Well, dear, I really must finish now. My next letter will be from Florence. We shall stop at Milan and Turin, but not very long, I fancy, unless W. finds marvels in the way of coins at Milan. I am quite sad to think I shan't look out on the piazza to-morrow night. I think after all these years I still hold to my original opinion that the Corso is the finest street and the Tiber the finest river in the world.
To H. L. K.
Milan, Hôtel de Ville,
Thursday, May 6, 1880.
Here we are, dearest mother, almost home—only 26 hours from Paris—so if we are suddenly called back (and I earnestly hope we shan't be) we can start at once. We made our journey most comfortably yesterday, though it was long. We left Florence at 9 in the morning and didn't get here until nearly 8. The Bunsens came with us to the station. I begged them not to at such an early hour but they didn't mind. It would have been nice to stay longer. They have just taken their villa on for another month. Their gardener at Meìngenügen wrote them that it was snowing and a cold wind—horrid weather; so they instantly decided to stay on another month. My belle-mère is delicate and never could have stood a cold, northern spring after this beautiful month of April here. They tried to tempt us with all sorts of excursions—Vallombrosa, Pisa (which I should like to see again, I have such a vivid recollection of the Campo Santo and some of the extraordinary tombs, wide square courts and painted windows). I don't remember if it was there or at Genoa, where we saw such elaborate modern monuments; the marble carved and draped in the most curious manner—a widow kneeling at her husband's tomb, her skirts all embroidered and carved so finely, like lace, and a lace veil—really extraordinary.
We found a long train at the station—the night express from Rome. The préfet had kept a compartment for us, and Ubaldino Peruzzi, the former sindaco, a great friend of W.'s, went with us as far as Pistoja. Minghetti was on the train, and he came into our compartment for about an hour, but then adjourned to his own carriage as he was composing a great political speech he makes at Bologna to-night. They are all much excited over the elections, which take place Sunday week, so their time is short. Minghetti has lived and fought through so many phases of Italian history that he is most interesting. They say his memory is extraordinary—so accurate. He never forgets a face or a speech. He says whenever he has an important speech to make he goes for a drive or a long walk—the movement helps him. W. is just the contrary. His great speeches (and they were not many) have always been composed sitting in his big arm-chair smoking the beloved old cherry-wood pipe Ségur brought him from Jersey. When he had got his speech quite in his head, he wrote it, and then it went straight on—never a correction or an erasure. I asked Minghetti if he was nervous. He said not in the least—he was always ready for the fray, and the more he was interrupted the better he spoke, as that proved they were listening to him.
I remember so well one of the first days I went to the Assemblée Nationale years ago. Somebody was speaking—apparently well—on some question of the day, and nobody was listening. The deputies were walking about, talking, writing letters, just as if there was nothing going on. I looked down to see if W. was listening, but he was talking cheerfully to Léon Say. It seemed to me incredible that the orator could continue under such circumstances, but W. explained it to me. He was speaking for his electors in the country and for the "Journal Officiel," which would publish his speech in extenso the next day.
It was most interesting making the journey with these gentlemen as they had their history at their finger ends. All that part of the country had been so fought over—oceans of blood shed in the fierce struggle against Austrian tyranny—particularly as we got near Milan. It seems incredible what a hard iron rule theirs was—especially if one knows Austria and the Austrians a little. They seem such an easy-going, happy people. All their little villages look clean and prosperous, the peasants cheerful and singing and civil to all strangers and travellers.
The country we passed through to-day looked green and smiling, but their idea of work is still primitive, even in Northern Italy. Wherever we passed the people in the fields all stopped and looked at the train—many came running up the bank. If they do that for every train they must lose a considerable amount of time. We were very sorry when our companions departed, but at every station almost Minghetti met friends, and it was evident that he had his head full of politics. It is a long time since I have met any one so interesting. It is such a quick intelligence and he touches every subject so lightly, apparently, only one feels he knows all about it.
We made a fair stop at the Bologna station and had a very good breakfast. It recalled so vividly old times and our first journeys to Rome. Even the buffet looked exactly the same. I could have sworn there was the same "fricandeau de veau." The buffet was crowded—it seems there were a lot of Indian officers arriving with their families from Brindisi, with dark turbaned servants and ayahs always in white. However the Indian nurses didn't look so miserable as they used to in winter when we first made the journey down. They were rather bewildered all the same in such a jostling, hurrying crowd. It is funny to see how they cling to their charges, holding the babies tight with one hand and guiding one or two others half hidden in their long white draperies, with the other. I am sure they are excellent, faithful nurses.
Our last days in Florence were very full. Tuesday was the day of the races—bright, beautiful weather—and we drove out to see the retour, stationing ourselves at the entrance of the Cascine until 7 o'clock. There was not much to see in the way of equipages—nothing like the Roman turn-outs—but there were some pretty women. The Comtesse Mirafiori (née Larderel), I daresay you will remember the name, was about the prettiest. Her victoria was very well appointed, handsome horses stepping perfectly; and she looked a picture, all in white with a big hat turned up with dark blue and long blue and yellow feathers. I think a woman never looks better than in a victoria—it shows off the dress and figure so well. Lottie, too, looked very well, but she passed so quickly I couldn't see what she had on. I had an impression of white with some pink in her hat. Almost all the women were in white. Of course the Lungarno was crowded—all the loungers taking the most lively interest in the carriages; and when there was a stop criticising freely—but I must say with their natural Italian politeness, confining themselves to expressions of admiration more or less pronounced—never anything disagreeable.