Letter XXXIV

We tried to model our exit on a brigand-beggar who came in to ask
permission to murder one of his enemies. He got his request granted at
one of the side-altars (some strictly local Madonna, I imagine), and his
gratitude as he departed was quite touching. Having studiously copied
his exit, we want to know whom we shall murder to pay ourselves for our
trouble.

It amuses me to have my share of driving over these free and easy and
very narrow highroads. But A. has to do the collision-shouting and the
cries of "Via!"--the horse only smiles when he hears me do it.

Also did I tell you that on Saturday we two walked from here over to
Fiesole--six miles there, and ten back: for why?--because we chose to go
what Arthur calls "a bee-line across country," having thought we had
sighted a route from the top of Fiesole. But in the valley we lost it,
and after breaking our necks over precipices and our hearts down
cul-de-sacs that led nowhere, and losing all the ways that were pointed
out to us, for lack of a knowledge of the language, we came out again
into view of Florence about half a mile nearer than when we started and
proportionately far away from home. When he had got me thoroughly
foot-sore, Arthur remarked complacently, "The right way to see a country
is to lose yourself in it!" I didn't feel the truth of it then: but
applied to other things I perceive its wisdom. Dear heart, where I have
lost myself, what in all the world do I know so well as you?