At night I was cold, ill, and dreary, but by day I revelled in life —­I can find no better expression for it.  The brilliant warm sunshine beating in at the open windows and at the door upon the balcony, the shouts below, the splash of oars, the tinkle of bells, the prolonged boom of the cannon at midday, and the feeling of perfect, perfect freedom, did wonders with me; I felt as though I were growing strong, broad wings which were bearing me God knows whither.  And what charm, what joy at times at the thought that another life was so close to mine! that I was the servant, the guardian, the friend, the indispensable fellow-traveller of a creature, young, beautiful, wealthy, but weak, lonely, and insulted!  It is pleasant even to be ill when you know that there are people who are looking forward to your convalescence as to a holiday.  One day I heard her whispering behind the door with my doctor, and then she came in to me with tear-stained eyes.  It was a bad sign, but I was touched, and there was a wonderful lightness in my heart.

But at last they allowed me to go out on the balcony.  The sunshine and the breeze from the sea caressed and fondled my sick body.  I looked down at the familiar gondolas, which glide with feminine grace smoothly and majestically as though they were alive, and felt all the luxury of this original, fascinating civilisation.  There was a smell of the sea.  Some one was playing a stringed instrument and two voices were singing.  How delightful it was!  How unlike it was to that Petersburg night when the wet snow was falling and beating so rudely on our faces.  If one looks straight across the canal, one sees the sea, and on the wide expanse towards the horizon the sun glittered on the water so dazzlingly that it hurt one’s eyes to look at it.  My soul yearned towards that lovely sea, which was so akin to me and to which I had given up my youth.  I longed to live—­to live—­and nothing more.

A fortnight later I began walking freely.  I loved to sit in the sun, and to listen to the gondoliers without understanding them, and for hours together to gaze at the little house where, they said, Desdemona lived—­a naive, mournful little house with a demure expression, as light as lace, so light that it looked as though one could lift it from its place with one hand.  I stood for a long time by the tomb of Canova, and could not take my eyes off the melancholy lion.  And in the Palace of the Doges I was always drawn to the corner where the portrait of the unhappy Marino Faliero was painted over with black.  “It is fine to be an artist, a poet, a dramatist,” I thought, “but since that is not vouchsafed to me, if only I could go in for mysticism!  If only I had a grain of some faith to add to the unruffled peace and serenity that fills the soul!”