Pebble VI.
What I think about it.
"I have rehearsed to you a few of my impressions for good and for evil, and I think that was the only way of answering your (imaginary) questions. I need make no apologies for not describing Venice to you, as you have all seen it, and it is a place the image of which does not easily fade. I might say a word or two about the Venetians. Whatever some people may say (and, if I am not mistaken, Byron amongst them), the female Venetian type, such as it is transmitted to us by Titian, Giorgione, Pordenone, &c. (i.e. stout, tall, round-faced, small-mouthed, Roxolane-nosed) has either totally disappeared, or only manifests itself to a chosen few; one feature only I recognise, and that is a profusion of fine hair, which they plait in the most elaborate manner. A thing that rather puzzles those who go to Venice with the idea of seeing Titians and Veroneses at the windows and in the streets, is that the women have altogether left off dyeing their hair auburn as they used in former times. To show you that vanity made the fair sex go through the greatest personal discomfort as far back as the sixteenth century, I will tell you what the process of dyeing was. On the top of nearly every house in Venice is a kind of terrace-like scaffold, or scaffold-like terrace ('you pays your money and takes your choice'), which has the noble vocation of drying linen; in former days, however, they were built for a different purpose. In the middle of the day, during the greatest heat of the sun, the party anxious to impart to her hair a tint between sugar-candy and radishes repaired to these lofty spots, and there regularly bleached her hair in the following manner: she put on her head the brim of a large straw hat, so that the top of the head was exposed to all the power of the sun, whilst the face and neck were kept in the shade. Through the hole thus left in the middle of this extraordinary headgear the whole of the hair was drawn, and spread out as much as possible; which done, different kinds of waters, made for the express purpose, were passed over it by means of a little sponge fastened to the top of a reed. History does not give the exact number of coups-de-soleil caught in this manner; a few, I should imagine. However, I can warrant the accuracy of my statement, which is borrowed from a contemporary author of the highest standing. The men of Venice are neither handsome in the face nor well made in the body. The Venetian dialect is amusing; in the mouth of a woman, if well spoken, it is pretty, musical, childlike, lisping; but in the mouth of a man, for the most part, muddy, stammering, unintelligible.
"There, much as still remains to say, and willingly as I dwell on its memory, I must discard Venice, and turn to your kind letter, for it is now, I am afraid, more than a month since I last wrote. This delay has, however, been unavoidable, for when one is travelling, or staying a short time in a place, one is always hurried and flurried in the day-time, and in the evening tired or excited—or both. Next time you hear from me (which will be when I reach Rome) my communication will openly take the shape that this has imperceptibly been attaining, that of a letter; when I am once settled for the winter I shall, I hope, be better able to write au jour le jour. Before entering into your letter, which will be a longish job, I must acknowledge the receipt of one from Papa, containing part of my remittance; it was written in most kind terms (I tell you this because you can't have seen it, since he wrote in London), and was, I think, the longest I ever got from him, at all events it was the first in which he said anything beyond what was necessary to business. It gave me sincere pleasure. I was touched, it seemed to me that distance had brought me nearer to him; pray thank him both for that and for the consideration with which he has provided for an emergency which will in fact arise—that of my not reaching Rome in October; I do not expect to get there until the first week in November. Of one thing I must remind Papa; he talks of sending to Rome the remaining eighty pounds of my second quarter; he has, I am afraid, forgotten that he gave me sixty for my first; my remittance this time is only forty pounds, he therefore has only twenty to send to Rome.
"I now turn to your letter, dear Mamma; I lay it by my side, and as I read it slowly through, answer it systematically, head for head, for in my present hurry I have indeed no time to pick and choose, or to arrange my topics according to their importance and interest, or even to consult as much as I wish the little amusement that my letters give you. However, I console myself a little with the reflection that it certainly is not the composition of my letters which gratifies you much, for I am painfully aware that my ideas are brought to paper with about as much order as the footprints of a cock-sparrow show on a gravel-walk.
"You say, dear Mamma, that you have a fear of not telling me all that I wish to hear; and there, indeed, you are right, for if you were to tell me all that I wish to know about your doings, you might write for a week; but you are equally right in supposing that whatever you write concerning yourself (and selves) is full of interest to your distant Punch. About my health? Well, I plead guilty, steaks do still continue to be to me physical consciences; this admonitory part they took more especially at Venice, where the climate, I must confess, did not agree with me particularly well. This is perhaps attributable to the water, which was particularly bad there, for my diet was of the simplest description. Judge for yourself: in the morning early, coffee and dry bread (I have discarded butter to keep company with Gamba, who is not in the habit of eating any); at eleven or so, fruit and bread; at four or five, a simple dinner; and in the evening, an ice or a cup of coffee. Here I live much in the same way.
"I am truly delighted to hear that you are accommodating yourself a little to an English climate; if you once get over that one great obstacle, nothing else need prevent your establishing yourself in the country which, after all, is still the dearest to you; with the prospect of pleasant and desirable society for yourself and the girls, and of other resources for Papa, there is every reason to hope that you will find in Bath what you have so long wished for, a home in England."
Speaking of his elder sister's suffering, he continues:—
"I feel, almost, a kind of shame that so much should have been poured down on me, who have deserved it less. To become deserving of it, must be my great, never-wavering endeavour; I will put my talent to usury, and be no slothful steward of what has been entrusted to me. Every man who has received a gift, ought to feel and act as if he was a field in which a seed was planted that others might gather the harvest.