Afterwards she spoke to me long and tenderly,—­a conversation full of exceeding goodness, I took much amiss at the time, for which I am sorry now.  She did not mention Aniela’s name,—­spoke only of my future loneliness, and insisted upon my coming to Ploszow; where, surrounded by tender hearts, especially the one old heart which loved me beyond everything on earth, I would feel less sad.  I saw in all this only her desire to continue her matchmaking; and in presence of my recent bereavement this seemed to me improper, and irritated me very much.  I felt not inclined to think of the life before me, nor of love-speeches or weddings, with the shadow of death across my path.  I refused peremptorily, even curtly; told my aunt I was going away,—­most likely to Corfu, then would come back to Rome in order to arrange my father’s affairs, and after that would come to Ploszow.

She did not insist upon having her own way.  Feeling deeply for me, she was even more gentle than usual, and left Rome three days after the funeral.  I did not go to Corfu; instead of that, Mr. and Mrs. Davis carried me off to their villa at Peli, where I have been now for several days.  Whether Mrs. Davis is sincere or not I do not know, and will not even enter upon that now; I know only that no sister could have shown more sympathy and solicitude.  With a nature poisoned by scepticism, I am always prone to suspect and misjudge those around me; but if it should be proved that I misjudged this woman, I should feel truly guilty,—­because her goodness to me is quite extraordinary.

26 March.

My windows look out upon the vast blueness of the Mediterranean, encompassed by bands of a darker blue on the far horizon.  Close to the villa, the crisped waves glitter like fiery scales; in the distance, the sea is glassy and still, as if lulled to sleep in its blue veil.  White lateen sails flash in the sun, and once a day a steamer from Marseilles for Genoa passes hence, dragging in her wake woolly coils of smoke that hang over the sea like a dark cloud, until it gradually dissolves and disappears.  The restfulness of the place is indescribable.  Thoughts dissolve like yonder black cloud between the blue sky and azure sea, and life is a blissful vegetation.

I felt very tired yesterday, but to-day I inhale with eager lungs the fresh sea-breezes, that leave a salty taste on my lips.  Say what they like, the Riviera is one of the gems of God’s creation.  I fancy to myself how the wind whistles at Ploszow; the sudden changes from mild spring weather to wintry blasts; the darkness, sleet, and hail, with intermittent gleams of sunshine.  Here the sky is transparent and serene; the soft breeze which even now caresses my face comes through the open window together with the scent of heliotropes, roses, and mignonette.  It is the enchanted land, where the orange blossoms, and also an enchanted palace; because everything that millions can buy, combined with the exquisite taste of Mrs. Davis, is to be found in this villa.  I am surrounded by masterworks of art,—­statues, pictures, matchless specimens of ceramics, chased works by Benvenuto.  Eyes feast on nature, feast on art, and do not know where to dwell longest,—­unless it be on the splendid pagan, the mistress of all these splendors, and whose only religion is beauty.