a great friend of the Bunsens, a clever, interesting woman whose
girlhood was passed at the old Nassau castle at Bieberich on the Rhine.
Her mother was one of the Duchess's ladies. I know the place well, and
used often to walk through the beautiful park to the Rhine when I was
staying with Mary. It is quite shut up and deserted now. The old Duke
held out against United Imperial Germany, and never lived in his Schloss
after Nassau was annexed. It is a grand old house with all its great
windows and balconies facing the Rhine. One could quite imagine an
animated court life (small court) there, with music, and riding, and
excursions on the river. It is rather melancholy to see such a fine old
place deserted.
We had, too, Comandi, an Italian who occupies himself with orphan boys,
and has a home for them near here somewhere in the country which we are
going to see some day. Anna de Weling, too, has founded one or two small
homes in different parts of Germany. She read us a letter the other day
from one of her boys, quite grown up now, whom she had placed. It began
"Wir brauchen Beinkleider" (we need trousers)--so naif. The conversation
was almost entirely in Italian as Comandi speaks no other language. All
the Bunsens speak of course perfectly--they lived in Italy for so many
years at the beginning of their diplomatic career. Mrs. Waddington is
quite wonderful, speaks and reads it perfectly. Her nice little
parlatrice is devoted to her.
February 19, 1880.
We have had two nice days. Yesterday we walked straight across the
bridge to the Piazza del Duomo--walked about the Cathedral and the
Baptistery trying to make out the Saints' processions, and figures on
the marvellous bronze doors--but it would take weeks of study to
understand them. I was tired, and sat (very uncomfortably) on a sort of
pointed stone near the gates while W. examined them. I really think I
like the Piazza and the open air and the street life as much as anything
else. There was so much movement, flower stalls, fruit, cakes, those
extraordinary little straw bottles of wine, children playing and
tumbling all over the place (evidently compulsory education doesn't
bother them much), and always quantities of men standing about doing
nothing, wrapped up in their long cloaks, but what a wonderful cadre for
it all. The Duomo, Palazzo Vecchio, Loggia, etc.--one can't imagine now
the horrors that have been perpetrated in that very square. I told the
family the other day I wanted to read "Nicolo dei Lapi" over again, and
they all jeered at me; but I must get it somewhere; it will take me
straight back to Frascati and the long hot days of the cholera summer
when I was reading it, and trying so hard with my imperfect and
school-girl translation to make you understand the beauty and horrors of
the book.
I was telling Mrs. Waddington the other day of our life at Frascati--the
great cholera year at Albano (1869), when so many people died--the
Dowager Queen of Naples, Princess Colonna, and Cardinal Altieri, who
came straight out to his villa as soon as the cholera broke out (which
it did quite suddenly). He was wonderful--went about everywhere in all
the poor little houses, relieving and encouraging the sick and dying,
holding up the cross to the poor dim eyes when life was too nearly gone
for any words to avail; and finally was struck down himself and died in
two days. How terribly lonely and cut off we felt--Dr. Valery was the
only person we saw. He was allowed to come out every day from Rome, but
was fumigated at the station at Frascati, and again in Rome when he got
back, obliged to change his clothes outside the gate before coming into
the city. We were never at all nervous about the cholera. I don't think
there was one case at Frascati, and of course all our thoughts were
centred in that great big room with its pink walls and mosaic floor
where father[17] lay desperately ill. It seems like a dream now, those
hot summer nights, when we used to go out on the terrace (upon which his
room opened) to get bouillon, ice, etc., and we fancied we could see the
cloud of disease hovering over the Campagna.
[17] Charles King, President of Columbia College, father of Madame
Waddington.
[Illustration: President Charles King of Columbia College, New York
City.]
When it was moonlight, and such moonlight, that beautiful golden,
southern moon, we saw a long white line in the distance--the sea.
Circulation was very difficult, all the roads leading to Albano were
barred, and guarded by zouaves; and of course we heard tales of horror
from the Italian servants, always most talkative and graphic in their
descriptions. However on the whole they behaved well. We used to ride
every day, and always passed a little chapel on the way to Castel
Gandolfo, which was filled with people kneeling and praying--a long line
stretching out quite across the road to a little shrine just opposite.
They used to make way for us to pass without getting off their knees,
only stretching out their hands for anything the Principesse americane
would give them.
Some of the women were quite absorbed, looking hard at the Madonna in
her shrine as if they expected some visible sign of pity, or promise of
help. I rather envied them their simple faith; it must help them through
many moments of trial and discouragement.
As usual I seem to have wandered from my original subject, but Italy is
so full of memories. We were too tired to walk home, besides were a
little late, so we took a fiacre with a most friendly coachman, who saw
at once that we were strangers, pointed out all the places of interest,
and said it would be a delightful afternoon for Fiesole, and he would
come and get us if we would name the hour.
We found lots of letters and papers at the house, and W. plunged into
Paris and politics after breakfast. I went for a drive with Mary and
Beatrice to the Villa Careggi. The house is nothing remarkable--a large
square building with enormous rooms, deep fireplaces, and very high
ceilings. Some good frescoes on the walls. The garden and terraces were
enchanting--the sun really too warm on the terrace--always a divine
view; blue-purple hills rolling away in the distance, and funny, crooked
little roads shut in between high walls, with every now and then a gap,
or a gate, which gave one glimpses of straggling, unkempt gardens, with
a wealth of flowers and vines.
We had a quiet dinner and evening, which we all enjoyed. W. smoked and
talked a great deal of the past year and the last days at the Quai
d'Orsay. He doesn't miss the life in the least, which rather surprises
me; I thought he would be so bored with suddenly nothing to do, and no
part to play in the world's history; but I see that the absolute rest
and being with all his family is doing him so much good. It is
extraordinary how soon one forgets, and takes up a quiet life again.
Already the whirl and fatigues of the Exhibition year seem so far away I
feel as if somebody else had lived that life. I cannot imagine myself
now dining out (and not ordinary dinners, official banquets) 19 nights
in succession, but I suppose I should begin again quite naturally if we
returned to public life.
Did you see the article in the "Francais" saying "M. Waddington will now
have all the rest of his life before him to consecrate to his studies"?
I wonder! This morning we had our usual walk--as W. was ready at ten
o'clock I didn't make my regular station in the Boboli Gardens. We went
to Vieusseux about a book W. wanted, and then into the bank to pay
George Maquay a visit. He was most cheerful, and showed us a nice
article in the "Times" regretting very much W.'s departure from the
Foreign Office, "one of the few men who could look ahead a little, and
who was independent, not limited in his views by what the Chamber of
Deputies would think." I was rather pleased, but W. is very calm about
all newspaper articles. He always has a "mauvaise presse" as we don't
_soigner_ any paper. I fancy, though, Henrietta is right when she says
the next time he takes office she means to buy one--so many people
believe implicitly all they see in a paper, especially when it says what
you want to believe.
We did a little shopping, I wanted some veils, and W. remained outside
looking at the grim old Strozzi Palace, standing like a great fortress
with its huge stones and heavy doors in the middle of all the busy,
bustling life of the Tornabuoni. I think it is the one street in
Florence where people move about quickly, and as if they were going
somewhere. Everywhere else there are crowds of people, men especially,
doing nothing but sitting all day in the sun looking at the passers-by.
We hadn't time to walk over to San Lorenzo, so hailed a fiacre, and
wandered about there for some time. I was delighted to see the Medici
Chapel again and the famous monument of Lorenzo. He does look as if he
were thinking out some great problem--I wonder what he would think of
our go-ahead, unartistic world, and of our politicians, so timorous and
afraid of responsibility--at least the men of that race were strong for
good or for evil. When they wanted anything they did all they could to
get it. I don't know that the women were behindhand either in energy
when one thinks of Queen Catherine and of all the Huguenots she disposed
of one summer evening in Paris. Do you remember our friend Mrs. A., a
converted Catholic, whom we overheard one night at the Opera when they
were shooting all the Huguenots in the last act, telling her daughter
(remained a Protestant) that the Saint Bartholomew had nothing to do
with Catholics and Protestants; was entirely a political move.
We have had a long drive this afternoon with Mary and Charles, up the
Poggio Imperiale--a stiff climb but such a beautiful road--villas,
cypresses, olive trees, and roses everywhere. We went up to the Certosa,
where a nice old monk, in his white dress, showed us the church and
monastery. It was dark and rather cold in the church, and nothing
particular to see--good frescoes and many coloured marbles--but the
terrace outside was delightful. There were not too many beggars on the
road considering that it is the favourite drive in Florence, and of
course the carriage people are at a disadvantage as they must go slowly
up the hill, and are escorted by a long troop of children singing,
dancing with a sort of tambourine, turning somersaults, and enjoying
life generally, whether they get a few pennies or not. It is very
difficult to resist the children with their smiling faces and evident
desire to amuse the "forestieri."
We went to Casa Guadagni before we came home, and paid a visit to the
Marchesa, who was at home. The same old porter was at the door, and
greeted me most warmly, much pleased to see W. "bel uomo, il
marito"--had I any children, and where were all the rest of the
family?--that simple, natural Italian manner, without a thought of
familiarity. W. was delighted with Madame Guadagni. She talked about
everything and really didn't look any older. I asked about our old
apartment (piano nobile--first floor); she said it was always
let--generally to foreigners. I _didn't_ ask if she had made any modern
improvements since we lived there. Shall you ever forget that cold
winter with the doors that wouldn't open, and the windows that wouldn't
shut, and the chimneys that always smoked, and the calorifere, which
John never would light, as he was afraid it would warm the Guadagni
rooms below? I should have liked to go over the apartment and see the
rooms again--the big ball-room where we danced so often and had so much
music. We wound up with a turn in the Cascine, drawing up in the Piazza
alongside of Lottie's carriage, which was of course surrounded by all
the gilded youth of Florence. Maquay came to talk to us, Carlo
Alessandri and Serristori, whom I hadn't yet seen. He was just the same
(laughing and criticising) as in the old days when some of the swells
appeared in so-called Worth garments, which he said were all made in a
little room over his stables, by the wife and daughters of one of his
men.
I was glad to get in and have a quiet hour to write before dinner. I am
at my table close up to the open window. The air is soft and
delicious--the garden just beginning to look dark and mysterious in the
waning light. The group of cypresses (I don't know how to write that in
the plural, it looks funny) always black. I was called off various
times, and must finish now as we are going to dine at the Maquays--we
being ourselves, Mary, and Charles. We generally go about a family
party.
Sunday, February 21, 1880.
We are making our pacquets as we have decided to leave for Rome on
Monday (22). The Schuylers are clamouring for us, and though I hate to
leave here I really think we ought to go. As W. has never seen Rome two
months will not be too much. We shan't have much more as he wants to get
home for the Conseil General. The Schuylers want to have a big reception
for us, and would like next Sunday week, so I think we really shall get
off this time. The longer we stay the more invitations we have. It has
been all quite charming. Our Maquay dinner was very easy and pleasant;
the Tchiatcheffs, Lottie, Alessandri, Talleyrands, Mrs. Fuller, and one
or two stray men. The house looked so natural--of course the ball-room
wasn't open as we were a small party, but they lighted it after dinner.
I wanted W. to see how pretty it was and how light--white with red seats
all around. How it took me back to old times? I seemed to see everybody
settling for the cotillon--the stairs too, where we all used to sit
waiting for the cotillon to begin. How we amused ourselves that winter
in Florence, and how scattered all that little band is now. The
Florentines amuse themselves still--there must be something in the air
which makes people light-hearted--one can't imagine a serious, studious
life in Florence.
We spent two hours in the Uffizi yesterday looking at all the old
friends again. I was delighted to see the dear little "St. John in the
Wilderness" hanging just where it did before, on one side of the door in
the Tribuna; also the Peruginos--I like them so much--his Madonnas with
their wooden faces, but a pure, unearthly expression all the same, and
the curious green colour one sees in all his pictures. We saw as much as
we could in the two hours, but as it was the second visit we found our
way about better. I never rested until I found the corridor with Niobe
and all her children--it used to fascinate me in the old days. One
realized perfectly all those big sons and daughters, so terrified, and
the last little one clinging to his mother's skirts.
We went to tea, Mary and I, with Edith Peruzzi--quite quietly--as she
wanted to show me her children--and fine specimens they are; a duck of a
boy, quite sociable and smiling. Nina and Louisa Maquay came in--Louisa
looked lovely. This morning I went to the English church with Mary and
Beatrice. We didn't go out again till late--after tea--as we had various
visitors, among others Schuyler Crosby, who had asked us to dine but we
had no evening left. I saw him riding the other day in the Cascine, and
recognised him some way off by his seat. I don't know what it is, but
whatever the Americans do, whether riding, dancing, or tennis, they do
it differently from any one else. I was talking about it the other day
to an Englishman who had seen some of the Anglo-American boat races, and
he quite agreed with me, said their rowing was very good, but quite
another thing from the English sport.
We drove out again Fiesole way. It was enchanting--more roses come out
every day. There was a perfect fringe of pink roses hanging over some of
the old grey walls. As it was Sunday, and a lovely day, there were
quantities of people about. There are scarcely any costumes left, but
all Italians like bright colours, and the red and green fichus and
aprons looked pretty and gay as the various groups passed us. Some of
the old women were terribly bent, with such brown, wrinkled faces--one
could quite see that they had toiled up and down hills under the Italian
scorching sun all their lives, with baskets and bundles of fagots on
their backs--but the old eyes were keen and smiling. They don't look so
utterly starved and wretched as Ouida (and others) say they are. I
suppose they live on nothing, and go on quite simply, leading the same
lives that their fathers and mothers did before them, without knowing of
anything better.
Tell Henrietta I haven't made much progress in the travelling work she
presented me with. I did take it out into the drawing-room one evening,
but the immediate result of that was disastrous. I took it out of the
bag proudly, to show that I had silk, embroidery, scissors, needles,
etc., like everybody else, but left it on the table. Somebody wanted a
book or a newspaper also on the table; turned everything upside down,
and the work, silk, needles, thimble, etc., went rolling all over the
floor. When you think of the crevasses of an old parquet floor in an
Italian Palace, you can imagine how difficult it was to find anything
again. The two girls were hours on their knees looking for my thimble
which never turned up--however, that will be an excellent reason for
buying a pretty little gold thimble with a row of turquoises that I saw
the other day in a shop on the Ponte Vecchio. There is evidently a fate
against my becoming an accomplished needlewoman, and I am afraid the
"clumsy little fingers," which used to worry you so in the old days of
music lessons, have not improved with advancing years. Perhaps I shall
take to work in my old age. Isn't it George Sand who says (and I don't
believe she ever took a needle in her hand), "Don't despise our less
ambitious sisters who work. Many great resolutions and silent
abnegations have been woven into the bright flowers and delicate
tracings of the embroidery in the long hours spent over the frame."
Monday Night, February 22, 1880.
We really are starting to-morrow morning--trunks are packed, compartment
engaged, and we have said good-bye to everybody. I made a last little
turn this morning in the Boboli Gardens. I didn't see the custode--I
wanted to say good-bye to him. Then we went to the Pitti gallery, W.
wanted to see one particular Botticelli, "la bella Simonetta" I think,
which he and Mary had been talking about, and which we had missed the
other day. It is quite impossible to see everything. I had remembered
pretty well the principal pictures. Then we took a fiacre and went out
to San Marco to see the Fra Angelicos and Savonarola's cell. We had
never once got there, there is always so much to do. We walked through
the cloisters first--the frescoes are perfectly well preserved--some of
Fra Angelico's and others less interesting. I wanted to see the cells,
and was quite pleased to recognise the "Coronation of the Virgin" and
the "Madonna and Child" surrounded by angels, all in their long
green-blue robes with wings and musical instruments of all kinds. As
usual people were copying them, and I will try and find a pretty one and
bring it back. I want the one in a sort of light green dress blowing a
trumpet. The faces are quite beautiful, so pure. He must have had a
wonderful imagination--I wonder if he believed angels look like that?
Somehow or other I always think of an angel in a white robe. We saw of
course Savonarola's cell, and they showed us his rosary, and a piece of
wood which is supposed to have been taken from his funeral pile. It all
looked so peaceful and smiling to-day, one could hardly realize the long
hours of doubt and self-torture passed in these solitary cells. There is
a fine description in one of the numerous books the Bunsens have on
Florence, of Savonarola's preaching--all the people congregated in the
great square before the church, when there was no longer any room
inside, leaving their shops and their work to come and listen to him.
That is one of the delightful things in this household, you can always
find a book in almost any language about any subject that interests you,
religion, music, politics, everything.
Beatrice has a delightful German magazine, "Monatsheft," very well
illustrated, with all the modern German literature, stories, essays,
criticisms, etc. One could almost wish for a rainy day or a quiet
evening to read a little.
W. went off by himself the other night and had a very pleasant evening.
First to the Piccolellis' where he found a small party and his old
friend Bentivoglio, with whom he had travelled in the East. Of course
they instantly got into a corner and talked shop (medals). Then to
Lottie Van Schaick who had a few friends, where he amused himself very
much.
Gertrude writes that our rooms are very nice, and the man at the hotel
delighted to have us. I wonder what Rome will be like. It will seem
funny to be back there again, a respectable middle-aged lady. I think
one should always be young and gay to live in Italy.
We had a fine musical evening Saturday with the Landi family--five;
mother, father, daughter, son, and grandfather. Madame Landi sang
anything, everything, delightfully. Some of the stornelli and peasant
songs, those particularly of the Abruzzi mountains, were charming. I
wonder what Italians have got in their "gosier" that we haven't, that
gives such a charm to their simplest song. I sang once or twice in
French, and then Madame Landi and I did some duos in Italian which went
very well. She was very complimentary over my Italian (I told it
triumphantly to W., but he remains under the impression of the razor),
said it was evident I had learnt in Rome; the language is so much
softer, or rather the pronunciation "Lingua toscana in bocca romana."
The old father was killing, knew everything, was wildly interested, and
criticised freely. I think the daughter will have a very pretty voice,
like her mother's, a rich, low mezzo.
I was called off by some visits, and will finish now. My letter will go
to-morrow morning. We don't start very early--9.30--but I shall not have
time to write anything more.
_To H. L. K._
HOTEL DE LONDRES, ROME,
February 24, 1880.
We arrived last evening for dinner, dear mother, and are most
comfortably settled. We have a nice apartment on the second floor--a
large bright salon with a good bed-room on either side of it for me and
W., and a very fair anteroom where Madame Hubert has just had another
wardrobe put up. She interviewed the gerant and made it clear to him
that it was impossible for her to unpack her mistress's dresses until
she had something suitable to put them in. We found flowers and papers
on the table from the Schuylers, Mrs. Bruce, and the proprietor of the
hotel.
I thought we should never get away from Florence. We were so happy there
with the Bunsens and Mrs. Waddington, and every day there was something
to see or do. The weather was divine the last days--the hills were quite
a pink-purple sometimes as we drove home after sunset, and quantities of
roses climbing up all the old grey walls. We had a very easy
journey--they had reserved a carriage for us, which was a good
precaution, as the train was crowded. We got to Rome about six. W. was
quite excited as we approached (it is too funny to think that he had
never been here), and very anxious for the first glimpse of St. Peter's.
I can't say we saw the dome from a great distance--I fancy it depends
upon which way you enter Rome. We found the Schuylers at the station
with a carriage, and drove at once to the hotel, where Gert had ordered
tea and a pannettone. If I hadn't known I was coming to Rome I should
never have believed it on arriving at the station. It was so unlike the
little old Termine of our Roman days--the funny little station so far
away, with few porters or cabs, and comparatively few voyageurs. I was
quite bewildered with the rush into this great, modern station, with
porters and officials of all kinds, and all the bustle of a great city.