My Friend Prospero

hands in the pockets of his coat, his head bent, his brow creased, his eyes sombre, every line and fibre of his person advertising him the prey of morose disgust. But w

ight of the flying form of Annunziata, h

iata? Why is she running with a

atch of laughter. "She is runni

donc un foudre de guerre? What on ea

es smiled m

not to tell you. I am in the d

ohn, urbanely unprincipled. "A confidante always betrays her confidenc

res' smile

en moss, with her complexion and her hair,-by Jove,

n away because she didn't want y

he blue eyes under them bec

poor little kiddie! What h

peculiar theological tenets," said Maria Dolor

ded to their normal le

friend? What fr

ho has been passing the day here

w back his head, and ey

raordinary,"

she, lightly

friend the priest," said Jo

He has all the air of o

an millionaire," sa

oved in her pla

deceptive appearance. With that thin, shaven face of his, and that look of an early Christian marty

of bigoted Protestants, he's a reincarnation of some of his stern old Puritan forebears, and yo

inquiringly. "A prophet

hat the man is on his way to Rome to study for the priesth

leaned back against her eucal

ectedly shook his

as far as possible from a laughing matter, and I th

to be a priest, and then learning that, though he isn't, he is going to become one. I was not laughing at the fact itself. Nor was

have known it. But it might well have done so. It's enough to bring t

urprised, rebukeful. "That a m

this particular man, in his special circumstances, is to become a priest-well, I simply have no words to express my feeling." He

res, stirring. "What are

r, far too intellectual and enlightened, and that sort of thing, you know, to believe any such old wives' tale as the Christian Religion. He and I used to have arguments, tremendous ones, in which, of course, neither in

d up, animated, her

endid!"

think I did congratulate him,-with all my heart and soul. But then, na

d Maria Dolores

is quiet way, with his cool voice (it's like smooth-flowing cold water), absol

story?" asked

te of unbelief was a cause of great grief to her. So she pleaded with him, and persuaded, till, merely to comfort her, and without the faintest suspicion that his scepticism could be weakened, he promised to give the Catholic position a thorough reconsiderati

res, eagerly. "Yes-? A

our religion. But I can't believe a thing like that, and go on living as I lived when I didn't believe it,-go on living as if it weren't true, or didn't matter. It does matter-it matters supremely-it's the only thing in the world that matters. I can't believe it, and marry-marry, and live in tranquil indifference to it. No, I must put aside the thought of mar

ores look

nscience," she said. "After all,

s the ardour of the convert, acting upon that acid solution of flint which takes the place of blood in his veins, and causing sour puritanical impulses, which (like any other voluptuary) he immediately

ft, three steps to the right, beating the

w did she take it?"

ntenance, was not merely to approve of everything he said, but to determine to do likewise. So, while he's on his way to Rome, to get himself ton

. It is sad, in a way, if you like, but it is very beautiful, it is heroic. Their love must have

or them and was demanding of them. It's as bad as suicide. Besides, it implies such a totally perverted view of religion. Religion surely is given to us to help us to live, to show us how to live, to enable us to meet the difficulties, emergencies, responsibilities of life. But these people look upon thei

he resigns his love. What you call an inhuman story seems to me a wonderfully noble one. I saw your friend this morning, when he and you were walking together, and I said t

at least one good mark. His account of his 'heart-state' led me to examine my

lores, with a littl

"though unlike his, mine is an un

served indeed, but not witho

ulness and joy. "The woman I love doesn't dream I love her, and dreams still less

doubtful eyes. They shone into John's; his drank the

" she

ying with fire, how perilous and exciting, and how egotistical he must seem to her, and how nothing on earth should prevent him from continuing the play. "Yes," he said, "it's a circumst

ores, her sympathy be

puritanical-and I'm too

yes softened; her sympath

ted information about myself," thought John; "but surely it would need six hemispheres to produce another pair of

eyes became thoughtful

spirit moves them to preach to young men. And when the spirit does move them to that, things may

, his head in the clouds.

smiled. "Do you do

said John. "I've been t

lores, with the int

her, make a chord of 'em, you get the Divinity. Or, to take a lower plane, the world's a stage,

drama, to be one of the actors?" asked hi

on-defying topsy-turvydom of it, the gorgeous, squalid, tearful, and mirthful pageantry, the reckless inconsequences, the flagrant impossibilities; to watch the D

u are in love, surely you will never sit down weakly, and say, 'I am too poor to marry,' and so give up your love,-like your friend Winthorpe indeed, but for ignoble instead of noble motives. Surely you will set to work with determination, and earn money, and make it possible to marry. Or els

. I love her with passion, with tenderness; with worship, with longing; I love her with wonder; I love her with sighs, with laughter. I love her with all I have an

profession?

f one," said he,

you-for which you feel that you might have

hold of a galley? No, if I'm to work, I must work at something that will keep me above decks-something that will keep me out of doors, in touch with the air and the earth. I might become an agricultural labourer,-but that's not very munificently paid; or a farmer,-but that

she weren't sure whether or

ificently paid either, is it?" s

a grave face. "But would you have me entirely

that for the moment at least h

that to earn money, so that you might marry, w

s that would keep one in touch with the earth. A gardener's occupation keeps him co

n English?" asked Maria Dolor

perennially, radiantly young. Look at her now," he cried, circling the garden with his arm, and pointing to the farther landscape, "look at her, shining in her robes of pearl and gold, shining and smiling,-one would say a bride arrayed for the altar. Such is her infinite vari

ut in Maria Dolores, a glea

st useful purpose. He establishes the raison d'être of ma

leaned back, s

great," she said, "mightn't your lady-

ady-love, she was the undivided mistress of my heart. For the rest, my lady-lo

he sky and the sea," still softly laughing, sh

sea is a jewel that she bears upon her bosom,-a magical jewel, whence, with the sky's aid, she draws the soft rain that is her scent and her cosmetic. 'Fragrant the fertile earth after soft shower

' dark eyes w

she exclaimed. "Poor Milton! What

e. He was a scribe and a Pharisee, a pragmatical, self-righteous, canting old scribe and Pharisee. And he was worse still, and still worse yet. He was-what seems to me to-day the worstest thing unhung-he was a Puritan. Like Winthorpe's,

much. Her eyes were dreaming on the landscape, where it shone in pearl and gold. However,

rtain woman;-a woman I knew a little, admired immensely, very much liked, but didn't for an instant suppose I was seriously in love with. And involuntarily, with the vision of her before me, I asked myself whether, mutatis mutandis, I could have done as he had, and in a flash I saw that

still on t

ittle, how can you love her?"

y perfect. If you could see her! If you could see her eyes, her deep-glowing, witty, humorous, mischievous, innocent eyes, with the soul that burns in them, the passion that sleeps. If you could see the black soft masses of her hair, and her white brow, and the pale-rose of her cheeks, and the red-rose of her lovely smiling mouth. If you could see her figure, slender and strong, and the grace and pride of her carriage,-the carriage of an i

ed. Qui pane d'amour-how does the French proverb run? Did she vaguely feel perhaps that the seas they were sailing were perilous? Anyhow, as John saw with sinking heart, she was at the point of putting an end to their present conjunction,-she was

h he perceived an under-gleam as of not unfriendly m

"It is upon her ignorance of my true character that I base s

hed, nodded, and l

"you steered precious close to t

the many windows of the Castle glistened in the sun; but their beauty and their pleasantness had departed, had retired with her into the long,

es that can't be yours?" And he breathed a prodigious sigh. "When shall I see her again?" he asked, and thereupon was seized by his old terror-his terror of yesterday

rambled through the long suites of great empty rooms, empty of everything save the memory of the past a