Miranda to Octavia.
The houses in Freshwater Place seem getting into much better order now that Minnie is in town again. The P.’s are so energetic about the playground, so anxious to make it succeed. P. has been painting the swings (for which he would only take a trifle). He says a ground like that is a Godsend to the neighbourhood; and he proposes putting up a little direction board outside the court that people may find the way.... Minnie wants to know if she may admit P.’s children on Sunday. He longs so much for quiet to read his newspaper. I suppose the playground would be like a garden to the cottage.
Florence,
November 2nd, 1867.
To Emily.
The galleries were closed yesterday, as it was All Saints’ Day; so I wanted to have a long bright day at Fiesole, or somewhere in the country, which is my great joy. But it was not to be; we did not get off till about three, and went to Certosa. Ask F. to tell you what a lovely place it is; and it looked so lovely in the autumn afternoon and evening light. A convent on a hill, the approach almost like that to a castle, so straight and steep, and bounded by such high walls. But the loveliest view was when we ascended a steep road to the south of it, and looked beyond it to the setting sun, the great couchant hills purple and grey beyond its own battlemented wall,—campanile, and cypresses all dark against the sky; but Florence and the mountains beyond Florence were bathed in rose mist. Gradually as the light left the valley it became pale misty blue, the shadow creeping up till it veiled even the snow-covered peaks themselves. Tell dear A. I am not, and never have been, disappointed with anything, except a little perhaps with having to work, after all; but this is very unreasonable. I have no anxiety, and possibly I am after all better for a little compulsory action; or I might go to sleep altogether, or take to thinking too much. As to the country, it might grow upon me; but it hardly seems to me as if it could, it is so supremely perfectly beautiful. I have not even missed my beloved grass; for first it would not fit in with the rest; and second there seems to me to be a kind of uncultivation or perhaps rather of mountain character given to the landscape by its absence which has a peculiar charm. I daresay this is an unreasonable fancy, based on my northern associations of grass with richness of soil; but it is involuntary and to me specially delightful, partly as being different, and so not touching me too much, partly as giving a sense of freedom and air for which I pant. Then it is quite delicious to an eye that glories so in colour, to see the great masses of earth, ready to turn to gold or purple or red, or all these in infinite combinations with brown, and over all the silver network of the weird olive trees. I fancy I should rather miss the grass increasingly than decreasingly....
Remember me affectionately to Mrs. P.[[59]]; dear, good, bright little George! to think I shall not see him again, and that he is to do no more service here below;—all young lives that go out so, hint so distinctly of the life that is to be—I do think of you all so. Has anyone thanked dear Mrs. Nassau Senior for her letter? and told her of the pleasure it gave and brought me?... I take the opportunity of writing when B. is out. I like to be ready to chat and walk with her when she is here....
HOME-SICKNESS
Florence.
To Emily.