There is scarcely anybody I know in Rome. The heat has driven them to
their villas, or up into the mountains. In the daytime there are
few people in the streets except tourists, mostly Englishmen in
pith-helmets, puggarees, red Baedekers, with their everlasting "Very
interesting!" on their lips. At noon our Babuino is so deserted that
the footstep of a solitary passer-by re-echoes on the pavement. But in
the evening the street swarms with people. At that time I feel usually
very depressed, nervous, and restless. I go out, and walk about until
I am tired; and that gives me relief. I walk mostly on the Pincio,
three or four times along that magnificent terrace. At this time
lovers stroll about. Some couples walk arm in arm, their heads close
together, their eyes uplifted, as if overflowing with happiness;
others sit in the deep shadows of the trees. The flickering light of
the lamp reveals now and then half-concealed under his plumes the
profile of a Bersagliere, sometimes the light dress of a girl, or the
face of a laborer or student. Whispers reach my ear; love-vows and low
snatches of song. All this gives me the impression of a carnival of
spring. I find a singular charm in thus losing myself among the crowd,
and breathe their gayety and health. There is so much happiness and
simplicity! This simplicity seems to penetrate into my whole being,
and acts more soothingly upon my nerves than a sleeping draught. The
evenings are clear and warm, but full of cool breezes. The moon rises
beyond Trinitá dei Monti, and sails above that human beehive like a
great silver bark, illuminating the tops of trees, roofs, and towers.
At the foot of the terrace glimmers and surges the city, and somewhere
in the distance, on a silvery background, appears the dark outline of
St. Peter's, with a shining cupola like a second moon. Never did Rome
seem more beautiful to me, and I discover new charms every day. I
return home late, and go to bed almost happy in the thought that
to-morrow I shall wake up again in Rome. And I do sleep. I do not know
whether it is the exercise I take, but I sleep so heavily that it
leaves a kind of dizziness when I wake up in the morning.
Part of the morning I spend with the lawyer. Sometimes I work at
compiling a catalogue of the collections for my own use. My father did
not leave any instructions as to his collections; consequently they
are my property. I would hand them over to the city, in fulfilment of
his wishes, if I were quite sure he did wish it. As he did not will
them away, he, moved by my aunt's remonstrances, may have left it to
me to bring them sometime or other over to Poland. That my father
thought of this in later times is proved by the numerous bequests and
codicils in his will. Among others there is one that touched me more
deeply than I can tell: "The head of the Madonna by Sassoferrato I
leave to my future daughter-in-law."