I SPOKE OF LOVE : THE SECRET OF THE PENDANT

EROS AND AGAPE

I had left Turin eight days ago. Pietro had calmed down and finally understood that waiting did not mean losing, but merely awaiting the right moment. I am delighted that he listens to me as a sincere friend. I sent him to Naples to his brother with a special pass of mine: working at the Royal Printing House could be fruitful for him. I do not care for the Italian question at all; as soon as I find a small cottage for myself and Amalia, I shall bring him to London. He is a young man of great intelligence and literary prowess. I believe my letter of recommendation to the Bourbons will yield something good, in anticipation of his new departure.

I do not trust my mother, a woman who would prefer my death rather than protect and soothe my torment. Nor do I have full trust in the King. Certainly, we are friends, but I do not believe this sudden appointment is solely an act of friendship. In part it is, he would never harm me, he has been very clear and understanding, but he prefers to see me abroad, far from Palazzo Carignano, away from my uncomfortable debates about social classes, away from the Court and the gossip, protected and safe with his blue silk handkerchief. But I will use his benevolence and his affectionate friendship to help my sister and, in some way, also myself. I feel crushed and unwanted; no one in Turin wants me. I am inconvenient, and it is a personal tragedy but also a universal one, for I often feel all the pain of those like me.

I am crossing the vast park of Hall's estate, my gaze momentarily resting on the imposing oak tree that shades a path lying by the lake, as if it were an ancient memory kept in my heart. Right there, I touched Michael's lips, and that single moment of joy sustains me to this day. Before that centuries-old oak, I lose myself in thought. That majestic tree, a silent witness of centuries, reminds me of the eternity of the human desire for love and freedom. Every leaf, every vein, and every branch tells stories of hopes and dreams, just like my love for Michael. In this place, I feel connected to the soul of the world, to a greater truth: love, in all its forms, is an innate right, beyond social conventions and prejudices. Michael had given me a commented book on Plato's Symposium, and he had lingered on a passage describing Eros as a demon capable of traversing both worlds, ours and the supersensible one, the world of the Gods, to finally quench his thirst for the beauty of two beings who love each other. Platonic love was force, desire, the soul's necessity to enter the other not only with thought but also and especially with the body, to feel the indescribable magnificence of beauty.

The estate of my uncles has the grandeur of a historic residence and the intimacy of a small private court. From the avenue, the notes of music and the muffled sound of dances can be heard. Amalia will likely be at some ball. I do not care about clothes, about etiquette; I am dressed as a young aristocrat, but without the ostentatious display of wealth. I asked my cousin Robert that my arrival be announced without unnecessary pomp, without servants in reverent attendance.

It is already night and I have made it clear that I will receive no one until the morrow, not even my sister. Robert welcomes me affectionately at the servants' entrance and leads me to my rooms.

"Michael!" says Robert. "He is in the north but will arrive in a few days; he left this letter for you." Then, smiling, he adds: "Cousin, how wonderful it is to have you here again! And Amalia already has more suitors than all the young ladies of the winter season!"

I sigh. "Amalia, Amalia, she would like a life at Court, but with Pietro..."

I notice the contradiction my sister lives in: on one hand, she is almost glued to the gilded world of balls, dance evenings, luxury, and courtships; on the other hand, she desires a simple love with Pietro, the humble baker. Amalia is torn between two opposite worlds, and I feel the weight of this inner struggle. I know well how dangerous it is to love freely in this world, but I desire for her what I myself long for: the possibility to live a sincere love, without chains, with soul and body. I promise myself that I will do everything possible to help her find her path, just as I hope to find mine. In the darkness of my room, I strengthen myself with the conviction that one day, perhaps, we both might live the unconditional love we dream of, free from the impositions of a cruel era.

Michael's letter is only a few lines.

"My beloved, I shall finally be able to embrace you again, God willing, and hold you tighter in my arms. My father has discovered that I love you and has sent me away. It will be my younger brother who attends to his affairs. I have been disowned by the family and stripped of all my inheritance rights. I do not care for his money; the thought that I have YOU makes all pain disappear.
Yours forever,
Mic."