Her mien became
even more lofty; her voice less salient; and a shadow fell gently over
her life. The sisters thought it was age; but Sulpizia was young. Others
thought it was care; but her duties could not harass such a spirit. Others
thought it was repentance; but natures like hers do not early repent.

"It was resolved that the portrait of the abbess should be painted, and
the nuns applied to her parents to select the artist. They, in turn,
consulted my brother Camillo, who was the friend of the family, and for
whom the Count Balbo would, I believe, have willingly unvowed his vow.
Camillo had left Venice as the great door of the convent closed behind his
life and love. He fled over the globe. He lost himself in new scenes, in
new employments. He took the wings of the morning, and flew to the
uttermost parts of the earth,[A] and there he found--himself. So he
returned an older and a colder man. His love, which had been a passion,
seemed to settle into a principle. His life was consecrated to one
remembrance. It did not dare to have a hope.

[Footnote A: I use, here, words corresponding to the Marchesa's.]

"He brought with him a friend whom he had met in the East. Together upon
the summit of the great pyramid they had seen the day break over Cairo,
and on the plain of Thebes had listened for Memnon to gush with music as
the sun struck him with his rod of light. Together they had travelled over
the sea-like desert, breaking the awful silence only with words that did
not profane it. My brother conversing with wise sadness--his friend Luigi
with hope and enthusiasm.

"Luigi was a poor man, and an artist. My brother was proud, but real grief
prunes the foolish side of pride, while it fosters the nobler. It was a
rare and noble friendship. Rare, because pride often interferes with
friendships among men, where all conditions are not equal. Noble, because
the two men were so, although only one had the name and the means of a
nobleman. But he shared these with his friend, as naturally as his friend
shared his thoughts with him. Neither spoke much of the past. My brother
had rolled a stone over the mouth of that tomb, and his friend was
occupied with the suggestions and the richness of the life around him. If
some stray leaf or blossom fell forward upon their path from the past, it
served to Luigi only as a stimulating mystery.

"'This is my memory,' he would say, touching his portfolio, which was full
of eastern sketches.