[Siena: September-October, 1859.]

My dearest Sarianna,--We are on the verge of returning to Florence, for
a short time--only to pack up, I believe, and go further south--to 'meet
the revolution,' tell the dearest Nonno, with my love. The case is that
though I am really convalescent and look well (Robert has even let me
take to Penini a little, which is conclusive), it is considered
dangerous for me to run the risk of even a Florence winter. You see I
have been _very_ ill. The physician thought there was pressure of the
lungs on the _heart_, and, under those circumstances, that I _must_
avoid irritation of the lungs by any cold. Say nothing which can reach
my sisters and frighten them; and after all I care very little about
doctors, except that I do know myself how hard renewals of the late
attack would go with me. But I mean to take care, and use God's
opportunities of getting strong again. Also it seems to me that I have
taken a leap within these ten days, and that the strength comes back in
a fuller tide. After all, it is not a cruel punishment to us to have to
go to Rome again this winter, though it will be an undesirable expense,
and though we did wish to keep quiet this winter, the taste for constant
wanderings having passed away as much for me as for Robert. We begin to
see that by no possible means can one spend as much money to so small an
end. And then we don't work so well--don't live to as much use, either
for ourselves or others. Isa Blagden bids us observe that we pretend to
live at Florence, and are not there much above two months in the year,
what with going away for the summer and going away for the winter. It's
too true. It's the drawback of Italy. To live in one place here is
impossible for us almost, just as to live out of Italy at all is
impossible for us. It isn't caprice--that's all I mean to say--on our
part.

Siena pleases us very much. The silence and repose have been heavenly
things to me, and the country is very pretty, though no more than
pretty--nothing marked or romantic, no mountains (did you fancy us on
the mountains?) except so far off as to be like a cloud only, on clear
days, and no water. Pretty, dimpled ground, covered with low vineyards;
purple hills, not high, with the sunsets clothing them. But I like the
place, and feel loth to return to Florence from this half-furnished
villa and stone floors. The weather is still very hot, but no longer
past bearing, and we are enjoying it, staying on from day to day. Robert
proposed Palermo instead of Rome, but I shrink a little from the
prospect of our being cut up into mincemeat by patriotic Sicilians,
though the English fleet (which he reminds me of) might obtain for you
and for England the most 'satisfactory compensation' of the pecuniary
kind. At Rome I shall not be frightened, knowing my Italians. Then there
will be more comfort, and, besides, no horrible sea-voyage. Some
Americans have told us that the Mediterranean is twice as bad as the
Atlantic. I always thought it _twice as bad as anything_, as people say
elegantly. We shall not leave Florence till November. Robert must see W.
Landor (his adopted son, Sarianna) settled in his new apartment, with
Wilson for a duenna. It's an excellent plan for him, and not a bad one
for Wilson. He will pay a pound (English) a week for his three rooms,
and she is to receive twenty-two pounds a year for the care she is to
take of him, besides what is left of his rations. Forgive me if Robert
has told you this already. Dear darling Robert amuses me by talking of
his 'gentleness and sweetness.' A most courteous and refined gentleman
he is, of course, and very affectionate to Robert (as he ought to be),
but of self-restraint he has not a grain, and of suspiciousness many
grains. Wilson will run certain risks, and I for one would rather not
meet them. What do you say to dashing down a plate on the floor when you
don't like what's on it? And the contadini at whose house he is lodging
now have been already accused of opening desks. Still, upon that
occasion (though there was talk of the probability of Landor's throat
being 'cut in his sleep'), as on other occasions, Robert succeeded in
soothing him, and the poor old lion is very quiet on the whole, roaring
softly, to beguile the time, in Latin alcaics against his wife and Louis
Napoleon. He laughs carnivorously when I tell him that one of these
days he will have to write an ode in honour of the Emperor, to please
_me_.

Little Pen has been in the utmost excitement lately about his pony,
which Robert is actually going to buy for him. I am said to be the
spoiler, but mark! I will confess to you that, considering how we run to
and fro, it never would have entered into the extravagance of my love to
set up a pony for Penini. When I heard of it first, I opened my eyes
wide, only no amount of discretion on my part could enable me to take
part against both Pen and Robert in a matter which pleases Pen. I hope
they won't combine to give me an Austrian daughter-in-law when Peni is
sixteen. So I say 'Yes,' 'Yes,' 'Certainly,' and the pony is to be
bought, and carried to Rome (fancy that!), and we are to hunt up some
small Italian princes and princesses to ride with him at Rome (I object
to Hatty Hosmer, who has been thrown thirty times[70]). In fact, Pen has
been very coaxing about the pony. He has beset Robert in private and
then, as privately, entreated me, 'if papa spoke to me about the pony,
not to _discourage_ him.' So I discouraged nobody, but am rather
triumphantly glad, upon the whole, that we have done such a very
foolish, extravagant thing.

Robert will have told you, I am sure, what a lovely picture Mr. Wilde,
the American artist (staying with the Storys), has made of Penini on
horseback, and presented to me. It is to be exhibited in the spring in
London, but before then, either at Rome or Florence, we will have a
photograph made from it to send you. By the way, Mr. Monroe failed us
about the photograph from the bust. He said he had tried in vain once,
but would try again. The child is no less pretty and graceful than he
was, and he rides, as he does everything, with a grace which is
striking. He gallops like the wind, and with an absolute
fearlessness--he who is timid about sleeping in a room by himself, poor
darling. He has had a very happy time here (besides the pony) having
made friends with all the contadini, who adore him, and helped them to
keep the sheep, catch the stray cows, drive the oxen in the grape-carts,
and to bring in the vintage generally, besides reading and expounding
revolutionary poems to them at evening. The worst of it was, while it
lasted, that he ate so many grapes he could eat nothing else whatever.
Still, he looks rosy and well, and there's nothing to regret....

Robert has let his moustache and beard grow together, and looks very
picturesque. I thought I should not like the moustache, but I do. He is
in very good looks altogether, though, in spite of remonstrances, he has
given up walking before breakfast, and doesn't walk at any time half
enough. _I_ was in fault chiefly, because he both sate up at night with
me and kept by me when I was generally ill in the mornings. So I
oughtn't to grumble--but I do.... Love to dear M. Milsand. We are in
increasing spirits on Italian affairs.

Your very affectionate
BA.

      * * * * *


In October they returned to Florence, though only for about six weeks,
before moving on to Rome for the winter.