My Friend Prospero

mind that perplexed a

ew by heart, that he knew to satiety, a world that was stale and stuffy and threadbare, with its gilt rubbed off and its colours tarnished, into a world where everything was fresh and undiscovered and full of savour, a great cool blue and green world that from minute to minute opened up new perspectives, made new promises, brought to pass new surprises. And this sense, in some strange way, included Time as well as space. It was as if he had entered a new region of Time, as if he had escaped from the moving current of Time into a stationary moment. Alone here, where modern things or thoughts had never penetrated

uld have had nothing to complain of. But the mischief was that he couldn't. The thing that perplexed and annoyed him,-and humiliated him too, in some measure,-was a craving that had sprung up over-night, and was now strong and constant, to get into personal touch with her, to make her acquaintance, to talk with her; to find out a little what manner of soul she had, to establish some sort of human relation with her. It wasn't in the least as yet a sentimental craving; or, if it was, John at any rate didn't know it. In its essence, perhaps, it was little more than curiosity. But it was disturbing, upsetting, it destroyed the peace and the harmonious leisure of his day. It perplexed him, it was outside his habits, it was unreasonable. "Not unreasonable to think it might be fun to talk to a pretty woman," he discriminated, "but unrea

long ilex-shaded avenue to the castle, it would be an awkward affectation not to speak. And yet (he ground his teeth at having to admit it) his heart had begun to pound so violently, (not from emotion, he told himself,-from a mere ridiculous sort of nervous excitement: what was there in the woman that should excite a sane man like that?) he was afraid to trust h

anner, smiling again,-perhaps with just the faintest, just the gentlest shade of irony, and with just the slight

own air of perfect ease in the circumstances very likely accelerated it. "Yes," h

a laugh, a little light gay trill, sudd

re right. The day deserves

thrushes singing, in all the leafy galleries overhead. A fine day indeed, mused John, and indeed worthy of the best that they could say. His nervousness, his excitement, had entirely left him, his assurance had come completely back; and with it had come a curious deep satisfaction, a feeling that for the moment at any rate the world left nothing to be wished for, that the cup of his desire was full. He didn't even, now that he might do so, wish to talk to her. To walk with her was enough,-to enjoy her companionship in silence. Yes, that was it-companionship. He caught at the word. "That is what I have been unconsciously needing all along. I flattered myself that I was luxuriating in the very absence of it. But man is a gregarious animal, and I was dec

nature of things last for ever.

thanks." And still again she smiled, as she looked over towards him, her dark eyes glo

e at a loss. "O

his morning she told me a most interesting parable about Death. And s

t, did she? I'm glad if you don't feel that I took a good deal upon myself. But she had ju

n silence, "What a marvellous little perso

egree the right product

ak, but her eyes question

mosphere, until the things of the Church have become a part of her very bone. She sees everything in relation to them, translates everything in terms of them. But at the same time odd streaks of Paganism survive in her. They survive a little-don't they?-in all Italians. Wherever

res looked

u know," she recommenced, "she's a sort of little person about whom one can't help f

e. "No? Why should one fe

interest her so much. It doesn't seem natural, it makes one uneasy. And then she's so delicate-looking. Sometimes she's almost transparent. In every way she is too serious. She uses her mind t

dering. When she had done, his f

ate clay. She thinks about Death, it is true, but not in a morbid way,-and that's a part of her ecclesiastical tradition; and she thinks quite as much about life,-she thinks about everything. I agree with you, it's a pity s

e another light t

s, in reply to her questions, I admitted that I rather liked it myself, she very genero

gain, and Joh

er, I can almost see her wings. What will be her future, if she grows up? One would rather not think of her

edly rather not. But she will never marry. She will enter religion.

xclaimed Maria Dolores. "It is a most beautiful order.

d it was for Our Lady of Sorrow

mist of gold. Great, heavy, fantastic-shaped clouds, pearl-white with pearl-grey shadows, piled themselves up against the scintillant dark blue of the sky. In and out among the rose-trees near at hand, where the sun was hottest, heavily flew, with a loud bourdonnement, the cockchafers promised by A

er standing there beside him, in silent communion with him, contemplating the same things, enjoying the same pleasantnesses. Companionship-companionship: it was what he had been unconsciously needing all along! ... At

oud, with fervour, "I

"It is like a scene out of s

I know," said he. "All my

g surprise. "Have you

aw it first when I was ten. Then for long years I los

terest. "Oh? How was t

ith splendid halls and chambers, and countless beautiful pictures of women. All my life I remembered it, dreamed of it, longed to see it again. But I hadn't a notion where it was, save vaguely that it was somewhere in Italy; and, my po

And so, for you, besides its general romance, the place has a personal one, all your own. I, too, have known it for long years,

"that the people who

the Italian Government. Since Lombardy passed from Austria to It

, "practical-minded people, I shoul

soil; and if he were to get rid of Sant' Alessina, where could he house them? In other ways, though, he is perhaps not so practical. He is one of those Utopians who believe that the p

nodding. "That is

le into his eyes; and she moved away, down a ga