We have made our Opcina
den very comfortable. We have taken the big room and Dick's old one,
opened them, and shut the end one, which is too cold, and put in lamps,
stoves, and stores and comforts of all kinds; in fact partly refurnished.
I am much better, and can walk a little now; so I walk up half-way from
Trieste on Saturday, Dick all the way; Sunday Mass in village, and walk;
and Monday walk down. We keep all the week's letters for here (Opcina)
and all the week's newspapers to read, and do our translations. I have
begun _Ariosto_, but am rather disheartened. We have set up a _tir au
pistolet_ in the rooms, which are long enough (opened) to give twenty-two
paces, and we have brought up some foils. The Triestines think us as
mad as hatters to come up here, on account of the weather, which is
'seasonable'--_bora_, snow, and frozen fingers. I am interesting myself
in the two hundred and twenty badly behaved Slav children in the village.
Dick's _Lusiads_ are making a stir. My Indian sketches and our
Oberammergau have gone to the bad. My publisher, as I told you, took
to evil ways, failed, and eventually died December 10. However, I hope
to rise like a phoenix out of the ashes. The rest of our week is passed
in fencing three times a week, twice a week Italian, twice a week German.
Friday I receive the Trieste world from twelve noon to 6 p.m., with
accompaniments of Arab coffee, cigarettes, and liqueurs.
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