I got down at the first station, paid the difference in my ticket, and, in the very worst of humours, took a turn in the little village or hamlet,—I did not even care to ask its name. I had some wretched food, and everything seemed to me bad and ugly.
Yes, yes; a little of the language of the country is even more necessary than bread or than money, for the English—and I think they are right—speak no other language than their own. But they go so far as to pretend, when they come amongst us, that we should speak English like them; and here they are in the wrong.
When I got home to the hotel in the evening, Avvocato Fornetti and Caraffa, my friends and companions at the hotel, came to me smiling, and said, "Have you amused yourself?"
PICCOLOMINI AND RISTORI.
I said, "Yes;" I did not tell them what had happened, for they were the kind of men who would have ridiculed me for a long time.
Beyond these few little mishaps, my time passed most pleasantly in London. My fellow-citizen Marietta Piccolomini was singing at the Queen's Opera House with Giulini and Belletti. Ristori was acting at the Ateneo Italiano. There were very often concerts of music, instrumental and vocal, where Bottesini, Giovacchino Bimboni, and the violinist Favilli played. I knew De Vincenzi, who was afterwards in the Ministry; and I again met Count Piero Guicciardini, Count Arrivabene, the maestro Fiori, that scatter-brain of a Fabio Uccelli; Monti, the Milanese sculptor; our Fedi; Bulletti, a carver in wood; Romoli, the painter and sculptor; and others,—in fact, a perfect colony of Italians.
Among the tragedies which Ristori acted in at that time, and which I already knew, I saw one that I liked extremely. It was the 'Camma,' by Professor Giuseppe Montanelli,—in my belief, a very fine work, and superlatively well interpreted, in its proud and passionate character, by the first actress, Signora Ristori. I heard the Signora Piccolomini, with her usual grace and intelligence, sing in the 'Traviata' and the 'Figlia del Reggimento.' Although these entertainments, be they prose or music, were deserving of all praise, yet the price of the entrance-ticket, according to us Italians, was enormously dear, being one pound sterling, which is equal to twenty-five lire and twenty centimes of our money. May I be forgiven if that is little? One must also take note that at that time, A. D. 1856, everything was done in a small way,—reasonable incomes, few requirements, small expenditures, and, smallest of all, taxation. The ciphers of millions in the great book of 'Debit and Credit' had not yet been invented; the floating debt did not even exist in dreams. So that thirty lire codine at that time represented nearly a hundred francs of to-day. Who is there (I mean amongst us) who would wish to spend a hundred lire for a 'Traviata'? Not I, indeed; for I remember, when I was an abonné at the Cocomero (now Niccolini), to have heard Ristori for four soldi a-night, and she acted equally well, without taking into account her youth and beauty, that inexorable Time will not respect, even in celebrities.
PRICES AT THE OPERA.
"Then you went to a foolish expense; and you contradict yourself without even turning your page, for you say that you would not spend the money, and at the same time you inform us that you heard Ristori act in 'Camma'!"
I answer, "'Camma' cost me absolutely nothing, as the Signora Ristori, who is as amiable as she is eminent as an artiste, favoured me with an entrance-ticket;" and so I clear up the apparent contradiction that the critical reader was in such haste to bring forward. Go on, however, and look sharply through these papers, where you will find something of everything. Moreover, you will be often bored, but I hope you will never find any contradictions. I have also a very good habit—that is, of re-reading what I have written: and then, with a little art, one succeeds in putting everything nicely in its place. You understand? Then we will push on.