her person;—­very dark, tall, the Venetian face, very fine black eyes.  She was two-and-twenty years old, * * * She was, besides, a thorough Venetian in her dialect, in her thoughts, in her countenance, in every thing, with all their naivete and pantaloon humour.  Besides, she could neither read nor write, and could not plague me with letters,—­except twice that she paid sixpence to a public scribe, under the piazza, to make a letter for her, upon some occasion when I was ill and could not see her.  In other respects, she was somewhat fierce and ‘prepotente,’ that is, over-bearing, and used to walk in whenever it suited her, with no very great regard to time, place, nor persons; and if she found any women in her way, she knocked them down.

“When I first knew her, I was in ‘relazione’ (liaison) with la Signora * *, who was silly enough one evening at Dolo, accompanied by some of her female friends, to threaten her; for the gossips of the villeggiatura had already found out, by the neighing of my horse one evening, that I used to ‘ride late in the night’ to meet the Fornarina.  Margarita threw back her veil (fazziolo), and replied in very explicit Venetian, ’You are not his wife:  I am not his wife:  you are his Donna, and I am his Donna:  your husband is a becco, and mine is another.  For the rest, what right have you to reproach me?  If he prefers me to you, is it my fault?  If you wish to secure him, tie him to your petticoat-string.—­But do not think to speak to me without a reply, because you happen to be richer than I am.’  Having delivered this pretty piece of eloquence (which I translate as it was related to me by a bystander), she went on her way, leaving a numerous audience with Madame * *, to ponder at her leisure on the dialogue between them.

“When I came to Venice for the winter, she followed; and as she found herself out to be a favourite, she came to me pretty often.  But she had inordinate self-love, and was not tolerant of other women.  At the ‘Cavalchina,’ the masked ball on the last night of the carnival, where all the world goes, she snatched off the mask of Madame Contarini, a lady noble by birth, and decent in conduct, for no other reason, but because she happened to be leaning on my arm.  You may suppose what a cursed noise this made; but this is only one of her pranks.

“At last she quarrelled with her husband, and one evening ran away to my house.  I told her this would not do:  she said she would lie in the street, but not go back to him; that he beat her, (the gentle tigress!) spent her money, and scandalously neglected her.  As it was midnight I let her stay, and next day there was no moving her at all.  Her husband came, roaring and crying, and entreating her to come back:—­not she!  He then applied to the police, and they applied to me:  I told them and her husband to take her; I did