Читать книгу Italian Letters of a Diplomat's Wife: January-May, 1880; February-April, 1904 - Mary King Waddington - Страница 4

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. Pontécoulant 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 coupé-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 Hubert9 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 velocità"—"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.

We had quite a wait at Turin. Our coupé 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 débrouillarde, and generally makes herself understood. Mary10 was waiting for us with tea and those crisp little grissini11 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.

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-mère). 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.