Kitabı oku: «Italian Letters of a Diplomat's Wife: January-May, 1880; February-April, 1904», sayfa 2

To H. L. K

February 10, 1880.

I try and write every day, but am so much taken up and so tired when I come in that I don't always find the moment. W. is all right again. He really got quite a chill from the cold night journey—and for two or three days sat in the fire. Francesco, the Italian servant, took excellent care of him—was so sympathetic the night we had some music and W. couldn't appear. It was a pleasant evening—a Russian Prince (I forget his name, and couldn't probably spell it if I remembered), a great friend of Mary's, an excellent musician and a great Wagnerian offered to come and play some of the Nibelungen. I was delighted as I only know Tannhäuser and Lohengrin. I remember now your sigh of relief when Seilern and I finished playing à 4 mains the Walpurgis Night years ago in the Champs Elysées. I daresay it was trying for the public—but we enjoyed ourselves immensely. The big drawing-room looked very pretty, with plenty of flowers, and I think there were about 50 people—almost all (except Lottie and Madame de Tchiatcheff) ardent admirers of the great man. One lady appeared in a sort of loose, red gown (it seems red is the only colour Wagner admits), her hair, very pretty, blonde, hanging down her back, just tied with a ribbon—and carrying two partitions. Mary said, "Wouldn't you like to sit by her, and she will explain it all to you?"—but I said there was nothing I would like so little. I knew enough of the legend to be able to follow, and moreover I had always heard that Wagner's descriptive music was so wonderful that one understood everything without any text, etc. The great man appeared—the grand piano was opened all over to give as much sound as possible—and he requested absolute silence. He played beautifully—it was enchanting—one quite heard the little waves in which the Rhein-Töchter were disporting themselves. It was wonderfully melodious and delicate—I should have liked it to go on forever. He played for about three-quarters of an hour—all Rheingold—then suddenly pushed back his chair, and rushed to the anteroom, exclaiming "de l'air—de l'air," followed by all the red and musical ladies. It is a pity there must always be such a pose with Wagner—for really the music was a joy. I met of course quantities of old friends, and agreed to go to Lottie Van Schaick's ball.

February 12, 1880.

W. and I had a lovely long flânerie this morning. He is quite well again, and the sun was tempting. It seems quite a different Florence living over here, and I must say much more old-world and Italian than the Lungarno, with all the modern hotels and apartments, and evident signs of forestieri¹² everywhere. As soon as we cross the bridge it is quite different—a gay, bustling, northern city. W. was so much amused the other day—we were in a fiacre and the driver put on the brake to go down the almost imperceptible descent on the other side of the bridge. We went straight across to the Piazza del Duomo to-day, where the market was held, and wandered in and out among the stalls. It was all so familiar—little green cucumbers, almonds, and strings of fried fish, with a good healthy smell of "frittura." The people were all most smiling, and so pleased when I spoke Italian to them, and said I was so happy to be back in their country again. W. has no opinion of my Italian. He came to my room this morning followed by the Italian servant to tell me to tell him that his razor must be sharpened. I began, and came to a dead halt—hadn't the slightest idea what razor was in Italian. W. was much disgusted, but I explained that when I was living in Italy before as a girl, I hadn't often had occasion to ask for razors—all the same he has evidently lost confidence, and thinks my reputation as a linguist "surfaite."

This afternoon we had a lovely drive up the Fiesole hill with Mary and Beatrice. Their man, who goes on the carriage, is called "Bacco" and is so Italian and sympathetic—takes a lively interest in all our proceedings—knows everybody we meet, and talks cheerfully with any of his friends we happen to cross. The view from Fiesole was divine—the long slopes of cyprus and olive trees—with Florence at the bottom of the valley, and the Arno just visible—a streak of light. I am so fond of the grey green of the olives. It all looked so soft and delicate in the sunset light.

February 13, 1880.

We are getting dreadfully mondain. The other night we had a pretty, typical Florentine party at Edith Peruzzi's.¹³ We went a little after ten and thought we would be among the first, but the rooms were already full—quantities of people (not many of my old friends) and splendid jewels. It was much more real Florentine society than the people we used to see when we lived in Casa Guadagni. They were generally the young, sporting, pleasure-loving set, with a good dash of foreigners, artists, diplomatists, etc. These were the real polite, stiff Italians of the old régime. Many people were introduced to us, and W. enjoyed his evening immensely—found many interesting people to talk to. He was delighted to meet Bentivoglio again, and they immediately retired into a corner, and plunged into Asia Minor and coins. Edith looked very well, did the honours simply and graciously; and Peruzzi really not changed—always the same tall, handsome, aristocratic type.

Last night was Lottie Van Schaick's ball, very gay and handsome. Mary wouldn't go—so I chaperoned the two girls—Beatrice and Rosa Sternberg. They made a very pretty contrast—Rosa von Sternberg is fair and slight, a pretty, graceful figure. Beatrice on rather a larger scale, with a very white skin, and beautiful dark eyes. W. and Charles Bunsen came too, but didn't stay very long. We went late as the Florence balls always last so long. I met quantities of old friends, and made a tour de valse with Carlo Alessandri for the sake of old times. W. was much amused to see all the older men still dancing. At the Paris balls the danseurs are all so young—few of the married men dance—only the very young ones. I didn't wait for the cotillon—it hadn't begun at 3.30. The supper is always before the cotillon which of course prolongs the festivity.

I was lazy this morning, as we came in so late last night, so W. and I only went for a turn in the Boboli Gardens. The shade was so thick it was almost black—but it was resting to the eyes. There are very few flowers, one had a general impression of green. This afternoon we have been driving about leaving cards, and ending with a turn in the Cascine. There everything seemed exactly the same as when we lived there ten years ago. The same people driving about in the same carriages, and everybody drawing up on the Piazza, and talking to their neighbours. It amused me to drive down the Lungarno to our bridge. There were quantities of carriages and people lounging on the pavement, and looking at the river. The instant one crosses the bridge it is perfectly different—narrow streets, high walls, few carriages, no loiterers.

Our garden was beautiful to-night—a splendid moon just rising over the black trees, and a soft delicious air. We have had a quiet evening, talking and reading in the small salon. Charles was very interesting, talking about old Italy and their beginnings in Turin. It seems the etiquette of that Court was something awful. Mary told us that she was talking one day to the Marchesa S. (a lively little old lady who took snuff) who had been in her time a famous wit and beauty, dame d'honneur to the wife of Carlo Alberto. Mary was rather complaining of the inconvenience of going to the winter reception of the Duchess of Genoa (she had only one in the year) where all the ladies of the Corps Diplomatique were obliged to go in full dress décolletée at about 4 in the afternoon. "Ah, ma chère," said the old Marchesa, "what would you have said in our time?" She told her that when the Queen-Mother was ill in the winter at the Château of Stupinigi, some miles from Turin, all her ladies had to go and inquire for her in full dress and manteaux de cour, and that when they knew she was in bed, and could see no one. Mary has splendid Italian lace which she bought from one of the ladies of the old Queen after her death. It would cost a fortune now, and in fact could not be had unless some private individual in reduced circumstances was obliged to sell. I had a nice visit from Alberti to-day—just the same—gay, impossible, saying the most risqué things in a perfectly natural way, so that you can hardly realize the enormities you are listening to. They don't sound so bad in Italian—I think the language veils and poetizes everything. He is very anxious we should go out and spend the day at Signa—his most lovely place—and I wish we could, I should like W. to see it—so much natural beauty—and, with our northern ideas, so absolutely neglected—splendid rooms, painted ceilings—no practical furniture of any kind, and a garden that was a dream of wild beauty—flowers everywhere, climbing up over the roof, around bits of grey wall, long grass that almost twisted around one's feet, and such a view from the terrace. I told W. afterward of our great day there long ago, when we started at 10 in the morning and got back at 2 a.m. I wonder if you remember the day? We were a large party—Van Schaicks, Maquays, Coxes, and others whose names I forget and pretty much every man in Florence (of all nationalities). We started by rail—the women all in light muslin dresses and hats. We were met by carriages of all kinds—Alberti's own little pony-trap—and a collection of remarkable vehicles from all the neighbouring villages. The drive was short, but straight up a steep hill—the villa most beautifully situated at the top, with a background of green hills. Two or three rooms had been arranged for us—so we took off cloaks—a nice, sympathetic Italian woman brushed off the dust—and we went at once to breakfast in the state dining-room—the big doors on the terrace open. Some of the men had their breakfast out there. After breakfast we all wandered about the garden—such thick shade that it was quite comfortable. It was pretty to see the white figures flitting in and out among the trees. About 3 I got into a riding skirt and loose jacket, and went for a ride with Alberti and a Frenchman, Brinquant, a friend of Alberti—very gay, and entrain, and perfectly amused at the entertainment—so sans façon and original. We had a lovely ride—through such narrow roads—branches of the orange trees and roses nearly coming into our faces as we cantered along the little steep paths. I had a pretty little mare—perfectly sure-footed, which was an absolute necessity as the hill paths were very steep, with many curves, and full of rolling stones. We pottered about for an hour, and when we got home I thought I would retire to one of the rooms and rest for half an hour before I got back into my afternoon dress, but that was a delusion. They all came clamouring at the door, and insisted upon my coming out at once, as the whole party were to be photographed. As I was perfectly confident that they would all come in if I didn't come out, there was nothing to be done, and I joined the group. It was rather a long affair, but at the end seemed satisfactory. Then we had tea on the terrace, and sat there watching the sun go down behind the Signa hills, leaving that beautiful afterglow which one only sees in Italy—the green tints particularly.

Three or four men came out for dinner who hadn't been able to get off early (diplomates, I fancy, for they were certainly the only men in this gay city who had any occupation), also a tapeur¹⁴ and little objets for the cotillon. We did have about an hour before dinner to rest and make ourselves look as nice as we could—but naturally a long, hot day wandering about in a garden, and sitting on half-ruined crumbling stone walls doesn't improve muslin dresses. The dinner was very gay and good, and the hour on the terrace afterward with coffee, enchanting. One or two of the men had brought guitars, and there were scraps of songs, choruses, "stornelli," going on all the time. One man, with a lovely tenor voice, sat on the lower step singing anything—everything—the rest of us joining in when we knew the song. The terrace was quite dark—the house brilliantly lighted standing out well; and every now and then the Italian servants would appear at the door with their smiling faces—black eyes and white teeth—evidently restraining themselves with difficulty from joining in the choruses. I really don't think Mary's "Bacco" could have resisted. I always hear him and Francesco singing merrily over their work in the morning. They certainly are an easy-going, light-hearted race, these modern Florentines. One can hardly believe that they are the descendants of the fierce old Medici who sit up so proud and cold on their marble tombs at San Lorenzo.

We began the cotillon about 10, and it lasted an hour and a half. There were 10 couples, plenty of flowers and ribbons, and, needless to say, an extraordinary "entrain." We ended, of course, with the "Quadrille infernal" (which Alberti always leads with the greatest spirit), made a long chain all through the house down the terrace steps (such a scramble) and finally dispersed in the garden. I shouldn't like to say what the light dresses looked like after that. We started back to Florence about midnight in two coaches—such a beautiful drive. The coming out of the gates, and down the steep hill with a bad road and a narrow turn was rather nervous work—but we finally emerged on the broad high-road looking like a long silver ribbon in the moonlight winding down the valley. We had the road quite to ourselves—it was too late for revellers, and too early for market people, so we could go a good pace, and galloped up and down the hills, some of them decidedly steep. It was a splendid night—that warm southern moon (so unlike our cold white moonlight) throwing out every line sharply. It was just 3 o'clock when we drew up at Casa Guadagni.

I didn't intend to write so much about Signa, but I had just been telling it all to W., and I think it will amuse the family in America.

To H. L. K

Villa McDonnell,

February 15, 1880.

I try and write every day, but it is not easy. We are out all the time. The weather is divine, and it seems wicked to stay indoors. W. and I go out every morning, and we do a good deal of sight-seeing in a pleasant, idle way. I go sometimes to the Boboli Gardens and wait for him there when he has letters to write. It is all so unlike our Florence of ten years ago; I love the quiet grey streets. The gardens are delicious; dark and cool; you see no one, hear nothing but the splash of the fountains, and the modern busy world doesn't exist. I am becoming quite intimate with the custode—he is most friendly—smiles all over when W. appears—and remarked the other day casually when he was late and I was waiting at the gate, "Il marito si fa aspettare." This morning we pottered about the Ponte Vecchio, where all the shops look exactly the same, and apparently the same old wrinkled men bending over their pearls and turquoises. So many foreigners have bought pearls that the prices have all gone up. There has been a great influx of strangers these last days as Easter is early, and we hear English on all sides. Two pretty fair-haired English girls were loitering about the bridge and shops, attracting much attention and admiration, quite freely expressed, from some of the numerous young men who are always lounging about; but the admiration is so genuine and so open that no one could be angry or consider it an impertinence.

Do you remember one of my first Italian experiences in crossing the Piazza di Spagna one afternoon with my white kitten on my shoulder, and one of the group of "paini"¹⁵ standing at the door of the bank remarked smilingly, "Che gatto fortunato!" I was rather taken aback but pleased certainly. At Doney's in the Via Tornabuoni, there is always the same group of men on the pavement about tea-time, when every one goes in for a cup of tea or chocolate—all much interested in the pretty girls who go in and out—also the society men standing at the door of the Club making remarks and criticising, with rather more reserve perhaps.

We took a fiacre when we had crossed the bridge and drove to Santa Maria Novella. The black and white façade looked like an old friend, also the spezeria where we used to buy the sachets of iris powder in the old days. We wandered all over the church, looked at the frescoes and the wonderful Cimabue Madonna, and then through the cloisters. A monk (one of the few left) in the long white robe of the Dominicans was working in the garden. He looked very picturesque in the little square of green, and was apparently engrossed in his work as he didn't even turn his head to look at us. He wasn't at all an old man as we saw when he raised himself—was tall and broad-shouldered. What a life it must be for a man in the full force of strength and health. One can understand it in the old days before books and printing, when the Dominicans and Benedictines were students and their parchments made history, but now when everybody reads and discusses everything it seems incredible that a man should condemn himself to such an existence.

We dined at the Tchiatcheffs, and on our way home crossed a procession of "la Misericordia"; all the men with long cloaks and cowls drawn tight over their faces, with slits for the eyes. One could see nothing but bright, keen eyes, impossible to recognise any one. I believe men of all classes belong to the society, and we had probably various friends among them. I suppose they were going to get a corpse (which is always done at night in Florence, or, in fact, everywhere in Italy) and their low, melancholy chant rather haunted me. They say they do a great deal of good when there is an accident or a case of malignant fever, in transporting the patient to a hospital; but it was an uncanny sight. They tell me they went to get a young Englishman the other day who had fever, and was to be moved from the hotel to a private hospital. It was the doctor's suggestion, and I am sure they carried him quite well and gently, but it seems his poor wife went nearly mad when the procession arrived, and she saw all those black eyes gleaming from behind the cowls.

We have been this afternoon to tea at "Camerata," the Halls' Villa. The drive out was charming, the day beautiful and bright, flowers everywhere. Quantities of peasant children ran alongside the carriage as we toiled up the hills, chattering volubly (many Inglesi thrown in) and holding out little brown hands filled with yellow flowers. The Camerata garden and terrace were lovely. It was still a little cool to sit out, so we had tea inside. The lawn was blue with violets, and there were quantities of yellow flowers, crocuses, narcissi everywhere, roses just beginning. We met various old friends there—principally English—among others Miss Arbuthnot, looking quite the same; and the two Misses Forbes who have a charming apartment in Florence—we went there to tea the other day. Our friend and compatriot, Mrs. K., was also there; very dressy and very foolish; poor dear she never was wise. She was glad to see me, was sure I was enjoying the change and rest after my "full life"; then "Did you live in Paris?" I felt like saying, "No, French Cabinet Ministers usually live in Yokohama," but I desisted from that plaisanterie as I was sure she would go away under the impression that W. had been a member of the Japanese Cabinet. W. doesn't like my jokes—thinks they are frivolous.

February 17, 1880.

Our Talleyrand dinner last night was handsome and pleasant. He was for years French Ambassador at Petersburg (Baron Charles de Talleyrand-Périgord), and is the type of the clever, old-fashioned French gentleman and diplomatist. He married a Russian, Mlle. Bernadaky. She is very amiable, has a beautiful voice and beautiful jewels. I had Carlo Alessandri next to me, and we plunged into old times. After dinner Talleyrand and W. talked politics in the fumoir. He is of course quite "d'un autre bord" and thinks Republican France "grotesque," but W. said he was so moderate and sensible, not at all narrow-minded, understanding that a different opinion was quite possible, that it was interesting to discuss with him. Talleyrand confided to Mary afterward that he couldn't understand a man of her brother's intelligence and education being a Republican.

Madame de Talleyrand didn't sing, had a cold. I was very sorry as I told her I should have liked to hear her sing again "Divinité du Styx." It will be always associated in my mind with the French-German war when we were all at Ouchy together hearing fresh disasters every day.

This afternoon we went to have tea with "Ouida"¹⁶ at her villa outside Florence. She was most anxious W. should come to her—which he agreed to do—though afternoon visits are not much in his line. As we were rather a large party we went out in detachments, and Madame de Tchiatcheff drove me. We arrived before the Bunsens and W. Ouida came to the gate to meet us, and Madame Tchiatcheff named me. She was civil, but before I had time to say that M. Waddington was coming in another carriage, she looked past me, saying, "Et Monsieur Waddington—il ne vient donc pas," with such evident disappointment and utter indifference to the presence of Madame Waddington that I was rather taken aback; but I suppose geniuses must not be judged like other people. I was rather disappointed in her appearance. I expected to see her dressed either in "primrose satin with trails of white lace," or as an Italian peasant, and she really looked like any one else—her hair cut short and a most intelligent face. She was interesting when she talked about Italy and the absolute poverty of the people. She spoke either French or English, both equally well. When the visit had been talked of at home we had told W. he must read, or at any rate look over one of her books. I didn't think he could undertake one of her long novels, "Idalia" for instance, where the heroine wanders for days through wood and dale attired in a white satin dress, and arrives at her destination looking like "a tall, beautiful, pure lily"; but I think he might like one of her short Italian stories, which are charming, such beautiful descriptions. I always remember one of her sentences, "There is nothing in the world so beautiful as the smile of Italy to the awakening Spring." One felt that to-day in the garden, every bud was bursting, everything looked green and fresh and young.

Our dinner at home to-night was most agreeable. We had Mlle. de Weling, 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 naïf. 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 father¹⁷ 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. 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 "Français" 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.