Sunday, 29 April 1877

It was only at the moment of leaving that I felt a hint of regret for the striped door curtains and for the whole hotel in general, which is so closely bound up with everything that brought my stay in Naples to life.
For travelling I am in a brown dress, drawn in at the waist by an Egyptian braid, black boots and gloves, and a man’s hat of black felt. At my side, a yellow leather belt-purse.
Doenhoff thinks it better than the white; he is a Prussian.
At the station we found Zunica, Caracciolo and the son of La Piedimonte. It was half past eight. Leaving at nine, we reach Caserta within the hour, and there we wait for the four o’clock train that takes us to Florence. In this way we shall have seen Caserta.
I feel as if I were going on an excursion and should be back in Naples tomorrow.
While we were waiting at the station I had told myself: if Melissano and Campomarino come, such and such a thing will happen. And since they did not come, I found the time very long from Naples to the famous Cancello.
We left Rosalie and the luggage at the station and went to visit the more or less magnificent apartments of the Italian Versailles... The sincere high spirits and kindness of the children putting me at my ease, I was looking at the walls and ceilings and making my remarks, when at the far end of that splendid suite of rooms we saw Campomarino arrive at a gallop, in the classic attitude of a racehorse, and behind him Melissano at a gentle trot. This entrance had such a merry effect that, quite forgetting myself, I bent down and held out my hands to them, as I am in the habit of doing for Prater.
— We have come from Naples! cries Melissano.
— By carriage, cries Campomarino.
— In a Neapolitan cart!
— The horse was going like this!
— It was bolting with us!
— It is that Melissano who made me miss the train!
— Well, here you are, that is all we need; what a pleasant surprise.
In spite of this amiable exclamation, Campomarino, the most interesting of them all, pays court to Dina. It would not matter to me if Maman did not see it, but she did see it, pitied me, and was envious! On the other hand, I have all the others. The luncheon was exceedingly merry; one felt that everyone was enjoying themselves — nothing strained, nothing awkward. I told stories that ended in explosions of unrestrained hilarity, which Melissano heightened still further by eating macaroni the Neapolitan way, that is to say, endlessly. All this will be recounted with enthusiasm by these young men, and the thought of it sharpened my wit.
We took the carriage by storm; there were six of us, and Maman followed with Porcinari or Zunica. Everything favoured this day of farewells — the place we had chosen, the weather, the moods... In a word, it was gay, amusing, graceful, mad, as outings in the country ought to be, in countryside as enchanted as the park at Caserta.
Once in the grotto we inscribe our names, Melissano hoisting Zunica up, Campomarino knocking Caracciolo over, and under the fine spray of the cascade we found a society, to be called the Madmen of Caserta.
It was so pleasant, so lovely, everyone seemed so merry, that I enjoyed myself ten times more... that is to say, at Sorrento I was bored, whereas here I enjoyed myself. So it had to happen to me one day — to be surrounded as in books, to go on outings in the country, to laugh — all that, in short, all that sort of thing as the English say. The little lake shaded with greenery, with the crouching Venus rising out of those velvety plants, is a dream of beauty; there, just at the entrance, someone found a snake, and everyone jumped over it and fled so far that several ran hands first into the columns of the rotunda.
Maman stayed in the carriage and could not see Campomarino’s attentions to me — as if on purpose!
At last, to crown this day of laughter, wit and those small liberties permitted in the country that draw people so close, we had ourselves photographed all together, sitting and standing, on the ground or otherwise, with Melissano crouching in the centre, his neck stretched out and his eyes raised towards me, as in the days when he went into his raptures before he knew me.
At four o’clock Caracciolo, Zunica and little Piedimonte (he is twenty) took the Naples train, and once they were in the cage Melissano, true to his mania, went and teased them with his cane like monkeys in a menagerie. This great ape and Campomarino stay behind to see us off.
On all sides there are leave-takings, with protestations, civilities, promises to write, and above all we are made to promise to telegraph the moment we arrive, so that letters can reach us; that is natural enough.
— Do not die while we are away!
— Come back!
— Prince, do not grow too fat with joy.
— He is getting thinner already.
— He eats too little.
— Let us weep!
— A companion piece to the cascade at Caserta!
We cared little for the other travellers — the gallery, as they say — who watched and listened to us in their grey caps, with their bags and their coloured shirts; what an ugly animal a traveller is. Melissano has had another telegram from Alexandre... Farnese, having laid Flanders low... pay no attention, it is a reminiscence of Caserta, and it served me for a quip.
Of my calm and luminous two and a half months in Naples nothing remains to me, not even a regret, not even a vague wish to go back one day. It was good, thanks be to Providence, and that is all.
Difficulties chill my ardour, annoyances disgust me, although the contrary has often been asserted.
I entered Florence laughing. Just think — in the same town as Monsieur the coachman and Mme la Coquine, and the little girl, and Niccolini, etc.!
Two years ago Florence had already made an excellent impression on me, and today I like it even better. Those fine, severe houses, those clean streets, that architecture which, in spite of everything, has kept a tinge of Michelangelo’s genius — all this is, I assure you, most imposing after the rags and tatters of Naples. We look at three hotels and come back to the first, that is, the Hôtel de la Paix. What is unbearable is the frightful noise of the Arno, which just in front of our windows forms a... cascade — no, what does one call it? Well, I note the effect; the cause is no business of mine.
Ah! what a pleasure, after a sixteen-hour journey, to wash!
Every moment I feel like saying how pleased I am with the last quarter of my life; it has been the first, the only happy and decent one. And such a charming ending! So I arrived in Florence in the best frame of mind in the world, and as a result I lavish care on myself: not content with washing as usual, I have myself anointed with a white, scented cream that Walitsky made up for me, without white lead or other harmful things, and on top of it I powder myself. It is refreshing and does the skin good. Now, you know, I have nothing in this world but my skin.
All of a sudden I turn coquettish; after three months of neglect I dress and do my hair with care, and I am transformed. That is more like it! I am beginning to find myself again!
Everything in Florence is clean, grand and beautiful, even the hired landaus.
And first of all I have us driven past no. 19 Via Tornabuoni, the Palazzo Larderel. Only three windows wide, but massive and handsome. A little before we reached it we passed an elegant equipage driven by an officer, with a lady beside him. Mutual recognition: the Count of Mirafiore and his wife.
People compare Naples with Paris; certainly they are the two towns least alike, except in their bustle, and even that is quite different there. If everything absolutely must be compared with Paris, I shall compare Florence with it — rich, elegant, beautiful, and yet seeming to have kept something of the old severity, even in its inhabitants, who cannot be anything but modern, what the deuce! The Cascine is one of the most agreeable promenades in the world, and how pleasantly this lovely garden strikes one after the Chiaja, so slovenly in spite of the Villa Reale!
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The difference is felt in everything, and the eye rests comfortably on the well-fed coachmen and horses, on the carriages with coats of arms, well varnished, elegant, comfortable, after the preposterous hired carriages of Naples, the nags, the liveries too wide for their wearers...
We make our effect as new arrivals, and perhaps also as pretty women, and no sooner has our carriage stopped among the others than it arouses a curiosity as reasonable and calm as everything in Florence. It is precisely because of this outward calm that people are so gay here.
Young and old were prowling round us without seeming to, when Marcuard came up to us. He had just left the Countess de Larderel, née Salviati, whom I looked at carefully so as to know her again, and a few minutes later I had the privilege of contemplating Monsieur her husband, Count Gaston de Larderel — rather fat, fair, white and pink. Except for the mother, I know them all, and I must say here that this charming family paid me a good deal of attention during the promenade. Mme de Mirafiore above all looked at me a great deal while chatting, or rather while telling something to an old lady whom I take to be her mother.
written across the page
It was her mother.
I should very much like to know what it was about — my... interview with His Majesty, or else... Alexandre. I am afraid they may do me harm here. The sister is a pretty person, very pretty indeed. It will be a pity if she turns spiteful. I have done nothing to her. Let them say anything in the world except... well, let no one take me for an adventuress, a husband-hunter. They will say I am in love with their Alexandre... if they do not know everything, they may well think the contrary, like the coachman and the others. The coachman, the keeper, has certainly reported to the Countess; it was he, too, who prepared Séraphin so well that the valet was only waiting for the day to be fixed.
So long as it does me no harm — I am so content in Florence, Larderel apart. I feel so happy; let this Alexandre do as he pleases, so long as he does me no harm. For a week I have been persuading myself that it was not love and that what was is no more, and here I am, almost persuaded.
Rome and Florence. To you, my preference.
But I notice that all the men wear their hats tilted slightly back. That must be due to the influence of the climate, for as we drew near Florence my hat ended up on the nape of my neck, no doubt through the influence of the air.

Notes

In Italian in the original: carricolo — a Neapolitan two-wheeled cart, famously overloaded with passengers. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
In Italian in the original, with the French article: le custode — the keeper or caretaker. ↩