ion, destroys
the harmony of the face and makes it different altogether. I had an
example in Laura. The swelling was very slight,--I scarcely noticed it
as she obstinately turned the sound part of her face to me; but as her
eyes were a little reddened, the eyelids heavier than usual, it was
not the same face, perfect in its harmony and beauty. Of course I did
not let her see this, but she received my greeting half-disturbed,
as if troubled with a bad conscience. Evidently according to her
principles toothache is a mortal sin.

Queer principles these, anyway! I too have the soul of an ancient
Greek, but beyond the Pagan there is something else in me. Laura will
be sometime very unhappy with her philosophy. I can understand that
one may make a religion of beauty in a general sense, but to make
a religion of one's own beauty is to prepare great unhappiness for
ourselves. What kind of religion is that which a simple toothache
undermines, and a pimple on the nose shatters into ruin?

25 April.

We shall have to leave for Switzerland, for the heat is almost
unbearable. Besides the heat, there is the Sirocco, that comes now and
then like a hot breath from Africa. The sea-breezes somewhat mitigate
the fierceness of this visitor from the desert, but it is none the
less very disagreeable.

The Sirocco acts injuriously on Mr. Davis. The doctor watches him
closely lest he should take opium, and consequently become either very
irritable or else quite stupefied. I notice that in his greatest
fits of anger he is afraid of Laura and myself. Who knows whether a
homicidal mania is not already germinating in the half-insane brain?
or maybe he is afraid we are going to kill him. Generally speaking,
my relation with him is one of the darkest sides of the part I am
enacting. I say one of the darkest, because I am fully aware that
there is more than one. I should not be my own self if I did not
perceive that my soul not only is stagnating, but is getting swiftly
corrupted in the arms of that woman. I cannot even express what
loathing, what bitterness and pangs of conscience, it caused me at
first that I should have plunged myself into the depth of sensuous
raptures so soon after the death of my father. It was not only my
conscience, but also the delicacy of feelings which I undoubtedly
possess, that revolted against it. I felt this so deeply that I could
not write about it. I have grown more callous since. I still reproach
myself from