Just what we should have done, had the
circumstances been arranged in a dramatic intention. From Forli, the
air grew pure and quick again; and the exquisite, almost visionary
scenery of the Apennines, the wonderful variety of shape and colour,
the sudden transitions and vital individuality of those mountains, the
chestnut forests dropping by their own weight into the deep ravines,
the rocks cloven and clawed by the living torrents, and the hills,
hill above hill, piling up their grand existences as if they did it
themselves, changing colour in the effort--of these things I cannot
give you any idea, and if words could not, painting could not either.
Indeed, the whole scenery of our journey, except when we approached
the coast, was full of beauty. The first time we crossed the Apennine
(near Borgo San Sepolcro) we did it by moonlight, and the flesh was
weak, and one fell asleep, and saw things between sleep and wake, only
the effects were grand and singular so, even though of course we lost
much in the distinctness. Well, but you will understand from all this
that we were delighted to get home--_I_ was, I assure you. Florence
seemed as cool as an oven after the fire; indeed, we called it quite
cool, and I took possession of my own chair and put up my feet on the
cushions and was charmed, both with having been so far and coming back
so soon. Three weeks brought us home. Flush was a fellow traveller of
course, and enjoyed it in the most obviously amusing manner. Never
was there so good a dog in a carriage before his time! Think of Flush,
too! He has a supreme contempt for trees and hills or anything of that
kind, and, in the intervals of natural scenery, he drew in his head
from the window and didn't consider it worth looking at; but when the
population thickened, and when a village or a town was to be passed
through, then his eyes were starting out of his head with eagerness;
he looked east, he looked west, you would conclude that he was taking
notes or preparing them. His eagerness to get into the carriage first
used to amuse the Italians. Ah, poor Italy! I am as mortified as
an Italian ought to be. They have only the rhetoric of patriots and
soldiers, I fear! Tuscany is to be spared forsooth, if she lies still,
and here she lies, eating ices and keeping the feast of the Madonna.
Perdoni! but she has a review in the Cascine besides, and a gallant
show of some 'ten thousand men' they are said to have made of it--only
don't