happy; for
enjoyment must always take something off happiness. Married in heaven
alone, these two lovers admired each other in their purest aspect,--that
of two souls incandescent, and united in celestial light, radiant to
the eyes that faith has touched; and, above all, filled with the rapture
which the brush of a Raphael, a Titian, a Murillo, has depicted, and
which those who have ever known it, taste again as they gaze at those
paintings. Do not such peerless spirits scorn the coarser joys lavished
by the Sicilian singer--the material expression of that angelic union?

These noble thoughts were in the Prince's mind as he reposed in heavenly
calm on Massimilla's cool, soft, white bosom, under the gentle radiance
of her eyes veiled by long, bright lashes; and he gave himself up to
this dream of an ideal orgy. At such a moment, Massimilla was as one of
the Virgin visions seen in dreams, which vanish at cock-crow, but whom
we recognize when we find them again in their realm of glory,--in the
works of some great painters of Heaven.

In the evening the lovers went to the theatre. This is the way of
Italian life: love in the morning; music in the evening; the night for
sleep. How far preferable is this existence to that of a country
where every one expends his lungs and strength in politics, without
contributing any more, single-minded, to the progress of affairs than a
grain of sand can make a cloud of dust. Liberty, in those strange lands,
consists in the right to squabble over public concerns, to take care of
oneself, to waste time in patriotic undertakings each more futile than
the last, inasmuch as they all weaken that noble, holy self-concern
which is the parent of all great human achievement. At Venice, on
the contrary, love and its myriad ties, the sweet business of real
happiness, fills up all the time.

In that country, love is so much a matter of course that the Duchess was
regarded as a wonder; for, in spite of her violent attachment to Emilio,
everybody was confident of her immaculate purity. And women gave their
sincere pity to the poor young man, who was regarded as a victim to the
virtue of his lady-love. At the same time, no one cared to blame the
Duchess, for in Italy religion is a power as much respected as love.

Evening after evening Massimilla's box was the first object of every
opera-glass, and each woman would say to her lover, as she studied the
Duchess and her adorer:

"How far have they got?"