And there is the promontory of Sirmione with its clustered cypress trees, the “olive-silvery Sirmio,” where sweet Catullus loved and sang. Look north, and you see the lake narrow between sharp peaks of Alpine hills near the little frontier port of Riva. In this warm weather the pine trees shed their needles, so that one walks down the zig zag path to the little town through a private garden sweet with the heavy resinous perfume of these conifers. You will guess, at once, that this private domain belongs to the illustrious poet, our neighbour, a man of exotic tastes in his dealings with the young ladies who attend him! He makes us free of it, allowing us a delicious walk down to the shore of the placid lake. What a place this is to take one's pleasures, my dear Augustus! How voluptuous here are the pale limbs which tremble with desire on richest velvet! How white a young girl's shoulders or flanks when laid bare under this brilliant sun! In secret groves, the beauty of mature womanhood shudders under the lascivious caress of her pitiless lovers. Girlhood at fifteen cries with alarm as the first surge of passion overwhelms her Mormorvan con voci roche e lente la fontane invisible tra i pini His immortal lines anticipate the pleasures to be enjoyed, where the perfume of roses fills the air of closed gardens.

The hidden fountains murmur among the trees and the sun stabs at the lovers, a dagger bright as diamonds through the branches. This place will do for me, my dear cousin. While our famous neighbour meditates his next stanzas and Mr. Bowler stays a while at the Hotel Rialto in Venice, I am mistress here. Knowing my nature as you do, you may imagine whether or not it suits me to have the lynx-eyed Miss Jones at twenty and the nymph Marit at fifteen as my playthings.

I will tell you at once that some rascal in the past has constructed a secret spy-hole in either wall of my own boudoir which enables the occupant to watch whatever passes in the other two bedrooms.