XXVII
MENTONE AND VENICE
The news of the Crown Prince’s death · Sojourn in Mentone · Octave
Mirbeau · A winter in Venice · Old acquaintances · Princess Tamara and
Marietta Saibante · Visit of Felix Moscheles to the widow “Tillings” ·
Moscheles as a peace propagandist · Formation of a section in Venice
through Marquis Pandolfi · Grelix · The Princess of Montenegro ·
Princess Hatzfeld, born Von Buch · A memory of Cosima Wagner
In the beginning of the year 1889 (my novel was then still a manuscript
in Pierson’s hesitating hands) we once more gave ourselves the treat of
a little pleasure trip. And this time our course took us to the
Riviera—our destination Mentone. We were caught on the way by the news
of Crown Prince Rudolf’s death. The first report spoke of it as a
hunting accident; only a little at a time did we learn the terrible
contradictory details. The tragedy affected us deeply.
From Mentone, our headquarters, we made excursions to Monte Carlo, Nice,
Cannes. Naturally My Own was fascinated with the beauties of the
Riviera. To one who loves nature so passionately as he did the sight of
this blooming, paradisal corner of the world must afford an intense
enjoyment; and the combination there of the charm of artificial luxury
with the charm of nature was a double attraction to him, with his
receptivity for every kind of elegance. But we did not participate in
this social life; our vacation budget would not have permitted it, nor
had we any inclination to do so.
We made a very interesting acquaintance a few days after our arrival at
Mentone,—that of Octave Mirbeau. The young writer had even then become
famous through his novel _Le Calvaire_. I knew the novel, and a chapter
in it that describes a marvelous scene from the Franco-German
War—describes it in a way that expresses a hearty condemnation of war.
The chapter had captivated me, and it was a pleasure to me to be able to
shake hands with the author.
Octave Mirbeau with his pretty young wife lived in a tiny villa which he
had bought in Garavent, and there they invited us to dinner. The young
writer looked more like an Englishman than like a Frenchman. He reminded
me a little of Achille Murat. Very tall, broad-shouldered, with a fine
blond mustache. But, if his exterior had an English air, his manner and
conversation were genuinely French, that is to say, full of piquant wit.
Yet he talked also of very serious things. Social problems seemed to be
what he had most at heart. There need be no misery in the world, was his
fixed belief; that there nevertheless was, was the occasion of his
wrath.
On our way home from the Riviera we spent a week in Venice. The
beautiful dead city of the doges was like a revelation to My Own. He
fell in love with it. It filled him with jubilant admiration. And so we
made up our minds that sometime we would spend a whole winter in Venice.
This plan we carried out in the year 1890–1891. We took rooms in a small
palazzo on the Grand Canal. A delectable little palace, on the outside
gilded and gayly colored—the Palazzo Dario; we rejoiced in the view of
it every time we saw it from the gondola. The interior also pleased us
immensely, for the rooms were wholly in old Venetian style. We had taken
a gondola by the month. One of the two gondoliers was likewise our
valet. The landlady furnished us with good Italian cooking, and I had
engaged a pretty girl as my waiting maid. You are not to suppose that we
had discontinued our work. The forenoon hours were regularly
appropriated to writing. We were happy as happy could be. _Die Waffen
nieder_ had been out now for a year, and I was still receiving critical
articles from the periodicals and letters from the public regarding it.
How round the world really is, and how small! Wherever one goes one
always meets friends and acquaintances from the remotest regions. So it
was here. We were introduced into society by our consul general, Baron
Kraus, and quite unexpectedly we met dear old friends.
Princess Tamara of Georgia, in whose house in Tiflis, and again four
years before in Paris, we had spent so much time, was now settled in
Venice and was there introducing her two daughters into society. I even
found a friend of my girlhood days—Marietta Saibante—in the Marchesa
Pandolfi, whose salons in the Palazzo Bianca Capello were a
meeting-place for Venetian society. We had not seen each other in nearly
twenty-five years, and had quite lost track of each other; so it was a
delightful surprise to both of us to meet again so unexpectedly. Her
husband, a member of the Italian parliament for Sicily, had just come
from Rome. He is the same Marchese Benjamino Pandolfi who afterwards
took a prominent part in the peace movement.
One forenoon my husband and I were sitting and chatting together after
breakfast, when a card was brought in. On it was written the inquiry
whether Mr. Felix Moscheles of London, who had chanced the day before to
learn through Sir Austen Henry Layard that the author of _Die Waffen
nieder_ was in Venice, might be permitted to present his respects.