I felt
that I cared more keenly for Lucia than most men of eight-and-twenty
in the nineteenth century care for the women they marry. I was
conscious of it instinctively; even if the memory of these last ten
barren, empty years that I had lived did not convince me that a
passion for any one object would be greater in myself than in men
whose multiplicity of previous loves must lessen the value of each
succeeding one. My work, which had been Lucia's successful rival,
had protected her from lesser ones.
Nothing, except the possession of this woman, had ever been a
synonym of pleasure with me, and therefore its expectation had a
stronger hold over me than it could have had over a man who was
accustomed to acknowledge and recognise pleasure under a hundred
names. I felt the impetus of this undiffused, undissipated passion,
in its undivided strength, stir and vitalise all my energies, and
its power over my own frame made me involuntarily, instinctively
confident of the power it would have over hers.
"We will see how long it is before you capitulate, oh my fortified
and arrogant city!" I thought, as I finished dressing and went
downstairs. My father was reading the paper, apparently waiting
breakfast for me. We were on the very best of terms now.
He felt convinced of my capability to work, and assured of my
success.
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