instinctively; it refuses to be analyzed by the understanding, and is most of all inaccessible to the person who possesses it. We can only say, I have it, he has it. You have seen it often in the eyes of those Italian faces you like.
It is most obvious in the eye. As we look on such eyes, we think on the tiger, the serpent, beings who lurk, glide, fascinate, mysteriously control.
For it is occult by its nature, and if it could meet you on the highway, and be familiarly known as an acquaintance, could not exist.
The angels of light do not love, yet they do not insist on exterminating it.
It has given rise to the fables of wizard, enchantress, and the like; these beings are scarcely good, yet not necessarily bad. Power tempts them.
They draw their skills from the dead, because their being is coeval with that of matter, and matter is the mother of death.
In later days, she allowed herself sometimes to dwell sadly on the resistances which she called her fate, and remarked, that
all life that has been or could be natural to me, is invariably denied.
She wrote long afterwards:—
My days at Milan were not unmarked.
I have known some happy hours, but they all lead to sorrow, and not only the cups of wine, but of milk, seem drugged with poison, for me. It does not seem to be my fault, this destiny.
I do not court these things,— they come.
I am a poor magnet, with power to be wounded by the bodies I attract.