Verona began by seeming dull to me; but it improves and unfolds beautiful corners of itself to be looked at:  only I am given so little time.  The Tombs of the Della Scalas and the Renaissance facade of the Consiglio are what chiefly delight me.  I had some quiet hours in the Museo, where I fell in love with a little picture by an unknown painter, of Orpheus charming the beasts in a wandering green landscape, with a dance of fauns in the distance, and here and there Eurydice running;—­and Orpheus in Hades, and the Thracian women killing him, and a crocodile fishing out his head, and mermaids and ducks sitting above their reflections reflecting.

Also there is one beautiful Tobias and the Angel there by a painter whose name I most ungratefully forget.  I saw a man yesterday carrying fishes in the market, each strung through the gills on a twig of myrtle:  that is how Tobias ought to carry his fish:  when a native custom suggests old paintings, how charming it always is!

    Riva.

We have just got here from Verona.  In the matter of the garden at least it is a Paradise of a place.  A great sill of honeysuckle leans out from my window:  beyond is a court grown round with creepers, and beyond that the garden—­such a garden!  The first thing one sees is an arcade of vines upon stone pillars, between which peep stacks of roses, going off a little from their glory now, and right away stretches an alley of green, that shows at the end, a furlong off, the blue glitter of water.  It is a beautifully wild garden:  grass and vegetables and trees and roses all grow in a jungle together.  There are little groves of bamboo and chestnut and willow; and a runnel of water is somewhere—­I can hear it.  It suggests rest, which I want; and so, for all its difference, suggests you, whom also I want,—­more, I own it now, than I have said!  But that went without saying, Beloved, as it always must if it is to be the truth and nothing short of the truth.

While this has been waiting to go, your letter has been put into my hands.  I am too happy to say words about it, and can afford now to let this go as it is.  The little time of waiting for you will be perfect happiness now; and your coming seems to color all that is behind as well.  I have had a good time indeed, and was only wearying with the plethora of my enjoyment:  but the better time has been kept till now.  We shall be together day after day and all day long for at least a month, I hope:  a joy that has never happened to us yet.

Never mind about the lost letter now, dearest, dearest:  Venice was a little empty just one week because of it.  I still hope it will come; but what matter?—­I know you will.  All my heart waits for you.—­Your most glad and most loving.

LETTER XLII.

Dearest:  I saw an old woman riding a horse astride:  and I was convinced on the spot that this is the rightest way of riding, and that the sidesaddle was a foolish and affected invention.  The horse was fine, and so was the young man leading it:  the old woman was upright and stately, with a wide hat and full petticoats like a Maximilian soldier.