together. The father's brogue is delightful and comes out strong
whenever he talks about anything that interests him. He has such a nice
twinkle, too, in his eye when he tells an Irish story or makes a little
joke. I must say I am very sorry to go. It has been a real pleasure to
be back again in Rome and to take up so many threads of my old life. I
find Italians delightful to live with; they are so absolutely natural
and unsnobbish--no pose of any kind; not that they under-rate themselves
and their great historic names, but they are so simple and sure of
themselves that a pose would never occur to them. Father Smith asked us
a great deal about the German Crown Princess. He had never seen her, but
had the greatest admiration for her character and intelligence--"a
worthy daughter of her great mother"--thought it a pity that such a
woman couldn't have remained in her own country, though he didn't see
very well how it could have been managed. He doesn't at all approve of
royal princesses marrying subjects. I think he is right--certainly
democratic princes are a mistake. There should always be an idea of
state--ermine and royal purple--connected with royalties. I remember
quite well my disappointment at the first sovereign I saw. It was the
Emperor of Austria coming out of his palace at Vienna. We had been
loitering about, sight-seeing, and as we passed the Hof-Burg evident
tourists, some friendly passers-by told us to stop a moment and we would
see the Emperor, who was just driving out of the gates. When I saw a
victoria with a pair of horses drive out with two gentlemen in very
simple uniform, one bowing mechanically to the few people who were
waiting, I was distinctly disappointed. I don't suppose I expected to
see a monarch arrayed in ermine robes, with a crown on his head and a
sceptre in his hand, but all the same it was a disillusion. Of course
when one sees them at court, or at some great function, with brilliant
uniforms, grand cordon, and diamond stars, they are more imposing. I
don't know, though, whether that does make a difference. Do you remember
one of A.'s stories? He was secretary to the British Embassy at
Washington, and at one of the receptions at the White House (which are
open receptions--all the world can go) all the corps diplomatique were
present in the full glory of ribbons and plaques. He heard some one in
the crowd saying, "What are all these men dressed up in gold lace and
coloured ribbons?" The answer came after a moment's reflection, "I guess
it's the band."
I don't think I can write any more to-night. I seem to be rambling on
without anything much to say. If I could tell you all I am doing it
would be much pleasanter. A pen seems to paralyze me and I feel a mantle
of dulness settle down on me as soon as I take one in my hand. You will
have to let me talk hard the first three or four days after I get home,
and be the good listener you always are to your children.
It is a beautiful bright night, the sky almost as blue as in the day,
and myriads of stars. The piazza is quite deserted. It is early, not yet
10.40, but the season is over, all the forestieri gone, and Rome is
sinking back into its normal state of sleepiness and calm. How many
times I have looked out on the piazza on just such a night (from Casa
Pierret, our old house just next door)! It is the one place that hasn't
changed in Rome. I almost feel as if I must go to bed at once, so as to
be up early and in my habit for a meet at Cecilia Metella to-morrow
morning. I do start to-morrow, but not very early--at ten. I have a line
from Mary Bunsen this evening saying they will meet me at the station in
Florence to-morrow. I shall arrive for dinner. I am half sorry now I
didn't decide to go to Naples, after all. The weather is divine, and I
should have liked to have another look at that beautiful bay, with its
blue dancing water, and Capri and Ischia in the distance. We had had
visions of Sicily, prolonging our stay another fortnight, but W. is
rather worrying now to get home. He had a letter from Richard yesterday,
telling him to be sure and come back for the Conseil General.
There were two amusing articles in the papers the other day, one saying
M. Waddington had been charged by the French Government with a delicate
and confidential mission to the Pope; two days after, in another paper,
a denial and most vicious attack on W., saying M. Waddington had
evidently inspired the first article himself, that he had been charged
with no mission of any kind, and they knew from private sources that he
would not even be received by the Pope. I daresay a great many people
believe both. W. naturally doesn't care--doesn't pay the least attention
to what any paper says. I am getting hardened, too, though the process
has been longer with me. I don't mind a good vicious article from an
opposition paper--that is "de bonne guerre"--but the little perfidious
insinuations of the so-called friendly sheets which one can't notice
(and which always leave a trace) are very irritating.
W. has just come up. He lingered talking in the smoking-room with two
Englishmen who have just arrived from Brindisi, and were full of India
and all "the muddles _our_ government is making," asking him if he
wasn't disgusted as an Englishman at all the mistakes and stupidities
they were making out there. They were so surprised when he said that he
wasn't an Englishman that it was funny; and when he added that he was a
Frenchman they really didn't know what he meant. He didn't explain his
personality (I suppose the man of the hotel enlightened them afterward),
but stayed on talking, as the men were clever and had seen a great deal.
They had made a long tour in India, and said the country was most
interesting. The ruins--also modern palaces--on such a gigantic scale.
Well, dear, I really must finish now. My next letter will be from
Florence. We shall stop at Milan and Turin, but not very long, I fancy,
unless W. finds marvels in the way of coins at Milan. I am quite sad to
think I shan't look out on the piazza to-morrow night. I think after all
these years I still hold to my original opinion that the Corso is the
finest street and the Tiber the finest river in the world.
_To H. L. K._
MILAN, HOTEL DE VILLE,
Thursday, May 6, 1880.
Here we are, dearest mother, almost home--only 26 hours from Paris--so
if we are suddenly called back (and I earnestly hope we shan't be) we
can start at once. We made our journey most comfortably yesterday,
though it was long. We left Florence at 9 in the morning and didn't get
here until nearly 8. The Bunsens came with us to the station. I begged
them not to at such an early hour but they didn't mind. It would have
been nice to stay longer. They have just taken their villa on for
another month. Their gardener at Meingenuegen wrote them that it was
snowing and a cold wind--horrid weather; so they instantly decided to
stay on another month. My belle-mere is delicate and never could have
stood a cold, northern spring after this beautiful month of April here.
They tried to tempt us with all sorts of excursions--Vallombrosa, Pisa
(which I should like to see again, I have such a vivid recollection of
the Campo Santo and some of the extraordinary tombs, wide square courts
and painted windows). I don't remember if it was there or at Genoa,
where we saw such elaborate modern monuments; the marble carved and
draped in the most curious manner--a widow kneeling at her husband's
tomb, her skirts all embroidered and carved so finely, like lace, and a
lace veil--really extraordinary.
We found a long train at the station--the night express from Rome. The
prefet had kept a compartment for us, and Ubaldino Peruzzi, the former
sindaco, a great friend of W.'s, went with us as far as Pistoja.
Minghetti was on the train, and he came into our compartment for about
an hour, but then adjourned to his own carriage as he was composing a
great political speech he makes at Bologna to-night. They are all much
excited over the elections, which take place Sunday week, so their time
is short. Minghetti has lived and fought through so many phases of
Italian history that he is most interesting. They say his memory is
extraordinary--so accurate. He never forgets a face or a speech. He says
whenever he has an important speech to make he goes for a drive or a
long walk--the movement helps him. W. is just the contrary. His great
speeches (and they were not many) have always been composed sitting in
his big arm-chair smoking the beloved old cherry-wood pipe Segur brought
him from Jersey. When he had got his speech quite in his head, he wrote
it, and then it went straight on--never a correction or an erasure. I
asked Minghetti if he was nervous. He said not in the least--he was
always ready for the fray, and the more he was interrupted the better he
spoke, as that proved they were listening to him.
I remember so well one of the first days I went to the Assemblee
Nationale years ago. Somebody was speaking--apparently well--on some
question of the day, and nobody was listening. The deputies were walking
about, talking, writing letters, just as if there was nothing going on.
I looked down to see if W. was listening, but he was talking cheerfully
to Leon Say. It seemed to me incredible that the orator could continue
under such circumstances, but W. explained it to me. He was speaking for
his electors in the country and for the "Journal Officiel," which would
publish his speech _in extenso_ the next day.
It was most interesting making the journey with these gentlemen as they
had their history at their finger ends. All that part of the country had
been so fought over--oceans of blood shed in the fierce struggle against
Austrian tyranny--particularly as we got near Milan. It seems incredible
what a hard iron rule theirs was--especially if one knows Austria and
the Austrians a little. They seem such an easy-going, happy people. All
their little villages look clean and prosperous, the peasants cheerful
and singing and civil to all strangers and travellers.
The country we passed through to-day looked green and smiling, but their
idea of work is still primitive, even in Northern Italy. Wherever we
passed the people in the fields all stopped and looked at the
train--many came running up the bank. If they do that for every train
they must lose a considerable amount of time. We were very sorry when
our companions departed, but at every station almost Minghetti met
friends, and it was evident that he had his head full of politics. It is
a long time since I have met any one so interesting. It is such a quick
intelligence and he touches every subject so lightly, apparently, only
one feels he knows all about it.
We made a fair stop at the Bologna station and had a very good
breakfast. It recalled so vividly old times and our first journeys to
Rome. Even the buffet looked exactly the same. I could have sworn there
was the same "fricandeau de veau." The buffet was crowded--it seems
there were a lot of Indian officers arriving with their families from
Brindisi, with dark turbaned servants and ayahs always in white. However
the Indian nurses didn't look so miserable as they used to in winter
when we first made the journey down. They were rather bewildered all the
same in such a jostling, hurrying crowd. It is funny to see how they
cling to their charges, holding the babies tight with one hand and
guiding one or two others half hidden in their long white draperies,
with the other. I am sure they are excellent, faithful nurses.
Our last days in Florence were very full. Tuesday was the day of the
races--bright, beautiful weather--and we drove out to see the retour,
stationing ourselves at the entrance of the Cascine until 7 o'clock.
There was not much to see in the way of equipages--nothing like the
Roman turn-outs--but there were some pretty women. The Comtesse
Mirafiori (nee Larderel), I daresay you will remember the name, was
about the prettiest. Her victoria was very well appointed, handsome
horses stepping perfectly; and she looked a picture, all in white with a
big hat turned up with dark blue and long blue and yellow feathers. I
think a woman never looks better than in a victoria--it shows off the
dress and figure so well. Lottie, too, looked very well, but she passed
so quickly I couldn't see what she had on. I had an impression of white
with some pink in her hat. Almost all the women were in white. Of course
the Lungarno was crowded--all the loungers taking the most lively
interest in the carriages; and when there was a stop criticising
freely--but I must say with their natural Italian politeness, confining
themselves to expressions of admiration more or less pronounced--never
anything disagreeable.
We had a mild reception in the evening. Various friends came to say
good-bye--Maquays, Peruzzis, Miss Forbes and one or two men. A
scientific German--I forget his name--who told W. it would take weeks to
see all the coins and interesting things of all kinds at the Milan
Museum. We are very comfortable here; the hotel is old-fashioned with a
nice open court, and the rooms good. We have a pretty apartment on the
front, and as it is on the main thoroughfare, Corso Vittorio Emanuele,
we see all that goes on. There is a church opposite--San Carlo, I
believe--and we are not far from the Piazza del Duomo.
We went for a little stroll last night after dinner, just for W. to
smoke his cigar. The Cathedral looked splendid--a gigantic white mass in
the midst of the busy square, quantities of people in the streets and
sitting at all the cafes, of which there are hundreds--quite like the
Paris boulevards on a summer night--everybody talking and laughing and a
cheerful sound of clinking glasses. I think they were almost all
drinking beer--a great many uniforms--I suppose there is a large
garrison. There seemed very few foreigners--we heard nothing but Italian
spoken--so unlike Rome and even Florence where one heard always so much
English in the streets and the shops. They told me in Florence that
there was a large English colony there, living quite apart from the
fashionable world--children learning music, or some of the family
delicate, needing a mild climate and sunshine--more perhaps in the
villas close to the gates than in the town itself. I should think the
cutting wind that sweeps the Lungarno would be mortal to weak chests;
but up in the hills sheltered by the high walls and olive groves one
would be quite protected. Certainly the other day on the terrace of
Castello the sun was divine and the air soft and balmy, not a sign of
chill or damp--but it was the month of May--the month for Florence.
This morning I have been unpacking--or rather Madame Hubert has--and
settling myself in my salon, making the two corners--feminine and
masculine--as I did in Rome. I have no convenient Palazzo Altemps to
help me out with cushions, screens, etc., but I found lovely flowers
which the landlord (who received us in dress clothes and his hat in his
hand) put there, and as he was very civil and pleased to have the
"Excellenza" and hoped I would ask for anything I wanted, I have asked
for and obtained an arm-chair, and suggested he should give me a simple
table-cover instead of the beautiful green velvet one, embroidered with
pink roses, which now ornaments my salon. With my careless way of
writing and facility for putting ink all over myself, even in my hair, I
am afraid that work of art would be seriously deteriorated. He sent up
this morning to know if I wanted my breakfast upstairs--if I would come
down he would reserve me a small table in the window. I shall go down--I
hate meals in a sitting-room and I should like to see what sort of
people there are in the hotel.
10 o'clock.
I will go on to-night while W. is putting his papers in order. I
breakfasted alone downstairs about 12. The dining-room is a large,
handsome room across the court. There were very few people--not more
than four tables occupied--a large English family with troops of
fair-haired children--girls in white frocks and long black stockings and
boys in Eton coats. They all looked about the same age, but I suppose
they weren't. They were very quiet and well-behaved, quite unlike any of
our small relations. I have vivid recollections of travelling with some
of them--all talking at once at the top of their lungs, "Pa, give me a
penny," "Pa, give me a cake," "Pa, what's that for?" etc.
The reading-room opened out of the dining-room, so I went in to have a
look at the papers--found a "Debats" and the "Times," and read up all
that was going on in the fashionable and political world. W. came in
about 4--he had ordered a carriage for 4.30, and as it was a lovely
afternoon we thought we would drive about the streets a little and out
into the country. He had had a delightful morning--says the Museum is
most interesting--the cabinet de medailles a marvel. He has arranged to
go there every day at 10 o'clock--will work there until 3, then come
back for me and we shall have our afternoon. He is much pleased with
this arrangement but he doesn't think the employees of the cabinet de
medailles will find it quite so satisfactory, as some one must always be
with him. They never leave any one alone in these rooms. He thinks there
are only two people for this service, and they will naturally hate
spending a long day doing nothing while he studies and copies.
The Directeur received him to-day most enthusiastically--knew all about
his collection of coins.
We started out about 5 and went first to have a cup of tea at the cafe
the padrone recommended--Cova, I think--and then told the man to drive
about the streets and pass the principal buildings. We saw the Duomo
again, the Scala (theatre)--if it is open we shall go one night; the
great Galerie Victor Emmanuel, full of shops; and quantities of
churches, Santa Maria delle Grazie, of course, where is the famous
"Cenacolo" of Leonardo da Vinci, but the outside merely. The fresco is
only visible until 4--so we shall see the inside of the church another
day. We made a turn in the public gardens or promenade where there were
quite a number of handsome carriages and saddle horses--many officers
riding. It was rather late to attempt a country drive (we had said we
would dine downstairs at 7.30), for the turning and twisting about in
the streets and stopping every now and then had taken up a good deal of
time. We had a nice little victoria with a pair of horses, not unlike
the carriage Tomba gave us in Rome.
We went down about a quarter to eight. The padrone in his dress clothes
was waiting at the foot of the stairs and conducted us with much pomp
into the dining-room, where we found a nice round table in the window.
The room was quite full--many more people than in the morning, and I
should think almost all Italians. They looked at us naturally with much
curiosity, as such a fuss was made with us. W. smoked a cigar in the
court after dinner and talked to the man of the house who told him about
all the distinguished people he had had in his hotel. I found papers and
a "Graphic" in the reading-room and was quite surprised when they said
it was 10 o'clock.
May 7th.
It has been pouring all day--straight down. I think it has stopped a
little since dinner. We didn't stay long in the reading-room as W. is
fairly launched in his coins now and puts his notes in order in the
evening. I prowled this morning with Madame Hubert. Before breakfast we
went to the Brera. It was almost empty but we found a nice guide, a
youngish man, speaking such beautiful Italian that it was a pleasure to
hear him, and well up on all the pictures. There are beautiful things,
certainly. I was so glad to see some old friends. I was always so fond
of the "Amanti Veneziani" of Paris Bordone. The "sposo" looks so young
and straight and proud, and the girl's attitude is charming, her
brown-gold head drooping on her lover's shoulder as she holds out her
hand for the ring he is putting on her finger. Even the inferior
pictures of the Paul Veronese school are fine--there is such an
intensity of colour. The whole room seemed filled with light and warmth.
I think I like the backgrounds and accessories almost as much as the
figures. The draperies are so wonderfully done, one can almost touch the
gorgeous stuffs, heavy with gold and silver embroidery; and there are
one or two high-backed, carved arm-chairs which are a marvel. The
beautiful fair women with strings of pearls in their golden hair, and
white satin dresses, sitting up straight and slight in the dark wooden
chairs, are fascinating; and there are quantities, for Paul Veronese and
all his pupils have always so many people in their pictures.
We saw of course the "Sposalizia" in a small room quite by itself. The
Virgin is a beautifully slight ethereal figure with the marvellous pure
face that all Raphael's Madonnas have; but the St. Joseph looks younger
than in most other pictures. Our guide was most enthusiastic over the
picture. It was a treat to hear him say--"morbidezza" and "dolcissimo."
We were there about an hour and a half, and that was quite long enough.
One's eyes get tired. We saw splendid portraits of princes and warriors
as we passed through the rooms--Moretto, Leonardo da Vinci and others.
It was still raining when we came out so we thought we wouldn't attempt
any more sight-seeing, and walked up to the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele
where we were under cover. The Cathedral looked splendid--all the white
pinnacles and statues standing out from the dark grey sky. We looked in
at all the shop windows, but didn't see anything particularly striking
or local except the black lace veils which so many women (not the upper
classes) wear here. Madame Hubert being young and pretty was most
anxious to adopt that fashion--thought it would be more suitable for
Madame as all the suivantes here wore the veil--she would be less
remarked going about with Madame--but Madame decidedly preferred the
plain little black bonnet of the Parisian femme de chambre. It seems
there is a swell Italian woman in the hotel--a Princess--whose maid
always wears a veil when she accompanies her mistress in her walks
abroad.
I was decidedly damp when I got back to the hotel. I breakfasted alone
at my little table, and in fact was almost alone in the
dining-room--there were only two other tables occupied. The head waiter
was very sympathetic about the weather--they always had sun in Milan,
just a mauvaise chance to-day. I had the reading-room also to myself,
and found plenty of papers in all languages. I have rather a weakness
for the "Koelnische Zeitung" (Gazette de Cologne). It is very
anti-French, or I might really say anti-everything, as it is always
pitching into somebody, but there is a good deal of general information
in it.
W. came in about 3.30, having worked steadily since 9. It was getting
too dark to see much more and his attendant beamed when he saw him
putting up his papers and preparing to leave. He says the man is bored
to death--wants to talk at first and explain things to him, but he soon
realizes that W. is bent on serious work, so he desists and reads a
paper and walks about the room and fidgets generally.
We waited until 4.30 hoping the rain would stop. It didn't, but the
clouds lightened a little and we thought we would go and see the Duomo.
I had forgotten how beautiful it is--those great wide aisles quite
bare--no chairs, nothing to break the line until quite at the high
altar, and the light from the old glass windows coming from so high over
our heads it seemed straight from heaven. We sat some little time in one
of the side chapels. It looked vast and mysterious--one had such an
impression of space and height. Various guides came up and supposed we
would not care to go up on the roof on such an afternoon. We told them
we would come back the next day if it was fine. They looked so
disappointed at having nothing that we finally went down into the crypt
to see the tomb and body of San Carlo Borromeo. We had both seen it
before but I didn't mind reviving my souvenirs. We had tapers of course
as it was quite dark, but we saw quite well the coloured marbles and
precious stones of the little chapel--also the body of the Saint,
marvellously preserved. It looked very small--hardly the size of a grown
man. The guide of course wanted to show us all sorts of relics, and the
tresor of the Cathedral, but we preferred going up again to the church,
and wandered about looking at the marble tombs and monuments--there are
not many, and they are quite lost in the enormous building. Quite down
at the bottom of the church, near the door under a baldaquin, is a font
in porphyry, said to be the sarcophagus of some saint. The church looked
immense as it grew darker and the light gradually faded, leaving deep
shadows everywhere. When we turned back, just as we were going out, to
have a last glimpse, the high altar seemed far away, and the tall
candles looked like twinkling lights seen through a mist or veil.