From Turin we went to Milan, where we lapsed into the
regular routine of Italian society, so remarkable for the exquisite
amenity of its old civilization (as far as manners are concerned), and
for the stiffness and mediaeval semi-barbarism of its surroundings.
As an instance of this we had occasion to call on a personage to whom
we had letters of introduction. We sent in our letters with a visiting-
card by the porter, asking when we should call. The reply was, "Va
bene," which was pleasant, but vague. We took heart of grace, and asked
at the door, "Is the Signor Conte visible?" The janitor replied, "His
Excellency receives at 8 o'clock p.m." We replied, "At that time we
shall be on the railway." The domestic, with leisurely movement, left
us in the hall, and dawdled upstairs to report the remarkable case of
the importunate English. By-and-by he returned, and showed us into the
saloon, a huge, bare, fireless room, with a few grotesque photographs
and French prints on the walls, and a stiff green sofa and chairs.
The Signor Conte kept us waiting twenty minutes, whilst he shaved and
exchanged his dressing-gown for the suit of sables which is the correct
raiment of the Latin race. Nothing could be more polished than his
manners. He received us with a cordiality which at once won our hearts.
But we were introduced to him by a bosom friend; our pursuits and tastes
were the same. Why then could not he ask us up to his cosy study to
give us coffee and a cigarette? "Sarebbe proprio indecente" ("It would
really be too rude"), was the reply, although both he and we would have
liked it extremely.
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