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199 STRAIT IS THE GATE

Borghese or Doria-Pamphili — so distantly related to our northern tree, of such a different character! Almost at the furthest end of the park there is a narrow, mysterious glade which they shelter, bending over a carpet of grass so soft to the feet that it seems an invitation to the choir of nymphs. I wonder - I am almost scared that my feeling for nature, which at Fongueusemare is so profoundly Christian, should here become, in spite of myself, half pagan. And yet the kind of awe which oppressed me more and more was religious too. I whispered the words: “hic nemus." The air was crystalline; there was a strange silence. I was thinking of Orpheus, of Armida, when all at once there rose a solitary bird's song, so near me, so pathetic, so pure, that it seemed suddenly as though all nature had been awaiting it. My heart beat violently; I stayed for a moment leaning against a tree, and then came in before any one was up.


26th May. Still no letter from Jerome. If he had written to me at Le Havre, his letter would have been forwarded . . . . I can confide my anxiety to no one but this book; for the last three days I have not been distracted from it for an instant, either by

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