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

While we were looking at the relics a French pèlerinage came up—quite a long procession; many very nice-looking women. They were all dressed in black, and most of them wore bonnets—some few had black veils—priests of course, and a fair amount of men of all ages. They passed in procession up the aisle, chanting a psalm, which sounded very well, full and solemn. One or two stragglers, two young men and a woman stopped to see what we were looking at, and we had a little talk. They had just arrived over the St. Gothard, hadn't much time, and were very keen to see everything. They said it was very cold crossing the mountain—the heavy rain we had had at Milan had been deep snow on the pass. We went to look at Queen Theodolinda's tomb in one of the side chapels, and then started for the "Casa Reale" as they call the Royal Villa. It has no pretensions to architecture; is a large square building with long, rambling wings. We could only see the great hall and some of the reception rooms downstairs, as they were painting and cleaning upstairs. The rooms had no particular style—large, high ceilings, great windows looking on the park; just what one sees in all Royal Palaces. All the furniture was covered with housses—the gardien took one off an arm-chair to show us the red velvet. The lustres also were covered—the mirrors were handsome. The park is delightful—quantities of trees of all kinds, lovely shady walks, and bosquets. There seemed to be a great deal of game—deer and pheasants walking about quite tame and undisturbed in all directions. The communs and dépendances are enormous, quite a little colony of houses scattered about—régisseur, head-keeper, head-gardener, all with good gardens.

We had a nice talk with a half-gardener half-guide who went about with us and showed us all the beauties. The place is low—I should think would be very warm in summer, for even to-day the shade was pleasant and the low afternoon sun in our faces rather trying. There were splendid views every now and then of the distant Alps. The gardener, like every one else who has ever been thrown with her, apparently adored the Queen—said she knew all about the place, and trees, and flowers, and was so beloved in the town. I remember Peruzzi telling me how fond she was of Monza—happier there than anywhere. They certainly love their "Margherita di Savoia." There are pictures of her everywhere, and some one told us that all the girls in Monza are called Margherita.

When we were starting back we met the pilgrims again, still walking and chanting on their way to the station. They had a white banner with them, but I couldn't see what the inscription was. The drive home was lovely, even along the long straight road bordered with poplars (quite like a French country road). The evening was delicious, a little cool driving, as we went a very good pace. I was glad to put a light wrap over my shoulders. The sunset clouds were gorgeous, and every now and then glimpses of the snow mountains. I love to see them—those beautiful white peaks, half clouds, half snow—they seem so mysterious, so far away from our every-day life and world. The road was dull, very little passing until we got near Milan. There we met bands of peasants coming in from their work in the fields, and country carts loaded with people—all the young ones singing and talking, and the wrinkled old women looking on smiling. We noticed again what a fine, strong race they are—both men and women—such broad shoulders, and holding themselves so straight. They must have been nasty adversaries when their time came and they shook off the hated Austrian yoke; but they were not cruel victors (so says my book), the wives and daughters of men who had fallen under Austrian cannon nursing and tending their sick and wounded enemies.

We met three or four handsome private carriages, also a young man driving a phaeton with a pair of handsome steppers. Our coachman pointed him out proudly to us as the Marchese –, some name I didn't catch, but he was evidently a swell. I suppose there are villas in the neighborhood, but we didn't see any, nothing but trees, rice fields and little canals and ditches.

I think we shall get off the day after to-morrow. W. thinks one more morning with the coins will be enough for him, he wants now to get back. I think he is homesick for the Senate and politics generally, but he won't allow it. We had thought of going to Como for two days, it is so easy from here, but he wants to stop at Turin, so we must give it up. I suppose it won't be as cold at Turin now as we always used to find it crossing in winter. Do you remember one of the first years, coming over the Mount Cenis, how bitterly cold it was, and how we shivered in the big, high rooms of the hotel—a mosaic pavement, bits of thin carpet on the floor, and a fire of shavings in the chimney. We will write and telegraph, of course, from there. I don't think we shall stay more than one night.

May 11th.

We are really leaving to-morrow morning, get to Turin for dinner. As we telegraphed yesterday the address I hope we shall find letters. It has been lovely again all day, so our last impressions are good. I have quite forgotten the rain and dark of the other day. The padrone has just informed us, with much pride, that the Crown Princess of Germany arrives to-night in this hotel from Vienna. I wish she had come yesterday—I should have liked to see her again. I have been out shopping this morning, but it is difficult; there is not much to buy, at least not in the nice big shops of the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, and I am a little afraid of the antiquities—I know so little about bric-à-brac (au fond like modern things just as well, but other people don't, and would much rather have a really ugly, queer-shaped old cup or glass than the most graceful modern creation).

The padrone gave me the address of a good antiquity shop, and said I could be perfectly sure in taking anything they said was old, and I need only say he had recommended me to go there. I found beautiful things, but all large, cassoni, high-backed, carved arm-chairs and Venetian mirrors, but the prices were awful and the things much too big. I wanted something smaller that I could put into my trunk. We went back to the Piazza dei Mercanti and, after looking about at many of the little shops, I did find some rather curious silver spoons and boxes. The spoons have quaint, long handles ending in a head, not apostles, but soldiers and women with veils and crowns. The boxes are most elaborately carved—on the cover of one there are 21 figures—a sort of vintage with bunches of grapes. As usual there were many people lounging about and stopping at all the shops—some of them wildly interested in my purchases. One funny little old man with a yellow face and bright eyes was apparently much pleased with the box I chose—nodded and smiled at me, saying: "Una bellezza questa" (this is a beauty). On our way back we went into the great court-yard of the Ospedale Maggiore, an enormous brick building with fine façade and high pointed windows; the walls covered with medallions and ornaments in terra-cotta. I believe it is one of the largest hospitals that exist and certainly once inside those great courts one would feel absolutely cut off from the outside world. There seemed to be gardens and good trees at the back—we saw the green through the cloisters, and there was a fine loggia overlooking the court. It was as sleepy and quiet as possible to-day—no sign of life, no concierge nor porter, nor patient of any kind visible. If we had had time and wanted to go over the hospital I don't know whom we could have applied to.

It was very warm walking home. Happily our way lay through narrow streets, with high houses on each side, so we had shade. I found cards and a note from the Murrays (English friends we had met in Rome). They are staying at the Cavour, but will come and dine at our hotel to-night. They are off to the Lakes to-morrow, and as we leave too early it will be our only chance of meeting. It will seem quite strange to see any one we know—we have lived so entirely alone these few days in Milan. I told W. last night I found him a most agreeable companion. We haven't talked so much to each other for years. He is always so busy all day in Paris that except for the ride in the morning, I don't see much of him—and of course in Rome and Florence we were never alone.

It is rather late but I will write a few lines and send them off to-morrow morning. W. came home about 4, fussed a little over trunks and interviewed the porter about our tickets, places, etc., and then we started off for the Duomo. There was a party going up just as we got to the door, so we joined forces—about 8 people. The ascent was very fatiguing, quite 500 steps, I should think, mostly inside the tower, with openings giving fine views over the city and Lombard plains. We all halted every now and then—I was the only lady. There were two Englishmen with whom we fraternized. They were making a walking tour through the North of Italy—Piedmont and Lombardy. They addressed W. by name, which surprised him extremely, so much so that he said: "I don't remember, but I suppose we must have met before." "Not at all," they said, "we recognised you from all the pictures we had seen of you in the illustrated papers." What it is to be a celebrity!

We did finally, with many stops, get up on the roof, and were well repaid, for the view was enchanting—Milan so far below us we could hardly believe it was a big city, but the mountains quite beautiful. There was a man with a telescope on top, and he pointed out the principal peaks. Monte Rosa was magnificent—stood out splendidly, a round snow peak; Mt. Cervin, Mt. Cenis, the Bernese far away, disappearing in the clouds; and various others whose names I forget, nearer. I couldn't see the Chartreuse of Pavia, though they said it was quite visible, and just the Superga of Turin. Nearer these were various churches and monasteries standing high on hills nearer the town, but I couldn't look at anything but the snow mountains. You can't imagine how divine they were, with the beautiful, soft afternoon sun on them. One couldn't really tell which was cloud and which was mountain—they seemed to be part of the sky.

I found the going down more disagreeable than coming up. It was darker, the steps were a little broken at the edge and decidedly slippery; however, we arrived without any adventures. Just as we got to the hotel we saw three or four carriages drive up, and as we went in the porter told us the German Crown Princess with her daughters and a large suite was arriving. We stood in the court to see them pass—but the Princess was not there, only her daughters (3). They were tall, fair, very German-looking, each one with a large bouquet. There seemed any number of ladies and gentlemen in attendance, and a great deal of bowing and deferential manners.

We went downstairs about a quarter to eight. We had given the Murrays rendezvous in the reading-room, but they came in just as we crossed the court, and we went straight to the dining-room. They told us the Crown Princess only comes to-morrow. They had gone to the station to meet her (they had seen her in Venice), but there were only the young Princesses. We had a pleasant dinner. They are a nice couple (Scotch). He is very clever, a literary man, rather delicate, can't stand the English winter, and always comes abroad. He knows Italy well and is mad about Venice. She is clever, too, but is rather silent—however, we didn't either of us have a chance to-night, for the two gentlemen talked hard, politics, which Mr. Murray was very keen about. He had a decided thirst for information, and asked W. so many questions about France, the state of politics, the influence of the clergy, etc., that I was rather anxious, as in general there is nothing W. hates like being questioned. However, he was very gracious to-night, and disposed to talk. When he doesn't feel like it wild horses couldn't drag anything out of him.

They stayed till ten o'clock, and now I have been putting the last things in my small trunk. The big trunks go straight through from here, and we will pick them up at the Gare de Lyon. The padrone has just been up to ask if we were satisfied with the hotel, and would we recommend him.

To G. W. S

Turin, Hôtel de l'Europe,May 13, 1880.

This will be my last letter from Italy, dear. I am sorry to think I am turning my back on this enchanting country. To-day has been perfect; everything, sky, sun, mountains, ugly yellow palaces, grim, frowning buildings, look beautiful—a perfect glow of light and colour. I can scarcely believe it is the same city we used to freeze in, when we passed through it often in old times going down to Rome. Heavens—how cold it was everywhere—a wind that seemed to come straight from the glaciers cutting one in two when there was a great square to be crossed, or whistling through the arcades when we wished to loiter a little and see the shops and curiosities. I can't remember if we stayed at this hotel—I don't think so, as it is very comfortable and that was by no means my recollection of the one we always went to on our way down so many years ago. The rooms are high—we have a nice apartment on the first floor, well furnished—quite modern.

We got here yesterday quite early in the afternoon. It is only about 4 or 5 hours by train. We had a most festive "send-off" from Milan. I was well "bunched" as some of our compatriots would say. The padrone gave me a beautiful bouquet of roses when we came downstairs to the carriage, also a nice little basket of fruit which he thought might be acceptable on our journey. He had seen about our carriage—so that was all right—and we found the Director of the Museum, and the Greek friend at the station—also with a bouquet. All our bags and wraps were stowed away in the carriage, and the Director of the Museum (I have never known his name) had also put papers—some illustrated ones—on the seats. I felt rather like a bride starting on her wedding journey.

The road wasn't very interesting. We had glimpses of the Alps occasionally, and the day was beautiful, making everything look picturesque and charming. It was rather a relief to get out of the rice fields and little canals. We stopped some little time at Novara—where we had a good cup of coffee. As we got near Turin everything looked very green. There seemed to be more trees and little woods than in the neighbourhood of Milan. The hotel porter was waiting for us at the station with a carriage—so we drove straight off, leaving Madame Hubert in charge of the porter, who spoke French perfectly, to follow with the trunks.

The hotel is on the great Place du Château, faces the Palazzo Madama. They have given us a nice apartment, with windows and a good balcony looking out on the Place. We went upstairs immediately to inspect the rooms—the padrone himself conducting us. There were flowers on the table, nice lounging chairs on the balcony. It looked charming. He wanted to send us tea or coffee—but we really couldn't take anything as it wasn't more than two hours since we had had a very fair little goûter at Novara. We said we would dine in the restaurant about 8. He was rather anxious we should have our dinner in the anteroom which was large and light—often used for a dining-room—but we told him we much preferred dining downstairs and seeing the people.

We brushed off a little dust—it wasn't a very dirty journey—and started off for a stroll across the Piazza Castello. It is a fine large square, high buildings all around it, and the great mediæval pile Palazzo Madama facing us as we went in. It looked more like a fortress than a palace, but there is a fine double staircase and façade with marble columns and statues—white, I suppose, originally, but now rather mellowed with years and exposure and taking a soft pink tint in the waning sunlight. It was inhabited by the mother of one of the kings, "Madama Reale," hence its name. There is a monument to the Sardinian army in front of the palace with very elaborate bas-reliefs. They told us there was nothing to see inside, so we merely walked all around it, and then went over to the Palazzo Reale, which is a large brick building, with no pretensions to architecture. They say it is very handsome inside—large, high rooms, very luxuriously furnished. Somehow or other luxuriously furnished apartments don't seem to go with Princes of the House of Savoy. One can't imagine them reclining in ladies' boudoirs on satin cushions, with silk and damask hangings. They seem always to have been simple, hardy soldiers, more at home on a battle-field than in a drawing-room. We asked at the entrance if the Duc d'Aoste was here. He told us when he was in Paris that if ever we came to Turin we must let him know—that he always received twice a week in the evening when he was at home and that he would be delighted to see us (I had put an evening dress in my trunk in case we should be invited anywhere)—however he isn't here, away in the country for three or four days on some inspection—so we wrote ourselves down in the book that he might see that we intended to pay our respects.

We walked through some of the squares—Piazza Carignano, with the great palace Carignano which also looks grim and frowning, more like a prison than a stately princely residence. I wonder if there are any what we should call comfortable rooms in those gaunt old palaces. I have visions of barred windows, very small panes of glass, brick floors, frescoed ceilings black with age and smoke, and straight-backed, narrow carved wooden chairs. However a fine race of sturdy, fighting men were brought up within those old walls—perhaps Italy would not have been "unita" so soon if the pioneers of freedom had been accustomed to all the luxury and gaiety of the present generation.

We wandered back through more squares and saw numberless statues of Princes and Dukes of Savoy—almost all equestrian—the Princes in armour, and generally a drawn sword in their hand—one feels that they were a fighting race.

The hills all around the city are charming, beautifully green, with hundreds of villas (generally white) in all directions; some so high up one wonders how the inhabitants ever get up there. In the distance always the beautiful snow mountains. The town doesn't look either very Italian or very Southern. I suppose the Piedmontese are a type apart.

We had a table to ourselves in the dining-room, which was almost empty—evidently people dine earlier than we do—and yet it is tempting to stay out on a lovely summer evening. There were several officers in uniform at one table—evidently a sort of mess—about 10. They were rather noisy, making all sorts of jokes with the waiters, but they had nearly finished when we came in and soon departed with a great clatter of spurs and swords. We went for a few moments into the reading-room, which was also quite deserted—only two couples, an English clergyman and his wife both buried in their papers—and a German ménage discussing routes and guides and prices for some excursion they wanted to make.

I had kept on my hat as we thought we would go out, take a turn in the arcades and have a "granita." The padrone told us of a famous café where the "granita" was very good, also very good music. W. is becoming such a flâneur, and so imbued with the dolce far niente of this enchanting country that I am rather anxious about him. I think he will want to go every evening to the "Ambassadeurs" when we get back to Paris.

We strolled about for some time. It was cool and there were not too many people. Everybody sitting out, smoking and drinking. We got a nice little table—each took an ice (they were very good—not too sweet), and the music was really charming—quite a large orchestra, all guitars and mandolins. Whenever they played a well-known air—song or waltz—the whole company joined in. It sounded very pretty—they didn't sing too loud, and enjoyed themselves extremely. We stayed some time.

I am writing as usual, late, while W. is putting his notes in order. He found a note, when he came in, from the Director of the Museum, saying he would be delighted to see W. at the Museum to-morrow morning at 9 o'clock, and would do the honours of the cabinet de médailles—also the card of a Mr. Hoffman who wants very much to see W. and renew his acquaintance with him after many years. He is in this hotel and will come and see us to-morrow. W. has no idea who he is, but of course there are many Hoffmans in the world. I suppose the gentleman will explain himself. If it is fine we shall drive to the Superga to-morrow afternoon, and start for Paris the next evening. W. says three séances (and his are long) will be all he wants in the Museum.

May 14th.

It has been again a lovely summer day—not too hot, and a delicious breeze as we drove home from La Superga. I have been out all day. W. was off at 9 to meet his Director, and I started at 10 with Madame Hubert to flâner a little. We went first to the arcades where are all the best shops, but I can't say I was tempted. There was really nothing to buy—some nice blankets, half silk, half wool—not striped like the Como blankets, a plain centre, red or blue, with a bright border—but it was not a day to buy blankets, with the sun bright and strong over our heads. There was a good deal of iron work, rather nice. I didn't care for the jewellery. I didn't see myself with a wrought-iron chain and cross, but I did get a large ring—strong and prettily worked, which the man said many people bought to put in a hall and hang keys on. There were plenty of people about. I didn't think the peasants were any particular type—the men looked smaller than those about Milan—slight, wiry figures. A good many were evidently guides, with axes and coils of rope strapped on their backs. They told us in one of the shops (where as a true American I was asking questions, eager for information) that there were several interesting excursions to be made in the neighbourhood.

We went again to the Piazzo Castello which is so large that it is a very fair walk to go all around the square—and went into the hall to see the statue (equestrian of course) of Victor Amadeus the First. The horse is curious, in marble. Then we went to the Cathedral, which is not very interesting. The sacristan showed us a collection of small, dark pictures over the altar which he said were by Albert Dürer; but they were so black and confused I couldn't see anything—a little glimpse of gilding every now and then that might be a halo around a saint's head. What was interesting was the "Cappella del S. S. Sudario," where the linen cloth is kept which is said to have enveloped the body of our Saviour. It is kept in an urn, and only shown by special permission. This, however, the sacristan obtained for us. He disappeared into the sacristy and soon returned bringing with him a nice fat old priest in full canonicals and very conversationally disposed. He lifted off the top of the urn and drew out the linen cloth most carefully. It is very fine linen, quite yellow and worn—almost in holes in some parts. He spread it out most reverently on a marble slab, and showed us the outlines of a man's figure. Marks there were certainly. I thought I saw the head distinctly, but of course the imagination is a powerful factor on these occasions. The chapel was dimly lighted, a few tapers burning, and the old priest was so convinced and reverent that it was catching. I suppose it might be possible—certainly all these traditions and relics were an enormous strength to the Catholic Church in the early days when there were no books and little learning, and people believed more easily and simply than they do now. The chapel is a rather ugly, round building, almost black, and with a quantity of statues (white) which stand out well. It is the burial chapel of the House of Savoy, and there are statues apparently to every Emmanuel or Amadeus that ever existed—also a large marble monument to the late Queen of Sardinia. Do you remember when Prince Massimo, in Rome, always spoke of Victor Emmanuel, when he was King of Italy, and holding his court in Florence, as the King of Sardinia?

We had walked about longer than we thought, but everything is close together, and it was time to get back to the hotel for breakfast. I had the dining-room almost to myself—my table was drawn up close to the open window, a vase of roses upon it, and one or two papers—English, Italian, and the "Figaro." Paris seems to be amusing itself. Henrietta writes that the Champs Elysées are enchanting—all the horse chestnuts in full bloom. Here there is abundance of flowers—one gets glimpses of pretty gardens through open gates and openings in railings and walls. There are plenty of street stalls, too, with fruits and flowers, but one doesn't see the wealth of roses and wistaria climbing over every bit of wall and up the sides of houses as in Florence. The city is perfectly busy and prosperous, but has none of the delightful look of laziness and enjoyment of life and the blue sky and the sunshine that one feels in Rome and Florence.