The chief thing that spoils Trieste is politics. The City is composed of Italians, Austrians, and Slavs, which three languages are spoken. Greeks and Jews monopolize the trade. The few foreigners are the Consular corps; the English are the engineers of Austrian-Lloyd steamers, with a very small sprinkling of merchants, and might number three hundred all told, including British protections. When we went there, an Austrian would hardly give his hand to an Italian in a dance. An Italian would not sing in the concert where an Austrian sang. If an Austrian gave a ball, the Italian threw a bomb into it; and the Imperial family were always received with a chorus of bombs—bombs on the railway, bombs in the gardens, bombs in the sausages; in fact, it was not at such times pleasant. The Slavs also form a decided party. With Richard's usual good sense, he at once desired me to form a neutral house—a neutral salon—where politics and religion should never be mentioned, and where all would meet on neutral ground; and this was done the whole time of our Triestine career.
Here we made the acquaintance of the Count and Countess di Ferraris-Occhieppo, their son and two daughters. They were at this time charming children. He was in the Austrian service. They were of noble family, but not rich, and she had the romantic idea of bringing her daughters up to a musical profession, of travelling all over the world for the purpose of seeing and studying, and leading an interesting life, paying their way with concerts and entertainments as they went. She nobly succeeded in her mission, and must be rewarded by looking down upon her two clever daughters carrying out her idea in perfection. The little boy—he must be a man, and possibly an officer now—used to rebel against the constant drill; but I dare say, though I have lost sight of him for the present, that he is very glad of it now.
Venice was our happy hunting-ground. Whenever we were a little bit tired of Trieste, we had only to run over there, and I know nothing so resting. If you have been living at too high pressure, you order your gondola, closing the door, lie down in the middle of it, put your head on a cushion, tell them to row you anywhere, and doze and dream until you come round.
Miramar, the sea-palace of poor Emperor Maximilian of Mexico, was a great resource to Trieste people, being an hour's drive from Trieste, built on a rock-promontory out to sea, and backed by beautiful grounds and woods of his own designs. Most people know—but some may not—the touching little history of the Emperor of Austria's brother, married to Princess Charlotte of Belgium, who lived in this palace. They built and made this home themselves, and they lived in a little cottage close by whilst they were so engaged. The lower rooms, occupied by the Archduke himself, were built and arranged exactly like the Admiral's quarters of his ship. The grounds are most romantic and fanciful, full of covered terraces, shady walks, secluded places for reading, the ruins of a very old chapel, Italian gardens, and so on.
They were perfectly adored in Trieste, and he was worshipped by the Navy. Nothing could be happier than their lives. In an evil hour the Imperial Crown of Mexico was offered to him under the protection of Louis Napoleon. The Emperor of Austria approved of it, but Maximilian long hung back. Finally Princess Charlotte, who was ambitious, urged him to accept; he did so, and they departed. There is a picture in Miramar showing their departure in the ship's gig, and crowds from Trieste to see them off, of which most are real portraits. That was their last happy day. Everybody knows how ill that Imperial Mexican crown succeeded, Maximilian's unhappy death, Empress Charlotte's coming over to claim the promised protection of Napoleon, and how the not getting it affected her brain. At one time they took her to Miramar to see if it would cure her, but it only made her worse. The Emperor keeps up his brother's place exactly as if he was living there, and, with exquisite taste and benevolence, throws it open to the people who loved him so much.
Monsieur and Madame Léon Favre, brother to Jules Favre, were our French Consul and Consuless General, and their house was the rendezvous for Spiritualism, where we had frequent séances.
One of their guests at these séances had a very curious faculty. He would sit opposite you, his eyes would glaze, and your face and features changed in his sight, and he saw all the evil in you and all the good, just as if you were a pane of glass. When this fit passed off, his face, and yours also, resumed its natural expression, but he knew you perfectly well, better than if you had told him all your life. I was fortunate enough to please him. He sent for me on his death-bed, but I was away, and did not know it till after; but a year or two after his death, one of his disciples swam up to me in the sea and said that the deceased wanted me to translate and bring out his writings on religion, which were inspired. I have, however, up to the present never had the time nor the money to do so.
Richard sent the following, thinking it might be useful:—