Читать книгу Italian Letters of a Diplomat's Wife: January-May, 1880; February-April, 1904 - Mary King Waddington - Страница 6

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.

We did a little shopping, I wanted some veils, and W. remained outside looking at the grim old Strozzi Palace, standing like a great fortress with its huge stones and heavy doors in the middle of all the busy, bustling life of the Tornabuoni. I think it is the one street in Florence where people move about quickly, and as if they were going somewhere. Everywhere else there are crowds of people, men especially, doing nothing but sitting all day in the sun looking at the passers-by.

We hadn't time to walk over to San Lorenzo, so hailed a fiacre, and wandered about there for some time. I was delighted to see the Medici Chapel again and the famous monument of Lorenzo. He does look as if he were thinking out some great problem—I wonder what he would think of our go-ahead, unartistic world, and of our politicians, so timorous and afraid of responsibility—at least the men of that race were strong for good or for evil. When they wanted anything they did all they could to get it. I don't know that the women were behindhand either in energy when one thinks of Queen Catherine and of all the Huguenots she disposed of one summer evening in Paris. Do you remember our friend Mrs. A., a converted Catholic, whom we overheard one night at the Opera when they were shooting all the Huguenots in the last act, telling her daughter (remained a Protestant) that the Saint Bartholomew had nothing to do with Catholics and Protestants; was entirely a political move.

We have had a long drive this afternoon with Mary and Charles, up the Poggio Imperiale—a stiff climb but such a beautiful road—villas, cypresses, olive trees, and roses everywhere. We went up to the Certosa, where a nice old monk, in his white dress, showed us the church and monastery. It was dark and rather cold in the church, and nothing particular to see—good frescoes and many coloured marbles—but the terrace outside was delightful. There were not too many beggars on the road considering that it is the favourite drive in Florence, and of course the carriage people are at a disadvantage as they must go slowly up the hill, and are escorted by a long troop of children singing, dancing with a sort of tambourine, turning somersaults, and enjoying life generally, whether they get a few pennies or not. It is very difficult to resist the children with their smiling faces and evident desire to amuse the "forestieri."

We went to Casa Guadagni before we came home, and paid a visit to the Marchesa, who was at home. The same old porter was at the door, and greeted me most warmly, much pleased to see W. "bel uomo, il marito"—had I any children, and where were all the rest of the family?—that simple, natural Italian manner, without a thought of familiarity. W. was delighted with Madame Guadagni. She talked about everything and really didn't look any older. I asked about our old apartment (piano nobile—first floor); she said it was always let—generally to foreigners. I didn't ask if she had made any modern improvements since we lived there. Shall you ever forget that cold winter with the doors that wouldn't open, and the windows that wouldn't shut, and the chimneys that always smoked, and the calorifère, which John never would light, as he was afraid it would warm the Guadagni rooms below? I should have liked to go over the apartment and see the rooms again—the big ball-room where we danced so often and had so much music. We wound up with a turn in the Cascine, drawing up in the Piazza alongside of Lottie's carriage, which was of course surrounded by all the gilded youth of Florence. Maquay came to talk to us, Carlo Alessandri and Serristori, whom I hadn't yet seen. He was just the same (laughing and criticising) as in the old days when some of the swells appeared in so-called Worth garments, which he said were all made in a little room over his stables, by the wife and daughters of one of his men.

I was glad to get in and have a quiet hour to write before dinner. I am at my table close up to the open window. The air is soft and delicious—the garden just beginning to look dark and mysterious in the waning light. The group of cypresses (I don't know how to write that in the plural, it looks funny) always black. I was called off various times, and must finish now as we are going to dine at the Maquays—we being ourselves, Mary, and Charles. We generally go about a family party.

Sunday, February 21, 1880.

We are making our pacquets as we have decided to leave for Rome on Monday (22). The Schuylers are clamouring for us, and though I hate to leave here I really think we ought to go. As W. has never seen Rome two months will not be too much. We shan't have much more as he wants to get home for the Conseil Général. The Schuylers want to have a big reception for us, and would like next Sunday week, so I think we really shall get off this time. The longer we stay the more invitations we have. It has been all quite charming. Our Maquay dinner was very easy and pleasant; the Tchiatcheffs, Lottie, Alessandri, Talleyrands, Mrs. Fuller, and one or two stray men. The house looked so natural—of course the ball-room wasn't open as we were a small party, but they lighted it after dinner. I wanted W. to see how pretty it was and how light—white with red seats all around. How it took me back to old times? I seemed to see everybody settling for the cotillon—the stairs too, where we all used to sit waiting for the cotillon to begin. How we amused ourselves that winter in Florence, and how scattered all that little band is now. The Florentines amuse themselves still—there must be something in the air which makes people light-hearted—one can't imagine a serious, studious life in Florence.

We spent two hours in the Uffizi yesterday looking at all the old friends again. I was delighted to see the dear little "St. John in the Wilderness" hanging just where it did before, on one side of the door in the Tribuna; also the Peruginos—I like them so much—his Madonnas with their wooden faces, but a pure, unearthly expression all the same, and the curious green colour one sees in all his pictures. We saw as much as we could in the two hours, but as it was the second visit we found our way about better. I never rested until I found the corridor with Niobe and all her children—it used to fascinate me in the old days. One realized perfectly all those big sons and daughters, so terrified, and the last little one clinging to his mother's skirts.

We went to tea, Mary and I, with Edith Peruzzi—quite quietly—as she wanted to show me her children—and fine specimens they are; a duck of a boy, quite sociable and smiling. Nina and Louisa Maquay came in—Louisa looked lovely. This morning I went to the English church with Mary and Beatrice. We didn't go out again till late—after tea—as we had various visitors, among others Schuyler Crosby, who had asked us to dine but we had no evening left. I saw him riding the other day in the Cascine, and recognised him some way off by his seat. I don't know what it is, but whatever the Americans do, whether riding, dancing, or tennis, they do it differently from any one else. I was talking about it the other day to an Englishman who had seen some of the Anglo-American boat races, and he quite agreed with me, said their rowing was very good, but quite another thing from the English sport.

We drove out again Fiesole way. It was enchanting—more roses come out every day. There was a perfect fringe of pink roses hanging over some of the old grey walls. As it was Sunday, and a lovely day, there were quantities of people about. There are scarcely any costumes left, but all Italians like bright colours, and the red and green fichus and aprons looked pretty and gay as the various groups passed us. Some of the old women were terribly bent, with such brown, wrinkled faces—one could quite see that they had toiled up and down hills under the Italian scorching sun all their lives, with baskets and bundles of fagots on their backs—but the old eyes were keen and smiling. They don't look so utterly starved and wretched as Ouida (and others) say they are. I suppose they live on nothing, and go on quite simply, leading the same lives that their fathers and mothers did before them, without knowing of anything better.

Tell Henrietta I haven't made much progress in the travelling work she presented me with. I did take it out into the drawing-room one evening, but the immediate result of that was disastrous. I took it out of the bag proudly, to show that I had silk, embroidery, scissors, needles, etc., like everybody else, but left it on the table. Somebody wanted a book or a newspaper also on the table; turned everything upside down, and the work, silk, needles, thimble, etc., went rolling all over the floor. When you think of the crevasses of an old parquet floor in an Italian Palace, you can imagine how difficult it was to find anything again. The two girls were hours on their knees looking for my thimble which never turned up—however, that will be an excellent reason for buying a pretty little gold thimble with a row of turquoises that I saw the other day in a shop on the Ponte Vecchio. There is evidently a fate against my becoming an accomplished needlewoman, and I am afraid the "clumsy little fingers," which used to worry you so in the old days of music lessons, have not improved with advancing years. Perhaps I shall take to work in my old age. Isn't it George Sand who says (and I don't believe she ever took a needle in her hand), "Don't despise our less ambitious sisters who work. Many great resolutions and silent abnegations have been woven into the bright flowers and delicate tracings of the embroidery in the long hours spent over the frame."

Monday Night, February 22, 1880.

We really are starting to-morrow morning—trunks are packed, compartment engaged, and we have said good-bye to everybody. I made a last little turn this morning in the Boboli Gardens. I didn't see the custode—I wanted to say good-bye to him. Then we went to the Pitti gallery, W. wanted to see one particular Botticelli, "la bella Simonetta" I think, which he and Mary had been talking about, and which we had missed the other day. It is quite impossible to see everything. I had remembered pretty well the principal pictures. Then we took a fiacre and went out to San Marco to see the Fra Angelicos and Savonarola's cell. We had never once got there, there is always so much to do. We walked through the cloisters first—the frescoes are perfectly well preserved—some of Fra Angelico's and others less interesting. I wanted to see the cells, and was quite pleased to recognise the "Coronation of the Virgin" and the "Madonna and Child" surrounded by angels, all in their long green-blue robes with wings and musical instruments of all kinds. As usual people were copying them, and I will try and find a pretty one and bring it back. I want the one in a sort of light green dress blowing a trumpet. The faces are quite beautiful, so pure. He must have had a wonderful imagination—I wonder if he believed angels look like that? Somehow or other I always think of an angel in a white robe. We saw of course Savonarola's cell, and they showed us his rosary, and a piece of wood which is supposed to have been taken from his funeral pile. It all looked so peaceful and smiling to-day, one could hardly realize the long hours of doubt and self-torture passed in these solitary cells. There is a fine description in one of the numerous books the Bunsens have on Florence, of Savonarola's preaching—all the people congregated in the great square before the church, when there was no longer any room inside, leaving their shops and their work to come and listen to him. That is one of the delightful things in this household, you can always find a book in almost any language about any subject that interests you, religion, music, politics, everything.

Beatrice has a delightful German magazine, "Monatsheft," very well illustrated, with all the modern German literature, stories, essays, criticisms, etc. One could almost wish for a rainy day or a quiet evening to read a little.

W. went off by himself the other night and had a very pleasant evening. First to the Piccolellis' where he found a small party and his old friend Bentivoglio, with whom he had travelled in the East. Of course they instantly got into a corner and talked shop (medals). Then to Lottie Van Schaick who had a few friends, where he amused himself very much.

Gertrude writes that our rooms are very nice, and the man at the hotel delighted to have us. I wonder what Rome will be like. It will seem funny to be back there again, a respectable middle-aged lady. I think one should always be young and gay to live in Italy.

We had a fine musical evening Saturday with the Landi family—five; mother, father, daughter, son, and grandfather. Madame Landi sang anything, everything, delightfully. Some of the stornelli and peasant songs, those particularly of the Abruzzi mountains, were charming. I wonder what Italians have got in their "gosier" that we haven't, that gives such a charm to their simplest song. I sang once or twice in French, and then Madame Landi and I did some duos in Italian which went very well. She was very complimentary over my Italian (I told it triumphantly to W., but he remains under the impression of the razor), said it was evident I had learnt in Rome; the language is so much softer, or rather the pronunciation "Lingua toscana in bocca romana."

The old father was killing, knew everything, was wildly interested, and criticised freely. I think the daughter will have a very pretty voice, like her mother's, a rich, low mezzo.

I was called off by some visits, and will finish now. My letter will go to-morrow morning. We don't start very early—9.30—but I shall not have time to write anything more.