all. I never was happy
before in my life. Ah, but, of course, the painful thoughts recur! There
are some whom I love too tenderly to be easy under their displeasure, or
even under their injustice. Only it seems to me that with time and
patience my poor dearest papa will be melted into opening his arms to
us--will be melted into a clear understanding of motives and intentions;
I cannot believe that he will forget me, as he says he will, and go on
thinking me to be dead rather than alive and happy. So I manage to hope
for the best, and all that remains, all my life here, _is_ best already,
could not be better or happier. And willingly tell dear Mr. Martin I
would take him and you for witnesses of it, and in the meanwhile he is
not to send me tantalising messages; no, indeed, unless you really,
really, should let yourselves be wafted our way, and could you do so
much better at Pau? particularly if Fanny Hanford should come here. Will
she really? The climate is described by the inhabitants as a 'pleasant
spring throughout the winter,' and if you were to see Robert and me
threading our path along the shady side everywhere to avoid the
'excessive heat of the sun' in this November (?) it would appear a good
beginning. We are not in the warm orthodox position by the Arno because
we heard with our ears one of the best physicians of the place advise
against it. 'Better,' he said, 'to have cool rooms to live in and warm
walks to go out along.' The rooms we have are rather over-cool perhaps;
we are obliged to have a little fire in the sitting-room, in the
mornings and evenings that is; but I do not fear for the winter, there
is too much difference to my feelings between this November and any
English November I ever knew. We have our dinner from the Trattoria at
two o'clock, and can dine our favourite way on thrushes and Chianti with
a miraculous cheapness, and no trouble, no cook, no kitchen; the prophet
Elijah or the lilies of the field took as little thought for their
dining, which exactly suits us. It is a continental fashion which we
never cease commending. Then at six we have coffee, and rolls of milk,
made of milk, I mean, and at nine our supper (call it supper, if you
please) of roast chestnuts and grapes. So you see how primitive we are,
and how I forget to praise the eggs at breakfast. The worst of Pisa is,
or would be to some persons, that, socially speaking, it has its
dullnesses; it is not lively like Florence, not in tha