self in
Florence again in our own house, everything looking exactly as if we had
left it yesterday. Scarcely I can believe that we have gone away at all.
But Robert has been perfectly demoralised by Paris, and thinks it all as
dull as possible after the boulevards: 'no life, no variety.' Oh, of
course it _is_ very dead in comparison! but it's a beautiful death, and
what with the lovely climate, and the lovely associations, and the sense
of repose, I could turn myself on my pillow and sleep on here to the end
of my life; only be sure that I _shall do no such thing_. We are going
back to Paris; you will have us safe. Peninni had worked himself up to a
state of complete agitation on entering Florence, through hearing so
much about it. First he kissed me and then Robert again and again, as if
his little heart were full. '_Poor Florence_' said he while we passed
the bridge. Certainly there never was such a darling since the world
began.... I suffered extremely through our unfortunate election of the
Mont Cenis route (much more my own fault than Robert's), and was
extremely unwell at Genoa, to the extent of almost losing heart and
hope, which is a most unusual case with me, but the change from Lyons
had been too sudden and severe. At Genoa the weather was so exquisite,
so absolutely June weather, that at the end of a week's lying on the
sofa, I had rallied again quite, only poor darling Robert was horribly
vexed and out of spirits all that time, as was natural. I feel myself,
every now and then (and did then), like a weight round his neck, poor
darling, though he does not account it so, for his part. Well, but it
passed, and we were able to walk about beautiful Genoa the last two
days, and visit Andrea Doria's palace and enjoy everything together.
Then we came on by a night and day's diligence through a warm air, which
made me better and better. By the way, Turin is nearly as cold as
Chambery; you can't believe yourself to be in Italy. Susa, at the foot
of the Alps, is warmer. We were all delighted to hear the sound of our
dear Italian, and inclined to be charmed with everything; and Peninni
fairly expressed the kind of generalisations we were given to, when he
observed philosophically, 'In Italy, pussytats don't never _scwatch_,
mama.' This was in reply to an objection I had made to a project of his
about kissing the head of an enchanting pussy-cat who presented herself
in vision to him as we were dining at Turin.... God bless