its coldness. And yet to hear him exclaim, "How beautiful she is! Good
God, how beautiful!" No love of mere woman was ever so violent as this
love of woman's mere shape.

_June 27, 1887_.

You asked me once, dearest Excellency, whether there survived among our
people (you had evidently added a volume on folk-lore to that heap of
half-cut, dog's-eared books that litter about among the Chineseries and
mediaeval brocades of your rooms) any trace of Pagan myths. I explained
to you then that all our fairy mythology, classic gods, and demons and
heroes, teemed with fairies, ogres, and princes. Last night I had a
curious proof of this. Going to see the Waldemar, I found Dionea seated
under the oleander at the top of the old Genoese fort, telling stories
to the two little blonde children who were making the falling pink
blossoms into necklaces at her feet; the pigeons, Dionea's white
pigeons, which never leave her, strutting and pecking among the basil
pots, and the white gulls flying round the rocks overhead. This is what
I heard... "And the three fairies said to the youngest son of the King,
to the one who had been brought up as a shepherd, 'Take this apple, and
give it to her among us who is most beautiful.' And the first fairy
said, 'If thou give it to me thou shalt be Emperor of Rome, and have
purple clothes, and have a gold crown and gold armor, and horses and
courtiers;' and the second said, 'If thou give it to me thou shalt be
Pope, and wear a miter, and have the keys of heaven and hell;' and the
third fairy said, 'Give the apple to me, for I will give thee the most
beautiful lady to wife.' And the youngest son of the King sat in the
green meadow and thought about it a little, and then said, 'What use is
there in being Emperor or Pope? Give me the beautiful lady to wife,
since I am young myself.' And he gave the apple to the third of the