And the greyhound
simply isn't there. You haven't observed it quicken its speed or
strain a limb; but there it is, just two yards in front of the
retriever's outstretched muzzle. So it was with Florence and
Leonora in matters of culture.
But on this occasion I knew that something was up. I found
Florence some days before, reading books like Ranke's History of
the Popes, Symonds' Renaissance, Motley's Rise of the Dutch
Republic and Luther's Table Talk.
I must say that, until the astonishment came, I got nothing but
pleasure out of the little expedition. I like catching the two-forty; I
like the slow, smooth roll of the great big trains--and they are the
best trains in the world! I like being drawn through the green
country and looking at it through the clear glass of the great
windows. Though, of course, the country isn't really green. The
sun shines, the earth is blood red and purple and red and green
and red. And the oxen in the ploughlands are bright varnished
brown and black and blackish purple; and the peasants are dressed
in the black and white of magpies; and there are great Rocks of
magpies too. Or the peasants' dresses in another field where there
are little mounds of hay that will be grey-green on the sunny side
and purple in the shadows--the peasants' dresses are vermilion
with emerald green ribbons and purple skirts and white shirts and
black velvet stomachers.
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