nge. Peli, though a seaside resort, is very
empty. The heat is quite exceptional. The sea is calm; no waves wash
against the shore; it seems exhausted and breathless from the heat.
At times the wind rises, but it is a suffocating blast, that raises
clouds of white dust which covers the palms, fig-trees, and myrtles,
and penetrates through the blinds into the house. My eyes ache as the
walls reflect a glaring sun, and in the daytime it is impossible to
look at anything.

To Switzerland or to Rome, but away from here. It seems anywhere it
would be better than here. We all prepare for the journey. I have not
seen Mr. Davis for four or five days. I fancy his insanity will break
out any day. The doctor tells me the poor man challenges him to fight.
He considers this a bad sign.

ROME, CASA OSORIA, 18 May.

It was evidently solitude I wanted. I feel as I felt after my arrival
at Peli, sad, but at the same time peaceful. I feel even more peaceful
here than in my first days at Peli, because there is none of that
uneasiness Laura's presence used to give me. I walk about the still,
gloomy house, and find thousands of details that remind me of my
father, and the memory grows fresh again in my heart. He too had
vanished into the distant haze, and now I meet him again as in his
former, real life. There on the table in his studio are the lenses
through which he looked at his specimens, the bronze implement he
used in scraping the dry soil from the pottery; colors, brushes,
manuscripts, and notes about the collections are lying about. At times
I have a feeling as if he had gone out and would return presently to
his work, and when the illusion disappears a great sorrow seizes me,
and I love not only his memory, but love him who sleeps the eternal
sleep on the Campo Santo.

And I feel sad; but the feeling is so infinitely purer than those
which had such absolute sway over my mind those last weeks that I feel
more at ease,--a better man, or, at least, not so corrupt as I had
seemed to myself. I notice also that no reasoning, nor the most
desperate argumentation can deprive us of a certain feeling of
satisfaction, when we come in contact with nobler elements. Whence
comes that irresistible, irrepressible tendency towards the good?
Spinning out this thread I go very far. Since our reason is considered
a reflection of the logical principle of all life, may not our
conception of good be a similar reflection from an absolute good. Were