A little above us, among the olive-trees, two blue-clothed peasants, man and woman, were gathering the fruit—­from some such couple, no doubt, our friend in the bowler hat had sprung; more “virile” and adventurous than his brothers, he had not stayed in the home groves, but had gone forth to drink the waters of hustle and commerce, and come back—­what he was.  And he, in turn, would beget children, and having made his pile out of his ‘Anglo-American hotel’ would place those children beyond the coarser influences of life, till they became, perhaps, even as our selves, the salt of the earth, and despised him.  And I thought:  “I do not despise those peasants—­far from it.  I do not despise myself—­no more than reason; why, then, despise my friend in the bowler hat, who is, after all, but the necessary link between them and me?” I did not despise the olive-trees, the warm sun, the pine scent, all those material things which had made him so thick and strong; I did not despise the golden, tenuous imaginings which the trees and rocks and sea were starting in my own spirit.  Why, then, despise the skittle-alley, the gramophone, those expressions of the spirit of my friend in the billy-cock hat?  To despise them was ridiculous!

And suddenly I was visited by a sensation only to be described as a sort of smiling certainty, emanating from, and, as it were, still tingling within every nerve of myself, but yet vibrating harmoniously with the world around.  It was as if I had suddenly seen what was the truth of things; not perhaps to anybody else, but at all events to me.  And I felt at once tranquil and elated, as when something is met with which rouses and fascinates in a man all his faculties.

“For,” I thought, “if it is ridiculous in me to despise my friend—­that perfect marvel of disharmony—­it is ridiculous in me to despise anything.  If he is a little bit of continuity, as perfectly logical an expression of a necessary phase or mood of existence as I myself am, then, surely, there is nothing in all the world that is not a little bit of continuity, the expression of a little necessary mood.  Yes,” I thought, “he and I, and those olive-trees, and this spider on my hand, and everything in the Universe which has an individual shape, are all fit expressions of the separate moods of a great underlying Mood or Principle, which must be perfectly adjusted, volving and revolving on itself.  For if It did not volve and revolve on Itself, It would peter out at one end or the other, and the image of this petering out no man with his mental apparatus can conceive.  Therefore, one must conclude It to be perfectly adjusted and everlasting.  But if It is perfectly adjusted and everlasting, we are all little bits of continuity, and if we are all little bits of continuity it is ridiculous for one of us to despise another.  So,” I thought, “I have now proved it from my friend in the billy-cock hat up to the Universe, and from the Universe down, back again to my friend.”