I was glad to get back to the beautiful little
city again, to receive the ever-warm greetings of our friends.
CHAPTER XXIII. TRIESTE AGAIN. (1876-1880).
The busy fingers fly; the eyes may see
Only the glancing needle that they hold;
But all my life is blossoming inwardly,
And every breath is like a litany;
While through each labour, like a thread of gold,
Is woven the sweet consciousness of thee.
On their return from India Isabel and her husband settled down at
Trieste, and pursued for the most part a quiet literary life. It
was summer, and they swam a good deal by way of recreation, and went
frequently to Opcina. They started a habit of not dining at home,
and of asking their intimates to meet them at one _cafe_ or another,
where they would sup in the open air, and drink the wine of the
country and smoke cigarettes. These pleasant evenings were quite a
feature of their life at this time. Their house too became the centre
of many a _reunion_, and a Mecca to which many a literary pilgrim and
social, scientific, and political celebrity turned his steps when
travelling by way of Trieste. There is no better description of the
Burtons' life at Trieste at this time than that which appeared in _The
World_ in 1877, written by Burton's old Oxford friend, Mr. Alfred Bates
Richards. Lady Burton has quoted it in full in her Life of her husband;
but I think that a small part of it which relates to herself will bear
repeating here:
"Captain and Mrs.
Pages:
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247