As Verona is only a two hours' ride from Padua, we reached here in time to gain a general view of its fine old sculptured buildings, arches, and bridges, and to see in the glow of sunset Diocletian's famous amphitheatre, which looks almost as large as the Coliseum and is more complete, as its stones have not been carted off so ruthlessly for the building of palaces.
This morning we saw the Casa di Romeo and the balconied home of Giulietta, sorry-looking abodes for youth and beauty such as theirs, although some of the carvings on these old buildings and the exterior frescoes still suggest bygone grandeur. A beautiful outside stairway in the Piazza dei Signori near the Scaliger tombs so charmed Miss Morris that she stopped to sketch it, while we visited the cathedral and several churches.
We are now sitting upon a balcony—the place of all others to sit upon a balcony, even if there is not a Romeo in sight—listening to the song of the rushing Adige which flows beneath us, and looking out upon the mountains beyond. Zelphine and I are writing, while Miss Morris and Angela make water-color sketches of the scene before us, and try to get on their brushes some of the soft, rich shades of brown and yellow that time and the light of the setting sun have given to the ancient palace of the Scaligers and to the fourteenth-century bridge that spans the river a short distance from this hotel. On the terrace beneath our balcony some Italians are dining and chatting gaily. When the lovely sunset glow has quite faded out and the evening light has deepened to twilight, we shall join them and dine al fresco.
To-morrow we take a train for Milan, that is, if the sketches are satisfactory; if not, we may stay here another day.
Hotel de l'Europe, June 7th.
Instead of writing to you from Milan, I am sending you another letter from Venice. A strange thing happened yesterday, or, rather, two strange things have happened. Zelphine came to my room at the Riva San Lorenzo late on Sunday night, her face wearing the anxious look that betokens an uneasy mind.
"What is the matter, Zelphine?" I asked. "You look as if you were trying to make up your mind." We have long since decided that this is the mental process that is most wearing to the brain of the traveller, and I was not surprised when she said, "Yes, that is the trouble. I have attempted three separate times to answer Emily B.'s note, and I simply cannot do it."
"Oh, I took for granted that you had mailed that note on Saturday evening."
"No, Margaret, I have never written it at all. The truth is, I want to see Mrs. B. so much that I have almost decided to return to Venice to-morrow, instead of going on to Milan."
"That is rather against your principles, Zelphine, you are so much opposed to doubling journeys and retracing steps," I said, trying to appear judicial in my tone, although I was delighted at the idea of returning to Venice, even for an afternoon.