He too had
vanished into the distant haze, and now I meet him again as in his
former, real life. There on the table in his studio are the lenses
through which he looked at his specimens, the bronze implement he
used in scraping the dry soil from the pottery; colors, brushes,
manuscripts, and notes about the collections are lying about. At times
I have a feeling as if he had gone out and would return presently to
his work, and when the illusion disappears a great sorrow seizes me,
and I love not only his memory, but love him who sleeps the eternal
sleep on the Campo Santo.
And I feel sad; but the feeling is so infinitely purer than those
which had such absolute sway over my mind those last weeks that I feel
more at ease,--a better man, or, at least, not so corrupt as I had
seemed to myself. I notice also that no reasoning, nor the most
desperate argumentation can deprive us of a certain feeling of
satisfaction, when we come in contact with nobler elements. Whence
comes that irresistible, irrepressible tendency towards the good?
Spinning out this thread I go very far. Since our reason is considered
a reflection of the logical principle of all life, may not our
conception of good be a similar reflection from an absolute good. Were
it so, one might throw at once all doubts to the wind, and shout, not
only, "Eureka!" but also, "Alleluia!" Nevertheless, I am afraid lest
the foundation fall to pieces, like many others, and I dare not build
on it.
Pages:
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162