I hear now that the Raphael lady I
raved over in Florence is no Raphael at all,--which accounts for it
being so beautiful and interesting--to _me_, I hasten to add. Raphael's
studied calmness, his soul of "invisible soap and imperceptible water,"
may charm some; me it only chills or leaves unmoved.
Is this more about art than you care to hear? I have nothing to say
about myself, except that I am as happy as a cut-in-half thing can be.
Is it any use sending kind messages to your mother? If so, my heart is
full of them. Bless you, dearest, and good-night.
LETTER XXXVIII.
Dearest: St. Mark's inside is entirely different from anything I had
imagined. I had expected a grove of pillars instead of these wonderful
breadths of wall; and the marble overlay I had not understood at all till
I saw it. My admiration mounts every time I enter: it has a different
gloom from any I have ever been in, more joyous and satisfying, not in the
least moody as our own Gothic seems sometimes to be; and saints instead of
devils look at you solemn-eyed from every corner of shade.
A heavy rain turns the Piazza into a lake: this morning Arthur had to
carry me across. Other foolish Englishwomen were shocked at such means,
and paddled their own leaky canoes, or stood on the brink and looked
miserable. The effect of rain-pool reflections on the inside of St.
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