Some good genius took him by the hand next day and led him to the house of Count Caloveglia, in response to that friendly twice-repeated invitation.  The old man saw at a glance that something serious was amiss.  He plunged at once, with quick insight, into what he took to be extraneous topics of conversation.

“I am glad you like my fig tree!  It gives a distinctive tone to this quiet courtyard, don’t you think?  I could not have wished for anything more appropriate.  Its shape, its associations, are alike pleasing.  The fig is a legendary tree; a volume could be written about the stories and superstitions which have twined themselves around it.  Some think it was the Biblical Tree of Knowledge.  Judas Iscariot, they say, hanged himself on a fig tree.  It came from the East-Bacchus brought it on his journey as a gift to mortal men.  How much we owe to those of the Greek gods who were yet not wholly divine!  The Romans, too, held it in veneration.  You have doubtless heard about the ficus RUMINALIS, at hose feet the cradle of Romulus and Remus was stranded?  Among many nations it became the outward symbol of generative forces.  The Egyptians consecrated the fig to Isis, that fecund Mother of Earth.  Statues of Priapus were carved out of its wood in allusion, possibly, to its reckless fertility or for some analogous reason; it was also held to be sacred, I know not why, to Mercury—­”

Denis, during this little speech, had begun to look more troubled than ever.  The other continued: 

“There is something in the very twistings of that smooth trunk and those heavy-laden branches that suggests fruitfulness, How voluptuously they writhe!  A kindly growth, lover of men, their dwellings and ordered ways.  That is why we foster it.  We are all utilitarians here, Mr. Denis; we think of the main purposes of life.  Besides food, it gives us welcome shade at this season; the leaves fall off in winter and allow the sunlight to percolate into our rooms.  You will not find evergreen trees planted near our windows.  We know the value of sunshine; where the sun enters, we say, the physician does not enter.  In England the light is feebler and yet they made this mistake, during the Georgian period of architecture.  They thought that houses were invented to be looked at, not to be lived in.  Determined to be faithful to the tradition and regardless of the difference in climate, they planted the ilex about those mansions which must be dank and gloomy in wintertime, however charming, externally, to those who relish the chill Palladian outlines.  You have lately been to Florence, I hear?  Come!  Let us sit indoors.  The courtyard is rather too sultry to-day, in spite of the shade.  My old servant will bring some tea, presently.  Or perhaps you would prefer some wine and a biscuit?  Or a glass of liqueur? . . .  Well?  And Florence?”

“It has left me rather confused, so far,” replied Denis.  “Some of the things are overwhelming.”