It is strange how women of a certain age like to hide their feelings under the cloak of sacrifice and motherly care. _They_ are not in love, but the weak, sick, nervous being needs support and tenderness. Thus is produced that painful and disagreeable counterfeit of motherly affection which we so often meet with, as in “Lucrezia Floriani.”
“Whence,” asks the writer of the romance, “arises this unnatural specious feeling? Perhaps if a heroine loves at that age, when, as Hamlet says, ‘the heyday in the blood is tame,’ she feels degraded in her own eyes and in those of the world, and to regain her position, and gloss over her real feelings and actions, she makes a pretext of sacrifice and tender care.” In this way the famous Madame de Warrens interpreted her sacrifice, of which J. J. Rousseau says so much in his “Confessions;” and thus Lucrezia explained her love for Charles.
For two months she was unspeakably happy; then everything changed. Charles grows jealous, unreasonable, and capricious; he cannot bear the sight of Lucreziaʼs old friends. There are constant outbursts of anger and nervous excitement, or fits of madness and desperation. Wearied and harassed, Lucreziaʼs health and strength give way; but of this she makes a secret and never complains because she has vowed to make any sacrifice for Charles. She knows that she will die—for Charles will make a martyr of her—and that her children will be orphans, yet she goes on suffering in silence because she has pledged herself to be faithful to him. After a few years of a life of such constant torture, and of alienation from her friends on account of the jealousy of Charles, she ceases to love him and submits resignedly to her fate. At length, exhausted by protracted self sacrifice, Lucrezia dies.
[Sidenote: A LITERARY PORTRAIT OF CHOPIN.]
It was at that time generally thought that Prince Charles was a portrait of Chopin, although the exaggeration with which the character was drawn made it a caricature. The love story in the romance certainly bore a strong resemblance to the connection between himself and George Sand, which, with all its happiness, was, as none better than he knew, a very painful one. Both Frederic and the world were well aware that the real Lucrezia was not a victim to her devotedness, and that the Charles of the novel could be none other than Chopin. It is said that, by a refinement of cruelty, the proofs were sent to him for correction; it is a matter of fact, however, that George Sandʼs children said to him, “Monsieur Chopin, do you know that Prince Charles is meant for you?”