Leaving Venice at ten o’clock in the morning, we arrived towards night at Florence, and took an apartment at the Hotel de Russie, with a ceiling ornamented with flying nymphs in a blue sky all over, and an enormous bedstead on the top of which was placed a gigantic wreath of laurel. In my opinion, to sleep under it is an honour which few people deserve on earth.

The next day we went to the Pitti Galleries, to see the Exhibition of old Masters. This museum was formerly maintained by the monks, and the pictures were taken in preference from Scripture subjects, but at present the nude mythological element predominates. In the sculpture section we met a group of curates who were all in a state of sanctimonious adoration before the marble Venus. I could hardly keep from laughing at the sight of these tonsured admirers of art, whose expression of the face, for the moment, could easily serve for a picture representing the temptation of St. Antony. At the entrance of the Medici Chapel, an old curate impeded the passage of the turnstile, searching for his hat, which was hanging by the elastic on his back. Surely the venerable pater had also contemplated rather too much of the marble goddess.

After the Pitti Galleries, we were shown the Palace, maintained by the town, in which King Humbert is received in great ceremony, as a guest, when he comes to Florence. A carriage road leads to each floor separately replacing the elevator. The King was expected in a few days, and a legion of servants were cleaning the hangings and polishing the furniture whilst we went through the Palace.

On our way back we were driven in the “cascine,” landaus, victorias, and open cabs of every variety, all filled with animated people, streamed along the wide road. We met in the park the famous American millionaire perched high upon the seat of his phaeton, who drives every afternoon in the “Cascine” a team of twelve horses, one pair in front of the other.

My old friends the Levdics have taken their abode in Italy having been expatriated by the doctors on account of their health. They spend the winter months in Florence and the summer at Viareggio, a little sea-side resort beyond Florence. We went to see them at Viareggio, and as we knew nothing of their address, we had to go to the post-office for information. Their home is a very pretty one, and the outlook from their terrace on the Mediterranean and the neighbouring mountains is wonderful.

Next day we visited the “Certosa,” a convent situated on a high mountain in the outskirts of Florence. The cloister opens hospitable doors to strangers. We were gallantly received by the monks, who live here a luxurious life. Each monk occupies an apartment of several rooms, with a patch of garden. A tall, stout monk, in flowing white robes, served as guide to us. He conducted us, clacking his sandals on the stone flags, along white bare corridors paved with marble, which echoed to our footsteps. We were taken into a large refectory resembling much more an elegant Parisian restaurant. Then we went to the dormitory where the monks sleep. When our guide ushered us into his bedroom, I stealthily touched his bed and found it far too soft for a recluse. Before leaving the cloister we bought a few bottles of the “certosa liqueur” fabricated by the monks, for which we had to pay a considerable tax before entering Florence. Feeling awfully hungry, we stopped half-way at an “Osteria” when passing through the little town of Galuppi. It was very cool and pleasant here after the dusty road, but our dinner had been uneatable: we had a dish of macaroni swimming in oil, and a fish fried also in oil. Ugh—the horror! Night was approaching and icy cold rain began to fall. We returned to Florence famished and chilled to the very bone. And our room at the hotel was so cold! You feel the cold much more abroad than in Russia, where the houses are much better heated. How I long for our warm Russian stoves!

Profiting by our stay in Florence, Sergy wanted me to be immortalised by brushes and chisels, on canvas and on marble. He ordered my portrait to be taken by Parrini, a well-known painter, and my bust by Romanelli, the famous sculptor, who took us to his “studio,” full of nymphs and cupids and limbs; a moving platform for the model occupied the middle of the room. I had to sit from nine o’clock in the morning until six in the evening, which was rather fatiguing. Whilst Parrini painted my portrait, his wife, Signora Adelgunda, a buxom, pleasant-faced lady, stood behind and generally approved, nodded her head and murmured, caressing her husband’s cheek, “Bene, bene, caro, Beppé.” Signora Adelgunda was also a painter, and had exhibited several times. She has watched for eight years the right to obtain the first place to copy Rafaele’s Madonna at the Pitti Galleries. Her picture had found its way into the Museum and was sold for the sum of two thousand francs. Parrini, during the sittings, told me little humorous things he could think of, trying to keep me amused. I laughed very much when he related to me that he had just received from America the photographs of a gentleman and his wife who wanted to have their portraits painted conformably to these photos, only the gentleman wished to be reproduced with less hair on his head and ten years more on his shoulders, whilst his spouse, on the contrary, wanted him to drop ten years of her age. Parrini related to me that when Mme. Lebrun, the celebrated lady-painter, in her old age, visited the Pitti Galleries and saw an oil painting of her, reproducing her young and beautiful, the poor woman had a fit of hysterics and nearly fainted away. Yes, certainly, it must not be pleasant to grow old, especially when one has been gifted by good looks. I felt very flattered when Parrini told me in his artistic language, that like Mme. Lebrun my face had warm and cold touches. Shall I ever fall into a swoon, if I ever reach old age, when looking at my portrait painted by Parrini, I wonder? The Parrinis have got a little son named Mario, a premature painter, who puts paint on the doors, walls and statues which adorn his father’s “studio.” He is a very lively and noisy little boy, who gives trouble and puts things out of place. His last exploit was to daub with red paint the statue of the daughter of Niobe, and to adorn her beautiful face with long black moustaches. Romanelli is over seventy years old but carries them lightly on his shoulders. He wears a red scarf round his throat, carpet slippers, and a black velvet “calotte” pushed off on the back of his bald head. At my first sitting I felt rather shy when the sculptor placed me in a seat standing on the turning pedestal, but at the second sitting it went off all right, I mounted bravely on my elevated throne. The bust of a young woman, made in clay, stood on my right hand and Romanelli modelled it here and there, according to my features, diminishing or adding small bits of clay. Sitting for my bust made me sleepy, and I waited impatiently when Romanelli, who was careful not to overtire me, would tell me to have a rest. Then I rose and went out into the garden, stiff with long sitting. I yawned and stretched my arms wearily and five minutes after I resumed my place on the “dais.” When the turn came for my neck to be modelled, Romanelli told me to unbutton the upper part of my bodice, which made me burn with shame. The old sculptor laughed and said that he had lost the number of all the necks, a great deal more low-bodied than mine, which had served for models to him during his long artistic life. My bust advanced rapidly and the likeness was perfect, but Sergy, who had only too flattering an opinion of me in every way, and was very hard to please according to what concerned my precious person, found that the head was not well put on, and the back not sufficiently straight, and when Romanelli agreeably to his demands, began to take off layers of clay from my bust’s back, Sergy turned away shuddering: it seemed to him as if I was being carved alive. Romanelli declared finally that the head had to be separated from the bust in order to place it more backwards; my husband would not consent to be present at this bloodless operation and carried me away promptly, when we returned an hour later, we found the head in its proper place again. My bust in clay was now completed and Romanelli promised to send to Moscow for Christmas my bust made in marble. The lump of clay representing the bust of a young woman, which Romanelli manipulated according to my features, is transformed now, for another sitting, into a bust of a wrinkled old man. My portrait will be ready for Christmas also.