On the 4th of December Richard notes a never-to-be-forgotten day—so dark, foggy, deep snow, and a red, lurid light. All the gas and candles had to be lit at nine o'clock in the morning. London was like a Dante's snow hell; the squares were like a Christmas tree. It was as dark as if some great national crime was being committed. A large family party accompanied us to the Pavilion at Folkestone to see us off, and there Carlo Pellegrini joined us. He was staying there for his health, and painting a little. Andrew Wilson, of the "Abode of Snow," also joined us, and travelled with us for a week. The snow was eight feet deep. We were joined by several surrounding relations, living at short distances from there. The Dover train stuck in the snow from six till twelve at night. The boat did not cross; the night train did not come in. It was blowing great guns at sea. On the 7th it was something better, and two sledges took us to the station. We landed with great difficulty on the French side. We always lingered at Boulogne whenever we got there. We used to go and see Constantin (Richard's old fencing-master), all the old haunts, the Ramparts where we first met. Caroline, the Queen of the Poissardes, who received us à bras ouverts, talked of old times when we were young people, and reminded me of a promise which was then very unlikely, that if ever I should go to Jerusalem I should bring her a rosary, and I was now able to fulfil it. We went on to Paris. We did not care for Rossi's Hamlet, after Mr. Henry Irving's in London and Salvini's in Italy. I never can see any smartness in a Paris theatre; the scenery is so bad, the dresses so flashy and tinsel, no appliances for effect. I suppose in old days it was different, as so many people raved about it. The acting and the wit I can appreciate. We left Paris on the 16th, to my great delight—I believe I am the only woman who hates Paris—and dined next night at Turin with Cristoforo Negri and family, the head of the Geographical Society of Italy, and Signor Cora and wife, the editor of the most influential paper; and then we went on to Milan, where we always begin to consider ourselves at home on our own ground.
Mr. Kelly, who was then Consul, always made our stay pleasant as long as he was there, and we had delightful purely Milanese dinners together at the Rebecchino. I never pass Milan, and for those who do not know Milan well, I may say that I advise them never to go through without seeing Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper" in the refectory of Nostra Signora delle Grazie; then in the Brera, Raphael's "Marriage of the Virgin," with the rejected suitor breaking his rod; the tower of Azoni Visconti, where Jain Maria Visconti was murdered; Saint Gothardo, beautiful Lombard architecture, the façade of the Hospital in terra cotta, so beautifully carved, and the cloistered court; then San Bernardino dei Morti, a curious little church whose whole interior is made of bones and skulls. Every one should go up to the top of Milan Cathedral, which is a garden of spires and pinnacles and statues like lace-work, and of faces of which no two are alike. The view is glorious, and the mountains of Lecco are capped with snow and rosy in the sun.
We arrived in Venice on a dark, sad, silent night, when the plash of the gondola has a sad music of its own. At this time the Montalbas—the whole family are clever, and Clara, whose Venetian paintings are so celebrated, is the best known—were in Venice. These two girls hired a kitchen in their early days, turned it into a studio, and thus gave birth to their now famous works. We got to our home at Trieste on Christmas Eve, and having accepted a Christmas dinner, gave all the servants leave to go out and see their friends; but Richard got seedy on Christmas Day and he went to bed. I had nothing in the house but bread and olives, and ate my Christmas dinner by his bed. How happy we were! What would I give for bread and olives now, and to sit by him again!
[1] To go by sea from England to Trieste occupies from twenty-one to twenty-six days. To go by rail, if you never stop, was in those days a matter of sixty-three hours.
[2] N.B.—This was changed in 1883. They lived for the last eight years in a palazzonè in a large garden, on a wooded eminence standing out to sea, and had four such splendid views on each side, that they said that "if they were in England there would be express trains to see them."—I. B.
[3] Blackwood's Magazine, September, 1859, p. 352.
[4] "See Journal of the Royal Geographical Society, vol. xv. pp. 361-374."
[5] "Pigafetta, edition 1591, p. 80."