e for the money he had expended.

I read his treatise on almsgiving and his apology for it, and understood
a good deal of the marquis's way of thinking. I could easily imagine that
his writings must have given great offence at Rome, and that with sounder
judgment he would have avoided this danger. Of course the marquis was
really in the right, but in theology one is only in the right when Rome
says yes.

The marquis was a rigorist, and though he had a tincture of Jansenism he
often differed from St. Augustine.

He denied, for instance, that almsgiving could annul the penalty attached
to sin, and according to him the only sort of almsgiving which had any
merit was that prescribed in the Gospel: "Let not thy right hand know
what thy left hand doeth."

He even maintained that he who gave alms sinned unless it was done with
the greatest secrecy, for alms given in public are sure to be accompanied
by vanity.

It might have been objected that the merit of alms lies in the intention
with which they are given. It is quite possible for a good man to slip a
piece of money into the palm of some miserable being standing in a public
place, and yet this may be done solely with the idea of relieving
distress without a thought of the onlookers.

As I wanted to go to Trieste, I might have crossed the gulf by a small
boat from Pesaro; a good wind was blowing, and I should have got to
Trieste in twelve hours. This was my proper way, for I had nothing to do
at Ancona, and it was a hundred miles longer; but I had said I would go
by Ancona, and I felt obliged to do so.

I had always a strong tincture of superstition, which has exercised
considerable influence on my strange career.

Like Socrates I, too, had a demon to whom I referred my doubtful
counsels, doing his will, and obeying blindly when I felt a voice within
me telling me to forbear.

A hundred times have I thus followed my genius, and occasionally I have
felt inclined to complain that it did not impel me to act against my
reason more frequently. Whenever I did so I found that impulse was right
and reason wrong, and for all that I have still continued reasoning.

When I arrived at Senegallia, at three stages from Ancona, my vetturino
asked me, just as I was going to bed, whether I would allow him to
accommodate a Jew who was going to Ancona in the chaise.

My first impulse made me answer sharply that I wanted no one in my
chaise, much less a Jew.

The vetturino went o