1784, 1 September

Rocca Sorrentina, Italy

My Most Beloved Friend, Susan,

Thank you for your letter of 15 July. I had begun to wonder if you had forsaken me. Of course, I understand how very much in demand is your attention. I can only imagine that husbands and children take a great deal of time and effort. You must be positively frazzled by your busy household. Of course, it cannot be yet as feverishly busy as the home in which we were raised. I do hope you will be able to avoid the birthing bed for the next several years. Our own dear mother might have lived years longer and spared us the horror of our second Mama if only there had been a few fewer of us Burney whelps.

Speaking of our second Mama, I hear from Hetty that she is on a rumble again, something about Sarah's new teacher not teaching her how to behave as a lady ought. I do wonder why she believes that is the fault of the poor teacher when our dear half-sister is so indulged. (Truth be told the girl is still young enough that a little wildness is to be expected, even encouraged. There will be time enough for proper behavior later. I think so long as the girl appears clothed before guests and does not take the King's name in vain, she is behaving appropriately as her age allows.)

I am writing this letter in the wee hours of an Italian morning. I have just come back to my rooms after the most wonderful celebration held here at the villa! It was to commemorate the end of summer, though so far as I know there are still a few precious weeks of this season to be enjoyed. The celebration involved much good Italian food and rollicking dances.

I had the pleasure of dancing the chaconne with a visitor from our own homeland, one Mr. Heximer Thane. Perhaps it was the fine Italian wine that gave me the courage to accept his invitation. Of course, it was also the opportunity of speaking English with one who has spoken it from birth. I do sometimes so much miss hearing our mother tongue unmangled by foreign voices (though I suppose here it is I who am the foreigner). The evening was full of good conversation and much frivolity. It even ended with fireworks!

You will be happy to know I am writing daily here and making some good progress with the drama. I am not as convinced as Daddy Crisp that I am up to this commission, but will certainly do my best and promise that when the play is done, you will be among the first to read it! When you do, I hope you will hold nothing back. Not wanting to make a fool of myself, it will be better to hear the truth from a beloved sister than false praise from one hundred others.

Our most lovely friend, Lorsagne DeSade, is now in France. She went on business of various types. I miss her terribly here at Rocca Sorrentina and hope she returns in the near future. She is doing a bit of business for me while she is there as well, looking into the background of one M. Lt. Henri Badeau.

As you know, I met that most beautiful of men when he came to visit your beloved Molesworth, the most wonderful brother-in-law a sister could ask for. He has corresponded with me almost weekly since the day we met and I am always happy to hear from him. I was also very happy to see him in Marseilles last month when I visited father there. As you already know I am sure, Father met him and it was not a complete disaster.

Unfortunately, The liutenant's work often requires him to be out of touch for weeks on end, during which I imagine all sorts of horrible calamities. Of course my recent experience with G.C. has caused me to trust my own instincts not at all. So, although I believe Henri's intentions to be honorable, I have asked Lorsagne to obtain some confirmation of this. I do so hope that when I hear from her, she has only good news to impart!

And speaking of G.C., I wonder if you have seen him recently. Probably not, seeing as how he is not likely to leave the social track in London long enough to call on a young mother and her family. I will never understand how I could have so misinterpreted his meanings. To tell you the complete truth, Susannah, I still hold out hope there. I hear that he will be making the tour after Christmas and wonder if I might see him here in Italy. Yes, I know how silly a girl I still am, in spite of my advanced years. If you hear that he will be headed to this glorious land while I am still in residence here, please, please write of this news immediately. If ever information requires immediate post, it will be that!

And now I shall do the sensible thing and head to my bed a few hours before the sunrise. I do so miss you, my beloved, Susan. Write to me soon and kiss your little ones for their Aunt Fanny.

Your Most Devoted Sister,

Fanny

1784, 1 September

Rocca Sorrentina, Italy

My Most Beloved Friend, Susan,

Thank you for your letter of 15 July. I had begun to wonder if you had forsaken me. Of course, I understand how very much in demand is your attention. I can only imagine that husbands and children take a great deal of time and effort. You must be positively frazzled by your busy household. Of course, it cannot be yet as feverishly busy as the home in which we were raised. I do hope you will be able to avoid the birthing bed for the next several years. Our own dear mother might have lived years longer and spared us the horror of our second Mama if only there had been a few fewer of us Burney whelps.

Speaking of our second Mama, I hear from Hetty that she is on a rumble again, something about Sarah's new teacher not teaching her how to behave as a lady ought. I do wonder why she believes that is the fault of the poor teacher when our dear half-sister is so indulged. (Truth be told the girl is still young enough that a little wildness is to be expected, even encouraged. There will be time enough for proper behavior later. I think so long as the girl appears clothed before guests and does not take the King's name in vain, she is behaving appropriately as her age allows.)

I am writing this letter in the wee hours of an Italian morning. I have just come back to my rooms after the most wonderful celebration held here at the villa! It was to commemorate the end of summer, though so far as I know there are still a few precious weeks of this season to be enjoyed. The celebration involved much good Italian food and rollicking dances.

I had the pleasure of dancing the chaconne with a visitor from our own homeland, one Mr. Heximer Thane. Perhaps it was the fine Italian wine that gave me the courage to accept his invitation. Of course, it was also the opportunity of speaking English with one who has spoken it from birth. I do sometimes so much miss hearing our mother tongue unmangled by foreign voices (though I suppose here it is I who am the foreigner). The evening was full of good conversation and much frivolity. It even ended with fireworks!

You will be happy to know I am writing daily here and making some good progress with the drama. I am not as convinced as Daddy Crisp that I am up to this commission, but will certainly do my best and promise that when the play is done, you will be among the first to read it! When you do, I hope you will hold nothing back. Not wanting to make a fool of myself, it will be better to hear the truth from a beloved sister than false praise from one hundred others.

Our most lovely friend, Lorsagne DeSade, is now in France. She went on business of various types. I miss her terribly here at Rocca Sorrentina and hope she returns in the near future. She is doing a bit of business for me while she is there as well, looking into the background of one M. Lt. Henri Badeau.

As you know, I met that most beautiful of men when he came to visit your beloved Molesworth, the most wonderful brother-in-law a sister could ask for. He has corresponded with me almost weekly since the day we met and I am always happy to hear from him. I was also very happy to see him in Marseilles last month when I visited father there. As you already know I am sure, Father met him and it was not a complete disaster.

Unfortunately, The liutenant's work often requires him to be out of touch for weeks on end, during which I imagine all sorts of horrible calamities. Of course my recent experience with G.C. has caused me to trust my own instincts not at all. So, although I believe Henri's intentions to be honorable, I have asked Lorsagne to obtain some confirmation of this. I do so hope that when I hear from her, she has only good news to impart!

And speaking of G.C., I wonder if you have seen him recently. Probably not, seeing as how he is not likely to leave the social track in London long enough to call on a young mother and her family. I will never understand how I could have so misinterpreted his meanings. To tell you the complete truth, Susannah, I still hold out hope there. I hear that he will be making the tour after Christmas and wonder if I might see him here in Italy. Yes, I know how silly a girl I still am, in spite of my advanced years. If you hear that he will be headed to this glorious land while I am still in residence here, please, please write of this news immediately. If ever information requires immediate post, it will be that!

And now I shall do the sensible thing and head to my bed a few hours before the sunrise. I do so miss you, my beloved, Susan. Write to me soon and kiss your little ones for their Aunt Fanny.

Your Most Devoted Sister,

Fanny

1784, 23 August

I find that I am awake at an absurd hour, it being sometime later than midnight with many hours remaining before the sun will shine through my windows. I will most certainly regret this wakefulness tomorrow when I wish to be out among the people of Sorrentina, socializing, procuring a small gift for Susan's birthday which is coming soon, and posting a letter to Marseilles.

Being awake, one should put the time to good use. There are manuscripts to be edited, correspondences to be kept up. Just today I received a lengthy letter from our dear Dr. Johnson, who it seems is somewhat downtrodden. His letter was not in his usual tone and I begin to worry that he will soon be lost to us. I can only determine myself to remember at all times those wonderful conversations at Streatham Hall, those joyous jaunts to Brighton and Bath, the Dr. reciting Chaucer as no one but he is able. (Oh, I know Chaucer is not suitable literature for a young lady of good name, but I could not help but laugh along with the Dr. and the rest of our party.)

I should make productive use of this quiet time but find my mind distracted from the tasks that deserve, actually demand, my attention. I think of Henri -- yes, I have taken to referring to him by his Christian name, though only in the privacy of my own thoughts and on the sacred pages of this diary. I do hope all is as he told me it would be, that he is off with his regiment serving King and country and that we will soon see one another again, and of course I hope and pray that he is kept safe from harm until the time of our reunion.

Of course, I cannot help but worry that I am misguided in trusting such a man. Is it possible that I am blinded by love (for love I believe it is)? Could this be just another infatuation, a mere reverie of one so inexperienced as to be taken in by the pretty words of a pretty man?

NO! I don't believe that. My heart tells me his words can be trusted.

Of course, my heart said the same of George Cambridge and, in that case, my heart was wrong and led me into much suffering and folly. It is in fact what drove me away from my dear home and all my dear family. It would be comforting to believe that in my first 32 years on this Earth I have learned to tell the difference between truth and falsehood but I am realist enough to know that, when love is involved, clear vision is often clouded, if not completely obliterated.

The bell tolls now on the lovely gold clock that decorates a table in my room here at the Villa. If I were a sensible woman, I would close these pages and take to my bed, where I should will myself to sleep. Instead, I will walk in the quiet of the night. That is one of the joys of Rocca Sorrentina. Here, a lady can walk without fear at any hour of night or day. Perhaps taking in the sea air will act as a tonic for sleep. The good Dr. Greymoon is soon to open an apothecary in the village. Perhaps he will stock something to empty my mind of the distraction of Henri, who crowds all logical thoughts from my consciousness. Perhaps something to make a woman sleep even when visited by so many worries.

In the hours before sunrise, Fanny Looks to France.

1784, 23 August

I find that I am awake at an absurd hour, it being sometime later than midnight with many hours remaining before the sun will shine through my windows. I will most certainly regret this wakefulness tomorrow when I wish to be out among the people of Sorrentina, socializing, procuring a small gift for Susan's birthday which is coming soon, and posting a letter to Marseilles.

Being awake, one should put the time to good use. There are manuscripts to be edited, correspondences to be kept up. Just today I received a lengthy letter from our dear Dr. Johnson, who it seems is somewhat downtrodden. His letter was not in his usual tone and I begin to worry that he will soon be lost to us. I can only determine myself to remember at all times those wonderful conversations at Streatham Hall, those joyous jaunts to Brighton and Bath, the Dr. reciting Chaucer as no one but he is able. (Oh, I know Chaucer is not suitable literature for a young lady of good name, but I could not help but laugh along with the Dr. and the rest of our party.)

I should make productive use of this quiet time but find my mind distracted from the tasks that deserve, actually demand, my attention. I think of Henri -- yes, I have taken to referring to him by his Christian name, though only in the privacy of my own thoughts and on the sacred pages of this diary. I do hope all is as he told me it would be, that he is off with his regiment serving King and country and that we will soon see one another again, and of course I hope and pray that he is kept safe from harm until the time of our reunion.

Of course, I cannot help but worry that I am misguided in trusting such a man. Is it possible that I am blinded by love (for love I believe it is)? Could this be just another infatuation, a mere reverie of one so inexperienced as to be taken in by the pretty words of a pretty man?

NO! I don't believe that. My heart tells me his words can be trusted.

Of course, my heart said the same of George Cambridge and, in that case, my heart was wrong and led me into much suffering and folly. It is in fact what drove me away from my dear home and all my dear family. It would be comforting to believe that in my first 32 years on this Earth I have learned to tell the difference between truth and falsehood but I am realist enough to know that, when love is involved, clear vision is often clouded, if not completely obliterated.

The bell tolls now on the lovely gold clock that decorates a table in my room here at the Villa. If I were a sensible woman, I would close these pages and take to my bed, where I should will myself to sleep. Instead, I will walk in the quiet of the night. That is one of the joys of Rocca Sorrentina. Here, a lady can walk without fear at any hour of night or day. Perhaps taking in the sea air will act as a tonic for sleep. The good Dr. Greymoon is soon to open an apothecary in the village. Perhaps he will stock something to empty my mind of the distraction of Henri, who crowds all logical thoughts from my consciousness. Perhaps something to make a woman sleep even when visited by so many worries.

In the hours before sunrise, Fanny Looks to France.

1784, 16 August

Rocca Sorrentina, Italy

Dearest Hetty,

I know I should have written immediately upon my return from Marseilles, where I saw father, who was in surprisingly good spirits for one who might be somewhat humbled by circumstances. (I always forget until I see him in society that he is not just our Papa but also a charming man of the world.)

I'd have written immediately upon my arrival here but was distracted by the marvelous gift of a harpsichord from my dear friend, Lorsagne. You remember me mentioning her, don't you? Unfortunately, the woman herself was not present here upon my return. She has set upon a journey of her own. I know she needs to check on family and business holdings in France. I suspect she may also have set out to acquire a gift for the newest resident of this small island.

Have I mentioned the new babe birthed recently by a young woman who succumbed sadly to the fever for which we were all quarantined? You may recall that I wrote of the woman and the mysterious circumstances of her arrival here the very day the fever forced us all into our homes. I am told she was of Rome and that the father of her child has not stepped forward to claim the babe, though it is painfully clear who the father is. (I will never understand a man who chooses his own convenience over the needs of his own child.) My understanding is that a local physician and his wife have stepped forward to raise the child as their ward. I believe Losagne is to be the godmother.

Of course, none of that explains why I have been so slow in sending word to you that I am back in Italy and doing well, nor does it tell you what you want to know about M. Lt. Badeau. I'll get to describing that encounter shortly.

The reason I have been slow in writing is that I am quiet profoundly exhausted. The journey was tiring, that is sure, and the weeks of quarantine preceding my trip were less thanrestful. But neither of those are what have caused the current depletion of my energies. I have been kept up nights by the noisy, vocal, recreations of someone in a neighboring room here in the villa. I have not met everyone who is a guest here, but I have heard this one quite exuberantly called Davy. I try not to imagine what might have so pleased the young woman who cried out his name. Repeatedly. In the middle of the night. I just wish she would whisper it instead so that I can get some sleep. On the other hand, this unknown Davy and his women (yes, there are several) might give me ideas for my next novel. Perhaps Mr. Dodsley would be more interested in that than he was in Evelina! I know, you must think me awful for having any of these thoughts. Please forgive your lonely sister her poor behavior.

The other situation that is weighing on my mind and causing me a bit of dis-ease is that I came across a young woman on the boat from Marseilles. She is of India and seeking employment. She has begged to be my lady's maid. You know how I feel about servants and are also aware that there is not money to spare. But this young woman touched me so. She is bright and wants to better her English. I worry that one such as her might be thrown to the wolves, so to speak -- possibly the very same wolf that wrecked that poor girl from Rome I wrote of above. I would hate to see another young woman destroyed for want of opportunity. I am considering my options and will be sure to let you know what I decide.

Now to say what I can of my encounter with M. Lt. Badeau, Henri. He was in Marseilles, as his letter said he would be, staying at a small hotel with some of his comrades in arms. Of course, I did not tell father I was meeting a gentleman when I made excuse for my absence on the afternoon of 10 August. Nonetheless, Father found out. Henri and I were walking in the park when father passed us on his way to see M. Jean Charles about a violin. It was a bit tense, but, charmer that Father can be, he greeted us as if he had expected to see me there on the arm of a handsome soldier.

Henri was, of course, unaware that Father might not approve of our meeting so there was no discomfit on his side. That fell all to me and I fear I was as jittery as a startled colt. Henri took my nerves to mean I had changed my mind about him. Of course, I assured him I have not, but he seemed somewhat skeptical.

We spent just a few hours together, during which time we walked and talked, stopping once in a lovely little cafe for bread and wine, chocolates and fine French cheese. He spoke of the adventures he has while doing his work and of the poverty and unrest he sees in many parts of France, including Marseilles. He also spoke of his young sisters and an older brother who runs the family business, a winery not far from where we sat. In fact, the wine we drank was from L'Vignoble D'Badeau. I will admit to you that I cannot tell a good wine from swill, but I assure you I praised it to Henri as if it were wine blessed by God himself.

He walked me back to M. Champney's home, so that I could spend one last evening with father before heading back to Italy and my writing. At the door of M. Champney's, Henri kissed my hand in the manor of all well-raised frenchmen. Am I completely wonton for admitting that I wish he had aimed a bit higher?

I do hope you will write soon. I would like to know your opinion of my encounter with Henri Badeau. Do you think my nervousness at seeing father will have put him off?

And, of course, please let me know what our dear step-mother has been up to of late. I was so glad she did not come to France with Papa, but worried that it might be your life she was disrupting in his absence.

Now I am off for a walk along the harbor, where I will see that this letter goes out on the next boat headed north. Then, it will be time for some tea and a bit of writing. I miss you, dear Hetty.

Ever Your Friend and Sister,

Fanny

1784, 16 August

Rocca Sorrentina, Italy

Dearest Hetty,

I know I should have written immediately upon my return from Marseilles, where I saw father, who was in surprisingly good spirits for one who might be somewhat humbled by circumstances. (I always forget until I see him in society that he is not just our Papa but also a charming man of the world.)

I'd have written immediately upon my arrival here but was distracted by the marvelous gift of a harpsichord from my dear friend, Lorsagne. You remember me mentioning her, don't you? Unfortunately, the woman herself was not present here upon my return. She has set upon a journey of her own. I know she needs to check on family and business holdings in France. I suspect she may also have set out to acquire a gift for the newest resident of this small island.

Have I mentioned the new babe birthed recently by a young woman who succumbed sadly to the fever for which we were all quarantined? You may recall that I wrote of the woman and the mysterious circumstances of her arrival here the very day the fever forced us all into our homes. I am told she was of Rome and that the father of her child has not stepped forward to claim the babe, though it is painfully clear who the father is. (I will never understand a man who chooses his own convenience over the needs of his own child.) My understanding is that a local physician and his wife have stepped forward to raise the child as their ward. I believe Losagne is to be the godmother.

Of course, none of that explains why I have been so slow in sending word to you that I am back in Italy and doing well, nor does it tell you what you want to know about M. Lt. Badeau. I'll get to describing that encounter shortly.

The reason I have been slow in writing is that I am quiet profoundly exhausted. The journey was tiring, that is sure, and the weeks of quarantine preceding my trip were less thanrestful. But neither of those are what have caused the current depletion of my energies. I have been kept up nights by the noisy, vocal, recreations of someone in a neighboring room here in the villa. I have not met everyone who is a guest here, but I have heard this one quite exuberantly called Davy. I try not to imagine what might have so pleased the young woman who cried out his name. Repeatedly. In the middle of the night. I just wish she would whisper it instead so that I can get some sleep. On the other hand, this unknown Davy and his women (yes, there are several) might give me ideas for my next novel. Perhaps Mr. Dodsley would be more interested in that than he was in Evelina! I know, you must think me awful for having any of these thoughts. Please forgive your lonely sister her poor behavior.

The other situation that is weighing on my mind and causing me a bit of dis-ease is that I came across a young woman on the boat from Marseilles. She is of India and seeking employment. She has begged to be my lady's maid. You know how I feel about servants and are also aware that there is not money to spare. But this young woman touched me so. She is bright and wants to better her English. I worry that one such as her might be thrown to the wolves, so to speak -- possibly the very same wolf that wrecked that poor girl from Rome I wrote of above. I would hate to see another young woman destroyed for want of opportunity. I am considering my options and will be sure to let you know what I decide.

Now to say what I can of my encounter with M. Lt. Badeau, Henri. He was in Marseilles, as his letter said he would be, staying at a small hotel with some of his comrades in arms. Of course, I did not tell father I was meeting a gentleman when I made excuse for my absence on the afternoon of 10 August. Nonetheless, Father found out. Henri and I were walking in the park when father passed us on his way to see M. Jean Charles about a violin. It was a bit tense, but, charmer that Father can be, he greeted us as if he had expected to see me there on the arm of a handsome soldier.

Henri was, of course, unaware that Father might not approve of our meeting so there was no discomfit on his side. That fell all to me and I fear I was as jittery as a startled colt. Henri took my nerves to mean I had changed my mind about him. Of course, I assured him I have not, but he seemed somewhat skeptical.

We spent just a few hours together, during which time we walked and talked, stopping once in a lovely little cafe for bread and wine, chocolates and fine French cheese. He spoke of the adventures he has while doing his work and of the poverty and unrest he sees in many parts of France, including Marseilles. He also spoke of his young sisters and an older brother who runs the family business, a winery not far from where we sat. In fact, the wine we drank was from L'Vignoble D'Badeau. I will admit to you that I cannot tell a good wine from swill, but I assure you I praised it to Henri as if it were wine blessed by God himself.

He walked me back to M. Champney's home, so that I could spend one last evening with father before heading back to Italy and my writing. At the door of M. Champney's, Henri kissed my hand in the manor of all well-raised frenchmen. Am I completely wonton for admitting that I wish he had aimed a bit higher?

I do hope you will write soon. I would like to know your opinion of my encounter with Henri Badeau. Do you think my nervousness at seeing father will have put him off?

And, of course, please let me know what our dear step-mother has been up to of late. I was so glad she did not come to France with Papa, but worried that it might be your life she was disrupting in his absence.

Now I am off for a walk along the harbor, where I will see that this letter goes out on the next boat headed north. Then, it will be time for some tea and a bit of writing. I miss you, dear Hetty.

Ever Your Friend and Sister,

Fanny

1784, 14 August

Returned again to my home away from home, Sorrentina in Italy, after a brief trip to see Father who was on business at Marseilles but has now set his course for England. I had so hoped to find Father in better circumstances than last I saw him and I did. Unfortunately, those circumstances were those of his host in France, not his own. He tells me that the Burney family's financial circumstances are no more secure than when last we met face to face. He is grateful to have a daughter more than capable of tending to her own needs. He certainly has changed his opinion of a woman publishing her own words in her own name! Amazing how one's sense of propriety can shift to fit one's personal advantage.

Having returned to the port of Sorrentina half dead with exhaustion, wind-blown, and starving, I proceeded swiftly to my rooms at the villa. There, I was saddened to learn that my friend, Losagne, is no longer among the visitors here, having set sail some time ago for France! I wonder if she passed through Marseilles as she headed for her own home and if I missed the opportunity for learning news of what has happened here since my own departure following the quarantine. I suppose I will have to seek out Lady Fandango or Lady Foxglove (who is hopefully still secreting that lovely silver flask in her skirts) to find what they have to reveal of happenings during my absence.

In spite of her own absence, Lorsagne has managed to lift my spirits after a long journey. Upon my return to my rooms, I found that she has made me a gift of a most lovely and bright sounding hand crafted harpsichord! Leave it to Lorsagne to remember that I once played for her! That was so many years ago. Of course, I could not even wait to remove my hat before taking my place on the piano bench and beiginning to play one of the few pieces I have committed to memory, one of those simple sonatinas from the late Mr. Scarlatti.

The housekeeper here noticed my return immediately and sent one of the maids with a tray of cheese and bread and fruit. There is nothing to compare with the summer fruits of Italy! I am told another maid is soon to arrive with a bath for my pleasure and hygienic redemption. I assure you that is a joy one never learns to anticipate dully, as if it were a small trifle. A warm sweet scented bath is a gift from heaven on high, never to be taken for granted.

I sit and write now, thinking I should record the details of my journey and the discussions with Father. I believe I should also report on the circumstances of my meeting with that French soldier. But now I hear a maid in my outer room and must commit myself to bliss in the form of a warm bath. Of course, it will take some effort, leaving behind the grime of the journey, but, somehow, I will manage as one must.

1784, 14 August

Returned again to my home away from home, Sorrentina in Italy, after a brief trip to see Father who was on business at Marseilles but has now set his course for England. I had so hoped to find Father in better circumstances than last I saw him and I did. Unfortunately, those circumstances were those of his host in France, not his own. He tells me that the Burney family's financial circumstances are no more secure than when last we met face to face. He is grateful to have a daughter more than capable of tending to her own needs. He certainly has changed his opinion of a woman publishing her own words in her own name! Amazing how one's sense of propriety can shift to fit one's personal advantage.

Having returned to the port of Sorrentina half dead with exhaustion, wind-blown, and starving, I proceeded swiftly to my rooms at the villa. There, I was saddened to learn that my friend, Losagne, is no longer among the visitors here, having set sail some time ago for France! I wonder if she passed through Marseilles as she headed for her own home and if I missed the opportunity for learning news of what has happened here since my own departure following the quarantine. I suppose I will have to seek out Lady Fandango or Lady Foxglove (who is hopefully still secreting that lovely silver flask in her skirts) to find what they have to reveal of happenings during my absence.

In spite of her own absence, Lorsagne has managed to lift my spirits after a long journey. Upon my return to my rooms, I found that she has made me a gift of a most lovely and bright sounding hand crafted harpsichord! Leave it to Lorsagne to remember that I once played for her! That was so many years ago. Of course, I could not even wait to remove my hat before taking my place on the piano bench and beiginning to play one of the few pieces I have committed to memory, one of those simple sonatinas from the late Mr. Scarlatti.

The housekeeper here noticed my return immediately and sent one of the maids with a tray of cheese and bread and fruit. There is nothing to compare with the summer fruits of Italy! I am told another maid is soon to arrive with a bath for my pleasure and hygienic redemption. I assure you that is a joy one never learns to anticipate dully, as if it were a small trifle. A warm sweet scented bath is a gift from heaven on high, never to be taken for granted.

I sit and write now, thinking I should record the details of my journey and the discussions with Father. I believe I should also report on the circumstances of my meeting with that French soldier. But now I hear a maid in my outer room and must commit myself to bliss in the form of a warm bath. Of course, it will take some effort, leaving behind the grime of the journey, but, somehow, I will manage as one must.