'
'But have you had no respite, mother? Surely the intensity of this
pain did not last, or it would have killed you.'
'The crisis did pass, for, as you say, had it lasted in its most
intense form, it would have killed me or sent me mad. After a while,
though remorse was always with me, I seemed to become in some degree
numbed against its sting. I could bear at last to live, but that was
all. Yet there was always one hour out of the twenty-four when I was
overmastered by pathetic memories, such as nearly killed me with
pity--one hour when, in a sudden and irresistible storm, grief would
still come upon me with almost its old power. This was on awaking in
the early morning. I learnt then that if there is trouble at the
founts of life, there is nothing which stirs that trouble like the
twitter of the birds at dawn. At Florence, I would, after spending
the day in wandering with you through picture galleries or about
those lovely spots near Fiesole, go to bed at night tolerably calm;
I would sink into a sleep, haunted no longer by those dreams of the
tragedy in which my part had been so cruel, and yet the very act of
waking in the morning would bring upon me a whirlwind of anguish; and
then would come the struggling light at the window, and the twitter
of the birds that seemed to say, "Poor child, poor child!" and I
would bury my face in my pillow and moan.
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