we are self-deceiving hypocrites--few of us are really sorry for the
dead--few of us remember them with any real tenderness or affection.
And yet God knows! they may need more pity than we dream of!

But let me to my task. I, Fabio Romani, lately deceased, am about to
chronicle the events of one short year--a year in which was
compressed the agony of a long and tortured life-time! One little
year!--one sharp thrust from the dagger of Time! It pierced my
heart--the wound still gapes and bleeds, and every drop of blood is
tainted as it falls!

One suffering, common to many, I have never known--that is--poverty.
I was born rich. When my father, Count Filippo Romani, died, leaving
me, then a lad of seventeen, sole heir to his enormous possessions--
sole head of his powerful house--there were many candid friends who,
with their usual kindness, prophesied the worst things of my future.
Nay, there were even some who looked forward to my physical and
mental destruction with a certain degree of malignant expectation--
and they were estimable persons too. They were respectably
connected--their words carried weight--and for a time I was an
object of their maliciously pious fears. I was destined, according
to their calculations, to be a gambler, a spendthrift, a drunkard,
an incurable roue of the most abandoned character. Yet, strange to
say, I became none of these things. Though a Neapolitan, with all
the fiery passions and hot blood of my race, I had an innate scorn
for the contemptible vices and low desires of the unthinking vulgar.
Gambling seemed to me a delirious folly--drink, a destroyer of
health and reason--and licentious extravagance an outrage on the
poor. I chose my own way of life--a middle course between simplicity
and luxury--a judicious mingling of home-like peace with the gayety