or not to be” has no meaning for me.  A strange thing, about the power of which not much has been said, is the influence of social suggestion on the mind.  In Paris, for instance, I feel happier not only because the continual mill deafens me,—­I am swallowed up by the surging masses, and my mind is diverted by tricks of the fencing ring,—­but also because the people there, without being conscious of it, live as if it were worth their while to put all their energies into this life, and as if beyond there was nothing but a chemical process.  My pulse begins to beat in unison with theirs; I feel myself in harmony with my surroundings; amuse myself or bore myself, conquer or am conquered, but enjoy a comparative rest.

Rome, Babuino, 13 January.

I have only four days left before my departure, and will now sum up what I said about myself.  I am an individual rather worn out, very sensitive, and of a highly nervous temperament.  I have a strongly developed consciousness of self, seconded by comparative culture, and taken altogether, may consider myself an intellectually developed being.

My scepticism debars me from all firm convictions.  I look, observe, criticise, sometimes fancy I get hold of some essential truth, but am ready always to doubt even that.  I have already said all that was necessary in reference to religion.  As to my social creed I am a conservative so far as a man in my position is bound to be, and so far as conservatism suits me.  No need to mention that I am far from considering conservatism as a dogma, which no one is allowed to touch or to criticise.  I am too much civilized to take a party view of either aristocracy or democracy.  I leave that as a pastime to those who live in the country, or in remote places where ideas, like fashions, are some ten years late.  From the time when privileges were done away with, the question has been closed; but in remoter parts, where the world remains more or less stagnant, it has become not so much a question of principle as rather a question of vanity and nerves.  In regard to myself, I like well-bred people,—­people with brains and nerves, and look for them where they are most readily found.  I like them as I like works of art, fine scenery, and beautiful women.  From an aesthetic point of view, I possess refined nerves,—­too refined, perhaps, owing to my early training and a naturally impressionable temperament.  This aesthetic sensitiveness gives me as many delights as torments, and renders me one great service:  it preserves me from cynicism or otherwise extreme corruption, and serves me instead of moral principle.  I recoil from many things, not because they are wicked, but because they are ugly.  From my aesthetic nerves I derive also a certain delicacy of feeling.  Taken all in all, it seems to me that I am a man a little marred by life, decent enough though to say the truth, rather floating in mid-air because not supported by any dogma, either social or religious.  I am also without an aim to which I could devote my life.