If anybody, it is he who is altogether absorbed in the beauty of form.  It seems to me that he works out his thoughts by the help of Greek noses, heads, arms, and torsos, more than by help of ideas.  He has lived fifteen years at Rome, and still goes to galleries and museums, as if he had arrived yesterday.  This proves that worship of form may fill a man’s life, and become his religion, provided he is its high priest.  Lukomski has as much veneration for beauty in human shape as devotees for holy shrines.  I asked him which he considered the most beautiful woman in Rome.  He answered, without hesitation, “Mrs. Davis;” and there and then, with his plastic thumbs, with the expressive motion common to artists, he began to draw her outline in the air.  Lukomski, as a rule, is self-contained and melancholy; but at this moment he was so animated that his eyes lost their mystic expression.  “Like this, for instance,” he said, drawing a new line, “or like that.  She is the most beautiful woman not only in Rome, but in the whole world.”  He says that when she lifts her head, the neck is as the continuation of the face,—­the same breadth, which is very rare; sometime on the Transtevere one might see women with similar necks; but never in that perfection.  Really, who seeks to find a flaw in Laura’s beauty, must seek in vain.  Lukomski goes so far as to maintain that statues ought to be raised to women like her in their lifetime.  Of course, I did not contradict him.

29 May.

The Italian law procedure begins to bore me.  How slow they are, in spite of their vivacity! and how they talk!  I am literally talked to shreds.  I sent for some of the newest French novels, and read for whole days.  The writers make upon me the impression of clever draughts-men.  How quickly and skilfully each character is outlined! and what character and power in those sketches!  The technical part can go no farther.  As to the characters thus drawn, I can only say what I said before,—­their love is only skin deep.  This may be the case now and then; but that in the whole of France nobody should be capable of deeper feelings, let them tell this to somebody else.  I know France too well, and say that she is better than her literature.  That running after glaring, realistic truth makes the novel untrue to life.  It is the individual we love; and the individual is composed not only of face, voice, shape, and expression, but also of intelligence, character, a way of thinking,—­in brief, of various intellectual and moral elements.  My relation to Laura is the best proof that a feeling founded upon outward admiration does not deserve the name of love.  Besides, Laura is an exceptional case.

31 May.

Yesterday I lunched with Lukomski; in the evening I loitered as usual on the Pincio.  My imagination sometimes plays me strange tricks.  I fancied that Aniela was leaning on my arm.  We walked together, and talked like people who are very fond of each other.  I felt so happy,—­so different from what I had felt near Laura!  When the illusion vanished I felt very lonely; I did not want to go home.  That night I could not sleep at all.