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.

How utterly unprofitable my life is!