o the voices of the night, moved by the regret
of losing in the blindness of sleep the hours that pass under so
beautiful a sky. How strange is the harmony between the song of the
fountains and the murmur of the sea! The cypresses seemed to be the
pillars of the firmament; the stars shining just above them tipped their
summits with fire.

'_September 16th._--A delightful afternoon, spent almost entirely in
conversation with Francesca in the loggia, on the terraces, in the
avenues, at the various points of outlook of this villa, which looks as
if it had been built by a princely poet to drown a grief. The name of
the Palace at Ferrara suits it admirably.

'Francesca gave me a sonnet of Count Sperelli's to read--a trifle, but
of rare literary charm, and inscribed on vellum. Sperelli has a mind of
a very high order, and is most intense. To-day at dinner, he said
several very beautiful things. He is recovering from a terrible wound
received in a duel in Rome last May. In all his actions, his looks, his
words, there is that affectionate and charming licence which is the
prerogative of the convalescent, of those who have newly escaped the
clutches of death. He must be very young, but he has gone through much
and lived fast. He bears the evidences of it.... A charming evening of
conversation and music all by ourselves after dinner. I talked too much,
or, at any rate, with two much eagerness. But Francesca listened and
encouraged me, and so did Count Sperelli. That is just the delightful
part of a conversation not on common subjects--to feel the same degree
of warmth animating the minds of all present. Only then do one's words
have the true ring of sincerity and give real pleasure, both to the
speaker and the hearer.

'Francesca's cousin is a most cultivated judge of music. He greatly
admires the masters of the eighteenth century, Domenico Scarlatti being
his special favourite. But his most ardent devotion is reserved for
Sebastian Bach. He does not care much for Chopin, and Beethoven affects
him too profoundly and perturbs his spirit.

'He listened to me with a singular expression, almost as if dazed or
distressed. I nearly always addressed myself to Francesca, but I felt
his eyes upon me with an insistence which embarrassed but did not offend
me. He must still be weak and ill and a prey to his nerves. Finally he
asked me--"Do you sing?" in the same tone in which he would have
said--"Do you love me?"

'I sang an air of Pa