ir 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 clearer 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
favorite 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 that way. But we do not want society, we
shun it rather. We like the Duomo and the Campo Santo instead. Then
we know a little of Professor Ferucci, who gives us access to the
Universi