I was born in Geneva, into one of the city’s most respected families.
For generations, my ancestors had served the republic as counselors and government officials. My father had also held several important public positions and earned a reputation for honesty, hard work, and devotion to his country.
He had spent most of his younger years buried in public affairs. For various reasons, he did not marry until he was already well into middle age.
The story of how he met and married my mother says much about the kind of man he was.
One of my father’s closest friends was a merchant named Beaufort. He had once been wealthy and highly respected, but a series of disasters had ruined him.
Beaufort was a proud man. He could not bear the thought of living in poverty in the same city where he had once been rich and admired.
After paying every debt he could, he disappeared from Geneva with his young daughter, Caroline. They moved to Lucerne, where they lived in poverty and almost complete obscurity.
My father was heartbroken when he learned what had happened.
He could not understand why his friend had allowed pride to separate him from those who loved him. More than anything, he wanted to find Beaufort and help him rebuild his life.
But Beaufort had taken great care to hide his whereabouts.
It took my father ten months to find him.
When he finally discovered where Beaufort lived, he immediately traveled to Lucerne. Their home stood on a poor street near the River Reuss.
My father entered the house expecting to find his old friend.
Instead, he found misery.
Beaufort had saved only a small amount of money from the collapse of his fortune. It was enough to keep him and his daughter alive for a few months. He hoped that, during that time, he would find respectable work with another merchant.
But nothing came of it.
With nothing to do except sit and think about everything he had lost, his sadness became worse.
After three months, his health completely failed him.
He became seriously ill and could no longer work or even take care of himself.
His daughter, Caroline, devoted herself to him.
She cared for him day and night, but she could see their small savings disappearing.
There was almost nothing left to live on.
Yet Caroline refused to give in.
She found whatever small jobs she could. She did simple sewing, plaited straw, and worked with her hands from morning until night.
The money she earned was barely enough to keep them alive.
Months passed.
Her father’s condition continued to worsen, while Caroline’s time and strength were consumed by caring for him.
Their money slowly disappeared.
Then, in the tenth month, Beaufort died in his daughter’s arms.
Caroline was now completely alone.
She had lost her father, her home, and everything else she had once known. She had no money and no one to turn to.
She knelt beside her father’s coffin and wept.
That was when my father entered the room.
To Caroline, he seemed almost like a guardian sent to save her.
She placed herself completely under his protection.
After Beaufort’s funeral, my father brought Caroline back to Geneva and arranged for her to live safely with one of his relatives.
Two years later, Caroline became my father’s wife.
My parents were quite different in age, but their marriage was filled with deep affection.
My father was a serious and honorable man. He could not love someone deeply unless he also respected that person’s character.
Perhaps his earlier experiences had taught him how painful it was to place his trust in someone unworthy. Because of that, he valued goodness and loyalty more than anything else.
He loved my mother with something far deeper than the ordinary affection of an older husband for a younger wife.
He admired her courage and goodness.
He also wanted, in some small way, to make up for all the suffering she had endured.
He treated her with extraordinary tenderness.
Almost everything was arranged according to her wishes and comfort. He was constantly trying to protect her from hardship, as a gardener carefully protects a delicate flower from cold winds.
My mother’s health had suffered greatly during the years of poverty and grief. Even her usually strong spirit had been shaken.
During the two years before their marriage, my father had gradually withdrawn from his public duties.
After they married, they left Switzerland and traveled through Italy, hoping that the warmer climate and change of surroundings would help restore my mother’s health.
From Italy, they continued their journey through Germany and France.
I was their first child, born in Naples.
As a baby, I traveled with them wherever they went.
For several years, I remained their only child.
My parents loved each other deeply, but they seemed to have an endless supply of love left over for me.
My earliest memories are of my mother’s gentle affection and my father’s warm smile whenever he looked at me.
I was their little treasure.
But I was more than that.
I was their child, a helpless little person whose future depended entirely on them.
They understood that they had been given a responsibility: to teach me what was right, to guide me toward a good life, and to protect me from the mistakes that could make me unhappy.
Because they were so loving and attentive, I learned patience, kindness, and self-control almost without realizing it.
They guided me so gently that childhood seemed to me like one long, happy dream.
For many years, I was the center of their lives.
My mother had always wanted a daughter, but I remained their only child.
Then, when I was about five years old, we traveled beyond the borders of Italy and spent a week near Lake Como.
My parents often visited poor families during their travels.
For my mother, helping the poor was more than a duty.
It was something she felt she had to do.
She remembered her own years of suffering and how desperately she had once needed someone’s help. Now that she was in a position to help others, she felt almost compelled to become their protector.
One day, my father went alone to Milan.
My mother took me with her to visit a poor little cottage hidden in a valley.
The place looked terribly miserable.
Several poorly dressed children were gathered around the house, and their appearance made it obvious that the family had almost nothing.
Inside, we found a peasant and his wife preparing a very small meal for their five hungry children.
My mother’s attention was immediately drawn to one particular child.
The other four children were dark-haired, strong-looking, and rough from their difficult lives.
This girl was completely different.
She was thin and extremely fair.
Her hair was bright golden blond, almost shining in the light. Her blue eyes were clear and gentle, and her face had an unusual sweetness.
Even though her clothes were poor and worn, there was something about her that made her seem almost out of place in that little cottage.
My mother could not stop looking at her.
The peasant woman noticed her interest.
“You’re wondering about the girl, aren’t you?” she said.
“Yes,” my mother replied. “Who is she?”
“She isn’t our daughter,” the woman explained. “She is the child of a nobleman from Milan.”
My mother listened carefully.
“Her mother was German,” the woman continued, “but she died when the girl was born. The baby was brought to us to nurse.”
“At that time, we were doing much better than we are now,” she said. “We had only just been married, and our first child had barely been born.”
The woman then explained what had happened to the girl’s father.
He had been one of those Italians who dreamed of freeing their country from foreign rule. He had fought for Italy’s independence and eventually became a victim of the struggle.
No one knew whether he had died or was still being held in an Austrian prison.
His property had been taken from him.
His daughter was left with nothing.
The little girl had remained with her foster family ever since.
Despite their poverty, they had loved her.
She had grown up among them like a beautiful flower growing among thorns.
When my father returned from Milan, he found me playing in the hall of our villa with a girl who looked almost like a little angel.
She seemed to glow with beauty and moved with a lightness that reminded me of a young mountain animal.
My father was surprised.
My mother explained everything.
She had already spoken with the people who had been caring for the girl.
They loved her dearly, but they knew they could not provide her with a better future.
My mother had asked them to let her take the child home.
The family had agreed after consulting their village priest.
And so Elizabeth Lavenza came to live with us.
From that day on, she became much more than a sister to me.
She became my closest companion, my playmate, and one of the most beloved people in our entire household.
Everyone loved Elizabeth.
People were almost reverent toward her because of her beauty, kindness, and gentle nature.
And because I loved her too, their admiration made me incredibly proud.
I still remember the evening before Elizabeth came to live with us.
My mother smiled at me and said,
“I have a wonderful little present for you, Victor. Tomorrow, you will receive it.”
The next day, she brought Elizabeth to me.
I was still a child, so I took my mother’s words literally.
I thought of Elizabeth as a gift that belonged to me.
I felt that it was my duty to protect her, love her, and take care of her.
Whenever someone praised Elizabeth, I felt as though they were praising something that belonged to me.
We called each other cousins, because that was the easiest way to describe our relationship.
But the word never seemed large enough to explain what Elizabeth truly meant to me.
She was more than my sister.
She was my closest friend, my constant companion, and the person I believed would belong beside me for the rest of my life.