For my part, I have led rather too lonely a life of late. Before, it
seemed as if too many voices of men startled away the inspirations;
but having now lived eight months much alone, I doubt that good has
come of it, and think to return, and go with others for a little. I
have realized in these last days the thought of Goethe,--"He who would
in loneliness live, ah! he is soon alone. Each one loves, each one
lives, and leaves him to his pain." I went away and hid, all summer.
Not content with that, I said, on returning to Rome, I must be busy
and receive people little. They have taken me at my word, and hardly
one comes to see me. Now, if I want play and prattle, I shall have to
run after them. It is fair enough that we all, in turn, should be made
to feel our need of one another.
Never was such a winter as this. Ten weeks now of unbroken sunshine
and the mildest breezes. Of course, its price is to be paid. The
spring, usually divine here, with luxuriant foliage and multitudinous
roses, will be all scorched and dusty. There is fear, too, of want of
food for the poor Roman state.
I pass my days in writing, walking, occasional visits to the
galleries.
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