Letter XXXIII

I liked being in Savonarola's room, and was more susceptible to the
remains of his presence than I have been to Michel Angelo or anyone
else's. Michel Angelo I feel most when he has left a thing unfinished;
then one can put one's finger into the print of the chisel, and believe
anything of the beauty that might have come out of the great stone
chrysalis lying cased and rough, waiting to be raised up to life.

Yesterday Arthur and I walked from here to Fiesole, which we had
neglected while in Florence--six miles going, and more like twelve
coming back, all because of Arthur's absurd cross-country instinct,
which, after hours of river-bends, bare mountain tracks, and tottering
precipices, brought us out again half a mile nearer Florence than when
we started.

At Fiesole is the only church about here whose interior architecture I
have greatly admired, austere but at the same time gracious--like a
Madonna of the best period of painting. We also went to look at the
Roman baths and theater: the theater is charming enough, because it is
still there: but for the baths--oblongs of stone don't interest me just
because they are old. All stone is old: and these didn't even hold water
to give one the real look of the thing. Too tired, and even more too
lazy, to write other things, except love, most dear Beloved.