data Out to Text Format 162 Manually Working with Delimited Formats 163 JSON Data 165 XML and HTML: Web Scraping 166 Binary Data Formats 171 Using HDF5 Format 171 Reading Microsoft Excel Files 172 Interacting with HTML and Web APIs 173 Interacting with Databases 174 Storing and Loading Data in MongoDB 176 7. Data Wrangling: Clean, Transform, Merge, Reshape . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177 Combining and Merging Data Sets 177 Database-style DataFrame Merges 178 Merging on Index 182 Concatenating Along an Axis 185 Combining Data with Overlap 188 Reshaping and Pivoting 189 Reshaping with Hierarchical Indexing 190 Pivoting “long” to “wide” Format 192 Data Transformation 194 Removing Duplicates 194 Transforming Data Using a Function or Mapping 195 Replacing Values 196 Renaming Axis Indexes 197 Discretization and Binning 199 Detecting and Filtering Outliers 201 Permutation and Random Sampling 202 Computing Indicator/Dummy Variables 203 String Manipulation 205 String Object Methods 206 Regular expressions 207 Vectorized string functions in pandas 210 Example: USDA Food Database 212 vi | Table of Contents
- 13. 8. Plotting and Visualization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219 A Brief matplotlib API Primer 219 Figures and Subplots 220 Colors, Markers, and Line Styles 224 Ticks, Labels, and Legends 225 Annotations and Drawing on a Subplot 228 Saving Plots to File 231 matplotlib Configuration 231 Plotting Functions in pandas 232 Line Plots 232 Bar Plots 235 Histograms and Density Plots 238 Scatter Plots 239 Plotting Maps: Visualizing Haiti Earthquake Crisis Data 241 Python Visualization Tool Ecosystem 247 Chaco 248 mayavi 248 Other Packages 248 The Future of Visualization Tools? 249 9. Data Aggregation and Group Operations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251 GroupBy Mechanics 252 Iterating Over Groups 255 Selecting a Column or Subset of Columns 256 Grouping with Dicts and Series 257 Grouping with Functions 258 Grouping by Index Levels 259 Data Aggregation 259 Column-wise and Multiple Function Application 262 Returning Aggregated Data in “unindexed” Form 264 Group-wise Operations and Transformations 264 Apply: General split-apply-combine 266 Quantile and Bucket Analysis 268 Example: Filling Missing Values with Group-specific Values 270 Example: Random Sampling and Permutation 271 Example: Group Weighted Average and Correlation 273 Example: Group-wise Linear Regression 274 Pivot Tables and Cross-Tabulation 275 Cross-Tabulations: Crosstab 277 Example: 2012 Federal Election Commission Database 278 Donation Statistics by Occupation and Employer 280 Bucketing Donation Amounts 283 Donation Statistics by State 285 Table of Contents | vii
- 14. 10. Time Series . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289 Date and Time Data Types and Tools 290 Converting between string and datetime 291 Time Series Basics 293 Indexing, Selection, Subsetting 294 Time Series with Duplicate Indices 296 Date Ranges, Frequencies, and Shifting 297 Generating Date Ranges 298 Frequencies and Date Offsets 299 Shifting (Leading and Lagging) Data 301 Time Zone Handling 303 Localization and Conversion 304 Operations with Time Zone−aware Timestamp Objects 305 Operations between Different Time Zones 306 Periods and Period Arithmetic 307 Period Frequency Conversion 308 Quarterly Period Frequencies 309 Converting Timestamps to Periods (and Back) 311 Creating a PeriodIndex from Arrays 312 Resampling and Frequency Conversion 312 Downsampling 314 Upsampling and Interpolation 316 Resampling with Periods 318 Time Series Plotting 319 Moving Window Functions 320 Exponentially-weighted functions 324 Binary Moving Window Functions 324 User-Defined Moving Window Functions 326 Performance and Memory Usage Notes 327 11. Financial and Economic Data Applications . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 329 Data Munging Topics 329 Time Series and Cross-Section Alignment 330 Operations with Time Series of Different Frequencies 332 Time of Day and “as of” Data Selection 334 Splicing Together Data Sources 336 Return Indexes and Cumulative Returns 338 Group Transforms and Analysis 340 Group Factor Exposures 342 Decile and Quartile Analysis 343 More Example Applications 345 Signal Frontier Analysis 345 Future Contract Rolling 347 viii | Table of Contents
- 15. Rolling Correlation and Linear Regression 350 12. Advanced NumPy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 353 ndarray Object Internals 353 NumPy dtype Hierarchy 354 Advanced Array Manipulation 355 Reshaping Arrays 355 C versus Fortran Order 356 Concatenating and Splitting Arrays 357 Repeating Elements: Tile and Repeat 360 Fancy Indexing Equivalents: Take and Put 361 Broadcasting 362 Broadcasting Over Other Axes 364 Setting Array Values by Broadcasting 367 Advanced ufunc Usage 367 ufunc Instance Methods 368 Custom ufuncs 370 Structured and Record Arrays 370 Nested dtypes and Multidimensional Fields 371 Why Use Structured Arrays? 372 Structured Array Manipulations: numpy.lib.recfunctions 372 More About Sorting 373 Indirect Sorts: argsort and lexsort 374 Alternate Sort Algorithms 375 numpy.searchsorted: Finding elements in a Sorted Array 376 NumPy Matrix Class 377 Advanced Array Input and Output 379 Memory-mapped Files 379 HDF5 and Other Array Storage Options 380 Performance Tips 380 The Importance of Contiguous Memory 381 Other Speed Options: Cython, f2py, C 382 Appendix: Python Language Essentials . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 385 Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 433 Table of Contents | ix
- 17. Preface The scientific Python ecosystem of open source libraries has grown substantially over the last 10 years. By late 2011, I had long felt that the lack of centralized learning resources for data analysis and statistical applications was a stumbling block for new Python programmers engaged in such work. Key projects for data analysis (especially NumPy,IPython,matplotlib,andpandas)hadalsomaturedenoughthatabookwritten about them would likely not go out-of-date very quickly. Thus, I mustered the nerve to embark on this writing project. This is the book that I wish existed when I started using Python for data analysis in 2007. I hope you find it useful and are able to apply these tools productively in your work. Conventions Used in This Book The following typographical conventions are used in this book: Italic Indicates new terms, URLs, email addresses, filenames, and file extensions. Constant width Used for program listings, as well as within paragraphs to refer to program elements such as variable or function names, databases, data types, environment variables, statements, and keywords. Constant width bold Shows commands or other text that should be typed literally by the user. Constant width italic Shows text that should be replaced with user-supplied values or by values deter- mined by context. This icon signifies a tip, suggestion, or general note. xi
- 18. This icon indicates a warning or caution. Using Code Examples This book is here to help you get your job done. In general, you may use the code in this book in your programs and documentation. You do not need to contact us for permission unless you’re reproducing a significant portion of the code. For example, writing a program that uses several chunks of code from this book does not require permission. Selling or distributing a CD-ROM of examples from O’Reilly books does require permission. Answering a question by citing this book and quoting example code does not require permission. Incorporating a significant amount of example code from this book into your product’s documentation does require permission. We appreciate, but do not require, attribution. An attribution usually includes the title, author, publisher, and ISBN. For example: “Python for Data Analysis by William Wes- ley McKinney (O’Reilly). Copyright 2012 William McKinney, 978-1-449-31979-3.” If you feel your use of code examples falls outside fair use or the permission given above, feel free to contact us at [email protected]. Safari® Books Online Safari Books Online (www.safaribooksonline.com) is an on-demand digital library that delivers expert content in both book and video form from the world’s leading authors in technology and business. Technology professionals, software developers, web designers, and business and cre- ative professionals use Safari Books Online as their primary resource for research, problem solving, learning, and certification training. Safari Books Online offers a range of product mixes and pricing programs for organi- zations, government agencies, and individuals. Subscribers have access to thousands of books, training videos, and prepublication manuscripts in one fully searchable da- tabasefrompublisherslikeO’ReillyMedia,PrenticeHallProfessional,Addison-Wesley Professional, Microsoft Press, Sams, Que, Peachpit Press, Focal Press, Cisco Press, John Wiley & Sons, Syngress, Morgan Kaufmann, IBM Redbooks, Packt, Adobe Press, FT Press, Apress, Manning, New Riders, McGraw-Hill, Jones & Bartlett, Course Tech- nology, and dozens more. For more information about Safari Books Online, please visit us online. xii | Preface
- 19. How to Contact Us Please address comments and questions concerning this book to the publisher: O’Reilly Media, Inc. 1005 Gravenstein Highway North Sebastopol, CA 95472 800-998-9938 (in the United States or Canada) 707-829-0515 (international or local) 707-829-0104 (fax) We have a web page for this book, where we list errata, examples, and any additional information. You can access this page at http://oreil.ly/python_for_data_analysis. To comment or ask technical questions about this book, send email to [email protected]. For more information about our books, courses, conferences, and news, see our website at http://www.oreilly.com. Find us on Facebook: http://facebook.com/oreilly Follow us on Twitter: http://twitter.com/oreillymedia Watch us on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/oreillymedia Preface | xiii
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- 21. suffering? I do not know. I live on, stupid and inert beneath a burden which crushes me, without killing me." Another letter read: "At last, to-day, at four o'clock, when almost hopeless, I have received your reply. I have read and reread it a thousand times, to find between your words the inexpressible—what you could not express—your soul's secret, something more alive and sweeter than the words written on the soulless paper. I am possessed with a terrible desire for you." So the love-letters cried and groaned, on the table covered with a table-cloth, and loaded with rustic cups in which an innocent infusion peacefully steamed. "You remember," said Hippolyte. "It was the first time that I left Rome, and only for fifteen days." George was absorbed in the memories of his mad infatuation; he sought to revive it within him, and to understand it. But the environing comfort was unfavorable for internal effort. The sensation of this comfort imprisoned his soul, enveloping it loosely. The veiled sunlight, the hot drink, the perfume of the violets, the contact of Hippolyte, benumbed him. "Am I, then, so far from the ardor of former days?" he thought. "No, because during her last absence my anguish was not less cruel." But he did not succeed in filling the interval between the I of long ago and the I of to-day. In spite of all, he could no longer identify himself with the same man of whom those written phrases attested such consternation and despair; he felt that these effusions of his love had become strangers to him, and he also felt all the emptiness of the words. These letters resembled the epitaphs which one reads in cemeteries. Just as the epitaphs give a coarse, false idea of the dead, so these
- 22. letters represented inaccurately the divers conditions of the soul through which his love had passed. He knew well the singular fever which seizes a lover when writing a love-letter. In the heat of this fever, all the different waves of sentiment are agitated and mixed in a confused turmoil. The lover does not know precisely what he wishes to express, and he is embarrassed by the material insufficiency of the terms of endearment; so he gives up trying to describe his internal passion such as it is, and attempts to express its intensity by the exaggeration of the phrases and by the employment of vulgar rhetorical effects. This is the reason why all amorous correspondences resemble each other, and why the language of the most exalted passion is almost as poor as jargon. "In these letters," thought George, "all is violence, excess, convulsion. But where are my delicate feelings? Where my exquisite and complex melancholies? Where my profound and sinuous sorrows, in which my soul went astray as in an inextricable labyrinth?" He now had the regret to perceive that his letters lacked the rarest qualities of his mind—those which he had always cultivated with the greatest care. In the course of his reading, he began to skip the long passages of pure eloquence, and sought instead the indication of particulars—the details of events that had occurred—the allusions to memorable episodes. He found in one letter: "Towards six o'clock I entered mechanically the usual place, the Morteo Garden, where I had seen you so many evenings. The thirty-five minutes that preceded the exact hour of your departure were a torture for me. You left, yes, you left without my having been able to bid you good-by, to cover your face with kisses, to repeat to you once more, 'Don't forget!
- 23. don't forget!' Towards eleven o'clock a kind of instinct made me turn round. Your husband entered with his friend, and the lady who usually accompanies them. Without any doubt, they had come back from seeing you home. I had then such a cruel spasm of pain that I was soon forced to rise and go out. The presence of these three persons, who spoke and laughed as on other evenings, as if nothing new had happened, exasperated me. Their presence was for me the visible and indubitable proof that you were gone, irremissibly gone." He thought over more of the summer evenings, when he had seen Hippolyte seated at a table, between her husband and a captain of infantry, opposite to a little, insignificant woman. He did not know any of these three persons, but he suffered at each of their gestures, at each of their attitudes, and at all that was vulgar in their appearance; and in imagination he pictured to himself the imbecility of the talk to which his refined mistress appeared to pay sustained attention. In another letter he found: "I am in doubt. To-day I feel hostile towards you; I am filled with a dull anger." "That," said Hippolyte, "was the time when I was at Rimini: August and September—what tempestuous months they were! Do you remember when you finally arrived on the Don Juan?" "Here is a letter written on board ship: 'To-day at two o'clock we have anchored at Ancona, having sailed from Porto San Giorgio. Your prayers and wishes have sent us a favorable wind. Marvellous sailing, which I will recount to you. At the break of day we shall again make the offing. The Don Juan is the king of coasters. Your flag floats from the mast-head. Addio—maybe till to-morrow. September 2d.'"
- 24. "We saw one another again; but what days of suffering! Do you remember? We were watched incessantly. Oh, that good sister! Do you recall our visit to the Temple of the Malatestas? Do you remember our pilgrimage to the Church of San Giuliano, the evening before your departure?" "Here is another from Venice." They read it together, with equal palpitation. "Since the ninth, I am at Venice, sadder than ever. Venice stupefies me. The most radiant of dreams does not equal in magnificence this dream of marble which emerges from the waves and blossoms in an illusionary sky. I am dying of melancholy and desire. Why are you not here? Oh! if you had come! If you had only executed your former project! Maybe we should have been able to steal one hour from espionage; and in the treasury of our souvenirs we should have counted one more, the most divine amongst them all." On another leaf they read again: "I have a strange thought, which, from time to time, pierces my soul like a lightning flash, and disturbs my whole being; a foolish thought—a dream. I think that you could come here, suddenly, alone, to be entirely mine!" Further on again: "The beauty of Venice is the natural frame of your beauty. The colors of your complexion, so rich and warm—all pale amber and dull gold, in which are mixed possibly several shades of drooping rose—are the ideal colors which harmonize the most happily with the Venetian air. I do not know how Catherine Cornaro, Queen of Cyprus, looked; but, I do not know why, I imagine she resembled you." "You see," said Hippolyte, "it was a continual seduction, refined and irresistible. I suffered more than you can imagine. Instead of
- 25. sleeping, I passed nights in seeking a means of going out alone, without awakening the suspicions of my guests. I was a prodigy of cleverness. I no longer know what I did. When I found myself alone with you in the gondola, on the Grand Canal, that September dawn, I did not believe that it was real. Do you recollect? I burst into sobs, unable to say a word to you." "But I—I was waiting for you. I was sure that you would come, at any cost." "And that was the first of our great imprudences." "It is true." "What does it matter?" murmured the young woman. "Was it not better so? Was it not better so, now that I belong to you entirely? For my part, I regret nothing." George kissed her on the temple. She spoke for a long time of this episode, which was one of the most pleasant and extraordinary among their souvenirs. They lived over again, minute by minute, the two days of their secret stay at the Hotel Danieli—two days of oblivion, supreme intoxication, in which it seemed as if they had both lost all notion of the world, and all consciousness of their previous being. Those days had marked the commencement of Hippolyte's ruin. The letters which followed alluded to her first trials. "When I think that I am the initial cause of your sufferings and of all your domestic troubles, an inexpressible remorse torments me; and in order to obtain pardon for the ill of which I am the cause, I want you to know the entire depth of my passion. Do you know my passion? Are you sure that my love will be able to repay you for your long anguish? Are you sure of it—certain—deeply convinced of it?" The
- 26. ardor went on increasing page by page. Then, from April to July, there was an obscure interval without documents. It was during these four months that the catastrophe happened. The husband, too weak, not having found any means of conquering Hippolyte's open and obstinate rebellion, had, so to say, taken flight, and left behind him very much involved business affairs, in which he had sunk the greater part of his fortune. Hippolyte had sought refuge with her mother, then with her sister at Caronno, in a country-house. And then a terrible malady from which she had already suffered in her infancy—a nervous malady analogous to epilepsy—seized upon her. The letters dated in August spoke of it: "No, you could never conceive the fright that my mind is in. What tortures me above all is the implacable lucidity of my imaginary vision. I see you writhing—I see your face become distorted and pallid—I see your eyes roll hopelessly beneath their lids; I see your hands shrivelled and shrunk, and between your fingers the curl of torn-out hair; and, whatever effort I make, I cannot succeed in dispelling the terrible vision. And then, I hear you call me; I have actually in my ears the sound of your voice—a hoarse and lamentable sound—the voice of a person who calls for help without the hope of being helped." A little way further on: "You write me: 'If this illness should seize me when I am in your arms! No, no, I will not see you again! I do not wish to see you again!' Were you mad when you wrote that? Did you think of what you wrote? It is as if you had taken my life, as if I could no longer breathe. Quick, another letter! Tell me you will recover, that you still hope, that you want to see me again. You must recover. Do you hear, Hippolyte? You must recover."
- 27. During the convalescence, the letters were gentle and playful. "I send you a flower gathered on the sands. It is a species of wild lily, marvellous when growing, and of an odor so penetrating that I often find at the bottom of the chalice an insect in a swoon of intoxication. The whole coast is covered with these passionate lilies, which, beneath the torrid sun, on the broiling sand, flower in one minute, and only live a few hours. See how charming this flower is, even when dead! See how delicate it is, and fine, and feminine!" Up to the month of November the letters followed one another without interruption; but, little by little, they became bitter, full of suspicions, doubts, reproaches. "How far you have gone from me! I am tortured by something else than the chagrin of mere material separation. It seems to me that your soul has also left and abandoned me. Your fragrance makes others happy. To look at you, to hear you, is not that—to enjoy you? Write to me; tell me that you belong entirely to me, in all your acts, in all your thoughts, and that you desire me, and that you regret me, and that, separated from me, you find no beauty in any instant of life." Further on: "I think, I think, and my thought goads me; and the sting of this thought causes in me an abominable suffering. At times I am seized with a frenzied desire to pluck from my throbbing temples this impalpable thing, which is, however, stronger and more inflexible than a dart. To breathe is an insupportable fatigue for me, and the throbbing of my arteries goes through me as would the sound of hammer blows that I might be condemned to hear. Is that love? Oh, no. It is a kind of monstrous infirmity which can blossom only in me, for my joy and my martyrdom. I please myself by believing that no other human
- 28. creature has ever felt as I do." Further on: "Never, no, never, shall I have complete peace and complete security. I could be content only on one condition—that I absorbed all, all your being; that you and I no longer were more than a single being; that I lived your life; that I thought your thoughts. Or, at least, I would wish that your senses were closed to all sensations that did not originate in me. I am a poor, ill patient. My days are but a long agony. I have rarely desired them to end, as much as I desire and pray for it now. The sun is about to set, and the night which descends on my soul envelops me in a thousand horrors. The shadows issue from every corner of my room and advance towards me as would a live person whose footsteps and breathing I could hear, whose hostile attitude I 'could see.'" To await Hippolyte's return, George had returned to Rome in the first days of November; and the letters dated at that time alluded to a very unhappy and dismal episode. "You wrote me: 'I have had great difficulty in remaining true to you!' What do you mean by that? What were the terrible events which have upset you? My God! How you are changed! It makes me suffer inexpressibly, and my pride is irritated at my suffering. Between my eyebrows is a furrow, deep as the cleft of a wound, in which is heaped my repressed anger, in which gathers all the bitterness of my doubts, my suspicions, my disgusts. I believe that even your kisses would not suffice to rid me of it. Your letters, trembling with desires, disturb me. I am not grateful to you for them. For two or three days, I have something against you in my heart. I do not know what it is. Perhaps a presentiment? Perhaps a divination?"
- 29. While he read, George suffered as from a wound reopened. Hippolyte would have liked to stop him from continuing. She remembered that evening when her husband had called unexpectedly at the house in Caronno, with a cold, calm face, but with the look of a madman, declaring that he had come to take her back; she recalled the moment when she was alone with him, face to face, in an out-of-the-way room, the window curtains of which were blown about by the wind—in which the light abruptly flared up and then decreased—to which the moaning of the trees was borne up from below; she remembered the silent, savage fight sustained then against that man who had suddenly clasped her—horror!—in order to take her by force. "Enough! enough!" she said, drawing George's head to her. "Enough! Don't let us read any more." But he wanted to continue. "I cannot understand the reappearance of that man, and I cannot prevent a feeling of anger which is directed even at you, too. But, to spare you pain, I will abstain from writing you my thoughts on this subject. They are bitter and gloomy thoughts. I feel that my affection is poisoned for some time. It were better, I think, if you never saw me again. If you wish to avoid useless pain, do not return now. Now I am not in a good frame of mind. My soul loves you to adoration; but my thought rends and sullies you. It is a contrast which recommences incessantly, and which will never end." In the next day's letter he wrote: "A pain, an atrocious pain, intolerable, never felt before! O Hippolyte, come back! come back! I want to see you, to speak to you, to caress you. I love you more than ever. Yet, spare me the sight of your bruises. I am incapable of thinking of them without fear
- 30. and without anger. I feel that, if I saw the marks impressed in your flesh by the hands of that man, my heart would break. It is horrible!" "Enough, George! don't let us read anymore!" begged Hippolyte again, taking the loved one's head between her hands, and kissing his eyes. "Please, George!" She succeeded in drawing him away from the table. He smiled that indefinable smile, which sometimes invalids have when they yield to the entreaties of others, knowing full well that the remedy is late and useless. CHAPTER VII. On Good Friday evening they started on their return to Rome. Before their departure, about five o'clock, they took tea. They were taciturn. The simple existence they had led in this old house appeared extraordinarily beautiful and desirable to them, now it was about to end. The intimacy of the modest lodging seemed sweeter and more profound to them. The places where they had promenaded their melancholy and their tenderness were illuminated by ideal lights. It was, then, still another fragment of their love and of their being that fell, annihilated, into the abyss of time. "That, too, is past," said George. "What can I do?" said Hippolyte. "It seems to me as if I could no longer sleep anywhere than on your heart!"
- 31. They looked into each other's eyes, communicating each other's emotion, feeling the rising wave choking their throats. They remained silent; they listened to the regular and monotonous sound made by the pavers beating the pavement. But the irritating noise augmented their uneasiness. "That is insupportable," said George, rising. The measured blows revived in him the sentiment of the flight of time, which he had already so strongly felt; they inspired in him that sort of anxious terror which he had already often experienced when listening to the oscillations of a pendulum. And yet, on the preceding days, had not the same noise lulled him into a vague state of comfort? He thought: "In two or three hours we shall separate. I shall recommence my usual life, which is only a series of petty miseries. My habitual illness will inevitably seize upon me again. Moreover, I know the troubles that Spring revives in me. I shall suffer without cease. And I have already a premonition that one of my most pitiless tormentors will be the idea that Exili has put in my head. If Hippolyte wished to cure me, could she? Maybe, at least partly. Why should she not come with me to some lonely place, not for a week, but for a very long time? She is adorable in intimacy, full of trifling kind attentions and of childish graces. Maybe, by her constant presence, she would succeed in curing me, or at least in making me take life more lightly." He stopped before Hippolyte, took her two hands in his, and asked: "Have you been very happy during these few days? Answer me." His voice was agitated and persuasive. "I was never so happy before," she replied.
- 32. Feeling a deep sincerity in this answer, George pressed her hands with force, and continued: "Will it be possible for you to go back to your every-day existence?" "I do not know," she answered; "I do not look before me. You know all is lost." She lowered her eyes. George seized her in his arms, passionately. "You love me, do you not? I am the only aim of your existence; you see only me in your future." With an unexpected smile, which raised her long eyelashes, she said: "Yes, you know it." He added once more in a low voice, his face bowed down: "You know my malady." She seemed to have guessed her lover's thought. As if in confidence, in a whispering voice which seemed to draw closer the circle in which they breathed and palpitated together, she asked, "What can I do to cure you?" They were silent, clasped in each other's arms. But in the silence their two souls dwelt and decided upon the same thing. "Come with me," he cried, at length. "Let us go to some unknown country; let us stay there all Spring, all Summer, as long as we can—that will cure me." Without hesitation she replied: "I am ready. I belong to you." They disengaged themselves, comforted. The hour of departure had come; they strapped the last valise. Hippolyte gathered all her flowers, already withered in the glasses: the violets of the Villa Cesarini, the cyclamens, the anemones, and the periwinkles of the Chigi Park, the simple roses of the Castel-Gandolfo, a branch of an
- 33. almond-tree gathered in the neighborhood of Diana's Baths, on their way home from the Emissary. These flowers could have told all their idylls. Oh, the frolicsome course in the park, in descending a steep incline, on the dry leaves in which their feet sank to the ankles! She shouted and laughed, pricked on the legs by the sharp nettles through the fine stockings: and then, before her, George beat down the sharp stems with blows of his cane, so that she could trample upon them without danger. Very green and innumerable nettles adorned the Diana's Baths, the mysterious cave in which favorable echoes were transformed into the music of slowly dropping water. And, from the depths of the humid shadow, they saw the country all covered with almond-trees and silver-and-pink peach trees, infinitely delightful beneath the light-green pallor of the limpid waters. So many flowers, so many souvenirs! "See," she said, showing George a ticket, "it is the ticket for Segni-Paliano! I shall keep it." Pancrazio knocked at the door. He brought George the receipted bill. In the emotion produced by the signor's generosity, he was all confused in his expressions of thanks and good wishes. Finally, he drew two visiting-cards from his pocket, and offered them to the signor and signora to recall to them his humble name, begging to be excused for his boldness. Scarcely had he retired than the false newly wed couple began to laugh. The cards bore, in pompous letters, PANCRAZIO PETRELLA. "I will keep them too as a remembrance," said Hippolyte. Pancrazio knocked a second time at the door. He brought signora a gift—four or five magnificent oranges. His eyes sparkled in
- 34. his rubicund visage. He warned them, "It is time to go down." In descending the staircase the two lovers felt a certain sadness and a sort of fear fall upon them, as if on leaving this peaceful asylum they were about to face some unknown peril. The old hotel- keeper took leave of them at the door, saying with regret, "I had such beautiful larks for this evening." George answered, with a contraction of his lips: "We will come again soon—we will come again soon." While they proceeded to the station the sun sank below the sea, at the extreme horizon of the Roman campagna fiery-colored amidst the thick mists. At Cecchina it began to drizzle. When they separated, Rome, on that Good Friday evening, humid and foggy, appeared to them like a city in which one could only die. II. THE PATERNAL ROOF. CHAPTER I. About the end of April, Hippolyte left for Milan where her sister, whose mother-in-law was dying, had called her. George Aurispa had arranged to leave also, in search of a new and unfrequented place. Towards the middle of May they were to meet again.
- 35. But, just at that time, George received an alarming letter from his mother. She was unhappy, almost in despair. In consequence, he could no longer defer his return to the paternal house. When he became convinced that his duty urged him to hasten at once where there was real sorrow, he was seized by feelings of anguish which overcame by degrees his first sentiment of filial piety, and he felt rise within him a sharp irritation which increased in acuteness as the scenes of the coming conflict, clearer and more numerous, surged through his conscience. And this irritation soon became so acute that it dominated him entirely, persistently nourished by the material annoyances of the departure, by the heart-breaking farewells. The separation was more cruel than ever. George passed through a period of the most intense sensibility; the exasperation of all his nerves kept him in a constant state of uneasiness. He appeared to no longer believe in the promised happiness, the future peace. When Hippolyte bade him good-by, he asked: "Shall we meet again?" When he kissed her lips for the last time, as she passed through the door, he noticed that she lowered a black veil over the kiss, and this insignificant trifle caused him profound distress, assumed in his imagination the importance of a sinister presentiment. On arriving at Guardiagrele, at his birthplace, under the paternal roof, he was so exhausted that, when he embraced his mother, he began to cry like a child. But neither the embrace nor his tears comforted him. It seemed to him that he was a stranger in his own home—that he was visiting a family which was not his own. This singular sensation of isolation, already experienced under other
- 36. circumstances connected with his kin, returned now more vivid and more importunate than ever. A thousand little particulars of the family life irritated him, hurt him. During lunch, during dinner, certain silences, during which only the sounds of the forks were heard, made him feel horribly uncomfortable. Certain refinements, to which he was accustomed, received every moment a sudden and painful shock. The air of discord, hostility, and open warfare which weighed heavily on this household almost choked him. The very evening of his arrival, his mother had taken him aside to recount her troubles and her ailments, to tell him about the bad behavior and dissoluteness of her husband. In a voice trembling with anger, looking at him with tears in her eyes, she had said to him: "Your father is an infamous man!" Her eyelids were somewhat swollen, reddened by the large tears; her cheeks were hollow; her whole person bore the signs of long-endured suffering. "He is an infamous man! A wretch!" As he went upstairs to his bedroom, George still had the sound of her voice in his ears; he saw before him his mother's attitude; he continued to hear the ignominious accusations against the man whose blood ran in his veins. And his heart was so heavy that he believed he could carry it no longer. But, suddenly, a furious rapture created a diversion, carried his thoughts back to his absent mistress; and he felt that he owed his mother no thanks for reciting to him all those woes—he felt he would have liked much better not to know of, or in any way to occupy himself with, anything but his love, to suffer from nothing but his love.
- 37. He entered his room, and locked himself in. The May moon illuminated the windows of the balconies. Thirsty for the night air, he opened the windows, leaned on the balustrade, drank in with deep breaths the cool air of the night. An infinite peace reigned below in the valley; and the Majella, still all white with snow, seemed to deepen the azure by the solemn simplicity of its outlines. Guardiagrele, like a flock of sheep, slept around the Santa Maria Maggiore. A single window lit up, in the house opposite, made a spot of yellowish light. He forgot his recent wound. Before the splendor of the night he had but one single thought—"This is a night lost to happiness!" He began to listen. Amidst the silence, he heard the stamping of a horse in a neighboring stable, then a feeble tinkling of small bells. His eyes wandered to the lighted window; and in the rectangle of light he saw shadows flit, as of persons in active motion within. He listened intently. He believed he heard a light knock at his door. He went to open it, although not sure. It was his aunt Joconda. She entered. "Have you forgotten me?" she said, kissing him. In fact, not having seen her when he arrived, he had not thought of her. He excused himself, took her hand, made her sit down, spoke to her in an affectionate tone. Aunt Joconda, his father's eldest sister, was almost sixty. She limped as the result of a fall, and she was rather short, but an unhealthy stoutness, flabby, pallid. Given entirely to religious practices, she lived by herself in her room, on the top floor of the house, without having almost any connection with the family, neglected, but little loved, considered as being weak-minded. Her
- 38. little world was full of consecrated images, relics, emblems, symbols; she did nothing else but follow religious exercises, doze in the monotony of her prayers, endure the cruel tortures caused by her gormandizing. She had a greedy passion for confectionery, and all other nourishment she had no taste for. But often she lacked sweets; and George was her favorite, because, each time he came to Guardiagrele, he brought her a box of bon-bons and a box of rossolis. "So," she said in a mumbling voice from between her almost empty gums, "so you have come back—eh! eh! You have come back ——" She regarded him with a sort of timidity, finding nothing else to say; but a manifest expectancy showed in her eyes. And George felt his heart contract with anxious pity. "This miserable creature," thought he, "has sunk to the lowest degradations of human nature; I am bound to this poor bigoted gormand by ties of blood; I am of her race!" A visible uneasiness had taken possession of Aunt Joconda; a look that was almost impudent came into her eyes. She repeated: "So—so." "Oh! forgive me, Aunt Joconda," he said at last, with a painful effort. "I forgot to bring you some candy." The old woman changed countenance, as if she were on the point of fainting; her eyes became dim; she stuttered: "It doesn't matter——" "But to-morrow I will get you some," added George consolingly, yet with a sinking heart. "I will write——"
- 39. The old woman became livelier. She said very rapidly: "You know, at the Ursulines ... it's to be had." A silence followed, during which Aunt Joconda had, without doubt, a foretaste of the morrow's delicacies; because her toothless mouth gave forth the little sound that one makes in re-swallowing the superabundant saliva. "My poor George! Ah! if I had not my George! You see, what has occurred in this house is a punishment from heaven. But go, boy, go out on the balcony and look at the vases. I—I am the only one who waters them; I always think of George; formerly, I had Demetrius, but now I have no one but you." She rose, took her nephew by the hand, and led him to one of the balconies. She showed him the flowering vases; she plucked a bergamot leaf and held it out to him. She stooped down to feel if the earth were dry. "Wait!" she said. "Where are you going, Aunt Joconda?" "Wait!" She went off with her limping gait, left the room, returned a minute later with a pitcher full of water which she could scarcely carry. "But, aunt, why do you do this work? Why give yourself this trouble?" "The vases require to be watered. If I did not think of them, who would?" She sprinkled the vases. Her respiration was heavy, and the hoarse panting of her senile chest distressed the young man.
- 40. "That will do! That will do!" he said, taking the pitcher from her hands. They stayed on the balcony, while the water from the vases dropped into the street with a light splash. "What is that lighted window?" asked George, to break the silence. "Oh," replied the old woman. "It is Don Defendente Scioli, who is dying." And both watched the moving shadows in the rectangle of yellow light. The old woman began to shiver in the cold night air. "Come! Go to bed, Aunt Joconda." He wanted to escort her to her room, on the floor above. While following a lobby, they met something which was dragging itself heavily along the floor. It was a tortoise. The old woman stopped to say: "It is as old as you are—twenty-five; and it has become lame like myself. Your father, with a blow of his heel——" He remembered the plucked turtle-dove and Aunt Jane, and certain hours spent at Albano. They arrived at the threshold of her chamber. A disgusting odor of sickness emanated from the interior. By the feeble light of a lamp, one could see the walls covered with madonnas and crosses, a torn screen, an arm-chair showing the stuffing and the springs. "Will you come in?" "No, thanks, Aunt Joconda; go to bed." She entered quickly, then came back to the door with a paper packet, which she opened before George, and emptied a little sugar on the palm of her hand. "You see? It is all I have left."
- 41. "To-morrow, aunt; come, go to bed. Good night!" And he left her, his courage exhausted, his stomach upset, his heart saddened. He returned to his balcony. The full moon was suspended in the middle of the sky. The Majella, inert and glacial, resembled one of those selenious promontories which the telescope has brought close to the earth. Guardiagrele slumbered at the foot of the mountain. The bergamots filled the air with fragrance. "Hippolyte! Hippolyte!" At that hour of supreme anguish, all his soul went out towards the loved one, demanding assistance. Suddenly, from the lighted window, a cry arose in the silence, the cry of a woman. Other cries followed; then there was a continued sobbing, which rose and fell like a rhythmic chant. The agony had ended; a soul had dissolved itself into the serene and funereal night.
- 42. CHAPTER II. "You must help me," said his mother. "You must speak to him; you must make him listen to you. You are his first-born. Yes, George, it is essential." She continued to enumerate her husband's faults, to lay bare before the son the shame of the father. This father had for a concubine a chamber-maid, formerly in the service of the family, a degraded and very mercenary woman; it was for her and the children born in adultery that he dissipated all his fortune, without regard for anybody—careless of his affairs, neglecting his property, selling his crops at a sacrifice to the first comer, in order to obtain money. And he went so far that, sometimes, through his fault, the house lacked necessities; and he refused to give a dowry to his younger sister, although she had been engaged for a long time; and if any observation was made to him, he responded by cries, insults, sometimes even by the most brutal violence. "You live far from us, and do not know in what a hell we live. You cannot even imagine the smallest part of our sufferings. But you are the eldest. You must speak to him. Yes, George, you must." His eyes cast down, George remained silent; and to repress the exasperation of all his nerves in the presence of this unhappiness, which disclosed itself to him in so brutal a manner, he required a prodigious effort. What? Was this his mother? That contorted mouth, so full of bitterness, which was contracted so sharply when she
- 43. uttered coarse words, was that his mother's mouth? Had misery and anger changed her so much? He raised his eyes and looked at her, to see if traces of the old-time gentleness still lingered on the maternal visage. How gentle he had always known this mother to be formerly! What a beautiful and tender creature she always was! And how tenderly he had loved her in his childhood, in his adolescence. In those days Donna Silveria was tall and svelte, pale and delicate; her hair was almost blond, her eyes black; all her person bore the stamp of a noble race, for she descended from that Spina family which, like the Aurispas, has its armorial bearings sculptured beneath the portal of the Santa Maria Maggiore. What an affectionate being she used to be! Why, therefore, this great change? The son was distressed by all his mother's abrupt gestures, at the bitterness of her words, at all the ravages which a rancorous hate had made in her features; and he was distressed also to see his father covered with so much ignominy, to find such a terrible abyss yawning between the two beings to whom he owed his existence. And what an existence! "You understand, George!" insisted his mother. "You must be energetic. When will you speak to him? Make up your mind." He heard her, and he felt at the bottom of his entrails the shock of a thrill of horror; and he said to himself: "Oh! mother, demand of me everything, ask of me the most atrocious of sacrifices; but spare me this step, do not compel me to do that. I am a coward." At the thought that he must face his father, that he must accomplish an act of vigor, and of his own will, an unconquerable repugnance arose from the very roots of his being. He would prefer to have a hand cut off.
- 44. "Very well, mother," he replied gloomily. "I will speak to him. I will wait for a favorable opportunity." He took her in his arms and kissed her cheeks as if to tacitly demand forgiveness for the lie; for he said to himself: "I shall not find a favorable opportunity. I shall not say anything." They stayed in the embrasure of the window. The mother opened the shutters, saying: "They are about to take away Don Defendente Scioli's body." They leaned on the balcony, side by side. Then, looking up at the sky, she added: "What a day this has been!" Guardiagrele, the city of stone, shone resplendent in the serenity of May. A fresh breeze agitated the grasses on the gargoyles. In every crevice, from the base to the summit, Santa Maria Maggiore was adorned with minute, delicate plants, bloomed with innumerable violet flowers, and as the old cathedral reared its head in the azure sky it seemed clad in a double mantle of marble flowers and of living flowers. "I will not see Hippolyte again," thought George. "I have dark forebodings. I know that, in five or six days, I shall go to seek the hermitage of our dreams; but, at the same time, I know that it will be in vain, that I shall achieve nothing, that I shall hurl myself against an unknown obstacle! How strange and indefinable are my feelings! It is not I who know; but some one in me knows that all is about to end." He thought: "She does not write to me any more. Since I am here I have received from her only two short telegrams—one from Pallanza, the other from Bellagio. I never felt so far away from her.
- 45. Perhaps at this moment another man pleases her. Is it possible that love falls out of a woman's heart all at once? Why not? Her heart is tired; at Albano, warmed anew by buried memories, it palpitated for perhaps the last time. I was mistaken. But certain incidents, for him who knows how to consider them under their ideal forms, bear in themselves secret significance, precise and independent of appearances. Well! when I examine in thought all the little incidents constituting our life at Albano, they assume an unquestionable significance and an evident character; they are final. On the evening of Good Friday, when we arrived at the station at Rome, and when we said good-by, and the cab carried her off in the fog, did it not seem to me that I had just lost her forever? Had I not the innate conviction that all was at an end?" His imagination presented to him the gesture with which Hippolyte had lowered her black veil after the last kiss. And the sun, the azure, the flowers, the general joyousness of nature, suggested to him only this reflection: "Without her, life for me is impossible." At this moment his mother leaned over the balustrade, looked towards the porch of the cathedral, and said: "The procession is leaving the church." The funereal brotherhood left the porch with its insignia. Four men in cowled robes carried the coffin on their shoulders. Two long files of men, also in cowled robes, marched behind with lighted tapers, only their eyes being visible through the two holes in their hoods. From time to time the breeze made the tiny and almost invisible flames flicker, and even extinguished some of them; and the candles consumed themselves in tears. Each cowled man had at his
- 46. side a barefooted child, who collected the melted wax in the hollow of his two hands. When the whole cortège had spread out in the street, musicians dressed in red with white facings struck up a funeral march. The undertaker's assistants regulated their steps to the time of the music; the brass instruments glittered in the sun. "What sadness and ridicule in the honors rendered to the dead!" thought George. He saw himself in a coffin, imprisoned between the boards, carried by that masquerade of people, escorted by those candles and that horrible noise of trumpets; and the idea filled him with disgust. Then his attention was attracted to the ragged urchins who strove to collect the waxen tears, walking unevenly, painfully, the body bent, their eyes fixed on the flickering flames. "Poor Don Defendente!" murmured the mother, watching the cortège as it disappeared in the distance. Then, immediately, as if she were addressing herself and not her son, she added wearily: "Why poor? He is at peace now; it is we who are to be pitied." George looked at her. Their eyes met; and she smiled at him, but a smile so faint that not a line of her face was moved. It was like a very light veil, scarcely visible, which had spread over this face ever stamped with sorrow. But the imperceptible gleam of this smile had the same effect on George as some sudden great illumination; and then, for the first time, he saw distinctly on the maternal face the irremediable work of a great grief. Confronted with the terrible revelation which came to him from this smile, an impetuous wave of tenderness welled up in his bosom. His mother, his own mother, could no longer smile but in that way—
- 47. only in that way. Henceforth the stigmas of suffering would be indelible on the dear face which he had seen bent over him so often, and with such affection, in sickness and in affliction! His mother, his own mother, was killing herself little by little, was wearing herself out day by day, was drifting slowly to the inevitable tomb! And what caused his own suffering just now, while his mother was breathing out her distress, was not the maternal sorrow so much as the wound inflicted on his egotism, the shock given his unstrung nerves by the unvarnished expression of this sorrow. "Oh! mother," he stammered, suffocated by tears. And he took her hands and drew her into the room. "What's the matter, George? What's the matter, my child?" asked the mother, frightened at seeing his face all bathed in tears. "What's the matter? Tell me." Ah, now he had found the dear voice again, that unique, unforgettable voice, which touched his soul to its very bottom; that voice of consolation, of forgiveness, of good advice, of infinite goodness, which he had heard in his darkest days—he had found it again, he had found it! In short, he recognized the tender creature of long ago, the adored one. "Oh! mother, mother!" And he pressed her in his arms, sobbing, wetting her with burning tears; kissing her cheeks, her eyes, her forehead, in a wild transport. "My poor mother!" He made her sit down, knelt before her, and looked at her. He looked at her for a long time, as if it were the first time he had seen
- 48. her after a long separation. She, her mouth contracted, with a sob but badly concealed which choked her, asked: "Have I pained you very much?" She dried her son's tears and caressed his hair. Then, in a voice interspersed with convulsive starts, she said: "No, George. No! It is not for you to suffer. God has kept you far away from this house. It is not for you to suffer. All my life, since your birth, all my life, always, always, I have sought to spare you a single pain, a moment's unhappiness. Oh! why did I not have the strength to remain silent this time? I should have said nothing; I should not have told you. Forgive me, George. I did not think I should cause you so much unhappiness. Don't cry any more, I entreat you. George, I entreat you, don't cry any more. I cannot bear to see you cry." She was on the point of breaking down, overcome by anguish. "See," he said, "I am not crying now." He leaned his head on his mother's knees, and beneath the caress of the maternal fingers soon became calm. From time to time a sob shook his body. Through his mind, in the form of vague sensations, passed once more the distant afflictions of his adolescence. He heard the twittering of the swallows, the grating of the scissors grinder's wheel, the shrill cries on the streets—familiar sounds, heard in the afternoons of long ago, which used to make his heart grow faint. After the crisis, his soul found itself in a state of indefinable fluctuation. But the image of Hippolyte reappeared; and he felt within him a new upheaval, so tumultuous that the young man gave vent to a sigh on his mother's knees.
- 49. "How you sigh!" she murmured, bending over him. Without raising his eyelids, he smiled; but an immense prostration came over him—a desolate lassitude, a desperate desire to withdraw from this truceless struggle. The desire to live left him little by little, as the heat gradually leaves a corpse. Of the recent emotion nothing remained; his mother had once more become a stranger to him. "What could he do for her? Save her? Restore peace to her? Restore to her health and happiness? But was not the disaster irreparable? Henceforth, was not this woman's existence forever poisoned? His mother could no longer be a refuge for him as in the days of his childhood, in the bygone years. She could neither understand, console, nor cure him. Their souls, their lives, were too different. She could only offer him the spectacle of his own torture!" He arose, embraced her, disengaged himself, went out, ascended to his room, and leaned on the balcony. He saw the Majella all pink in the twilight, enormous and delicate, against a greenish sky. The deafening cries of the swallows which were whirling around drove him in. He went to lie down on his bed. As he lay on his back, he thought to himself: "Good; I live, I breathe. But what is the substance of my life? To what forces is it subjected? What laws govern it? I do not belong to myself—I escape from myself. The sensation I have of my being resembles that of a man who, condemned to hold himself upright on a surface constantly in oscillation and never in equilibrium, feels support constantly lacking, no matter where he places his foot. I am in a perpetual anguish, and even this anguish is not well defined. Is it
- 50. the anguish of the fugitive who feels someone at his heels? Is it the anguish of the follower who can never reach his aim? Perhaps it is both." The swallows twittered as they passed and repassed in flocks, like black arrows, before the pale rectangle formed by the balcony. "What do I lack? What is the lacuna of my moral being? What is the cause of my impotency? I have the most ardent desire to live, to give all my faculties a rhythmic development, to feel myself complete and harmonious. And, on the contrary, I secretly destroy myself every day; each day my life goes out by invisible and innumerable fissures; I am like a half-emptied bladder, which becomes misshapen in a thousand different ways at every agitation of the liquid it contains. All my strength does not serve me more than to enable me to drag, with immense fatigue, a little grain of dust to which my imagination gives the weight of a gigantic rock. A perpetual conflict confuses all my thoughts and renders them sterile. What is it I lack? Who is it holds in his power that portion of my being which eludes my consciousness and yet which, I feel sure, is indispensable for the continuance of my life? Or rather, is not this portion of my existence already dead, so that only death will enable me to regain it? Yes, that is it. In fact, death attracts me." The bells of Santa Maria Maggiore tolled for vespers. Again he saw the funeral convoy, the coffin, the cowled men, and the ragged children who strove to collect the waxen tears, walking unevenly, painfully, the body bent, their eyes fixed on the flickering flames. These children greatly preoccupied him. Later, when he wrote to his mistress, he developed the secret allegory which his mind, interested in such studies, had confusedly perceived:
- 51. "One of them, sickly, yellowish, leaning with one arm on a crutch and collecting the wax in the hollow of his disengaged hand, dragged himself along by the side of a species of giant with a hood, whose enormous fist brutally grasped the taper. I still see them both, and I shall not forget them. Perhaps there is something in myself which makes me resemble that child. My real life is in the power of some one, a mysterious and unknowable being who holds it in a grasp of iron; and I see it being consumed, and I drag myself after it, and I tire myself trying to collect at least a few drops, and every drop that falls burns my poor hand." CHAPTER III. On the table, in a vase, there was a bunch of fresh roses, May roses, which Camille, his younger sister, had gathered in the garden. Around the table were seated the father, the mother, the brother Diego, Albert—Camille's fiancé, invited to dinner—and the elder sister Christine, with her husband and child, a blond boy with a snowy-white complexion, fragile as a blooming lily. George was seated between his father and mother. Christine's husband, Don Bartolomeo Celaia, Baron of Palleaura, was speaking of municipal intrigues in an irritating tone. He was a man approaching fifty, dried up, bald at the top of his head, as if tonsured, his face clean shaven. The almost insolent acrimony of his gestures and manners contrasted strangely with his ecclesiastic aspect.