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Transcriber's note:
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ITALIAN LETTERS OF A DIPLOMAT'S WIFE
* * * * *
7th EDITION
LETTERS OF A
DIPLOMAT'S WIFE
By MARY KING WADDINGTON
"A most interesting book of gossip, which, considered
from the point of view of the general
public, contains not a dull line from the first to the
last. The letters have all the freshness of the
best class of feminine correspondence."
--_London Athenaeum_.
Illustrated. 8vo. $2.50 Net
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
* * * * *
[Illustration: Elena, Queen of Italy.]
ITALIAN LETTERS OF A DIPLOMAT'S WIFE
January-May, 1880
February-April, 1904
by
MARY KING WADDINGTON
Illustrated from Drawings and Photographs
Charles Scribner's Sons
New York :: :: :: :: :: :: 1905
Copyright, 1905, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
Published, March, 1905
Trow Directory
Printing and Bookbinding Company
New York
NOTE
In December, 1879, M. William Henry Waddington resigned the Premiership
of France, and the following month, accompanied by his wife, left Paris
for a winter of rest and recreation in Italy, chiefly in Rome. The
letters from Madame Waddington to her mother and sister, which
constitute "Part I" of this volume, describe this journey and residence.
Those forming "Part II" relate the incidents of a similar Roman sojourn
some twenty years later, M. Waddington having died in the meantime. The
two series together compose a picture of life and society in the Italian
capital with a wide range of contrast and comparison, corresponding with
those of London and Moscow in the well-known "Letters of a Diplomat's
Wife" by the same writer.
ILLUSTRATIONS
ELENA, QUEEN OF ITALY _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
MRS. CHARLES KING 12
PRESIDENT CHARLES KING OF COLUMBIA COLLEGE, NEW
YORK CITY 30
THE SPANISH STEPS 52
_In the Piazza di Spagna, Rome._
POPE LEO XIII. 60
KING HUMBERT OF ITALY 66
QUEEN MARGHERITA OF ITALY 76
QUEEN MARGHERITA AND KING HUMBERT 84
QUEEN MARGHERITA AND THE PRINCE OF NAPLES
(PRESENT KING OF ITALY) IN 1880 94
VICTORIA, CROWN PRINCESS OF GERMANY 104
GARDENS OF THE VILLA TORLONIS, FORMERLY VILLA
CONTI, FRASCATI, OPPOSITE THE VILLA MARCONI,
WHERE WE SPENT THE SUMMER OF 1867 108
TOMB OF VINICIANO, BETWEEN FRASCATI AND TUSCULUM 112
GROUNDS OF THE VILLA DORIA-PAMPHILI, ROME 116
_From an unpublished photograph taken about 1869._
POPE PIUS IX. 145
LAST BENEDICTION OF POPE PIUS IX. FROM THE
BALCONY OF ST. PETER'S 158
ST. PETER'S FROM THE PINCIO 172
THE BARBERINI PALACE 238
_The residence of the Storys_
VICTOR EMANUEL III., KING OF ITALY 244
POPE PIUS X. 250
GREAT NEW BRIDGE FROM ALBANO TO ARICCIA 264
_Built by Pope Pius IX_.
ROMAN HUNTSMEN ON THE CAMPAGNA 266
_Ancient Roman aqueduct in the background_
WAITING FOR THE HOUNDS 268
CARDINAL ANTONELLI 288
_From a portrait painted for the Grand Duke of
Saxe-Weimar. From a photograph given to Madame
Waddington by the Hereditary Grand Duchess of
Saxe-Weimar at Rome._
THE DINING-ROOM IN THE BRANCACCIO PALACE 304
ITALIAN LETTERS
OF A DIPLOMAT'S WIFE
PART I
ITALY IN THE EIGHTIES
_To G. K. S._[1]
31, RUE DUMONT D'URVILLE, PARIS,
January 10, 1880.
Well, dear, here I am back again in my little hotel, and very small and
uncomfortable it looks--like a doll's house after the enormous rooms of
the Quai d'Orsay--however I am very glad to be a _private_ individual
once more (no longer a "femme publique" as our friend used to say). Our
departure was hurried, as once W.[2] had made up his mind and resigned
he wanted to get away at once. We got off in two days, which I thought
quite wonderful. Of course ever since the opening of the session in
November it was evident that he couldn't stay. He and his Ministers were
hardly ever agreed on any point, and it wasn't worth while for him to
spend his energy and intelligence in trying to carry out a policy which
neither the Chamber nor the country apparently desired. There were
endless conferences all through December, but it was clear that it was
time for him to go.
[1] Mrs. Eugene Schuyler, nee King.
[2] W. here and throughout these letters refers to M. William Henry
Waddington, Madame Waddington's husband.
The weather was something awful--bitterly cold--the Seine frozen tight,
booths and games established, and everybody sliding about and trying to
skate--but that was under difficulties as the ice was rough and uneven.
I walked over with Francis,[3] that he might say he had walked across
the Seine. We had great difficulty in warming the house--many trains
with wood and coal were blocked just outside Paris, and nothing could
get in. I don't know what we should have done, but happily the Ministre
de la Guerre gave us an order to take some wood from some depot in Paris
where they had a provision; so for the two days before we moved in great
fires were going in the calorifere. I really think the only person who
hated to leave the Quai d'Orsay was Francis. He was furious at seeing
all his things packed up, and was carried out to the carriage kicking
and screaming--"veux pas quitter ma maison--veux pas aller vilaine
petite maison." The huissiers (6, all standing solemnly in a row to say
good-bye) were much impressed, and the old grey-headed Pierson who has
been there for years and seen many Ministers depart, remarked--"au moins
Monsieur Francis est desole de partir." It seemed funny to drive out of
the big gates for the last time. I wonder if I shall ever go through
them again. Things go so quickly in France now.
[3] Francis, son of M. and Madame Waddington.
You can't conceive anything more uncomfortable than this house
to-day--no carpets down nor curtains up; all the furniture, books, rugs,
dumped in the middle of the rooms, and the hall and corridors full of
trunks and boxes. W. has had a steady stream of people ever since we
arrived--some to condole--some (old friends) to congratulate him upon no
longer serving such an infecte government--some a little embarrassed to
explain that, though they regret him extremely, still ... they must
serve their country, and hope he won't take it amiss if they make up to
the rising sun (in the shape of Freycinet, who has taken W.'s place). I
expect we shall have some curious experiences. When one is no longer in
power it is surprising how things change their aspect. I had to settle
the salons as soon as I could as I had invited a big party for Francis's
Christmas Tree, thinking it would be at the Quai d'Orsay. I didn't want
to put the people off--particularly the diplomatists who have all been
most civil and proper--so after a consultation with Kruft--(chef du
materiel at the Quai d'Orsay) who had already begun to make his
preparations, I decided to have it here, and Kruft and one of his men
came and helped dress it. Of course the tree had to be cut at the
top--our rooms are fairly high, but nothing like the Quai d'Orsay
naturally--but it looked rather prettier, quite covered with toys and
shiny ornaments. Francis had beautiful presents--a hand-organ with a
monkey on top from Madame Sibbern, the wife of the Swedish Minister,
from which he can't be extracted. He can't turn it alone, but some of
the bigger children helped him, and we had the "Cloches de Corneville"
and "Niniche" almost all the afternoon. There were about 100 people,
children and parents, and the rooms looked pretty. All the people and
lights warmed them too--it wasn't quite so Siberian. We couldn't attempt
cooking of any kind as the kitchen range was out of order, and besides
we hadn't fuel enough--l'Oncle Alphonse[4] who lives next door feeds us.
W. and I go to him for breakfast and dinner, and his chef (a very
distinguished artist and well dressed gentleman--quite a superior
person--Monsieur Double) submits Francis's menu every morning to Nounou,
as he says he has no experience with children.
[4] M. Alphonse Sutteroth, ancien diplomatist under Louis Philippe.
We have decided to go to Italy for two or three months, and shall make
Rome our headquarters. W. has never been there, and says it wouldn't be
worth while going for less than three months. What fun it will be to be
there together--I can hardly believe it is true. I am sure we are wise
to get away. There must always be little jarring things when one has
been in office some time--and it would be rather a bore to W. to take
his place as senator and be in opposition to the present Ministry. If he
stayed in Paris he would have to take part in all the discussions, and
would certainly be interviewed by all sorts of people to whom he would
say nothing (he never does--he hates newspaper people) but they would
say he did all the same, and so many people believe implicitly whatever
they see in a paper. The Minister has offered W. the London Embassy, but
he won't take it, doesn't wish to have any function of any kind at
present. He is looking forward to long, happy hours in Rome, deciphering
all the old inscriptions, and going over the old city with Lanciani[5]
and some of his literary friends.
[5] Director of Excavations in Rome under Rossi.
January 12, 1880.
After all I have been back to the Quai d'Orsay. W. said I must go and
make a formal visit to Madame de Freycinet (who is a very nice woman--a
Protestant, and has one daughter--a charming intelligent girl).
Henrietta and I went together, taking Francis with us, who was delighted
as soon as he got to the Place de la Concorde and crossed the
bridge--"C'est Paris--C'est Paris." Poor little boy--the rue Dumont
d'Urville is so quiet, nothing passing and nothing to see when he looks
out of the window. He was always at the window at the Quai d'Orsay
looking at the boats, the soldiers, and the general liveliness of a
great thoroughfare. It was a funny sensation to go and pay a visit to
Madame de Freycinet in the little blue salon where I had received her so
often, and to be announced by my own pet huissier, Gerard, who spent his
life all the time I was at the Quai d'Orsay sitting outside the door of
any room I happened to be in. He knew all my visitors--those I wanted to
see and those I didn't--kept all the cards, and books, and remembered
every quete I had given to--and the bills that had been paid. I don't
remember that he ever occupied himself with my garments, but I am sure
that he could have found anything that I asked for.
The house is gradually getting warm and comfortable, and the furniture
settling into its place; but I have a curious feeling of smallness--as
if I hadn't room to turn. We hope to get off in three or four days. We
leave Francis of course, but Nounou and Hubert will look after him, and
he will go to breakfast every day with Mother, where of course he will
be well spoiled and have everything he asks for.
_To G. K. S._
January 18, 1880.
I hope we shall get off now in a day or two--W. really needs the rest,
which he never will get here as all day long people come to see him and
suggest various plans. We have written to the Hotel de Londres. You or
Eugene might go there some day and see the rooms they propose. It will
be nice to be back in our old quarters Piazza di Spagna. We had a
pleasant small dinner last night at the British Embassy--Lord Lyons is
always so nice and cordial. He was a little surprised and not _quite_
pleased that W. hadn't accepted the London Embassy, he would have been
so entirely a "persona grata" with his English education, connections,
etc. All the Diplomates seem to regret us (but I think they will like
the Freycinets just as much) and really here, where Ministers are such
passing figures in the political world, they would have a hard time if
they set their affections on any particular man.
I am becoming very philosophical--though the attitude of some of my
friends has rather surprised me (not W.; he is never surprised at
anything). L'Oncle Alphonse keeps us well informed of what is said on
the other side. He is quite a Royalist, a great friend of the Orleans
Princes, and a great deal at the club where they always call him
"l'oncle du gouvernement"--and when the "gouvernement makes a 'betise'"
(which sometimes happens) they criticize freely, and he tells it all to
us. I fancy he always defends W. in public--but of course in private
pitches into him well.
I rather miss the big life--seeing so many people, and being as it were
behind the scenes--also our conversations at night when W. had finished
his signatures, and Pontecoulant[6] came up from his quarters with the
report of the day, and got his instructions for the next morning. W. is
not at all "matinal" and hates doing any kind of business early--must
always have his ride first. We used to sit in W.'s cabinet until two in
the morning sometimes, telling our experiences--some of mine were funny.
I hated an official reception day, but the gentlemen of the protocol
department thought it absolutely necessary, so I was obliged to give
in--and certainly nothing I did tired me so much as those long Fridays
in the big yellow drawing-room. From 3 to 6 streams of people--women
mostly--of all nationalities--and of course no conversation
possible--however it wasn't always banal, as you will see.
[6] Comte de Pontecoulant, chef de Cabinet.
Our last Friday one of my friends had been in, very much taken up with
the journey to Rome--her clothes, the climate, which hotel was the best,
etc. When she went out in a whirl of talk and excitement I turned to one
of the 14 women who were seated in a semicircle on each side of me, and
by way of continuing the conversation said: "Il me semble qu'on serait
tres bien a l'Hotel de Londres a Rome en plein soleil," to which she
replied haughtily "Je n'en sais rien, Madame, je n'ai jamais quitte
Paris, et je m'en vante." W. wouldn't believe it, but as I told him I
couldn't have invented it. I was rather sorry I hadn't pursued the
conversation, and asked her why she was so proud of that particular
phase of her life. I suppose she must have had a reason, which naturally
I couldn't understand, having begun my career so very far away from
either Rome or Paris. It is a real pleasure though to be back in my own
salon, and have my nice little tea-table, and three or four of my
friends, and talk about anything and everything, and even do a little
music occasionally.
January 20, 1880.
I didn't find my tea quite so pleasant the other day. I was sitting in
the little salon talking to one or two ladies, and receiving their
congratulations at being no longer of the official world, and obliged to
associate with the Government people, when the footman appeared with his
eyes round, to announce that "La Presidente" (Madame Grevy) was coming
upstairs to pay Madame a visit. I flew to the door and the top of the
stairs (I couldn't get any further) and received "ma Presidente" in
proper style. I ushered her into the salon where I had left my friends
(mad Royalists both). They were much disgusted--however they were too
well-bred to make things disagreeable for me in my own house--and rose
when we came in. I named Madame Grevy--and as soon as she had taken her
seat, and declined a cup of tea, they went away. Of course they _hated_
getting up for Madame Grevy, but there was nothing else to be done as
she and I were both standing. Happily no one else came in but Prince
Orloff, Russian Ambassador, who of course knew Madame Grevy and talked
easily enough. She didn't stay long--it was the classic "visite de
condoleance" to the wife of the ex-Minister (if she only knew how glad
this _Ex_ was to return to private life and her own house, and to be no
longer "logee par le gouvernement"). This is the second visit of
condoleance I have had. When Marshal MacMahon dismissed (suddenly) all
his cabinet presided by Jules Simon, 16th of May, 1877, Madame de
MacMahon came also to see me--and at the same time--5 o'clock on my
reception day--so I knew precisely what the conversation would be--and
Madame Grevy and I both said exactly the same things that the Marechale
and I had said two or three years ago. I suppose everybody does say the
same thing on certain occasions. After she had gone Orloff asked me if I
remembered those two ladies meeting (for the first time in their lives)
at the Quai d'Orsay on one of my Fridays. Just after the Marshal
resigned Madame de MacMahon came to see me. She was announced by all the
servants and I had plenty of time to get to the door of the first
drawing-room, not quite to the anteroom, to receive her. When her
husband was President she was received always like Royalty--at the door
of the apartment. She was very simple and easy, quite pleased evidently
at still having all her honours. Prince Orloff came in to pay a visit,
and we were having a very pleasant talk, when I heard quick footsteps in
the second salon, and again appeared my faithful Gerard (I had also
visions of numberless doors being opened all down the enfilade of
salons) announcing Madame Grevy. I was embarrassed for a moment as I
didn't like to leave the Marechale, and yet I knew I must go and meet
Madame Grevy--all the ceremony of course was for the official position,
and one Presidente was just the same as the other. Madame de MacMahon
was most amiable--said at once--"Je vous en prie, Madame, ne pensez pas
a moi"--and "au fond" was rather curious to see her successor. I went as
quickly as I could (Orloff giving me a funny little smile, _almost_ a
wink, as I passed him) and got my other Presidente just at the door. She
was rather astounded I think at her reception--she hadn't been long in
her exalted position. We proceeded majestically through three or four
salons, and when we arrived at my drawing-room Madame de MacMahon got up
at once, saying quite simply "Voulez-vous me presenter, Madame, a Madame
Grevy?" She was quite at her ease--Madame Grevy rather shy and
embarrassed--however Madame de MacMahon talked at once about some of the
great charities, artists, etc., and it really wasn't too stiff--Orloff
of course always helping and making jokes with the two ladies. One or
two visitors came in and gasped when they saw the situation--also one of
the young men of the Cabinet, who instantly disappeared. I always
thought he went to tell W. what was happening upstairs so that he might
come to the rescue in case I wasn't up to the mark ... but he swears he
didn't. When the Marechale got up to go there was again a complication
as I wanted to accompany her to the door, and I didn't like to leave
Madame Grevy. She wouldn't hear of my going through all the salons--took
leave of me at the door--and then Orloff came to the rescue--gave her
his arm and took her to her carriage. It was a curious meeting, and, as
Orloff said just now, "je lui devais une fameuse chandelle."[7]
[7] French idiom difficult to translate, meaning "I ought to be very
grateful to him."
February 6, 1880.
We are starting to-night, straight for Florence, where we shall stay a
week or ten days with the Bunsens before going on to Rome. W. is much
pleased at the Roman prospect--and I can hardly believe that I am going
to see Rome again. We have our lit-salon straight through to Florence,
and I hope we shall be warm enough. It is bitterly cold to-day--even
walking I was glad to have my sealskin coat. Nounou is rather tearful at
being left in sole charge of Francis, but as that young gentleman is
perfectly well, in roaring spirits, and will be given everything his
heart desires by his Grandmother and Aunts, I don't feel very unhappy
about him. It seems incredible that we should be going to meet soon. How
we will prowl about Rome. I suppose I shall find it absolutely
changed--so many more people--not our dear old dead Rome.
[Illustration: Mrs. Charles King.]
_To H. L. K._[8]
FLORENCE, VIA ROMANA, VILLA MCDONNELL,
February 8, 1880.
We arrived quite comfortably, dear mother, but almost frozen,
particularly W. He has not been extracted from the fire since we got
here. Henrietta will have told you of our start. Pontecoulant and one or
two men were at the station to see us off--also the Chef de Gare, most
civil, and saying we should not be disturbed at the frontier--and
that our coupe-lit would take us straight through to Florence. We had a
perfectly easy journey, and I slept quite peacefully--waking up merely
when we passed through the tunnel, as the guard came in to shut all the
windows. It was a beautiful, cold, starlight winter night. The great
mountains covered with snow looked gigantic as we approached--"sinistres"
as Madame Hubert[9] said. She was much impressed and rather nervous. There
were very few people in the train. When we arrived at Modane the Chef de
Gare was waiting for us--he had been telegraphed from Paris to expect us.
We had breakfast in the private room, and a nice woman was waiting for us
upstairs in the ladies' room with hot water, towels, etc. I made quite a
toilet--she carried off my dress and jacket to brush--and then we went
down to a nice little breakfast which tasted very good, as I hadn't
had anything since our 7 o'clock dinner. They offered us coffee
somewhere--Dijon I think--but I didn't want anything then. All the first
part of the road--in fact all the road to Turin was lovely. It was a
bright, cold morning, and the snow mountains looked beautiful. It was
such a pleasure to hear Italian once more--even the names at the stations
"capo stazione"--"grande velocita"--"uscita," etc., also the shrill
"partenza" when we started. The last time I crossed the Mont Cenis was
by the Fell railway when we all started together from Aix. That was
certainly very beautiful--but rather terrifying--particularly as we neared
the top and looked at the steep places and the various zigzags we were
to follow going down. One couldn't help feeling that if a brake or chain
broke there would be a terrible catastrophe. I remember so well some of
the women who were quite sea-sick--the swaying motion, I suppose, as we
rounded the curves, of which there were many. I can see one now stretched
out on the floor on a rug in the small salle d'attente at Susa, quite
exhausted and absolutely indifferent to the outside world.
[8] Mrs. Charles King, mother of Madame Waddington.
[9] Madame Waddington's maid.
We had quite a wait at Turin. Our coupe was detached and put on the
Florence express. They locked the doors, and we left all our
things--books, shawls, bags, etc.--and had a very fair dinner at the
buffet. We had so much time that Madame Hubert and I went for a little
walk. There was not much to see close to the gare--but it was delightful
to me to hear Italian again, and to see the idle, placid crowd standing
about--nobody in a hurry apparently, and nobody jostling and pushing
through, though there were trains starting or coming in all the time. W.
was too cold to move--he really should have had a fur coat--which he
utterly despises--says that will do when he is 70, and can't walk any
more. It was warm and fairly light in the buffet so he established
himself there with a paper and was quite happy. We got here about
6.30--Charles de Bunsen was at the station with a carriage--so we came
off at once, leaving Madame Hubert and Francesco with the trunks. How
she will get on in Italian I don't know, but she is very active and
debrouillarde, and generally makes herself understood. Mary[10] was
waiting for us with tea and those crisp little grissini[11] we always
used to have in Casa Guadagni. They have a charming "villino"--part of
the McDonnell villa. One goes in by a small door (in one of the narrow
grey streets of old Florence, with high walls on each side--Via Romana)
and straight up a fine broad staircase to a good palier with large high
rooms opening out on it. All the bed-rooms and small salon open on a
loggia overlooking the garden--a real old Italian garden. I shall never
be dressed in time for anything in the morning, as I am always on the
loggia. The flowers are all coming out--the birds singing--the sky
bright, deep blue--and the whole atmosphere so soft and clear--and in
fact Italian--different from everything else.
[10] Madame de Bunsen, nee Waddington.
[11] Long crisp breads one has in Italy.
Mary has arranged the small salon (which they always sit in) most
prettily and comfortably--with bibelots and quantities of books about in
all languages--there are usually four going in the establishment--Charles
and his daughter speak always German to each other--the rest of us either
French or English--it depends rather upon what we are talking about--and
always an undercurrent of Italian with the servants and "parlatrice"
(such a sweet, refined looking girl who comes every day to read and
speak Italian with my belle-mere). Mrs. Waddington strikes at the mixture
at meals and insists upon one language, either English or French. There
is also a charming German girl here, Mlle. de Sternberg, a niece of
Charles de Bunsen--so we are a most cosmopolitan household. The life
is utterly different from the one I have been leading for the last two
years.
_To H. L. K._
February 10, 1880.
I try and write every day, but am so much taken up and so tired when I
come in that I don't always find the moment. W. is all right again. He
really got quite a chill from the cold night journey--and for two or
three days sat _in_ the fire. Francesco, the Italian servant, took
excellent care of him--was so sympathetic the night we had some music
and W. couldn't appear. It was a pleasant evening--a Russian Prince (I
forget his name, and couldn't probably spell it if I remembered), a
great friend of Mary's, an excellent musician and a great Wagnerian
offered to come and play some of the Nibelungen. I was delighted as I
only know Tannhaeuser and Lohengrin. I remember now your sigh of relief
when Seilern and I finished playing a 4 mains the Walpurgis Night years
ago in the Champs Elysees. I daresay it was trying for the public--but
we enjoyed ourselves immensely. The big drawing-room looked very pretty,
with plenty of flowers, and I think there were about 50 people--almost
all (except Lottie and Madame de Tchiatcheff) ardent admirers of the
great man. One lady appeared in a sort of loose, red gown (it seems red
is the only colour Wagner admits), her hair, very pretty, blonde,
hanging down her back, just tied with a ribbon--and carrying two
partitions. Mary said, "Wouldn't you like to sit by her, and she will
explain it all to you?"--but I said there was nothing I would like so
little. I knew enough of the legend to be able to follow, and moreover I
had always heard that Wagner's descriptive music was so wonderful that
one understood everything without any text, etc. The great man
appeared--the grand piano was opened all over to give as much sound as
possible--and he requested absolute silence. He played beautifully--it
was enchanting--one quite heard the little waves in which the
Rhein-Toechter were disporting themselves. It was wonderfully melodious
and delicate--I should have liked it to go on forever. He played for
about three-quarters of an hour--all Rheingold--then suddenly pushed
back his chair, and rushed to the anteroom, exclaiming "de l'air--de
l'air," followed by all the red and musical ladies. It is a pity there
must always be such a pose with Wagner--for really the music was a joy.
I met of course quantities of old friends, and agreed to go to Lottie
Van Schaick's ball.
February 12, 1880.
W. and I had a lovely long flanerie this morning. He is quite well
again, and the sun was tempting. It seems quite a different Florence
living over here, and I must say much more old-world and Italian than
the Lungarno, with all the modern hotels and apartments, and evident
signs of forestieri[12] everywhere. As soon as we cross the bridge it is
quite different--a gay, bustling, northern city. W. was so much amused
the other day--we were in a fiacre and the driver put on the brake to go
down the almost imperceptible descent on the other side of the bridge.
We went straight across to the Piazza del Duomo to-day, where the market
was held, and wandered in and out among the stalls. It was all so
familiar--little green cucumbers, almonds, and strings of fried fish,
with a good healthy smell of "frittura." The people were all most
smiling, and so pleased when I spoke Italian to them, and said I was so
happy to be back in their country again. W. has no opinion of my
Italian. He came to my room this morning followed by the Italian servant
to tell _me_ to tell him that his razor must be sharpened. I began, and
came to a dead halt--hadn't the slightest idea what razor was in
Italian. W. was much disgusted, but I explained that when I was living
in Italy before as a girl, I hadn't often had occasion to ask for
razors--all the same he has evidently lost confidence, and thinks my
reputation as a linguist "surfaite."
[12] Foreigners.
This afternoon we had a lovely drive up the Fiesole hill with Mary and
Beatrice. Their man, who goes on the carriage, is called "Bacco" and is
so Italian and sympathetic--takes a lively interest in all our
proceedings--knows everybody we meet, and talks cheerfully with any of
his friends we happen to cross. The view from Fiesole was divine--the
long slopes of cyprus and olive trees--with Florence at the bottom of
the valley, and the Arno just visible--a streak of light. I am so fond
of the grey green of the olives. It all looked so soft and delicate in
the sunset light.
February 13, 1880.
We are getting dreadfully mondain. The other night we had a pretty,
typical Florentine party at Edith Peruzzi's.[13] We went a little after
ten and thought we would be among the first, but the rooms were already
full--quantities of people (not many of my old friends) and splendid
jewels. It was much more real Florentine society than the people we used
to see when we lived in Casa Guadagni. _They_ were generally the young,
sporting, pleasure-loving set, with a good dash of foreigners, artists,
diplomatists, etc. These were the real polite, stiff Italians of the old
regime. Many people were introduced to us, and W. enjoyed his evening
immensely--found many interesting people to talk to. He was delighted to
meet Bentivoglio again, and they immediately retired into a corner, and
plunged into Asia Minor and coins. Edith looked very well, did the
honours simply and graciously; and Peruzzi really not changed--always
the same tall, handsome, aristocratic type.
[13] Nee Story, daughter of W. W. Story, the sculptor.
Last night was Lottie Van Schaick's ball, very gay and handsome. Mary
wouldn't go--so I chaperoned the two girls--Beatrice and Rosa Sternberg.
They made a very pretty contrast--Rosa von Sternberg is fair and slight,
a pretty, graceful figure. Beatrice on rather a larger scale, with a
very white skin, and beautiful dark eyes. W. and Charles Bunsen came
too, but didn't stay very long. We went late as the Florence balls
always last so long. I met quantities of old friends, and made a tour de
valse with Carlo Alessandri for the sake of old times. W. was much
amused to see all the older men still dancing. At the Paris balls the
danseurs are all so young--few of the married men dance--only the very
young ones. I didn't wait for the cotillon--it hadn't begun at 3.30. The
supper is always before the cotillon which of course prolongs the
festivity.
I was lazy this morning, as we came in so late last night, so W. and I
only went for a turn in the Boboli Gardens. The shade was so thick it
was almost black--but it was resting to the eyes. There are very few
flowers, one had a general impression of green. This afternoon we have
been driving about leaving cards, and ending with a turn in the Cascine.
There everything seemed exactly the same as when we lived there ten
years ago. The same people driving about in the same carriages, and
everybody drawing up on the Piazza, and talking to their neighbours. It
amused me to drive down the Lungarno to our bridge. There were
quantities of carriages and people lounging on the pavement, and looking
at the river. The instant one crosses the bridge it is perfectly
different--narrow streets, high walls, few carriages, no loiterers.
Our garden was beautiful to-night--a splendid moon just rising over the
black trees, and a soft delicious air. We have had a quiet evening,
talking and reading in the small salon. Charles was very interesting,
talking about old Italy and their beginnings in Turin. It seems the
etiquette of that Court was something awful. Mary told us that she was
talking one day to the Marchesa S. (a lively little old lady who took
snuff) who had been in her time a famous wit and beauty, dame d'honneur
to the wife of Carlo Alberto. Mary was rather complaining of the
inconvenience of going to the winter reception of the Duchess of Genoa
(she had only one in the year) where all the ladies of the Corps
Diplomatique were obliged to go in full dress decolletee at about 4 in
the afternoon. "Ah, ma chere," said the old Marchesa, "what would you
have said in our time?" She told her that when the Queen-Mother was ill
in the winter at the Chateau of Stupinigi, some miles from Turin, all
her ladies had to go and inquire for her in full dress and manteaux de
cour, and that when they knew she was in bed, and could see no one. Mary
has splendid Italian lace which she bought from one of the ladies of the
old Queen after her death. It would cost a fortune now, and in fact
could not be had unless some private individual in reduced circumstances
was obliged to sell. I had a nice visit from Alberti to-day--just the
same--gay, impossible, saying the most risque things in a perfectly
natural way, so that you can hardly realize the enormities you are
listening to. They don't sound so bad in Italian--I think the language
veils and poetizes everything. He is very anxious we should go out and
spend the day at Signa--his most lovely place--and I wish we could, I
should like W. to see it--so much natural beauty--and, with our northern
ideas, so absolutely neglected--splendid rooms, painted ceilings--no
practical furniture of any kind, and a garden that was a dream of wild
beauty--flowers everywhere, climbing up over the roof, around bits of
grey wall, long grass that almost twisted around one's feet, and such a
view from the terrace. I told W. afterward of our great day there long
ago, when we started at 10 in the morning and got back at 2 A.M. I
wonder if you remember the day? We were a large party--Van Schaicks,
Maquays, Coxes, and others whose names I forget and pretty much every
man in Florence (of all nationalities). We started by rail--the women
all in light muslin dresses and hats. We were met by carriages of all
kinds--Alberti's own little pony-trap--and a collection of remarkable
vehicles from all the neighbouring villages. The drive was short, but
straight up a steep hill--the villa most beautifully situated at the
top, with a background of green hills. Two or three rooms had been
arranged for us--so we took off cloaks--a nice, sympathetic Italian
woman brushed off the dust--and we went at once to breakfast in the
state dining-room--the big doors on the terrace open. Some of the men
had their breakfast out there. After breakfast we all wandered about the
garden--such thick shade that it was quite comfortable. It was pretty to
see the white figures flitting in and out among the trees. About 3 I got
into a riding skirt and loose jacket, and went for a ride with Alberti
and a Frenchman, Brinquant, a friend of Alberti--very gay, and entrain,
and perfectly amused at the entertainment--so sans facon and original.
We had a lovely ride--through such narrow roads--branches of the orange
trees and roses nearly coming into our faces as we cantered along the
little steep paths. I had a pretty little mare--perfectly sure-footed,
which was an absolute necessity as the hill paths were very steep, with
many curves, and full of rolling stones. We pottered about for an hour,
and when we got home I thought I would retire to one of the rooms and
rest for half an hour before I got back into my afternoon dress, but
that was a delusion. They all came clamouring at the door, and insisted
upon my coming out at once, as the whole party were to be photographed.
As I was perfectly confident that they would all come in if I didn't
come out, there was nothing to be done, and I joined the group. It was
rather a long affair, but at the end seemed satisfactory. Then we had
tea on the terrace, and sat there watching the sun go down behind the
Signa hills, leaving that beautiful afterglow which one only sees in
Italy--the green tints particularly.
Three or four men came out for dinner who hadn't been able to get off
early (diplomates, I fancy, for they were certainly the only men in this
gay city who had any occupation), also a tapeur[14] and little objets for
the cotillon. We did have about an hour before dinner to rest and make
ourselves look as nice as we could--but naturally a long, hot day
wandering about in a garden, and sitting on half-ruined crumbling stone
walls doesn't improve muslin dresses. The dinner was very gay and good,
and the hour on the terrace afterward with coffee, enchanting. One or
two of the men had brought guitars, and there were scraps of songs,
choruses, "stornelli," going on all the time. One man, with a lovely
tenor voice, sat on the lower step singing anything--everything--the
rest of us joining in when we knew the song. The terrace was quite
dark--the house brilliantly lighted standing out well; and every now and
then the Italian servants would appear at the door with their smiling
faces--black eyes and white teeth--evidently restraining themselves with
difficulty from joining in the choruses. I really don't think Mary's
"Bacco" could have resisted. I always hear him and Francesco singing
merrily over their work in the morning. They certainly are an
easy-going, light-hearted race, these modern Florentines. One can hardly
believe that they are the descendants of the fierce old Medici who sit
up so proud and cold on their marble tombs at San Lorenzo.
[14] Man to play on the piano.
We began the cotillon about 10, and it lasted an hour and a half. There
were 10 couples, plenty of flowers and ribbons, and, needless to say, an
extraordinary "entrain." We ended, of course, with the "Quadrille
infernal" (which Alberti always leads with the greatest spirit), made a
long chain all through the house down the terrace steps (such a
scramble) and finally dispersed in the garden. I shouldn't like to say
what the light dresses looked like after that. We started back to
Florence about midnight in two coaches--such a beautiful drive. The
coming out of the gates, and down the steep hill with a bad road and a
narrow turn was rather nervous work--but we finally emerged on the broad
high-road looking like a long silver ribbon in the moonlight winding
down the valley. We had the road quite to ourselves--it was too late for
revellers, and too early for market people, so we could go a good pace,
and galloped up and down the hills, some of them decidedly steep. It was
a splendid night--that warm southern moon (so unlike our cold white
moonlight) throwing out every line sharply. It was just 3 o'clock when
we drew up at Casa Guadagni.
I didn't intend to write so much about Signa, but I had just been
telling it all to W., and I think it will amuse the family in America.
_To H. L. K._
VILLA MCDONNELL,
February 15, 1880.
I try and write every day, but it is not easy. We are out all the time.
The weather is divine, and it seems wicked to stay indoors. W. and I go
out every morning, and we do a good deal of sight-seeing in a pleasant,
idle way. I go sometimes to the Boboli Gardens and wait for him there
when he has letters to write. It is all so unlike our Florence of ten
years ago; I love the quiet grey streets. The gardens are delicious;
dark and cool; you see no one, hear nothing but the splash of the
fountains, and the modern busy world doesn't exist. I am becoming quite
intimate with the custode--he is most friendly--smiles all over when W.
appears--and remarked the other day casually when he was late and I was
waiting at the gate, "Il marito si fa aspettare." This morning we
pottered about the Ponte Vecchio, where all the shops look exactly the
same, and apparently the same old wrinkled men bending over their pearls
and turquoises. So many foreigners have bought pearls that the prices
have all gone up. There has been a great influx of strangers these last
days as Easter is early, and we hear English on all sides. Two pretty
fair-haired English girls were loitering about the bridge and shops,
attracting much attention and admiration, quite freely expressed, from
some of the numerous young men who are always lounging about; but the
admiration is so genuine and so open that no one could be angry or
consider it an impertinence.
Do you remember one of my first Italian experiences in crossing the
Piazza di Spagna one afternoon with my white kitten on my shoulder, and
one of the group of "paini"[15] standing at the door of the bank remarked
smilingly, "Che gatto fortunato!" I was rather taken aback but pleased
certainly. At Doney's in the Via Tornabuoni, there is always the same
group of men on the pavement about tea-time, when every one goes in for
a cup of tea or chocolate--all much interested in the pretty girls who
go in and out--also the society men standing at the door of the Club
making remarks and criticising, with rather more reserve perhaps.
[15] Young bourgeois.
We took a fiacre when we had crossed the bridge and drove to Santa Maria
Novella. The black and white facade looked like an old friend, also the
spezeria where we used to buy the sachets of iris powder in the old
days. We wandered all over the church, looked at the frescoes and the
wonderful Cimabue Madonna, and then through the cloisters. A monk (one
of the few left) in the long white robe of the Dominicans was working in
the garden. He looked very picturesque in the little square of green,
and was apparently engrossed in his work as he didn't even turn his head
to look at us. He wasn't at all an old man as we saw when he raised
himself--was tall and broad-shouldered. What a life it must be for a man
in the full force of strength and health. One can understand it in the
old days before books and printing, when the Dominicans and Benedictines
were students and their parchments made history, but now when everybody
reads and discusses everything it seems incredible that a man should
condemn himself to such an existence.
We dined at the Tchiatcheffs, and on our way home crossed a procession
of "la Misericordia"; all the men with long cloaks and cowls drawn tight
over their faces, with slits for the eyes. One could see nothing but
bright, keen eyes, impossible to recognise any one. I believe men of all
classes belong to the society, and we had probably various friends among
them. I suppose they were going to get a corpse (which is always done at
night in Florence, or, in fact, everywhere in Italy) and their low,
melancholy chant rather haunted me. They say they do a great deal of
good when there is an accident or a case of malignant fever, in
transporting the patient to a hospital; but it was an uncanny sight.
They tell me they went to get a young Englishman the other day who had
fever, and was to be moved from the hotel to a private hospital. It was
the doctor's suggestion, and I am sure they carried him quite well and
gently, but it seems his poor wife went nearly mad when the procession
arrived, and she saw all those black eyes gleaming from behind the
cowls.
We have been this afternoon to tea at "Camerata," the Halls' Villa. The
drive out was charming, the day beautiful and bright, flowers
everywhere. Quantities of peasant children ran alongside the carriage as
we toiled up the hills, chattering volubly (many _Inglesi_ thrown in)
and holding out little brown hands filled with yellow flowers. The
Camerata garden and terrace were lovely. It was still a little cool to
sit out, so we had tea inside. The lawn was blue with violets, and there
were quantities of yellow flowers, crocuses, narcissi everywhere, roses
just beginning. We met various old friends there--principally
English--among others Miss Arbuthnot, looking quite the same; and the
two Misses Forbes who have a charming apartment in Florence--we went
there to tea the other day. Our friend and compatriot, Mrs. K., was also
there; very dressy and very foolish; poor dear she never was wise. She
was glad to see me, was sure I was enjoying the change and rest after my
"full life"; then "Did you live in Paris?" I felt like saying, "No,
French Cabinet Ministers usually live in Yokohama," but I desisted from
that plaisanterie as I was sure she would go away under the impression
that W. had been a member of the Japanese Cabinet. W. doesn't like my
jokes--thinks they are frivolous.
February 17, 1880.
Our Talleyrand dinner last night was handsome and pleasant. He was for
years French Ambassador at Petersburg (Baron Charles de
Talleyrand-Perigord), and is the type of the clever, old-fashioned
French gentleman and diplomatist. He married a Russian, Mlle. Bernadaky.
She is very amiable, has a beautiful voice and beautiful jewels. I had
Carlo Alessandri next to me, and we plunged into old times. After dinner
Talleyrand and W. talked politics in the fumoir. He is of course quite
"d'un autre bord" and thinks Republican France "grotesque," but W. said
he was so moderate and sensible, not at all narrow-minded, understanding
that a different opinion was quite possible, that it was interesting to
discuss with him. Talleyrand confided to Mary afterward that he couldn't
understand a man of her brother's intelligence and education being a
Republican.
Madame de Talleyrand didn't sing, had a cold. I was very sorry as I told
her I should have liked to hear her sing again "Divinite du Styx." It
will be always associated in my mind with the French-German war when we
were all at Ouchy together hearing fresh disasters every day.
This afternoon we went to have tea with "Ouida"[16] at her villa outside
Florence. She was most anxious W. should come to her--which he agreed to
do--though afternoon visits are not much in his line. As we were rather
a large party we went out in detachments, and Madame de Tchiatcheff
drove me. We arrived before the Bunsens and W. Ouida came to the gate to
meet us, and Madame Tchiatcheff named me. She was civil, but before I
had time to say that M. Waddington was coming in another carriage, she
looked past me, saying, "Et Monsieur Waddington--il ne vient donc pas,"
with such evident disappointment and utter indifference to the presence
of _Madame_ Waddington that I was rather taken aback; but I suppose
geniuses must not be judged like other people. I was rather disappointed
in her appearance. I expected to see her dressed either in "primrose
satin with trails of white lace," or as an Italian peasant, and she
really looked like any one else--her hair cut short and a most
intelligent face. She was interesting when she talked about Italy and
the absolute poverty of the people. She spoke either French or English,
both equally well. When the visit had been talked of at home we had told
W. he must read, or at any rate look over one of her books. I didn't
think he could undertake one of her long novels, "Idalia" for instance,
where the heroine wanders for days through wood and dale attired in a
white satin dress, and arrives at her destination looking like "a tall,
beautiful, pure lily"; but I think he might like one of her short
Italian stories, which are charming, such beautiful descriptions. I
always remember one of her sentences, "There is nothing in the world so
beautiful as the smile of Italy to the awakening Spring." One felt that
to-day in the garden, every bud was bursting, everything looked green
and fresh and young.
[16] Mlle. de la Ramee.