to wonder, rather wishfully, what might have been.  What might have been, in this case, would, without doubt, have been very sad, and what has been has been very cheerful and comfortable; but there are nevertheless two or three questions I might ask myself.  Why, for instance, have I never married—­why have I never been able to care for any woman as I cared for that one?  Ah, why are the mountains blue and why is the sunshine warm?  Happiness mitigated by impertinent conjectures—­that’s about my ticket.

6th.—­I knew it wouldn’t last; it’s already passing away.  But I have spent a delightful day; I have been strolling all over the place.  Everything reminds me of something else, and yet of itself at the same time; my imagination makes a great circuit and comes back to the starting-point.  There is that well-remembered odour of spring in the air, and the flowers, as they used to be, are gathered into great sheaves and stacks, all along the rugged base of the Strozzi Palace.  I wandered for an hour in the Boboli Gardens; we went there several times together.  I remember all those days individually; they seem to me as yesterday.  I found the corner where she always chose to sit—­the bench of sun-warmed marble, in front of the screen of ilex, with that exuberant statue of Pomona just beside it.  The place is exactly the same, except that poor Pomona has lost one of her tapering fingers.  I sat there for half an hour, and it was strange how near to me she seemed.  The place was perfectly empty—­that is, it was filled with her.  I closed my eyes and listened; I could almost hear the rustle of her dress on the gravel.  Why do we make such an ado about death?  What is it, after all, but a sort of refinement of life?  She died ten years ago, and yet, as I sat there in the sunny stillness, she was a palpable, audible presence.  I went afterwards into the gallery of the palace, and wandered for an hour from room to room.  The same great pictures hung in the same places, and the same dark frescoes arched above them.  Twice, of old, I went there with her; she had a great understanding of art.  She understood all sorts of things.  Before the Madonna of the Chair I stood a long time.  The face is not a particle like hers, and yet it reminded me of her.  But everything does that.  We stood and looked at it together once for half an hour; I remember perfectly what she said.

8th.—­Yesterday I felt blue—­blue and bored; and when I got up this morning I had half a mind to leave Florence.  But I went out into the street, beside the Arno, and looked up and down—­looked at the yellow river and the violet hills, and then decided to remain—­or rather, I decided nothing.  I simply stood gazing at the beauty of Florence, and before I had gazed my fill I was in good-humour again, and it was too late to start for Rome.  I strolled along the quay, where something presently happened that rewarded me for staying.  I stopped in front of a little jeweller’s shop,