Italian Letters of a Diplomat's Wife: January-May, 1880; February-April, 1904

Heavens, how funny all the pourparlers were. Fanny29 did all the talking, as we were still too new to the language to embark upon a business conversation. Her mother, who was an excellent maîtresse de maison, gave all the directions, which were most particular and detailed, as she was very anxious we should be comfortable, and very doubtful as to the resources of the establishment. The agent was visibly agacé and impatient. Fanny had on a pair of tortoise-shell star ear-rings, and the man told one of our friends afterward that "quella piccola colle stellette" (the young girl with the little stars) was a real "diavolo." It was funny to hear her beginning every sentence "Dice la signora" (madame says), and saying exactly what her mother told her; the mother, standing near, understanding every word, though she couldn't say anything, and looking hard at the agent. He understood her, too. However, we didn't get any more than the Roman princes had, and made our own arrangements as well as we could, having out a large van of furniture of all kinds from Rome.

Hooker remembered it all well, as he found the house for us and had many misgivings as to how we should get along. He was always keeping us straight in a financial point of view, as even then, before the days of the enormous American fortunes, Americans were careless about money, and didn't mind paying, and paying well, for what they wanted. In those days, too, it was rather cheap living in Italy, and we were so surprised often by the prices of the mere necessaries of life that we couldn't help expressing our astonishment freely. Poor Hooker was much disgusted. "You might as well ask them to cheat you." We learned better, however, later, particularly after several visits to Naples, where the first price asked for anything was about five times as much as the vender expected to get. "Le tout c'est de savoir."

Father Smith and W. got on swimmingly. It is too funny to see them 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 Général.

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, Hôtel 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 Meìngenügen wrote them that it was snowing and a cold wind—horrid weather; so they instantly decided to stay on another month. My belle-mère 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 préfet 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 Ségur 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 Assemblée 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 Léon 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 (née 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 "Débats" 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 médailles 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 médailles 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 café 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 "Kölnische 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.