the murmurs of the
river.

I keep silence from noon till night. There is no one to converse
with; for the people, employed in spreading their nets, or tending
their vines and orchards, are no great adepts at conversation. I
often content myself with the dry bread of the fisherman, and even
eat it with pleasure. Nay, I almost prefer it to white bread. This
old fisherman, who is as hard as iron, earnestly remonstrates
against my manner of life; and assures me that I can not long hold
out. I am, on the contrary, convinced that it is easier to accustom
one's self to a plain diet than to the luxuries of the feast. I am
fond of the fish with which this stream abounds, and I sometimes
amuse myself with spreading the nets. As to my dress, there is an
entire change; you would take me for a laborer or a shepherd.

My mansion resembles that of Cato or Fabricius. My whole
house-establishment consists of myself, my old fisherman and his
wife, and a dog. My fisherman's cottage is near to mine; when I want
him I call, when I no longer need him, he returns to his cottage. I
have made two gardens that please me wonderfully. I do not think
they are equaled in all the world. And I must confess to you a more
than female weakness with which I am haunted. I am positively angry
that there is anything so beautiful out of Italy.

One of these gardens is shady, formed for contemplation, and sacred
to Apollo. It overhangs the source of the river, and is terminated
by rocks, and by places accessible only to the birds. The other is
nearer to my cottage, of an aspect less severe, and devoted to
Bacchus; and, what is extremely singular, it is in the midst of a
rapid river. The approach to it is over a bridge of rocks; and there
is a natural grotto under the rocks, which gives them the appearance
of a rustic bridge. Into this grotto the sun's rays never penetrate.
I am confident that it much resembles the place where Cicero
sometimes went to declaim. It invites to study. Hither I retreat
during noontide hours; my mornings are engaged upon the hills, or in
the garden sacred to Apollo. Here I would most willingly spend my
days, were I not too near Avignon, and too far from Italy. For why
should I conceal this weakness of my soul? I love Italy, and hate
Avignon. The pestilential influence of this horrid place