Chapter II: Part I: Italy in the Eighties (1)

_To G. K. S._[1]

31, RUE DUMONT D'URVILLE, PARIS,
January 10, 1880.

Well, dear, here I am back again in my little hotel, and very small and uncomfortable it looks--like a doll's house after the enormous rooms of the Quai d'Orsay--however I am very glad to be a _private_ individual once more (no longer a "femme publique" as our friend used to say). Our departure was hurried, as once W.[2] had made up his mind and resigned he wanted to get away at once. We got off in two days, which I thought quite wonderful. Of course ever since the opening of the session in November it was evident that he couldn't stay. He and his Ministers were hardly ever agreed on any point, and it wasn't worth while for him to spend his energy and intelligence in trying to carry out a policy which neither the Chamber nor the country apparently desired. There were endless conferences all through December, but it was clear that it was time for him to go.

[1] Mrs. Eugene Schuyler, nee King.

[2] W. here and throughout these letters refers to M. William Henry Waddington, Madame Waddington's husband.

The weather was something awful--bitterly cold--the Seine frozen tight, booths and games established, and everybody sliding about and trying to skate--but that was under difficulties as the ice was rough and uneven. I walked over with Francis,[3] that he might say he had walked across the Seine. We had great difficulty in warming the house--many trains with wood and coal were blocked just outside Paris, and nothing could get in. I don't know what we should have done, but happily the Ministre de la Guerre gave us an order to take some wood from some depot in Paris where they had a provision; so for the two days before we moved in great fires were going in the calorifere. I really think the only person who hated to leave the Quai d'Orsay was Francis. He was furious at seeing all his things packed up, and was carried out to the carriage kicking and screaming--"veux pas quitter ma maison--veux pas aller vilaine petite maison." The huissiers (6, all standing solemnly in a row to say good-bye) were much impressed, and the old grey-headed Pierson who has been there for years and seen many Ministers depart, remarked--"au moins Monsieur Francis est desole de partir." It seemed funny to drive out of the big gates for the last time. I wonder if I shall ever go through them again. Things go so quickly in France now.

[3] Francis, son of M. and Madame Waddington.

You can't conceive anything more uncomfortable than this house to-day--no carpets down nor curtains up; all the furniture, books, rugs, dumped in the middle of the rooms, and the hall and corridors full of trunks and boxes. W. has had a steady stream of people ever since we arrived--some to condole--some (old friends) to congratulate him upon no longer serving such an infecte government--some a little embarrassed to explain that, though they regret him extremely, still ... they must serve their country, and hope he won't take it amiss if they make up to the rising sun (in the shape of Freycinet, who has taken W.'s place). I expect we shall have some curious experiences. When one is no longer in power it is surprising how things change their aspect. I had to settle the salons as soon as I could as I had invited a big party for Francis's Christmas Tree, thinking it would be at the Quai d'Orsay. I didn't want to put the people off--particularly the diplomatists who have all been most civil and proper--so after a consultation with Kruft--(chef du materiel at the Quai d'Orsay) who had already begun to make his preparations, I decided to have it here, and Kruft and one of his men came and helped dress it. Of course the tree had to be cut at the top--our rooms are fairly high, but nothing like the Quai d'Orsay naturally--but it looked rather prettier, quite covered with toys and shiny ornaments. Francis had beautiful presents--a hand-organ with a monkey on top from Madame Sibbern, the wife of the Swedish Minister, from which he can't be extracted. He can't turn it alone, but some of the bigger children helped him, and we had the "Cloches de Corneville" and "Niniche" almost all the afternoon. There were about 100 people, children and parents, and the rooms looked pretty. All the people and lights warmed them too--it wasn't quite so Siberian. We couldn't attempt cooking of any kind as the kitchen range was out of order, and besides we hadn't fuel enough--l'Oncle Alphonse[4] who lives next door feeds us. W. and I go to him for breakfast and dinner, and his chef (a very distinguished artist and well dressed gentleman--quite a superior person--Monsieur Double) submits Francis's menu every morning to Nounou, as he says he has no experience with children.

[4] M. Alphonse Sutteroth, ancien diplomatist under Louis Philippe.

We have decided to go to Italy for two or three months, and shall make Rome our headquarters. W. has never been there, and says it wouldn't be worth while going for less than three months. What fun it will be to be there together--I can hardly believe it is true. I am sure we are wise to get away. There must always be little jarring things when one has been in office some time--and it would be rather a bore to W. to take his place as senator and be in opposition to the present Ministry. If he stayed in Paris he would have to take part in all the discussions, and would certainly be interviewed by all sorts of people to whom he would say nothing (he never does--he hates newspaper people) but they would say he did all the same, and so many people believe implicitly whatever they see in a paper. The Minister has offered W. the London Embassy, but he won't take it, doesn't wish to have any function of any kind at present. He is looking forward to long, happy hours in Rome, deciphering all the old inscriptions, and going over the old city with Lanciani[5] and some of his literary friends.

[5] Director of Excavations in Rome under Rossi.

January 12, 1880.

After all I have been back to the Quai d'Orsay. W. said I must go and make a formal visit to Madame de Freycinet (who is a very nice woman--a Protestant, and has one daughter--a charming intelligent girl). Henrietta and I went together, taking Francis with us, who was delighted as soon as he got to the Place de la Concorde and crossed the bridge--"C'est Paris--C'est Paris." Poor little boy--the rue Dumont d'Urville is so quiet, nothing passing and nothing to see when he looks out of the window. He was always at the window at the Quai d'Orsay looking at the boats, the soldiers, and the general liveliness of a great thoroughfare. It was a funny sensation to go and pay a visit to Madame de Freycinet in the little blue salon where I had received her so often, and to be announced by my own pet huissier, Gerard, who spent his life all the time I was at the Quai d'Orsay sitting outside the door of any room I happened to be in. He knew all my visitors--those I wanted to see and those I didn't--kept all the cards, and books, and remembered every quete I had given to--and the bills that had been paid. I don't remember that he ever occupied himself with my garments, but I am sure that he could have found anything that I asked for.

The house is gradually getting warm and comfortable, and the furniture settling into its place; but I have a curious feeling of smallness--as if I hadn't room to turn. We hope to get off in three or four days. We leave Francis of course, but Nounou and Hubert will look after him, and he will go to breakfast every day with Mother, where of course he will be well spoiled and have everything he asks for.

_To G. K. S._

January 18, 1880.

I hope we shall get off now in a day or two--W. really needs the rest, which he never will get here as all day long people come to see him and suggest various plans. We have written to the Hotel de Londres. You or Eugene might go there some day and see the rooms they propose. It will be nice to be back in our old quarters Piazza di Spagna. We had a pleasant small dinner last night at the British Embassy--Lord Lyons is always so nice and cordial. He was a little surprised and not _quite_ pleased that W. hadn't accepted the London Embassy, he would have been so entirely a "persona grata" with his English education, connections, etc. All the Diplomates seem to regret us (but I think they will like the Freycinets just as much) and really here, where Ministers are such passing figures in the political world, they would have a hard time if they set their affections on any particular man.

I am becoming very philosophical--though the attitude of some of my friends has rather surprised me (not W.; he is never surprised at anything). L'Oncle Alphonse keeps us well informed of what is said on the other side. He is quite a Royalist, a great friend of the Orleans Princes, and a great deal at the club where they always call him "l'oncle du gouvernement"--and when the "gouvernement makes a 'betise'" (which sometimes happens) they criticize freely, and he tells it all to us. I fancy he always defends W. in public--but of course in private pitches into him well.

I rather miss the big life--seeing so many people, and being as it were behind the scenes--also our conversations at night when W. had finished his signatures, and Pontecoulant[6] came up from his quarters with the report of the day, and got his instructions for the next morning. W. is not at all "matinal" and hates doing any kind of business early--must always have his ride first. We used to sit in W.'s cabinet until two in the morning sometimes, telling our experiences--some of mine were funny. I hated an official reception day, but the gentlemen of the protocol department thought it absolutely necessary, so I was obliged to give in--and certainly nothing I did tired me so much as those long Fridays in the big yellow drawing-room. From 3 to 6 streams of people--women mostly--of all nationalities--and of course no conversation possible--however it wasn't always banal, as you will see.

[6] Comte de Pontecoulant, chef de Cabinet.

Our last Friday one of my friends had been in, very much taken up with the journey to Rome--her clothes, the climate, which hotel was the best, etc. When she went out in a whirl of talk and excitement I turned to one of the 14 women who were seated in a semicircle on each side of me, and by way of continuing the conversation said: "Il me semble qu'on serait tres bien a l'Hotel de Londres a Rome en plein soleil," to which she replied haughtily "Je n'en sais rien, Madame, je n'ai jamais quitte Paris, et je m'en vante." W. wouldn't believe it, but as I told him I couldn't have invented it. I was rather sorry I hadn't pursued the conversation, and asked her why she was so proud of that particular phase of her life. I suppose she must have had a reason, which naturally I couldn't understand, having begun my career so very far away from either Rome or Paris. It is a real pleasure though to be back in my own salon, and have my nice little tea-table, and three or four of my friends, and talk about anything and everything, and even do a little music occasionally.

January 20, 1880.

I didn't find my tea quite so pleasant the other day. I was sitting in the little salon talking to one or two ladies, and receiving their congratulations at being no longer of the official world, and obliged to associate with the Government people, when the footman appeared with his eyes round, to announce that "La Presidente" (Madame Grevy) was coming upstairs to pay Madame a visit. I flew to the door and the top of the stairs (I couldn't get any further) and received "ma Presidente" in proper style. I ushered her into the salon where I had left my friends (mad Royalists both). They were much disgusted--however they were too well-bred to make things disagreeable for me in my own house--and rose when we came in. I named Madame Grevy--and as soon as she had taken her seat, and declined a cup of tea, they went away. Of course they _hated_ getting up for Madame Grevy, but there was nothing else to be done as she and I were both standing. Happily no one else came in but Prince Orloff, Russian Ambassador, who of course knew Madame Grevy and talked easily enough. She didn't stay long--it was the classic "visite de condoleance" to the wife of the ex-Minister (if she only knew how glad this _Ex_ was to return to private life and her own house, and to be no longer "logee par le gouvernement"). This is the second visit of condoleance I have had. When Marshal MacMahon dismissed (suddenly) all his cabinet presided by Jules Simon, 16th of May, 1877, Madame de MacMahon came also to see me--and at the same time--5 o'clock on my reception day--so I knew precisely what the conversation would be--and Madame Grevy and I both said exactly the same things that the Marechale and I had said two or three years ago. I suppose everybody does say the same thing on certain occasions. After she had gone Orloff asked me if I remembered those two ladies meeting (for the first time in their lives) at the Quai d'Orsay on one of my Fridays. Just after the Marshal resigned Madame de MacMahon came to see me. She was announced by all the servants and I had plenty of time to get to the door of the first drawing-room, not quite to the anteroom, to receive her. When her husband was President she was received always like Royalty--at the door of the apartment. She was very simple and easy, quite pleased evidently at still having all her honours. Prince Orloff came in to pay a visit, and we were having a very pleasant talk, when I heard quick footsteps in the second salon, and again appeared my faithful Gerard (I had also visions of numberless doors being opened all down the enfilade of salons) announcing Madame Grevy. I was embarrassed for a moment as I didn't like to leave the Marechale, and yet I knew I must go and meet Madame Grevy--all the ceremony of course was for the official position, and one Presidente was just the same as the other. Madame de MacMahon was most amiable--said at once--"Je vous en prie, Madame, ne pensez pas a moi"--and "au fond" was rather curious to see her successor. I went as quickly as I could (Orloff giving me a funny little smile, _almost_ a wink, as I passed him) and got my other Presidente just at the door. She was rather astounded I think at her reception--she hadn't been long in her exalted position. We proceeded majestically through three or four salons, and when we arrived at my drawing-room Madame de MacMahon got up at once, saying quite simply "Voulez-vous me presenter, Madame, a Madame Grevy?" She was quite at her ease--Madame Grevy rather shy and embarrassed--however Madame de MacMahon talked at once about some of the great charities, artists, etc., and it really wasn't too stiff--Orloff of course always helping and making jokes with the two ladies. One or two visitors came in and gasped when they saw the situation--also one of the young men of the Cabinet, who instantly disappeared. I always thought he went to tell W. what was happening upstairs so that he might come to the rescue in case I wasn't up to the mark ... but he swears he didn't. When the Marechale got up to go there was again a complication as I wanted to accompany her to the door, and I didn't like to leave Madame Grevy. She wouldn't hear of my going through all the salons--took leave of me at the door--and then Orloff came to the rescue--gave her his arm and took her to her carriage. It was a curious meeting, and, as Orloff said just now, "je lui devais une fameuse chandelle."[7]

[7] French idiom difficult to translate, meaning "I ought to be very grateful to him."

February 6, 1880.

We are starting to-night, straight for Florence, where we shall stay a week or ten days with the Bunsens before going on to Rome. W. is much pleased at the Roman prospect--and I can hardly believe that I am going to see Rome again. We have our lit-salon straight through to Florence, and I hope we shall be warm enough. It is bitterly cold to-day--even walking I was glad to have my sealskin coat. Nounou is rather tearful at being left in sole charge of Francis, but as that young gentleman is perfectly well, in roaring spirits, and will be given everything his heart desires by his Grandmother and Aunts, I don't feel very unhappy about him. It seems incredible that we should be going to meet soon. How we will prowl about Rome. I suppose I shall find it absolutely changed--so many more people--not our dear old dead Rome.

_To H. L. K._[8]

FLORENCE, VIA ROMANA, VILLA MCDONNELL,
February 8, 1880.

We arrived quite comfortably, dear mother, but almost frozen, particularly W. He has not been extracted from the fire since we got here. Henrietta will have told you of our start. Pontecoulant and one or two men were at the station to see us off--also the Chef de Gare, most civil, and saying we should not be disturbed at the frontier--and that our coupe-lit would take us straight through to Florence. We had a perfectly easy journey, and I slept quite peacefully--waking up merely when we passed through the tunnel, as the guard came in to shut all the windows. It was a beautiful, cold, starlight winter night. The great mountains covered with snow looked gigantic as we approached--"sinistres" as Madame Hubert[9] said. She was much impressed and rather nervous. There were very few people in the train. When we arrived at Modane the Chef de Gare was waiting for us--he had been telegraphed from Paris to expect us. We had breakfast in the private room, and a nice woman was waiting for us upstairs in the ladies' room with hot water, towels, etc. I made quite a toilet--she carried off my dress and jacket to brush--and then we went down to a nice little breakfast which tasted very good, as I hadn't had anything since our 7 o'clock dinner. They offered us coffee somewhere--Dijon I think--but I didn't want anything then. All the first part of the road--in fact all the road to Turin was lovely. It was a bright, cold morning, and the snow mountains looked beautiful. It was such a pleasure to hear Italian once more--even the names at the stations "capo stazione"--"grande velocita"--"uscita," etc., also the shrill "partenza" when we started. The last time I crossed the Mont Cenis was by the Fell railway when we all started together from Aix. That was certainly very beautiful--but rather terrifying--particularly as we neared the top and looked at the steep places and the various zigzags we were to follow going down. One couldn't help feeling that if a brake or chain broke there would be a terrible catastrophe. I remember so well some of the women who were quite sea-sick--the swaying motion, I suppose, as we rounded the curves, of which there were many. I can see one now stretched out on the floor on a rug in the small salle d'attente at Susa, quite exhausted and absolutely indifferent to the outside world.

[8] Mrs. Charles King, mother of Madame Waddington.

[9] Madame Waddington's maid.

We had quite a wait at Turin. Our coupe was detached and put on the Florence express. They locked the doors, and we left all our things--books, shawls, bags, etc.--and had a very fair dinner at the buffet. We had so much time that Madame Hubert and I went for a little walk. There was not much to see close to the gare--but it was delightful to me to hear Italian again, and to see the idle, placid crowd standing about--nobody in a hurry apparently, and nobody jostling and pushing through, though there were trains starting or coming in all the time. W. was too cold to move--he really should have had a fur coat--which he utterly despises--says that will do when he is 70, and can't walk any more. It was warm and fairly light in the buffet so he established himself there with a paper and was quite happy. We got here about 6.30--Charles de Bunsen was at the station with a carriage--so we came off at once, leaving Madame Hubert and Francesco with the trunks. How she will get on in Italian I don't know, but she is very active and debrouillarde, and generally makes herself understood. Mary[10] was waiting for us with tea and those crisp little grissini[11] we always used to have in Casa Guadagni. They have a charming "villino"--part of the McDonnell villa. One goes in by a small door (in one of the narrow grey streets of old Florence, with high walls on each side--Via Romana) and straight up a fine broad staircase to a good palier with large high rooms opening out on it. All the bed-rooms and small salon open on a loggia overlooking the garden--a real old Italian garden. I shall never be dressed in time for anything in the morning, as I am always on the loggia. The flowers are all coming out--the birds singing--the sky bright, deep blue--and the whole atmosphere so soft and clear--and in fact Italian--different from everything else.

[10] Madame de Bunsen, nee Waddington.

[11] Long crisp breads one has in Italy.

Mary has arranged the small salon (which they always sit in) most prettily and comfortably--with bibelots and quantities of books about in all languages--there are usually four going in the establishment--Charles and his daughter speak always German to each other--the rest of us either French or English--it depends rather upon what we are talking about--and always an undercurrent of Italian with the servants and "parlatrice" (such a sweet, refined looking girl who comes every day to read and speak Italian with my belle-mere). Mrs. Waddington strikes at the mixture at meals and insists upon one language, either English or French. There is also a charming German girl here, Mlle. de Sternberg, a niece of Charles de Bunsen--so we are a most cosmopolitan household. The life is utterly different from the one I have been leading for the last two years.

_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 Tannhaeuser and Lohengrin. I remember now your sigh of relief when Seilern and I finished playing a 4 mains the Walpurgis Night years ago in the Champs Elysees. 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-Toechter 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 flanerie 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 forestieri[12] 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."

[12] Foreigners.

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 regime. 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.

[13] Nee Story, daughter of W. W. Story, the sculptor.

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 decolletee at about 4 in the afternoon. "Ah, ma chere," 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 Chateau 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 risque 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 facon 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 tapeur[14] 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.

[14] Man to play on the piano.

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.

[15] Young bourgeois.

We took a fiacre when we had crossed the bridge and drove to Santa Maria Novella. The black and white facade 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-Perigord), 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 "Divinite 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.

[16] Mlle. de la Ramee.

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 naif. 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 father[17] 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.

[17] Charles King, President of Columbia College, father of Madame Waddington.

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.