ting--but was it in sleep or in wakefulness? I was numbed, stunned,
hopeless. I could never return here, never see Isabel again. The Orphic
metamorphosis meant a complete disappearance from her life. She had not
turned me away or dismissed me; she had done no cruel thing, said no
word that wounded or would grow poignant in memory. She had been in
every way an angel of light--and for these reasons I could not see her
again. Whatever I was in truth, rid of accidental emotions if such they
were, I had filled her mind with fear and doubt. Thus our fate was made,
our sorrow was born.

As I walked along in the darkness toward the village, my loneliness in
the world came over me. I had not attached many to me; many of those I
had won were gone. Was there a home for me? How could I return to the
house in Chicago? To what there? I had come from Italy to America; from
a city of memories and spiritual richnesses to the tumult of New York.
Above all I had found heaven in Isabel and lost it. My life had come to
flower only to be withered. I had stepped out of heaven into hell, and
from a great light into darkness.

But the soul does not give up while there is breath. If one is ill he
looks forward to health; if he is slowly dying he hopes for years of
life; if one friend is lost there is another to turn to. No heart so
desperate but can imagine a haven, however poor it may be, and go to it.

In this hour my mind turned to Reverdy back in Jacksonville. There could
be no truer, kinder heart. There in the prairie of Illinois that I had
grown up with he would be my solace. What had I to do with Rome, with
art; what with a woman like Isabel? I had ventured on sacred ground and
this was my punishment. A god had driven me forth. I had won my heart's
desire; but before I could enjoy it a god, ironical but just, intuitive
and swift to punish, had sent me down to my place in life. I would go to
Reverdy, and stand before him in my familiar guise. He would not see
Rome in my eyes; he would not know that I had been in Paradise; that in
my heart shone a face that I had put by and should never look on again.
Every man is a temple of forsaken shrines, of altars where candles
burned replenished by spirits that need open no doors--a temple whose
portals are barred.

I went through Chicago, which had grown and changed in my absence so
marvelously, straight to Jacksonville, regarding nothing on my way,
reading nothing. Like a supernatural being whic