d, and that
Alfieri's tomb in Santa Croce was properly executed. She was, as I have
said, the priestess, the divinely selected priestess, of the divinity. But
at the same time Mme. d'Albany gradually settled down quite comfortably
and happily without Alfieri. After the first great grief was over a
sense of relief may have arisen, a sense that after all "'tis an ill
wind that blows no good"; that if she had lost Alfieri she had gained a
degree of liberty, of independence, that she had acquired a possibility
of being herself with all her tastes, the very existence of which she
had forgotten while living under the shadow of that strange and
disagreeable great man. A negative sense of compensation, of pleasure
in the foreign society to which she could now devote herself; of
satisfaction in the miniature copy of her former Parisian salon which
she could arrange in her Florentine house; of comfort in a gently
bustling, unconcerned, cheerful old age; negative feelings which,
perhaps as a result of their very repression, seem little by little to
have turned to a positive feeling, a positive aversion for the past
which she refused to regret, a positive dislike to the memory of the
man whom she could no longer love. Horrible things to say; yet, I
fear, true. A man such as Alfieri had permitted himself to become,
admirable in many respects, but intolerant, hard, arrogant, selfish,
self-engrossed, cannot really be loved; he may be endured as a result of
long habit, he may inflict his personality without effort upon another;
but in order that this be the case that other must be singularly
apathetic, indifferent, malleable; and apathetic, indifferent, and
malleable people, those who never resist the living individual, rarely
remember the dead one. "She was," writes one of the most conscientious
and respectful of men, the late Gino Capponi, "heavy in feature and
form, and, if I may say so, her mind, like her body, was thick-set....
Since several years she had ceased to love Alfieri."

We cannot be indignant with her; she had never pretended to be what she
was not. A highly intellectual, literary mind, a pure temperament, a
passive, rather characterless character, taking the impress of its
surroundings; passionate when Alfieri was passionate, depressed when
Alfieri was depressed; cheerful when Alfieri's successors, Fabre and
mankind and womankind in general, were cheerful. To be angry with such a
woman would be ridiculous; but, little