Here in Rome among the old shrines and
temples where the anemones and violets bloom so profusely, before the
sculptured faces of Zeus and Aphrodite and Apollo and Bacchus, one
dreams one's self into intuitions of the old gods, and the lovely faiths
of the ancient world. And I go sometimes alone with a book to the
Borghese or to the Capitoline and there let my imagination wander in
re-creation of the visions of life and the soul that came as
interpretations to the ancients. I have lately been reading a book on
the cult of Orpheus, the Pagan Christ, one of the loveliest figures of
the Greeks. It made me believe somehow that Christ never lived, that he
is only a creation of the anonymous imagination of a hungering world.
For surely Orpheus did not live, and how closely he resembles Christ as
an embodiment of the heart's aspiration to free itself from the material
and to rise into a realm of pure beauty, understanding, devotion--all
lovely things. My friend, I was thinking of you all the while. And if
you could have been a friend of Pinturicchio in the noblest sense, why
not of me? I am not trying to play with words or with ideas, or to
perplex you, or to excite your doubts or your desires. I think you have
never had a friend. What, after all, could you find in a soul so
masculine, so lacking in intuition as Douglas; upon whom you have poured
your admiration for all these years? Has it not been for lack of some
one better to whom you could give your heart? That is why I wish that
you and I could find an enduring and inspiring union in a mutual
interest in great things.
Pages:
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383