wards the
sacred olive groves where the Eleusinian mysteries were enacted. Our
rapture did not seem any more a rapture of the senses, but a cult, a
mystic alliance with that night, that spring, and all nature.

15 April.

The time fixed for our departure has arrived, but we do not depart. My
Hecate does not fear the sun, Mr. Davis likes it, and as far as I am
concerned, whether here or in Switzerland is a matter of indifference.

A strange thought has taken hold of me; I almost shrink from it, but
nevertheless will confess: It seems to me that a Christian soul,
though the spring of faith be dried up therein, cannot live altogether
on the mere beauty of form. This means more sorrow in store for me;
if the thought proves true the whole basis of my life falls to the
ground. We are beings of a different culture. Our souls are full of
Gothic arches, pinnacles, twisted traceries we cannot shake off, and
of which Greek minds knew nothing. Our minds shoot upward; theirs,
full of repose and simplicity, rested nearer the earth. Those of us in
whom the spirit of Hellas beats more powerfully consider the beautiful
a necessity of life, and search after it eagerly, but instinctively
demand that Aspasia should have the eyes of Dante's Beatrice. A
similar longing is planted within me. When I think of it, that a
beautiful human animal like Laura belongs to me and will belong as
long as I wish it, a twofold joy gets hold of me,--the joy of the man
and the delight of the artist; and yet there is a want and something
missing. On the altar of my Greek temple there is a marble goddess;
but my Gothic shrine is empty. I admit that in her I have found
something bordering upon the perfect, and I defend myself from a
suspicion that this perfection throws a big shadow. I thought once
that Goethe's words, "You shall be like unto gods and beasts,"
embraced all life and were the highest expression of his wisdom; now,
when I follow the commandment, I feel that he omitted the angel.

17 April.

Mr. Davis came into the room when I was sitting at Laura's feet, my
head leaning against her knees. His bloodless face and dim eyes
showed no feeling beyond indifferent sullenness. In his soft slippers
embroidered with Indian suns, he shuffled across the room, and
into the library. Laura looked magnificent, her eyes flashing with
unrestrained wrath. I rose and awaited what would happen. A thought
crossed my mind that Mr. Davis might come back, a revolv