full of cool breezes.  The moon rises beyond Trinita dei Monti, and sails above that human beehive like a great silver bark, illuminating the tops of trees, roofs, and towers.  At the foot of the terrace glimmers and surges the city, and somewhere in the distance, on a silvery background, appears the dark outline of St. Peter’s, with a shining cupola like a second moon.  Never did Rome seem more beautiful to me, and I discover new charms every day.  I return home late, and go to bed almost happy in the thought that to-morrow I shall wake up again in Rome.  And I do sleep.  I do not know whether it is the exercise I take, but I sleep so heavily that it leaves a kind of dizziness when I wake up in the morning.

Part of the morning I spend with the lawyer.  Sometimes I work at compiling a catalogue of the collections for my own use.  My father did not leave any instructions as to his collections; consequently they are my property.  I would hand them over to the city, in fulfilment of his wishes, if I were quite sure he did wish it.  As he did not will them away, he, moved by my aunt’s remonstrances, may have left it to me to bring them sometime or other over to Poland.  That my father thought of this in later times is proved by the numerous bequests and codicils in his will.  Among others there is one that touched me more deeply than I can tell:  “The head of the Madonna by Sassoferrato I leave to my future daughter-in-law.”

25 May.

The sculptor Lukomski began a month ago a full-length statue of my father, from a bust done by himself some years ago.  I call upon him often in the middle of the day to watch the progress of the work.  The studio is a barn-like building, with a huge skylight on the north side; consequently no sun comes in, and the light is cold.  When I sit there I seem to be out of Rome altogether.  To heighten the illusion, there is Lukomski, with his Northern features, light beard, and the dreamy blue eyes of a mystic.  His two assistants are Poles, and the two dogs in the yard are called Kruk and Kurta,—­in short, the place has the appearance of a northern isle in a southern sea.  I like to go there for the quaintness of the thing, and I like to watch Lukomski at his work.  There is in him at the same time so much power and simplicity.  He is especially interesting when he stands back a short distance so as to get a better view of his work, and then suddenly goes back as to an attack.  He is a very talented sculptor.  The shape of my father seems to grow under his hand, and assume a wonderful likeness.  It will be not only a portrait, but a work of art.