attainment so far beyond him, that old and wise persons, skilled in
the wicked ways of the world, would sometimes discourse among
themselves in dubious fashion thus: "Is it possible that he is not
jealous? He must surely see that her work is superior to his own!"
And others would answer, "Oh no! No man was ever known to admit,
even in thought, that a woman can do better things in art than
himself! If a masculine creature draws a picture on a paving-stone
he will assure himself in his own Ego, that it is really much more
meritorious simply as 'man's work' than the last triumph of a Rosa
Bonheur. Besides, you have to remember that in this case the man is
the woman's lover--he could soon kill her genius if he chose. He has
simply to desert her,--such an easy thing!--so often done!--and she
will paint no more. Women are all alike,--they rest on love,--when
that fails, then everything fails, and they drop into old age
without a groan." And then perhaps a stray cynic would say, "But
Angela Sovrani need not depend on one lover surely?--" and he would
get for answer, "No, she need not--but it so happens that she
does,"--which to everybody seemed extraordinary, more particularly
in Italy, where morals are so lax, that a woman has only to be seen
walking alone in the public gardens or streets with one of the
opposite sex, and her reputation is gone for ever. It is no use to
explain that the man in question is her father, her brother or her
uncle,--he simply could not be. He is THE man, the one inevitable.
Few Italians (in Italy) believe in the chastity of English women,--
their reasons for doubt being simply because they see the fair and
free ones going to parties, theatres and other places of amusement
with their friends of the other sex in perfect ease and confidence.
And in the case of Angela Sovrani, though she was affianced to
Florian Varillo with her father's consent, (reluctantly obtained,)
and the knowledge of all the Roman world of society, she saw very