Italian Letters of a Diplomat's Wife: January-May, 1880; February-April, 1904

We decided to move on to Sorrento and settle ourselves there for some time. We also wanted to go to Capri, but the steamers had stopped running, and we could only get over in a sailboat. The man of the hotel advised us to go from Sorrento, it was shorter and a charming sail on a bright day. The drive from Castellamare was beautiful; divine views of the sea all the time and equally lovely when we came down upon Sorrento, which seemed to stand in the midst of orange groves and vineyards. The Hôtel Sirena is perched on the top of a high cliff rising up straight from the sea. We had charming rooms with a nice broad balcony, and at our feet a little sheltered cove and beach of golden sand. There were very few people in the hotel—the one or two English spinsters of a certain age whom one always meets travelling, and two artists. We were only about twelve people at table-d'hôte; and as we were six that didn't leave many outsiders. It was before the days of restaurants and small tables. There was one long, narrow table—the padrone carved himself at a smaller one, and talked to us occasionally. There was too much wind the first days to think of attempting Capri, so we drove all over the country, walked about in the orange groves and up and down the steep hills, through lovely little paths that wound in and out of olive woods along the side of the mountain, sometimes clambering up a bit of straight rock, that seemed a wall impossible to get over—when it was too stiff there would be steps cut out in the earth on one side, half hidden by the long grass and weeds.

Henrietta and I had discovered a pony trap with a pair of sturdy little mountain ponies, quite black, and we drove ourselves all over. Mother wouldn't let us go alone, so the stableman sent his son with us, aged 12 years. He wasn't much of a protector! but he knew the ponies, and the country, and everybody we met. He was a pretty little fellow—not at all the dark Italian type, rather fair, with blue eyes, but always the olive skin of the South. He invariably got off the little seat behind and took a short cut up the hills when the road was very steep, though I don't think his weight made any perceptible difference.

The evenings were delicious. We sat almost always on the balcony—sometimes with a light wrap when the breeze from the sea freshened about 9 o'clock. How beautiful it was; the sea deep blue, the islands changing from pink to purple, and as soon as it was dark Vesuvius sending up its pyramid of fire. It looked magnificent, but very formidable. Almost every morning we saw a party come and bathe in the little cove at the foot of the cliff—a pretty little boat came around the point with a family party on board—two ladies, one man and three children. I think they were English, their installation was so practical. They had a small tent, camp-stools, and table, also two toy sailboats which were a source of much pleasure and tribulation, as they frequently got jammed in between the rocks, or caught in the thick seaweed, and there was great excitement until they were started afresh. We made great friends with the sister of the man at the hotel. She was a nun, such a gentle, good face—she came every morning to get flowers for the little chapel of Maria—Stella del Mare—which was near the house, standing high on the hill and easily seen from the sea. One day she seemed very busy and anxious about her flowers, so we asked what was happening, and she said it was their great fête, and they were going to decorate the chapel and dress the Virgin—"should we like to see it?" The Virgin had a beautiful dress—white satin with silver embroidery and some fine jewels which some rich forestieri had given. We were delighted to go, and went with her to the little chapel, which looked very pretty filled with flowers and greens, one beautiful dark, shiny leaf which made much effect. The Virgin was removed from her niche—her vestments brought in with great care, wrapped in soft paper, and the good sister most reverently and happily began the toilet. The dress was very elaborate, had been the wedding dress of an Italian Principessa, and there were some handsome pins and rings—a gold chain on her neck with a pearl ornament. She was rather lamenting over the cessation of gifts—when I suddenly remembered my ring—quite a plain gold one with the cross (pax) one always sees in Rome, which had been blessed by the Pope. I put it on with three or four other little ornaments one day when we had an audience. I took it off, explained to her what it was, that it had been blessed by the Saint Père and that I should like very much to give it to the Virgin, if she wasn't afraid of accepting anything from a heretic. She was a little doubtful, but the fact of its having had the Pope's blessing outweighed other considerations, and the ring was instantly put on the Virgin's hand. She told us afterward that she had told it to the priest, and he said she was quite right to accept it, it might be the means of bringing me to the "true church." We grew really quite fond of her. It was such a simple, childish faith, her whole life was given up to her little chapel, cleaning and decorating it on feast days. All the children in the country brought flowers and leaves, one little boy came once, she told us, with a dead bird with bright feathers that he found, quite beautiful.

We made friends with the people at the table-d'hôte and they were very anxious we should come down to the reading-room at night and make music—but our mourning of course prevented that. We used to hear the piano sometimes and a man's voice singing, not too badly.

At last the wind seemed to have blown itself out, and our landlord said we could get easily to Capri. He could recommend an excellent boatman who had a large, safe boat and who was most prudent, as well as his son. With a fair wind we ought to go over in two hours. We wanted to stay over one night, and he arranged everything. The boat would wait and bring us back the next evening. We started early—about 9 o'clock—so as to get over for breakfast. The boat was most comfortable, a big broad tub, with rather a small sail, plenty of room for all our bags, wraps, etc. The sea was divine, blue and dancing, but there was not much wind. We progressed rather slowly, the breeze was mild, the boat heavy and the sail small, but nobody minded. It was delicious drifting along on that summer sea—just enough ripple to make little waves that tumbled up against the side of the boat, and a slight rocking motion that was delightful—couldn't have suggested sea-sickness or nervousness to the most timid sailor. There were plenty of boats about (mostly fishermen) of all sizes, some of them with the dark red sail that is so effective, and several pleasure boats and small yachts. They were almost as broad and solid as our boat; hadn't at all the graceful outlines and large sails that we are accustomed to. We were exactly three hours going over though the breeze freshened a little as we got near Capri. We were quite excited when we made out the landing-place ("Marina grande") and the long, steep flight of steps leading up to the town. The last time we were there we went by the regular tourist steamer from Naples. There were quantities of people and a perfect rush for donkeys and guides as soon as we arrived; also the whole population of Capri on the shore chattering, offering donkeys, flowers, funny little bottles of wine, and a troop of children running up the steps alongside of the donkeys and clamouring for "un piccolo soldo." This time there was no one at the landing-place, but the man of the hotel with a sedan chair for mother, donkeys for us if we wanted them (we didn't—preferred walking) and a wheelbarrow or hand cart of some kind for the luggage, which was slight—merely bags and wraps. There were a good many steps, but they were broad, we didn't mind. We found a very nice little hotel, kept by an English couple. The woman had been for years maid in the Sheridan family. She told us there was no one in the hotel but one Englishman—in fact no foreigners in the island. We had a very good breakfast in a nice, fairly large room with views of the sea in all directions, and started off immediately afterward to see as much as we could. Mother had her chair, but didn't go all the way with us. We passed through narrow, badly paved little streets with low, pink houses, lots of people, women and children, standing in the doorways—no men, I suppose they were all fishing—and then climbed up to the Villa Tiberius—a steep climb at the end, but such a view. Before we got quite to the top we stopped at the "Salto di Tiberio," a rock high up over the water from which the guide told us that monarch had his victims precipitated into the sea. We dropped down stones (I remember quite well doing the same thing when we were there before) to see how long it was before they touched the water, which showed at what a height one was. The palace is too much in ruins to be very interesting, but there was enough to show how large it must have been, and bits of wall and arches still standing. We went on to the chapel, drank some rather bad wine which the hermit offered us, bought some paper weights and crosses made out of bits of coloured marble which had been found in the ruins, and wrote our names in his book. We looked back in the book to see if there were any interesting signatures, but there was nothing remarkable—a great many Germans.

We came home by another path, winding down through small gardens, vineyards, and occasionally along the steep side of the mountain, all stones and ragged rocks, with the sea far down at our feet. There were a good many houses scattered about, one or two quite isolated near the top. We had a running escort of little black-eyed brown children all talking and offering little bunches of mountain flowers. The guides remonstrated vigorously occasionally and they would disappear, but were immediately replaced by another band from the next group of houses we passed.

We were rather tired when we got back to the hotel as the climbing was stiff in some parts, and glad to rest a little before dinner. The padrona came in and talked to us. It seemed funny to see an English woman in that milieu with her brown hair quite smooth and plain and a clean print dress. She said she liked her life, and the people of the island. They were industrious, simple and easy-going. She talked a great deal about the Sheridans, for whom she had of course the greatest admiration, said one of the sons came often to Capri, and that his cousin Norton had married a Capri fisher-girl. We had heard the story, of course, and were much interested in all she told us. She said the girl was lovely, an absolute peasant, had walked about with bare feet like all the rest, but that she had been over to England, was taught there all they could get into her head, and was quite changed, had two children. I remember their telling us in Rome what a difficult process that education was. She was willing and anxious to learn to read and write, but her ambition and her capability of receiving instruction stopped there—when they wanted to teach her a little history (not very far back either) and the glories of the Sheridan name she was recalcitrant, couldn't interest herself and dismissed the subject saying, "ma sono morti tutti" (they are all dead). She always kept her little house at Capri, in fact was there now, perhaps we should like to see her. We said we should very much.

We had nice, clean comfortable rooms and made out our plan for the next day. We didn't care about the Blue Grotto—we had seen it before, and besides they told us that at this season of the year it would be almost impossible, one must have a perfectly still sea as the entrance is not easy—very low—and a big wave would swamp the boat. We heard the wind getting up a little in the night and we woke the next morning to see a grey, cloudy sky, little showers falling occasionally, and a fine gale, sea rough, no little boats out, one or two fishing boats racing along under well-reefed sails, anything but tempting for a three hours' sail in an open boat. Mother looked decidedly nervous; however the matter was taken out of our hands, for the boatmen appeared saying they would not go out, which was rather a relief; we didn't mind staying. There was a fair library in the house, books that visitors had left, so we hunted up a history of Capri (Baedeker was soon exhausted), and got through our morning pretty well, some reading aloud, the others knitting or working. We had all taken some sort of work in our bags, various experiences of small hotels on rainy days having taught us to provide our own amusement.

It cleared in the afternoon though the wind was still very high and we set off—on donkeys this time—and mother in her chair, to the other side of the island. Two or three girls, handsome enough in their bright skirts, bare brown legs and thick braids of hair, came with us to take charge of the donkeys. As we were going up a steep flight of steps (which the donkeys did very well and deliberately) they began to tell us about Mrs. Norton and said we should pass her house. It was amusing to hear them talk of her wonderful luck in being married to this "bel Inglese"; "adesso fa la signora sta in camera tutto il giorno—colle mani bianche" ("Now she does the lady, sits in her room all day with white hands"). We passed several houses rather better than the ordinary fisherman's cottage and then came upon a nice little white house, standing rather high, with a garden and gate, which they told us was Mrs. Norton's. We stopped a moment at the gate, looking at the garden; mother's bearers put her chair down and gave themselves a rest, and we saw a lady appear very simply dressed in something dark, who came to the gate and asked us in very nice English with a pretty accent if we would come in and rest, as the day was hot and we had had a steep climb. We heard all the fisher-girls giggling and saying "Eccola la Signora." We were half ashamed to have been seen gaping in at her garden, but the invitation was simply and cordially given, and we accepted. Her manner to mother was quite pretty, respectful to the older lady. We went into a pretty little sitting-room quite simply furnished, with books and photographs about. She showed us pictures of all her family, her husband (regretting extremely that he was not there), her mother-in-law, Mrs. Norton, and her children. She seemed very proud of her son, said he was at school in England and didn't care very much for Capri. I asked her if she liked England, and though she said "very much," I thought I detected a regret for her old home, though not perhaps her old life. Her face quite lighted up when we said how much we admired her island with its high cliffs and beautiful blue sea. I didn't find her as handsome as I expected, but the eyes were fine and her smile charming. Her manner was perfectly natural, she showed us very simply all she had, and was not in the least curious about us—asked us no questions, was evidently accustomed to seeing foreigners and tourists at Capri. We stayed about half an hour, and then went on our way. She shook hands with us all, and looked most smilingly at mother; couldn't quite understand her black dress and white cap—said we mustn't let her do too much, "she is not so young as you, la mamma."

Of course the fisher-girls were in a wild state of excitement when we came out—all talked at once, stopping in the middle of the path, the donkeys, too; when they had much to say, and telling the whole story over again. I said to one of them, "Should you like to marry a 'bel Inglese' and go and live in another country far away from Capri with no sun nor blue sky?" She thought a moment, looking straight at me with her big, black eyes and then answered, sensibly enough, my rather foolish question—she had never thought about it—was quite happy where she was. It was a curious meeting.

When we got back to the hotel we asked our padrona about Mrs. Norton and the life she led. She told us Mrs. Norton mère25 had been in despair when her son married the fisher-girl—he was very good-looking and her favourite, and it was a great blow to her, but that she had been very good to her and was fond of the boy. She didn't seem to think the young woman had had a very happy life, but that she was always delighted to get back to Capri. "Did she see any of her old friends?" "Not much—that was difficult—she only came in the summer, the children generally with her, and they fished and sailed and made their own life apart."

We got back to Sorrento the next morning—the sea beautifully smooth and calm—no trace of the great waves that had roared all night into the numerous caves, throwing up showers of foam.

My dear, I seem to have prosed on for pages about Naples, but once started I couldn't stop. Tell Henrietta I feel rather like her when we used to call her Mrs. Nickleby, because she never could keep to any one subject, but always made long, foolish digressions.

Monday, April 13th.

Last night we had a pleasant dinner at Mr. Hooker's, the American banker. He still lives in one end of his apartment in the Palazzo Bonaparte, but has rented the greater part to the Suzannets.26 We were a small party—ourselves, Schuylers, Ristori (Marchesa Caprannica), and her charming daughter. Ristori is very striking looking—very large, but dignified and easy in her movements, and a wonderfully expressive face. The girl, Bianca Caprannica, is charming, tall, fair, graceful. Ristori talked a great deal, speaks French, of course, perfectly. She admires the French stage, and we discussed various actors and actresses. I should love to see her act once, her voice is so full and beautiful. Such a characteristic scene took place after coffee. We were still sitting in the dining-room when we heard a carriage come in, and instantly there was a great sound of stamping horses, angry coachman, whip freely applied, etc. It really made a great noise and disturbance. Ristori listened for a moment, then rushed to the window (very high up—we were on the top story), exclaiming it was her man, opened it, and proceeded to expostulate with the irate coachman in very energetic Italian—"Che diavolo!" were these her horses or his, was he a Christian man to treat poor brutes like that, etc.—a stream of angry remonstrance in her deep, tragic voice. There was a cessation of noise in the court-yard—her voice dominated everything—and then I suppose the coachman explained and excused himself, but we were so high up and inside that we couldn't hear. She didn't listen, but continued to abuse him until at length Hooker went to the window and suggested that she might cease scolding and come back into the room, which she did quite smilingly—the storm had passed.

This morning we have been to the Doria Gallery. The palace is enormous, a great court and staircase and some fine pictures. We liked a portrait by Velasquez of a Pope—Innocent X, I think—and some of the Claude Lorraines, with their curious blue-green color. We walked home by the Corso. It was rather warm, but shady always on one side of the street. After breakfast Cardinal Bibra, the Bishop of Frascati, came to see us. He was much disappointed that we had had such a horrid day for our Frascati and Tusculum expedition, and wants us to go again, but we haven't time. We want to go to Ostia and Albano if it is possible. He and W. plunged into ecclesiastical affairs. It is curious what an importance they all attach to W.'s being a Protestant; seem to think his judgment must be fairer. He also knew about Uncle Evelyn having married and settled in Perugia, and had heard the Pope speak about him. He spoke about the Marquis de Gabriac (Desprez's predecessor) and regretted his departure very much. I think he had not yet seen the new Ambassador. W. told him Desprez would do all he could to make things go smoothly, that his whole career had been made at the Quai d'Orsay, where every important question for years had been discussed with him.

Tuesday, April 14th.

We dined last night at the Black Spanish Embassy with the Cardenas. It was very pleasant. We had two cardinals—Bibra and a Spanish cardinal whose name I didn't catch; he had a striking face, keen and stern, didn't talk much at dinner—Desprez and his son, the Sulmonas, Bandinis, Primolis (she is née Bonaparte), d'Aulnays, all the personnel of the French Embassy, and one or two young men from the other embassies; quite a small dinner. W. took in Princess Sulmona and enjoyed it very much. Primoli took me, and I had Prince Bandini on the other side. Both men were pleasant enough. All the women except me were in high dresses, and Primoli asked me how I had the conscience to appear "décolletée" and show bare shoulders to cardinals. I told him we weren't told that we should meet any cardinals, and that in these troubled days I thought a woman in full dress was such a minor evil that I didn't believe they would even notice what one had on; but he seemed to think they were observant, says all churchmen of any denomination are. Their life is so inactive that they get their experience from what they see and hear. I talked a few minutes to Princess Bandini after dinner, but she went away almost immediately, as she had music (Tosti) at home. We promised to go to her later—I wanted very much to hear Tosti. The evening was short. The cardinals always go away early—at 9.30 (we dined at 7.30, and every one was punctual). As long as they stayed the men made a circle around them. They are treated with much deference (we women were left to our own devices). W. said the conversation was not very interesting, they talk with so much reserve always. He said the Spaniard hardly spoke, and Cardinal Bibra talked antiquities, the excavations still to be made in Tusculum, etc. I think they go out very little now, only occasionally to Black embassies. Their position is of course much changed since the Italians are in Rome. They live much more quietly; never receive, their carriages are much simpler, no more red trappings, nothing to attract attention—so different from our day. When Pio Nono went out it was a real royal progress. First came the "batta strada" or "piqueur" on a good horse, stopping all the carriages and traffic; then the Pope in his handsome coach, one or two ecclesiastics with him, followed by several cardinals in their carriages, minor prelates, members of the household and the escort of "gardes nobles." All the gentlemen got out of their carriages, knelt or bowed very low; the ladies stood in theirs, making low curtseys, and many people knelt in the street. One saw the old man quite distinctly, dressed all in white; leaning forward a little and blessing the crowd with a large sweeping movement of his hand. He rarely walked in the streets of Rome, but often in the villas—Pamphili or Borghese. There almost all the people he met knelt; children kissed his hand, and he would sometimes pat their little black heads. We crossed him one day in the Villa Pamphili. We were a band of youngsters—Roman and foreigners—and all knelt. The old man looked quite pleased at the group of young people—stopped a moment and gave his blessing with a pretty smile. Some of our compatriots were rather horrified at seeing us kneel with all the rest—Protestants doing homage to the head of the Roman Catholic Church—and expressed their opinion to father: it would certainly be a very bad note for my brother.27 However, father didn't think the United States Government would attach much importance to our papal demonstration, and we continued to kneel and ask his blessing whenever we met His Holiness. He had a kind, gentle face (a twinkle, too, in his eyes), and was always so fond of children and young people. The contrast between him and his successor is most striking. Leo XIII is tall, slight, hardly anything earthly about him—the type of the intellectual, ascetic priest—all his will and energy shining out of his eyes, which are extraordinarily bright and keen for a man of his age.

We didn't stay very long after the cardinals left, as I was anxious to get off to Princess Bandini. We found a great many people, and music going on. Some woman had been singing—a foreigner, either English or American—and Tosti was just settled at the piano. He is quite charming; has very little voice, but says his things delightfully, accompanying himself with a light, soft touch. He sang five or six times, principally his own songs, with much expression; also a French song extremely well. His diction is perfect, his style simple and easy. One wonders why every one doesn't sing in the same way. They don't, as we perceived when a man with a big voice, high barytone, came forward, and sang two songs, Italian and German. The voice was fine, and the man sang well, but didn't give half the pleasure that Tosti did with his "voix de compositeur" and wonderful expression. He was introduced to me, and we had a pleasant talk. He loves England, and goes there every season. A good many people came in after us. I wanted to introduce W. to some one and couldn't find him, thought he must have gone, and was just going to say good-night to Princess Bandini when her husband came up, saying, "You mustn't go yet—your husband is deep in a talk with Cardinal Howard," and took me to one of the small salons, where I saw the two gentlemen sitting, talking hard. The Cardinal was just going when we came in, so he intercepted W. and carried him off to this quiet corner where they would be undisturbed. They must have been there quite three-quarters of an hour, for I went back into the music-room, and it was some little time before W. found me there. Every one had gone, but we stayed on a little while, talking to the two Bandinis. It is a funny change for W. to plunge into all this clerical society of Rome; but he says he understands their point de vue much better, now that he sees them here, particularly when both parties can talk quite frankly. It would be almost impossible to have such a talk in France—each side begins with such an evident prejudice. The honest clerical really believes that the liberal is a man absolutely devoid of religious feeling of any kind—a dangerous character, incapable of real patriotic feeling, and doing great harm to his country. The liberal is not quite so narrow-minded; but he, too, in his heart holds the clergy responsible for the want of progress, the narrow grooves they would like the young generation to move in, and the influence they try to exercise in families through the women (who all go to church and confession). With the pitiless logic of the French character every disputed point stands out clear and sharp, and discussion is very difficult. Here they are more supple—leave a larger part to human weaknesses.