I nodded.
“I am a Sicilian, and I thank you, madam,” he said. In fact, in the exuberance of his spirits, he shook and re-shook me by the hand.
We became great friends, and he often came in to have a talk about his native land.
A Sicilian, he sat in the Italian Parliament for many years, and was three years in the Ministry; then, in 1905, he was asked to come to London as Ambassador. He had never been in the diplomatic service, and had only visited Great Britain as a tourist; in fact, he feared the climate, on account of rheumatism, which at fifty-two had nearly crippled him. But pressure was brought to bear, so he came to St. James’s.
He declared England to be most hospitable, the people were so kind and opened their doors so readily; and he loved the climate. He was delighted he had come.
“In Sicily,” he said, “you are right in saying that we are still in the seventeenth century. We have much to learn. I believe in women having equal rights with men in everything. I think they ought to have the suffrage. Your women in England are far more advanced than in Italy, and I admire them for it. I have the greatest respect and love and admiration for women. My wife came from Tuscany. She was advanced for an Italian, and she first opened my eyes to the capabilities of women. I hope before I die to see them in a far better position than they already hold. They have helped us men through centuries and they deserve reward.”
What a delight the Marquis di San Giuliano will be to the suffragists among his own countrywomen if ever they attain to the advancement of our own Parliament Square agitators.
He lunched with me one day early in January, 1908, and afterwards drove me down to the Pfeiffer Hall of Queen’s College, Harley Street, where, with Sir Charles Holroyd as chairman, he had promised to deliver a lecture to the Dante Society. Its subject was the twenty-sixth canto of the Inferno, the whole of which the Ambassador read in Italian. Then he went on to comment upon the text in English, and explained the symbolical meaning of Ulysses’s voyage and wreck.
I was struck by a theory which the lecturer advanced: that the canto was possibly one of the factors that helped to produce the state of mind in Christopher Columbus which prepared him for his immortal discovery. In the inventory of the estate of a Spaniard who was a comrade of Columbus, one of the items named was a copy of Dante’s poem. It was probable that Columbus, an Italian, and much more educated than this officer, was in the habit of reading the book. It was known that a certain astronomer who was one of Columbus’s foremost inspirers, was a keen Dante student. Probably Columbus’s track, as far as the Canary Isles, varied but little from that of Ulysses. Certainly in Columbus’s speech to his wavering crew is found an echo of Ulysses’s exhortation.
On the drive to Queen’s College the Marquis wore a thick fur coat, and it was a mild day; I remarked upon it.