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Transcriber's note:

      Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

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      In Part II (page 303) "I^{er}" represents "I" followed by
      superscripted "er".





ITALIAN LETTERS OF A DIPLOMAT'S WIFE

       *       *       *       *       *


7th EDITION

LETTERS OF A
DIPLOMAT'S WIFE

By MARY KING WADDINGTON

"A most interesting book of gossip, which, considered
from the point of view of the general
public, contains not a dull line from the first to the
last. The letters have all the freshness of the
best class of feminine correspondence."

--_London Athenæum_.

Illustrated. 8vo. $2.50 Net

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS


       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: Elena, Queen of Italy.]


ITALIAN LETTERS OF A DIPLOMAT'S WIFE

January-May, 1880
February-April, 1904

by

MARY KING WADDINGTON

Illustrated from Drawings and Photographs







Charles Scribner's Sons
New York :: :: :: :: :: :: 1905

Copyright, 1905, by
Charles Scribner's Sons

Published, March, 1905

Trow Directory
Printing and Bookbinding Company
New York




NOTE


In December, 1879, M. William Henry Waddington resigned the Premiership
of France, and the following month, accompanied by his wife, left Paris
for a winter of rest and recreation in Italy, chiefly in Rome. The
letters from Madame Waddington to her mother and sister, which
constitute "Part I" of this volume, describe this journey and residence.
Those forming "Part II" relate the incidents of a similar Roman sojourn
some twenty years later, M. Waddington having died in the meantime. The
two series together compose a picture of life and society in the Italian
capital with a wide range of contrast and comparison, corresponding with
those of London and Moscow in the well-known "Letters of a Diplomat's
Wife" by the same writer.




ILLUSTRATIONS


  ELENA, QUEEN OF ITALY                         _Frontispiece_

                                                        FACING
                                                          PAGE

  MRS. CHARLES KING                                         12

  PRESIDENT CHARLES KING OF COLUMBIA COLLEGE, NEW
     YORK CITY                                              30

  THE SPANISH STEPS                                         52
     _In the Piazza di Spagna, Rome._

  POPE LEO XIII.                                            60

  KING HUMBERT OF ITALY                                     66

  QUEEN MARGHERITA OF ITALY                                 76

  QUEEN MARGHERITA AND KING HUMBERT                         84

  QUEEN MARGHERITA AND THE PRINCE OF NAPLES
     (PRESENT KING OF ITALY) IN 1880                        94

  VICTORIA, CROWN PRINCESS OF GERMANY                      104

  GARDENS OF THE VILLA TORLONIS, FORMERLY VILLA
     CONTI, FRASCATI, OPPOSITE THE VILLA MARCONI,
     WHERE WE SPENT THE SUMMER OF 1867                     108

  TOMB OF VINICIANO, BETWEEN FRASCATI AND TUSCULUM         112

  GROUNDS OF THE VILLA DORIA-PAMPHILI, ROME                116
     _From an unpublished photograph taken about 1869._

  POPE PIUS IX.                                            145

  LAST BENEDICTION OF POPE PIUS IX. FROM THE
     BALCONY OF ST. PETER'S                                158

  ST. PETER'S FROM THE PINCIO                              172

  THE BARBERINI PALACE                                     238
     _The residence of the Storys_

  VICTOR EMANUEL III., KING OF ITALY                       244

  POPE PIUS X.                                             250

  GREAT NEW BRIDGE FROM ALBANO TO ARICCIA                  264
     _Built by Pope Pius IX_.

  ROMAN HUNTSMEN ON THE CAMPAGNA                           266
     _Ancient Roman aqueduct in the background_

  WAITING FOR THE HOUNDS                                   268

  CARDINAL ANTONELLI                                       288
     _From a portrait painted for the Grand Duke of
     Saxe-Weimar. From a photograph given to Madame
     Waddington by the Hereditary Grand Duchess of
     Saxe-Weimar at Rome._

  THE DINING-ROOM IN THE BRANCACCIO PALACE                 304




ITALIAN LETTERS
OF A DIPLOMAT'S WIFE




PART I

                      ITALY IN THE EIGHTIES


                        _To G. K. S._[1]

                                      31, RUE DUMONT D'URVILLE, PARIS,
                                                     January 10, 1880.

Well, dear, here I am back again in my little hotel, and very small and
uncomfortable it looks--like a doll's house after the enormous rooms of
the Quai d'Orsay--however I am very glad to be a _private_ individual
once more (no longer a "femme publique" as our friend used to say). Our
departure was hurried, as once W.[2] had made up his mind and resigned
he wanted to get away at once. We got off in two days, which I thought
quite wonderful. Of course ever since the opening of the session in
November it was evident that he couldn't stay. He and his Ministers were
hardly ever agreed on any point, and it wasn't worth while for him to
spend his energy and intelligence in trying to carry out a policy which
neither the Chamber nor the country apparently desired. There were
endless conferences all through December, but it was clear that it was
time for him to go.

[1] Mrs. Eugene Schuyler, née King.

[2] W. here and throughout these letters refers to M. William Henry
Waddington, Madame Waddington's husband.

The weather was something awful--bitterly cold--the Seine frozen tight,
booths and games established, and everybody sliding about and trying to
skate--but that was under difficulties as the ice was rough and uneven.
I walked over with Francis,[3] that he might say he had walked across
the Seine. We had great difficulty in warming the house--many trains
with wood and coal were blocked just outside Paris, and nothing could
get in. I don't know what we should have done, but happily the Ministre
de la Guerre gave us an order to take some wood from some dépôt in Paris
where they had a provision; so for the two days before we moved in great
fires were going in the calorifère. I really think the only person who
hated to leave the Quai d'Orsay was Francis. He was furious at seeing
all his things packed up, and was carried out to the carriage kicking
and screaming--"veux pas quitter ma maison--veux pas aller vilaine
petite maison." The huissiers (6, all standing solemnly in a row to say
good-bye) were much impressed, and the old grey-headed Pierson who has
been there for years and seen many Ministers depart, remarked--"au moins
Monsieur Francis est désolé de partir." It seemed funny to drive out of
the big gates for the last time. I wonder if I shall ever go through
them again. Things go so quickly in France now.

[3] Francis, son of M. and Madame Waddington.

You can't conceive anything more uncomfortable than this house
to-day--no carpets down nor curtains up; all the furniture, books, rugs,
dumped in the middle of the rooms, and the hall and corridors full of
trunks and boxes. W. has had a steady stream of people ever since we
arrived--some to condole--some (old friends) to congratulate him upon no
longer serving such an infecte government--some a little embarrassed to
explain that, though they regret him extremely, still ... they must
serve their country, and hope he won't take it amiss if they make up to
the rising sun (in the shape of Freycinet, who has taken W.'s place). I
expect we shall have some curious experiences. When one is no longer in
power it is surprising how things change their aspect. I had to settle
the salons as soon as I could as I had invited a big party for Francis's
Christmas Tree, thinking it would be at the Quai d'Orsay. I didn't want
to put the people off--particularly the diplomatists who have all been
most civil and proper--so after a consultation with Kruft--(chef du
matériel at the Quai d'Orsay) who had already begun to make his
preparations, I decided to have it here, and Kruft and one of his men
came and helped dress it. Of course the tree had to be cut at the
top--our rooms are fairly high, but nothing like the Quai d'Orsay
naturally--but it looked rather prettier, quite covered with toys and
shiny ornaments. Francis had beautiful presents--a hand-organ with a
monkey on top from Madame Sibbern, the wife of the Swedish Minister,
from which he can't be extracted. He can't turn it alone, but some of
the bigger children helped him, and we had the "Cloches de Corneville"
and "Niniche" almost all the afternoon. There were about 100 people,
children and parents, and the rooms looked pretty. All the people and
lights warmed them too--it wasn't quite so Siberian. We couldn't attempt
cooking of any kind as the kitchen range was out of order, and besides
we hadn't fuel enough--l'Oncle Alphonse[4] who lives next door feeds us.
W. and I go to him for breakfast and dinner, and his chef (a very
distinguished artist and well dressed gentleman--quite a superior
person--Monsieur Double) submits Francis's menu every morning to Nounou,
as he says he has no experience with children.

[4] M. Alphonse Sutteroth, ancien diplomatist under Louis Philippe.

We have decided to go to Italy for two or three months, and shall make
Rome our headquarters. W. has never been there, and says it wouldn't be
worth while going for less than three months. What fun it will be to be
there together--I can hardly believe it is true. I am sure we are wise
to get away. There must always be little jarring things when one has
been in office some time--and it would be rather a bore to W. to take
his place as senator and be in opposition to the present Ministry. If he
stayed in Paris he would have to take part in all the discussions, and
would certainly be interviewed by all sorts of people to whom he would
say nothing (he never does--he hates newspaper people) but they would
say he did all the same, and so many people believe implicitly whatever
they see in a paper. The Minister has offered W. the London Embassy, but
he won't take it, doesn't wish to have any function of any kind at
present. He is looking forward to long, happy hours in Rome, deciphering
all the old inscriptions, and going over the old city with Lanciani[5]
and some of his literary friends.

[5] Director of Excavations in Rome under Rossi.


                                                     January 12, 1880.

After all I have been back to the Quai d'Orsay. W. said I must go and
make a formal visit to Madame de Freycinet (who is a very nice woman--a
Protestant, and has one daughter--a charming intelligent girl).
Henrietta and I went together, taking Francis with us, who was delighted
as soon as he got to the Place de la Concorde and crossed the
bridge--"C'est Paris--C'est Paris." Poor little boy--the rue Dumont
d'Urville is so quiet, nothing passing and nothing to see when he looks
out of the window. He was always at the window at the Quai d'Orsay
looking at the boats, the soldiers, and the general liveliness of a
great thoroughfare. It was a funny sensation to go and pay a visit to
Madame de Freycinet in the little blue salon where I had received her so
often, and to be announced by my own pet huissier, Gérard, who spent his
life all the time I was at the Quai d'Orsay sitting outside the door of
any room I happened to be in. He knew all my visitors--those I wanted to
see and those I didn't--kept all the cards, and books, and remembered
every quête I had given to--and the bills that had been paid. I don't
remember that he ever occupied himself with my garments, but I am sure
that he could have found anything that I asked for.

The house is gradually getting warm and comfortable, and the furniture
settling into its place; but I have a curious feeling of smallness--as
if I hadn't room to turn. We hope to get off in three or four days. We
leave Francis of course, but Nounou and Hubert will look after him, and
he will go to breakfast every day with Mother, where of course he will
be well spoiled and have everything he asks for.


                              _To G. K. S._

                                                     January 18, 1880.

I hope we shall get off now in a day or two--W. really needs the rest,
which he never will get here as all day long people come to see him and
suggest various plans. We have written to the Hôtel de Londres. You or
Eugene might go there some day and see the rooms they propose. It will
be nice to be back in our old quarters Piazza di Spagna. We had a
pleasant small dinner last night at the British Embassy--Lord Lyons is
always so nice and cordial. He was a little surprised and not _quite_
pleased that W. hadn't accepted the London Embassy, he would have been
so entirely a "persona grata" with his English education, connections,
etc. All the Diplomates seem to regret us (but I think they will like
the Freycinets just as much) and really here, where Ministers are such
passing figures in the political world, they would have a hard time if
they set their affections on any particular man.

I am becoming very philosophical--though the attitude of some of my
friends has rather surprised me (not W.; he is never surprised at
anything). L'Oncle Alphonse keeps us well informed of what is said on
the other side. He is quite a Royalist, a great friend of the Orléans
Princes, and a great deal at the club where they always call him
"l'oncle du gouvernement"--and when the "gouvernement makes a 'bêtise'"
(which sometimes happens) they criticize freely, and he tells it all to
us. I fancy he always defends W. in public--but of course in private
pitches into him well.

I rather miss the big life--seeing so many people, and being as it were
behind the scenes--also our conversations at night when W. had finished
his signatures, and Pontécoulant[6] came up from his quarters with the
report of the day, and got his instructions for the next morning. W. is
not at all "matinal" and hates doing any kind of business early--must
always have his ride first. We used to sit in W.'s cabinet until two in
the morning sometimes, telling our experiences--some of mine were funny.
I hated an official reception day, but the gentlemen of the protocol
department thought it absolutely necessary, so I was obliged to give
in--and certainly nothing I did tired me so much as those long Fridays
in the big yellow drawing-room. From 3 to 6 streams of people--women
mostly--of all nationalities--and of course no conversation
possible--however it wasn't always banal, as you will see.

[6] Comte de Pontécoulant, chef de Cabinet.

Our last Friday one of my friends had been in, very much taken up with
the journey to Rome--her clothes, the climate, which hotel was the best,
etc. When she went out in a whirl of talk and excitement I turned to one
of the 14 women who were seated in a semicircle on each side of me, and
by way of continuing the conversation said: "Il me semble qu'on serait
très bien à l'Hôtel de Londres à Rome en plein soleil," to which she
replied haughtily "Je n'en sais rien, Madame, je n'ai jamais quitté
Paris, et je m'en vante." W. wouldn't believe it, but as I told him I
couldn't have invented it. I was rather sorry I hadn't pursued the
conversation, and asked her why she was so proud of that particular
phase of her life. I suppose she must have had a reason, which naturally
I couldn't understand, having begun my career so very far away from
either Rome or Paris. It is a real pleasure though to be back in my own
salon, and have my nice little tea-table, and three or four of my
friends, and talk about anything and everything, and even do a little
music occasionally.


                                                     January 20, 1880.

I didn't find my tea quite so pleasant the other day. I was sitting in
the little salon talking to one or two ladies, and receiving their
congratulations at being no longer of the official world, and obliged to
associate with the Government people, when the footman appeared with his
eyes round, to announce that "La Présidente" (Madame Grévy) was coming
upstairs to pay Madame a visit. I flew to the door and the top of the
stairs (I couldn't get any further) and received "ma Présidente" in
proper style. I ushered her into the salon where I had left my friends
(mad Royalists both). They were much disgusted--however they were too
well-bred to make things disagreeable for me in my own house--and rose
when we came in. I named Madame Grévy--and as soon as she had taken her
seat, and declined a cup of tea, they went away. Of course they _hated_
getting up for Madame Grévy, but there was nothing else to be done as
she and I were both standing. Happily no one else came in but Prince
Orloff, Russian Ambassador, who of course knew Madame Grévy and talked
easily enough. She didn't stay long--it was the classic "visite de
condoléance" to the wife of the ex-Minister (if she only knew how glad
this _Ex_ was to return to private life and her own house, and to be no
longer "logée par le gouvernement"). This is the second visit of
condoléance I have had. When Marshal MacMahon dismissed (suddenly) all
his cabinet presided by Jules Simon, 16th of May, 1877, Madame de
MacMahon came also to see me--and at the same time--5 o'clock on my
reception day--so I knew precisely what the conversation would be--and
Madame Grévy and I both said exactly the same things that the Maréchale
and I had said two or three years ago. I suppose everybody does say the
same thing on certain occasions. After she had gone Orloff asked me if I
remembered those two ladies meeting (for the first time in their lives)
at the Quai d'Orsay on one of my Fridays. Just after the Marshal
resigned Madame de MacMahon came to see me. She was announced by all the
servants and I had plenty of time to get to the door of the first
drawing-room, not quite to the anteroom, to receive her. When her
husband was President she was received always like Royalty--at the door
of the apartment. She was very simple and easy, quite pleased evidently
at still having all her honours. Prince Orloff came in to pay a visit,
and we were having a very pleasant talk, when I heard quick footsteps in
the second salon, and again appeared my faithful Gérard (I had also
visions of numberless doors being opened all down the enfilade of
salons) announcing Madame Grévy. I was embarrassed for a moment as I
didn't like to leave the Maréchale, and yet I knew I must go and meet
Madame Grévy--all the ceremony of course was for the official position,
and one Présidente was just the same as the other. Madame de MacMahon
was most amiable--said at once--"Je vous en prie, Madame, ne pensez pas
à moi"--and "au fond" was rather curious to see her successor. I went as
quickly as I could (Orloff giving me a funny little smile, _almost_ a
wink, as I passed him) and got my other Présidente just at the door. She
was rather astounded I think at her reception--she hadn't been long in
her exalted position. We proceeded majestically through three or four
salons, and when we arrived at my drawing-room Madame de MacMahon got up
at once, saying quite simply "Voulez-vous me présenter, Madame, à Madame
Grévy?" She was quite at her ease--Madame Grévy rather shy and
embarrassed--however Madame de MacMahon talked at once about some of the
great charities, artists, etc., and it really wasn't too stiff--Orloff
of course always helping and making jokes with the two ladies. One or
two visitors came in and gasped when they saw the situation--also one of
the young men of the Cabinet, who instantly disappeared. I always
thought he went to tell W. what was happening upstairs so that he might
come to the rescue in case I wasn't up to the mark ... but he swears he
didn't. When the Maréchale got up to go there was again a complication
as I wanted to accompany her to the door, and I didn't like to leave
Madame Grévy. She wouldn't hear of my going through all the salons--took
leave of me at the door--and then Orloff came to the rescue--gave her
his arm and took her to her carriage. It was a curious meeting, and, as
Orloff said just now, "je lui devais une fameuse chandelle."[7]

[7] French idiom difficult to translate, meaning "I ought to be very
grateful to him."


                                                     February 6, 1880.

We are starting to-night, straight for Florence, where we shall stay a
week or ten days with the Bunsens before going on to Rome. W. is much
pleased at the Roman prospect--and I can hardly believe that I am going
to see Rome again. We have our lit-salon straight through to Florence,
and I hope we shall be warm enough. It is bitterly cold to-day--even
walking I was glad to have my sealskin coat. Nounou is rather tearful at
being left in sole charge of Francis, but as that young gentleman is
perfectly well, in roaring spirits, and will be given everything his
heart desires by his Grandmother and Aunts, I don't feel very unhappy
about him. It seems incredible that we should be going to meet soon. How
we will prowl about Rome. I suppose I shall find it absolutely
changed--so many more people--not our dear old dead Rome.

[Illustration: Mrs. Charles King.]


                         _To H. L. K._[8]

                                FLORENCE, VIA ROMANA, VILLA MCDONNELL,
                                                     February 8, 1880.

We arrived quite comfortably, dear mother, but almost frozen,
particularly W. He has not been extracted from the fire since we got
here. Henrietta will have told you of our start. Pontécoulant and one or
two men were at the station to see us off--also the Chef de Gare, most
civil, and saying we should not be disturbed at the frontier--and
that our coupé-lit would take us straight through to Florence. We had a
perfectly easy journey, and I slept quite peacefully--waking up merely
when we passed through the tunnel, as the guard came in to shut all the
windows. It was a beautiful, cold, starlight winter night. The great
mountains covered with snow looked gigantic as we approached--"sinistres"
as Madame Hubert[9] said. She was much impressed and rather nervous. There
were very few people in the train. When we arrived at Modane the Chef de
Gare was waiting for us--he had been telegraphed from Paris to expect us.
We had breakfast in the private room, and a nice woman was waiting for us
upstairs in the ladies' room with hot water, towels, etc. I made quite a
toilet--she carried off my dress and jacket to brush--and then we went
down to a nice little breakfast which tasted very good, as I hadn't
had anything since our 7 o'clock dinner. They offered us coffee
somewhere--Dijon I think--but I didn't want anything then. All the first
part of the road--in fact all the road to Turin was lovely. It was a
bright, cold morning, and the snow mountains looked beautiful. It was
such a pleasure to hear Italian once more--even the names at the stations
"capo stazione"--"grande velocità"--"uscita," etc., also the shrill
"partenza" when we started. The last time I crossed the Mont Cenis was
by the Fell railway when we all started together from Aix. That was
certainly very beautiful--but rather terrifying--particularly as we neared
the top and looked at the steep places and the various zigzags we were
to follow going down. One couldn't help feeling that if a brake or chain
broke there would be a terrible catastrophe. I remember so well some of
the women who were quite sea-sick--the swaying motion, I suppose, as we
rounded the curves, of which there were many. I can see one now stretched
out on the floor on a rug in the small salle d'attente at Susa, quite
exhausted and absolutely indifferent to the outside world.

[8] Mrs. Charles King, mother of Madame Waddington.

[9] Madame Waddington's maid.

We had quite a wait at Turin. Our coupé was detached and put on the
Florence express. They locked the doors, and we left all our
things--books, shawls, bags, etc.--and had a very fair dinner at the
buffet. We had so much time that Madame Hubert and I went for a little
walk. There was not much to see close to the gare--but it was delightful
to me to hear Italian again, and to see the idle, placid crowd standing
about--nobody in a hurry apparently, and nobody jostling and pushing
through, though there were trains starting or coming in all the time. W.
was too cold to move--he really should have had a fur coat--which he
utterly despises--says that will do when he is 70, and can't walk any
more. It was warm and fairly light in the buffet so he established
himself there with a paper and was quite happy. We got here about
6.30--Charles de Bunsen was at the station with a carriage--so we came
off at once, leaving Madame Hubert and Francesco with the trunks. How
she will get on in Italian I don't know, but she is very active and
débrouillarde, and generally makes herself understood. Mary[10] was
waiting for us with tea and those crisp little grissini[11] we always
used to have in Casa Guadagni. They have a charming "villino"--part of
the McDonnell villa. One goes in by a small door (in one of the narrow
grey streets of old Florence, with high walls on each side--Via Romana)
and straight up a fine broad staircase to a good palier with large high
rooms opening out on it. All the bed-rooms and small salon open on a
loggia overlooking the garden--a real old Italian garden. I shall never
be dressed in time for anything in the morning, as I am always on the
loggia. The flowers are all coming out--the birds singing--the sky
bright, deep blue--and the whole atmosphere so soft and clear--and in
fact Italian--different from everything else.

[10] Madame de Bunsen, née Waddington.

[11] Long crisp breads one has in Italy.

Mary has arranged the small salon (which they always sit in) most
prettily and comfortably--with bibelots and quantities of books about in
all languages--there are usually four going in the establishment--Charles
and his daughter speak always German to each other--the rest of us either
French or English--it depends rather upon what we are talking about--and
always an undercurrent of Italian with the servants and "parlatrice"
(such a sweet, refined looking girl who comes every day to read and
speak Italian with my belle-mère). Mrs. Waddington strikes at the mixture
at meals and insists upon one language, either English or French. There
is also a charming German girl here, Mlle. de Sternberg, a niece of
Charles de Bunsen--so we are a most cosmopolitan household. The life
is utterly different from the one I have been leading for the last two
years.


                             _To H. L. K._

                                                    February 10, 1880.

I try and write every day, but am so much taken up and so tired when I
come in that I don't always find the moment. W. is all right again. He
really got quite a chill from the cold night journey--and for two or
three days sat _in_ the fire. Francesco, the Italian servant, took
excellent care of him--was so sympathetic the night we had some music
and W. couldn't appear. It was a pleasant evening--a Russian Prince (I
forget his name, and couldn't probably spell it if I remembered), a
great friend of Mary's, an excellent musician and a great Wagnerian
offered to come and play some of the Nibelungen. I was delighted as I
only know Tannhäuser and Lohengrin. I remember now your sigh of relief
when Seilern and I finished playing à 4 mains the Walpurgis Night years
ago in the Champs Elysées. I daresay it was trying for the public--but
we enjoyed ourselves immensely. The big drawing-room looked very pretty,
with plenty of flowers, and I think there were about 50 people--almost
all (except Lottie and Madame de Tchiatcheff) ardent admirers of the
great man. One lady appeared in a sort of loose, red gown (it seems red
is the only colour Wagner admits), her hair, very pretty, blonde,
hanging down her back, just tied with a ribbon--and carrying two
partitions. Mary said, "Wouldn't you like to sit by her, and she will
explain it all to you?"--but I said there was nothing I would like so
little. I knew enough of the legend to be able to follow, and moreover I
had always heard that Wagner's descriptive music was so wonderful that
one understood everything without any text, etc. The great man
appeared--the grand piano was opened all over to give as much sound as
possible--and he requested absolute silence. He played beautifully--it
was enchanting--one quite heard the little waves in which the
Rhein-Töchter were disporting themselves. It was wonderfully melodious
and delicate--I should have liked it to go on forever. He played for
about three-quarters of an hour--all Rheingold--then suddenly pushed
back his chair, and rushed to the anteroom, exclaiming "de l'air--de
l'air," followed by all the red and musical ladies. It is a pity there
must always be such a pose with Wagner--for really the music was a joy.
I met of course quantities of old friends, and agreed to go to Lottie
Van Schaick's ball.


                                                    February 12, 1880.

W. and I had a lovely long flânerie this morning. He is quite well
again, and the sun was tempting. It seems quite a different Florence
living over here, and I must say much more old-world and Italian than
the Lungarno, with all the modern hotels and apartments, and evident
signs of forestieri[12] everywhere. As soon as we cross the bridge it is
quite different--a gay, bustling, northern city. W. was so much amused
the other day--we were in a fiacre and the driver put on the brake to go
down the almost imperceptible descent on the other side of the bridge.
We went straight across to the Piazza del Duomo to-day, where the market
was held, and wandered in and out among the stalls. It was all so
familiar--little green cucumbers, almonds, and strings of fried fish,
with a good healthy smell of "frittura." The people were all most
smiling, and so pleased when I spoke Italian to them, and said I was so
happy to be back in their country again. W. has no opinion of my
Italian. He came to my room this morning followed by the Italian servant
to tell _me_ to tell him that his razor must be sharpened. I began, and
came to a dead halt--hadn't the slightest idea what razor was in
Italian. W. was much disgusted, but I explained that when I was living
in Italy before as a girl, I hadn't often had occasion to ask for
razors--all the same he has evidently lost confidence, and thinks my
reputation as a linguist "surfaite."

[12] Foreigners.

This afternoon we had a lovely drive up the Fiesole hill with Mary and
Beatrice. Their man, who goes on the carriage, is called "Bacco" and is
so Italian and sympathetic--takes a lively interest in all our
proceedings--knows everybody we meet, and talks cheerfully with any of
his friends we happen to cross. The view from Fiesole was divine--the
long slopes of cyprus and olive trees--with Florence at the bottom of
the valley, and the Arno just visible--a streak of light. I am so fond
of the grey green of the olives. It all looked so soft and delicate in
the sunset light.


                                                    February 13, 1880.

We are getting dreadfully mondain. The other night we had a pretty,
typical Florentine party at Edith Peruzzi's.[13] We went a little after
ten and thought we would be among the first, but the rooms were already
full--quantities of people (not many of my old friends) and splendid
jewels. It was much more real Florentine society than the people we used
to see when we lived in Casa Guadagni. _They_ were generally the young,
sporting, pleasure-loving set, with a good dash of foreigners, artists,
diplomatists, etc. These were the real polite, stiff Italians of the old
régime. Many people were introduced to us, and W. enjoyed his evening
immensely--found many interesting people to talk to. He was delighted to
meet Bentivoglio again, and they immediately retired into a corner, and
plunged into Asia Minor and coins. Edith looked very well, did the
honours simply and graciously; and Peruzzi really not changed--always
the same tall, handsome, aristocratic type.

[13] Née Story, daughter of W. W. Story, the sculptor.

Last night was Lottie Van Schaick's ball, very gay and handsome. Mary
wouldn't go--so I chaperoned the two girls--Beatrice and Rosa Sternberg.
They made a very pretty contrast--Rosa von Sternberg is fair and slight,
a pretty, graceful figure. Beatrice on rather a larger scale, with a
very white skin, and beautiful dark eyes. W. and Charles Bunsen came
too, but didn't stay very long. We went late as the Florence balls
always last so long. I met quantities of old friends, and made a tour de
valse with Carlo Alessandri for the sake of old times. W. was much
amused to see all the older men still dancing. At the Paris balls the
danseurs are all so young--few of the married men dance--only the very
young ones. I didn't wait for the cotillon--it hadn't begun at 3.30. The
supper is always before the cotillon which of course prolongs the
festivity.

I was lazy this morning, as we came in so late last night, so W. and I
only went for a turn in the Boboli Gardens. The shade was so thick it
was almost black--but it was resting to the eyes. There are very few
flowers, one had a general impression of green. This afternoon we have
been driving about leaving cards, and ending with a turn in the Cascine.
There everything seemed exactly the same as when we lived there ten
years ago. The same people driving about in the same carriages, and
everybody drawing up on the Piazza, and talking to their neighbours. It
amused me to drive down the Lungarno to our bridge. There were
quantities of carriages and people lounging on the pavement, and looking
at the river. The instant one crosses the bridge it is perfectly
different--narrow streets, high walls, few carriages, no loiterers.

Our garden was beautiful to-night--a splendid moon just rising over the
black trees, and a soft delicious air. We have had a quiet evening,
talking and reading in the small salon. Charles was very interesting,
talking about old Italy and their beginnings in Turin. It seems the
etiquette of that Court was something awful. Mary told us that she was
talking one day to the Marchesa S. (a lively little old lady who took
snuff) who had been in her time a famous wit and beauty, dame d'honneur
to the wife of Carlo Alberto. Mary was rather complaining of the
inconvenience of going to the winter reception of the Duchess of Genoa
(she had only one in the year) where all the ladies of the Corps
Diplomatique were obliged to go in full dress décolletée at about 4 in
the afternoon. "Ah, ma chère," said the old Marchesa, "what would you
have said in our time?" She told her that when the Queen-Mother was ill
in the winter at the Château of Stupinigi, some miles from Turin, all
her ladies had to go and inquire for her in full dress and manteaux de
cour, and that when they knew she was in bed, and could see no one. Mary
has splendid Italian lace which she bought from one of the ladies of the
old Queen after her death. It would cost a fortune now, and in fact
could not be had unless some private individual in reduced circumstances
was obliged to sell. I had a nice visit from Alberti to-day--just the
same--gay, impossible, saying the most risqué things in a perfectly
natural way, so that you can hardly realize the enormities you are
listening to. They don't sound so bad in Italian--I think the language
veils and poetizes everything. He is very anxious we should go out and
spend the day at Signa--his most lovely place--and I wish we could, I
should like W. to see it--so much natural beauty--and, with our northern
ideas, so absolutely neglected--splendid rooms, painted ceilings--no
practical furniture of any kind, and a garden that was a dream of wild
beauty--flowers everywhere, climbing up over the roof, around bits of
grey wall, long grass that almost twisted around one's feet, and such a
view from the terrace. I told W. afterward of our great day there long
ago, when we started at 10 in the morning and got back at 2 A.M. I
wonder if you remember the day? We were a large party--Van Schaicks,
Maquays, Coxes, and others whose names I forget and pretty much every
man in Florence (of all nationalities). We started by rail--the women
all in light muslin dresses and hats. We were met by carriages of all
kinds--Alberti's own little pony-trap--and a collection of remarkable
vehicles from all the neighbouring villages. The drive was short, but
straight up a steep hill--the villa most beautifully situated at the
top, with a background of green hills. Two or three rooms had been
arranged for us--so we took off cloaks--a nice, sympathetic Italian
woman brushed off the dust--and we went at once to breakfast in the
state dining-room--the big doors on the terrace open. Some of the men
had their breakfast out there. After breakfast we all wandered about the
garden--such thick shade that it was quite comfortable. It was pretty to
see the white figures flitting in and out among the trees. About 3 I got
into a riding skirt and loose jacket, and went for a ride with Alberti
and a Frenchman, Brinquant, a friend of Alberti--very gay, and entrain,
and perfectly amused at the entertainment--so sans façon and original.
We had a lovely ride--through such narrow roads--branches of the orange
trees and roses nearly coming into our faces as we cantered along the
little steep paths. I had a pretty little mare--perfectly sure-footed,
which was an absolute necessity as the hill paths were very steep, with
many curves, and full of rolling stones. We pottered about for an hour,
and when we got home I thought I would retire to one of the rooms and
rest for half an hour before I got back into my afternoon dress, but
that was a delusion. They all came clamouring at the door, and insisted
upon my coming out at once, as the whole party were to be photographed.
As I was perfectly confident that they would all come in if I didn't
come out, there was nothing to be done, and I joined the group. It was
rather a long affair, but at the end seemed satisfactory. Then we had
tea on the terrace, and sat there watching the sun go down behind the
Signa hills, leaving that beautiful afterglow which one only sees in
Italy--the green tints particularly.

Three or four men came out for dinner who hadn't been able to get off
early (diplomates, I fancy, for they were certainly the only men in this
gay city who had any occupation), also a tapeur[14] and little objets for
the cotillon. We did have about an hour before dinner to rest and make
ourselves look as nice as we could--but naturally a long, hot day
wandering about in a garden, and sitting on half-ruined crumbling stone
walls doesn't improve muslin dresses. The dinner was very gay and good,
and the hour on the terrace afterward with coffee, enchanting. One or
two of the men had brought guitars, and there were scraps of songs,
choruses, "stornelli," going on all the time. One man, with a lovely
tenor voice, sat on the lower step singing anything--everything--the
rest of us joining in when we knew the song. The terrace was quite
dark--the house brilliantly lighted standing out well; and every now and
then the Italian servants would appear at the door with their smiling
faces--black eyes and white teeth--evidently restraining themselves with
difficulty from joining in the choruses. I really don't think Mary's
"Bacco" could have resisted. I always hear him and Francesco singing
merrily over their work in the morning. They certainly are an
easy-going, light-hearted race, these modern Florentines. One can hardly
believe that they are the descendants of the fierce old Medici who sit
up so proud and cold on their marble tombs at San Lorenzo.

[14] Man to play on the piano.

We began the cotillon about 10, and it lasted an hour and a half. There
were 10 couples, plenty of flowers and ribbons, and, needless to say, an
extraordinary "entrain." We ended, of course, with the "Quadrille
infernal" (which Alberti always leads with the greatest spirit), made a
long chain all through the house down the terrace steps (such a
scramble) and finally dispersed in the garden. I shouldn't like to say
what the light dresses looked like after that. We started back to
Florence about midnight in two coaches--such a beautiful drive. The
coming out of the gates, and down the steep hill with a bad road and a
narrow turn was rather nervous work--but we finally emerged on the broad
high-road looking like a long silver ribbon in the moonlight winding
down the valley. We had the road quite to ourselves--it was too late for
revellers, and too early for market people, so we could go a good pace,
and galloped up and down the hills, some of them decidedly steep. It was
a splendid night--that warm southern moon (so unlike our cold white
moonlight) throwing out every line sharply. It was just 3 o'clock when
we drew up at Casa Guadagni.

I didn't intend to write so much about Signa, but I had just been
telling it all to W., and I think it will amuse the family in America.


                              _To H. L. K._

                                                      VILLA MCDONNELL,
                                                    February 15, 1880.

I try and write every day, but it is not easy. We are out all the time.
The weather is divine, and it seems wicked to stay indoors. W. and I go
out every morning, and we do a good deal of sight-seeing in a pleasant,
idle way. I go sometimes to the Boboli Gardens and wait for him there
when he has letters to write. It is all so unlike our Florence of ten
years ago; I love the quiet grey streets. The gardens are delicious;
dark and cool; you see no one, hear nothing but the splash of the
fountains, and the modern busy world doesn't exist. I am becoming quite
intimate with the custode--he is most friendly--smiles all over when W.
appears--and remarked the other day casually when he was late and I was
waiting at the gate, "Il marito si fa aspettare." This morning we
pottered about the Ponte Vecchio, where all the shops look exactly the
same, and apparently the same old wrinkled men bending over their pearls
and turquoises. So many foreigners have bought pearls that the prices
have all gone up. There has been a great influx of strangers these last
days as Easter is early, and we hear English on all sides. Two pretty
fair-haired English girls were loitering about the bridge and shops,
attracting much attention and admiration, quite freely expressed, from
some of the numerous young men who are always lounging about; but the
admiration is so genuine and so open that no one could be angry or
consider it an impertinence.

Do you remember one of my first Italian experiences in crossing the
Piazza di Spagna one afternoon with my white kitten on my shoulder, and
one of the group of "paini"[15] standing at the door of the bank remarked
smilingly, "Che gatto fortunato!" I was rather taken aback but pleased
certainly. At Doney's in the Via Tornabuoni, there is always the same
group of men on the pavement about tea-time, when every one goes in for
a cup of tea or chocolate--all much interested in the pretty girls who
go in and out--also the society men standing at the door of the Club
making remarks and criticising, with rather more reserve perhaps.

[15] Young bourgeois.

We took a fiacre when we had crossed the bridge and drove to Santa Maria
Novella. The black and white façade looked like an old friend, also the
spezeria where we used to buy the sachets of iris powder in the old
days. We wandered all over the church, looked at the frescoes and the
wonderful Cimabue Madonna, and then through the cloisters. A monk (one
of the few left) in the long white robe of the Dominicans was working in
the garden. He looked very picturesque in the little square of green,
and was apparently engrossed in his work as he didn't even turn his head
to look at us. He wasn't at all an old man as we saw when he raised
himself--was tall and broad-shouldered. What a life it must be for a man
in the full force of strength and health. One can understand it in the
old days before books and printing, when the Dominicans and Benedictines
were students and their parchments made history, but now when everybody
reads and discusses everything it seems incredible that a man should
condemn himself to such an existence.

We dined at the Tchiatcheffs, and on our way home crossed a procession
of "la Misericordia"; all the men with long cloaks and cowls drawn tight
over their faces, with slits for the eyes. One could see nothing but
bright, keen eyes, impossible to recognise any one. I believe men of all
classes belong to the society, and we had probably various friends among
them. I suppose they were going to get a corpse (which is always done at
night in Florence, or, in fact, everywhere in Italy) and their low,
melancholy chant rather haunted me. They say they do a great deal of
good when there is an accident or a case of malignant fever, in
transporting the patient to a hospital; but it was an uncanny sight.
They tell me they went to get a young Englishman the other day who had
fever, and was to be moved from the hotel to a private hospital. It was
the doctor's suggestion, and I am sure they carried him quite well and
gently, but it seems his poor wife went nearly mad when the procession
arrived, and she saw all those black eyes gleaming from behind the
cowls.

We have been this afternoon to tea at "Camerata," the Halls' Villa. The
drive out was charming, the day beautiful and bright, flowers
everywhere. Quantities of peasant children ran alongside the carriage as
we toiled up the hills, chattering volubly (many _Inglesi_ thrown in)
and holding out little brown hands filled with yellow flowers. The
Camerata garden and terrace were lovely. It was still a little cool to
sit out, so we had tea inside. The lawn was blue with violets, and there
were quantities of yellow flowers, crocuses, narcissi everywhere, roses
just beginning. We met various old friends there--principally
English--among others Miss Arbuthnot, looking quite the same; and the
two Misses Forbes who have a charming apartment in Florence--we went
there to tea the other day. Our friend and compatriot, Mrs. K., was also
there; very dressy and very foolish; poor dear she never was wise. She
was glad to see me, was sure I was enjoying the change and rest after my
"full life"; then "Did you live in Paris?" I felt like saying, "No,
French Cabinet Ministers usually live in Yokohama," but I desisted from
that plaisanterie as I was sure she would go away under the impression
that W. had been a member of the Japanese Cabinet. W. doesn't like my
jokes--thinks they are frivolous.


                                                    February 17, 1880.

Our Talleyrand dinner last night was handsome and pleasant. He was for
years French Ambassador at Petersburg (Baron Charles de
Talleyrand-Périgord), and is the type of the clever, old-fashioned
French gentleman and diplomatist. He married a Russian, Mlle. Bernadaky.
She is very amiable, has a beautiful voice and beautiful jewels. I had
Carlo Alessandri next to me, and we plunged into old times. After dinner
Talleyrand and W. talked politics in the fumoir. He is of course quite
"d'un autre bord" and thinks Republican France "grotesque," but W. said
he was so moderate and sensible, not at all narrow-minded, understanding
that a different opinion was quite possible, that it was interesting to
discuss with him. Talleyrand confided to Mary afterward that he couldn't
understand a man of her brother's intelligence and education being a
Republican.

Madame de Talleyrand didn't sing, had a cold. I was very sorry as I told
her I should have liked to hear her sing again "Divinité du Styx." It
will be always associated in my mind with the French-German war when we
were all at Ouchy together hearing fresh disasters every day.

This afternoon we went to have tea with "Ouida"[16] at her villa outside
Florence. She was most anxious W. should come to her--which he agreed to
do--though afternoon visits are not much in his line. As we were rather
a large party we went out in detachments, and Madame de Tchiatcheff
drove me. We arrived before the Bunsens and W. Ouida came to the gate to
meet us, and Madame Tchiatcheff named me. She was civil, but before I
had time to say that M. Waddington was coming in another carriage, she
looked past me, saying, "Et Monsieur Waddington--il ne vient donc pas,"
with such evident disappointment and utter indifference to the presence
of _Madame_ Waddington that I was rather taken aback; but I suppose
geniuses must not be judged like other people. I was rather disappointed
in her appearance. I expected to see her dressed either in "primrose
satin with trails of white lace," or as an Italian peasant, and she
really looked like any one else--her hair cut short and a most
intelligent face. She was interesting when she talked about Italy and
the absolute poverty of the people. She spoke either French or English,
both equally well. When the visit had been talked of at home we had told
W. he must read, or at any rate look over one of her books. I didn't
think he could undertake one of her long novels, "Idalia" for instance,
where the heroine wanders for days through wood and dale attired in a
white satin dress, and arrives at her destination looking like "a tall,
beautiful, pure lily"; but I think he might like one of her short
Italian stories, which are charming, such beautiful descriptions. I
always remember one of her sentences, "There is nothing in the world so
beautiful as the smile of Italy to the awakening Spring." One felt that
to-day in the garden, every bud was bursting, everything looked green
and fresh and young.

[16] Mlle. de la Ramée.

Our dinner at home to-night was most agreeable. We had Mlle. de Weling,
a great friend of the Bunsens, a clever, interesting woman whose
girlhood was passed at the old Nassau castle at Bieberich on the Rhine.
Her mother was one of the Duchess's ladies. I know the place well, and
used often to walk through the beautiful park to the Rhine when I was
staying with Mary. It is quite shut up and deserted now. The old Duke
held out against United Imperial Germany, and never lived in his Schloss
after Nassau was annexed. It is a grand old house with all its great
windows and balconies facing the Rhine. One could quite imagine an
animated court life (small court) there, with music, and riding, and
excursions on the river. It is rather melancholy to see such a fine old
place deserted.

We had, too, Comandi, an Italian who occupies himself with orphan boys,
and has a home for them near here somewhere in the country which we are
going to see some day. Anna de Weling, too, has founded one or two small
homes in different parts of Germany. She read us a letter the other day
from one of her boys, quite grown up now, whom she had placed. It began
"Wir brauchen Beinkleider" (we need trousers)--so naïf. The conversation
was almost entirely in Italian as Comandi speaks no other language. All
the Bunsens speak of course perfectly--they lived in Italy for so many
years at the beginning of their diplomatic career. Mrs. Waddington is
quite wonderful, speaks and reads it perfectly. Her nice little
parlatrice is devoted to her.


                                                    February 19, 1880.

We have had two nice days. Yesterday we walked straight across the
bridge to the Piazza del Duomo--walked about the Cathedral and the
Baptistery trying to make out the Saints' processions, and figures on
the marvellous bronze doors--but it would take weeks of study to
understand them. I was tired, and sat (very uncomfortably) on a sort of
pointed stone near the gates while W. examined them. I really think I
like the Piazza and the open air and the street life as much as anything
else. There was so much movement, flower stalls, fruit, cakes, those
extraordinary little straw bottles of wine, children playing and
tumbling all over the place (evidently compulsory education doesn't
bother them much), and always quantities of men standing about doing
nothing, wrapped up in their long cloaks, but what a wonderful cadre for
it all. The Duomo, Palazzo Vecchio, Loggia, etc.--one can't imagine now
the horrors that have been perpetrated in that very square. I told the
family the other day I wanted to read "Nicolo dei Lapi" over again, and
they all jeered at me; but I must get it somewhere; it will take me
straight back to Frascati and the long hot days of the cholera summer
when I was reading it, and trying so hard with my imperfect and
school-girl translation to make you understand the beauty and horrors of
the book.

I was telling Mrs. Waddington the other day of our life at Frascati--the
great cholera year at Albano (1869), when so many people died--the
Dowager Queen of Naples, Princess Colonna, and Cardinal Altieri, who
came straight out to his villa as soon as the cholera broke out (which
it did quite suddenly). He was wonderful--went about everywhere in all
the poor little houses, relieving and encouraging the sick and dying,
holding up the cross to the poor dim eyes when life was too nearly gone
for any words to avail; and finally was struck down himself and died in
two days. How terribly lonely and cut off we felt--Dr. Valery was the
only person we saw. He was allowed to come out every day from Rome, but
was fumigated at the station at Frascati, and again in Rome when he got
back, obliged to change his clothes outside the gate before coming into
the city. We were never at all nervous about the cholera. I don't think
there was one case at Frascati, and of course all our thoughts were
centred in that great big room with its pink walls and mosaic floor
where father[17] lay desperately ill. It seems like a dream now, those
hot summer nights, when we used to go out on the terrace (upon which his
room opened) to get bouillon, ice, etc., and we fancied we could see the
cloud of disease hovering over the Campagna.

[17] Charles King, President of Columbia College, father of Madame
Waddington.

[Illustration: President Charles King of Columbia College, New York
City.]

When it was moonlight, and such moonlight, that beautiful golden,
southern moon, we saw a long white line in the distance--the sea.
Circulation was very difficult, all the roads leading to Albano were
barred, and guarded by zouaves; and of course we heard tales of horror
from the Italian servants, always most talkative and graphic in their
descriptions. However on the whole they behaved well. We used to ride
every day, and always passed a little chapel on the way to Castel
Gandolfo, which was filled with people kneeling and praying--a long line
stretching out quite across the road to a little shrine just opposite.
They used to make way for us to pass without getting off their knees,
only stretching out their hands for anything the Principesse americane
would give them.

Some of the women were quite absorbed, looking hard at the Madonna in
her shrine as if they expected some visible sign of pity, or promise of
help. I rather envied them their simple faith; it must help them through
many moments of trial and discouragement.

As usual I seem to have wandered from my original subject, but Italy is
so full of memories. We were too tired to walk home, besides were a
little late, so we took a fiacre with a most friendly coachman, who saw
at once that we were strangers, pointed out all the places of interest,
and said it would be a delightful afternoon for Fiesole, and he would
come and get us if we would name the hour.

We found lots of letters and papers at the house, and W. plunged into
Paris and politics after breakfast. I went for a drive with Mary and
Beatrice to the Villa Careggi. The house is nothing remarkable--a large
square building with enormous rooms, deep fireplaces, and very high
ceilings. Some good frescoes on the walls. The garden and terraces were
enchanting--the sun really too warm on the terrace--always a divine
view; blue-purple hills rolling away in the distance, and funny, crooked
little roads shut in between high walls, with every now and then a gap,
or a gate, which gave one glimpses of straggling, unkempt gardens, with
a wealth of flowers and vines.

We had a quiet dinner and evening, which we all enjoyed. W. smoked and
talked a great deal of the past year and the last days at the Quai
d'Orsay. He doesn't miss the life in the least, which rather surprises
me; I thought he would be so bored with suddenly nothing to do, and no
part to play in the world's history; but I see that the absolute rest
and being with all his family is doing him so much good. It is
extraordinary how soon one forgets, and takes up a quiet life again.
Already the whirl and fatigues of the Exhibition year seem so far away I
feel as if somebody else had lived that life. I cannot imagine myself
now dining out (and not ordinary dinners, official banquets) 19 nights
in succession, but I suppose I should begin again quite naturally if we
returned to public life.

Did you see the article in the "Français" saying "M. Waddington will now
have all the rest of his life before him to consecrate to his studies"?
I wonder! This morning we had our usual walk--as W. was ready at ten
o'clock I didn't make my regular station in the Boboli Gardens. We went
to Vieusseux about a book W. wanted, and then into the bank to pay
George Maquay a visit. He was most cheerful, and showed us a nice
article in the "Times" regretting very much W.'s departure from the
Foreign Office, "one of the few men who could look ahead a little, and
who was independent, not limited in his views by what the Chamber of
Deputies would think." I was rather pleased, but W. is very calm about
all newspaper articles. He always has a "mauvaise presse" as we don't
_soigner_ any paper. I fancy, though, Henrietta is right when she says
the next time he takes office she means to buy one--so many people
believe implicitly all they see in a paper, especially when it says what
you want to believe.

We did a little shopping, I wanted some veils, and W. remained outside
looking at the grim old Strozzi Palace, standing like a great fortress
with its huge stones and heavy doors in the middle of all the busy,
bustling life of the Tornabuoni. I think it is the one street in
Florence where people move about quickly, and as if they were going
somewhere. Everywhere else there are crowds of people, men especially,
doing nothing but sitting all day in the sun looking at the passers-by.

We hadn't time to walk over to San Lorenzo, so hailed a fiacre, and
wandered about there for some time. I was delighted to see the Medici
Chapel again and the famous monument of Lorenzo. He does look as if he
were thinking out some great problem--I wonder what he would think of
our go-ahead, unartistic world, and of our politicians, so timorous and
afraid of responsibility--at least the men of that race were strong for
good or for evil. When they wanted anything they did all they could to
get it. I don't know that the women were behindhand either in energy
when one thinks of Queen Catherine and of all the Huguenots she disposed
of one summer evening in Paris. Do you remember our friend Mrs. A., a
converted Catholic, whom we overheard one night at the Opera when they
were shooting all the Huguenots in the last act, telling her daughter
(remained a Protestant) that the Saint Bartholomew had nothing to do
with Catholics and Protestants; was entirely a political move.

We have had a long drive this afternoon with Mary and Charles, up the
Poggio Imperiale--a stiff climb but such a beautiful road--villas,
cypresses, olive trees, and roses everywhere. We went up to the Certosa,
where a nice old monk, in his white dress, showed us the church and
monastery. It was dark and rather cold in the church, and nothing
particular to see--good frescoes and many coloured marbles--but the
terrace outside was delightful. There were not too many beggars on the
road considering that it is the favourite drive in Florence, and of
course the carriage people are at a disadvantage as they must go slowly
up the hill, and are escorted by a long troop of children singing,
dancing with a sort of tambourine, turning somersaults, and enjoying
life generally, whether they get a few pennies or not. It is very
difficult to resist the children with their smiling faces and evident
desire to amuse the "forestieri."

We went to Casa Guadagni before we came home, and paid a visit to the
Marchesa, who was at home. The same old porter was at the door, and
greeted me most warmly, much pleased to see W. "bel uomo, il
marito"--had I any children, and where were all the rest of the
family?--that simple, natural Italian manner, without a thought of
familiarity. W. was delighted with Madame Guadagni. She talked about
everything and really didn't look any older. I asked about our old
apartment (piano nobile--first floor); she said it was always
let--generally to foreigners. I _didn't_ ask if she had made any modern
improvements since we lived there. Shall you ever forget that cold
winter with the doors that wouldn't open, and the windows that wouldn't
shut, and the chimneys that always smoked, and the calorifère, which
John never would light, as he was afraid it would warm the Guadagni
rooms below? I should have liked to go over the apartment and see the
rooms again--the big ball-room where we danced so often and had so much
music. We wound up with a turn in the Cascine, drawing up in the Piazza
alongside of Lottie's carriage, which was of course surrounded by all
the gilded youth of Florence. Maquay came to talk to us, Carlo
Alessandri and Serristori, whom I hadn't yet seen. He was just the same
(laughing and criticising) as in the old days when some of the swells
appeared in so-called Worth garments, which he said were all made in a
little room over his stables, by the wife and daughters of one of his
men.

I was glad to get in and have a quiet hour to write before dinner. I am
at my table close up to the open window. The air is soft and
delicious--the garden just beginning to look dark and mysterious in the
waning light. The group of cypresses (I don't know how to write that in
the plural, it looks funny) always black. I was called off various
times, and must finish now as we are going to dine at the Maquays--we
being ourselves, Mary, and Charles. We generally go about a family
party.


                                            Sunday, February 21, 1880.

We are making our pacquets as we have decided to leave for Rome on
Monday (22). The Schuylers are clamouring for us, and though I hate to
leave here I really think we ought to go. As W. has never seen Rome two
months will not be too much. We shan't have much more as he wants to get
home for the Conseil Général. The Schuylers want to have a big reception
for us, and would like next Sunday week, so I think we really shall get
off this time. The longer we stay the more invitations we have. It has
been all quite charming. Our Maquay dinner was very easy and pleasant;
the Tchiatcheffs, Lottie, Alessandri, Talleyrands, Mrs. Fuller, and one
or two stray men. The house looked so natural--of course the ball-room
wasn't open as we were a small party, but they lighted it after dinner.
I wanted W. to see how pretty it was and how light--white with red seats
all around. How it took me back to old times? I seemed to see everybody
settling for the cotillon--the stairs too, where we all used to sit
waiting for the cotillon to begin. How we amused ourselves that winter
in Florence, and how scattered all that little band is now. The
Florentines amuse themselves still--there must be something in the air
which makes people light-hearted--one can't imagine a serious, studious
life in Florence.

We spent two hours in the Uffizi yesterday looking at all the old
friends again. I was delighted to see the dear little "St. John in the
Wilderness" hanging just where it did before, on one side of the door in
the Tribuna; also the Peruginos--I like them so much--his Madonnas with
their wooden faces, but a pure, unearthly expression all the same, and
the curious green colour one sees in all his pictures. We saw as much as
we could in the two hours, but as it was the second visit we found our
way about better. I never rested until I found the corridor with Niobe
and all her children--it used to fascinate me in the old days. One
realized perfectly all those big sons and daughters, so terrified, and
the last little one clinging to his mother's skirts.

We went to tea, Mary and I, with Edith Peruzzi--quite quietly--as she
wanted to show me her children--and fine specimens they are; a duck of a
boy, quite sociable and smiling. Nina and Louisa Maquay came in--Louisa
looked lovely. This morning I went to the English church with Mary and
Beatrice. We didn't go out again till late--after tea--as we had various
visitors, among others Schuyler Crosby, who had asked us to dine but we
had no evening left. I saw him riding the other day in the Cascine, and
recognised him some way off by his seat. I don't know what it is, but
whatever the Americans do, whether riding, dancing, or tennis, they do
it differently from any one else. I was talking about it the other day
to an Englishman who had seen some of the Anglo-American boat races, and
he quite agreed with me, said their rowing was very good, but quite
another thing from the English sport.

We drove out again Fiesole way. It was enchanting--more roses come out
every day. There was a perfect fringe of pink roses hanging over some of
the old grey walls. As it was Sunday, and a lovely day, there were
quantities of people about. There are scarcely any costumes left, but
all Italians like bright colours, and the red and green fichus and
aprons looked pretty and gay as the various groups passed us. Some of
the old women were terribly bent, with such brown, wrinkled faces--one
could quite see that they had toiled up and down hills under the Italian
scorching sun all their lives, with baskets and bundles of fagots on
their backs--but the old eyes were keen and smiling. They don't look so
utterly starved and wretched as Ouida (and others) say they are. I
suppose they live on nothing, and go on quite simply, leading the same
lives that their fathers and mothers did before them, without knowing of
anything better.

Tell Henrietta I haven't made much progress in the travelling work she
presented me with. I did take it out into the drawing-room one evening,
but the immediate result of that was disastrous. I took it out of the
bag proudly, to show that I had silk, embroidery, scissors, needles,
etc., like everybody else, but left it on the table. Somebody wanted a
book or a newspaper also on the table; turned everything upside down,
and the work, silk, needles, thimble, etc., went rolling all over the
floor. When you think of the crevasses of an old parquet floor in an
Italian Palace, you can imagine how difficult it was to find anything
again. The two girls were hours on their knees looking for my thimble
which never turned up--however, that will be an excellent reason for
buying a pretty little gold thimble with a row of turquoises that I saw
the other day in a shop on the Ponte Vecchio. There is evidently a fate
against my becoming an accomplished needlewoman, and I am afraid the
"clumsy little fingers," which used to worry you so in the old days of
music lessons, have not improved with advancing years. Perhaps I shall
take to work in my old age. Isn't it George Sand who says (and I don't
believe she ever took a needle in her hand), "Don't despise our less
ambitious sisters who work. Many great resolutions and silent
abnegations have been woven into the bright flowers and delicate
tracings of the embroidery in the long hours spent over the frame."


                                      Monday Night, February 22, 1880.

We really are starting to-morrow morning--trunks are packed, compartment
engaged, and we have said good-bye to everybody. I made a last little
turn this morning in the Boboli Gardens. I didn't see the custode--I
wanted to say good-bye to him. Then we went to the Pitti gallery, W.
wanted to see one particular Botticelli, "la bella Simonetta" I think,
which he and Mary had been talking about, and which we had missed the
other day. It is quite impossible to see everything. I had remembered
pretty well the principal pictures. Then we took a fiacre and went out
to San Marco to see the Fra Angelicos and Savonarola's cell. We had
never once got there, there is always so much to do. We walked through
the cloisters first--the frescoes are perfectly well preserved--some of
Fra Angelico's and others less interesting. I wanted to see the cells,
and was quite pleased to recognise the "Coronation of the Virgin" and
the "Madonna and Child" surrounded by angels, all in their long
green-blue robes with wings and musical instruments of all kinds. As
usual people were copying them, and I will try and find a pretty one and
bring it back. I want the one in a sort of light green dress blowing a
trumpet. The faces are quite beautiful, so pure. He must have had a
wonderful imagination--I wonder if he believed angels look like that?
Somehow or other I always think of an angel in a white robe. We saw of
course Savonarola's cell, and they showed us his rosary, and a piece of
wood which is supposed to have been taken from his funeral pile. It all
looked so peaceful and smiling to-day, one could hardly realize the long
hours of doubt and self-torture passed in these solitary cells. There is
a fine description in one of the numerous books the Bunsens have on
Florence, of Savonarola's preaching--all the people congregated in the
great square before the church, when there was no longer any room
inside, leaving their shops and their work to come and listen to him.
That is one of the delightful things in this household, you can always
find a book in almost any language about any subject that interests you,
religion, music, politics, everything.

Beatrice has a delightful German magazine, "Monatsheft," very well
illustrated, with all the modern German literature, stories, essays,
criticisms, etc. One could almost wish for a rainy day or a quiet
evening to read a little.

W. went off by himself the other night and had a very pleasant evening.
First to the Piccolellis' where he found a small party and his old
friend Bentivoglio, with whom he had travelled in the East. Of course
they instantly got into a corner and talked shop (medals). Then to
Lottie Van Schaick who had a few friends, where he amused himself very
much.

Gertrude writes that our rooms are very nice, and the man at the hotel
delighted to have us. I wonder what Rome will be like. It will seem
funny to be back there again, a respectable middle-aged lady. I think
one should always be young and gay to live in Italy.

We had a fine musical evening Saturday with the Landi family--five;
mother, father, daughter, son, and grandfather. Madame Landi sang
anything, everything, delightfully. Some of the stornelli and peasant
songs, those particularly of the Abruzzi mountains, were charming. I
wonder what Italians have got in their "gosier" that we haven't, that
gives such a charm to their simplest song. I sang once or twice in
French, and then Madame Landi and I did some duos in Italian which went
very well. She was very complimentary over my Italian (I told it
triumphantly to W., but he remains under the impression of the razor),
said it was evident I had learnt in Rome; the language is so much
softer, or rather the pronunciation "Lingua toscana in bocca romana."

The old father was killing, knew everything, was wildly interested, and
criticised freely. I think the daughter will have a very pretty voice,
like her mother's, a rich, low mezzo.

I was called off by some visits, and will finish now. My letter will go
to-morrow morning. We don't start very early--9.30--but I shall not have
time to write anything more.


                               _To H. L. K._

                                              HÔTEL DE LONDRES, ROME,
                                                   February 24, 1880.

We arrived last evening for dinner, dear mother, and are most
comfortably settled. We have a nice apartment on the second floor--a
large bright salon with a good bed-room on either side of it for me and
W., and a very fair anteroom where Madame Hubert has just had another
wardrobe put up. She interviewed the gérant and made it clear to him
that it was impossible for her to unpack her mistress's dresses until
she had something suitable to put them in. We found flowers and papers
on the table from the Schuylers, Mrs. Bruce, and the proprietor of the
hotel.

I thought we should never get away from Florence. We were so happy there
with the Bunsens and Mrs. Waddington, and every day there was something
to see or do. The weather was divine the last days--the hills were quite
a pink-purple sometimes as we drove home after sunset, and quantities of
roses climbing up all the old grey walls. We had a very easy
journey--they had reserved a carriage for us, which was a good
precaution, as the train was crowded. We got to Rome about six. W. was
quite excited as we approached (it is too funny to think that he had
never been here), and very anxious for the first glimpse of St. Peter's.
I can't say we saw the dome from a great distance--I fancy it depends
upon which way you enter Rome. We found the Schuylers at the station
with a carriage, and drove at once to the hotel, where Gert had ordered
tea and a pannettone. If I hadn't known I was coming to Rome I should
never have believed it on arriving at the station. It was so unlike the
little old Termine of our Roman days--the funny little station so far
away, with few porters or cabs, and comparatively few voyageurs. I was
quite bewildered with the rush into this great, modern station, with
porters and officials of all kinds, and all the bustle of a great city.

I looked in vain for some familiar landmarks as we came along. Nothing.
The new streets, Via Garibaldi and Nazionale--an abomination, tall ugly
maisons de location and official buildings so new and regular--awful! It
wasn't until we got into the town and near the Piazza di Spagna that I
really felt that I was back in Rome; that of course was unchanged. It
brought back such a flood of memories as we passed 20, and all the first
happy days in Rome came back to me, before father's illness, when he
enjoyed everything so much, and wrote to Uncle John that "the hours were
golden." The "barca" looked just the same, with boys and women leaning
up against the stones, flower-girls on the Spanish Steps, and even old
Nazzari's low, dark shop opposite looked picturesque. W. was quite
surprised to see me so sentimental, though I had warned him that for me
there was no place in the world like Rome.

The Schuylers stayed talking some little while, then had to go, as they
were dining out, but promised to come in after dinner. W. asked me if I
was too tired to go for a little stroll (the tea had refreshed us), so
we started up the Spanish Steps to the Villa Medici, where we had that
beautiful view of Rome. I showed him the stone pines of the
Doria-Pamphili, which stood out splendidly against the last bright
clouds of the sunset--it was quite lovely. We stayed out quite late, and
were received with respectful, but decidedly disapproving greetings from
the gérant when we came in. It was not at all prudent for "Eccellenza"
and Madame to remain out late, particularly as they must be very tired
after a long journey. We dined downstairs in the big dining-room. There
was a long table d'hôte full--people about half through their
dinner--and at the extreme end of the room five or six small tables, one
of which had been reserved for us. I didn't see any one I knew, but two
men got up and bowed as we passed. The dinner was good--the head waiter
hovering about us all the time, and of course always addressing W. as
"Eccellenza." We had coffee upstairs. W. smoked and I read the paper and
one or two notes. About ten the Schuylers appeared, very cheerful and
full of propositions of all kinds. They have got a big reception for us
on Sunday night--Roman and diplomatic--and we agreed to breakfast with
them to-day. Gert looked very well in blue, with her diamond necklace
and feathers. They don't seem very pleased with Marsh--our Minister.
Always the same old story and jealousy--the ministers consider
themselves so far above a consul. But really when the Consul-General
happens to be Schuyler and his wife King, one would think these two
names would speak for themselves--for Americans, at any rate.

We told Schuyler how many compliments we had had both in Paris and
Florence for his "Peter the Great"--so much in it, and yet the subject
one that had been written about so often. They went off about eleven,
and I was glad to go to bed; could hardly believe I was sleeping again
in the Piazza di Spagna. I certainly never imagined when I left Rome
tearfully so many years ago that I would come back as the wife of a
French statesman.

I was busy all the morning unpacking and settling myself, and of course
looking out of the window. It is all so delightfully familiar--all the
botte standing in the middle of the street, and the coachman trying so
hard to understand when some English or American tourists give them some
impossible address in Italian--you know the kind of people I mean,
conscientious tourists who think they must always speak the language of
the country they are in, learned out of a phrase-book. We have various
invitations, from our two Embassies, Quirinal and Vatican, also the
Teanos, and W. had a nice visit from Lanciani, who wants to show him all
Rome. We took a botta to go to the Schuylers. It isn't far, but I wasn't
quite sure of finding my way the first time. They have a charming
apartment in Palazzo Altemps, near the Piazza Navona, not at all far
really from our hotel, and now that I know the way I can often walk over
in the mornings when W. is off sight-seeing seriously with some of his
learned friends. It is a fine old palace with a large open court and
broad stone staircase. San Carlo Borromeo is supposed to have lived
there. Their apartment belongs to Mrs. Terry, wife of the artist, who
had arranged it very comfortably, and the Schuylers have put in all
their Turkish rugs, carpets, and bibelots, so it really looks very
pretty. There are quantities of green plants and flowers about (they are
both fond of flowers and are always making experiments and trying
something new) and of course books, papers, reviews, and a piano.

I told Gert I thought I would write to Vera and have some singing
lessons--I have done so little singing since I have been married. Eugene
is a charming host, and he and W. had plenty to talk about. I inspected
Gert's wardrobe while they were smoking. Her dresses are all right, and
I think her maid is good. I wrote all this after I came in. The man of
the hotel had engaged a carriage for us--a nice little victoria with a
pair of greys. It comes from Tomba's stables--do you remember the name?
The same loueur we had when we lived here. The coachman said he
remembered me perfectly, had often driven the "signorine" to the meets,
and hoped la maman was well. We were lucky to get such a nice little
carriage. The d'Aubignys, a French couple, had just given it up, as they
were leaving the Embassy here for Berlin.

We drove about a little--left cards for the Noailles, Desprez, Cairolis,
and wound up in the Villa Borghese, which was again quite changed--such
quantities of carriages and people walking, also Italian officers
riding, and soldiers, bersaglieri, etc., about. We crossed the
Wimpffens, looking very smiling, and saw in the distance, as we were
coming out, the royal red liveries, but the carriage was too far off to
see who was in it. Now we are going to dinner, and I shall be glad to
get to bed early. I think I am more tired than yesterday.


                                                     HÔTEL DE LONDRES,
                                                    February 26, 1880.

I will begin again this afternoon, as I have a little time before
dinner. The weather is divine, quite the same deep-blue sky and bright
sun of our first Roman winter. We have had an enchanting drive out of
Porta San Sebastiano and along the Via Appia as far as Cecilia
Metella--everything exactly the same as when we were there so many years
ago. The same peasant carts blocking up the narrow gateway, everybody
talking at once, white teeth gleaming, and quantities of little brown
children with black eyes and jet black hair tumbling down over their
eyes and outstretched hands for anything the forestieri would put into
them. W. was a little disappointed at first. The road is narrow, an
atrocious pavement, and high walls almost shutting out the view.
However, as we got farther out there came gaps in the walls through
which one saw the whole stretch of the Campagna with the Claudian
Aqueduct on one side, and when we finally emerged into the open fields,
he was delighted. How extraordinary all these old tombs and pyramids
are, most of them falling in ruins, with roses and creepers of all kinds
holding them together. On one of the largest round tombs there was a
peasant house with a garden and vines, and smoke coming out of the
chimney, perched quite on the top, with a steep, stony path winding
down, where the coachman told me the donkey went up and down, as he too
lived in the house with the family. Some of the tombs are very
high--real towers. There is hardly a trace of marble or inscription
left, but the original building so strong that the walls remain.

The queer old tombs, towers, and bits of ruins all along the road
interested W. immensely; though he has never been here he knows them all
from photographs and reproductions, and could tell me a great deal more
than I could tell him. We went as far as the round tomb of Cecilia
Metella, and then got out and walked a little. I wanted to show him the
low wall which we used to jump always when the meet was at Cecilia
Metella. Do you remember the first time you came out to see us jump, not
at a hunt but one afternoon with Dyer practising to see what the horses
and riders would do? You saw us start at a canter for the wall, and then
shut your eyes tight until we called out to you from the other side.

This morning W. and I had our first regular turn at sight-seeing. We
took a nice little botta on the Piazza, had our Baedeker--a red one,
like all the tourists--and were quite happy. Some of the old colleagues
were highly entertained seeing us driving about with our Baedeker; said
it was W. under a wholly different aspect. We wandered about the
Vatican for two hours, seeing quantities of things--Sistine Chapel,
Stanze Raphael, Apollo Belvedere, etc., and always a beautiful view over
the gardens. Later, he says, he must do it all regularly and
intelligently with one of his men friends, as I naturally could not
stand for hours recognising and deciphering an old inscription. I left
him from time to time, sat down on one of the stone benches, talked to
the custode, looked at the other people, and gave them any information I
could. It interested me to see the different nationalities--almost
entirely English, American, German, very few Italian, and no
French--yes, one artist, a rather nice looking young fellow who was
copying something on the ceiling of one of the "Stanze," rather a
difficult process apparently. There were many more women than
men--groups of English spinsters doing their sights most thoroughly--the
Americans more casual. The Apollo looked splendid, so young and
spirited. We walked some little distance, coming home before we could
get a fiacre, and I had forgotten how cruel that Roman pavement was. I
don't believe any of my boots will stand it; I shall have to get
somewhere here a pair of thick-soled walking shoes.

We had a quiet hour after breakfast. I have arranged a ladies' corner in
the drawing-room. I was in despair the first two days over the room. I
had never lived in small hotel quarters with a man, and I had no idea
how disorderly they are. The table was covered with pens, papers--piles
of them, three or four days old, thick with dust--cigars, cigar ashes
over everything, two or three large, bulky black portfolios, very often
a pot hat, etc. So we compromised; W. took one end of the room and I the
other. I obtained from the gérant (thanks to Madame Hubert, who is very
pretty and on the best of terms with him) a small table, large china
vase for a plant, a nice arm-chair, and a cushion for the sofa, borrowed
a table-cloth from Gert, also some small things for my table, and my end
looked quite respectable and feminine. The room is large, so we can
really get on very well. We had a pleasant visit from the Marquis de
Noailles, French Ambassador to the Quirinal, before we went out. He has
a charming, easy manner. We are to breakfast at the Embassy, Palazzo
Farnese, to-morrow for me to make Madame de Noailles's acquaintance. I
wonder what I shall think of her? The men all say she is a charmeuse.
She is Polish born, was a beautiful woman--I think all Poles have a
great charm of manner.

Trocchi came in, too--so pleased to see me again and to make W.'s
acquaintance. The two senators talked politics, and Noailles put me a
little au courant of Roman society and the two camps black and white. We
went out at 3.30, as I said before, to Cecilia Metella, and stopped at
Gert's for tea. W. walked home, and I stayed a little while with her
talking over the arrangements for their reception on Sunday. Every
one--Romans, diplomats, and Americans--they have asked has accepted; but
their rooms are fairly large and I don't think they will be crowded.


                                                     HÔTEL DE LONDRES,
                                            Monday, February 29, 1880.

I am still tired from the quantity of people we saw last night at the
Schuylers. Their reception was most brilliant; all the world----However,
I will begin at the beginning. We went to church on Sunday, as Dr. Nevin
came to see us Saturday afternoon and said he hoped we would not fail to
come. W. found him clever and interesting. He said he thought I should
hardly recognise him in his new church. It is very pretty--English
style, built by an English architect (Street) in the new quarter, Via
Nazionale, utterly unlike the bare little room outside the Porta del
Popolo, where we used to go and do the music. It makes me laugh now when
I think of the congregation all embarked on a well-known hymn, when
suddenly Henrietta would lower the tune one note--if I was tired, as
often happened, as one of the gayest balls in Rome was Princess
Sciarra's on Saturday night. When I had danced until four o'clock in the
morning (the test of the ball was how late it lasted) it was rather an
effort to be at church at 10.30 Sunday morning and sing straight through
the service. Henrietta had the harmonium and I led the singing. I will
say that the effect of the sudden change was disastrous from a musical
point of view. However, we did our best. I am afraid Henrietta was not
always faithful to Bach and Beethoven in her voluntaries. We had no
music, and she played whatever she could remember, and occasionally
there were strains of "Araby's Daughter" or "When the Swallows Homeward
Fly," which were quite perceptible even through the minor chords. I
liked doing it all the same, and like it still. I am so fond of the old
hymns we used to sing as children, and should like to hear "Shout the
Glad Tidings" every Christmas. I never have since we left America and
Oyster Bay, where also we did the music, and where, when we were late
sometimes for church, Faust, the big black Newfoundland dog would come
and bark when the bell had stopped, telling us quite plainly we were
late--he knew all about it.

We made the regular Sunday turn in the afternoon--Villa Borghese and
Pincio--sent the carriage away and walked home by the Villa Medici. W.
loves the view from the terrace. We met Mrs. Bruce, also looking at the
view, and walked home together. She told W. Cardinal Howard wanted to
see him, had known him in England in the old days, also a young English
monsignore--called _English_ oddly enough. She will ask us all to dine
together some night next week. I asked her if she remembered her famous
dinner long ago with Cardinal Howard and Dean Stanley. The two divines
were very anxious to cross swords. They were such a contrast. Dean
Stanley, small, slight, nervous, bright eyes, charming manners, and a
keen debater. The Cardinal, tall, large, slow, but very earnest,
absolutely convinced. The conversation was most interesting--very
animated--but never personal nor even vehement, though their views and
judgments were absolutely different on all points. However, both were
gentlemen and both large-minded. W. was much interested, as he knew Dean
Stanley and his wife Lady Augusta well; they came often to Paris, and
were habitués of Madame Mohl's famous salon, where the literary men of
all creeds and countries used to meet. It was there, too, that Dean
Stanley and Renan used to meet and talk, the two great intellects
finding points in common. I was taken there once or twice after I was
first married. It was a curious interior; Madame Mohl, a little old
lady, always dressed in white, with a group of men standing around her
chair--many more men than women, and never more than twenty or thirty
people. I suppose it was the type of the old French literary salon where
people went to talk. I naturally listened in those days, not being
sufficiently up in all the political and literary questions, and not
pinning my faith absolutely on the "Revue des Deux Mondes." Mrs. Bruce,
too, was often at Madame Mohl's.

We stopped in a few minutes at the Trinità de' Monti, where there was a
service of some kind going on. The nuns were singing a low, monotonous
chant behind their grating; the church was quite dark, lights only on
the altar, a few women kneeling and absorbed, and a few irreverent
forestieri looking about and talking in whispers. We came down the
Spanish Steps, which were quite deserted at that hour--models, beggars,
flâneurs, all resting from their labours.

I was glad to rest a little before dinner, and only dressed afterward,
as I couldn't well go down to the public dining-room in a low red satin
dress and diamonds. We went rather early--ten o'clock--to Palazzo
Altemps, but found many people already there. The apartment looked very
pretty, quantities of flowers and plants wherever they could be put.
Gert looked very well in yellow satin, and Eugene is always at his best
in his own house--very courteous and receiving people as if it were a
pleasure to him (which I think it is). We found quantities of old
friends--Pallavicinis, Teanos, Lovatellis, Calabrinis, Bandini, Pagets,
Mrs. Bruce, Hooker, Grants, etc., and quantities of people we didn't
know, and whose acquaintance we made of course--Mesdames Minghetti,
Cairoli, Despretis, and almost the whole of the Corps Diplomatique.

W. enjoyed it very much, did his manners very well, and never looked
stiff or bored. I was delighted to see the familiar faces once more. I
almost felt as if we had never been away. Madame de Noailles was
astounded at the number of people I knew--I think she hadn't realized
how long I had lived in Rome as a girl. She had heard W. say it was his
first visit to Rome, and thought I, too, was here for the first time,
and she was naturally surprised to hear me talking to Calabrini about
the hunts, cotillons, his coach, and tempi passati generally.

I have accepted so many invitations that I never can remember them, but
the ladies promised to send a card. Aunt Mary Gracie was rather put out
with me because I wore no necklace (which couldn't be said of the Roman
ladies, who all wore splendid jewels), but I told her it was the last
chic in Paris to wear your necklace on your bodice, not on your neck.

We stayed on after all the beau monde had gone with Aunt Mary, Hooker, a
Russian friend of Schuyler's, and Count Palfy, had a nice little supper,
champagne and sandwiches, and talked over the party, saying of course
(as they say we Kings always do) how pleasant our party was. W. was much
interested in the various talks he had. He found Minghetti charming--so
intelligent and well up in everything. Cairoli, too, he had been anxious
to see; also Visconti Venosta. He was naturally (like all the men)
charmed with Madame Minghetti. She must have been beautiful, and has an
extraordinary charm of manner. The Cairolis are a very big couple. He is
tall and broad, fine eyes--she, too, on a large scale, but handsome. Of
course there were many inquiries from all the old friends for la maman
and the family generally. Mrs. Bruce says she never drives in the
Doria-Pamphili without thinking of you driving about in your plain black
dress and bonnet, with two or three daughters (not quite so plainly
dressed) in the carriage, and all always talking and laughing, and
enjoying life together. I told her about Florence, where the King of
Italy always bowed to you in the Cascine, evidently taking you for the
superior of some religious order (he must have thought the novices were
lively), and the children in the street used to run up to you and kiss
your hand. "He was quite right, to bow to you," she said, "my grand old
Republican."

[Illustration: The Spanish Steps.

In the Piazza di Spagna, Rome.]


                                                        March 4, 1880.

Yesterday we went again to the Vatican. W. is quite happy, I thought I
should never get him away. It is most amusing to walk about old Rome
with him, for suddenly over a gateway or at the bottom of an ordinary
little court he discovers an inscription or a slab, or an old stone
which he knows all about, and we stop. He reads, and recognises, and
translates to me, and is wildly interested. It is all so good for him,
and puts politics and little annoyances out of his head. It is quite new
for me to see Rome from a classical point de vue, but I suppose one
enjoys things differently as one grows older. I certainly enjoyed the
mad gallops over the Campagna in the old days; do you remember Mrs. S.
who was so severe with us--first because we were Americans (she was
English) and then because we knew everybody and enjoyed
ourselves?--"when she was young people came to Rome to educate
themselves and enjoy the pictures, museums, historical associations,
etc. _Now_ one saw nothing but American girls racing over the Campagna
with a troop of Roman princes at their heels." Poor dear, she really
thought it was a calamity not to be born under the British flag. I
suppose that makes the great strength of the English, their absolute
conviction that England is the only country in the world.

They are funny, though--I was discussing something one day with Lady S.,
and we didn't quite agree; upon which she remarked she supposed I
couldn't understand her ideas--she came from a big country where one
took broad views of things. I said I thought I did too, but perhaps it
is a matter of appreciation--I think, though, I have got geography on my
side.

After breakfast we drove about paying visits. We found Princess Teano
(who has asked us to dine on Wednesday) and she showed us her boys--the
eldest one a beauty. She looked very handsome with her pure Madonna
face. She told us her beau-père (the blind Duke of Sermoneta) had been
so pleased to meet W. in Florence. They had a long talk somewhere, and
W. was so amused with the Duke's politics and liberalism--all so
easy-going, half chaffing, but very decided too, no sounding phrases nor
profession de foi; simply accepting (what he couldn't really like very
much) the inevitable, de bonne grâce; and seizing and ridiculing all the
weak points.

In France they are frightfully logical, must always argue and discuss
everything--I think they are born debaters.

We left cards on various people, Princess Bandini, Cenci, Countess
Lovatelli, and then went for a little turn out of the San Lorenzo gate,
but not far, as we wanted to go to Princess Pallavicini, who received
that afternoon. W. was much struck with the apartment--so many rooms,
all very high ceilings, that we passed through before getting to the
boudoir where the Princess was sitting. It all looked so natural, I
remembered the hangings--bright flowers on a light satin ground--as soon
as I got into the room, and some of the pictures. She was very cordial
and friendly, told W. how long she had known me, and recalled some of
our rides at Frascati with her and Del Monte. She asked us to come on
Friday evenings, she was always at home. No one else was there but a
Princesse de Thurn and Taxis (née Hohenlohe) who was introduced to us,
and the talk was pleasant enough. She was quite interested in our two
audiences--Pope and Quirinal--but we told her we had heard nothing from
either court yet. W. walked home, and I went on to Gert as it was her
reception day. She gave me a cup of tea, and I found various friends
there, including Father Smith who was quite pleased to see me again. He
doesn't look any older, and is apparently quite as energetic as ever. He
told me he had enjoyed his talk with W. very much, and they had made a
rendezvous for two days--the Catacombs and San Clemente. He remarked
casually that W. wasn't at all what he expected to find him; not at all
his idea of a "French Republican." I wonder what sort of trade-mark he
expected to see? If he had pictured W. as a slight, nervous, black-eyed,
voluble Frenchman, he must naturally have been surprised.

We have heard people discussing us sometimes in English as we pass down
the long dining-room to our table--"There goes Waddington, the late
French Premier." "Never--that man is an Englishman." "I have seen
pictures of Waddington--he doesn't look at all like that, etc." The head
waiter always points us out as distinguished strangers.

I found quantities of cards when I came home--one from Lily San Vito
with a nice little message of welcome. (We crossed her in the Corso the
other day and she looked lovely.) Also Valerys, Middletons, Pantaleones,
etc. After I had gone to my room to dress W. had a visit from Desprez,
the French Ambassador to the Vatican. He has just arrived, his wife not
yet come, and he feels a little strange in this very divided society. We
are going to meet him at dinner at the Portuguese Embassy. He told W.
there would be several Cardinals at the dinner--a regular black
assemblage. It will be a funny experience for W.


                                                        March 6, 1880.

I will finish this long letter to night. We have just come in from the
Teano dinner, which was pleasant. Teano looked quite the same (I hadn't
seen him for years) with his tall, slight figure and white lock. (I
forgot to look if the boy had it.) She looked very handsome. We had the
Minghettis, a Polish Countess--sister-in-law of the Duc de Sermoneta,
the Calabrinis, and M. Heding, a German savant. Minghetti was
delightful, telling us his early experiences with the old Pope, Pio
Nono. He was killing over the entente between the government and the
monks for the suppression of the monasteries. The gendarmes arrived,
found barred doors and resistance. There was a sort of halt and
parley--one father came out, then another--a little livret of the Caisse
d'Epargne was put into their hands, and all went off as quietly as
possible. Heding seemed to think things wouldn't go so easily in
Germany, and they certainly wouldn't in France.

Madame Minghetti and I talked for a long time after dinner exchanging
our experiences of the official world, which I fancy is always the same
in all countries. Calabrini was of course his same courteous self--so
absolutely free from pose of any kind--rather unusual in a man who has
always had such a success.

This morning we went to Trajan's Forum, walked, W. as usual quite at
home, everywhere recognising old friends at every step. We looked at all
manner of inscriptions and basso-rilievos, and enjoyed ourselves very
much. This afternoon W. and Schuyler went off together to see some
churches and the Palazzo dei Cesari. I backed out, as I can't stand two
sight-seeings the same day with a dinner in prospect in the evening. I
went over to get Gert, and we drove about together, winding up at the
Comtesse Wimpffens, Austrian Ambassadress, who has a charming apartment
in the Palazzo Chigi (where Odo Russell used to live when we were in
Rome). There were various ladies there, the Marquise de Noailles,
French Ambassadress (who immediately asked me who made my dress, the
blue velvet that did all my visits the last year of the Quai d'Orsay),
Lady Paget, Madame Minghetti, and a sprinkling of secretaries and
attachés. Comtesse d'Aulnay, looking very pretty, very well dressed,
came in just as we were leaving. We wound up with a turn in the Villa
Borghese. There were grooms waiting at the gate with saddle horses, just
as our old Carmine used to wait for us. It is all so curiously familiar
and yet changed. I can't get accustomed to the quantities of people in
the streets where there never used to be any one--occasionally a priest,
or a few beggars, or a water-carrier. Now there are soldiers, people
carrying parcels, small employees, workmen, carts, carriages, life in
fact. There were quantities of people in the Villa Borghese. Some of the
carriages very well turned out, again very different from our days when
we knew every carriage, and when a new equipage or a new face made a
sensation.

W. has had a delightful afternoon looking at some of the very old
churches with Eugene. He had, too, a note from Desprez saying our
audience from the Pope would be to-morrow at one o'clock, and giving me
the necessary instructions for my veil, long black dress, etc. To-morrow
night we dine at the Noailles. The breakfast there the other day was
pleasant--no one but ourselves and Ripalda. Of course it is a
magnificent Embassy--the Farnese Palace--and they do it very well, but
it would take an army of servants to "garnish" these long anterooms and
passages, in fact ordinary servants are quite lost there; there ought to
be Swiss guards or halberdiers with steel cuirasses and lances which
would stand out splendidly from the old grey walls. One could quite
imagine an Ambassador of Louis XIV arriving with 100 gentlemen and
armed retainers in his suite. The famous room with the Caracci frescoes
must be beautiful at night. Ripalda asked us to come to tea one
afternoon at his palace on the Tiber, the "Farnesina." Marquise de
Noailles was charming.

Now I will say good-night, dear, for I am tired, and we have a busy day
to-morrow. I wonder if Leo XIII. will impress me as much as Pio Nono
did.


                            _To H. L. K._

                                               ROME, HÔTEL DE LONDRES,
                                              Thursday, March 8, 1880.

The Piazza is delightful this morning, dear mother; it is bright and
warm, and there are lots of people starting for excursions with
guide-books, white umbrellas, and every variety of wrap. The coachmen of
the little botte look so smiling and interested, so anxious to make
things easy and comfortable. Vera came to see us yesterday, and told me
he was hailed by one of the coachmen from the top of his box, just as he
was crossing the Piazza, who said to him: "Sai Maestro, una di quelle
signorine King è tornata col marito?" (Do you know, master, one of those
King young ladies has come back with her husband?) He was much
amused--told him he was quite right, and that he was going to see that
same signorina. I dare say he had driven us often to one of the gates to
meet the saddle horses.

Yesterday was our udienza particolare (special audience), and most
interesting it was. Madame Hubert was madly excited dressing me. I wore
my black satin, long, with the Spanish lace veil I had brought in case I
should be received by his Holiness, and of course no gloves, though I
had a pair with me and left them in the carriage. We started at 12.30,
as our audience was at one, and got there quickly enough. I had
forgotten all the queer little courts and turns at the back of the
Vatican. Everything was ready for us; we were received really in royal
state--Swiss Guard, with their extraordinary striped yellow uniform
(designed, some one told us the other day, by Michelangelo), tall
footmen attired in red damask, Guardia Nobile, chamberlains, and two
monsignori. The garde noble de service was Felice Malatesta. He really
seemed much pleased to see me again, and to make W.'s acquaintance--swore
he would have known me at once, I was so little changed; but I rather
suspect if he hadn't known we were coming he wouldn't have recognised
me. We had a nice talk the few minutes we stood waiting in the room
adjoining the one where the Pope received us, and he gave me news of
all his family--Emilio (still unmarried), Francesco, etc.; then a door
was opened, a monsignore came out, bowed, and said his Holiness was
ready to receive us. We went in at once, the monsignore closing the
door behind us and leaving us alone with the Pope, who came almost
to the door to receive us, so that the three regulation curtseys
were impossible. There were three red and gold arm-chairs at one end of
the room, with a thick, handsome carpet in front of them. The Pope sat
on the one in the middle, put me on his right and W. on his left. He is
a very striking figure; tall, slight, a fine intellectual brow and
wonderfully bright eyes--absolutely unlike Pio Nono, the only Pope I had
ever approached. He was most gracious, spoke to me always in Italian,
said he knew I was an old Roman, and that we had lived many years in
Rome; spoke French to W., who, though he knows Italian fairly, prefers
speaking French. He asked W. all sorts of questions about home politics
and the attitude of the clergy, saying that as a Protestant his opinion
would be impartial (he was well up in French politics, and knew that
there were three Protestants in W.'s ministry: himself, Léon Say, and
Freycinet). W. was rather guarded at first (decidedly "banale," I told
him afterward), but the Pope looked straight at him with his keen,
bright eyes, saying: "Je vous en prie, M. Waddington, parlez sons
réserves."

We stayed about three-quarters of an hour, and the talk was most
interesting. The Pope is very anxious to bring about a better state of
feeling between the clergy and the people in France, and tries so hard
to understand why the priests are so unpopular; asked about the country
curate, who baptizes the children and buries the old people--surely
there must be a feeling of respect for him; said, too, that everywhere
in town or country the priests do so much for the sick and poor. W. told
him the women _all_ went to church and sent their children to the
catechism, but the men are indifferent, if not hostile, and once the
boys have made their first communion they never put their foot in a
church. "What will keep them straight and make good men of them, if they
grow up without any religious education?" The answer was
difficult--example and home teaching, _when_ they get it. Evidently he
had been curious to see W., and I think he was pleased. It was quite a
picture to see the two men--the Pope dressed all in white, sitting very
straight in his arm-chair with his two hands resting on the arms of the
chair, his head a little bent forward, and listening attentively to
every word that W. said. W. drew his chair a little forward, spoke very
quietly, as he always does, and said all he wanted to say with just the
same steady look in his blue eyes.

[Illustration: Pope Leo XIII.]

From time to time the Pope turned to me and asked me (always in Italian)
if politics interested me--he believed all French women were keen
politicians; also if I had found many old friends in Rome. I told him I
was so pleased to see Felice Malatesta as we came in, and that we were
going to meet Cardinal Howard one day at breakfast. I shouldn't think he
took as much interest in the social life of Rome as Pio Nono did. They
used always to say he knew everything about everybody, and that there
was nothing he enjoyed so much as a visit from Odo Russell, who used to
tell him all sorts of "petites histoires" when their official business
was over.

He also talked a good deal to W. about his uncle, Evelyn Waddington, who
lived in Perugia, where he was "sindaco" (mayor) for years. He married
an Italian lady, and was more than half Italian--curious for a man
called Evelyn Waddington. The Pope had known him well when he was Bishop
of Perugia.

We both kissed his hand when we took leave, and he said again to W. how
much he had been interested in all he told him. We lingered a few
minutes in the anteroom, as there was some idea Cardinal Nina would
receive us, but it had not been arranged. It seemed strange to be in
those high, bare rooms again, and reminded me of our visit to Cardinal
Antonelli years ago with father, when he showed us his collection of
gems. I remember so well his answer to Bessie Curtis (now Marquise de
Talleyrand-Périgord), who was looking out of the window, and said it was
such an enchanting view, would help one in "des moments de
découragement." "On n'est jamais découragé, mademoiselle."

I imagine Leo XIII has very difficult moments sometimes.

W. wouldn't come out again as he had letters to write, so I stopped for
Gert, and we had a lovely turn in the Villa Pamphili. Quantities of
people--it looked very gay. We got home about six, and had visits until
it was time to dress for our dinner at the Wimpffens. D'Aulnay came
first, very anxious to hear about our audience at the Vatican; and
Tagliani, the auditeur of the old "nonce"; also Dr. Nevin.

Our dinner at the Wimpffens was very pleasant. Their apartment looks
very handsome lighted. There was a fine, pompous old porter at the door
downstairs, and plenty of servants and a "chasseur" upstairs. We had all
the personnel of the Embassy, the Calabrinis, Bibra (Bavarian Minister),
Van Loo (Belgian), and an Austrian whose name I didn't master, who had
been a minister in Andrassy's Cabinet. After dinner we all adjourned to
the smoking-room, which is very large and comfortable, lots of low
arm-chairs. The Austrian ladies smoked, and I talked to Bibra and Van
Loo, who told me all the diplomats had been rather struck with the
cordiality of our reception--that in general the Romans troubled
themselves very little about strangers. W. talked to Wimpffen and his
Austrian friend, who was much interested in hearing about our audience
with the Pope, and a little surprised that W. should have talked to him
so freely, both of them saying that his being a Protestant made things
much easier.

The Romans went off early, so W. went to Geoffroy (director of the École
de Rome--French Archæological Society), who receives Thursday evenings
at the Farnese Palace. He has an apartment quite up at the top of the
palace over the Noailles, and I went to Gert, who also received
Thursday. I found a good many people there--principally Americans, and
some young diplomats. So many people were introduced to me that I was
quite exhausted, and went and sat down by Aunt Mary, who looked very
handsome.


                                               Sunday, March 10, 1880.

I shall not go out this morning. It is a little foggy--the first time
since we came here--and I was also lazy. We are going so perpetually.
Yesterday W. was off at nine in the morning with Geoffroy and Lanciani
for a classic tournée. I wrote one or two letters, and then Madame
Hubert and I walked over to Gert's and breakfasted. After breakfast
Monsignor English came in and had much to say about the Pope, and the
impression W. had made which he had heard from high personages of the
Vatican. I told him all about the interview, and he was much surprised
when I said we all sat down. W. came while he was still there, and of
course he wanted to hear his account, and was so pleased with all W.
said about the Pope, his marvellous intelligence and comprehension of
the present very difficult state of affairs in France. English also said
the Pope had been pleased with me (I did nothing but listen) so I
plucked up my courage, and asked him if he thought his Holiness would
give me a photograph _signed_--I should like so much to have one. He
said it would be difficult, as the Pope never _signed_ a photo--but
perhaps----. I should like one so much--I hope he will make an exception
for this heretic.

W. and I walked home, and then I dressed, and we started again for some
visits. We found Princess Bandini, who was most amiable--very pleased to
make W.'s acquaintance, also rather curious about the Vatican visit.
There were quantities of people there, principally diplomats and
English. W. thought the apartment very handsome.

We tried to find Madame Calabrini, but she was not receiving. We dined
at the Noailles. I wore my blue satin and all the diamonds I possess.
The apartment looked very ambassadorial--the great gallery lighted,
superb. The dinner was handsome--Wimpffens, Pagets, Uxkulls (Russian
Ambassador, you will remember him in Florence the year we were there),
Cairolis, Geoffroys, Schuylers, and various young men. Maffei, the
Under-Secretary of State, took me in, and I had Cairoli on the other
side. I didn't find him very easy to talk to. He doesn't speak French
very well, so I changed into Italian (which I am gradually getting back)
and then we got on better. I shouldn't think he was much of a ladies'
man, and never a brilliant talker. Maffei is very clever and amusing.
Gert sat just opposite, looking very well in yellow.

During the dinner Maffei called my attention to the menu "Cotelettes à
la Waddington," and asked me if W. was as much of an authority in cooks
as he was in coins. I disclaimed any such knowledge for him, and was
rather curious to see what the "cotelettes" would prove to be. They were
a sort of chaud-froid, with a thick, white envelope, on which was a
large W. in truffles. The whole table was rather amused, and Madame de
Noailles gave us the explanation. Her chef had been some time with us at
the Quai d'Orsay, and when he heard W. was coming to dinner was much
excited, and anxious to do honour to his old master--so he consulted
Madame de Noailles, and that was the result. I will keep the menu for
you.

After dinner we adjourned to the beautiful Carracci gallery, and there I
was presented to various ladies--Madame d'Uxkull (ci-devant Madame
Gheka), very handsome; and Madame Visconti Venosta, an attractive
looking woman with charming manners. I had quite a talk with Lady Paget,
who looks always very distinguished with her beautiful figure. She told
me Mrs. Edwards's baby had arrived--a little girl--to be called "Gay"
after her daughter.[18] I hope she will grow up as pretty as her mother.
I talked some time to Madame Cairoli who was very amiable and expansive,
called me always "Madame la Comtesse"; and offered me anything I wanted
from cards for the Chamber to a presentation to the Queen.

[18] Now the Hon. Sylvia Edwards, Maid of Honour to Queen Alexandra.

There was quite a reception in the evening--not many of the Roman
ladies. Marc Antonio Colonna came up--recalled himself, and introduced
me to his wife--very pretty, with splendid jewels. She is the daughter
of the Duke of Sant-Arpino, a very handsome man. Her mother, the
Duchess, an English woman, also very handsome, so she comes fairly by
her beauty. I walked about the rooms with Wimpffen, and he showed me all
the notabilities in the parliamentary world. Lady Paget asked us to go
to her on Sunday afternoon, and I promised Nevin we would go to his
church, but we didn't.

W. has just received an intimation that King Humbert will receive him
to-morrow at one o'clock, and I have told Madame Hubert to get out his
Italian decorations, as he always forgets to put them on, and it seems
in all courts they attach much importance to these matters. We are
starting now for a drive; first to the Villa Wolkonsky--I want to show
it to W., and we shall probably go in late to the British Embassy.


                                               Monday, March 11, 1880.

The King gave W. his audience to-day at one. He went off most properly
attired, _with_ his Italian ribbon. He generally forgets to put on his
orders, and was decidedly put out one day in Paris when he arrived at a
royal reception _without_ the decoration the sovereign had just sent
him. The explanation was difficult--he could hardly tell the King he had
forgotten. W. got back again a little after two, and said the interview
was pleasant enough--the King very gracious, and he supposed, for him,
talkative; though there were long pauses in the conversation--he leaning
on his sword, with his hands crossed on the hilt as his father always
did--spoke about the Queen, said she was in Rome, and he believed Madame
Waddington had known her when she was Princess de Piedmont. I never was
presented to her--saw her only from a distance at some of the balls. I
remember her quite well at a ball at the Teanos in a blue dress, with
her beautiful pearls. I hope she will receive us. He talked less
politics than the Pope; said France and Italy, the two great Latin
races, ought to be friends, and deplored the extreme liberty of the
press; knew also that W. was in Rome for the first time, and hoped he
would have fine weather. He did not ask him anything about his interview
with the Pope. W. said the reception was quite simple--nothing like the
state and show of the Vatican. There was a big porter at the door of the
palace, two or three servants on the stairs, and two officers,
aides-de-camp, in the small salon opening into the King's cabinet.

Soon after he came in we had visits--Hooker, Monsignor English, a French
priest, head of St. Louis des Français, and Del Monte, whom I hadn't yet
seen. He was so nice and friendly--doesn't look really much older,
though he says he feels so. I told him it seemed unnatural not to have a
piano. He would have brought his cello, and we could have plunged into
music and quite forgotten how many years had passed since we first
played and sang the "Stella Confidente."

[Illustration: King Humbert of Italy.]

After they had all gone we started out to the "Tre Fontane," taking Gert
with us to see the establishment of the French Trappists who are trying
to "assainir" the Campagna by planting eucalyptus trees. It is an
interesting experiment, but rather a dangerous one, as several of the
fathers have died. The summer here, with that deadly mist that rises
from the Campagna, must be fatal, and the two monks we saw looked yellow
and shrivelled with fever. However, they will persevere, with that
extraordinary tenacity and devotion of the Catholic priests when they
undertake anything of that kind. I carried off a bottle of Elixir of
Eucalpytus, for I am sorry to say these last bright days have given me
an unpleasant souvenir in the shape of a cold chill every now and then
between the shoulders, and evidently there is still truth in the Roman
proverb "Cuore di donna, onde di mare, sole di Marzo, non ti fidare."
(Don't trust a woman's heart, the waves of the sea, nor the March sun.)

We got home about half-past six, had tea and more visits--Calabrini,
Vitelleschi, and Princess Pallavicini, who was most animated, and talked
politics hard with W. We dined at home and had a little talk, just as we
were finishing dinner, with Menabrea, who was dining at a table next
ours. They say he will go to the Paris Embassy in Cialdini's place. W.
wouldn't go out again, so I went alone to Gert's, who had a few
people--Mrs. Van Rensselaer, clever and original; Countess Calice, an
American; her husband, a cousin of the Malatestas; Vera; young
Malatesta, a son of Francesco; a Russian secretary, and one or two
others. It was rather a pleasant evening. They had tea in the
dining-room--everybody walked about, and the men smoked.


                                              Tuesday, March 13, 1880.

Yesterday morning W. and I had a good outing, wandering about the
Capitol. First we walked around Marcus Aurelius, then up the old worn
stone steps to the Ara Coeli. I told W. how we used to go there always
on Christmas Eve to see the Crèche and the Bambino. It was very well
done, and most effective. The stable, beasts, shepherds, and kings (one
quite black with a fine crown). There were always children singing the
"storia di Gesù" and babies in arms stretching out their hands to the
lights. Yesterday the church was quite empty, as there is not much to
attract the ordinary tourist. We made our way slowly, W. stopping every
moment before an inscription, or a sarcophagus, or a fresco, to the room
of the "Dying Gladiator," which he found magnificent--was not at all
disappointed; afterward the faun--and then sauntered though all the
rooms. I had forgotten the two skeletons in one of the sarcophagi--the
woman's with rings on her fingers, most ghastly.

After lunch Countess Wimpffen came in to know if I would drive with her
to the Villa Borghese, and do two teas afterwards--Madame Cairoli and
Madame Westenberg (wife of the Dutch Minister, an American and a great
friend of Gert's); but I couldn't arrange it, as W. wanted to come with
me to the Affaires Etrangères--so we agreed to go another day. I always
liked both Wimpffens so much when they were in Paris that it is a great
pleasure to find them here. Wimpffen likes to get hold of W. and talk
about France and French politics.

Our dinner at Mrs. Bruce's was very gay. I told her I didn't find her
salon much prettier than in our days when we lived on the first floor of
Perret's house (she on the second), and she always said we made Perret
send up to her all the ugly furniture we wouldn't have. What we kept
was so bad, that I think the "rebut" must have been something awful. We
had the Minghettis, Vitelleschis, Wurts, Wilbrahams, Schuylers, and one
or two stray Englishmen. Vitelleschi took me in, and I had Minghetti on
the other side, so I was very well placed. It is killing to hear them
talk politics--discussing all the most burning questions with a sort of
easy persiflage and "esprit de conciliation" that would astound our
"grands politiques" at home. Minghetti said the most absolutely liberal
man he had ever known was Pio Nono--but what could he do, once he was
Pope.

It was really a charming dinner--Mrs. Bruce is an ideal hostess. She
likes to hear the clever men discuss, and always manages to put them on
their mettle. We all came away about the same time, and W. and I went on
to the opera "Tor di None." Bibra had invited us to come to his box. The
house was much less "élégante" than the Paris house--hardly any one in a
low dress, no tiaras, and few jewels. The Royal box empty. Princess
Bandini was in the next box with Del Monte and Trochi. The Minghettis
opposite with the Wimpffens. The "salle" was badly lighted--one could
hardly make the people out.

W. had rather a shock--we had scarcely got in--(Bibra not yet come) when
the door opened and in came Maurizio Cavaletti--enchanted to see
me--seizing both my hands--"Maria mia adorata--cara regazza, etc.,"
utterly oblivious of "cara Maria's" husband, who stood stiff and cold
(an icicle) in the background, with Anglo-Saxon written all over him;
waiting for the exuberant demonstration to finish, and a presentation to
be made. As soon as I could I presented Monsieur le Marquis in proper
form, and explained that we were very old friends, had not met for
years, etc., but W. hardly thawed all the evening.

When he went out of the box to pay a visit to our neighbours I
remonstrated vigorously with Maurizio, but he was so unfeignedly
astonished at being taken to task for greeting a very old friend warmly,
that I didn't make much impression. The ballet was pretty, and of course
there was an influx of young men as soon as it began--a handsome, rather
stout "ballerina" being evidently a favourite.

To-day we breakfasted with the Schuylers to meet Mrs. Bruce and Cardinal
Howard--no one else. We had a pretty little breakfast, most lively. I
didn't find the Cardinal much changed, a little stouter perhaps. He was
quite surprised at W.'s English; knew of course that he had been
educated at Rugby and Cambridge, and had the Chancellor's medal, but
thought he would have lost it a little having lived so many years in
France, and having made all his political career in French. I asked him
if he was as particular as ever about his horses. He always had such
splendid black horses when we lived in Rome, but he said, rather sadly,
that times were changed. W. and he talked a long time after breakfast.
He was very anxious to know whether _all_ the religious orders were
threatened in France or merely the Jesuits. Comte Palfy (Austrian) came
in just as we were leaving. He is so attractive--a great friend of
l'Oncle Alphonse--knows everybody here and loves Rome.

W. and I went off to the Villa Albani--out of Porta Salara. We walked
through the rooms--there are principally busts, statues, bas-reliefs,
etc.--and then loitered about the gardens which are fine. Fountains,
vases, and statues in every direction, and always that beautiful view of
the hills in the soft afternoon light.

I will finish when I come home from our _Black_ dinner. We are asked for
seven, so of course will get back early, as we do not go anywhere
afterward. I shall wear black, as I hear so many Princes of the church
are to be there. Madame Hubert is very sorry I can't wear the long black
veil that I did for the Pope--she found that most becoming.


                                   Tuesday, March 12, 1880, 10.30 P.M.

We are just home from our dinner at the Portuguese Embassy, so I have
got out of my gauds and into my tea-gown, and will finish this long
letter. It was most interesting--a great deal of couleur locale. We
arrived very punctually--three or four carriages driving up at the same
time. There was of course a magnificent porter downstairs, and
quantities of servants in handsome liveries; a good deal of red and
powder. Two giants at the foot of the staircase, with the enormous tall
candles which are de rigueur at a Black embassy when cardinals or
ambassadors dine. They were just preparing to escort some swell up the
staircase as we arrived; there was a moment's halt, and the swell turned
out to be M. Desprez, the new French Ambassador to the Vatican
(replacing the Marquis de Cabriac). He was half embarrassed when he
recognised us; W. had so lately been his chef that he couldn't quite
make up his mind to pass before him--especially under such novel and
rather trying conditions. However, there was nothing to be done, and he
started up the great staircase between the tall candles, W. and I
followed modestly in his wake. We found several people, including two or
three cardinals, already there. The apartment is very handsome. The
Ambassador (Thomar) looked very well--"très grand seigneur"--standing at
the door of the first salon, and one saw quite a vista of large,
brilliantly lighted rooms beyond. All the guests arrived very
quickly--we had hardly time to exchange a word with any one. I saw the
Sulmonas come in. I recognised her instantly, though I hadn't seen her
for years. She was born Apponyi, and they were married when we were
living in Rome. Also Marc Antonio Colonna and the d'Aulnays. Almost
immediately dinner was announced. Sulmona took me in and I had a
cardinal (Portuguese) on the other side. I didn't say much to the
cardinal at first. He talked to his neighbour, and Sulmona and I
plunged, of course, into old Roman days. He was much amused at the
composition of the dinner, and wondered if it would interest W. He asked
me if I remembered the fancy ball at the Palazzo Borghese. He had still
the album with all the photos, and remembered me perfectly as "Folie"
with short skirts, bells, mirror, etc. I remember it, of course, quite
well. Some of the costumes were beautiful, particularly those copied
from portraits. After a little while the cardinal turned his attention
to me. He was a nice old man, speaking either French or Italian (both
with a strong accent), and much interested in the guests. He asked me if
I belonged to the corps diplomatique. I said no--we were merely
strangers spending the winter in Rome. He thought there were a good many
strangers at table--he didn't know half the people, not having been long
in Rome; but he knew that there was one man dining whom he had a great
desire to see, Waddington, the late French Premier; perhaps I knew him,
and could point him out. He had always followed his career with great
interest, but there were some things he couldn't understand, "par
exemple son attitude dans la question--" Then as I didn't know what he
might be going to say, I interrupted, and said no one could point out
that gentleman as well as I, as I was Madame Waddington. He looked a
little uncomfortable, so I remarked, "Il diavolo non è tanto nero quant
è dipinto" (The devil is not so black as he is painted), to which he
replied, "Eh, no punto diavolo" (no devil)--was rather amused, and asked
me if I would introduce him to W. after dinner. We then, of course,
talked a little about France, and how very difficult the religious
question was. He asked me where I had learned Italian, so I told him how
many years we had lived in Rome when my brother was the last Minister
from the United States to the Vatican. Sulmona joined in the talk, and
we rather amused ourselves. Sulmona, of course, knew everybody, and
explained some of the people, including members of his own (Borghese)
family, who were very Black and uncompromising. Still, as I told him,
the younger generation is less narrow-minded, more modern. I don't think
they mean to cut themselves off from all participation in the nation's
history. After all, they are all Italians as well as Romans. The foreign
marriages, too, make a difference. I don't think the sons of English and
American mothers could settle down to that life of inaction and living
on the past which the Black Party means in Rome.

As soon as I could after dinner I got hold of W. (which was difficult,
as he was decidedly surrounded) and introduced him to my cardinal, whose
name I never got, and I went to recall myself to Princess Sulmona. We
had a nice talk first about her people--her father, Count Apponyi, was
Austrian Ambassador in Paris when Marshal MacMahon was President, and
their salon was very brilliant, everybody going to them; the official
world and the Faubourg St. Germain meeting, but not mingling. Then we
talked a little about Rome, and the future of the young generation just
growing up. Of course it is awfully difficult for families like Borghese
and Colonna who have been bound up in the old papal world, and given
popes to Italy, to break away from the traditions of centuries and go in
frankly for "Italia Unita." Do you remember what they used to tell us of
Prince Massimo? When some inquisitive woman asked if they really called
themselves Fabius Maximus, he replied that it had been a family name for
1,400 years.

The present Prince Massimo is one of the most zealous supporters of the
Pope. The great doors of his gloomy old palace have never been opened
since the King of Italy came to Rome. One can't help admiring such
absolute conviction and loyalty; but one wants more than that in these
days of progress to keep a country alive.

The evening wasn't long; the cardinals never stay late, and every one
went away at the same time. We again assisted at the ceremony of the big
candles, as of course every cardinal and the Ambassador had to be
conducted downstairs with the same form. It was altogether a very
interesting evening and quite different from any dinner we had ever been
at. I don't think the French cardinals ever dine out in France; I don't
remember ever meeting one. Of course the "nunzio" went everywhere and
always had the "pas"--but one looks upon him more as a diplomatist than
a priest.

W. enjoyed his evening very much. He is now settled in his arm-chair
with his very disreputable pipe, and has been telling me his
experiences. He found my old cardinal very intelligent, and very well up
in French politics, and life generally. He liked Sulmona, too, very
much; made her acquaintance, but didn't have a chance to talk much to
her, as so many people were introduced to him. There is certainly a
great curiosity to see him--I wonder what people expected to find? He
looks very well, and is enjoying himself very much. I am so glad we did
not stay in Paris; he would have had all sorts of small annoyances, and
as it is, his friends write and want him to come back. He is quite
conscious of the sort of feeling there is about him. First his
appearance--a great many people refuse to believe that he is a
Frenchman; he certainly is not at all the usual French type, with his
fair hair, blue eyes, and broad shoulders; and when they realize that it
is he the cautious, doubtful way in which the clericals begin a
conversation with him, as if they expected red-hot anarchist
declarations to fall from his lips, is most amusing. Cardinal Howard
always seeks him out for a talk--but then he doesn't mince matters--goes
straight to the subject he wants to discuss, and told him the other day
he couldn't understand how a man of his English habits and education
should ever have dropped (he didn't say degenerated, but I think he
thought it) into a French republican government.

W. is very pleased to see the cordial way in which everybody meets me,
and I must say I am rather touched by it myself. I have never had a
moment's disappointment, and I was a little afraid, coming back in such
changed circumstances after so many years. Everybody asks after you, and
some one the other day--Countess Malatesta, I think--asked if you still
wore in Paris your plain black dress and bonnet. I suppose she thought
that even you couldn't have resisted the Paris modiste. It would seem
strange to see you in a hat and feathers.

Good-night, dearest; W.'s pipe is out, and we are going to bed.


                                                     HÔTEL DE LONDRES,
                                                       March 14, 1880.

Cannons are firing, drums beating, flags flying in all directions
to-day, dear mother. It is King Humbert's birthday and there is to be a
great revue on the Piazza dell' Indipendenza. We are invited to go and
see it by Turkam Pacha, Turkish Minister, who has an apartment on the
Piazza; but as he told us that we should meet Ismail Pacha (the
ex-Khedive) we thought we had better remain at home. I hardly think it
would be a pleasure to Ismail to meet the man who was one of the chief
instruments in his downfall. My sympathies were rather with the
Khedive--I never quite understood why France and England should have
politely but forcibly insisted upon his leaving his throne and
country--but whenever I raised the question I had always that inert
force the "raison d'état" opposed to me. We crossed him the other day
driving. The carriage full of red-fezzed men attracted my attention, and
our Giuseppe told us who they were. He looked very fat and smiling,
evidently was not rongé by his disasters. Turkam suggested that I should
come alone, but that of course I could not do.

Mrs. Bailey, who has also an apartment on the Piazza, has asked us to
come to her, but I think I shall stay quietly at home and look out of
the window. I see lots of officers and functionaries, in uniform,
passing in fiacres and riding, and a general migration of the whole city
including the beggars and flower girls of the Spanish Steps toward the
Piazza. W. says he will smoke his cigar walking about in the crowd, and
will see very well.

[Illustration: Queen Margherita of Italy.]

I was interrupted by a message from Gert begging me to come to her at
once. Her maid was in such an extraordinary state of violence she
thought she was crazy--and as Eugene was away for a day or two she was
really afraid. I questioned the little footman who brought the note but
he was very non-committal. W. was already off to see the review and I
left him a note explaining where I was and asking him if I didn't get
back to breakfast to come and get me at Gert's. I then started off with
the little footman who had a fiacre waiting. As I entered the court of
the Palazzo Altemps a glimpse of a white, frightened face at the window
told me what Gert's state was. Poor dear, she was terribly upset, and
Eugene's being away is a complication. Her two men-servants are very
devoted, but they evidently feel uncomfortable. She asked me if I would
go with her and see the woman. We found her sitting in a chair in Gert's
dressing-room looking certainly most unpleasant, sullen, and an ugly
look in her eyes. She is a great big Southern woman (French), could
throw Gert out of the window if she wanted to. Gert spoke to her very
gently, saying I had come to see her as I had heard she was not well.
She didn't answer nor move but gave Gert a nasty look--she evidently has
got something against her. I looked at her very steadily--said we were
very sorry she was suffering, which was most evident, and that the best
thing for her would be to rest, attempt no service of any kind and go to
her own room--that we had sent for Dr. Valery who would certainly be
able to relieve her. She didn't answer at first, and looked as if she
would like to spring upon us both, then burst into screams of
abuse--"She would go to her room of course--would leave the house at
once and never come back, etc." I told her I should certainly advise
Mrs. Schuyler to send her away--that evidently the climate did not suit
her, and she would be happier in France. She didn't answer, relapsed
into her sullen silence, and almost immediately Valery appeared. He
insisted very quietly that she should go to her own room (at the other
end of the apartment), and she went off with him, giving an ugly look at
Gert as she passed. It seems she already had had such an attack, less
violent, when they were at Birmingham, but once it was over went on
quite peaceably and didn't seem to realize how ill she had been. Valery
came back to tell us the result of his examination--said she had already
calmed down and was anxious to beg her mistress's pardon, but that she
was of a nervous, dangerous temperament, and at any moment might have a
relapse. Of course she must go, but it is very uncomfortable. I took
Gert out for a drive. W. sent me a line to say he was busy all the
afternoon and would not come unless I wanted him. I think the air and
distraction did her good. The streets had a decidedly festive
appearance. There were a good many flags everywhere, and soldiers still
passing on their way back to their various barracks. We were kept some
time in the Corso seeing a battalion of "bersaglieri" pass. They had
good music and looked very spirited as they moved along with all their
feathers flying. They were rather small, but well set up, and marched in
beautiful time with a light, quick step. We saw some cavalry too, but I
didn't care so much for them. I thought the men looked too tall for the
horses--their legs too near the ground.

We went to Nazzari's for tea, and the man was so smiling and pleased to
see me that I asked him if he knew me--"Ma sì, certamente, la Signorina
King"--had seen me various times in the Piazza or driving, and hoped I
would come in some day for tea. I went upstairs with Gert when I took
her home, and left every possible instruction with the maître d'hôtel to
look after her, and above all to look after Louise, and not let her
leave her room. The cook's wife will help her dress, as the poor thing
has a dinner.

We have dined quietly at home. W. was tired, having been out all day.
There is a reception at the French Embassy, but we shan't go. I told W.
about the maid and the exciting morning we had had. He said of course
the woman must go at once--that she had evidently a grudge of some kind
against Gert, and might do her some injury. He had had rather a pleasant
day. He walked about in the crowd seeing everything very well. He was
rather favourably impressed with the Italian soldiers--said they were
small as a rule, but light and active--marched very well. The King
looked well, and was very well received. He thought him a striking
figure on horseback in uniform, that curious type of all the Savoy
Princes. They don't look modern at all, but as if they belonged to
another century. I don't know exactly what it is--one sees the same sort
of face so often in old Spanish and Italian portraits.

He had breakfasted alone, as I was over with Gert, and then started off
with Monsignor English to meet Father Smith at the Catacombs, where they
had a long delightful afternoon. He says Father Smith is a charming
guide, knows and loves every corner of the Catacombs. His brogue, too,
is attractive, sounds so out of place in that atmosphere of Latin and
old-world tombs and inscriptions. He also told me what pleased me very
much, that the Pope will give me his photograph, signed. Monsignor
English told him to tell me, and he will come and see us to-morrow.
Among our cards was one from the Cardinal Di Pietro--Doyen of the
College of Cardinals--coming first to see W. What would the Protocole
say?


                                                       March 16, 1880.

Schuyler has got back, and the maid is a lamb, but is going all the
same. The doctor and the other servants advise it strongly, and I am
sure Gert will find a nice Italian maid here to replace her. W. and I
have done a fair amount of sight-seeing these days, and yesterday he
paid a long visit to Cardinal Nina--Secretary of Foreign Affairs for the
Vatican. He found him reasonable and interesting. I tell him he is
getting quite a "papalino"--he finds the Cardinals so pleasant. He came
and got me after his visit and we went off to the Chambre des Députés.
Visconti Venosta was going to make a great speech attacking the Ministry
on their foreign policy, and they thought there would be a lively
séance. We were in the Diplomatic box--all the Ambassadors were there,
and he had just got up to speak as we got there. They don't speak from
the tribune, as in France. Every man speaks from his own place--and as
he had his back to us we didn't hear very well. He spoke very easily,
and was very well listened to. Occasionally there would be a sort of
growl of disapproval, but on the whole the house was much quieter than
ours. Cairoli looked quite composed when Visconti was pitching into him,
smiling even when he remarked he didn't understand the Italian
character, nor how to use the great powers his position gave him, etc.
Various people came up and spoke to me, among others Countess Celleri,
who seems to be taking up politics now. She has grown a little older,
but is very handsome still, and was evidently a great attraction to all
the young diplomatists who were in the box. W. admired her appearance
and manner very much. We stayed there till 5.30 hoping that Cairoli
would answer, but he didn't, the discussion rather trailed on, so we
went for a turn in the Villa Borghese to get a little air before our
dinner at the British Embassy. It was very crowded, all the swells
driving--King, Queen, and Khedive all in separate carriages. The King in
a small victoria with one aide-de-camp--the Queen in her big landau with
one lady and the red royal liveries; the Khedive in an ordinary
carriage, but conspicuous, as he and his gentlemen all wore the red fez.

Our Paget dinner was pleasant. They have got a big villa in the Venti
Settembre out toward Porta Pia. There is a large garden with fine trees,
and the entrance and staircase are handsome. We were 36--Italians
chiefly--but a few Diplomatists. I knew almost every one, Calabrinis,
Minghettis, Somaglias (you will remember her name, she was Gwendoline
Doria, and married when we lived in Rome), Serristori, Castagneta and
some Deputies and gentlemen of the Palace who, of course, were strangers
to me. The dining-room is large with a quite round table which must be
very difficult to cover, there were such spaces. I think there must have
been hundreds of roses on the table. The Marquis de Villamarina, head of
the Queen's household, took me in, and I had Uxkull on the other side,
Lady Paget next to him. We all talked together, and I complimented Lady
Paget on the quickness of the service. It was always one of our
preoccupations at the Quai d'Orsay to get through these long official
dinners as soon as possible. W. took in Madame Visconti Venosta, and
they seemed to be getting on swimmingly. After dinner I talked some time
to Countess Somaglia, and asked to be introduced to the Marquise
Villamarina. She told me the Queen would certainly receive us, but
couldn't quite fix the day yet as she had many official rendezvous these
days. When the men came in from smoking I had a few words with
Calabrini, and one or two Deputies were presented, Sella, Lanza, etc.,
but I really only _talked_ to Sir Augustus Paget. He said they were
going to have a small ball after Easter, and hoped we should still be
here. I hope we shall, I should like to see the ball-room--they say all
the decoration, painting, flowers, cupids, etc., has been done by Lady
Paget herself. The party broke up early, no one stays late at dinner.
There is always a reception somewhere to which everybody goes.

We came home as I get tired at night. We begin our day early, and are
never in the house. This morning Gert and I went out shopping in the
Piazza della Minerva and Campo Marzo--it was most amusing. We got two
dresses for her--one of that coarse Roman linen, and a very pretty Roman
silk from Bianchi, the same man who existed in our days. He looked most
smiling and evidently recognised the familiar faces, though he could not
put a name to them. We got the linen in a funny little old shop, low,
and as dark as pitch. I never should have dreamed of going there for
anything, but some one told us it was _the_ place for linen, and we
found at once what we wanted. I bought two Roman sashes--one for Alice
and a ribbon for Nounou. We pottered about for some time looking at the
bits of old brocade and embroidery, some pieces stretched out on the
pavement with a stone at each end to hold them down. There were two
pieces of old rose brocade which looked very tempting, but when I took
them up I saw there were thin places in the silk, and spots--so I
resisted these "occasions." The woman was amusing, tried to make us buy,
but knew quite well her silk was not first-rate. She evidently attached
no importance to the spots (è vecchia), but allowed that the frayed bits
were not encouraging.

This afternoon we have been again to the Chambre des Députés--Cairoli
was speaking. He has a good voice, we heard him much better than
Visconti Venosta. _I_ didn't find his speech very interesting. There
were all sorts of details and references to despatches and blue books
which were Greek to me, but of course W. liked it and knew the question
thoroughly so he said he would stay and I had much better go and get
some fresh air. The heat was something awful and the box full, so I took
myself off. One of the Austrian secretaries came down with me to look
for the carriage and I started for a solitary turn in the Villa
Borghese. I hadn't gone very far when I met Comtesse Wimpffen alone in
her carriage. We drew up for a little talk, and she proposed I should
send my carriage away and come into hers, which I was delighted to do.
We went for a little walk, and met various friends--Marchesa Theoduli[19]
looking lovely. She was very amusing over the divided state of
society--says she is not allowed to bow to the Queen, and as they meet
almost every day driving and neither of them can pass inaperçue it is
rather awkward. Mrs. Lorillard Spencer came up too, she was walking with
her daughter, Princess Vicovaro, whose husband was "le beau Cenci" of
our days. It was delicious lounging about on the grass under the trees,
after the heat of the Chamber. We stopped at Nazzari's for tea, met
Bibra at the door and invited him to come with us--also Cornélie
Zuylen,[20] who had seen us from the street and rushed in to have a
little talk. She is in Rome for a few days--sight-seeing hard. We had
tea and very good cakes--and I was glad to have a few minutes before
dressing for the Calabrini dinner.

[19] Née Lily Conrad.

[20] Now Madame Scheidecker.

We started off again at 8, and had really a very pleasant evening at
Calabrini's. Their house is not large--they can't dine easily more than
10 people. I was the only lady--the men were Vitelleschi, Sella (their
rising political man) whom W. was delighted to see, a Ruspoli whom I had
never seen before, a brother of the late Prince; and Alphonso Doria who
looks like a tall English boy. Stella is clever enough, decidedly un
homme sérieux, and Calabrini was much pleased to have him for my homme
sérieux. He told us all sorts of stories about "Italia Unita" and
Cavour, and his profound distrust of Louis Napoleon; how, until the very
last moment when the French troops were really at the gates, he was
afraid they wouldn't come. We stayed fairly late, as the talk was
interesting. I don't think there is much real sympathy between the
French and Italians. They are very unlike though they are of the same
race. The Italians seem very excitable when they talk fast and
gesticulate and their eyes flash, but au fond they are calmer than our
people--at least the upper classes; I don't know about the bas peuple.
They say knives play a part in their discussions. Certainly in France
there are always rows when the Italian workmen arrive. They are
generally terrassiers and come in bands when railroads or bridges are
being made. One recognises them at once with their black eyes, white
teeth, red sashes and slouched hats. There is usually a coup de couteau
before the season ends. They work well enough, are light and active, but
always stop to talk--don't keep up a sort of desultory talk over their
work as our men do.

[Illustration: Queen Margherita and King Humbert.]


                                                       March 18, 1880.

Last night we went to the Wimpffens' grand official "ricevimento." All
the street in front of the house was crowded just as it used to be in
the old days--people coming close up to the carriages (going of course
 at a foot's pace) and peering in to see the diamonds. There was
nothing like the display of carriages, diamonds, and liveries there
used to be--many fiacres, and many uniforms. Countess Wimpffen looked
very well in white satin, pearls, and diamond tiara, Wimpffen of course
in uniform and his broad ribbon, Cenci (now Prince de Vicovaro) attached
to the Court, was standing at one side of the Ambassadress presenting
all the Court people. The Princess, his wife, stood near by looking very
well, beautifully dressed, with diamonds and large pearl pendants. She was
wearing for the first time her decoration of dame de palais. All the
"White" Roman ladies were there. I saw quantities of people whom I knew.
W. also begins to know the people. He thought the Roman women very
distinguished looking, and the jewels splendid, particularly the pearls.
We stayed quite late, and decidedly amused ourselves. I was rather
interested in seeing when Madame de Wimpffen shook hands and when she
merely bowed. When W. was at the Foreign Office and we had big
receptions I was puzzled sometimes. My impulse was not to shake hands
with the men. W. and Richard thought I ought to shake hands with all the
Deputies, but that seemed a great undertaking and would, I think, have
surprised them, as Frenchmen as a rule are formal, don't shake hands
usually with ladies, but make rather a stiff bow, so I compromised by
shaking hands only with those I knew.

This afternoon W. and I went out together. We left several cards and
wound up in the Villa Borghese, where we walked about for some time. It
was lovely under the cypress trees, long dark avenues with a fountain at
one end--large vases--bits of half-ruined gateways, columns, and
unexpectedly a sort of rond or opening with fountains, statues, big
stones, all in a heap, and then long stretches of lawn with anemones,
violets, and a pretty little yellow flower I didn't know, all perfectly
neglected and growing wild, but with a wonderful charm. Such a contrast
when we emerged again into the regular promenade and the gay modern life
of Rome of to-day. There were quantities of carriages, three or four
four-in-hands with women in light dresses on the tops of the coaches;
men, principally officers, riding (in uniform, which always makes a gay
note), lots of victorias and open carriages. The Prince of Naples (with
the Royal red liveries) driving with one gentleman. He was dressed in
sailor dress, looked smiling and interested, and bowed all the time.
Three or four carriages filled with pretty girls--English or
American--looking hard at everything, and always bands of black-robed
students, seminarists from the various colleges which abound in Rome. It
is a curious motley crowd--I don't think one would see it anywhere else.
The clerical element is always well to the fore, and in spite of the
changes the Monarchy established, with all the train of courtiers,
deputies, soldiers, and endless functionaries that it brings, one feels
that it is the great centre of Catholicism, and that the long arm of the
Church still retains her hold on her children scattered all over the
world.

I will finish now as we have come home fairly early from the Pallavicini
reception. We dined at home and started off about 10. We went to get
Gert, and on arriving about 10.30 found ourselves almost the first
people. Felice Malatesta was there, also Del Monte. Both being
"Gardes-Nobles" they can only come early and not run the risk of meeting
any of the Court people nor diplomatists to the Quirinal. Princess
Pallavicini is one of the Queen's ladies, but she is such an old friend
of both gentlemen that they always go to her. Among the first arrivals
was Massari. He and W. and Prince Pallavicini had a nice talk, and it
amused me to see the people come in. There were about 30 (I knew a good
many of the Romans, but of course the Court people and Deputies were
strangers to me), Wimpffens, Noailles, St. Asilea, Somaglias, and a
sprinkling of young diplomatists. As soon as the White diplomatists
began to appear Del Monte and Malatesta departed. I had a talk with
Villamarina who is very musical, also with Vitelleschi. The party broke
up early--there was no music nor dancing (not even the little informal
"tour de valse" there used to be in our days) and we were home before 12
o'clock. W. enjoyed his evening--talked principally to the men.


                                             Saturday, March 20, 1880.

W. is off this morning with Father Smith to San Clemente. I was lazy as
I was out all day yesterday. In the morning W. and I walked to the
Palazzo dei Cesari, and stayed there two hours walking about and sitting
down in the nice sunny places. It was beautifully bright, a splendid
blue sky, but cold, a sharp wind, very unusual they say for the end of
March. One gets a very fair walk on the Palatine Hill. There is so much
to see, and the little irregular paths running up and down from the
various temples and ruined buildings of all kinds give one plenty of
exercise. It needs a good deal of imagination to reconstruct all the
temples, tribunes, porticoes, and palaces which existed in the days of
Imperial Rome, but there are still bits of coloured marble, faded
frescoes, mosaics, tops of columns and broken statues in every
direction. W. was quite happy--he had already spent a morning there
with Lanciani, and so could show me what was still well enough preserved
for me to understand. The view from the terrace over Rome and the
Campagna was beautiful--the mountains seemed so near. We didn't walk
home as we found a botta which had just brought up a party of
forestieri--French this time, with a young priest, who was evidently the
guide.


                                               Sunday, March 21, 1880.

We went to the American church this morning as Nevin was so anxious we
should see it. There is no very interesting French church--a sort of
Vaudois chapel--so we preferred the Capella Americana. It is a pretty
little church, very full--I should think a good many English as well as
Americans--very good singing and a good sermon, not too long. We had
visitors after lunch, and about 4 started for a drive out to Ponte
Nomentano. We got out and walked about the Campagna for some time. The
view was divine--Frascati and Rocca di Papa on one side, Tivoli on the
other. W. thought the old bridge most picturesque. He recognised it
instantly from the aquarelle that is in the dining-room at home. As it
was Sunday all the country people were out; carts filled with women and
children, boys on donkeys, sitting well back, almost on the tails of the
animals, and all the little courts in front of the various osterias
quite full. There were not exactly costumes, but there was a general
impression of colour. The men had bright coloured sashes and shirts--the
women nearly all red and blue skirts striped, and a coloured
handkerchief on their heads--almost all with long gold ear-rings (some
of the men too had ear-rings--large gold hoops) and a string of coloured
beads around their necks. Everybody talking, laughing, and enjoying
themselves. We stopped at the British Embassy for tea. Lady Paget
receives always Sunday afternoon. There were various carriages at the
door, and the villa looked pretty. The tea-table was on a broad palier
at the head of the stairs. It was very well arranged with screens
"cassoni," plants, arm-chairs--very original and attractive. I went in
first to the drawing-room and had a talk with Lady Paget, then adjourned
to the palier with Princess Sciarra and Countess Wimpffen, and we had a
very pleasant hour. It was amusing to see all the people coming up the
broad staircase. There were of course a great many I didn't know, as
besides all the Court set and political people there were many English,
all arriving for Holy Week. Mrs. Bruce, Madame Visconti Venosta, Gert,
Marquise Chigi came and joined us. I was quite horrified when I found
how late it was. We had just time to dress and go and dine with the
Geoffroys at the Palazzo Farnese. The evening was very pleasant;
decidedly archeological and scientific, but the men were all clever and
talked so well that they would have made any subject interesting. We had
Visconti, de Rossi, Lanciani, and some of the young men of the École
Française. They all love Rome and know every stone. W. was quite in his
element, talked a great deal himself, and was much interested in their
excavations and all the curious things they are finding all the time. I
meant to leave early and go to Gert who had a few people at dinner, but
it was eleven o'clock before any one moved, and we went quietly home.


                                          Good Friday, March 26, 1880.

I was too tired to-day to do anything, as yesterday we were out all day.
W. and I walked about in the morning, going into all sorts of churches
whenever we saw one open. There were always people, and in the smaller
churches they looked devout and absorbed, but the crowd of strangers in
the large, better known basilicas took away any religious feeling. It
all seemed a great show, which is practically what Holy Week is in Rome.
They say they have not had so many foreigners in years. Last night the
"gérant" begged us not to come downstairs until 8 o'clock, or even a
quarter past, as they needed all the small tables for the table-d'hôte.
It was not so very crowded this morning as we breakfast at 12.30, much
earlier than the foreigners, who are usually English and come in for
luncheon at 1.30.

Yesterday afternoon we went to St. Peter's and found ourselves in a long
file of carriages going the same way; also all kinds of pedestrians,
priests, nuns, soldiers, artists, Cook's tourists, etc. W. was rather
horrified at the crowd in the church, and the regular "bousculade" at
the big doors. There was to be very good singing at one of the small
chapels, but it was already so full that we couldn't get in, though we
had cards from one of the Monsignori. We tried to make our way in but it
was utterly impossible, and then stood outside, thinking we might hear;
but the people all talked so much that we heard nothing except every now
and then a few notes in that curious, high, unnatural voice of the Papal
Choir. Two young German priests, with keen intelligent faces, were so
put out--begged the people near not to talk--"in zehn Minuten ist alles
vorüber" (in ten minutes it will be all over). All Rome was walking
about the church, talking and looking about as if they were in a great
hall of some kind--a crowd of strangers pushing, jostling, and trying to
get up to the High Altar, or the statue of St. Peter where all the
faithful were kissing the toe. It was certainly not solemn nor edifying,
except when we came upon a quiet corner, with some old chapel filled
with tombs of dead Romans, Popes or Princes, who had played a great part
in their day. That took us back into the past, and we could realize that
we were really in St. Peter's. I tried to show W. the part that was shut
off for the great Ecumenical Council under Pio Nono, but I couldn't
remember exactly. We shall come back another day with Father Smith who
will know all about it. I did find the Stuart monument with the busts of
Charles Edward and Cardinal York. People kept pouring into the church,
but it is so enormous that, except at certain places, it was quite easy
to circulate. All the women (except a few stray tourists) were in black,
and every now and then one saw a long file of séminaristes, also in
black, but with a coloured sash to mark their nationality. I think the
Americans wear blue--the French are quite black--no colour. We talked to
quantities of people--it was like an enormous reception. I was very
tired when we finally came out, as of course we were walking and
standing about all the time. There is no aisle with regular seats as in
most churches--merely a few prie-Dieu inside the side chapels. The drive
home was lovely--we went at a walk almost all the time, there were so
many carriages.

I went out after all this afternoon with W. and Monsignor English to St.
John Lateran, where they were singing a Miserere of Cappoci's. It is
most strange, weird music, and the voices of the men are so unlike
anything one hears elsewhere. There was always the same crowd. I will
say Cook does his business thoroughly--wherever there is anything to see
or hear he pilots all his band. After the Miserere was over we stood
some time at the foot of the Scala Santa. It was black with people going
up on their knees, saying a prayer at each step (I think there are 30)
and some of them did look serious and absorbed. They were principally
peasants--every now and then some well-dressed bourgeois. Monsignor
English told us we would be surprised at the class of people (society)
who come early, before the great crowd of sight-seers.

We went back to the Palazzo Altemps, picking up Count Palfy on the way,
where Gert had promised us tea and hot cross buns from Spillman's (very
good they were).

We found a note from the Quirinal when we came home saying the Queen
would receive us to-morrow at 2.30. Desprez came and sat some time. He
told W. all that was going on in Paris--the Ministry as usual struggling
against the Radicals who are always wanting to suppress the French
Embassy at the Vatican. It doesn't make the position of the Ambassador
very pleasant, but Desprez is very wise, has had long training at the
Foreign Office, and will certainly do all he can to conciliate and keep
things straight.


                           _To H. L. K._

                                             Saturday, March 27, 1880.

It was raining this morning, and I was very glad. The dust was getting
most disagreeable in one's eyes and throat, and covering everything. I
am glad, too, that it is cool, decidedly, as I wanted to wear my blue
velvet. If it had been a bright warm day it would have looked dark and
heavy. It is four o'clock--we have just come in from our audience, and I
will write at once while the impression is fresh. W. has a "rendezvous"
with some of the French Institute people, and I shall not see him again
until dinner time. We got to the palace (a great ugly yellow building,
standing high) quickly enough, as there was no one in the streets at
that hour, and drove into the court-yard to a handsome entrance and
staircase. There were a few soldiers about, but not much movement. A
carriage came in behind us, and just as we were going upstairs some one
called my name. It was Bessie Brancaccio,[21] who had also an audience
with the Queen. She had come to thank her for her appointment as dame de
palais. I was glad to have just that glimpse of her, as they are not in
Rome this winter. Their beautiful house is not ready for them, so they
have been spending the winter in Nice. We walked through a large
anteroom where there were three or four servants and an "écuyer," and in
the first salon we were received by the Comtesse Marcello, one of the
Queen's ladies, a Venetian and a great friend of Mary's, and the
gentleman-in-waiting, whose name I didn't master. We talked for a few
minutes--she said a lady was with the Queen. The room was handsome,
prettily furnished and opened into another--three or four, in fact, all
communicating. After about ten minutes we saw a lady come out of the end
room, the door of which was open, so Comtesse Marcello ushered us
through the suite. We went to the corner room, quite at the end, where
the Queen was waiting standing. We went through the usual ceremony. The
Comtesse Marcello made a low curtsey on the threshold, saying, "I have
the honour to present his Excellency, M. Waddington and Madame
Waddington," and instantly retired. The Queen was standing quite at the
end of the room (a lovely, bright corner room, with lots of windows and
a magnificent view over Rome--even on a dull day it looked cheerful and
spacious). I had ample time for my three curtseys. She let us come quite
close up to her, and then shook hands with us both and made us sit
down--I next to her on the sofa, W. in an arm-chair in front. I found
her rather changed since I had seen her. She has lost the girlish
appearance she had so long, and her manner was nervous, particularly at
first. When she began to talk and was interested and animated she was
more like what I remembered her as Princess Marguerite. She was dressed
in bronze satin, with a flowered brocade "casaque," and one string of
splendid pearls. She told W. she was very pleased to see him, remembered
that I had lived in Rome before my marriage, and asked if I still sang,
Vera had talked so much about the music in Casa Pierret, and the trios
we used to sing there with Lovatelli and Malatesta. The talk was most
easy, about everything, generally in French, but occasionally breaking
into English, which she speaks quite well. W. was delighted with
her--found her most interesting and "très instruite"--not at all the
banal talk one expects to have with sovereigns--in fact, I quite forgot
we were having a royal audience. It was a very pleasant visit to a
charming woman, in a pretty room with all sorts of beautiful pictures
and "bibelots" about. While we were still there the Prince of Naples[22]
came in. We both got up; she told him to shake hands with W. and to kiss
me, and to ask me how old my little boy was, which he did quite simply
and naturally. He told his mother he was going to ride. I asked him if
he had a nice pony, to which he replied in English, "Oh, yes, jolly,"
and asked if my little boy rode. I said not yet; he was only two years
old. The child looked intelligent, but delicate. They say his mother
makes him work too much, is so ambitious for him; and he has rather that
look. The Princes of Savoy have always been soldiers rather than
scholars, but I suppose one could combine the two. The Queen also
spoke about the Bunsens, and "little Beatrice";[23] said she was very
fond of Mary. I was very sorry when the audience was over and she
dismissed me, saying she had people waiting.

[21] Princess Brancaccio, born Field.

[22] The present King.

[23] Now Mrs. Charles Loftus Townshend, of Castle Townshend, Ireland.

[Illustration: Queen Margherita and the Prince of Naples (Present King
of Italy) in 1880.]

We found Bessie and one or two other ladies in the first salon when we
came out, waiting their turn. Comtesse Marcello was delighted with all
W. said about the Queen. He was very enthusiastic, for him, as he is not
generally gushing. I told her she had remembered that I had lived some
years in Rome as Mary King, and she said: "Oh, yes, she remembered you
and all your family perfectly, and knew that you had married M.
Waddington."


                                              Tuesday, March 30, 1880.

It is much pleasanter to-day--quite Spring-like, and the Piazza is full
of people. I have drawn my little writing table close up to the window,
and I am afraid my correspondence will suffer, as there is always so
much to see. Almost all the little botte have departed, in fact W., who
has just started off with Visconti for the Vatican to look at the coins,
took the last one. Cook's two big omnibuses have also just started for
Tivoli--crammed. Some of the people dashed into Nazzari's, and
reappeared with little paper bags, filled evidently with goodies.

Yesterday W. and I breakfasted again at the Noailles', and they took us
over the palace (Farnese) which is quite splendid, such enormous rooms
and high ceilings. The great gallery with the famous Carracci frescoes
looked beautiful in the daylight, and we saw them much better. The
colours are still quite wonderful, hardly faded, some of the figures so
graceful and life-like. Madame de Noailles' bed-room and dressing-room
are huge. The enormous bedstead hardly took up any room at all. She
said it took her some little time to accustom herself to such very
spacious apartments, she almost had the impression of sleeping in the
streets.

We went for a drive afterward out of Porta Maggiore to look at the
Baker's tomb--do you remember it, a great square tomb with rows of
little cells? We wandered about on foot for some time, looked at the
bits that remain of the old Roman road, and then drove out some distance
toward the arches of the Claudian Viaduct. It is the road we shall take
when we go to Tivoli. It was not quite clear, so the hills hadn't the
beautiful colour they have when the sun is on them--but the grey
atmosphere seems to suit the Campagna, which is after all a long stretch
of barren, desolate country broken at intervals by the long lines of
aqueducts--every now and then a square tower standing out straight and
solitary against the sky, and hardly visible until one comes close upon
it, and a few shepherds' huts, sometimes with a thatched roof, sometimes
what remains of an old tomb, with a dried-up old woman apparently as old
as the tomb spinning in the doorway. We met very few vehicles of any
description.

We dined at the Palazzo della Consultà where Cairoli, Foreign Minister,
lives. There were not many women--Madame de Noailles, Gert, Madame de
Sant' Onofrio (wife of one of Cairoli's secretaries), and quantities of
men. They divided the honours--Cairoli took in Madame de
Noailles--Madame Cairoli, W. The Préfet of Rome, Gravina, took me and
put me on Cairoli's left. We all talked Italian, and I rather enjoyed
myself. I told Gravina how much I preferred "Roma com' era," that the
new buildings and the boulevards and the bustle and the quantities of
people had spoiled the dear, dead, old Rome of our days--to which he
replied "but you, Madame, are an American born, you surely can't be
against progress." Oh, no, I like progress in my own country, but
certainly not here. Rome was never intended to be modern and
go-ahead--it didn't go with the monuments and the ruins and the
traditions of old Rome. However he answered me quite seriously that not
only every country, but every individual, must "marcher," or else they
would "dépérir." Cairoli joined in the conversation, others too, and
there was rather an interesting discussion as to how much could be left
to sentiment, association of the past, etc., when an old historic city
was being transformed into a busy, modern, political centre.

After dinner Madame Cairoli came and sat down by me, and was pleasant
enough. She looked handsome--very wide awake--still continues to call me
Madame la Comtesse, so I have given up correcting her. She is well up on
all subjects, particularly art, music, pictures, etc. She was rather
amusing over the state of society and all the great Roman ladies whom
she didn't know (there is such a division between the Government people
and the old Romans) but said she had a very pleasant entourage with all
the diplomatists and the distinguished strangers (with a little bow to
me) and really didn't notice the absence of the grandes dames. She asked
me about my audience with the Queen--had we been able to talk to her at
all. She had been so tired lately and nervous that any attempt at
conversation was an effort. I told her that on the contrary she talked a
great deal, and that I didn't find her changed.

Maffei came up and talked--asked me if I really liked Rome better as it
used to be--I must surely prefer life to stagnation. He speaks English
well, and likes to speak. They tell me that all the present generation
of Romans speak English perfectly--much better than French. There was a
small reception after dinner, some of the young diplomatists and
political men. We came away early--10.30, and plunged into our Paris
letters, of which we found quantities.


                                                Friday, April 2, 1880.

It is raining quite hard this morning, so I will write and not go out
until after breakfast. Yesterday was beautiful, and we had a charming
day at the races. I drove out with Madame de Wimpffen in her
victoria--W. and Wimpffen together. I wore my brown cloth with the coat
trimmed with gold braid and a great bunch of yellow roses on my hat, but
I was sorry I hadn't sent for something lighter, as almost all the women
were in white. I had thought of having two dresses sent by the "valise"
(I hadn't time to have them sent by ordinary express). I consulted
Noailles, who was very amiable, and said he would do what he could, but
that the rules were very strict now for the "valise," as there had been
such abuse. I rather protested, so he remarked with a twinkle in his eye
that I had better speak to my husband, as he was the Minister who had
insisted on a reform being made--he added that it was Princess Lise
Troubetzkoi who made the final scandal--that when St. Vallier was French
Ambassador to Berlin she was always sending things to Petersburg, via
Berlin, by the "valise." When the "petit paquet" she had spoken of
turned out to be a grand piano there was a row, and W., who was then
Foreign Minister, decreed that henceforth no "paquets" of any kind that
were not on official business could be sent by the "valise." I suppose a
pink tulle ball dress would hardly come under that head.

The Queen was there looking very well and bright, dressed in light grey
with a big black hat--very becoming. There were a great many pretty
women. We came away before the end and drew up a little distance from
the gate where a long string of carriages was waiting to see the Queen
pass. The cortège was simple--first two dragoons, then a "piqueur" and
her carriage with four horses, postillion and two servants behind in the
scarlet liveries. The Countess Marcello was seated alongside of the
Queen--two gentlemen (I couldn't make out who they were) facing her; a
second carriage with two horses with two gentlemen in it followed, all
very well turned out. The scarlet liveries make a great effect, one sees
them from such a distance. The crowd was very respectful--not
particularly enthusiastic. The Queen bowed right and left very prettily.
I talked to lots of people at the races--among others to Madame Alphonse
Rothschild who is here for a few days, and to Mesdames Somaglia,
Rignano, Celleri, etc. I walked about a little with Sant' Asilea, but it
was not easy to move--most of the ladies stayed quietly in the tribunes.
We stopped at Nazzari's coming back and W. treated us all to tea--then
we sent our carriage away as we wanted it at night for the Teano ball,
and we walked about in the Corso, looking at all the turn-outs. The
Teano four-in-hand was very handsome, and there were one or two others
we couldn't make out which were very well turned out--some of the
victorias, too, very smart, with handsome stepping horses. The Corso was
full of people waiting to see the "retour"--it looked so gay. About
eleven we went off to the Teano ball, which was most brilliant--all the
société there. Again I was sorry I hadn't sent for another dress as my
red satin looked heavy and wintry. Princess Teano in white, with a
diamond tiara, looked charming. Of course all the young generation who
were dancing were strangers to me, but I met many old friends. I had
quite a talk with Doria who wanted to be introduced to W. whom he had
not yet seen. We stayed until 1.30, and when we came away they were just
beginning the cotillon. In the old days we used to arrive at the balls
about 12.30 or 1 o'clock just so as to have one waltz before the
cotillon which was usually the best of the evening, as all the serious
people had gone, and the mammas were at supper fortifying themselves for
the long hours before them, so the ball-room was comparatively empty and
one could get a good turn.


                                              Saturday, April 3, 1880.

It is a beautiful morning, so was yesterday, an ideal Roman day--the sky
so blue and just a soft little air that makes the awnings over the shops
opposite flap lazily and indisposes one to any exertion. We walked about
a little before breakfast, inspected the Fountain of Trevi where Neptune
sits in state, looking at the rush of water falling over the rocks and
splashing into the great marble basin. The water is beautifully clear,
and sparkled and glistened in the sunlight. There were a good many
people about--girls with pitchers on their heads, old men and women with
pails and cans, all after water. The Trevi water is considered the best
in Rome and is in great demand. We loitered about in the small narrow
streets that branch off in every direction, always seeing something
interesting. I think we lost our way as we found ourselves down by
Trajan's Column and Forum, but we managed to get back to the Piazza di
Spagna in good time for breakfast.

We started again in the afternoon for tea at the Farnesina Palace with
the Duke di Ripalda. We stopped at the Farnese Palace to pick up Madame
de Noailles, who was coming too, and we had a charming afternoon.
Ripalda took us all over the Palace, and W. was delighted with the
frescoes, particularly Sodoma's. The garden was lovely, though they have
cut off a great piece for their quays and works along the river. They
are enlarging the Tiber, making great walls, etc. The City of Rome gave
Ripalda a large sum of money, but he is much disgusted as it had taken a
good bit off his garden. More people came in--the wife of the Peruvian
Minister, a very pretty woman, and one or two men. We had tea in the
long gallery with all Raphael's and Carracci's beautiful gods and cupids
over our heads. How many different scenes they must have looked down
on--not always so peaceful as this quiet party.


                              Saturday evening, April 3, 1880, 10 P.M.

We went to the German Embassy on our way home to write ourselves down
for the German Crown Princess, who had just arrived there for a short
stay. I hope I shall see her--W. admires her so much. He saw her often
when he was in Berlin for the Congress, and found her most sympathetic
and charming. Turkam Bey came in just before dinner and had a great deal
to say about the Khedive, and what France would have done if he had
resisted, retired up the country, and obliged the French and English to
depose him by force. It was evident that the suite had been talking to
him, and talking very big--he was very anxious to have a categorical
answer. W. said very quietly they had never considered that emergency,
as it was quite evident from the beginning that the Khedive had no
intention of resisting. "Cependant, monsieur, s'il avait voulu," etc.,
so W. could only repeat the same thing--that they had never been anxious
on that point.

We dined quietly at home, and in the course of the evening there came a
note from Keudell, the German Ambassador (whom we don't either of us
know), saying that "par ordre de Son Altesse Impériale la Princesse
Héréditaire d'Allemagne" he had the honour to ask M. and Madame
Waddington to dine to-day at 7.30 at the Embassy "en petit comité." We
should find a small party--the Wimpffens and Pagets. The Princess only
arrived on Thursday, and W. is much pleased that she should have thought
of us at once. Keudell has been ill with gout ever since we have been
here. We have never once seen him, but various people told W. he
regretted so much not seeing him, that the other day we tried to find
him, but the porter said he was still in his room.


                                                Sunday, April 4, 1880.

Our dinner was charming. I was not a bit disappointed in the Princess.
W. had talked so much about her that I had rather made up my mind I
should find her very formal and German--and she isn't either one or the
other. We left a little after seven (I wearing black satin). I am so
bored with always wearing the same dresses. If I had had any idea we
should go out every night I should have brought much more, but W. spoke
of "a nice quiet month in Rome, sight-seeing and resting." We were the
first to arrive. Keudell was at the door, introduced himself, and took
us into the large salon, where Madame Keudell was waiting. She looked
slight and rather delicate, and he really ill, so very white. He said he
had had a long, sharp attack of gout--had not been out for some time,
and was in the salon for the first time the day the Princess arrived.
While we were waiting for the others to come he showed us the rooms and
pictures. I recognised at once one of those pretty child's heads by Otto
Brandt like the one we have. He was much interested in knowing that we
had bought one so long ago, he thought Brandt had so much talent. There
was a grand piano, of course, as he is a fine musician. The Pagets and
Wimpffens came together almost, and as soon as they were there the
Princess came in. She had one lady with her and a "chambellan"--Count
Seckendorff. She was dressed in black, with a handsome string of pearls.
She is short, and rather stout, carries herself very well and moves
gracefully. We all made low curtseys--the men kissed her hand, Sir
Augustus Paget just touching the floor with his knee, the first time I
had seen a man kneel to any one in a salon. She received W. most
charmingly, and was very gracious to me--asked me at once why I didn't
accompany my husband to Berlin. I said, "Principally because he didn't
want me," which was perfectly true. He said when he was named
Plenipotentiary that it was all new ground to him, that he would have
plenty to do, and didn't want to have a woman to look after. He rather
protests now, but that is really what he said, and I certainly didn't
go. The dinner was pleasant enough. The Princess talked a great deal,
and as the party was small, general conversation was quite easy. The
talk was all in French, which really was very amiable for us--we were
the only foreigners present, and naturally if we hadn't been there every
one would have spoken German. After dinner she made a short "cercle,"
standing in the middle of the room, all of us around her, then made a
sign to W. to come and talk to her, sat down on the big sofa, he on a
chair next, and they talked for about half an hour. We all remained
standing. I asked Keudell about his piano. He told me that he liked the
Erard grand very much, but that they didn't stand travelling well. In a
few moments the Princess told us all to sit down, particularly Keudell,
who looked quite white and exhausted. I sat by Madame Keudell, and as
she is very fond of Italy, and Rome in particular, we got on very well.
When the Princess had finished her talk with W. she came over and sat
down by me--was most charming and easy. She has the Queen's beautiful
smile, and such an expressive face. We spoke English; she asked me if I
had become very French (I wonder?)--that she had always heard American
women were so adaptable, taking at once their husband's nationality when
they married foreigners. She had always remained very fond of England
and English ways--the etiquette and formality of the German Court had
tried her at first. She asked me, of course, how many children I
had--said one was not enough. "If anything should happen to him, what
would your life be?" and then spoke a great deal about the son she lost
last summer by diphtheria, said he was the most promising of all her
children, and she sometimes thought she never could be resigned. I said
that her life was necessarily so full, she had so many obligations of
all kinds, had so many to think about, that she would be taken out of
herself. "Ah, yes, there is much to do, and one can't sit down with
one's sorrow, but the mother who has lost her child carries a heavy
heart all her life." It was all so simply said--so womanly. She said she
was very glad to meet W. again, thought he looked very well--was sure
the change and rest were doing him good. She regretted his departure
from the Quai d'Orsay and public life generally. I told her he was still
a Senator, and always interested in politics. I didn't think a few
months' absence at this time would affect his political career much, and
that he found so much to interest him that he really didn't miss the
busy, agitated life he had been leading for so long. She said she
intended to spend a quiet fortnight here as a tourist, seeing all she
could. She then talked to all the other ladies, and about ten said
she was tired and would go to her own rooms. She shook hands with the
ladies, the men kissed her hand, and when she got to the door she turned
and made a very pretty curtsey to us all. We stayed on about a quarter
of an hour.

[Illustration: Victoria, Crown Princess of Germany.]

The Wimpffens have arranged a dinner for her on Thursday (to which she
said she would like to have us invited), just the same party with the
addition of the Minghettis. As we were going on to Madame Minghetti's
reception, Countess Wimpffen asked us to tell them to keep themselves
disengaged for Thursday, as she wanted them for dinner to meet the
Princess--she would write, of course, but sent the message to gain time.
They brought in tea and orangeade, and I talked a little to Count
Seckendorff--he speaks English as well as I do. He told me the Princess
was quite pleased when she heard W. was here, and hoped to see him
often. We hadn't the courage to stay any longer--poor Keudell looked
ready to drop--and started off to the Minghettis'.

It was a beautiful, bright night, and the Capitol and all its
surroundings looked gigantic, Marcus Aurelius on his big bronze horse
standing out splendidly. We found a large party at Madame
Minghetti's--principally political--not many women, but I should think
every man in Rome. Alfieri, Visconti Venosta, Massari, Bonghi, Sella,
Teano, etc. It was evidently a "centre" for the intelligent, serious men
of all parties. There was quite a buzz, almost a noise, of talking as we
came in--rather curious, every one seemed to be talking hard, almost
like a meeting of some kind. They were all talking about the English
elections, which apparently are going dead against the Ministry.
Minghetti said it was quite their own fault--a cabinet that couldn't
control the elections was not fit to live. Of course their time was
over--there was no use in even attempting a fight--they had quite lost
their hold on the country. Madame Minghetti seems as keen about politics
as her husband. She has many friends in England. I told her about the
Wimpffen dinner--they will go, of course. She asked a great deal about
the Princess--said she was very glad she had decided to come to Rome,
that she couldn't help being interested and distracted here, which she
needed, as she was so upset by her son's death. We talked music--she
sings very well--and we agreed to sing together some afternoon, perhaps
at the German Embassy, as Keudell is a beautiful musician and loves to
accompany.

Mrs. Bruce was there and I sat down by her a little while, looking at
the people. She pointed out various political swells, and a nice young
Englishman (whose name I didn't catch) joined us, saying he wished he
understood Italian, as it was evident the group of men around Minghetti
was discussing English politics, and he would so like to know what they
were saying. Mrs. Bruce told him it was just as well he didn't
understand, as, from the echoes that came to her, she didn't believe it
was altogether complimentary to John Bull. I don't believe political men
of any nationality ever approve any ministry. It seems to me that as
soon as a man becomes a cabinet minister, or prominent in any way, he is
instantly attacked on all sides.

We didn't stay very long, as we had promised to go for a few moments to
the Farnese Palace, where the Noailles had also a reception. I had some
difficulty in extracting W. from the group of men. He naturally was much
interested in all the talk, and as almost all the men were, or had been
ministers, their criticisms were most lively. They appealed to him every
now and then, he having been so lately in the fray himself, and he was
a funny contrast with his quiet voice and manner to the animated group
of Italians, all talking at once, and as much with their hands as with
their tongues.

It was very late--after eleven--but we thought we would try for the
Noailles, and there were still many carriages at the door when we drove
up. We met so many people coming away, on the stairs and in the long
anteroom, that it didn't seem possible there could be any one left, but
the rooms were quite full still. The palace looked regal--all
lighted--and there were enough people to take away the bare look that
the rooms usually have. They are very large, very high, and scarcely any
furniture (being only used for big receptions), so unless there are a
great many people there is a look of emptiness, which would be difficult
to prevent. Madame de Noailles was no longer at the door, but I found
her seated in the end room with a little group of ladies, all smoking
cigarettes, and we had an agreeable half hour. Madame Visconti Venosta
was there, and another lady who was presented to me--Madame Pannissera,
wife of one of the "grand-maîtres de cérémonie" at court. W. was at once
absorbed into the circle of men, also talking politics, English
elections, etc., but he was ready to come away when I made the move.
Noailles insisted upon taking me to the buffet, though I told him I had
done nothing but eat and drink since 7.30 (with a little conversation
thrown in). It was rather amusing walking through the rooms and seeing
all the people, but at 12.30 I struck. I really was incapable of another
remark of any kind.

I will finish this very long letter to-day. I wonder if you will ever
have patience to read it. I am sure I shouldn't if it were written to
me. I hope I shall remember all the things I want to tell when we get
back--so much that one can't write. My black satin was right--the
Princess was in mourning, the other ladies equally in black. W. wants me
to be photographed in the black dress and long veil I wore at the Pope's
audience. He found it very becoming, and thinks Francis ought to have
one; but it is so difficult to find time for anything.


                                             Saturday, April 10, 1880.

We had a nice musical evening the other night at Gert's. All the vieille
garde turned up, Vera, Malatesta, Del Monte (with his violoncello), and
Grant. We sang all the evening, and enjoyed ourselves immensely. I was
sorry Edith Peruzzi couldn't come, as she sings so well, and it would
have been nice to have another lady. She has been nursing her mother,
who has been ill (so ill that they sent for Edith to come from
Florence), but she is getting all right now, and I don't think Edith
will stay much longer. Charles de Bunsen has arrived for a few days. We
took for him a room at our hotel, and we have been doing all manner of
sight-seeing. Thursday morning we went to the Accademia of San Luca,
where we had not yet been. It was rather interesting, but there is much
less to see than in the other galleries. There are some good busts and
modern pictures--a pretty Greuze.

[Illustration: Gardens of the Villa Torlonia, Formerly Villa Conti,
Frascati, Opposite the Villa Marconi, Where we Spent the Summer of
1867.]

Our dinner at the Wimpffens' was very pleasant. We arrived very
punctually at 7.20 and found the Keudells already there. He told us the
Princess was very tired, she had been all day in the galleries standing,
looking at pictures, and he didn't think she would stay late. He still
looked very tired and pale, but said he was much better and that the
royal visit did not tire him at all. The Princess was very considerate
and went about quite simply with her lady and Count Seckendorff. The
other guests arrived almost immediately--the Pagets, Minghettis,
Gosselins of the British Embassy, and Maffei, Under-Secretary of the
Foreign Office. About a quarter to eight the Princess arrived with her
lady and chamberlain, she was dressed in black, with a long string of
pearls. We went at once to dinner (which was announced as she entered
the room), Wimpffen of course taking the Princess, who had Minghetti on
her other side. Sir Augustus Paget took me, and I had Gosselin on the
other side. W. sat next Countess Wimpffen. The talk was easy and
animated, quite like the other day at the Palazzo Caffarelli (German
Embassy). The Princess talked a great deal to Minghetti, principally
art, old Rome, pictures, etc.--she herself draws and paints very well.
After dinner she sat down at once (said she didn't usually mind
standing, but the long days in the galleries tried her), made us all sit
down, and for about half an hour she was most charming, talking about
all sorts of things, and keeping the conversation general. When she had
had enough of _female_ conversation she said something in a low tone to
Lady Paget, who got up, crossed the room to where W. was standing, and
told him the Princess wished to speak to him. He came at once, of
course--she made him sit down, and they talked for a long time. She is
naturally a Protestant, but very liberal, and quite open to new ideas.
She was much interested in French Protestants--had always heard they
were very strict, very narrow-minded, in fact, rather Calvinistic. She
kept W. until she went away, early--about ten--as she was tired. She has
an extraordinary charm of manner. Her way of taking leave of us was so
pretty and gracious. She dines quietly at the British Embassy to-morrow
night, and when Lady Paget asked her who she would have, said: "Cardinal
Howard and Mr. Story." She wants to see all manner of men.

Yesterday we made our first excursion to Frascati, and most unpleasant
it was. We had chosen our day so as to have Charles Bunsen with us, and
one also when we had nothing in the evening, as one is so tired after
being out all day. We started about 9--in the carriage--W. and I, Gert
and Charles. It looked grey (was perfectly mild) and rather threatening,
but the hotel man and coachman assured us we should have no rain--merely
a covered day which would be more agreeable than the bright sun.
Schuyler promised to come out by train for breakfast. The drive out was
delicious, out of the Porta San Giovanni, the whole road lined with
tombs, arches, ruined villas, always the aqueducts on one side, and the
blue hills directly in front of us. The sun came out occasionally
through little bits of white clouds, and the Campagna looked enchanting,
almost alive. We passed close to the Osteria del Pino--where the meet
used to be often in old hunting days. It was so familiar as we drove up
the steep hill and recognised all the well-known places--the Pallavicini
villa at the side of the road, half-way up the hill; the Torlonia
gardens, and the gateway of the funny little town. We went straight to
the hotel, the same one as in our day, Albergo di Londra (that shows
what a haunt of "forestieri" it is), ordered breakfast, and then sallied
out for a walk.

The little piazza before the hotel was filled with donkeys and boys, all
clamouring to us to have a ride, expatiating on the merits of their
beasts, and making a perfect uproar. We explained to the porter that we
wanted beasts of some description to go up to Tusculum, and he said he
would arrange it for us. However, the boys pursued us to the gate,
dragging their donkeys after them. We went first to the Palazzo Marconi,
which is just outside the gates opposite the Torlonia villa. I wanted so
much to see the old house again, it was inhabited by a Russian family,
and at first there seemed some little difficulty about getting in, but
W. sent in his card, and after a little parley a servant appeared and
took us all over the house, except the dining-room where the family were
breakfasting. It looks exactly the same--only much more neglected and
uninhabited. The broken steps were more broken, the bright paint more
faded, and the look of discomfort much accentuated. I showed W. the room
where father died. It looked much more bare and empty, but the pink
walls were still there, and the door open giving on the terrace. How it
brought back those long, hot nights when we tried to hope--knowing quite
well there was no chance--but never daring to put the fear into words.
W. was much struck by the lonely, desolate look of the whole place. The
little salon which we had made so comfortable with tables, rugs, and
arm-chairs brought from Rome, looked perfectly bare--no furniture except
one or two red velvet benches close to the wall, and rather an ugly
marble table with nothing on it. The big round salon with its colossal
statues in their marble niches and the marble benches, was exactly the
same--only no piano. We went through the bed-rooms at the other end (our
three), the marble bath still in the middle one, which used to be
Henrietta's, but there was no trace of occupation, neither beds, washing
apparatus, tables, nor chairs. I suppose the "locataires" live in the
two rooms at the other end. There wasn't much furniture there, but I did
see some beds. We went out into the little raised garden behind the big
statue, but it was a wild waste of straggling vines and weeds. It was
rather sad--nothing changed and yet so different.

I explained our life to W.--our morning or evening rides, our music,
which was enchanting in the big salon--so mysterious, just a little
glow of light around the piano and other instruments, and the rest of
the great room almost dark, the white statues looking so huge and grim
in the half light. I was rather nervous the first nights out here when I
had to cross that room to go to mine with a very small Roman lamp in my
hand--but I soon got accustomed to my surroundings, and it seemed quite
natural to live our daily, modern life in that milieu of frescoes,
marble statues, hanging gardens, and strangers. I tried to find some
little flower in the mass of weeds in the garden, but there wasn't one,
so I send these periwinkles and anemones picked in the Villa Torlonia,
where we walked about for some time under the splendid old ilex trees.

[Illustration: Tomb of Viniciano, Between Frascati and Tusculum.]

Breakfast, a fairly good one, was ready when we got back to the hotel,
but no Schuyler. I think he was a wise man and foresaw what was going to
happen. Quite a number of strangers had come out by train--all English
and American, no one we knew--and the table-d'hôte was quite full. As
soon as the gentlemen had had their coffee, about 1.30, we started for
Tusculum, Gert and I on donkeys with two pretty, chattering Italian boys
at their heads--Bunsen on a stout little mountain pony, and W. on foot.
He wouldn't hear of a donkey, and preferred to walk with the guide. We
climbed up the steep little path, between high walls at first, then
opening out on the hillside to the amphitheatre, which we saw quite
well. The arena and seats are very well preserved. There are still rows
of steps, slippery and green with moss. We went on again toward Cicero's
Villa, and for a moment the clouds cleared a little, and we saw what the
view might be straight over the Campagna to Rome (the dome of St.
Peter's just standing out--on one side the hills with the little
villages where we have ridden so often, Monte Compatri, Monte Porzio,
the Campi d'Annibale and Monastery of Monte Cave in the distance). I
wonder if the old monk would tell us to-day what one did years ago, when
we were standing on the terrace looking at the magnificent view: "Quando
fa bel tempo si può vedere le montagne d'America" (When it is fine one
can see the mountains of America). I thought it was rather pretty, his
eagerness to make us understand what an extended view one had from his
mountain top, and he probably didn't know where America was. However,
our little gleam of sunlight didn't last--first came big drops, then a
regular downpour, and in a few minutes a thick white mist closed around
us, shutting out everything. We took refuge for a few moments under a
sort of ruined portico, but the rain came down harder, and we decided to
give up Cicero's Villa, and turn our faces homeward.

The descent was neither easy nor pleasant--a steep little path with the
donkeys slipping and stumbling, and the rain falling in buckets. I was
wet through in ten minutes, as I was very lightly dressed in a white
shirt and foulard skirt (having stupidly left my jacket at the hotel as
it was very warm when we started). Gert was better off, as she had her
tweed dress. I shan't soon forget that descent, and as we passed
Mondragone--the Borghese Palace--we had thunder and lightning, which
didn't add to my comfort--however, the donkeys didn't mind. I was wet to
the skin when we arrived at the hotel, and had to undress entirely and
go to bed wrapped up in a blanket. The chambermaid lighted a fire in the
room, and she and Gert dried my clothes as well as they could, and I had
a cup of hot tea. About 5 my things were fairly dry--Gert went shopping
in the town, and bought me a piece of flannel which I put on under my
corsage which was still damp. It rained a little when we started home,
but cleared about half-way, and we had the most glorious sunset.

It was too bad to have fallen upon such a day, and I am afraid we shan't
have time to attempt it again. I was half tempted to stay at Frascati
all night and try again the next morning, but the others thought it
better to come home. I went to bed immediately after dinner, and feel
quite well to-day--only a little stiff--the combined effect of the
donkey and the damp.


                                                       April 11, 1880.

Yesterday it rained hard all day, there was quite a little stream of
water in the Piazza coming down from the Pincio. Certainly Rome needs
sunshine, everything looked forlorn and colourless and everybody so
depressed. The Spanish Steps were quite deserted, no models nor children
galloping up and down. The coachmen of the fiacre-stand on the Piazza
dripping and dejected on their boxes--nobody wanting carriages and very
few people about. I really believe the Romans stay in when it rains. We
didn't, of course, as our time is getting short, and the galleries are
always a resource. We went off about 10 to the Vatican and spent two
hours there. Charles de Bunsen was very glad to see it all again. We
went first to the Cappella Paolina where there was not much to see--some
frescoes of Michelangelo's, not very well preserved. It used to be so
beautiful, Holy Week in Rome, when we were here before, brilliantly
lighted for a silent adoration and filled with people kneeling and
motionless.

Then we went on to the Cappella Sistina where there were a good many
people taking advantage of a rainy day to do the Vatican. It wasn't at
all dark--I don't know exactly why, for the rain was pouring straight
down. The Last Judgment is an awful picture. I had forgotten Charon and
his boat and the agonized faces of the people whom he is knocking back
with his oar. Some of the faces were too terrible, such despair and
suffering. I can't think why any artist ever chooses such subjects, one
would think they would be haunted by their own conceptions.

We walked through the Stanze, I wanted to see the Deliverance of St.
Peter; I remember so well the engraving that was in the dining-room at
Bond Street, which I have sat opposite to so often. I used to be
fascinated as a child with the Roman soldiers, particularly the one with
a torch. We sauntered through the picture gallery looking at the
beautiful Foligno Madonna, Communion of St. Jerome, and of course the
Marriage of St. Catherine, and really my copy by the young German is
good as I see the original again. We finished in the Galerie des
Inscriptions where W. always finds odd bits of inscriptions which are
wildly interesting to him. I think for the moment yellow-books and
interpellations and the "peuple souverain" generally as represented in
the Chambre des Députés are out of his head.

The sun came out bright and warm in the afternoon and we drove to the
Villa Pamphili. We stopped at San Pietro in Montorio on our way. It is
there that St. Peter is said to have been crucified. The view from the
terrace is very fine--the whole of Rome at our feet stretching out over
the Campagna to the Alban Hills. It was too early really for the view,
as one ought to see it at sunset, when the hills take most beautiful
rose blue tints and the Campagna looks vague and mysterious, not the
long barren stretch of waste uncultivated land it is in the daylight.

We stopped again at the Fontana Paolina, looked at the rush of water
that tumbles into the stone basin, and climbed up the Janiculum, every
turn of the road giving the most enchanting view, out of the Porta San
Pancrazio to the Villa Pamphili--all Rome apparently was doing the same
thing; there were quantities of carriages. It was charming in the
Villa--many people had got out of their carriages and were walking about
in the shady alleys. It was a relief to get out of the sun. The stone
pines of course are magnificent, but I think I like them best from a
distance--from the terrace of the Villa Medici for instance they stand
out splendidly. What is grand is the view of St. Peter's. It seems to
stand alone as if there were no Rome anywhere near it. The dome rises
straight up above the green of Monte Mario, and looks enormous.

We walked about the gardens with the queer, old-fashioned flower-beds
and the little lake with a mosaic pattern at the bottom, and talked to
quantities of people. The drive down was enchanting; the sun setting,
clouds of every colour imaginable and a sort of soft "brume" that made
every dirty little street (and there are many in Rome) look picturesque.

We went to the ball at the British Embassy in the evening, taking
Charles de Bunsen, who protested at first he didn't go to balls any
more, etc., but he found plenty of old friends and was very glad he had
gone. The house looked very handsome--the ball-room with its decoration
of flowers, cupids, etc., had a decidedly festive appearance. I danced
two quadrilles--one with Count d'Aulnay and the other with the Duke of
Leuchtenberg who was here with his wife, Comtesse de Beauharnais. As it
is a morganatic marriage (he is a Royal Prince) she can't take his name
and title. She was beautifully dressed, had splendid jewels--pearls as
big as eggs.

[Illustration: Grounds of the Villa Doria-Pamphili, Rome.

From an unpublished photograph taken about 1869.]

The ball was very gay, lots of people. We stayed quite late; went to
supper, which W. generally refuses with scorn, and only left at 1.30.
They were preparing for the cotillon, but were going to dance a
"tempête" (whatever that may be) first. I hear they danced until 4
o'clock.


                                                       Thursday, 12th.

We had a nice dinner at the Villa Medici Tuesday night. The Director M.
Cabat, his wife and daughter, M. and Madame Geoffroy and 5 or 6 of the
young men. They all love Rome and say it is a paradise for an artist.
Such beautiful models of all kinds in the old pictures and statues. I
ventured to say that I thought one or two of the modern Roman
things--fountains and statues--were pretty, but I was instantly sat upon
by the whole party--"no originality; no strength, weak imitations of
great conceptions, etc." I suppose one's taste and judgment do get
formed looking at splendid models all the time; still the world of art
must go on and there is no reason why the present generation shouldn't
have graceful fancies, and power to carry out their dreams. We didn't
stay very late and went on to Countess Somaglia, who was receiving.
There were only two or three ladies. Her younger sister, Olympia Doria,
married to a Colonna, the Marquise Sant' Asilea and two others I didn't
know. Quantities of men came in and out, Calabrini, Vitelleschi,
Minghetti. The "maître de maison" was not there. I was sorry, as I had
never seen him. Lucchesi-Palli came up and claimed acquaintance--said he
had danced at Casa Pierret in the old days. I introduced him to W. who
was rather interested at meeting a half brother of the Comte de
Chambord. He is much astonished at the quantity of people I know, but I
told him one couldn't live years in Rome without seeing almost every
one worth knowing, as everybody comes to Rome.

Yesterday Gert and I went out together. W. had an expedition of some
kind with de Rossi, and gave a dinner at the Falcone to Charles and some
of his men friends. The Roman menu didn't tempt me. I heard them talking
about porcupines and peacocks. I preferred dining with Gert--she asked
Mrs. Van Rensselaer, and we had a pleasant evening. Mrs. V. R. is clever
and original, very amusing over her Italian and the extraordinary
mistakes that she knows she makes, but she keeps on talking all the
same. It is curious how much colder Gert's apartment is than our rooms
at the hotel--I suppose no sun ever gets into that narrow street, and
one is quite struck with the cold the minute one gets into the palace
and on the stone staircase. We had a little fire and it wasn't at all
too much--of course in the Piazza di Spagna the sun streams into the
rooms all day. I came home early--about 10--and found the two gentlemen,
Charles and W., settled very comfortably each in a large arm-chair with
pipe and newspaper (you can imagine the atmosphere in a small hotel
sitting-room). They said their dinner was very good, even the ordinary
Roman wine, but they both agreed they wouldn't care to have that menu
every day. The talk was very interesting; some of the men had been in
Italy years ago, before the days of railways or modern conveniences of
any kind, and their experiences in some of the little towns near Rome
were most amusing--most of the peasants so mistrustful of the artist
baggage, white umbrella, camp-stool, etc., and so anxious, when they
finally understood no harm was intended, that they should sketch a nice
new house or a bit of wall freshly plastered instead of old gateways and
tumble-down palaces.

Charles is going back to Florence to-morrow; I think he has enjoyed his
visit very much, it brought back so many recollections (he was born in
Rome and spent all his early childhood there).[24]

[24] His father, Baron de Bunsen, was for years Prussian Minister at
Rome, a most intellectual, distinguished man; after Rome he was for many
years Minister in England, and their house in Carlton Terrace was the
rendezvous of all that was most brilliant and cosmopolitan in London. He
married Miss Waddington, and his son Charles also married Miss
Waddington, sister of William Waddington.

I wish they would settle in Rome instead of Florence, the life is so
much more interesting here. Florence is charming, but asleep--here there
is life, and the contrast between the old patrician city full of
old-world memories and prejudices, and the political, financial
atmosphere of this 19th century is most striking. W. has decided to go
to Naples for four or five days. I shan't go with him. He will be all
day in the museums, as there is a great deal to see, and I should bore
myself sitting alone in the hotel. If we could stay long enough to make
some excursions--see Sorrento, Capri, and Ischia, I would not hesitate,
I should love to see it all again. They say Vesuvius is giving signs of
a disturbance.

As we were talking about Capri and Vesuvius I told them my experience
there so many years ago, and both gentlemen told me I ought to write it
while it was still fresh in my memory, so here it is and you will send
the letter to the family in America.

We went to Naples in October, 1867. Father died at Frascati the 27th of
September, and we all needed change after the long nursing and watching.
All our friends in Rome were most anxious we should get off; affairs
were rapidly coming to a crisis in Italy and it was evident that the
days of the temporal power of the Pope were numbered. At any moment the
Italians under Garibaldi might appear at the gates of Rome and it was
not considered safe for women and foreigners to remain there. No one
thought or talked of anything else, and though we were absorbed by
father's illness and the numerous duties that a sick room entails we
were quite as excited as all our friends. Of course we heard the two
sides--the liberals who had high hopes of liberty and "Italia Unita" and
the "papalini" who were convinced that the Italians would only enter
Rome over the bodies of the faithful. Our young imaginations pictured
anything, everything; the Garibaldians penetrating quite to the Court of
the Vatican, the Swiss Guard, Charette and his Zouaves, massacred;
priests flying in every direction pursued by a crowd of soldiers and
infuriated populace. Good old Dr. Valery, who knew his countrymen better
than we did, assured us there was no danger. When resistance was
perfectly useless it would be wicked to shed blood, and Pio Nono himself
would be the first to advise submission to the inevitable. We couldn't
believe that such a tremendous change and uprooting of the traditions of
centuries could be accomplished so quietly. We stayed two days only in
Rome after leaving Frascati. We laid father at rest in the little
English churchyard just by the San Paolo gate. There was a mortuary
chapel where he could stay till he was taken home to the old family
churchyard at Jamaica where Grandpapa King and a long line of children
and grandchildren are buried. We had to see about our mourning and were
finally hustled out of Rome the third day, Mr. Hooker (the American
banker), our great friend, fairly standing over us while the trunks were
being packed. He was quite right. We took the last train that went
through to Naples, carrying with us a number of letters which our
liberal friends had asked us to mail as soon as we crossed the
frontier,--they naturally being unwilling to trust them to the Roman
post-office. Rome looked deserted, very few people about, some of the
shops and hotels still closed, but one felt a suppressed excitement in
the air. Some of our friends, jubilant, came to see us off at "Termine"
and promised to send us a telegram at Naples if anything happened. Mr.
Hooker was rather anxious. He too thought the Papal court wouldn't make
any resistance if the Italians came, or rather when the Italians came,
as they were marching on Rome; but he thought there might be trouble in
the streets. He had his large American flag ready to protect the bank.
We of course made our journey very quietly and comfortably, as Garibaldi
and his men were not on that road. I was rather disappointed, I should
have liked to have had a glimpse of the famous revolutionary leader in
his classic red shirt. We found Naples just the same, very full, people
everywhere, in the Via Toledo, on the quays, etc. There wasn't much
apparent excitement, all the red-capped, bare-legged fishermen were
lounging about on the quays or in the numberless little boats of all
descriptions flying about in every direction. The same songs, "Julia
Gentil," "La Luissella," "La Bella Sorrentina," were sung under our
windows every night with an accompaniment of mandolins and a sort of
tambourine. From time to time the voices would cease and then there
would be a most lively dance--tarantella, saltarella--all the dancers
moving lightly and quickly and always in perfect time. The nights were
beautiful--warm and clear--the whole population lived in the streets and
we were always on the balcony. The islands, Ischia and Capri, took such
beautiful colours, at sunset; seemed almost like painted islands rising
straight up out of a perfectly blue sea. Vesuvius, too, was most
interesting. Savants were prophesying an eruption and every now and
then faint, very faint curls of smoke came out of the crater. We knew
nothing of what was going on; had no communication with Rome, and were
entirely dependent for news on the landlord, whose information was
certainly fantastic; also the little Naples paper, the "Pungolo," which
made marvellous statements every morning--the streets of Rome running
with blood, etc. Finally came the first news--the battle of "Monte
Rotondo," Garibaldi and his men victorious. From Paris we heard that the
French troops had started and were at Cività Vecchia, but there were so
many conflicting stories that we really didn't know how much to believe.
Then came Mentana--the Garibaldians driven back by the Papal and French
troops; the Pope still supreme in Rome. We had a telegram from one of
our liberal friends, "Le malade va bien," which meant that the Pope had
conquered, and Rome was not yet the capital of "Italia Unita." There was
no fighting at all in the streets of Rome; a great deal of patriotic
talk among the young liberals, but I don't think any of them absolutely
enrolled themselves in Garibaldi's band. It wouldn't have made any
difference--they could do nothing against the combined Papal and French
troops--but it might have been a personal satisfaction to have struck a
blow for the liberal cause. There again the common sense of the Italians
showed itself--there was no resisting "le fait accompli," they had only
to bide their time. We had lovely days at Naples, making all sorts of
excursions--Posilippo, Capo di Monte, Camaldoli, etc. Every morning we
went to the Museum; I was madly interested in the Pompeian relics,
particularly the mummies. It seemed impossible to believe that those
little black bundles had once been human beings feeling and living as
keenly as we do now. We always kept our eyes on Vesuvius as it really
did seem as if something was going on. The column of smoke looked
thicker and we could quite well see little jets of sand or small stones
thrown up from the crater. One afternoon when we came in from driving
everybody in the street was looking hard at the mountain and the padrone
informed us that the eruption had begun. We didn't see anything, but
after dinner when we were standing on the balcony suddenly we saw a
great tongue of flame leap out from the crater and a stream of fire
running down the side of the mountain. The flame disappeared almost
immediately; came back three or four times in the course of the evening,
but didn't gain very much in height or intensity. The next day, however,
it had increased considerably and was a fine sight at dark, every few
moments a great tongue of fire with quantities of stones and gravel
thrown high in the air. We almost fancied we heard the noise of thunder,
but I don't think we did. People were flocking into Naples, and we of
course, like all the rest, were most anxious to make the ascent. The
landlord told us there was no danger; that the authorities never
permitted an ascent if there was danger, and no guides would go, as they
are very prudent. One would go up on one side (the only thing to avoid
was the stream of red-hot lava). Mother was rather unwilling,
particularly as we were to go at night (and at night from our balcony
the mountain did look rather a formidable thing to tackle). We waited
still another day and then when we had seen some English people--two
ladies and a youth who had made the excursion and said it was not at all
alarming and most interesting--she agreed to let us go. Anne stayed with
her, she doesn't like donkey riding under any circumstances, and a
donkey at night on the slopes of Vesuvius in eruption, with a stream of
red-hot lava running alongside, didn't strike her absolutely as a
pleasant performance. We started about 7 o'clock, William, Henrietta,
Gertrude, and I. The drive out all the way to Resina was most amusing.
Quantities of people, the famous Naples "cariole" crammed with peasants
and children, and all eyes turned to the mountain. Our landlord had made
all the arrangements for us, secured the best guides, donkeys, etc., and
we were in great spirits. The mountain looked forbidding; as we came
nearer we heard the noise, rumbling and thunder--the thunder always
preceding a great burst of flames and showers of stones thrown up very
high and falling one didn't know exactly where. I didn't say anything as
I was very anxious to make the ascent, but I did wonder where these red
stones fell and how one could know exactly beforehand. We drove as far
as we could and then arrived at the Hermitage and Observatory, where
there was a very primitive sort of wooden house, half tavern, half inn.
Here donkeys and guides (very voluble) were waiting, and we started. It
had begun to rain a little, but the guides assured us that it would not
last and we should soon be above the clouds. It was almost dark--not
quite--and everything looked weird, even the faces of the guides seemed
to me to have a curious expression; they looked fierce and wild. We went
on quietly at first though the rumblings under our feet and sudden light
as the flames burst out were unpleasant. When we began the last steep
ascent I had got very nervous. I was the last of the party, and when the
donkey-boy (an infant) took a short cut, when the path was steep,
calling out cheerfully "Coraggio Signorina," and left me and the donkey
alone to clamber over the great slippery blocks of lava, I was
frightened and felt I should never get up to the top. It was really
terrifying--the rain and mist had increased very much, it was pitch
dark, rumbling and thunder all the time, and such noises under our feet
that I was sure a great hole would open and we should all be swallowed
up. I didn't like the dark, but I certainly didn't like the light
either, when a great tongue of flame would spring out of the crater
spreading out like a fan and throwing a mass of stones and gravel high
in the air which all fell somewhere on the mountain. The red stream of
lava looked wider and seemed to me to be coming nearer. I called out to
William, who was far ahead and looked gigantic in the mist where he was
crossing some great rocks of lava (quite black and shiny when they are
old), and told him I was too frightened, that I should go back to the
Hermitage and wait there. He was much disgusted--said there was no
possible danger. All the guides and donkey-boys repeated the same thing,
but it was no use, I was thoroughly unnerved and couldn't make up my
mind to go on. We had a consultation with the guides as he didn't like
the idea of my going back alone to the inn, but they told him it was all
right, that the padrone was a "brav'uomo" and would take care of me
until they came back; so most reluctantly they went on, and I turned my
face homeward, always with my minute attendant whom I would gladly have
shaken as he was laughing and chattering and repeating twenty times,
"non c'è pericolo." I think the going down was rather worse; I had the
rain in my face, heard all the same unearthly noises around me, and from
time to time had glimpses of the whole country-side--Naples, the little
villages, the islands, the bay standing out well in the red light thrown
on them by the flames from the crater; then absolute darkness and
stillness, nothing apparently on the mountain but me and the donkey
scrambling and stumbling over the wet, slippery stones. How we ever got
down to the inn I don't know, but both boy and donkey seemed to know the
road. I was thankful when we emerged on a sort of terrace and saw a
faint light, which meant the little inn. The boy helped me off (it was
pouring), called out something at the door, told me to go in and go
upstairs, then disappeared around the corner with the donkey. I
called--no one answered--so I went upstairs, just seeing my way by the
light of a little dull, smoky lamp put in a niche of the wall. I saw two
doors when I got up to the top of the stairs, both shut, so I called
again, knocked; a man's voice said something which I supposed to be
"entrate" and I walked in. I found myself in a big room hardly
lighted--a small lamp on a table, a fire of a sort of peat and wood, a
bed in one corner on which was stretched a big man with a black beard
and red shirt; another man not quite so big, but also in a red shirt and
a hat on his head, got up when I came in, from a chair where he had been
sitting by the fire. He said something I couldn't understand, first to
me and then to his companion on the bed, who answered I thought rather
gruffly (they both spoke Neapolitan "patois" which I couldn't understand
at first). I didn't feel very comfortable (still I liked even that room
with those two brigand-looking men better than the mountain-side with
the flames and the lava), but I tried to explain, took off my wet cloak
which spoke for itself, and went toward the fire. My friend with the hat
always keeping up a running conversation with the man on the bed,
brought up a chair, then a sort of stand over which he hung my cloak,
and proceeded to take a bottle out of a cupboard which I supposed was
their famous wine (lacrima Christi) which one always drinks at Naples.
However that I declined and established myself on the chair by the fire.
He took the other one, and when I looked at him I saw that he had
rather a nice face; so I took courage. He pointed to my shoes, which
were wet as we had walked a little, and wanted to talk. After a little
while I began to understand him, and he me; and we had quite a friendly
conversation. He looked at my shoes, asked me where they were made, and
when I said in Rome was madly interested; he had a brother in Rome, a
shoemaker, perhaps I knew him "Giuseppe Ricci," he might have made those
very shoes--instantly confided that interesting piece of information to
the gentleman on the bed. He told me they were three brothers, the
eldest was the shoemaker, then came he the padrone of the osteria, and
the other one "there on the bed" had vines and made very good wine. He
asked me if I had ever seen the Pope, or Garibaldi (there was a picture
of Garibaldi framed on the wall), and when I said I had often seen the
former, and that he had a good, kind face, he again conversed amicably
with the gentleman on the bed, who first raised himself into a sitting
posture, and finally got up altogether and came over to the fire,
evidently rather anxious to take part in the conversation. He was an
enormous man and didn't look as nice as the "padrone." He rather
startled me when he bent down, took my foot in his hand and inspected
the shoe which he pronounced well made. We must have sat there fully
half an hour talking--they were perfectly easy, but not familiar, and
wanted to hear anything I would tell them about Rome. Every now and then
they dropped off into some side talk in their "patois," and I looked at
the fire and thought what an extraordinary experience it was, sitting
alone with such odd-looking companions in that big, bare room on the top
of Mount Vesuvius. The fire had almost died out, the miserable little
lamp gave a faint flickering light that only made everything look more
uncanny, and every now and then the whole room would be flooded with a
red lurid light (heralded always by a violent explosion which made the
crazy little house shake) which threw out the figures of the two men
sitting with their long legs stretched out to the fire, and keeping up a
steady talk in a low voice. Still I wasn't afraid; I was quite sure they
would be respectful, and do all they could to help me. They had a sort
of native politeness, too, for they stopped their talk occasionally and
made conversation for me; one looked out of the window and said the rain
had stopped, but that the night was "brutta" and they referred to other
eruptions and told me stories of accidents that had happened to
people--two young men, "Inglesi," who were killed because they would go
on their own way and not listen to the guides, consequently were knocked
on the head by some huge stones; always assuring me that this eruption
was nothing. However I was getting tired, and found the time long, when
suddenly we heard the noise of a party arriving, and for a moment I
thought it was my people; but no, they were coming the other way, up the
mountain. There was a great commotion and talking, lanterns flashing
backward and forward, donkeys being led out and all preparations made
for the ascent--but there seemed a hitch of some kind and I heard a
woman's voice speaking English. The "padrone" had rushed downstairs as
soon as he heard the party arriving, and presently he reappeared talking
very hard to a lady and two gentlemen who were coming upstairs behind
him and evidently wanting something which they couldn't make him
understand. He was telling them to have patience, that there was an
"Inglese" upstairs who would talk to them. They were so astounded when
they saw me that they were speechless--il y avait de quoi--seeing a
girl established there in rather a dishevelled condition, her hat off,
wet cloak hanging over the chair, and entirely alone with those
"Neapolitan brigands"--but one man ventured to ask timidly "did I speak
English." Oh yes--Italian, too--what could I do for them. They explained
that the lady was tired, cold and wet (she looked miserable, poor thing)
and wanted a hot drink--brandy, anything she could get. She didn't look
as if she could go on, but she said she would be all right if she could
have something hot, and that nothing would induce her to give up the
excursion, having come so far; so a fresh piece of wood, or peat rather
of some kind (it looked quite black), was put on the fire, also water in
a most primitive pot. I suggested that she should take off her cloak and
let it dry a little. The men brought in some more chairs and then the
new comers began to wonder who I was and what I was doing there alone at
that hour of the night. They were Americans, told me their name, but I
have forgotten it, it is so long ago. I told them my experience--that I
was absolutely unnerved, in a dead funk, and would have done anything
rather than go on toward that horrible crater. They couldn't understand
that I wasn't much more afraid of spending two hours in that lonely
little house in such company, and begged me to try again--there was
really no danger, people were going up all the time, etc. The older man
was very earnest--said they couldn't leave a compatriot in such
straits--he would give me his donkey if another one couldn't be procured
and would walk--how could my brother have permitted me to come back
alone, etc. However I reassured him as well as I could--told them I was
perfectly accustomed to Italians and knew the language well (which was a
great help to me, I don't know what I should have done if I hadn't been
able to talk and understand them). They stayed about 20 minutes--the
lady said her drink was very nasty, but hot, and she looked better for
the rest and partial drying. She wasn't as wet as I was, the rain had
stopped when they were half-way up. I told them who I was and begged
them to say, if they met my people coming down, a gentleman and two
ladies, that they had seen me, and that I was quite dry and comfortable.
They went away most reluctantly, were half inclined to stay until the
others should come back, but the guides were anxious to be off. Even at
the last moment when they had got downstairs, the older man came back
and begged me to come with them--"I assure you, my dear young lady, you
don't know in what a dangerous position you are; if I had any authority
over you I should insist, etc." He was very nice, and left all sorts of
recommendations in English and a very good fee to the padrone, who of
course didn't understand a word of what he was saying, but seemed to
divine in some mysterious way. He looked smilingly at me, told me to
cheer up ("Coraggio" is their way of saying it) and told the American,
in Italian, that he would take good care of me. He was very sorry to go
and leave me, said he had never done anything he liked so little. As
soon as the excitement of their departure was over the two men came
back. The "vigneron" went back to his bed, from where he conversed with
us occasionally, and the other one settled down in his chair, and seemed
half asleep. It wasn't very long before my party came back. The men
heard them before I did, and told me they were arriving. I must say I
was glad to see them. They had had a splendid time, seen everything
beautifully, gone quite up to the stream of red-hot lava, put umbrellas
and canes into it (the ends were quite black and burnt)--they were not
in the least nervous, and jibed well at me. William said he had rather
an uncomfortable feeling at first when he saw me and my very small
attendant depart, but he forgot it in the excitement and novelty of
their excursion. He thanked the padrone for taking such good care of me,
proposed a hot drink (very bad it was) all round, and we took quite a
friendly leave of the two gentlemen. I promised to try and find the
brother shoemaker. They had crossed my American friends on the way
back--William said they were just starting down when they saw another
party appearing and he heard a gentleman say, "I think this must be Mr.
King." He was very much surprised to hear his name, but rode up to the
speaker, to see who he was, and then the gentleman told him of his
amazement at meeting his sister in that wretched little shanty and how
miserable he had felt at leaving me there alone, with two Neapolitan
brigands, but that I had assured him I was quite safe and not at all
afraid of the two black giants--but he begged William to hurry on, as it
was not really the place to leave a girl--even an American who would
know how to take care of herself. We made our journey down quite easily.
It was still pitch dark, except when the fire of the mountain lighted up
everything, but there was neither rain nor wind, the air was soft, and
the little outlying villages looked quite quiet and peaceable, as if no
great mountain was throwing up masses of ashes and stones just over
their heads, which might after all destroy them entirely. There must
always be a beginning, and I suppose in the old days of Pompeii and
Herculaneum the beginning was just what we have seen--first columns of
smoke, then the lava stream and showers of red-hot stones, and none of
the people frightened at first. We found Mother and Anne waiting for us
with supper. They had been a little anxious, particularly as the weather
was so bad, and they evidently had had more of a tempest than we had.
They were of course madly interested in our expedition and were
astounded that I was the coward. They wouldn't have been at all
surprised if it had been Gert. It is true she is nearly always timid,
and we used to play all sorts of tricks on her when we were children at
Cherry Lawn, beguile her up into the big cherry tree, then take the
ladder away and tell her to climb down; or take the peg out of the boat,
let in a little water and pretend it was sinking--so she was triumphant
this time. I can't understand why I was so frightened. I am not usually
afraid of anything, but that time no reasoning would have been of the
least use, and nothing would have made me go on to the crater. Mother
was rather like the American--she wouldn't have liked the flames and the
awful rumbling noises any more than I did, but she would have been much
more afraid of the lonely house and long wait on the mountain in that
wretched little inn with those two big, black-bearded Neapolitans.

Le monde est petit--years afterward my brother William was travelling in
America, and in the smoking-room all the men were telling their
experiences either at home or abroad--many strange adventures. One
gentleman said he had never forgotten a curious scene on the top of
Mount Vesuvius in eruption, when he had met an American girl, quite
alone, at night, in the dark and rain, in a miserable little shanty with
two great, big Neapolitans "looking like brigands" (he evidently always
retained that first impression of my companions). He told all the story,
giving my name, which excited much comment; some of the listeners
evidently thought it was a traveller's tale, arranged on some slight
foundation of truth--however, when he had finished William said: "That
story is perfectly true. The young lady is my sister, and I am the Mr.
King to whom you spoke that night on the mountain, in the dark, begging
me to hurry down, and not leave my sister any longer alone in such
company." They naturally didn't recognise each other, having merely met
for a moment in the dark, both wrapped up in cloaks and under umbrellas.
They had quite a talk, and the gentleman was very anxious to know how
they found me--whether I wasn't really more uncomfortable than I
allowed, and what had become of me.

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 mère[25] 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."

[25] The well-known poetess and beauty, née Sheridan.

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.

[26] Comte de Suzannet, Secretary of the French Embassy.

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.

[27] General Rufus King, last United States Minister to the Vatican.

[Illustration: Pope Pius IX.]

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.


                                                 Thursday, April 16th.

We have finally had our day at Albano, and delightful it was. W. and I
went alone, as Gert was not very well, and afraid of the long day in the
sun. We started early--at 8.30--though we had been rather late the night
before as Count Coello, Spanish Ambassador,[28] sent us his box for the
opera. It was Lohengrin--well enough given, orchestra and chorus good,
but the soloists rather weak. _Elsa_, a very stout Italian woman of
mature years, did not give one just the idea of the fair patrician
maiden one imagines her to be. The Italian sounded very funny after
hearing it always in German, and "Cigno gentil" didn't at all convey the
same idea as "Lieber Schwan." The tenor had a pretty, sympathetic voice
and looked his part well (rather more like _Elsa's_ son than her lover),
but one mustn't be too particular. The house was fairly brilliant--much
fuller than the last time we were there--and quantities of people we
knew. Hardly any one in full dress, which is a pity, as it makes the
salle look dull. One or two women in white (one very handsome with
diamond stars in her hair, whom nobody knew) stood out very well against
the dark red of the boxes. Del Monte came in and sat some time with us.
He is quite mad about Wagner--rare for an Italian. They generally like
more melody and less science. We invited him to come to Albano with us
and show us everything, and I think he was half inclined to accept, but
he was de service that day and it was too late to find any one to
replace him.

[28] To the Quirinal.

We finally decided to drive out after various consultations as to hours,
routes, etc. It is quicker by the railway and we should perhaps have
rather more time, but we both of us love the drive on the Campagna, and
W. was very keen to take the old Via Appia again and realize more
completely the street of tombs. It was a lovely morning and every minute
of the drive interesting, even when we were almost shut in between the
high grey walls which stretch out some little distance at first leaving
the Porta San Sebastiano. They were covered with creepers, pink roses
starting apparently out of all the crevices; pretty, dirty little
children tumbling over the broken bits into the road almost under the
horses' feet; every now and then a donkey's head emerging from an
opening, or a wrinkled old woman appearing at some open door smiling and
nodding a cheerful "Buon giorno!" to the passers-by. There was a long
string of carts with nothing apparently in them. They didn't take much
trouble about getting a little to one side to let the carriage pass; and
their drivers--some of them stretched out on their backs in the carts,
the reins hanging loosely over the seat--didn't at all mind the
invectives our coachman hurled at them, "pigs, lazy dogs, etc." Of
course we passed again Cecilia Metella, also two tombs said to be the
Horatii and Curatii; and the Casale Rotondo with a house and olive trees
on the top, but I cannot remember half the names, nor places.

We were armed with our Baedeker, but it goes into such details of all
the supposed tombs and monuments that one gets rather lost. I don't know
that it adds very much to the interest to know the names and dates of
all the tombs. One feels in such an old-world atmosphere they speak for
themselves. The colours were beautiful to-day--the old stones had a
soft, grey tint. It is a desolate bit of road all the same--so little
life or movement of any kind. As we got further out we came upon the
long line of aqueducts, but there were apparently miles of plain with
nothing in sight--occasionally a flock of sheep in the distance, the
shepherd riding a rough, unkempt little pony, and looking a half-wild
creature himself--some boys on donkeys, and the shepherds' dogs, which
came barking and jumping over the plain toward the strangers. They are
sometimes very fierce. Years ago in Rome when we used to make long
excursions riding to Vei or Ostia, the gentlemen of the party always
carried good big whips to keep them off. They have been known to spring
on the horses, who are afraid of them. One sprang on Gert once, when we
were cantering over the Campagna, and almost tore her habit off. We
didn't meet any cart or vehicle of any description. I wondered where all
these were going that we passed on the road, and asked our Giuseppe, but
he merely shrugged his shoulders and said they were "robaccia" (trash).

We stopped a few minutes at the Osteria della Frattocchie--the man
watered his horses (had a drink himself, too) and was very anxious we
should try some of the "vino del paese." We tasted it--a sour, white
wine, very like all the cheap Italian wines. The view from the Osteria
looking back toward Rome was very striking. Long lines of ruined,
crumbling tombs and arches--great blocks of stone, heads of columns,
mounds, wide ditches choked up with weeds, broken walls--all the dead
past of the great city. The sun was bright, but there were plenty of
little clouds, and the changing lights and shades on the great expanse
of the Campagna were beautiful. The hills seemed now so near that we
almost felt like getting out and walking, but the man assured us we had
still three or four miles before us, and a steep hill to climb--Albano
on the top. The road was shady--between two lines of trees. As we got
near the city we saw Pompey's tomb--a high tower with bits of marble
still on the walls. W. is rather sceptical about all the tombs; would
like to have time enough to investigate himself and make out all the
inscriptions, but it would take a life-time.

We went at once to the hotel to order breakfast, and then strolled about
in the streets until it was ready. It looked more changed to me than
Frascati--more modern. They tell me many people go out there now for
their summer "villegiatura," principally English and Americans, bankers,
doctors, artists, etc., who are obliged to spend their summer in or near
Rome. There were many new houses, and in all the old palaces apartments
to rent. There were a few tourists walking about, but happily no Cook's
this time. When we went back to the hotel we told the landlord what we
wanted to see--Ariccia, Genzano and Nemi. He suggested donkeys, but that
we both declined, so he said he had a good little carriage which could
take us easily. The breakfast was good, we were both hungry, and after
coffee we walked about in the Villa Doria under the ilex trees. W.
smoked and was quite happy, and I wasn't sorry to walk a little after
having been so long in the carriage. We went to the gardens of the Villa
Altieri. It was there the Cardinal died in the cholera summer of '69
when we were at Frascati. We could almost have walked to Ariccia, it is
so near, and such a lovely road, all ilex trees and great rocks, winding
along the side of the hill. The church and old Chigi Palace look very
grand and imposing as one gets near the gates of the little town. We
walked about the streets and went into the church, but there was not
much to see, and I thought it less effective seen near; then on to the
gardens of the Capuchin Convent, from where there are splendid views in
every direction, and always the thick shade of the ilex. We couldn't
loiter very much as we had the drive to Genzano before us. The road was
quite beautiful all the way; every turn familiar (how many times we have
ridden over it), and Genzano with its little, old streets straggling up
the hill looked exactly the same. I had forgotten the great viaduct
which one sees all the time on that road, it is splendid. We again got
out of the carriage and walked up a steep little path to have a view of
Lake Nemi. It lay far down at our feet--a little green pond (yet high
too), they say it was a volcanic crater. The water was perfectly
still--not even a shimmer of light or movement. Every way we turned the
view was beautiful--either down the valley where the colours were
changing all the time, sometimes quite grey, when the sun was under a
cloud (one almost felt a chill), and then every leaf and flower
sparkling in the sunlight--or toward the hills where the little towns
Rocca di Papa and Monte Cavo seemed hanging on the side of the mountain.

The drive back to Albano by the "Galleria di Sotto" under the enormous
ilex trees was simply enchanting, the afternoon sun throwing beautiful
streaks of yellow light through the thick shade, and the road most
animated--groups of peasants coming in from their work in the fields;
old women tottering along, almost disappearing beneath the great bundles
of fagots they carried on their heads; girls with jet-black hair and
eyes, in bright-coloured skirts, and little handkerchiefs pinned over
their shoulders, laughing and singing and chaffing the drivers of the
wine carts, who usually got down and walked along with them, leaving
their horses, who followed quietly, the men turning around occasionally
and talking to them. In the fields alongside there were teams of the
splendid white oxen and quantities of children tumbling up and down the
banks and racing after the carriage. They spot the foreigner at once. I
had talked so much to W. about the beauty of the road, the Galleria in
particular, that I was afraid he would be disappointed; but he wasn't,
was quite as enthusiastic as I was.

When we got back to Albano I tried to find some of the little cakes
(ciambelle) we used to buy when we rode over from Frascati; the little
package wrapped up in greasy brown paper and tied to the pommel of the
saddle; but the woman at the very nice baker's or confectioner's shop we
went into hadn't any, but said she could make a "plome cheke" (she
showed us the ticket with the name on it with pride), which was what all
the "Inglesi" took.

The drive home was lovely--just enough of the beautiful sunset clouds to
give colour to everything; the air soft and the world so still that a
dog barking in one of the little old farms or shepherds' huts made quite
a disturbance. As the evening closed in we heard the "grilli" (alas, no
nightingales; it is still too early) and the bushes along the road were
bright with fire-flies. The road seemed much less lonely going back to
Rome; so many peasants were coming back from the fields, also boys on
donkeys with empty sacks--had evidently taken olives, cheese, or dried
herbs into the city--and always bands of girls laughing and singing. It
was an ideal day, and after dinner we were just tired enough to settle
in our respective arm-chairs and say how glad we were we had decided to
come and spend these months in Italy.

The Schuylers came in for a cup of tea and Gert was rather sorry she
hadn't come, as her headache wasn't very serious. I think they will
take themselves out to Albano for a little stay as soon as the heat
begins.


                                                   Friday, April 17th.

This morning we went for a last turn in the Vatican. That is what W.
likes best. There is so much to see in that marvellous collection. He
wanted to copy one or two inscriptions, so I wandered about alone and
talked to the custode, who has become an intimate friend of ours. He
hovers about W. when he is taking notes or examining things closely, and
is evidently much gratified at the interest he takes in
everything--quite like a collector showing off his antiquities. We saw a
little commotion at one end of the long gallery, and he came running up
to say "His Holiness" was walking in the garden, and if we would come
with him he would take us to a window from where we could see him quite
distinctly. This of course we were delighted to do, as one never sees
the present Pope, except in some great ceremony when he is carried in
the "sedia gestatoria," but so high over the heads of the people that
one can hardly distinguish his features. We walked down the gallery,
through two or three passages, up a flight of stairs, and came upon a
window looking down directly on the gardens. They are beautiful, more
like a park than a garden, and one can quite understand that the Pope
can get a very good drive there, the days he doesn't walk. The custode
says he only walks when it is quite fine, is afraid of the damp or wind,
but that he goes out every day. There is a wood, flowers, long alleys
stretching far away bordered with box and quite wide enough for a
carriage, various buildings, a casino, tower, observatory, etc., also
fountains and a lake (I didn't see a boat upon it). In the middle of one
of the alleys a little group was walking slowly in our direction--about
10 people I should think. The Pope, dressed always in white, seemed to
walk easily enough. He carried himself very straight, and was talking
with a certain animation to the two ecclesiastics who walked on each
side of him. He stopped every now and then, going on with his
conversation and using his hands freely. He was talking all the time,
the others listening with much deference. The suite seemed to consist of
three or four priests and two servants. I didn't see either a Suisse or
Garde-Noble, but they may have been following at a distance. Our glimpse
of him was fleeting, as he turned into a side alley before he got up to
our window--still it was enough to realize his life--think of never
going outside those walls, walking day after day in those same alleys,
cut off from all the outside world and living his life in the stillness
and monotony of the Vatican. However it certainly doesn't react in any
way upon his intellect. They say he is just as keen and well up in
everything as when he was Bishop of Perugia, and that his indomitable
will will carry him through.

We thanked our old custode very warmly (and in many ways) for having
brought us to the window, and also said good-bye to him, as this of
course was our last visit to the Vatican. He begged us to come back, but
it must be soon, or _he_ wouldn't be there, as he was as old as the
Pope.

When we got to the hotel we found Monsignor English in the salon with
the Pope's photograph, very well framed with a gilt shield with the
Papal arms on the top. It is exactly like him, sitting very straight in
his chair, his hand lifted a little just as if he were speaking, and the
other hand and arm resting on the arm of the chair. He is dressed in his
white robes, red cape and embroidered stole, just as we saw him; and his
little white cap on his head. He has written himself a few words in
Latin, of which this is a free translation: "The woman who fears God,
makes her own reputation. Her husband was celebrated in his country when
he sat with the Senators of the land." I am so pleased to have the
photograph--so many people told me I should never get it, that the Pope
rarely gave his picture to anybody and never signed one. Monsignor
English, too, was much pleased, as he had undertaken the whole thing. He
said again that the Pope was glad to have seen W., found him so
moderate, and yet very decided, too, about what the church mustn't do.
Leo XIII. has an awfully difficult part to play--the ultra-Catholics
disapprove absolutely his line--can't understand any concession or
compromise with Republican France, and yet there are very good religious
people on the liberal side, and he, as Head of the Church, must think
about all his children, and try to conciliate, not alienate. It is
wonderful that that old man sitting up there by himself at the top of
the Vatican can think out all those perplexed questions and arrive at a
solution. They say he works it all out himself--rarely asks advice. I
daresay it wouldn't help him if he did, for of course there are
divisions, too, in the clerical party of Rome, even among the Cardinals,
where the difference of nationalities must have a very great influence.
I should think there was almost as much difference between an American
and an Italian Cardinal as between Protestants and Catholics. The
American must look at things from a different point of view. Monsignor
English quite understood that--said Americans were more
independent--still when a great question came they must submit like all
the rest.

We then had a most animated discussion as to how far it was possible for
an intelligent man (or woman) to abdicate entirely his own judgment, and
to accept a thing which he was not quite sure of because the church
decided it must be. I think we should have gone on indefinitely with
that conversation, never arriving at any solution, so it was just as
well that breakfast put a stop to it.

We went for a lovely drive in the afternoon, out of the Porta del
Popolo, across Ponte Molle, and then along the river until we came to
that rough country road, or lane, leading across the fields where we
have gone in so many times on horseback, to the Villa Madama. We drove
as far as we could (almost to the gate) and then walked up the hill to
the Villa itself. There everything was quite unchanged--the garden
neglected, full of weeds, and grass growing high. The oval stone basin
was there still, the sides covered with moss, and a few flowers coming
quite promiscuously out of walls, stones, etc. We went into the loggia
to see the paintings and frescoes, all in good condition, and then sat
some time on the terrace looking at the view, which was
divine--everything so soft in the distance, even the yellow Tiber looked
silvery--at least I saw it so; I don't know that W. did. He generally
finds it sluggish and muddy. We came home by the Porta Angelica and
drove through the Square of St. Peter's. There are always people on the
steps, not a crowd of course as on fête days, but enough to give
animation, priests, beggars, and the people lounging and looking at
whatever passes in the Square. It is so enormous, the Piazza, when one
sees it empty, one can hardly realize what it used to be in the old days
for the great Easter ceremony when the Pope gave his blessing from the
balcony of St. Peter's. I can see it now, packed black with people, the
French soldiers with their red caps and trousers making great patches of
colour, and Montebello (who commanded the French Armée d'Occupation in
Rome) with a brilliant staff in the centre of the Square--he and his
black charger so absolutely motionless one might have thought both horse
and rider were cast in bronze. There were all sorts of jokes and
chattering in the crowd until the first glimpse of the waving peacock
plumes, and banners, passing high, high up, and just visible through the
arches, showed that the Pope's procession was arriving on the balcony;
and when at last one saw distinctly the white figure as the old man was
raised high in his chair there was an absolute stillness in all that
great mass; every one knelt to receive the blessing, and the Pope's
voice rang out clear and strong (one could hear every word). As soon as
it was over cannon fired, bells rang, and there fluttered down over the
crowd a quantity of little white papers (indulgences) which every one
tried to grasp. It was a magnificent cadre for such a ceremony--the dome
of St. Peter's towering above us straight up into the blue sky, the
steps crowded with people, the red umbrellas of the peasants making a
great show, and women of all conditions and all nationalities dressed in
bright, gay colours; uniforms of all kinds, monks and priests of every
order; the black of the priests rather lost in all the colour of
uniforms, costumes, etc. The getting away was long--we might have had
our carriage with the American cockade in one of the back courts of the
Vatican, but we wanted to see everything and come home by the Ponte St.
Angelo. It was a great show all the way--the long line of carriages and
pedestrians streaming back to Rome, cut every now and then by a
detachment of troops. Everybody was cheered, from Charette and his
Zouaves to Montebello and his staff. The crowd was in a good humour--it
was a splendid day, they had had a fine show, and politics and "foreign
mercenaries" were forgotten for the moment. Everybody had a flower of
some kind--the boys and young men in their hats, the girls in their
hair. One heard on all sides "buona festa," "buona Pasqua." How we
enjoyed it all, particularly the first time, when we were fresh from
America and our principal idea of a fête was the 4th of July. That
seemed a magnificent thing in our childish days, when we had friends on
the lawn at Cherry Lawn, a torch-light procession with a band (such a
band) from the town, and father's speech, standing at the top of the
steps and telling the boys that if they worked hard and studied well,
any one of them might become President of the United States, which
statement of course was always received with roars of applause.

[Illustration: Last Benediction of Pope Pius IX. from the Balcony of St.
Peter's.]

We went back to the Piazza always at night to see the "Girandola"
fireworks, and there was almost the same crowd waiting for the first
silvery light to appear on the façade of St. Peter's. It was marvellous
to see the lines of light spread all over the enormous mass of stone,
running around all the cupolas and statues like a trail of silver, in
such quantities that the stone almost disappeared, and the church seemed
made of light--quite beautiful. The illumination lasted a long
time--gold light came after the silver, and I think it was perhaps more
striking when they began to go out one by one, leaving great spaces in
darkness--then one saw what an enormous edifice it was.

I have written you a volume--but every turn here recalls old, happy
days--"Roma com'era"--and I must come back to the present and our
farewell dinner at the Noailles'.

We were a small party--all the French Embassy, the Duc de Ripalda, the
Chilian Minister and his wife, Maffel, Visconti Venosta, and Lanciani.
W. and Noailles retired to the fumoir and talked politics hard. We shall
soon be back in the thick of it now, and W. will take his place again
in the Senate. It will seem funny to be quietly settled in the rue
Dumont d'Urville--riding in the Bois in the morning and driving over to
the Senate in the afternoon, with the boy, to get W. Ripalda and I had a
long talk. He tells me he still holds the same opinion about American
women--they are the prettiest and most attractive in the world. There is
something--he doesn't know what--that makes them different from all the
others. I asked him if he remembered Antoinette Polk; to which he
promptly replied, "Ah, qu'elle était belle--une déesse." I must tell her
how she lives in his old memory. I always find Noailles pleasant--so
grand seigneur.

We found all sorts of cards and invitations when we came in, and a
surprise for me from Father Smith which pleased me greatly, a silver
medal of Leo XIII. in a case. It is about the size of a five-franc
piece--rather larger if anything, and so like, the small head, and fine,
sharply cut features, such a nice note, too, from Father Smith; he was
very glad to be able to offer me something which he knew I would prize,
and that it wasn't necessary to be of the same religion to admire and
appreciate a great intellect and a good man. I am very proud of my two
pictures, and shall show them triumphantly to some of my Catholic
friends and relations who can't understand a Protestant and a heretic
caring for such souvenirs.

We can't accept any more dinners as we leave on Monday, W. for Naples
and I for Florence. I wanted very much to go to Ostia, I should like W.
to see that desolate, sandy shore with the pines coming down almost to
the water's edge, and the old castle rising up in the distance; but it
is an all-day excursion and we haven't time. We will try and do Vei,
which is an easy afternoon's drive. I must stop now--W. is deep in
Baedeker, looking out Ostia and Vei, and must also write a note to
Geoffroy about something they want to see to-morrow. I shall go and see
something with Gert.


                                               Sunday, April 19, 1880.

Yesterday we had an enchanting day at Tivoli, W., Gert and I. Schuyler
was detained in Rome, much to his disgust, on business. He loves a day
in the country and is most amusing to go about with. He talks to
everybody, priests, peasants, soldiers, and always gets odd bits of
information about old customs, legends, family histories--all that makes
the story of a nation. Tomba gave us a light carriage and a pair of
strong horses (our little ones were not up to the long day). We started
at 8 in the morning and didn't get back until 8.30. There is a steam
tram now all the way out but we preferred driving, as we wanted to stop
at Hadrian's Villa. We went out by Porta San Lorenzo, crossed the Arno
(the river which makes the falls of Tivoli) at Ponte Mammolo, and had a
good two hours' drive (rather more, in fact) to Hadrian's Villa. I
didn't find that part of the Campagna very interesting (it was much
finer after one left the Villa). We left the carriage at the entrance of
a sort of lane (one doesn't see much before getting actually inside)
between high banks covered with every description of vine and creepers;
and wild flowers and weeds in a tangle at our feet (it was really
difficult walking sometimes), and found ourselves in an open space, with
ruins in every direction--a half-crumbling wall, weeds choking it up;
part of a theatre with broken columns and steps, a few bits of mosaic
but not much colour of any kind; some bas-reliefs very well preserved;
but one felt that everything of value had been taken away, and what was
left was so hidden in long grass and weeds that it was difficult to
understand all the former magnificence of the famous Villa.

The custode was most conscientious, explained everything--the arena,
theatre, baths, temples, etc., but my impression was a mass of grey,
broken bits of stones and columns. There were one or two splendid stone
pines standing up straight and tall, looking like guardians of past
splendour, and in every direction the crooked little grey-green olive
trees and fields full of flowers. Gert and I sat on the wall in a shady
corner, while W. and the custode went off some little distance to look
at a fountain, and we were not sorry to have the rest. The last part of
the drive, winding up the hill to Tivoli, was beautiful--such splendid
views all the time, either toward Rome (St. Peter's standing out, a
faint blue dome at the end of the long, flat plains of the Campagna; or
on the other side the Sabine Hills, Soracte, Frascati, etc.).

We went straight to the little old hotel of the Sybilla, which looks
exactly the same as in our day, and ordered breakfast. We were quite
ready for it, having had our "petit déjeuner" at 7.30. The padrone said
he wanted half an hour to prepare it, as the regular table-d'hôte was
over. Of course the railway tourists got out much quicker than we did
and we met them all over the place, when we went out to see the famous
Temple of Vesta. It is perched on the top of the cliff, looking as if it
would take very little to precipitate it into the mass of rushing,
leaping water tumbling itself over the rocks far below at our feet. We
had a very good breakfast, capital trout for which Tivoli is famous, and
a most talkative landlord who came to superintend the meal and give us
any information we wanted. He said we must have donkeys to make the
"giro," which would take us about two hours, and we could finish at the
Villa d'Este, where the carriage would come and get us.

We walked about a little in the town after breakfast through narrow,
dirty streets with curious old bits of architecture, and into the
church, or cathedral as they grandly call it, of San Francesco; but
there was really nothing to see; and at two we started for our tournée
to the grottoes of Neptune and the Sirena. We all walked at first, two
donkeys with the usual pretty little black-eyed boys at their heads
following (W. of course wouldn't have a donkey but took a cane which the
padrone of the Sybilla strongly recommended as the steps going down to
the grotto were steep and slippery). I wondered how the donkeys would
get on, but made no remarks as I knew I could always get off. We walked
through the little town under a nice old arch and up a path which was
pleasant enough at first, but when we wound round the side of the hill
Gert and I were glad to mount our beasts as the sun was very hot and
there wasn't an atom of shade. It was a beautiful excursion, always
something to see--ruins of old castles, temples, gateways--so much
really that one couldn't take in details. From certain "points de vue"
the Temple of Vesta seemed almost standing on air--one lost the cliff,
which disappeared in a sort of mist. As soon as we began to go down the
noise of the rushing water was quite overpowering; we couldn't hear
ourselves speak, and the glimpses we had of the quantities of little
falls leaping over big rocks and stones were quite enchanting.

Our little donkeys were perfectly sure-footed and the path good though
steep. We dismounted before getting quite down to the grottoes and the
steps certainly were rough and slippery. The guide took charge of Gert,
and I followed in W.'s wake very carefully. It was icy cold when we got
all the way down. I am generally impervious to that sort of thing, but I
felt the cold strike me and didn't stay long. The chill passed entirely
as soon as we came out and began the ascent, leaving the dark, deep pool
behind us.

The road back was, if possible, more beautiful; great ravines with olive
trees half way down their sides, mountain streams in every direction
making countless little cataracts, all dancing and sparkling in the
sun--rocks covered with bright green moss, and fields carpeted with wild
flowers. The guide pointed out various ruins--the Villa of Mæcenas--a
great square mass on the top of a hill--but we didn't care to make a
long détour to go up to it. We were quite satisfied with all the natural
beauty we saw around us--one old bridge, the arches covered with moss
and flowers, and every now and then through the olive trees one had
glimpses of arches, columns, temples--quite beautiful. The only drawback
was the Cook's tourists who were riding and walking and talking all over
the place, making jokes with the guides and speaking the most execrable
Italian. However they had already _done_ the Villa d'Este, so we lost
them there, which was a relief.

The Villa was enchanting after the heat and glare of the road, and at
first we sat quite quietly on a grassy bank and enjoyed the thick shade
of the enormous cypresses. The custode was very anxious we should make
the classic tour with him but we told him we knew the place--it was by
no means our first visit. I explained to him in Italian that I was a
"vecchia Romana" (old Roman), to which he replied with true Italian
gallantry, "non tanto vecchia--son to vecchio" (no, not at all old--I am
old), and old he was, his face all yellow and wrinkled like the
peasants who live on the Campagna and are poisoned with malaria.

I should think, though, the Villa d'Este was healthy, it stands so high.
It is almost uninhabited, belongs now to Cardinal Hohenlohe, but they
tell me he never lives there, never sleeps--comes out for the day from
Rome and goes back at night. It is sometimes let to foreigners. The
garden is quite beautiful, perfectly wild and neglected but a wealth of
trees, fountains, statues, terraces--it might be made a paradise with a
little care. There are few flowers (like most Italian gardens) except
those that grow quite wild. There is still the same great arch at one
end of the terrace which just frames a stretch of Campagna, making a
beautiful picture.

We had a delicious hour wandering about, stopping to rest every now and
then, and sitting on some old bit of wall or column--no one there but
ourselves and not a sound except the splashing water of the fountains.
W. was delighted, and we were very sorry to leave. The afternoon light
was so beautiful, penetrating through the black cypress avenue, however,
we had a long drive back, longer even than coming, as we wanted to make
a détour to look at the sulphur lakes. Our coachman was evidently
anxious to leave. We heard an animated parley at the gate of the Villa,
and the custode appeared to say the carriage was there and the coachman
said it was time to start if we wanted to get back to Rome before
nightfall. I think _he_ didn't want to be too late on the road.

It was still warm when we started back, but we hadn't gone very far when
it changed completely and I was very glad to put on my jacket and a
shawl over it. It is a long, barren stretch of Campagna toward the
sulphur lakes; one smelt the sulphur some time before arriving. They
were not particularly interesting, looked like big, stagnant ponds, with
rather yellowish water. Our man was decidedly uncomfortable. The road
was absolutely lonely--not a person nor a vehicle of any kind in sight,
the long straight road before us, and the desolate plains of the
Campagna on each side. He fidgeted on his box, looked nervously from
side to side, whipped up his horses, until at last W. asked him what was
the matter, what was he afraid of. "Nothing, nothing, but it was late.
We were strangers and one never could be quite sure what one would
meet." It was not very reassuring, and when we saw once or twice a
figure looming up in the distance, a man or two men on horseback, who
might be shepherds or who might be bandits, we were not very comfortable
either; we seemed to feel suddenly that it was getting dark, that we
were alone in a very lonely road in a strange country, and we didn't
mind at all when the coachman urged his horses to a quick gallop, and
got over the ground as fast as he could.

We didn't say much until the little twinkling lights of the first
"osterias" began to show themselves, and as we got nearer Rome and met
the long lines of carts and peasants, some walking, some riding, we felt
better and agreed that it wasn't pleasant to feel afraid, particularly a
vague fear that didn't take shape.

When we drew up at the door of the hotel, after having deposited Gert at
her Palazzo, we asked the coachman what he had been afraid of--was there
any danger; to which he (safe on his box in the Piazza di Spagna)
replied with a magnificent gesture that a Roman didn't know what fear
meant, but he saw the ladies were nervous. It seems absurd now this
morning, sitting at the window with the Piazza full of people, that we
should have felt so uncomfortable. I asked W. if he was nervous. He
said rather, for from the moment of starting he saw the coachman didn't
want to take the side-road to the sulphur lakes, which was certainly
wild and lonely, also that he was most anxious to get on. If the
carriage had been merely stopped to rob us it would have been very
disagreeable as we had no means of defence, nothing but our parasols,
and of course nobody near to come to our rescue. I don't think our
Giuseppe would have made a very vigorous resistance. After all,
adventures do happen, and it would have been unpleasant to return to
Paris minus one ear or one finger or any other souvenir of a sojourn in
a bandit camp.

As we didn't get home until nearly nine I proposed no dinner, but "high
tea" upstairs in our salon. W. demurred at first, like all men he
loathes that meal dear to the female mind, but upon reflection thought
it would be best. The gérant came up to speak about some boxes we want
to send to Paris direct from here, and we told him of our return and the
coachman's evident terror. He said he could quite understand it, that it
was a very lonely, unfrequented bit of road leading to the sulphur
lakes, and that we had chosen our time badly; all the tourists went
first to the lakes before going to Tivoli, and it would have been a
temptation to some of the wild shepherds and Campagna peasants to stop
the carriage and insist upon having money or jewels. He didn't think
there was any danger to our lives, nor even to our ears. They wouldn't
have made much of a haul--I had no jewels of any kind, except my big
pearl earrings--and W. very little money--three or four hundred francs.
It was a disagreeable experience, all the same. I don't like being
afraid, and I was. We went a swinging pace for about three-quarters of
an hour--the horses on a good quick gallop.

I went to church this morning. It is a nice walk from here and the day
is enchanting--warm, but just air enough to make exercise pleasant. W.
was off early with Geoffroy. They put off yesterday's excursion until
to-day, as W. was very anxious to see Tivoli.

The trunks are being packed, the gérant apparently superintending
operations, as I hear a great deal of conversation in the anteroom.
Madame Hubert has an extraordinary faculty for getting all she wants--an
excellent quality in a travelling maid. As you know she is very pretty,
which again carries out my favourite theory that beauty is the most
important gift for a woman. I daresay it won't bear discussion, and I
ought to say "goodness," but my experience points the other way. I have
so often heard father quote Madame de Staël (who was very kind to him
when he was a young man in Paris) who, at the very height of her triumph
as the great woman's intelligence of her time, said to him one evening
at a big party in Paris, looking at Madame Récamier, who was beautiful,
and surrounded by all that was most distinguished and brilliant in the
room, "Je donnerai toute mon intelligence pour avoir sa beauté."

I am so sorry to go--though of course I shall be glad to see you all,
but we have enjoyed ourselves so much. I wonder when I shall see it all
again, and I also wonder what makes the great charm of Rome. It appeals
to so many people of perfectly different tastes. W. has been perfectly
happy and interested (and in many things, not only in inscriptions and
antiquities) and I am sure such an absolute change of life and scenes
was the best rest he could have after the very fatiguing life of the
last two years.


                                   Sunday, April 19, 1880, 10 o'clock.

We have just come in from our farewell dinner with Gert, our last in
Rome, or rather my last. I go to Florence to-morrow morning, but W.
stays on till Tuesday. He is going to dine at the Wimpffens to-morrow
night with some colleagues and political people. He has stopped
downstairs to finish his cigar and give directions about some books he
wants sent to Paris, and I will finish this letter. I have nothing to
do--the trunks are all packed, some already downstairs, and the salon
looks quite bare and uncomfortable, notwithstanding some flowers which
Mrs. Bruce and Trocchi have sent for good-bye.

Gert and I had a nice afternoon. It was so beautiful that we went for a
last drive in the country, and I shall carry away a last summer
impression almost, all blue sky, bright flowers, deep shadows, and a
warm light over everything. It is wonderful how the Campagna
changes--almost from day to day (not only with the change of seasons),
quite like the ocean. To-day, for instance, was enchanting, the air soft
and mild, a smell of fresh earth and flowers everywhere, the old towers
and tombs standing well out, rising out of a mass of high grass and wild
flowers, and taking a soft pink colour in the warm sunlight--so clear
that one could see a great distance--and all the little villages made
white spots on the hills. It is quite different from the winter
Campagna, which stretches away--miles of barren, desolate plains; the
rocks look quite bare, the hills are shrouded in mist, and one has a
feeling of solitude and of dead nature which is curious. I suppose
history and all the old legends work upon the imagination and incline us
to idealize the most ordinary surroundings; but there are always the
long lines of ruined aqueducts, the square, massive towers, and great
memorial stones that one comes upon in most unexpected places; and an
extraordinary feeling of a great dead past which I don't think one has
anywhere else.

We passed through the Piazza Montanara, and by the old theatre of
Marcellus on our way out. I wanted to see the little, dark, dirty corner
I was always so fond of. The fruit-stall was still there, jammed up
against the wall, half hidden by the great stones, remains of balconies,
and arched windows that jut out from the great black mass--all that
remains of the once famous theatre. The piazza was very full--peasants,
donkeys, boys selling fruit and drinks, and in one corner the "scrivano"
(public letter-writer) with his rickety little old table, pen, paper,
and ink, waiting for any one who needed his services. Thirty years ago,
it seems, he did a flourishing trade, Sundays particularly, and there
would be a long string of people patiently waiting their turn. Much
chaffing and commenting when some pretty girl appeared, smiling and
blushing, wanting to have a letter written to her sweetheart away with
his regiment in foreign parts or high up on some of the hills with his
sheep or cattle. To-day there was hardly any one--a wrinkled old woman
dictating something about a soldier and apparently not making it very
clear, as the writer (not the classic old man with a long beard, but a
youth) seemed decidedly impatient. We had quite time to take it all in,
as the people (donkeys too) were all standing in the middle of the
street and didn't hurry themselves at all to move apart and let the
carriage pass. We were evidently near the "Ghetto," as we saw some fine
types of Jewish women, tall, handsome creatures, carrying themselves
very well; quite unlike the men, who were a dirty, hard-featured lot,
creeping along with that cringing, deprecatory manner which seems
inherent in the race.

We crossed the bridge and drove through part of the Trastevere, which
certainly looked remarkably dark and uninviting on this lovely summer
afternoon. There are of course fine buildings, churches, and old
palaces, some half tumbling down, and all black with dirt and age. The
streets were dirty, the children (quantities of them playing in the
streets) dirty and unkempt; clothes of all kinds were hanging out of the
windows, falling over sculptured balconies and broken statues, in what
had been stately palaces--every now and then flowers in a broken vase.
There were some fine old arched gateways with a rope across on which
clothes and rags were drying, and dreadful old men and women sitting
under them on dirty benches and broken chairs. There was a smell (not to
use a stronger word) of dirt and stale things, fruit and vegetables,
also a little "frittura," which one always perceives in the people's
quarter in Rome. I had forgotten how wretched it all was, and we were
glad to get away from the smells and the dirt and find ourselves on the
road along the river which leads to Ponte Molle. It was too late to
think of Vei, but we drove some distance along the road. The Campagna
looked quite beautiful, and every group we passed a picture in the soft
evening light. Sometimes a woman with a baby on her shoulder (the child
with a red cap) standing well out against the sky--sometimes one or two
shepherds on their shaggy mountain ponies seeming quite close to us, but
really far away on the plains (always wrapped in their long cloaks,
though it was a summer evening). Every now and then a merry band of
girls and soldiers. The "bersaglieri" with their long feathers and the
girls with bright, striped skirts swinging along at a great pace, always
singing and laughing; of course the inevitable old woman carrying a
heavy load of fagots or dried grass on her poor bent back; and equally
of course the man with her lounging along, a cigar in his mouth and
hands in his pockets, evidently thinking that to carry a heavy burden
was "lavoro di donna." Poor old women! I daresay they hardly remember
that they were once straight, active girls, singing and dancing in the
sunlight with no thought of old age nor fears for the future.

As soon as we crossed the bridge going back there were many more people
on the road. There are "osterias," gardens, and small vineyards on each
side of the road almost up to the Porta del Popolo, and as it was
Sunday, the whole population was abroad. Many of the women carry their
babies perched on their shoulders (not in their arms) and steady them
with one hand. The little creatures, their black heads just showing out
of the sort of bag or tight bands they are wrapped in, look quite
contented--some of them asleep.

[Illustration: St. Peter's from the Pincio.]

We went up to the Pincio, to have a last look at St. Peter's and the
Doria pines before the sun went down. There were few people; it was
late, and we had the terrace to ourselves. The dome stood out, quite
purple, against a clear blue sky, and seemed almost resting on the
clouds. There was a slight mist, which detached it from the mass of
buildings. Rome hardly existed--we only saw the dome. I was sorry W. was
not there to have that last beautiful picture in his mind. Del Monte,
who was also lingering on the terrace, joined us and said he would walk
back with me along the terrace of the Villa Medici, so I sent Gert back
to her palazzo in the carriage and he and I strolled along and talked
over old times; so many recollections of things done together--rides on
the Campagna, hours of music of all kinds, particularly at the Villa
Marconi at Frascati. I asked him if he had ever gone back there since we
left. The villa was often let to forestieri. One year there was an
English family there, father, mother, _one_ son, and _eight_ daughters.
They used to go about always in three carriages. He said he had never
known any one there since us. He remembered so well all the music we did
in the big room. When it was a fine night all the mezzo ceto (petite
bourgeoisie) who were in "villegiatura" at Frascati would congregate
under our windows, whenever we were singing and playing. If they liked
our music they applauded; if they didn't (which happened sometimes, when
the strains were not melodious enough) they were too polite to express
disapproval, and would remain perfectly silent. We used to hear them
singing and whistling our songs when they went home. We amused ourselves
often trying them with music they couldn't possibly know--plantation
songs or amateur music which had never been published. We would sing
them one evening; the next they would come back and sing all our songs
perfectly well (no words, of course). They had an extraordinary musical
facility. Often when we stopped, or on some of the rare occasions when
we didn't do any music, they would sing some of their songs--many of
them ending on a long, sustained note quite charming.

It was pleasant to recall all the "tempi passati." We lingered a few
moments at the top of the Spanish Steps, quite deserted at this hour of
the evening, and when he left me at the door of the hotel I had barely
time to talk a little to W. before dressing for dinner. He was rather
wondering what had become of me. He had had a delightful afternoon with
his friends. They had walked along the banks of the Tiber on the way to
Ostia. He says there are all sorts of interesting things to be found
there--tombs, bits of Roman wall and pavements, traces of old quays, and
subterraneous passages all mixed up with modern improvements. The City
of Rome is spending a great deal of money in building new quays,
bridges, etc., on a most elaborate and expensive scale. I should think
the sluggish old Tiber would hardly know itself flowing between such
energetic, busy banks.

They drove out for some distance on the road to Ostia, but only got as
far as the Monte di San Paolo (I think), from where they had a fine view
of the sea, and the pine forests. I am sorry they hadn't time to go on,
but we must leave something for the next time. I wonder when it will be.

Gert's dinner was pleasant--Mrs. Bruce, Comte Palfy, Father Smith, and
Mr. Hooker. They all talked hard. Mr. Hooker has lived so many years in
Rome that he has seen all its transformations; says the present busy,
brilliant capital is so unlike the old Rome of his days that he can
hardly believe it is the same place. It is incredible that a whole city
should have lived so many years in such absolute submission to the Papal
Government. In those days there were only two newspapers, each revised
at the Vatican and nothing allowed to appear in either that wasn't
authorized by the papal court; also the government exercised a paternal
right over the jeunesse dorée, and when certain fair ladies with yellow
hair and elaborate costumes appeared in the Villa Borghese, or on the
Pincio, exciting great admiration in all the young men of the place (and
filling the mammas and wives with horror), it was merely necessary to
make a statement to the Vatican. The dangerous stranger was instantly
warned that she must cross the frontier.

Palfy, too, remembered Rome in the old days, when the long drive along
the Riviera in an old-fashioned travelling carriage (before railways
were known in these parts) was a thing planned and arranged months
beforehand--one such journey was made in a life-time. He said the little
villages where they stopped were something awful; not the slightest idea
of modern comfort or cleanliness. The ladies travelled with a retinue of
servants, taking with them sheets, mattresses, washing materials (there
was a large heavy silver basin and jug which always travelled with his
family) and batterie de cuisine; also very often a doctor, as one was
afraid of fever or a bad chill, as of course any heating apparatus was
most primitive. The Italians sat in the sun all day and went to bed when
it was dark and cold. One saw the country and the people much better in
that way. Now we fly through at night in an express train, and the Rome
we see to-day might be Paris, Vienna, or any modern capital. I mean, of
course, inside the walls. As soon as one gets out of the gates and on
the Campagna one feels as if by instinct all the dead past of the great
city.

I told them that in our time, when we lived one summer in the Villa
Marconi at Frascati, the arrangements were most primitive. The palace
was supposed to be furnished, but as the furniture consisted chiefly of
marble statues, benches, and baths--also a raised garden on a level with
the upper rooms, opening out of the music-room, the door behind an
enormous white marble statue of some mythological celebrity--it didn't
seem very habitable to our practical American minds. There were beds and
one or two wash-stands, also curtains in one room, but as for certain
intimate domestic arrangements they didn't exist; and when we ventured
to suggest that they were indispensable to our comfort we were told, "I
principi romani non domandono altro" (Roman princes don't ask for
anything more).

Heavens, how funny all the pourparlers were. Fanny[29] did all the
talking, as we were still too new to the language to embark upon a
business conversation. Her mother, who was an excellent maîtresse de
maison, gave all the directions, which were most particular and
detailed, as she was very anxious we should be comfortable, and very
doubtful as to the resources of the establishment. The agent was visibly
agacé and impatient. Fanny had on a pair of tortoise-shell star
ear-rings, and the man told one of our friends afterward that "quella
piccola colle stellette" (the young girl with the little stars) was a
real "diavolo." It was funny to hear her beginning every sentence "Dice
la signora" (madame says), and saying exactly what her mother told her;
the mother, standing near, understanding every word, though she couldn't
say anything, and looking hard at the agent. He understood her, too.
However, we didn't get any more than the Roman princes had, and made our
own arrangements as well as we could, having out a large van of
furniture of all kinds from Rome.

[29] Miss Fanny King, daughter of General Rufus King, United States
Minister to the Vatican, now Mrs. Edward Ward.

Hooker remembered it all well, as he found the house for us and had many
misgivings as to how we should get along. He was always keeping us
straight in a financial point of view, as even then, before the days of
the enormous American fortunes, Americans were careless about money, and
didn't mind paying, and paying well, for what they wanted. In those
days, too, it was rather cheap living in Italy, and we were so surprised
often by the prices of the mere necessaries of life that we couldn't
help expressing our astonishment freely. Poor Hooker was much disgusted.
"You might as well ask them to cheat you." We learned better, however,
later, particularly after several visits to Naples, where the first
price asked for anything was about five times as much as the vender
expected to get. "Le tout c'est de savoir."

Father Smith and W. got on swimmingly. It is too funny to see them
together. The father's brogue is delightful and comes out strong
whenever he talks about anything that interests him. He has such a nice
twinkle, too, in his eye when he tells an Irish story or makes a little
joke. I must say I am very sorry to go. It has been a real pleasure to
be back again in Rome and to take up so many threads of my old life. I
find Italians delightful to live with; they are so absolutely natural
and unsnobbish--no pose of any kind; not that they under-rate themselves
and their great historic names, but they are so simple and sure of
themselves that a pose would never occur to them. Father Smith asked us
a great deal about the German Crown Princess. He had never seen her, but
had the greatest admiration for her character and intelligence--"a
worthy daughter of her great mother"--thought it a pity that such a
woman couldn't have remained in her own country, though he didn't see
very well how it could have been managed. He doesn't at all approve of
royal princesses marrying subjects. I think he is right--certainly
democratic princes are a mistake. There should always be an idea of
state--ermine and royal purple--connected with royalties. I remember
quite well my disappointment at the first sovereign I saw. It was the
Emperor of Austria coming out of his palace at Vienna. We had been
loitering about, sight-seeing, and as we passed the Hof-Burg evident
tourists, some friendly passers-by told us to stop a moment and we would
see the Emperor, who was just driving out of the gates. When I saw a
victoria with a pair of horses drive out with two gentlemen in very
simple uniform, one bowing mechanically to the few people who were
waiting, I was distinctly disappointed. I don't suppose I expected to
see a monarch arrayed in ermine robes, with a crown on his head and a
sceptre in his hand, but all the same it was a disillusion. Of course
when one sees them at court, or at some great function, with brilliant
uniforms, grand cordon, and diamond stars, they are more imposing. I
don't know, though, whether that does make a difference. Do you remember
one of A.'s stories? He was secretary to the British Embassy at
Washington, and at one of the receptions at the White House (which are
open receptions--all the world can go) all the corps diplomatique were
present in the full glory of ribbons and plaques. He heard some one in
the crowd saying, "What are all these men dressed up in gold lace and
coloured ribbons?" The answer came after a moment's reflection, "I guess
it's the band."

I don't think I can write any more to-night. I seem to be rambling on
without anything much to say. If I could tell you all I am doing it
would be much pleasanter. A pen seems to paralyze me and I feel a mantle
of dulness settle down on me as soon as I take one in my hand. You will
have to let me talk hard the first three or four days after I get home,
and be the good listener you always are to your children.

It is a beautiful bright night, the sky almost as blue as in the day,
and myriads of stars. The piazza is quite deserted. It is early, not yet
10.40, but the season is over, all the forestieri gone, and Rome is
sinking back into its normal state of sleepiness and calm. How many
times I have looked out on the piazza on just such a night (from Casa
Pierret, our old house just next door)! It is the one place that hasn't
changed in Rome. I almost feel as if I must go to bed at once, so as to
be up early and in my habit for a meet at Cecilia Metella to-morrow
morning. I do start to-morrow, but not very early--at ten. I have a line
from Mary Bunsen this evening saying they will meet me at the station in
Florence to-morrow. I shall arrive for dinner. I am half sorry now I
didn't decide to go to Naples, after all. The weather is divine, and I
should have liked to have another look at that beautiful bay, with its
blue dancing water, and Capri and Ischia in the distance. We had had
visions of Sicily, prolonging our stay another fortnight, but W. is
rather worrying now to get home. He had a letter from Richard yesterday,
telling him to be sure and come back for the Conseil Général.

There were two amusing articles in the papers the other day, one saying
M. Waddington had been charged by the French Government with a delicate
and confidential mission to the Pope; two days after, in another paper,
a denial and most vicious attack on W., saying M. Waddington had
evidently inspired the first article himself, that he had been charged
with no mission of any kind, and they knew from private sources that he
would not even be received by the Pope. I daresay a great many people
believe both. W. naturally doesn't care--doesn't pay the least attention
to what any paper says. I am getting hardened, too, though the process
has been longer with me. I don't mind a good vicious article from an
opposition paper--that is "de bonne guerre"--but the little perfidious
insinuations of the so-called friendly sheets which one can't notice
(and which always leave a trace) are very irritating.

W. has just come up. He lingered talking in the smoking-room with two
Englishmen who have just arrived from Brindisi, and were full of India
and all "the muddles _our_ government is making," asking him if he
wasn't disgusted as an Englishman at all the mistakes and stupidities
they were making out there. They were so surprised when he said that he
wasn't an Englishman that it was funny; and when he added that he was a
Frenchman they really didn't know what he meant. He didn't explain his
personality (I suppose the man of the hotel enlightened them afterward),
but stayed on talking, as the men were clever and had seen a great deal.
They had made a long tour in India, and said the country was most
interesting. The ruins--also modern palaces--on such a gigantic scale.

Well, dear, I really must finish now. My next letter will be from
Florence. We shall stop at Milan and Turin, but not very long, I fancy,
unless W. finds marvels in the way of coins at Milan. I am quite sad to
think I shan't look out on the piazza to-morrow night. I think after all
these years I still hold to my original opinion that the Corso is the
finest street and the Tiber the finest river in the world.


                          _To H. L. K._

                                                MILAN, HÔTEL DE VILLE,
                                                Thursday, May 6, 1880.

Here we are, dearest mother, almost home--only 26 hours from Paris--so
if we are suddenly called back (and I earnestly hope we shan't be) we
can start at once. We made our journey most comfortably yesterday,
though it was long. We left Florence at 9 in the morning and didn't get
here until nearly 8. The Bunsens came with us to the station. I begged
them not to at such an early hour but they didn't mind. It would have
been nice to stay longer. They have just taken their villa on for
another month. Their gardener at Meìngenügen wrote them that it was
snowing and a cold wind--horrid weather; so they instantly decided to
stay on another month. My belle-mère is delicate and never could have
stood a cold, northern spring after this beautiful month of April here.
They tried to tempt us with all sorts of excursions--Vallombrosa, Pisa
(which I should like to see again, I have such a vivid recollection of
the Campo Santo and some of the extraordinary tombs, wide square courts
and painted windows). I don't remember if it was there or at Genoa,
where we saw such elaborate modern monuments; the marble carved and
draped in the most curious manner--a widow kneeling at her husband's
tomb, her skirts all embroidered and carved so finely, like lace, and a
lace veil--really extraordinary.

We found a long train at the station--the night express from Rome. The
préfet had kept a compartment for us, and Ubaldino Peruzzi, the former
sindaco, a great friend of W.'s, went with us as far as Pistoja.
Minghetti was on the train, and he came into our compartment for about
an hour, but then adjourned to his own carriage as he was composing a
great political speech he makes at Bologna to-night. They are all much
excited over the elections, which take place Sunday week, so their time
is short. Minghetti has lived and fought through so many phases of
Italian history that he is most interesting. They say his memory is
extraordinary--so accurate. He never forgets a face or a speech. He says
whenever he has an important speech to make he goes for a drive or a
long walk--the movement helps him. W. is just the contrary. His great
speeches (and they were not many) have always been composed sitting in
his big arm-chair smoking the beloved old cherry-wood pipe Ségur brought
him from Jersey. When he had got his speech quite in his head, he wrote
it, and then it went straight on--never a correction or an erasure. I
asked Minghetti if he was nervous. He said not in the least--he was
always ready for the fray, and the more he was interrupted the better he
spoke, as that proved they were listening to him.

I remember so well one of the first days I went to the Assemblée
Nationale years ago. Somebody was speaking--apparently well--on some
question of the day, and nobody was listening. The deputies were walking
about, talking, writing letters, just as if there was nothing going on.
I looked down to see if W. was listening, but he was talking cheerfully
to Léon Say. It seemed to me incredible that the orator could continue
under such circumstances, but W. explained it to me. He was speaking for
his electors in the country and for the "Journal Officiel," which would
publish his speech _in extenso_ the next day.

It was most interesting making the journey with these gentlemen as they
had their history at their finger ends. All that part of the country had
been so fought over--oceans of blood shed in the fierce struggle against
Austrian tyranny--particularly as we got near Milan. It seems incredible
what a hard iron rule theirs was--especially if one knows Austria and
the Austrians a little. They seem such an easy-going, happy people. All
their little villages look clean and prosperous, the peasants cheerful
and singing and civil to all strangers and travellers.

The country we passed through to-day looked green and smiling, but their
idea of work is still primitive, even in Northern Italy. Wherever we
passed the people in the fields all stopped and looked at the
train--many came running up the bank. If they do that for every train
they must lose a considerable amount of time. We were very sorry when
our companions departed, but at every station almost Minghetti met
friends, and it was evident that he had his head full of politics. It is
a long time since I have met any one so interesting. It is such a quick
intelligence and he touches every subject so lightly, apparently, only
one feels he knows all about it.

We made a fair stop at the Bologna station and had a very good
breakfast. It recalled so vividly old times and our first journeys to
Rome. Even the buffet looked exactly the same. I could have sworn there
was the same "fricandeau de veau." The buffet was crowded--it seems
there were a lot of Indian officers arriving with their families from
Brindisi, with dark turbaned servants and ayahs always in white. However
the Indian nurses didn't look so miserable as they used to in winter
when we first made the journey down. They were rather bewildered all the
same in such a jostling, hurrying crowd. It is funny to see how they
cling to their charges, holding the babies tight with one hand and
guiding one or two others half hidden in their long white draperies,
with the other. I am sure they are excellent, faithful nurses.

Our last days in Florence were very full. Tuesday was the day of the
races--bright, beautiful weather--and we drove out to see the retour,
stationing ourselves at the entrance of the Cascine until 7 o'clock.
There was not much to see in the way of equipages--nothing like the
Roman turn-outs--but there were some pretty women. The Comtesse
Mirafiori (née Larderel), I daresay you will remember the name, was
about the prettiest. Her victoria was very well appointed, handsome
horses stepping perfectly; and she looked a picture, all in white with a
big hat turned up with dark blue and long blue and yellow feathers. I
think a woman never looks better than in a victoria--it shows off the
dress and figure so well. Lottie, too, looked very well, but she passed
so quickly I couldn't see what she had on. I had an impression of white
with some pink in her hat. Almost all the women were in white. Of course
the Lungarno was crowded--all the loungers taking the most lively
interest in the carriages; and when there was a stop criticising
freely--but I must say with their natural Italian politeness, confining
themselves to expressions of admiration more or less pronounced--never
anything disagreeable.

We had a mild reception in the evening. Various friends came to say
good-bye--Maquays, Peruzzis, Miss Forbes and one or two men. A
scientific German--I forget his name--who told W. it would take weeks to
see all the coins and interesting things of all kinds at the Milan
Museum. We are very comfortable here; the hotel is old-fashioned with a
nice open court, and the rooms good. We have a pretty apartment on the
front, and as it is on the main thoroughfare, Corso Vittorio Emanuele,
we see all that goes on. There is a church opposite--San Carlo, I
believe--and we are not far from the Piazza del Duomo.

We went for a little stroll last night after dinner, just for W. to
smoke his cigar. The Cathedral looked splendid--a gigantic white mass in
the midst of the busy square, quantities of people in the streets and
sitting at all the cafes, of which there are hundreds--quite like the
Paris boulevards on a summer night--everybody talking and laughing and a
cheerful sound of clinking glasses. I think they were almost all
drinking beer--a great many uniforms--I suppose there is a large
garrison. There seemed very few foreigners--we heard nothing but Italian
spoken--so unlike Rome and even Florence where one heard always so much
English in the streets and the shops. They told me in Florence that
there was a large English colony there, living quite apart from the
fashionable world--children learning music, or some of the family
delicate, needing a mild climate and sunshine--more perhaps in the
villas close to the gates than in the town itself. I should think the
cutting wind that sweeps the Lungarno would be mortal to weak chests;
but up in the hills sheltered by the high walls and olive groves one
would be quite protected. Certainly the other day on the terrace of
Castello the sun was divine and the air soft and balmy, not a sign of
chill or damp--but it was the month of May--the month for Florence.

This morning I have been unpacking--or rather Madame Hubert has--and
settling myself in my salon, making the two corners--feminine and
masculine--as I did in Rome. I have no convenient Palazzo Altemps to
help me out with cushions, screens, etc., but I found lovely flowers
which the landlord (who received us in dress clothes and his hat in his
hand) put there, and as he was very civil and pleased to have the
"Excellenza" and hoped I would ask for anything I wanted, I have asked
for and obtained an arm-chair, and suggested he should give me a simple
table-cover instead of the beautiful green velvet one, embroidered with
pink roses, which now ornaments my salon. With my careless way of
writing and facility for putting ink all over myself, even in my hair, I
am afraid that work of art would be seriously deteriorated. He sent up
this morning to know if I wanted my breakfast upstairs--if I would come
down he would reserve me a small table in the window. I shall go down--I
hate meals in a sitting-room and I should like to see what sort of
people there are in the hotel.


                                                           10 o'clock.

I will go on to-night while W. is putting his papers in order. I
breakfasted alone downstairs about 12. The dining-room is a large,
handsome room across the court. There were very few people--not more
than four tables occupied--a large English family with troops of
fair-haired children--girls in white frocks and long black stockings and
boys in Eton coats. They all looked about the same age, but I suppose
they weren't. They were very quiet and well-behaved, quite unlike any of
our small relations. I have vivid recollections of travelling with some
of them--all talking at once at the top of their lungs, "Pa, give me a
penny," "Pa, give me a cake," "Pa, what's that for?" etc.

The reading-room opened out of the dining-room, so I went in to have a
look at the papers--found a "Débats" and the "Times," and read up all
that was going on in the fashionable and political world. W. came in
about 4--he had ordered a carriage for 4.30, and as it was a lovely
afternoon we thought we would drive about the streets a little and out
into the country. He had had a delightful morning--says the Museum is
most interesting--the cabinet de médailles a marvel. He has arranged to
go there every day at 10 o'clock--will work there until 3, then come
back for me and we shall have our afternoon. He is much pleased with
this arrangement but he doesn't think the employees of the cabinet de
médailles will find it quite so satisfactory, as some one must always be
with him. They never leave any one alone in these rooms. He thinks there
are only two people for this service, and they will naturally hate
spending a long day doing nothing while he studies and copies.

The Directeur received him to-day most enthusiastically--knew all about
his collection of coins.

We started out about 5 and went first to have a cup of tea at the café
the padrone recommended--Cova, I think--and then told the man to drive
about the streets and pass the principal buildings. We saw the Duomo
again, the Scala (theatre)--if it is open we shall go one night; the
great Galerie Victor Emmanuel, full of shops; and quantities of
churches, Santa Maria delle Grazie, of course, where is the famous
"Cenacolo" of Leonardo da Vinci, but the outside merely. The fresco is
only visible until 4--so we shall see the inside of the church another
day. We made a turn in the public gardens or promenade where there were
quite a number of handsome carriages and saddle horses--many officers
riding. It was rather late to attempt a country drive (we had said we
would dine downstairs at 7.30), for the turning and twisting about in
the streets and stopping every now and then had taken up a good deal of
time. We had a nice little victoria with a pair of horses, not unlike
the carriage Tomba gave us in Rome.

We went down about a quarter to eight. The padrone in his dress clothes
was waiting at the foot of the stairs and conducted us with much pomp
into the dining-room, where we found a nice round table in the window.
The room was quite full--many more people than in the morning, and I
should think almost all Italians. They looked at us naturally with much
curiosity, as such a fuss was made with us. W. smoked a cigar in the
court after dinner and talked to the man of the house who told him about
all the distinguished people he had had in his hotel. I found papers and
a "Graphic" in the reading-room and was quite surprised when they said
it was 10 o'clock.


                                                              May 7th.

It has been pouring all day--straight down. I think it has stopped a
little since dinner. We didn't stay long in the reading-room as W. is
fairly launched in his coins now and puts his notes in order in the
evening. I prowled this morning with Madame Hubert. Before breakfast we
went to the Brera. It was almost empty but we found a nice guide, a
youngish man, speaking such beautiful Italian that it was a pleasure to
hear him, and well up on all the pictures. There are beautiful things,
certainly. I was so glad to see some old friends. I was always so fond
of the "Amanti Veneziani" of Paris Bordone. The "sposo" looks so young
and straight and proud, and the girl's attitude is charming, her
brown-gold head drooping on her lover's shoulder as she holds out her
hand for the ring he is putting on her finger. Even the inferior
pictures of the Paul Veronese school are fine--there is such an
intensity of colour. The whole room seemed filled with light and warmth.
I think I like the backgrounds and accessories almost as much as the
figures. The draperies are so wonderfully done, one can almost touch the
gorgeous stuffs, heavy with gold and silver embroidery; and there are
one or two high-backed, carved arm-chairs which are a marvel. The
beautiful fair women with strings of pearls in their golden hair, and
white satin dresses, sitting up straight and slight in the dark wooden
chairs, are fascinating; and there are quantities, for Paul Veronese and
all his pupils have always so many people in their pictures.

We saw of course the "Sposalizia" in a small room quite by itself. The
Virgin is a beautifully slight ethereal figure with the marvellous pure
face that all Raphael's Madonnas have; but the St. Joseph looks younger
than in most other pictures. Our guide was most enthusiastic over the
picture. It was a treat to hear him say--"morbidezza" and "dolcissimo."
We were there about an hour and a half, and that was quite long enough.
One's eyes get tired. We saw splendid portraits of princes and warriors
as we passed through the rooms--Moretto, Leonardo da Vinci and others.

It was still raining when we came out so we thought we wouldn't attempt
any more sight-seeing, and walked up to the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele
where we were under cover. The Cathedral looked splendid--all the white
pinnacles and statues standing out from the dark grey sky. We looked in
at all the shop windows, but didn't see anything particularly striking
or local except the black lace veils which so many women (not the upper
classes) wear here. Madame Hubert being young and pretty was most
anxious to adopt that fashion--thought it would be more suitable for
Madame as all the suivantes here wore the veil--she would be less
remarked going about with Madame--but Madame decidedly preferred the
plain little black bonnet of the Parisian femme de chambre. It seems
there is a swell Italian woman in the hotel--a Princess--whose maid
always wears a veil when she accompanies her mistress in her walks
abroad.

I was decidedly damp when I got back to the hotel. I breakfasted alone
at my little table, and in fact was almost alone in the
dining-room--there were only two other tables occupied. The head waiter
was very sympathetic about the weather--they always had sun in Milan,
just a mauvaise chance to-day. I had the reading-room also to myself,
and found plenty of papers in all languages. I have rather a weakness
for the "Kölnische Zeitung" (Gazette de Cologne). It is very
anti-French, or I might really say anti-everything, as it is always
pitching into somebody, but there is a good deal of general information
in it.

W. came in about 3.30, having worked steadily since 9. It was getting
too dark to see much more and his attendant beamed when he saw him
putting up his papers and preparing to leave. He says the man is bored
to death--wants to talk at first and explain things to him, but he soon
realizes that W. is bent on serious work, so he desists and reads a
paper and walks about the room and fidgets generally.

We waited until 4.30 hoping the rain would stop. It didn't, but the
clouds lightened a little and we thought we would go and see the Duomo.
I had forgotten how beautiful it is--those great wide aisles quite
bare--no chairs, nothing to break the line until quite at the high
altar, and the light from the old glass windows coming from so high over
our heads it seemed straight from heaven. We sat some little time in one
of the side chapels. It looked vast and mysterious--one had such an
impression of space and height. Various guides came up and supposed we
would not care to go up on the roof on such an afternoon. We told them
we would come back the next day if it was fine. They looked so
disappointed at having nothing that we finally went down into the crypt
to see the tomb and body of San Carlo Borromeo. We had both seen it
before but I didn't mind reviving my souvenirs. We had tapers of course
as it was quite dark, but we saw quite well the coloured marbles and
precious stones of the little chapel--also the body of the Saint,
marvellously preserved. It looked very small--hardly the size of a grown
man. The guide of course wanted to show us all sorts of relics, and the
trésor of the Cathedral, but we preferred going up again to the church,
and wandered about looking at the marble tombs and monuments--there are
not many, and they are quite lost in the enormous building. Quite down
at the bottom of the church, near the door under a baldaquin, is a font
in porphyry, said to be the sarcophagus of some saint. The church looked
immense as it grew darker and the light gradually faded, leaving deep
shadows everywhere. When we turned back, just as we were going out, to
have a last glimpse, the high altar seemed far away, and the tall
candles looked like twinkling lights seen through a mist or veil.

We walked about a little under the arcades. W. wanted some cigars and I
an Italian book Minghetti had recommended to me, "Sketches of Life in
Milan and Venice under the Austrian Occupation." I have been reading it
a little to-night--what an awful life for Italians--a despotic, iron
rule, police and spies everywhere, women even making their way into the
great Italian houses and reporting everything to the police--the
children's games and little songs, the books and papers the family read,
the visits they received. The most arbitrary measures prevailed--no
young man allowed to leave the city--no papers nor books allowed that
were not authorized by the government--and when arrests were made, the
prisoners, men or women, treated most cruelly. The Austrians must have
felt the hatred and thirst for vengeance that was smouldering in all
these young hearts. It seems all the girls and young women, even of the
poorest classes, made themselves flags (tricolour) out of bits of
anything (paper when they couldn't get anything better) and gave them to
all the men, preparing for the "Cinque giorni" when many of them went
down under the Austrian bayonets, giving their lives cheerfully and
proudly for their country. Radetzsky must have been a monster of
cruelty. How they must hate the white uniform and the black and yellow
flag.

The city is quiet enough to-night. I suppose it is not an opera night.
It is only half-past ten and we are on one of the principal
thoroughfares, but nothing is passing in the street. The hotel, too, is
quiet, one doesn't hear a sound. I fancy most travellers go to the new
hotel--the Cavour. We are quite satisfied here, and are most
comfortable--the landlord very attentive. He and W. are becoming great
friends--they talk politics (Italian) every night while W. smokes.


                                                           Friday 7th.

I see I shall always write at night. After coffee and half an hour in
the reading-room (I always go and have a look at the papers while W.
smokes) we come upstairs. W. plunges at once into his notes, and I read
and write. It has been lovely to-day and we have had a nice afternoon.
W. came home to breakfast at 1, as he wanted to see the Brera and
"Cenacolo" once again; and it is of course too late when we start for
our afternoon drive at 4.30. We walked to the Brera--it isn't far--and
were there a long time. We made a long stop in the vestibule looking at
the Luini frescoes--all scenes in the Virgin's life--Madonnas, angels,
saints--quantities of figures, and colours and accessories of all
kinds--wonderful trees and buildings and clouds with angels and seraphim
rising out of them. They must have had marvellous imaginations, those
early Italian painters. They never saw anything to suggest such pictures
to them, and of course never read anything--there were no books to
read--merely written manuscripts difficult enough for scholars to
decipher. All the wonderful scenes--Nativity, Coronation, etc.--evoked
out of their own brains. I think I like the Annunciation the best of
all the scenes of the Virgin's life. There is a beautiful one in the
Pitti--I forget now by whom--the Virgin just risen from her chair with a
half-dazed, half-triumphant look, and the angel kneeling before her with
his lily. I like some of the German ones, too, but they are much more
elaborate--the Virgin often standing in a wide arch--a portico--more
figures in the background--and the Virgin herself quite a German
girl--not at all the lovely, spiritual head of the Italian masters.

We walked through all the rooms. The Venetian pictures (Paul Veronese
school) looked beautiful. W., too, was struck with the splendid
colouring. Some of the names quite unknown, and if one looked too
closely there were perhaps faults of drawing and exaggeration of colour,
but the effect was extraordinary. He admired the men's portraits
excessively, by Titian, Tintoretto, Moroni, etc. They are very
fine--sometimes a soldier with keen, hard eyes, clad in complete
armour--often a noble, some grand seigneur of his time, in black velvet
and fur with jewelled cap and chain, a fine patrician head and
thoughtful face. We didn't see the young guide who went about with me--I
was rather sorry--I wanted W. to hear his beautiful Italian.

We stayed so long looking at everything (Luini's pictures are most
interesting, too--he must have had an extraordinary capacity for work)
that we had just time to get a cab and drive over to Santa Maria delle
Grazie to see the "Cenacolo" as it shuts at 4. The Saviour's head, St.
John, and some of the other faces are beautiful--but it is so faded (and
on the other hand has been touched up a little) that I was disappointed.

It was a beautiful bright afternoon and we saw as well as possible, but
really "decay's effacing fingers" have been allowed too much sway. They
told us it was impossible to guard against the damp, and that eventually
the whole thing would be blotted out. However, it has stood the test
pretty well through all these years.

We went into the church, which was quite empty, except one figure in
black, absorbed and motionless, kneeling on the stone pavement. Poor
woman, I hope she got what she was praying for so earnestly. From there
we went to the church of St. Ambrogio, which is a fine old building--the
frescoes and inscriptions much faded. The iron crown used to be kept
there (they told us the Kings and Emperors came there to be crowned) but
it is now at Monza. I declined any more churches and regular
sight-seeing after that--so we went back to the hotel where the carriage
was to meet us, went for our cup of tea to Cova's, and then started for
a drive.

The country quite around the city is not particularly interesting--much
cultivated, but flat--vineyards, corn and rice fields all intersected
with numberless little canals. Though it was late, 6 o'clock, people
were still working in the fields and seemed to keep to their work much
more steadily than the peasants about Rome and Florence who were always
stopping to talk or look at whatever was passing. We met bands of them
trooping along the road--they were generally tall, broad-shouldered,
strong men--quite the northern type. We crossed some soldiers,
too--cavalry and infantry--quite a big detachment--all had their kits,
and baggage wagons following. They were evidently changing garrison. I
didn't think the troops looked very smart. The horses were small and
very thin, and the men (infantry particularly) dragged along and were
rather dirty. Just as they passed us the music struck up a sort of quick
march, and it was curious to see the instantaneous effect. The men
straightened themselves up, moved more quickly and lightly--it was
quite different.

I hoped we should get a view of the mountains, but the sunset, though
beautiful, was rather misty--however the coachman told us that meant
fine weather for to-morrow which will be nice as we are going up on the
top of the Cathedral. I was glad to have a little rest before dinner. I
plunged again into my book, which is madly interesting--but such
horrors--a long imprisonment like Silvio Pellico's was merciful compared
to some of the tortures and cruelties--and it seems the Emperor himself
was the hardest of all--never forgetting nor pardoning nor listening to
any petition or prayer for mercy--no wonder the people were
infuriated--mad with rage--women and children working at the barricades
during the "five days"; and the old ones, too infirm to take an active
part, at the windows pouring down boiling water and oil on the Austrian
soldiers. However, I suppose it is the history of all street fighting. I
remember the hideous tales they told us of the Paris Commune, when we
went back there after the war--how maddened the Versaillais were at the
shots, missiles and boiling water which came from all the windows upon
them. The reprisals were terrible when the regular troops finally got
the upper hand--and I suppose no one will ever know how many innocent
people were shot in the first flush of success.

I read out bits of my book to W. He said he didn't think the account
exaggerated--of course they had chosen all the worst cases. He was at
Versailles during the Commune, and saw the first batches of prisoners
brought in--such awful looking people--many young, very young men, with
wild reckless faces. They probably didn't know, half of them, what they
had been fighting for--a vague idea of patrie and liberty, and the
natural love of the Parisian gamin for a row and a barricade.


                           _To H. L. K._

                                                MILAN, HÔTEL DE VILLE,
                                                          May 9, 1880.

We have had an awful day, dear mother, pouring steady rain since early
morning--clouds grey and low shutting out the city entirely; really so
dark I could hardly see to dress--and the streets apparently deserted.
W. didn't mind, and was off as usual to his coins at 9 o'clock. He did
have a remords de conscience at leaving me all alone all day shut up in
a little hotel salon, and said if I would come and get him about 3 we
would try and see something.

I wrote two letters which will rather amuse the family as they say I
only write when I am boring myself in the country or having a series of
rainy days--Janet always calls them my rain letters. However, when I had
written two my energy in that line was exhausted, and I felt I couldn't
sit another moment in that dark salon, so I summoned Madame Hubert (I
don't generally care to have a maid for a companion but I didn't like to
walk about the streets of a foreign city alone) and we started off with
short skirts and umbrellas. The gérant nearly fell off his high stool in
the bureau when he saw me preparing to go out--wanted to send for a
carriage, a fiacre, anything--but I told him I really wanted to walk,
which filled him with amazement. Italians as a rule don't like walking
at all, and he thought I was quite mad to go out deliberately, and for
my pleasure, on such a day.

It wasn't very pleasant in the streets--everybody's umbrella ran into
me, and the pavements were wet and slippery. We finally took refuge
under the arcades, but there we got quite as much jostled, for everybody
who was out, was there; and the sudden gusts of wind and rain around the
corners and through the arches were anything but pleasant. I wasn't at
all happy, but I liked it better than sitting in the room at the hotel.
I was so draggled and my boots so covered with mud that I was rather
ashamed to cross the big hall of the hotel when I came in.

I found a letter from Gert saying she was so glad we had such delightful
weather for Milan. I wish she could look out of my window at this
moment. She wouldn't know if she were in Milan or Elizabethtown. The
clouds are very low on the roofs of the houses--the city has disappeared
in a mist, I can just see across the street. The pavements are
swimming--quite rushing torrents in the gutters, and I look down upon a
sea of umbrellas.

I started out again about 3--in a carriage this time--and went to get
W.--extract him from his coins if I could. There was no one, apparently,
in the Museum, but a smiling concierge took me to the antiquity and coin
rooms where I found W. very busy and happy; quite insensible to rain or
any outside considerations. He said the light wasn't very good. A musty
old savant with a long ragged beard and very bright black eyes was
keeping him company. _He_ was delighted to see me, for he knew that
meant stopping work for that afternoon. I talked to him a little while
W. was putting his papers in order, and it was evident he had never seen
any one with such a capacity for steady work. He encouraged us very much
to go and see something (anything that would take us out of the coin
room) but we really didn't know what to do with ourselves--a country
drive wasn't inviting and it was too dark and late for pictures--all the
galleries close at 4. The padrone had recommended the flower show to us
in the public gardens, so we thought we would try that. The flowers were
all under glass and tents, so we were dry overhead, but the ground was
wet and muddy--a general damp, chilly feeling everywhere. I am sure the
place is lovely on a bright summer day. There are fine trees, splendid
horse chestnuts, pretty paths and little bosquets. The poor flowers
looked faded and drooping, even under cover. The roses were
splendid--such enormous ones with quantities of leaves, very full. The
finest were "Reine Marguerite," "Marguerite de Savoie," "Princess de
Piémont." I asked one of the gardeners if the Queen was very fond of
flowers--the "Marguerite de Savoie" was a beautiful white rose. "Oh,
yes," he said, enthusiastically, "the Queen loves flowers and everything
that is beautiful." I thought it such a pretty answer. He showed us,
with great pride, a green rose. I can't say I admired it, but it is so
difficult and so expensive to produce that I don't think we shall see
many. We walked about and looked at all the flowers. Some of the
variegated leaves were very handsome. There was a pink broad leaf with a
dull green border and an impossible name I should have liked to take
away, but the man said it was an extremely delicate plant raised under
glass--wouldn't live long in a room (which was what I wanted it for). We
thought we would go back and have tea in a new place under the
arcades--in the Galleria. The tea was bad--had certainly never seen
China--as grown, I daresay, in the rice fields near the city, so we
declined that and ordered chocolate, which was very good, and panettoni.
W. was rather glad to have something to eat after his early breakfast.
It was pouring, but we were quite sheltered in the corner of the
veranda; so he smoked and we looked at the people passing and sitting
near us. They were certainly not a very distinguished collection--a
good many officers (in uniform), loungers who might be anything--small
functionaries, I should think--few women of any description, and no
pretty ones. The peasant woman coming out of the fields was much
better-looking than any we saw to-day.

W. had had visitors in the coin room this morning. The Director, who
came, he thinks, out of sheer curiosity to see how any one, for his
pleasure, could work five or six hours at a time. He brought with him a
Greek savant--a most intelligent young man who apparently knew W.'s
collection almost as well as he did--and all the famous collections of
Europe. They had a most interesting talk and discussion about certain
doubtful coins of which 3 Museums--London, Petersburg and Milan--claim
to have the only originals. We talked over our plans, but I think we
have still two or three more days here. We want to go to Monza. They say
the old town and church are most interesting, as well as the Royal
Villa.

It was rather amusing in the reading-room after dinner. There were many
more people--women principally, and English. Some of them had been
buying things at the two famous bric-à-brac shops, and they were very
much afraid they had paid too much, and been imposed upon. They finally
appealed to me (we had exchanged papers and spoken a few words to each
other) but I told them I was no good, nothing of a connoisseur for
bric-à-brac, and particularly ignorant about lace. They showed it to me,
and it looked very handsome--old Venetian, the man had told them. They
had also some silver which they had bought at one of the little shops in
the Piazza dei Mercanti. I think I will go and see what I can find
there.

I found W. deep in his Paris courrier when I got upstairs. There was a
heap of letters and papers, also Daudet's book "Souvenirs de la
Présidence du Maréchal de MacMahon" which l'Oncle Alphonse had sent us,
said everybody was reading it at the clubs. W. figures in it
considerably, not always in a very favourable light, as judged by
Monsieur Daudet; but facts speak for themselves, even when the criticism
is not quite fair. I suppose it is absolutely impossible for a Royalist
to judge a moderate Republican impartially. I think they understand the
out-and-out Radical better. The book is clever. I read out bits to W.
(which, by the way, he hates--loathes being read to). It was interesting
to read the life we had just been leading described by an outsider.

I think W. will give himself a holiday to-morrow if it is fine (at the
present moment, with the wind and rain beating against the windows, that
seems a remote possibility). He will come back to breakfast and we will
have our afternoon at Monza. I have finished my book of the Austrian
rule, and I am really glad--the horrors quite haunted me. It seems
incredible that in our days one Christian nation should have been
allowed to treat another one so barbarously. I should like to go back to
my childish days and read "Le mie Prigioni," but I found a life of
Cavour downstairs in the hotel library, so I think I shall take that.


                                                             May 10th.

It is lovely this morning (though when the weather changed I don't know,
as it seemed to me I heard a steady downpour every time I woke in the
night), however, at 9 o'clock it was an ideal summer day, warm, a bright
blue sky, no grey clouds or mist, one could hardly believe it was the
same city. The atmosphere is so clear that the snow mountains seem
almost at the bottom of the street. I went for a walk with Madame Hubert
through the old parts of the city--such curious, narrow, twisting
little streets. We went into the Duomo for a moment, it looked
enormous--cool and dark except where a bright ray of sunshine came
through the painted windows, but so subdued that it didn't seem real
sunlight seen through all the marvellous coloured glass. There were a
few people walking about in little groups, but they were lost in the
great space. One didn't hear a sound--the silence was striking--there
wasn't even the usual murmur of priest or chorister at the altar as
there was no mass going on.

We asked the way to the Piazza dei Mercanti on the other side of the
Duomo. It is a curious old square--a very bad pavement, grass growing in
places between the stones, and all sorts of queer, irregular buildings
all around it--churches, palaces, porticos, gateways--a remnant of old
Milan. At each end there were little low shops where many people were
congregated. I don't know if they were buying--I should think not as
they seemed all rather seedy, impecunious individuals judging by their
shabby, not to say worn-out garments--all Italians--I think we were the
only foreigners in the Piazza (yet it is one of the sights of Milan,
mentioned in the guide books). We went, too, and looked at some of the
things spread out for sale--many old engravings, carved wooden frames,
gold and silver ornaments, and some handsome cups and flagons very
elaborately worked--also some bits of old stuff, brocade, and a curious
faded red velvet worked in gold, but all in very bad condition. I
couldn't find a good piece large enough to make an ordinary cushion. In
one corner, squatting in the sun, were two big, dark men with scarlet
caps on their heads (they looked like Tunisians). They had muslins,
spangled with gold and silver, crêpe de Chine, and nondescript
embroidered squares of white, soft silk with wonderful bright embroidery
and designs--moons, and ships and trees. We spoke to them in French, but
they didn't understand, and answered us in some unintelligible
jargon--half Italian, with a few English words thrown in.

Some of the old palaces are fine, one in particular which seems to be a
sort of bourse now. The portico was crowded with men, all talking at the
top of their voices. We had glimpses through the crowd of a fine
collection of broken columns, statues, tablets and bas-reliefs inside,
but we didn't attempt to get in; though a friendly workman in the
street, seeing us stopping and looking, evident strangers, told us we
ought to go in and see "le bellezze" (the beautiful things). There is an
equestrian statue on one side of the palace--I couldn't quite make out
the name, but the inscription says that among other great deeds he
"burnt many heretics." I don't suppose they gave him his statue
exclusively on that account, but the fact was carefully mentioned. We
wandered about rather aimlessly, leaving the Piazza, and finally found
ourselves in a wide, handsome street--large palaces on one side and the
canal running through the middle. The canal is really very
picturesque--the water fairly clear, reflecting the curious, high,
carved balconies and loggias (some of them covered with creepers and
bright coloured flowers) that hang over the canal. They seemed all large
houses, with the back giving on the canal; some of the low doors opening
straight out on the water were quite a reminder of Venice; and when
there was a terrace with white marble balustrade and benches one could
quite imagine some of Paul Veronese's beautiful, fair-haired women with
their pearls and gorgeous red and gold garments disporting themselves
there in the summer evenings. The palaces on the other side of the
street are fine, stately mansions--large doors open, showing great
square courts, sometimes two or three stretching far back--sometimes a
fountain and grass plot in the middle--sometimes arcades running all
around the court, with balconies and small pointed windows--coats-of-arms
up over the big doors, but no signs of life--no magnificent porters such
as one sees in Rome in all the great houses. They all looked in perfectly
good condition and well cared for. I wonder who lives in them.

We came out at the Place Cavour and had a look at the statue, which is
good--in bronze--an energetic standing figure with a fine head, very
like--one would have recognised it anywhere from all the pictures one
has always seen of Cavour. There is no group--he standing alone on a
granite pedestal--a woman (Fame) kneeling, and writing his name on a
scroll. I liked it very much--it is so simple, and we have seen so many
allegorical groups and gods and goddesses lately that it was rather a
relief to see anything quite plain and intelligible.

I wasn't sorry to get back to the hotel and rest a little before
starting again this afternoon. I liked walking through the little old
crooked streets--they were not empty, there were people in all of them,
but decidedly of the poorer classes. They are a naturally polite,
sympathetic race--always smiling if you ask anything and always moving
to one side to let you pass--unlike the stolid German who calmly and
massively takes the middle of the pavement and never dreams of moving to
one side, or considering anybody else. I have just been jostled by two
stout specimens of the touring Vaterland--they are anything but good
types. If they didn't understand the language in which Madame Hubert
expressed her opinion I think the tone said something to them, for one
man muttered a sort of excuse.

If I can keep my eyes open long enough I will finish this letter
to-night. We have had a lovely afternoon--didn't get back until 8.30 and
have only just come upstairs from dinner. We started a little after
three, in a light victoria and a capital pair of small strong
post-horses who went at a good, steady, quick trot. The drive is a short
hour and a half--not very interesting country--flat rice fields and the
same numerous little canals one sees all over Lombardy. Monza is quite a
large town--looks very old and Italian. The Cathedral was begun in the
sixth century, but rebuilt in the fourteenth. There are all sorts of
curious frescoes and relics. We saw, of course, the iron crown which all
Austrian Emperors are supposed to wear at their coronation. The last two
to wear it were Napoleon and Ferdinand I. It is really a large gold
circle with a smaller iron one inside, and studded with precious
stones--very heavy. It was shown to us with much pomp, lighted tapers,
and a priest in his vestments. He told us the iron band inside was made
out of a nail that had been taken from the Saviour's cross. He handled
it very reverently, and would hardly let me lift it to see how heavy it
was. He showed us many curious things, among others a fan of Queen
Theodolinda's, made in the 6th century. It was small, made in leather,
and really not too faded, though one had to look closely and with the
eyes of faith to see the roses the old priest pointed out.

While we were looking at the relics a French pèlerinage came up--quite a
long procession; many very nice-looking women. They were all dressed in
black, and most of them wore bonnets--some few had black veils--priests
of course, and a fair amount of men of all ages. They passed in
procession up the aisle, chanting a psalm, which sounded very well, full
and solemn. One or two stragglers, two young men and a woman stopped to
see what we were looking at, and we had a little talk. They had just
arrived over the St. Gothard, hadn't much time, and were very keen to
see everything. They said it was very cold crossing the mountain--the
heavy rain we had had at Milan had been deep snow on the pass. We went
to look at Queen Theodolinda's tomb in one of the side chapels, and then
started for the "Casa Reale" as they call the Royal Villa. It has no
pretensions to architecture; is a large square building with long,
rambling wings. We could only see the great hall and some of the
reception rooms downstairs, as they were painting and cleaning upstairs.
The rooms had no particular style--large, high ceilings, great windows
looking on the park; just what one sees in all Royal Palaces. All the
furniture was covered with housses--the gardien took one off an
arm-chair to show us the red velvet. The lustres also were covered--the
mirrors were handsome. The park is delightful--quantities of trees of
all kinds, lovely shady walks, and bosquets. There seemed to be a great
deal of game--deer and pheasants walking about quite tame and
undisturbed in all directions. The communs and dépendances are enormous,
quite a little colony of houses scattered about--régisseur, head-keeper,
head-gardener, all with good gardens.

We had a nice talk with a half-gardener half-guide who went about with
us and showed us all the beauties. The place is low--I should think
would be very warm in summer, for even to-day the shade was pleasant and
the low afternoon sun in our faces rather trying. There were splendid
views every now and then of the distant Alps. The gardener, like every
one else who has ever been thrown with her, apparently adored the
Queen--said she knew all about the place, and trees, and flowers, and
was so beloved in the town. I remember Peruzzi telling me how fond she
was of Monza--happier there than anywhere. They certainly love their
"Margherita di Savoia." There are pictures of her everywhere, and some
one told us that all the girls in Monza are called Margherita.

When we were starting back we met the pilgrims again, still walking and
chanting on their way to the station. They had a white banner with them,
but I couldn't see what the inscription was. The drive home was lovely,
even along the long straight road bordered with poplars (quite like a
French country road). The evening was delicious, a little cool driving,
as we went a very good pace. I was glad to put a light wrap over my
shoulders. The sunset clouds were gorgeous, and every now and then
glimpses of the snow mountains. I love to see them--those beautiful
white peaks, half clouds, half snow--they seem so mysterious, so far
away from our every-day life and world. The road was dull, very little
passing until we got near Milan. There we met bands of peasants coming
in from their work in the fields, and country carts loaded with
people--all the young ones singing and talking, and the wrinkled old
women looking on smiling. We noticed again what a fine, strong race they
are--both men and women--such broad shoulders, and holding themselves so
straight. They must have been nasty adversaries when their time came and
they shook off the hated Austrian yoke; but they were not cruel victors
(so says my book), the wives and daughters of men who had fallen under
Austrian cannon nursing and tending their sick and wounded enemies.

We met three or four handsome private carriages, also a young man
driving a phaeton with a pair of handsome steppers. Our coachman pointed
him out proudly to us as the Marchese ----, some name I didn't catch,
but he was evidently a swell. I suppose there are villas in the
neighborhood, but we didn't see any, nothing but trees, rice fields and
little canals and ditches.

I think we shall get off the day after to-morrow. W. thinks one more
morning with the coins will be enough for him, he wants now to get back.
I think he is homesick for the Senate and politics generally, but he
won't allow it. We had thought of going to Como for two days, it is so
easy from here, but he wants to stop at Turin, so we must give it up. I
suppose it won't be as cold at Turin now as we always used to find it
crossing in winter. Do you remember one of the first years, coming over
the Mount Cenis, how bitterly cold it was, and how we shivered in the
big, high rooms of the hotel--a mosaic pavement, bits of thin carpet on
the floor, and a fire of shavings in the chimney. We will write and
telegraph, of course, from there. I don't think we shall stay more than
one night.


                                                             May 11th.

We are really leaving to-morrow morning, get to Turin for dinner. As we
telegraphed yesterday the address I hope we shall find letters. It has
been lovely again all day, so our last impressions are good. I have
quite forgotten the rain and dark of the other day. The padrone has just
informed us, with much pride, that the Crown Princess of Germany arrives
to-night in this hotel from Vienna. I wish she had come yesterday--I
should have liked to see her again. I have been out shopping this
morning, but it is difficult; there is not much to buy, at least not in
the nice big shops of the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, and I am a little
afraid of the antiquities--I know so little about bric-à-brac (au fond
like modern things just as well, but other people don't, and would much
rather have a really ugly, queer-shaped old cup or glass than the most
graceful modern creation).

The padrone gave me the address of a good antiquity shop, and said I
could be perfectly sure in taking anything they said was old, and I need
only say he had recommended me to go there. I found beautiful things,
but all large, cassoni, high-backed, carved arm-chairs and Venetian
mirrors, but the prices were awful and the things much too big. I wanted
something smaller that I could put into my trunk. We went back to the
Piazza dei Mercanti and, after looking about at many of the little
shops, I did find some rather curious silver spoons and boxes. The
spoons have quaint, long handles ending in a head, not apostles, but
soldiers and women with veils and crowns. The boxes are most elaborately
carved--on the cover of one there are 21 figures--a sort of vintage with
bunches of grapes. As usual there were many people lounging about and
stopping at all the shops--some of them wildly interested in my
purchases. One funny little old man with a yellow face and bright eyes
was apparently much pleased with the box I chose--nodded and smiled at
me, saying: "Una bellezza questa" (this is a beauty). On our way back we
went into the great court-yard of the Ospedale Maggiore, an enormous
brick building with fine façade and high pointed windows; the walls
covered with medallions and ornaments in terra-cotta. I believe it is
one of the largest hospitals that exist and certainly once inside those
great courts one would feel absolutely cut off from the outside world.
There seemed to be gardens and good trees at the back--we saw the green
through the cloisters, and there was a fine loggia overlooking the
court. It was as sleepy and quiet as possible to-day--no sign of life,
no concierge nor porter, nor patient of any kind visible. If we had had
time and wanted to go over the hospital I don't know whom we could have
applied to.

It was very warm walking home. Happily our way lay through narrow
streets, with high houses on each side, so we had shade. I found cards
and a note from the Murrays (English friends we had met in Rome). They
are staying at the Cavour, but will come and dine at our hotel to-night.
They are off to the Lakes to-morrow, and as we leave too early it will
be our only chance of meeting. It will seem quite strange to see any one
we know--we have lived so entirely alone these few days in Milan. I told
W. last night I found him a most agreeable companion. We haven't talked
so much to each other for years. He is always so busy all day in Paris
that except for the ride in the morning, I don't see much of him--and of
course in Rome and Florence we were never alone.

It is rather late but I will write a few lines and send them off
to-morrow morning. W. came home about 4, fussed a little over trunks and
interviewed the porter about our tickets, places, etc., and then we
started off for the Duomo. There was a party going up just as we got to
the door, so we joined forces--about 8 people. The ascent was very
fatiguing, quite 500 steps, I should think, mostly inside the tower,
with openings giving fine views over the city and Lombard plains. We all
halted every now and then--I was the only lady. There were two
Englishmen with whom we fraternized. They were making a walking tour
through the North of Italy--Piedmont and Lombardy. They addressed W. by
name, which surprised him extremely, so much so that he said: "I don't
remember, but I suppose we must have met before." "Not at all," they
said, "we recognised you from all the pictures we had seen of you in
the illustrated papers." What it is to be a celebrity!

We did finally, with many stops, get up on the roof, and were well
repaid, for the view was enchanting--Milan so far below us we could
hardly believe it was a big city, but the mountains quite beautiful.
There was a man with a telescope on top, and he pointed out the
principal peaks. Monte Rosa was magnificent--stood out splendidly, a
round snow peak; Mt. Cervin, Mt. Cenis, the Bernese far away,
disappearing in the clouds; and various others whose names I forget,
nearer. I couldn't see the Chartreuse of Pavia, though they said it was
quite visible, and just the Superga of Turin. Nearer these were various
churches and monasteries standing high on hills nearer the town, but I
couldn't look at anything but the snow mountains. You can't imagine how
divine they were, with the beautiful, soft afternoon sun on them. One
couldn't really tell which was cloud and which was mountain--they seemed
to be part of the sky.

I found the going down more disagreeable than coming up. It was darker,
the steps were a little broken at the edge and decidedly slippery;
however, we arrived without any adventures. Just as we got to the hotel
we saw three or four carriages drive up, and as we went in the porter
told us the German Crown Princess with her daughters and a large suite
was arriving. We stood in the court to see them pass--but the Princess
was not there, only her daughters (3). They were tall, fair, very
German-looking, each one with a large bouquet. There seemed any number
of ladies and gentlemen in attendance, and a great deal of bowing and
deferential manners.

We went downstairs about a quarter to eight. We had given the Murrays
rendezvous in the reading-room, but they came in just as we crossed the
court, and we went straight to the dining-room. They told us the Crown
Princess only comes to-morrow. They had gone to the station to meet her
(they had seen her in Venice), but there were only the young Princesses.
We had a pleasant dinner. They are a nice couple (Scotch). He is very
clever, a literary man, rather delicate, can't stand the English winter,
and always comes abroad. He knows Italy well and is mad about Venice.
She is clever, too, but is rather silent--however, we didn't either of
us have a chance to-night, for the two gentlemen talked hard, politics,
which Mr. Murray was very keen about. He had a decided thirst for
information, and asked W. so many questions about France, the state of
politics, the influence of the clergy, etc., that I was rather anxious,
as in general there is nothing W. hates like being questioned. However,
he was very gracious to-night, and disposed to talk. When he doesn't
feel like it wild horses couldn't drag anything out of him.

They stayed till ten o'clock, and now I have been putting the last
things in my small trunk. The big trunks go straight through from here,
and we will pick them up at the Gare de Lyon. The padrone has just been
up to ask if we were satisfied with the hotel, and would we recommend
him.


                             _To G. W. S._

                                             TURIN, HÔTEL DE L'EUROPE,
                                                         May 13, 1880.

This will be my last letter from Italy, dear. I am sorry to think I am
turning my back on this enchanting country. To-day has been perfect;
everything, sky, sun, mountains, ugly yellow palaces, grim, frowning
buildings, look beautiful--a perfect glow of light and colour. I can
scarcely believe it is the same city we used to freeze in, when we
passed through it often in old times going down to Rome. Heavens--how
cold it was everywhere--a wind that seemed to come straight from the
glaciers cutting one in two when there was a great square to be crossed,
or whistling through the arcades when we wished to loiter a little and
see the shops and curiosities. I can't remember if we stayed at this
hotel--I don't think so, as it is very comfortable and that was by no
means my recollection of the one we always went to on our way down so
many years ago. The rooms are high--we have a nice apartment on the
first floor, well furnished--quite modern.

We got here yesterday quite early in the afternoon. It is only about 4
or 5 hours by train. We had a most festive "send-off" from Milan. I was
well "bunched" as some of our compatriots would say. The padrone gave me
a beautiful bouquet of roses when we came downstairs to the carriage,
also a nice little basket of fruit which he thought might be acceptable
on our journey. He had seen about our carriage--so that was all
right--and we found the Director of the Museum, and the Greek friend at
the station--also with a bouquet. All our bags and wraps were stowed
away in the carriage, and the Director of the Museum (I have never known
his name) had also put papers--some illustrated ones--on the seats. I
felt rather like a bride starting on her wedding journey.

The road wasn't very interesting. We had glimpses of the Alps
occasionally, and the day was beautiful, making everything look
picturesque and charming. It was rather a relief to get out of the rice
fields and little canals. We stopped some little time at Novara--where
we had a good cup of coffee. As we got near Turin everything looked very
green. There seemed to be more trees and little woods than in the
neighbourhood of Milan. The hotel porter was waiting for us at the
station with a carriage--so we drove straight off, leaving Madame Hubert
in charge of the porter, who spoke French perfectly, to follow with the
trunks.

The hotel is on the great Place du Château, faces the Palazzo Madama.
They have given us a nice apartment, with windows and a good balcony
looking out on the Place. We went upstairs immediately to inspect the
rooms--the padrone himself conducting us. There were flowers on the
table, nice lounging chairs on the balcony. It looked charming. He
wanted to send us tea or coffee--but we really couldn't take anything as
it wasn't more than two hours since we had had a very fair little goûter
at Novara. We said we would dine in the restaurant about 8. He was
rather anxious we should have our dinner in the anteroom which was large
and light--often used for a dining-room--but we told him we much
preferred dining downstairs and seeing the people.

We brushed off a little dust--it wasn't a very dirty journey--and
started off for a stroll across the Piazza Castello. It is a fine large
square, high buildings all around it, and the great mediæval pile
Palazzo Madama facing us as we went in. It looked more like a fortress
than a palace, but there is a fine double staircase and façade with
marble columns and statues--white, I suppose, originally, but now rather
mellowed with years and exposure and taking a soft pink tint in the
waning sunlight. It was inhabited by the mother of one of the kings,
"Madama Reale," hence its name. There is a monument to the Sardinian
army in front of the palace with very elaborate bas-reliefs. They told
us there was nothing to see inside, so we merely walked all around it,
and then went over to the Palazzo Reale, which is a large brick
building, with no pretensions to architecture. They say it is very
handsome inside--large, high rooms, very luxuriously furnished. Somehow
or other luxuriously furnished apartments don't seem to go with Princes
of the House of Savoy. One can't imagine them reclining in ladies'
boudoirs on satin cushions, with silk and damask hangings. They seem
always to have been simple, hardy soldiers, more at home on a
battle-field than in a drawing-room. We asked at the entrance if the Duc
d'Aoste was here. He told us when he was in Paris that if ever we came
to Turin we must let him know--that he always received twice a week in
the evening when he was at home and that he would be delighted to see us
(I had put an evening dress in my trunk in case we should be invited
anywhere)--however he isn't here, away in the country for three or four
days on some inspection--so we wrote ourselves down in the book that he
might see that we intended to pay our respects.

We walked through some of the squares--Piazza Carignano, with the great
palace Carignano which also looks grim and frowning, more like a prison
than a stately princely residence. I wonder if there are any what we
should call comfortable rooms in those gaunt old palaces. I have visions
of barred windows, very small panes of glass, brick floors, frescoed
ceilings black with age and smoke, and straight-backed, narrow carved
wooden chairs. However a fine race of sturdy, fighting men were brought
up within those old walls--perhaps Italy would not have been "unita" so
soon if the pioneers of freedom had been accustomed to all the luxury
and gaiety of the present generation.

We wandered back through more squares and saw numberless statues of
Princes and Dukes of Savoy--almost all equestrian--the Princes in
armour, and generally a drawn sword in their hand--one feels that they
were a fighting race.

The hills all around the city are charming, beautifully green, with
hundreds of villas (generally white) in all directions; some so high up
one wonders how the inhabitants ever get up there. In the distance
always the beautiful snow mountains. The town doesn't look either very
Italian or very Southern. I suppose the Piedmontese are a type apart.

We had a table to ourselves in the dining-room, which was almost
empty--evidently people dine earlier than we do--and yet it is tempting
to stay out on a lovely summer evening. There were several officers in
uniform at one table--evidently a sort of mess--about 10. They were
rather noisy, making all sorts of jokes with the waiters, but they had
nearly finished when we came in and soon departed with a great clatter
of spurs and swords. We went for a few moments into the reading-room,
which was also quite deserted--only two couples, an English clergyman
and his wife both buried in their papers--and a German ménage discussing
routes and guides and prices for some excursion they wanted to make.

I had kept on my hat as we thought we would go out, take a turn in the
arcades and have a "granita." The padrone told us of a famous café where
the "granita" was very good, also very good music. W. is becoming such a
flâneur, and so imbued with the dolce far niente of this enchanting
country that I am rather anxious about him. I think he will want to go
every evening to the "Ambassadeurs" when we get back to Paris.

We strolled about for some time. It was cool and there were not too many
people. Everybody sitting out, smoking and drinking. We got a nice
little table--each took an ice (they were very good--not too sweet), and
the music was really charming--quite a large orchestra, all guitars and
mandolins. Whenever they played a well-known air--song or waltz--the
whole company joined in. It sounded very pretty--they didn't sing too
loud, and enjoyed themselves extremely. We stayed some time.

I am writing as usual, late, while W. is putting his notes in order. He
found a note, when he came in, from the Director of the Museum, saying
he would be delighted to see W. at the Museum to-morrow morning at 9
o'clock, and would do the honours of the cabinet de médailles--also the
card of a Mr. Hoffman who wants very much to see W. and renew his
acquaintance with him after many years. He is in this hotel and will
come and see us to-morrow. W. has no idea who he is, but of course there
are many Hoffmans in the world. I suppose the gentleman will explain
himself. If it is fine we shall drive to the Superga to-morrow
afternoon, and start for Paris the next evening. W. says three séances
(and his are long) will be all he wants in the Museum.


                                                             May 14th.

It has been again a lovely summer day--not too hot, and a delicious
breeze as we drove home from La Superga. I have been out all day. W. was
off at 9 to meet his Director, and I started at 10 with Madame Hubert to
flâner a little. We went first to the arcades where are all the best
shops, but I can't say I was tempted. There was really nothing to
buy--some nice blankets, half silk, half wool--not striped like the Como
blankets, a plain centre, red or blue, with a bright border--but it was
not a day to buy blankets, with the sun bright and strong over our
heads. There was a good deal of iron work, rather nice. I didn't care
for the jewellery. I didn't see myself with a wrought-iron chain and
cross, but I did get a large ring--strong and prettily worked, which the
man said many people bought to put in a hall and hang keys on. There
were plenty of people about. I didn't think the peasants were any
particular type--the men looked smaller than those about Milan--slight,
wiry figures. A good many were evidently guides, with axes and coils of
rope strapped on their backs. They told us in one of the shops (where as
a true American I was asking questions, eager for information) that
there were several interesting excursions to be made in the
neighbourhood.

We went again to the Piazzo Castello which is so large that it is a very
fair walk to go all around the square--and went into the hall to see the
statue (equestrian of course) of Victor Amadeus the First. The horse is
curious, in marble. Then we went to the Cathedral, which is not very
interesting. The sacristan showed us a collection of small, dark
pictures over the altar which he said were by Albert Dürer; but they
were so black and confused I couldn't see anything--a little glimpse of
gilding every now and then that might be a halo around a saint's head.
What was interesting was the "Cappella del S. S. Sudario," where the
linen cloth is kept which is said to have enveloped the body of our
Saviour. It is kept in an urn, and only shown by special permission.
This, however, the sacristan obtained for us. He disappeared into the
sacristy and soon returned bringing with him a nice fat old priest in
full canonicals and very conversationally disposed. He lifted off the
top of the urn and drew out the linen cloth most carefully. It is very
fine linen, quite yellow and worn--almost in holes in some parts. He
spread it out most reverently on a marble slab, and showed us the
outlines of a man's figure. Marks there were certainly. I thought I saw
the head distinctly, but of course the imagination is a powerful factor
on these occasions. The chapel was dimly lighted, a few tapers burning,
and the old priest was so convinced and reverent that it was catching. I
suppose it might be possible--certainly all these traditions and relics
were an enormous strength to the Catholic Church in the early days when
there were no books and little learning, and people believed more easily
and simply than they do now. The chapel is a rather ugly, round
building, almost black, and with a quantity of statues (white) which
stand out well. It is the burial chapel of the House of Savoy, and there
are statues apparently to every Emmanuel or Amadeus that ever
existed--also a large marble monument to the late Queen of Sardinia. Do
you remember when Prince Massimo, in Rome, always spoke of Victor
Emmanuel, when he was King of Italy, and holding his court in Florence,
as the King of Sardinia?

We had walked about longer than we thought, but everything is close
together, and it was time to get back to the hotel for breakfast. I had
the dining-room almost to myself--my table was drawn up close to the
open window, a vase of roses upon it, and one or two papers--English,
Italian, and the "Figaro." Paris seems to be amusing itself. Henrietta
writes that the Champs Elysées are enchanting--all the horse chestnuts
in full bloom. Here there is abundance of flowers--one gets glimpses of
pretty gardens through open gates and openings in railings and walls.
There are plenty of street stalls, too, with fruits and flowers, but one
doesn't see the wealth of roses and wistaria climbing over every bit of
wall and up the sides of houses as in Florence. The city is perfectly
busy and prosperous, but has none of the delightful look of laziness and
enjoyment of life and the blue sky and the sunshine that one feels in
Rome and Florence.

W. came in about 3, having had a delightful morning in the cabinet des
médailles. The Director, a most learned, courteous old gentleman, was
waiting for him, and though he knew W. and his collection by reputation,
he was quite surprised to find that W. knew quite as much about his
coins and treasures as he did himself. He hadn't supposed it possible
that a statesman with so many interests and calls upon his time could
have kept up his scientific work.

We shall leave to-morrow night, and before we started for our drive we
sent off letters and telegrams to Paris. I can hardly believe it
possible that Friday morning I shall be breakfasting in Paris, going to
mother to tea in the afternoon, and taking up my ordinary life.
Henrietta writes that she has told Francis we are coming home, but
frankness compels her to say that he has received that piece of
information with absolute indifference. He has been as happy as a king
all the months we have been away--spoiled to his heart's content and
everybody in the two establishments his abject slaves.

We started about 4 for La Superga in a nice light basket carriage and
pair of strong little horses. It was rather interesting driving all
through the town, which is comparatively small--one is soon out of it.
The streets are narrow, once one is out of the great thoroughfares, with
high houses on each side. Every now and then an interesting cornice with
a curious round tower and some funny old-fashioned houses with high
pointed roofs and iron balconies running quite around the house, but on
the whole it is much less picturesque and colder looking than the other
Italian cities. The road was not very animated--few vehicles of any
description, a few fiacres evidently bound for the Superga like us.
There were not many carts nor many people about. What _was_ lovely was
the crown of green hills with little chestnut groves--some of the little
woods we drove through were quite charming, with the long slanting rays
of the afternoon sun shining through the branches--just as I remember
the Galleria di Sotto at Albano--the chestnuts grow high on all the
hillsides. We had quite a stiff mount before we got to the church (but
the little horses trotted up very fairly) and a good climb after we left
the carriage. One sees the church from a long distance. It has a fine
colonnade and a high dome which lifts itself well up into the clouds. We
followed a pretty steep, winding path up to the top, quantities of wild
roses, a delicate pink, like our eglantine at home, twisting themselves
around the bushes. There is nothing particularly interesting in the
church. It is the burial place of the Kings of Savoy, and their vault is
in the crypt. The last one buried there was Charles Albert. Victor
Emmanuel is buried in the Pantheon in Rome. We found a nice old
sacristan who took us about and explained various statues to us--also
all the glories of the Casa di Savoia, winding up with an enthusiastic
eulogy of Queen Margherita--but never as Queen of Italy, "nostra
Principessa." She has certainly made herself a splendid place in the
hearts of the people--they all adore her. We climbed up to the roof, and
what a view we had, all Turin at our feet with its domes and high,
pointed roofs, standing in the midst of the green plain dotted all over
with villas, farms, gardens, little groves of chestnuts, the river
meandering along through the meadows carpeted with flowers, and looking
in the sunlight like a gold zig-zag with its numerous turns--always the
beautiful crown of hills, and in the background the snow peaks of the
Alps. It was very clear--they looked so near, as if one could throw a
stone across. Our old man pointed out all the well-known peaks--Monte
Rosa, Mont Cenis, and many others whose names I didn't catch. He said he
had rarely seen the whole chain so distinct. It reminded me of the view
we had of the Bernese Oberland so many years ago--the first time we had
seen snow mountains. On arriving at Berne we were hurried out on the
terrace by the padrone of the hotel as he said we might never again see
all the chain of the Alps so distinctly. Beautiful it was--all the snow
mountains rolling away in the distance; some of them straight up into
the sunset clouds, others with little wreaths of white soft clouds half
way up their summits, and clouds and snow so mingled that one could
hardly distinguish which was snow. I thought they were all
clouds--beautiful, airy intangible shapes.

We loitered about some time on the terrace after we came down, watching
the lights fade and finally disappear--the mountains looking like great
grey giants frowning down on the city. The air was decidedly cooler as
we drove home, but it was a perfect summer evening. There were more
people out as we got near Turin--all the workers getting a little breath
of air after the toil of the day.


                                                             May 15th.

I will send this very long letter off this evening. Our trunks are
packed and downstairs, and I will finish this while we are waiting for
dinner. We have had a nice day. Madame Hubert and I strolled about this
morning and went to see the house where Cavour was born, and also to the
Giardino Pubblico. The grounds are handsome, but not particularly
interesting at that hour in the morning, and there wasn't a creature
there but ourselves. There are various monuments--one of Manin with a
fine figure of the Republic of Venice.

I breakfasted as usual alone, and at 3 W. came in, having quite finished
his work at the Museum. He had given rendezvous to Mr. Hoffman for 3.30,
and while we were sitting talking waiting for him the padrone came up
and said an officer "de la part du Duc d'Aoste" wanted to see us. We
begged him of course to send him up, and in a few minutes a very
good-looking young officer in uniform made his appearance. He named
himself--Count Colobiano I think--but we didn't catch the name very
distinctly; said he had had the honour of dining with us at the Quai
d'Orsay with his Prince, and that the Prince was "désolé" not to be in
Turin these days and had sent him to put himself at our disposition. He
proposed all sorts of things--the opera, a drive (or a ride if we
preferred) to a sort of parade ground just outside the gates where we
would see some cavalry manoeuvres. He knew I rode, and could give me a
capital lady's hack. I was rather sorry he hadn't come before--it would
have amused us to see the manoeuvres, and also to ride--but that would
have been difficult as I had no habit with me. However, as we are
leaving this evening there was nothing to be done. He was very civil and
I think rather sorry not to do us the honours of his city. He said there
were beautiful excursions to be made from Turin, and asked us if we had
seen anything. We said only the Superga which he evidently didn't
consider very interesting. He said the Duke was very sorry to have
missed us, and that he thought I would have enjoyed an evening at the
Palace, as the receptions were very gay and informal. I cannot imagine
(I didn't tell him that) anything gay with the Duc d'Aoste. He is very
sympathetic to me, but a type apart. A stern, almost ascetic appearance,
very silent and shy, but a beautiful smile. He looks exactly as one
would imagine a Prince of the House of Savoy would. We saw him often in
Paris, and his face always interested me--so grave, and as if he were
miles away from the ordinary modern world. It was just after he had
given up his Spanish throne, and although I didn't think that crown
weighed very heavily on his brow he must have had some curious
experiences and seen human nature in perhaps not its best form. The
young aide-de-camp paid us quite a visit, and we made him promise to
come and see us if ever he came to Paris. We sent all sorts of messages
and regrets to the Duke. Just as he was going out Mr. Hoffman appeared
and he sat an hour with us. He was delightful, has lived almost all his
life in and near Turin, and had all the history of Piedmont at his
fingers' ends. He seems to have met W. years ago at a dinner in London
and has always followed his career with much interest. It was most
interesting to hear him talk. He admires Cavour immensely--said his
death was a great calamity for Italy--that he hadn't given half of what
he could, and that every year he lived he grew in intellect and
knowledge of people. He also said (as they all do) that he mistrusted
Louis Napoleon so intensely, and through all their negotiations and
discussions as to Italy's future he was pursued by the idea that the
Emperor would go back upon his word. He said the Piedmontese were a race
apart--hardly considered themselves Italian, and that even now in the
little hamlets in the mountains the peasants had vague ideas of
nationality, and never spoke of themselves as Italians, or identified
themselves with Italian interests and history--that in the upper classes
traces of French occupation and education, superstition and priestly
rule were just getting effaced. For years in the beginning of the
century the priests (Jesuits) had it all their own way in Turin. The
teaching in the schools was entirely in their hands, and most
elementary; and numerous convents and monasteries were built. Cavour as
a very young man soon emancipated himself from all those ideas, and if
he had lived, Hoffman thinks, much trouble would have been averted, and
that he would certainly have found some means of coming to a better
understanding with the Vatican, "the most brilliant and far-seeing
intellect I have ever met."

He wanted to take us to some palace where there are some very curious
and inédites letters of Cavour's to the owner, who was one of his
friends, and always on very confidential terms with him; but of course
we couldn't do that as we are off in a few hours.

Hoffman would never have gone, I think, if the padrone hadn't appeared
to say dinner was ready. I left him and W. talking while I went to give
some last instructions to the maid, and when I got back to the salon
they had drifted away from Cavour and Piedmont and were discussing
French politics, the attitude of Germany and the anti-religious feeling
in France.

I shall miss all the talk about Italy and her first struggles for
independence when I get home. French people, as a rule, care so little
for outside things. They travel very little, don't read much foreign
literature, and are quite absorbed in their own interests and
surroundings. Of course they are passing through a curious phase--so
many old things passing away--habits and traditions of years upset, and
the new régime not yet sufficiently established nor supported by all
that is best in the country. I think W. has been impressed and rather
surprised at the very easy way in which all religious questions are
disposed of in Italy, and yet the people are certainly superstitious
and have a sort of religious feeling. The churches are all full on great
feast days, and one sees great big young peasants kneeling and kissing
relics when they are exposed; and several times even here about Turin we
have seen men and women kneeling at some of the crosses along the road.
I have rarely seen that in France--but then the Italians are a more
emotional race. They are difficult problems--a country can't live
without a religion.


                                                 RUE DUMONT D'URVILLE.

We got back yesterday morning early. Hubert and the big mare were
waiting for us, and we were whirled up to the house in a very un-Italian
manner (for the horses in Italy are just as easy-going as the people and
never hurry themselves nor display any undue energy). Francis and
"nounou" were waiting at the door--he really quite excited and pleased
to see us--and the sisters appeared about 11. We talked a little and
they helped me unpack; and I went to see mother directly after breakfast
and stayed there all the afternoon. This morning I am writing as usual
at the window and hearing all the familiar Paris sounds. The goat-boy
has just passed with his 6 goats and curious reed pipe, the marchande de
cressons with her peculiar cry advertising her merchandise, and ending
"pour la santé du corps" on a long shrill note--the man who sits on the
pavement and mends china. He is just at our door, and has a collection
of broken plates and cups around him. I suppose some are ours. The
"light lady" next door is standing at her door in her riding habit, the
skirt already very short and held well up over her arm displaying a fair
amount of trousers and high boots. She is haranguing in very forcible
language the groom who is cantering the horse up and down the street,
and of course even in our quiet street there are always badauds who stop
and ask questions, and hang around the porte-cochères to see all that is
going on. W. has just started on horseback and that is a most
interesting moment for the street, for his big black "Paddy" has a most
uncomfortable trick. From the moment he takes the bridle in his hand and
prepares to mount, the horse snorts, and stamps and backs, making such a
noise in the little court-yard you would think he was kicking everything
to pieces. As soon as the big doors are opened and he can get out he is
as quiet as a lamb.

It is a beautiful morning and Paris looks its best--all the
horse-chestnuts in full bloom, the sky a bright blue, and quantities of
equipages and riders streaming out to the Bois. I suppose I shall ride
too in a day or so, and by the end of the week Italy will be a thing of
the past, and I shall be leading my ordinary Paris life.

There was a procession of people here all the afternoon yesterday to see
W., and now he is quite au courant of all that has taken place in his
absence, and I think in his heart he is delighted to be back and in the
thick of the fight again. He is going to the Senate this afternoon.

We had a most comfortable journey from Turin--a lit-salon to ourselves,
the maid just behind us. All the first hours were charming as long as we
could see as all the country about Turin is so lovely. We passed
Moncalieri which stands high on the hills--a long low building, and one
or two other fine old castles, all perched high on the slope of the
mountains. I always sleep so well in a train that I was hardly awake
when we passed at Modane, though I was dimly conscious of the stop, the
lanterns flashing along the train and a great deal of conversation.
Nobody disturbed us as we had given our "laissez-passer" to the garde,
but I fancy we made a long halt there as the train was very crowded. We
had our coffee at Dijon very early in the morning. It was quite pleasant
to see the regular little French brioche again.

I went to tea with Mother and afterward we went for a turn in the Bois,
which looked beautiful--so green--all the horse-chestnuts out (the road
from Auteuil to Boulogne with the rows of red horse-chestnuts on each
side quite enchanting); the hills, St. Cloud and Mont Valérien blue and
standing out sharply against the sky, but I missed the delicious soft
atmosphere of Italy and the haze that always hung around the hills and
softened all the outlines. The Seine looked quite animated. There really
were one or two small boats out, and near Puteaux (the club) some women
rowing, and of course the little river steamers flying up and down,
crowded.

We are dining with l'Oncle Alphonse who will give us all the news of the
day, and the opinion of the "Union."




PART II

ITALY REVISITED


                          _To H. L. K._

                                      ROME, Friday, February 12, 1904.

It seems so strange to be back here, dear, after twenty-four years, and
to find Rome so changed, so unchanged. The new quarter, an absolutely
new modern city, might be Wiesbaden, or Neuilly, or any cheerful resort
of retired business men who build hideous villas with all sorts of
excrescences--busts, vases, and plaques of bright-coloured majolica--and
the old city with the dirty little winding streets going toward St.
Peter's exactly the same; almost the same little ragged, black-eyed
children playing in the gutters.

We had a most comfortable journey down. Hardly any one in the
sleeping-car but ourselves, so we all had plenty of room. It was a
bright, beautiful morning when we got to Modane--the mountains covered
with snow, and the fresh keen wind blowing straight from the glaciers
was enchanting after a night in the sleeping-car. They are frightfully
overheated. I had some difficulty in persuading the attendant to open my
window for the night; however, as I was alone in my compartment, he
finally agreed, merely saying he would come and shut it when we passed
through the great tunnel. We dined at the buffet at Genoa, and it didn't
seem natural not to ask for the Alassio train. The station was crowded,
the Roman train too--they put on extra carriages. We got to Rome about
9.30. I had been ready since 6.30, eagerly watching to get a glimpse of
St. Peter's. I had visions of Cività Vecchia and running along by the
sea in the early morning.

I was quite awake, but I didn't see St. Peter's until we were quite near
Rome. We ran through long, level stretches of Campagna, with every now
and then a great square building that had been probably a mediæval
castle, but was now a farm--sheep and cattle wandering out of the old
gateway, and those splendid big white oxen that one sees all over the
Campagna--some shepherds' huts with their pointed thatched roofs dotted
about, but nothing very picturesque or striking. We passed close to San
Paolo Fuori le Mura, with the Testaccio quite near. We paid ourselves
compliments when we arrived at the station for having made our long
journey so easily and pleasantly. No one was tired and no one was bored.
Between us all (we were four women) we had plenty of provisions and
Bessie[30] and Mme. de Bailleul were most successful with their afternoon
tea, with delicious American cake, that Bessie had brought over in the
steamer.

[30] Marquise de Talleyrand-Périgord, née Curtis.

After all, Josephine[31] finds she has room for me and my maid, which of
course is infinitely pleasanter for me than being at the hotel. Her
house is charming--not one of the old palaces, but plenty of room and
thoroughly Italian. The large red salon I delight in; it couldn't exist
anywhere else but in Rome, with its red silk walls, heavy gilt
furniture, pictures, and curious bits of old carving and majolica. It
opens into a delightful music-room with fine frescoes on the walls (a
beautiful bit of colour), and beyond that there is a small salon where
we usually sit.

[31] Princess di Poggio-Suasa, née Curtis.

She has a picture there of her husband, Don Emanuele Ruspoli (late
syndic of Rome), which has rather taken possession of me. It is such a
handsome, spirited face, energetic and rather imperious--he looks a born
ruler of men, and I believe he was. They say Rome was never so well
governed as in his time. He was one of the first of the young Roman
nobles who emancipated themselves from the papal rule. As quite a youth
he ran away from college and entered the Italian army as a simple
soldier, winning his grade as captain on the battle-field. He was a
loyal and devoted servant of the House of Savoy, and took a prominent
part in all the events which ended in proclaiming Victor Emanuel King of
Italy, with Rome his capital.

This quarter, Piazza Barberini, is quite new to me. It used to seem
rather far off in the old days when we came to see the Storys in the
Barberini Palace, but now it is quite central. The great new street--Via
Veneto--runs straight away from the Piazza, past the Church of the
Cappucini--you will remember the vaults with all the dead monks standing
about--the Palace of the Queen Mother, and various large hotels, to
Porta Pinciana. Just the other side of the road is the new gate opening
into the Villa Borghese. I rather lost myself there the first day I
prowled about alone. It was raining, but I wanted some air, and turned
into the Via Veneto, which is broad and clean. I walked quite to the
end, and then came to the Porta Pinciana, crossed the road, and found
myself in a beautiful villa. I didn't come upon any special landmark
until I got near the Museum, which, of course, looked quite familiar.
However, I was bewildered and hailed a passing groom to inquire where I
was, and even when he told me could scarcely believe it. I had never
gone into the Villa Borghese except by the Piazza del Popolo. They have
made extraordinary changes since the Government has bought it--opened
out new roads and paths, planted quantities of trees and flowers, and
cleaned up and trimmed in every direction. It will be a splendid
promenade in the heart of the city, but no longer the old Villa Borghese
we used to know, with ragged, unkempt corners, and little paths in
out-of-the-way places, so choked up with weeds and long grass that one
could hardly get through.

I haven't quite got my bearings yet, and for the first three or four
mornings I took myself down to the Piazza di Spagna, and started from
there. There, too, there are changes--new houses and shops (I was glad
to see old Spithoever in the same place) and a decided look of business
and modern life. There were not nearly so many people doing nothing,
lounging about, leaning on the "barca," or playing mora on the Spanish
Steps. All the botte were still standing in the middle of the street,
the coachmen smiling, cracking their whips, and making frantic little
dashes across the piazza whenever they saw an unwary stranger who might
want a cab.

The Spanish Steps looked beautiful, glowing with colour--pink, yellow,
and that soft grey tint that the Roman stones take in the sunlight. All
the lower steps are covered with flower stalls (they are not allowed any
longer scattered all over the piazza), and most picturesque they
looked--daffodils, mimosa, and great bunches of peach-blossoms which
were very effective. There were very few models in costume sitting
about; a few children playing some sort of game with stones, which they
interrupted to run after the forestieri and ask for a "piccolo soldo" (a
penny), and one or two old men with long white beards--might have done
for models of the apostles or Joseph in the flight into Egypt--wrapped
in their wonderful long green cloaks, sitting in the sun. There is one
novelty--an "ascenseur." I haven't been in it yet, but I shall try it
some day. One must get accustomed to many changes in the Rome of to-day.

I recognised some of the houses at the top of the steps--the corner one
between Vias Sistina and Gregoriana, where the Rodmans used to live one
year, and where we have dined so often, sitting on the round balcony and
seeing the moon rise over the Pincio.

I walked home the other day by the Via Sistina to the Piazza Barberini,
and that part seemed to me absolutely unchanged. The same little open
mosaic shops, with the workmen dressed in white working at the
door--almost in the street. In one shop they were just finishing a
table, putting in countless bits of coloured marble (some of them very
small). It was exactly like the one we brought from Rome many years ago,
which stands now in Francis's smoking-room. There was of course the
inevitable jeweller's shop, with crosses and brooches of dull yellow
Roman gold and mosaic, and silk shops with Roman silk scarfs, and a sort
of coarse lace which I have seen everywhere. In the middle of the street
a miserable wrinkled old woman, her face mahogany colour, attired in a
red skirt with a green handkerchief on her head, was skirmishing with a
band of dirty little children, who had apparently upset her basket of
roast chestnuts, and were making off with as many as they could find,
pursued by her shrill cries and "maledizioni."

We went out in the open carriage yesterday, and drove all around Rome
leaving cards--finished with a turn in the Villa Borghese and Pincio. It
was too late for the Villa--almost every one had gone, and one felt the
chill strike one on going into the thick shade after coming out of the
bright sun in the Piazza del Popolo. We crossed Queen Margherita at the
gate. She looked so handsome--the black is very becoming and threw out
well her fair hair and skin. She was driving in a handsome carriage--the
servants in mourning. One lady was with her--another carriage and two
cyclists following. All the people bowed and looked so pleased to see
her, and her bow and smile of acknowledgment were charming.

We made a short turn in the Villa and then went on to the Pincio, which
was crowded. There were some very handsome, stately Roman equipages,
plenty of light victorias, a few men driving themselves in very high
phaetons, and the inevitable botta with often three youths on the one
seat. The carriages didn't draw up--the ladies holding a sort of
reception as in our days, when all the "gilded youth" used to sit on the
steps of the victorias and surround the carriages of the pretty women.
They tell me the present generation comes much less to the Villa
Borghese and Pincio. They are much more sporting--ride, drive
automobiles and play golf. There are two golf clubs now--one at Villa
Pamphili Doria, the other at Aqua Santa. Every time we go out on the
Campagna we meet men with golf clubs and rackets.

Monday I prowled about in the morning, always making the same round--Via
Sistina and the Spanish Steps. The lame man at the top of the steps
knows me well now, and we always exchange a cheerful good morning.
Sometimes I give him some pennies and sometimes I don't, but he is
always just as smiling when I don't give him anything.

In the afternoon Madame de B. and I went for a drive and a little
sight-seeing. She wanted a bottle of eucalyptus from the monks at Tre
Fontane, so we took in San Paolo Fuori le Mura on our way. The drive out
is charming--a few dirty little streets at first--past the Theatre of
Marcellus, which looks blacker and grimmer, if possible, than when I
last saw it--and then some distance along the river. There are great
changes---high buildings, quays, boats, carts with heavy stones and
quantities of workmen--really quite an air of a busy port--busy of
course in a modified sense, as no Roman ever looks as if he were working
hard, and there are always two or three looking on, and talking, for
every one who works--however, there is certainly much more life in the
streets and the city looks prosperous.

The great new Benedictine Monastery of Sant' Anselmo stands splendidly
on the heights (Aventine) to the left, also the walls and garden of the
Knights of Malta. The garden, with its long shady walks, between rows of
tall cypress trees, looked most inviting. We left the Testaccio and
Protestant Cemetery on our right and followed a long file of carriages
evidently going, too, to San Paolo. That of course looked exactly the
same--an enormous modern building with a wealth of splendid marble
columns inside. The proportions and great spaces are very fine, and
there was a brilliant effect of light and colour (as every column is
different). Some of the red-pink was quite beautiful, but it is not in
the least like a church--not at all devotional. One can't imagine any
poor weary souls kneeling on that slippery, shining marble pavement and
pouring out their hearts in prayer. It is more like a great hall or
academy. We went out into the quiet of the cloisters, which are
interesting, some curious old tombs and statues, but small for such a
huge basilica--always the square green plot in the centre with a well.

We had some difficulty in making our way to the carriage through a
perfect army of boys and men selling photographs, postal cards, mosaic
pins with views of the church, etc., also bits of marble, giallo
antico, porphyry and a piece of dark marble, almost black, which had
come from the Marmorata close by.

We went on to the Tre Fontane, about half an hour's drive--real country,
quite charming. We didn't see the churches until we were quite close to
them--they are almost hidden by the trees. I never should have
recognised the place. The eucalyptus trees which the monks were just
beginning to plant when we were here before have grown up into a fine
avenue. They were cutting and trimming them, and the ground was covered
with great branches making a beautiful green carpet with a strong
perfume. Various people were looking on and almost every one carried off
a branch of eucalyptus. We did too, and one is now hanging over the bed
in my room. It is supposed to be very healthy. It has a very strong
odour--to me very agreeable.

A service was going on in one of the churches, the monks singing a low
monotonous chant, and everything was so still; one was so shut in by the
trees that the outside world, Rome and the Corso might have been miles
away. We went into the church to see the three fountains built into the
wall. Tradition says that when St. Paul was executed his head bounded
three times and at each place a fountain sprang up. A tall young monk
was going about with some seminarists explaining the legend to them.
They were listening with rapt attention and drinking reverently at each
fountain.

We went into the little farmacia and found there a German monk who was
much pleased when he found we could speak German. He told us there were
90 monks there, and that the place was perfectly healthy--not as when
they began their work, when many died of fever. We each bought a bottle
of eucalyptus, and were sorry to come away. The light was fading--the
eucalyptus avenue looked dark and mysterious, and the low chant of the
monks was still going on.

We went to a beautiful ball in the evening at the Brancaccios'. They
built their palace--which is enormous--has a fine marble staircase
(which showed off the women's long trailing skirts splendidly) and
quantities of rooms filled with beautiful things. I didn't take them all
in as I was so much interested in the people, but Bessie has promised to
take me all over the palace some morning.

To-day we have been to the Brancaccio garden. It was a beautiful bright
morning, so Bessie Talleyrand proposed we should drive up and stroll
about there. We telephoned to Brancaccio, who said he would meet us in
the garden. You can't imagine anything more enchanting than that
beautiful southern garden in the heart of Rome. We drove through the
court-yard and straight up the hill to a little bridge that connects the
garden with Mrs. Field's old apartment. Mrs. Field really made the
garden (and loved it always). When they bought the ground it was simply
an "orto" or field, and now it is a paradise filled with every possible
variety of trees and flowers. It seems that wherever she saw a beautiful
tree she immediately asked what it was and where it came from, and then
had some sent to her from no matter where. Of course hundreds were
lost--the journey, change of soil, transplanting them, etc., but
hundreds remain and the effect is marvellous. Splendid tall palms from
Bordighera, little delicate shrubs from America and Canada all growing
and thriving side by side in the beautiful Roman garden. There is a fine
broad allée which goes straight down from the winter garden to the end
of the grounds with the Colosseum as background. It is planted on each
side with green oaks, and between them rows of orange and mandarin
trees--the branches heavy with the fruit. We picked delicious, ripe,
warm mandarins from the trees, and eat them as we were strolling along.
It was too early for the roses, of which there are thousands in the
season--one saw the plants twining around all the trees. There are all
sorts of ruins and old walls in the garden, baths of Titus, Sette Celle,
and one comes unexpectedly, in odd corners, upon fine old bits of
carving and wall which have no name now, but which certainly have had a
history.

The sky was a deep blue over our heads, and the trees so thick, that the
ugly new buildings which skirt one side of the garden are almost
completely hidden. It was a pleasure just to sit on a bench and
live--the air was so soft, and the garden smell so delicious.

[Illustration: The Barberini Palace.

The residence of the Storys.]

After breakfast I went out early with Josephine--leaving of course some
cards first--after that we took a turn on the Pincio, which was basking
in the sunshine (but quite deserted at that hour except by nurses and
children), and then drove out toward the Villa Pamphili. The road was so
familiar, and yet so different. The same steep ascent to the Janiculum
with the beggars and cripples of all ages running alongside the carriage
and holding out withered arms and maimed limbs--awful to see. The road
is much wider--more of a promenade, trees and flowers planted all along.
The fountains of San Pietro in Montorio looked beautiful--such a rush of
bright, dancing water. We drove through the Villa Corsini--quite new
since my time--a beautiful drive, and drew up on the terrace just under
the equestrian statue of Garibaldi from where there is a splendid
view--the whole city of Rome at our feet, seen through a warm, grey mist
that made even the ugly staring white and yellow houses of the new
quarter look picturesque. They lost themselves in a charming
ensemble. St. Peter's looked very near but always a little veiled by the
haze which made the great mass more imposing. We looked straight across
the city to the Campagna--all the well-known monuments--Cecilia Metella,
aqueducts and the various tombs scattered along the Via Appia were quite
distinct. The statue of the great revolutionary leader seemed curiously
out of place. I should have preferred almost the traditional wolf with
the two little boys sucking in her milk. We couldn't stay very long as
we had a tea at home. We met many people and carriages going up as we
came down, as it was the day for the Villa Pamphili, which is open to
the public twice a week.

We went to a ball at the Storys' in the evening, and as we went up the
great staircase of the Barberini Palace (the steps so broad and shallow
that one could drive up in a light carriage) finishing with the steep
little flight quite at the top which leads directly to the Story
apartment, I could hardly realize how many years had passed since I had
first danced in these same rooms, and that I shouldn't find the
charming, genial maître de maison of my youth who made his house such an
interesting centre. I think one of Mr. Story's greatest charms was his
absolute simplicity, his keen interest in everything and his sympathy
with younger men who were still fighting the great battle of life which
he had brought to such a triumphant close. His son, Waldo Story,[32] who
has inherited his father's talent, keeps up the hospitable traditions of
the house.

[32] The well-known sculptor.

The ball was very animated--all the young dancing Rome was there.


                                                Monday, February 15th.

I am alone this morning--the others have gone to the meet at Cecchignola
fuori Porta San Sebastiano. I should have liked to go for the sake of
old times, but I was rather tired, and have the court ball to-night.

Last night I had a pleasant dinner at Count Vitali's. He has bought the
Bandini palace, and made it, of course, most comfortable and modern. The
rooms are beautiful--the splendid proportions and great space one only
sees now in Rome in the old palaces. The dinner was for M. Nisard
(French Ambassador to the Vatican), but it wasn't altogether Black.
There were one of the Queen's ladies and one or two secretaries from the
Quirinal embassies. The line between the two parties is not nearly so
sharply drawn as when I was here so many years ago. A few people came in
the evening. Among the first to appear was Cardinal Vincenzo Vannutelli,
whom I was delighted to see again. It is long since I have seen a
cardinal in all the bravery of his red robes and large jewelled cross,
and for the first time I felt as if I were back in old Rome. We had a
nice talk and plunged into Moscow and all the coronation festivities. I
told him I was very anxious to see the Pope, which he said could easily
be arranged. Nisard, too, was charming--said I should have an audience
spéciale as ancienne ambassadrice. I waited to see the cardinal go with
all the usual ceremonies for a prince of the Church. Two big footmen
with flambeaux and tall candles escorted him to his carriage. The
cardinal came alone, which surprised me. I thought they always had an
attendant--a sort of ecclesiastical aide-de-camp.

Saturday Marquise de Bailleul and I were received by the Queen. Our
audience was at four. I went for her a little before. We drove straight
to the Quirinal, the great entrance on the piazza. Two swell porters
were at the door, but no guards nor soldiers visible anywhere. We went
up the grand staircase, where there was a red carpet and plenty of
flowers, but no servants on the steps. The doors of a large anteroom at
the top of the stairs were open, and there were four footmen in powder,
culottes, and royal red liveries, and three or four men in black. We
left our wraps. I wore my grey velvet and Marquise de Bailleul was in
black with a handsome sable cape (which she was much disgusted at
leaving). We went at once into a large room, where the dame de palais de
service was waiting for us. She had a list in her hand, came forward at
once and named herself, Duchesse d'Arscoli, said she supposed I was
Madame Waddington. I introduced Marquise de Bailleul. The gentleman also
came up and said a few words. There were one or two other ladies in the
room, evidently waiting their turn. In a few minutes the door into the
next room opened and two ladies came out. The duchess went in, remained
a second, then coming back, waved us in. She didn't come in herself,
didn't announce us, and shut the door behind us. We found ourselves in a
large, rather bare room, with no trace of habitation--I fancy it is only
used for official receptions. The Queen was standing at a table about
the middle of the room. She is tall, dark, with fine eyes and a pretty
smile. We made our two curtseys--hadn't time for the third, as she
advanced a step, shook hands, and made us sit down. The visit didn't
last very long. I fancy she was rather tired, as evidently she had been
receiving a good many people, and was probably bored at having to make
phrases to utter strangers she might never see again. We had the usual
royal questions as to our children. As I only had _one_ child my
conversation on that subject soon came to an end, but Marquise de
Bailleul has three small ones, so she got on swimmingly. The Queen
talked very prettily and simply about her own children, and the
difficulty of keeping them natural and unspoiled; said people gave them
such beautiful presents--all sorts of wonderful mechanical toys which
they couldn't appreciate. One thing she said was rather funny--that the
present they liked best was a rag doll the American Ambassadress had
brought them from America.

As soon as we came out other people went in. I fancy all the strangers
asked to the ball had to be presented first to the Queen. I think the
London rule was rather simpler. There the strangers were always
presented at supper, when the Princess of Wales made her "cercle."

We went to a ball in the evening at Baron Pasetti's (Austrian Ambassador
to the Quirinal). They have a fine apartment in the Palazzo Chigi. I
remembered the rooms quite well, just as they were in the old days when
Wimpffen was Ambassador. The hall was most brilliant--all Rome there.
The Pasettis are going away, and will be much regretted. I think he is
rather delicate and has had enough of public life. I hadn't seen him
since Florence, when we were all young, and life was then a succession
of summer days--long afternoons in the villas, with roses hanging over
the walls, and evenings on the balcony, with nightingales singing in the
garden and the scent of flowers in the air, "der goldener Zeit der
jungen Liebe" (the golden days of young love).

Sunday Bessie and I went to the American church. Dr. Nevin is still
away. The church is large, but was quite full--there are evidently many
Americans in Rome. The great mosaics over the altar were given by Mrs.
Field.


                                             Wednesday, February 17th.

Monday night we went to the court ball. It was very amusing, but
extraordinarily simple, not to say democratic. Bessie and I went
together early, so as to get good seats. If I hadn't known we were going
to the palace I should have thought we had made a mistake in the house.
The square of the Quirinal was so quiet, almost deserted--no troops nor
music, nor crowd of people looking on and peering into the carriages to
see the dresses and jewels--no soldiers nor officials of any kind on the
grand staircase. Some tall cuirassiers and footmen in the anteroom--no
chamberlains nor pages--nothing like the glittering crowd of gold lace
and uniforms one usually sees in the anteroom of a palace. We walked
through two or three handsome rooms to the ball-room, where there were
already a great many people. The room is large, high, but rather too
narrow, with seats all round. There was no raised platform for the
court--merely a carpet and two large gilt arm-chairs for the King and
Queen and a smaller one for the Comte de Turin. It was amusing to see
all the people coming in, the different uniforms and jewels of the women
giving at once an air of court. The entrance of the royal cortège was
quite simple. They played the "Marcia Reale," which I don't at all care
for. It is a frivolous, jumpy little tune, not at all the grave,
dignified measure one would expect on such an occasion. There were no
chamberlains walking backward with their great wands of office in their
hands. The master of ceremonies, Count Gianotti, looking very well in
his uniform and broad green ribbon, came first, and almost immediately
behind him the King and Queen, arm in arm, the Count of Turin, and a
small procession of court functionaries. The Queen looked very well in
yellow, with a splendid tiara. She took her seat at once; the King and
Comte de Turin remained standing. What was charming was the group of
young court ladies who followed the Queen--tall, handsome women, very
well dressed. There was no "quadrille d'honneur," none of the royalties
danced. The dancing began as soon as the court was seated--any little
couple, a young lieutenant, an American, any one, dancing under the nose
of the sovereigns. The Queen remained sitting quite alone, hardly
speaking to any one, through three or four dances; then there was a
move, and she made her "cercle," going straight around the room, and
speaking to almost every one. The King made no "cercle," remained
standing near the "corps diplomatique," who were all massed on one side
of the thrones (or arm-chairs). He talked to the ambassadors and
étrangers de distinction (men--they say he rarely speaks to a woman). We
all moved about a little after the Queen had passed, and I found plenty
of old friends and colleagues to talk to. Neither the Russian
Ambassador, Prince Ourousoff, nor any of his staff were present, on
account of the war.

Tuesday it poured all the morning, so I didn't get my usual walk, and I
tried to put some sort of order in our cards, which are in a hopeless
confusion. The unfortunate porter is almost crazy. There are four of us
here (as Madame de Bailleul's cards and invitations also come here), all
with different names, and it must be impossible not to mix them.

[Illustration: Victor Emanuel III., King of Italy.]

It stopped raining in the afternoon and Josephine and I walked up to
Palazzo Brancaccio after tea, to ask about Bessie, who has been ill ever
since her ball. The streets were full of people, a few masks (as it was
Mardi Gras), but quite in the lower classes. I should think the
Carnival was dead, as far as Society is concerned. We got very little
information about Bessie--the porter would not let us go upstairs, said
the Princess was in the country, or perhaps in Paris. It seems he is
quite a character, well known in Rome. When Mr. Field was ill, dying, of
course everybody went to inquire, which seemed to exasperate him, as he
finally replied, "ma sì, è malato, va morire, ma lasciarlo in
pace--perchè venir seccar la gente?" (yes, yes, he is ill, dying, but
leave him in peace--why do you come and bore people?).

We stepped in at a little church on our way back, where a benediction
was going on. It was brilliantly lighted, and filled with people almost
all kneeling--princesses and peasants--on the stone floor. It was a
curious contrast to the motley, masquerading crowd just outside.


                                                       Thursday, 18th.

It is still showery and the streets very muddy to-day. This morning I
made a solitary expedition to St. Peter's--armed with an Italian
guide-book M. Virgo lent me (it was red, like Baedeker, so I looked
quite the tourist). I went by tram--M. Virgo and the children escorted
me to the bottom of the Via Tritone, and started me. The tramway is most
convenient. We went through the Piazza di Spagna, across the Piazza del
Popolo, and turned off short to the left. It was all quite different
from what I remembered--a fine broad road (Lungo Tevere) (along the
Tiber) with quantities of high, ugly modern buildings, "maisons de
location," villas, and an enormous Ministère, I forget which one, Public
Works, I think, which could accommodate a village. Some of the villas
are too awful--fancy white stucco buildings ornamented with cheap
statues and plaques of majolica and coloured marble. The tram stopped
at the end of the piazza facing the church, but one loses the sense of
immensity being so near. I saw merely the façade and the great stone
perron. I wandered about for an hour finding my way everywhere, and
recognising all the old monuments--Christina of Sweden, the Stuart
monuments, the Cappella Julia, etc. There were quite a number of people
walking about and sitting on the benches, or in the stalls of the little
side chapels, reading their Baedekers. I came home in a botta for the
sum of one franc. I wanted to cross the St. Angelo Bridge and see the
crooked dirty little streets and low dark shops I remembered so
well--and which will all disappear one day--with new quarters and all
the old buildings pulled down. They were all there quite unchanged, only
a little dirtier--the same heaps of decayed vegetables lying about in
the corners, girls and women in bright red skirts and yellow fichus on
their heads, long gold earrings, and gold pins in their hair, standing
talking in the doorways, children playing in the gutter, a general smell
of frittura everywhere. The little dark shops have no windows, only a
low, narrow door, and the people sit in the doorway to get all the light
they can for their work.

We paid some visits in the afternoon, winding up with Princess
Pallavicini. Her beautiful apartment looked just the same (only there,
too, is an ascenseur) with the enormous anteroom and suites of salons
before reaching the boudoir, where she gave us tea. I remembered
everything, even the flowered Pompadour satin on the walls, just as I
had always seen it.


                                              Saturday, February 20th.

These last two days have been beautiful--real Roman days, bright blue
sky, warm sun, and just air enough to be pleasant. Yesterday I trammed
over again to the Vatican (a trolley car is an abomination in Rome, but
so convenient). I wanted to see the statues and my favourite Apollo
Belvedere, who hasn't grown any older in 24 years--the same beautiful,
spirited young god. As I was coming downstairs I saw some people going
into the garden from a side door, so I stepped up to the gardien, and
said I wanted to go too. He said it was quite impossible without a
permesso signed by one of the officers of the Pope's household. I
assured him in my best Italian that I could have all the permessi I
wanted, that I knew a great many people, was only here de passage and
might not be able to come back another day, and that as I was alone he
really might let me pass--so after a little conversation he chose a time
when no one was passing, opened the door as little as he could and let
me through. There were two or three parties being conducted about by
guides, but no one took any notice of me, and I wandered about for some
time quite happy. It is a splendid garden--really a park. I seemed to
have got out on a sort of terrace (the carriage road below me). There
were some lovely walks, with cypress and ilex making thick shade, and
hundreds of camellias--great trees. The view toward Monte Mario was
divine--everything so clear, hardly any of the blue mist that one almost
always sees on the Campagna near Rome. The sun was too hot when I had to
cross an open space, and I was glad to get back to the dark cypress
walks. It was enchanting, but I think the most beautiful nature would
pall upon me if I knew I must always do the same thing. I am sure Léon
XIII. must have pined often for the green plains and lovely valleys
around Perugia, and I don't believe the most beautiful views of the
Alban hills tipped with snow, and pink in the sunset hues, will make up
to the present Pope for the Lagoons of Venice and the long sweep of the
Grand Canal to the sea.


                                                         Tuesday, 23d.

Yesterday Josephine and I drove out to the meet at Acqua Santa, out of
Porta San Giovanni. There were quantities of carriages and led horses
going out, as it is one of the favourite meets--you get out so soon into
the open country. There was such a crowd as we got near that we got out
and walked, scrambling over and through fences. It was a much larger
field than I had ever seen in Rome--many officers (all in uniform)
riding, and many women. The hounds broke away from a pretty little olive
wood on a height, and stretched away across a field to two stone walls,
which almost every one jumped. There were one or two falls, but nothing
serious. They were soon out of sight, but we loitered on the Campagna,
sitting on the stone walls, and talking to belated hunters who came
galloping up, eager to know which way the hunt had gone.

Sunday we had a party and music at the French Embassy (Vatican). Diemor
played beautifully, so did Teresina Tua. When they played together
Griegg's sonata for piano and violin it was enchanting. All the Black
world was there, and a good many strangers.


                                              Thursday, February 25th.

We dined last night at the Wurts', who have a charming apartment in one
of the finest old palaces (Anticci Mattei) in Rome. The staircase
beautiful, most elaborately carved, really reminded me of Mont St.
Michel. Their rooms are filled with all sorts of interesting things, the
collection of years. The dinner was very pleasant--half Italian, half
diplomatic.

I have just come in from my audience with the Pope. I found the
convocation when I got home last night. Bessie was rather disgusted at
not having received hers, as we had planned to go together; but she said
she would come with me. She would dress herself in regulation
attire--long black dress and black veil--and take the chance. We had a
mild humiliation as we got to the inner Court. The sentries would not
let us pass. We had the small coupé, with one horse, and it seems
one-horse vehicles are not allowed to enter these sacred precincts. We
protested, saying we had a special audience, and that we couldn't get
out on the muddy pavement, but it was no use; they wouldn't hear of our
modest equipage going in, so we had to cross the court--quite a large
one, and decidedly muddy--on foot, holding up our long dresses as well
as we could.

It seemed so natural to go up the great stone staircase, with a few
Swiss guards in their striped red and yellow uniform standing about. We
spoke to one man in Italian, asking him the way, and he replied in
German. I fancy very few of them speak Italian. We passed through a good
many rooms filled with all sorts of people: priests, officers, gardes
nobles, women in black, evidently waiting for an audience, valets de
chambre dressed in red damask, camerieri segreti in black velvet
doublets, ruffs and gold chains and cross--a most picturesque and
polyglot assemblage; one heard every language under the sun.

We were passed on from one room to another, and finally came to a halt
in a large square room, where there were more priests, one or two
monsignori, in their violet robes, and two officers. I showed my paper,
one of the monsignori, Bicletis (maestro di Casa di Sua Santità), came
forward and said the Pope was expecting me; so then I presented Bessie,
explained that her name had been sent in at the same time with mine, and
that if she could be admitted (without the convocation) it would be a
great pleasure to both of us to be received together. He said there
would be no difficulty in that.

While we were talking to him the door into the audience chamber was
opened, and a large party came out--the Comte and Comtesse d'Eu and
their sons, with a numerous suite. We had barely time to exchange a few
remarks, as Monsignor Bicletis was waiting for us to advance. We found
the Pope standing in the centre of rather a small room. The walls were
hung with red damask, the carpet also was red, and at one end were three
gold chairs. We made low curtseys--didn't kneel nor kiss his hands,
being Protestants. He advanced a few steps, shook hands, and made us sit
down, one on each side of him. He was dressed, of course, entirely in
white. He spoke only Italian--said he understood French, but didn't
speak it easily. He has a beautiful face--so earnest, with a fine upward
look in his eyes; not at all the intellectual, ascetic appearance of Léo
XIII., nor the half-malicious, kindly smile of Pius IX., but a face one
would remember. I asked him if he was less tired than when he was first
named Pope. He said, oh, yes, but that the first days were very
trying--the great heat, the change of habits and climate, and the change
of food (so funny, one would think there needn't be any great change
between Rome and Venice--less fish, perhaps). He talked a little--only a
little--about France, and the difficult times we were passing through;
knew that I was a Protestant and an "old Roman"; asked how many years
since I had been back; said: "You won't find the old Rome you used to
know; there are many, many changes."

[Illustration: Pope Pius X.]

He was much interested in all Bessie told him about America and the
Catholic religion in the States--was rather amused when she suggested
that another American cardinal might perhaps be a good thing. He asked
us if we knew Venice, and his face quite lighted up when we spoke of all
the familiar scenes where he had spent so many happy years. He was much
beloved in Venice. He gave me the impression of a man who was still
feeling his way, but who, when he had found it, would go straight on to
what he considered his duty. But I must say that is not the general
impression; most people think he will be absolutely guided by his
"entourage," who will never leave him any initiative.

As we were leaving I said I had something to ask. "Dica, dica, La prego"
(Please speak), so I explained that I was a Protestant, my son also, but
that he had married a Catholic, and I would like his blessing for my
daughter. He made me a sign to kneel and touched my head with his hand,
saying the words in Latin, and adding, "E per Lei et tutta la sua
famiglia" (for you and all your family). He turned his back slightly
when we went out, so we were not obliged to back out altogether.

We talked a few moments in the anteroom with Monsignor Bicletis, but he
was very busy, other people going in to the Pope, so we didn't stay and
went down to Cardinal Mery del Val's apartment. He receives in the
beautiful Borgia rooms, with Pinturicchio's marvellous frescoes (there
was such a lovely Madonna over one of the doors, a young pure face
against that curious light-green background one sees so often in the
early Italian masters). The apartment was comparatively
modern--calorifère, electric light, bells, etc. While we were waiting
the Comte and Comtesse d'Eu and their party passed through.

The Cardinal received us standing, but made us sit down at once. He is a
tall, handsome homme du monde, rather English looking, very young. He
told us he was not yet forty years old. He speaks English as well as I
do (his mother was English), and, they tell me, every other language
equally well. He seemed to have read everything and to be au courant of
all that was said and thought all over the world. He talked a little
more politics than the Pope--deplored what was going on in France, was
interested in all Bessie told him about America and Catholicism over
there. They must be struck with the American priests and bishops whom
they see in Europe, not only their conception, but their practice of
their religion is so different. I had such an example of that one day
when we asked a friend of ours, a most intelligent, highly educated
_modern_ priest, to meet Monsignor Ireland. He was charmed with
him--listened most intently to all he said, particularly when he was
speaking of the wild life out West, near California, and the difficulty
of getting any hold over the miners. (He started a music hall, among
other things, to have some place where the men could go in the evenings,
and get out of the saloons and low drinking-shops.) Our friend perfectly
appreciated the practical energy of the monsignor, but said such a line
would be impossible in France. No priest, no matter how high his rank,
would be allowed such initiative, and the people would not understand.

He didn't keep us very long, had evidently other audiences, and not time
to talk to everybody. I am very glad to have seen him. He is quite
unlike any cardinal I have ever met--perhaps because he is so much
younger than most of them, perhaps because he seemed more homme du monde
than ecclesiastic; but I daresay that type is changing, too, with
everything else in Rome. We had a most interesting afternoon. After all,
Rome and the Vatican are unique of their kind.


                                                Friday, February 26th.

I had my audience from Queen Margherita alone this afternoon. Bessie and
Josephine have already been. Her palace is in the Veneto (our quarter)
and very near. It is a large, fine building, but I should have liked it
better standing back in a garden, not directly on the street. However,
the Romans don't think so. There are always people standing about
waiting to see her carriage or auto pass out--they wait hours for a
smile from their beloved Regina Margherita. I went up in an
ascenseur--three or four footmen (in black) and a groom of the chambers
at the top. I was ushered down a fine long gallery with handsome
furniture and pictures to a large room almost at the end, where I found
the Marquise Villa Marina (who is always with the Queen), the Duchesse
Sforza Cesarini (lady in waiting), and one gentleman. There were three
or four people in the room, waiting also to be received. Almost
immediately the door into the next room opened, and the Duchesse Sforza
waved me in (didn't come in herself). I had at once the impression of a
charming drawing-room, with flowers, pictures, books, bibelots--not in
the least like the ordinary bare official reception room where Queen
Elena received us. The Queen, dressed in black, was sitting on a sofa
about the middle of the room, and really not much changed since I had
seen her twenty-four years ago at the Quirinal, when the present King
was a little boy, dressed in a blue sailor suit. She is a little
stouter, but her blonde hair and colouring just the same, and si grand
air. She was most charming, talked in French and English, about
anything, everything--asked about my sister-in-law, Madame de Bunsen,
and her daughter Beatrice, whom she had known as a little girl in
Florence. She is very fond of automobiling, so we had at once one great
point of sympathy. She had read "The Lightning Conductor" and was much
amused with it. We talked a little about the great changes in Rome. I
told her about our visit to the Pope, and the impression of simplicity
and extreme goodness he had made upon us. I can't remember all we talked
about. I had the same impression that I had twenty-four years ago--a
visit to a charming, sympathetic woman, very large-minded, to whom one
could talk of anything.


                                                         Sunday, 28th.

It has poured all day, but held up a little in the afternoon, so we went
(all four) to see Cardinal Mathieu, who lives in the Villa Wolkonsky. He
had asked us to come and walk in his beautiful garden (with such a view
of the Aqueducts) but that was of course out of the question. He is very
clever and genial, and was rather amused at the account we gave him of
our discussions. We are two Catholics and two Protestants, and argue
from morning till night--naturally neither party convincing the other.
He told us we should go to the Vatican to-morrow--there was a large
French pèlerinage which he presented. We would certainly see the Pope
and perhaps hear him speak.


                                                               Monday.

We had a pleasant breakfast this morning with Bebella d'Arsoli,[33] in
their beautiful apartment in his father's (Prince Massimo's) palace.
The palace looks so black and melancholy outside, with its heavy portico
of columns (and always beggars sitting on the stone benches under the
portico) that it was a surprise to get into their beautiful rooms--with
splendid pictures and tapestries. The corner drawing-room, where she
received us, flooded with light, showing off the old red damask of the
walls and the splendid ceiling. We went to see the Chapel after
breakfast, where there are wonderful relics, and a famous pavement in
majolica.

[33] Princess d'Arsoli, née Bella Brancaccio, granddaughter of Hickson
Field.

About 3 we started off for St. Peter's. We had all brought our veils
with us, and retired to Bebella's dressing-room where her maid arranged
our heads. We left a pile of hats which Bebella promised to send home
for us, and took ourselves off to the Vatican, taking little Victoria
Ruspoli with us, who looked quite sweet in her white dress and veil--her
great dark eyes bright with excitement. We found many carriages in the
court, as we got to the Vatican, and many more soldiers on the stairs,
and about in the passages. The rooms and long gallery were crowded--all
sorts of people, priests, women, young men, children (some very
nice-looking people) all speaking French. We went at first into the
gallery, but there was such a crowd and such a smell of people closely
packed that we couldn't stay, and just as we were wondering what to do,
Monsignor Bicletis came through and at once told us to come with him. He
took us through several rooms, one large one filled with people waiting
for their audience, into the one next the Pope's, who he said was with
Cardinal Mathieu, and would soon pass. We were quite alone in that room,
except for three or four priests. In a few moments the Pope appeared
with Cardinal Mathieu and quite a large suite. The Cardinal, who had
promised to present Madame de B. (there had been some delay about her
convocation), came up to us at once. We all knelt as the Pope came near,
and he named Madame de B. and little Victoria, who asked for his
blessing for her brothers. He recognised me and Bessie, and said we were
welcome always at the Vatican. He only said a few words to Madame de B.
as he had a long afternoon before him. Cardinal Mathieu told us to
follow them, so we closed up behind the suite, and followed the Pope's
procession.

There must have been over a hundred people waiting in the next room, and
it was an impressive sight to see them all--men, women, and
children--kneel as the Pope appeared. Some of the children were quite
sweet, holding out their little hands full of medals and rosaries to be
blessed--almost all the girls in white, with white veils, like the
little first communiantes in France. The Pope made his "cercle,"
speaking to almost every one--sometimes only a word, sometimes quite a
little talk. We followed him through one or two rooms to the open
loggia, which was crowded. We were very hot, but he sent for his cloak
and hat. We waited some little time but the crowd was so dense--he would
have spoken from the other end of the loggia--and we couldn't possibly
have got through--so we came away, having had again a very interesting
afternoon.

It is most picturesque driving around the back of St. Peter's and the
Vatican. There are such countless turns and courts and long stretches of
high walls with little narrow windows quite up at the top. Always people
coming and going--cardinals' carriages with their black horses, fiacres
with tourists looking eagerly about them and speaking every possible
language, priests, women in black with black veils, little squads of
Papal troops marching across the squares--and Italian soldiers keeping
order in the great piazza. A curious little old world in the midst of
the cosmopolitan town Rome has become.


                                                       ROME, March 2d.

Yesterday Madame de B. and I made an expedition to the Catacombs of San
Calisto fuori Porta San Sebastiano. It was decidedly cold and we were
very glad we hadn't taken the open carriage. The drive out was
charming--first inside the gates, passing the Colosseum, the two great
arches of Constantine and Titus, and directly under the Palatine Hill
and Baths of Caracalla, and then going out through the narrow little
gateway, and for some little distance through high stone walls, we came
upon the countless towers, tombs and columns standing alone in the
middle of the fields, having no particular connection with anything,
that mark the Appian Way, and make it so extraordinarily interesting and
unlike any other drive in the world. I was delighted when we came upon
that funny little stone house, built on the top of a high circular
tomb--I remembered it perfectly.

The Catacombs stand in a sort of garden or vineyard. There were people
already there, and a party just preparing to go down as we appeared.
They had asked for a guide who spoke French, as they knew no Italian,
and a nice-looking, intelligent young monk was marshalling his party and
lighting the tapers. I thought _they_ were rather short (I am rather
nervous about subterraneous expeditions and one has heard gruesome tales
of people lost in the Catacombs, not so very long ago) but they lasted
quite well.

It was curious to see all the old symbols again--the fish, the pax
(cross) and to think what they represented to the early bands of
Christians, when the mere fact of being a Christian meant persecution,
suffering, and often a terrible death in the arena of the Colosseum.

Some of the frescoes are wonderfully preserved--we saw quite well the
heads of saints, martyrs, and decorations of wreaths of flowers or a
delicate arabesque tracery; the most favourite subjects were Jonah and
the whale, a shepherd with a lamb on his shoulders, and kneeling women's
figures. The ladies in our party were wildly interested in the mummies
(terrible looking things), particularly one with the hair quite visible.
We saw of course the niche where the body of Ste. Cecilia was found--but
the body is now removed to the church of Ste. Cecilia in the Trastevere.
They have put, however, a model of the body, representing it exactly, in
the niche, so the illusion is quite possible.

We walked about for an hour, following quantities of narrow passages,
coming suddenly into small round rooms, which had been chapels, and
still seeing in some of the stone coffins bits of bones, and
inscriptions on the walls. It was rather weird to see the procession
moving along, Indian file, holding their tapers, which gave a faint,
flickering light. The guide had rather a bigger one--on the end of a
long stick. We stopped at San Clemente on our way back, hoping to see
the underground church, but it was too late. The sacristan said we
should have come yesterday--there was a fête, and the two churches were
illuminated.


                                                          Friday, 4th.

It has been another beautiful day. I trammed over to the Vatican to see
the Sistine Chapel this time and the Stanze and Loggie of Raphael. It is
a good pull up to the Sistine Chapel, by a rather dark staircase, but
the day was so bright I saw everything very well when I once got there.
The Vatican was very full--people in every direction--almost all English
and German--I didn't hear a word of French or Italian. Two young men
were stretched out flat on their backs on one of the benches, trying to
get a good look at the ceiling through their glasses. I was delighted to
see the Stanze again with many old friends. Do you remember the "Poesia"
on the ceiling of one of the rooms--a lovely figure clad in light blue
draperies, with a young, pure face? I wandered up and down the Loggie,
but I think I was more interested looking down into the Court of San
Damaso, filled with carriages, priests, women in black with black veils
coming and going (I should think the Pope would be exhausted with all
the people he sees) and the general little clerical bustle. The striped
Swiss guard were lounging about in the gateway, and a fine stately
porter in cocked hat and long red cloak at each door.

Josephine had a dinner in the evening--Cardinal Mathieu, the Austrian
Ambassador to the Vatican and his wife, and other notabilities. There
was quite a large reception after dinner, among others the Grand Duchess
of Saxe-Weimar, who is very easy, charming--likes to see everybody. When
I came downstairs to dinner I found all the ladies with lace fichus or
boas on their shoulders, and I was told that I was quite incorrect--that
one couldn't appear décolletée in a cardinal's presence. I could find
nothing in my hurry when I went back to my room, but a little (very
little) ermine cravat, but still even that modified my low body
somewhat, and at least showed that my intentions were good. The big red
salon looks charming in the evening and is a most becoming room--the
dark red silk walls show off the dresses so well. The cardinal had his
whist, or rather his bridge, after dinner, for even the Church has
succumbed to the universal craze--one sees all the ecclesiastics in
Black circles just as intent upon their game and criticising their
partner's play quite as keenly as the most ardent clubmen. I suppose
bridge is a pleasure to those who play, but they don't look as though
they were enjoying themselves--their faces so set and drawn, any
interruption a catastrophe, and nobody ever satisfied with his partner's
play.

We had very good music. An American protégé of Josephine's with a good
high barytone voice sang very well, and the young French trio (all
élèves du Conservatoire de Paris) really played extremely well. The
piano in one of Mendelssohn's trios was quite charming--so sure and
delicate. It was a pleasure to see the young, refined, intelligent faces
so absorbed in their music, quite indifferent to the gallery. The young
violinist played a romance (I forget what--Rubinstein, I think) with so
much sentiment that I said to him "Vous êtes trop jeune pour jouer avec
tant d'âme," to which he replied proudly, "Madame, j'ai vingt ans."
C'est beau d'avoir vingt ans. I wonder how many of us at fifty remember
how we thought and felt at twenty. Perhaps there would be fewer
heart-burnings in the world if we older ones did remember sometimes our
own youth.


                                                    Sunday, March 6th.

Yesterday I walked up to Santa Maria Maggiore and San Giovanni in
Laterano. I took the Scala Santa on my way to San Giovanni. Several
people were going up--some priests, Italian soldiers, two or three
peasants and two ladies--mother and daughter, I should think, their long
black cloth dresses very much in their way evidently. I watched them for
some time. I wonder what it means to them, and if they really believe
that they are the steps from Jerusalem which our Saviour came down. I
stayed some little time in San Giovanni. It is magnificent certainly,
but there is too much gilding and mosaic and modern decoration. The view
from the steps was enchanting when I came out; the air was delicious,
the sun bright in a bright blue sky, and the mountains soft and purple
in the distance.

We had an interesting breakfast--two Benedictine monks from the great
abbaye of Solesmes. They talked very moderately about their expulsion,
and the wrench it was to leave the old monastery and begin life again in
new surroundings. The older man especially seemed to feel it very much.
I suppose he had spent all his life inside those old grey walls--reading
and meditating and bound up in the interests and routine of his order.
They had come to Rome to see the Pope, and consult with him about
suppressing secular music in the churches, and substituting the
Gregorian chants everywhere. It is a very difficult question; of course
some of the music they have now in the churches is impossible. When you
hear the "Méditation de Thaïs" played at some ceremony, and you think
what Thaïs was, it is out of the question to admit such music in a
church--on the other hand the strict Gregorian chant is very severe,
particularly sung without any organ. I daresay educated musicians would
prefer it, but to the ordinary assemblage, accustomed to the great peal
of the organ with occasionally, in the country for instance at some
festa, the national anthem or some well-known military march being
played, the monotonous, old-world chant would say nothing. We shall hear
them at the great festival at St. Peter's for San Gregorio.


                                                       Thursday, 10th.

It was warm and lovely Tuesday. Bessie, Josephine and I walked down to
J.'s work-room in the Convent of St. Euphemia, somewhere beyond
Trajan's Forum, before breakfast. It was too warm walking along the
broad street by the Quirinal. We were thankful to take little dark
narrow side streets. The "ouvroir" (work-room) was interesting--quantities
of women and girls working--some of the work, fine lingerie, lace-mending,
embroidery beautifully done. It is managed by sisters, under Josephine's
direction, who gives a great deal of time and thought to her work. They
take in any child or girl from the street, feed them and have them taught
whatever they can do. It was pretty to see the little smiling faces and
bright eyes as Josephine passed through the rooms.

We went to a pleasant tea in the afternoon at Countess Gianotti's (wife
of Count Gianotti, Master of Ceremonies to the King). There were quite a
number of people--a very cosmopolitan society (she herself is an
American) and she gave us excellent waffles.

Yesterday we had a delightful excursion with Countess de Bertheny in her
automobile. She came to get me and Bessie about 11. We picked up two
young men and started for Nemi and the Castelli Romani. We drove
straight out from Porta San Giovanni to Albano. It was quite lovely all
the way, particularly when we began the steep ascent of Albano, and
looked back--the Campagna a beautiful stretch of purple, the aqueducts
standing well out all around us, and the statues of San Giovanni just
visible and looking enormous, in the mist that always hangs over Rome,
St. Peter's a great white spot with the sun full upon it. We rattled
through Albano. The streets looked animated, full of people, all getting
out of our way as fast as they could.

The door into the Doria Villa was open; we just had a glimpse of the
garden which looked cool and green, with a perspective of long walks,
ending in a sort of bosquet, but we passed so quickly that it was
merely a fleeting impression. We drove through Ariccia to Gensano--a
beautiful road, splendid trees, making a perfect shade, the great Chigi
Palace looking just the same, a huge grim pile--quite the old château
fort, built at the entrance of the little village to protect it from
invading enemies. If stones could speak I wonder what they would say to
modern inventions, automobiles, huge monsters certainly, but peaceful
ones, rushing past, trains puffing and smoking along the Campagna, great
carts drawn by fine white oxen going lazily along, the driver generally
asleep under his funny little tent of red or blue linen, and nobody
thinking of harm.

We drove through Gensano, then turned off sharp to the left to Nemi--a
fairly good road. We soon came in sight of the lake, which looked
exactly as I remembered it--a lifeless blue, like a deep cup surrounded
by green hills. They used to tell us, I remember, that there were no
fish, no living thing in the lake, but Ruspoli says there are plenty
now--very good ones.

We followed a beautiful winding road up to Nemi, which is a compact
little village on the top of a hill--the great castle standing out well.
It has just been bought by Don Enrico Ruspoli, and he and his charming
American wife are making it most picturesque and livable. We breakfasted
at the little Hôtel de Nemi--not at all bad--the dining-room opening on
a terrace with such a view--at our feet the Campagna rolling away its
great waves of blue purple to a bright dazzling white streak, the
sea--on one side a stretch of green valley leading to all the different
little villages; on the other the lake with its crown of olive-covered
hills.

Just as we were finishing breakfast Ruspoli appeared to ask us if we
would come and see the castle. We entered directly from the little
square of the town--the big doors face the church. There is a fine stone
staircase, and halls and rooms innumerable. They have only just begun to
work on it--have made new floors (a sort of mosaic, small stones, just
as I remember them at Frascati in Villa Marconi) and put water
everywhere, but there is still a great deal to do. The proportions of
the rooms are beautiful, and the view divine. As in all old Italian
castles some of the village houses were built directly into the wall of
the castle. They have already bought and knocked down many of these
(giving the inhabitants instead comfortable, clean, modern houses which
they probably won't like nearly as well) and are arranging a beautiful
garden in their place. They have also a terrace planted with trees about
half-way down the slope to the lake, which would be a divine place to
read or dream away a long summer's day. I don't think there are ten
yards of level ground on the place.

[Illustration: Great New Bridge from Albano to Ariccia.

Built by Pope Pius IX.]

We couldn't stay very long as we were going on to Frascati and Castle
Gondolfo. They gave us tea, and when we came out on the piazza we found
the whole village congregated around the automobiles (another had
arrived from Rome--I am so cross I didn't bring mine with Strutz, it
would have been so convenient for all the excursions). It is a wild
beautiful spot, but I should think lonely. We went back to Albano, saw
the great bridge built by Pio Nono, with its three tiers of arches, the
famous tombs--Horatii, Curiatii and Pompey, and then drove along the
beautiful "galeria di sotto" to Castle Gondolfo, the old crooked ilex
trees nearly meeting over our heads, and the Campagna with lovely lights
and shades flitting over it, far down at our feet. There everything
looked exactly as I remembered it. It seemed to me the same priests were
walking about under the trees, the same men riding minute donkeys,
with their legs nearly touching the ground; the same great carts,
lumbering peacefully along, the driver usually asleep until the horn of
the automobile close behind him roused him into frantic energy; however
they were all most smiling, evidently don't hate the auto as they do in
some parts of France.

We stopped at the Villa Barberini at Castle Gondolfo--such a beautiful
garden, but so neglected--great long dark walks, trees like high black
walls on each side, and big bushes of white and red camellias almost as
tall as the trees, roses just beginning. In every direction broken
columns, vases, statues (minus arms and legs) carved benches, all
falling to pieces. We went into the Villa which is usually let to
strangers, but it was most primitive--brick floors everywhere (except in
the salons, where there was always the mosaic pavement), and the
simplest description of furniture--ordinary iron bed-steads, and iron
trépieds in the master's bed-rooms, but a magnificent view of sea and
Campagna from the balcony, and a beautiful cool, bracing air.

We drove on through Marino and Frascati. We passed the little chapel on
the road where we used to see all the people praying the great cholera
year. It was open, and one or two women were kneeling just inside. The
atmosphere was so transparent that Rocca di Papa and Monte Cavo seemed
quite near. The Piazza of Frascati was just the same, the Palazzo
Marconi at one side with the great Aldobrandini Villa overtopping it and
the Villa Torlonia opposite. We didn't go into the town, but took the
steep road down by the railway station. There everything is changed--it
didn't seem at all the Frascati we had once lived in--quantities of new,
ugly villas, and an enormous modern Grand Hotel.

We got home about 6.30--the Campagna quite beautiful and quiet in the
soft evening light. There were very few people on the road, every now
and then a shepherd in his long sheepskin cloak, staff and broad-brimmed
hat appearing on the top of one of the many little mounds which are
dotted all over the Campagna, and occasionally in the distance a dog
barking.


                                                           March 17th.

Bessie and I have just come in from the last meet of the season at
Cecilia Metella. It is such a favourite rendezvous that there is always
a great crowd, almost as many people walking about on the Campagna as
riding. It was a very pretty sight. There were quantities of handsome
horses, but I don't know that it was quite comfortable walking when the
hunt moved off. Some of the young men--principally officers--were taking
preliminary gallops in every direction, and jumping backward and forward
over a large ditch. One of them knocked down an Englishwoman--at least I
don't think he really knocked her, but he alighted so near her that she
was frightened, and slipped getting out of his way. We stopped to speak
to her, but she said she wasn't at all hurt, and had friends with her.
The master of the hounds--Marchese Roccagiovine--didn't look very
pleased, and I should think a large, motley field, with a good many
women and careless riders, would be most trying to a real sportsman,
such as he is. Giovanni Borghese told me there were two hundred people
riding, and I can quite believe it.

[Illustration: Roman Huntsmen on the Campagna.

Ancient Roman aqueduct in the background.]

We had a delightful day yesterday, but rather a fatiguing one--I am
still tired. We made an excursion (a family party--Bessie, Josephine,
her two children, Mr. Virgo and two of his friends--a Catholic priest
and a student preparing for orders--all Englishmen). We went by train
to Frascati, and from there to Tusculum, carrying our breakfast with us.
We passed the little Campagna station (Ciampino) where we have stopped
so often. Do you remember the old crazy-looking station, and the
station-master, yellow and shivering, and burned up with fever. Now it
is quite a busy little place, people getting on and off the trains and
one or two brisk porters. The arrival at Frascati was a sight. We were
instantly surrounded by a crowd of donkey-boys and carriages--nice
little victorias with red flowers in the horses' heads and feathers in
the coachmen's hats--all talking at the top of their voices; but between
Mr. Virgo and Pietro, Josephine's Italian footman, who had charge of the
valise with the luncheon, we soon came to terms, and declined all
carriages, taking three or four donkeys.

It isn't a long walk to Tusculum, and Josephine and I both preferred
walking--besides I don't think I should have had the courage to mount in
the piazza with all the crowd looking on and making comments; however,
Bessie did, and she sat her donkey very lightly and gracefully, making a
great effect with her red hat and red parasol. Perhaps the most
interesting show was Pietro. He was so well dressed in a light grey
country suit that I hardly recognised him. He stoutly refused to be
separated from his valise, put it in front of him on the donkey, sat
well back himself and beamed at the whole party. He is a typical Italian
servant--perfectly intelligent, perfectly devoted (can neither read nor
write), madly interested in everybody, but never familiar nor wanting in
respect. I ask him for everything I want. He does it, or has it done at
once, better and cheaper than I could, and I am quite satisfied when I
hear his delightful phrase "Ci penso io"--I am sure it will be done.

We went up through the Aldobrandini garden. It looked rather deserted;
no one ever lives there now, but it is let occasionally to strangers.
Men were working in the garden; there were plenty of violets and a few
roses--it is still early in the season for them. In a basin of one of
the fountains a pink water-lily--only one--quite beautiful. The
fountains were lovely--sparkling, splashing, living--everything else
seemed so dead.

As we wound up the steep paths we had enchanting views of the Campagna,
looking like a great blue sea, at our feet, and Rome seemed a long, low
line of sunlight, with the dome of St. Peter's hanging above it in the
clouds. The road was very steep, and decidedly sunny, so I mounted my
donkey, Father Evans walking alongside. Monte Cavo, Rocca di Papa, the
Madonna del Tufo, all seemed very near, it was so clear and the air was
delicious as we got higher. I recognised all the well-known places, the
beginning of the Roman pavement, the Columbarium, Cicero's house, etc.

We were quite ready for breakfast when we got to Tusculum, and looked
about for a shady spot under the trees. There are two great stones,
almost tables, in the middle of the "amfiteatro," where people usually
spread out their food, but the sun was shining straight down on them; we
didn't think we could stand that. We found a nice bit of grass under the
trees and established ourselves there. It was quite a summer's day, and
the rest and quiet after toiling up the steep paths was delightful.

[Illustration: Waiting for the Hounds.]

After breakfast Josephine and I walked quite up to the top of the hill,
the trees making a perfect dome of verdure over our heads. There was no
sound except our own voices, and the distant thud of horses' feet
cantering in a meadow alongside, an absolute stillness everywhere. Such
a view! Snow on the Sabine Mountains, sun on the Alban Hills, the
Campagna on either side blue and broken like waves, and quite
distinct, a long white line, the sea.

While we were walking about we noticed two carabinieri, very well
mounted, who seemed to be always hovering near us, so we asked them what
they were doing up there. They promptly replied, taking care of the
"società." We could hardly believe we heard rightly; but it was quite
true, they were there for us. They told us that when it was known that a
number of people were coming up to Tusculum (there were two other
parties besides us) they had orders to come up, keep us always in sight,
and stay as long as we did. We gave them some wine and sandwiches, and
they became quite communicative--told us there were brigands and
"cattiva gente" (wicked people) about; that at Rocca di Papa, one of the
little mountain villages quite near, there were 500 inhabitants, 450 of
whom had been in prison for various crimes, and that people were
constantly robbed in these parts. I wouldn't have believed it if any one
had told us, but they always kept us in sight.

We decided to go home through the Villa Ruffinella. Donkeys are not
allowed inside, and we thought probably not horses either, but the
carabinieri came in and showed us the way down. The grounds are
splendid--we walked first down through a beautiful green allée, then up,
a good climb. The villa is enormous--uninhabited and uncared for--a
charming garden and great terrace with stone benches before the house
looking toward Rome. The garden, of course, wild and ragged, but with
splendid possibilities. Just outside the gate we came upon a little
church. Three or four girls and women with bright-coloured skirts and
fichus and quantities of coarse jet-black hair were sitting on the steps
working at what looked like coarse crochet work and talking hard. The
carabinieri were always near, opened two or three gates for us, and only
left us when we were quite close to the town, well past the gates of the
Aldobrandini Villa.

As we had some little time before the train started, I went off with
Bessie to have a look at Palazzo Marconi. It is now occupied by the
municipio and quite changed. We found a youth downstairs who couldn't
imagine what we wanted and why we wanted to go up; however, I explained
that I had lived there many years ago, so finally he agreed to go up
with us. The steps looked more worn and dirty--quite broken in some
places--and the frescoes on the walls, which were bright blue and green
in our time, are almost effaced. It was all so familiar and yet so
changed. I went into father's room and opened the window on the terrace,
where we had stood so often those hot August nights, watching the mist
rise over the Campagna and the moon over the sea. There was very little
furniture anywhere--a few chairs and couches in the small salon that we
had made comfortable enough with our own furniture from Rome. The great
round room with the marble statues has been turned into a salle de
conseil, with a big writing-table in the middle, and chairs ranged in a
semicircle around the room. There was nothing at all in our old
bed-rooms--piles of cartons in one corner. The marble bath-tub was black
and grimy. We couldn't see the dining-room, people were in it, but we
went out to the hanging-garden--all weeds, and clothes hanging out to
dry. The fountain was going at the back of the court, but covered with
moss, and bits of stone were dropping off. It all looked very
miserable--I don't think I shall ever care to go back. There seemed just
the same groups of idle men standing about as in our time--dozens of
them doing nothing, hanging over the wall looking at the people come up
from the railway station. They tell me they never work; even when they
own little lots of land or vignas they don't work themselves--the
peasants from the Abruzzi come down at stated seasons, dig and plant and
do all the work. One can't understand it, for they look a tall, fine
race, all these peasants of the Castelli Romani, strong, well-fed,
broad-shouldered. I suppose there must be a strong touch of indolence in
all the Latin races.

It was after six when we got back to Rome. We had just time to rush
home, get clean gloves and long skirts, and start for the Massimo Palace
to see the great fête. Once a year the palace is opened to the general
public, and the whole of Rome goes upstairs and into the chapel. It is
on St. Philippe's day, when a miracle was performed in the Massimo
family, a dead boy resuscitated in 1651. There was a crowd assembled as
we drove up, tramways stopped, and the getting across the pavement was
rather difficult. The walls of the palace and portico were hung with red
and gold draperies, the porter and footman in gala liveries, the old
beggars squatted about inside the portico, the gardes municipaux keeping
order, and a motley crowd struggling up the grand staircase--priests,
women, children, femmes du monde, peasants, policemen, forestieri, two
cooks in their white vestons, nuns, Cappucini--all striving and jostling
to get along. We stopped at Bebella's apartment, who gave us tea. She
had been receiving all day, but almost every one had gone. We talked to
her a few moments, and then d'Arsoli took us upstairs to the chapel (by
no means an easy performance, as there were two currents going up and
coming down). The chapel was brilliantly lighted, and crowded; a
benedizione was going on, with very good music from the Pope's
chapel--those curious, high, unnatural voices. All the relics were
exposed, and Prince Massimo, in dress clothes and white cravat, was
standing at the door. It was a most curious sight. D'Arsoli told us that
people had begun to come at seven in the morning. When we went home
there was still a crowd on the staircase, stretching out into the
street, and a long line of tram-cars stopped.


                                                   Friday, March 18th.

It rained rather hard this morning, but we three got ourselves into the
small carriage and went down to the Accademia di Santa Cecilia to hear
the Benedictine monk Don Guery try the Gregorian chants with the big
organ. The organ is a fine one, made at Nuremberg. An organist arrived
from St. Anselmo to accompany the chants. They sounded very fine, but I
thought rather too melodious and even modern, but Don Guery assured me
that the one I particularly noticed was of the eleventh century.


                                                         Tuesday, 22d.

We seem always to be doing something, but have had two quiet evenings
this week. Friday night we went to the Valle to see Marchesa Rudini's
Fête de Bienfaisance. The heat was something awful, as the house was
packed, and as at all amateur performances they were unpunctual, and
there were terribly long intervals. The comédie was well acted, a little
long, but the clou of the evening was the ballet-pantomime, danced by
all the prettiest women in Rome. The young Marchesa Rudini (née
Labouchère) looked charming as a white and silver butterfly, and danced
beautifully, such pretty style, not a gesture nor a pas that any one
could object to. The rest of the troop too were quite charming, coming
in by couples--the Princess Teano and Thérèse Pécoul a picture--both
tall, one dark, one fair, and making a lovely contrast. I should think
they must have made a lot of money.

Saturday I had a pleasant afternoon at the Palazzo dei Cesari with Mr.
and Mrs. Seth Low. He is an excellent guide, had already been all over
the palace with Boni and knew exactly what to show us. It was a
beautiful afternoon and the view over Rome, the seven hills, and the
Forum was divine. These first Roman Emperors certainly knew where to
pitch their tents--what a magnificent scale they built upon in those
days. The old Augustus must have seen wonderful sights in the Forum from
the heights of the Palatine.

Josephine had a large dinner in the evening for the Grand Duchess and
Cardinal Vannutelli. It was very easy and pleasant, and we all wore our
little fichus most correctly as long as the Cardinal was there (they
never stay very long), but were glad to let them slip off as soon as he
went away, for we had a great many people in the evening and the rooms
were warm. I had rather an interesting talk with an old Italian friend
(not a Roman) over the tremendous influx of strangers and Italians from
all parts of Italy to Rome. He says au fond the Romans hate it--they
liked the old life very much better--they were of much more importance;
it meant something then to be a Roman prince. Now, with all the Northern
Italians, Court people and double Diplomatic Corps Rome has become too
cosmopolitan. People amuse themselves, and dance and hunt, and give
dinners at the Grand Hotel and trouble themselves very little about the
old Roman families (particularly those who have lost money and don't
receive any more). The Romans have a feeling of being put aside in their
own place.

It was beautiful this morning, so I took my convenient tram again and
went over to see the pictures of the Vatican. Such a typical peasant
couple were in the tram, evidently just down from the mountains, as they
were looking about at everything, and were rather nervous when the tram
made a sudden stop. The woman (young and rather pretty) had on a bright
blue skirt, a white shirt with a red corset over it, a pink flowered
apron, green fichu on her head, and long gold ear-rings with a coral
centre. The man, a big broad-shouldered fellow, had the long cloak with
the cape lined with green that the men all wear here, and a slouched hat
drawn low down over his brows. They got out at St. Peter's and went into
the church. I went around by the Colonnade as I was going to the
pictures. There were lots of people on the stairs. It certainly is a
good stiff pull up.

I stayed about an hour looking at the pictures--all hanging exactly
where I had always seen them, except the Sposalizio of St. Catherine,
which was on an easel near the window; some one evidently copying it. I
was quite horrified coming back through the Stanze by some English
people--three women--who were calmly lunching in one corner of the room.
They were all seated, eating sandwiches out of a paper bag, and drinking
out of a large green bottle. Everybody stopped and looked at them, and
they didn't mind at all. The gardien was looking on like all the rest. I
was so astounded at his making no remarks that I said to him, surely
such a thing is forbidden; to which he replied smilingly: "No--no, non
fanno male a nessnno--non fanno niente d'indecente" (No, they are doing
no harm to any one, they are doing nothing indecent). That evidently was
quite true; but I must say I think it required a certain courage to
continue their repast with all the public looking on, giggling and
criticising freely.

I dined this evening with Malcolm Kahn--Persian Minister--and an old
colleague of ours in London. It was very pleasant--General Brusatti, one
of the King's Aides-de-Camp, took me in, and I had Comte Greppi, ancien
Ambassadeur, on the other side. Greppi is marvellous--really a very old
man, but as straight as an arrow, and remembering everybody. Tittone,
Minister of Foreign Affairs, was there, but I wasn't near him at table,
which I regretted, as I should have liked to talk to him.


                                              Palm Sunday, March 27th.

Bessie and I went to the American church this morning, and afterward to
the Grand Hotel to breakfast with some friends. The restaurant was
crowded, so many people have arrived for Easter, and it was decidedly
amusing--a great many pretty women and pretty dresses. It poured when we
came away. We had all promised to go to an amateur performance of the
Stabat Mater at the old Doria Palace in Piazza Navona. It was rather
damp, with draughts in every direction, so Mrs. Law and I decided we
would not stay to the end, but would go for a drive until it was time to
go back to tea at the Grand Hotel (it is rather funny, the first month I
was here I never put my foot in the Grand Hotel, and I was rather
disappointed, as tea there in the Palm Garden with Tziganes playing, is
one of the great features of modern Rome, and now I am there nearly
every day). It was coming down in torrents when we came out of the
concert, and a drive seemed insane, so I suggested a turn in St. Peter's
(which is always a resource on a rainy day in Rome). That seemed
difficult to accomplish, though, when we arrived at the steps--we
couldn't have gone up those steps and across the wide space at the top
without getting completely soaked. However I remembered old times, and
told the man to drive around to the Sagrestia. He protested, so did all
the beggars around the steps, who wanted to open the door of the
carriage. We couldn't get in--the door was shut, etc., but I thought we
would try, so accordingly we drove straight to the Sagrestia. The door
was open--a man standing there who opened the carriage door and told the
coachman where to stand. I don't think I ever saw rain come down so
hard, and so straight. It was very interesting walking through all the
passages at the back of St. Peter's, and into the church through the
sacristy, where priests and children were robing and just starting for
some service with tapers and palms in their hands. We followed the
procession, and found ourselves just about in the middle of the church.
There were still draperies hanging on the columns and seats marked off.
There had been a ceremony of some kind in the morning, and a great many
people were walking about. We stopped some little time at the great
bronze statue of St. Peter. I was astounded at the quantity and quality
of people who came up and kissed the toe of the Saint. Priests and nuns
of course, and old people, both men and women, but it seemed
extraordinary to me to see young men, tall, good-looking fellows, bend
down quite as reverently as the others and kiss the toe. They were
singing in one of the side chapels--we listened for a little while--and
all over the church everywhere people kneeling on the pavement.

We went back to the Grand Hotel for tea, and dined with the young
Ruspolis, who have a handsome apartment in the Colonna Palace. The
dinner was for the Grand Duchess, and was pleasant enough. There was a
small reception in the evening, and almost every one went afterward to
Princesse Pallavicini's who receives on Sunday evening. I like the
informal evening receptions here very much. It is a pleasant way of
finishing the evening after a dinner, and so much more agreeable than
the day receptions--at least you do see a few men in the
evening--whereas they all fly from afternoons and teas. As every one
receives there is always some house to go to.


                                                   Monday, March 28th.

I have had a nice solitary morning in the Forum, with my beloved Italian
guide book, a little English brochure with a map of the principal
sights, and occasional conversations with the workmen, of whom there are
many, as they are excavating in every direction, and German tourists.
The Germans, I must say, are always extremely well up in antiquities,
and quite ready to impart their information to others. They are a little
long sometimes, but one usually finds that they know what they are
talking about.

There are of course great changes since I have seen the Forum. They are
excavating and working here all the time. The King takes a great
interest in all that sort of work, and often appears, it seems, early in
the morning and unexpectedly, when anything important is going on. The
Basilica Julia (enormous) has been quite opened out since my day; and
another large temple opposite is most interesting, with splendid bits
left of marble pavement--some quite large squares of pink marble that
were beautiful; and in various places quantities of coins melted and
incrusted in the marble which looks as if the temple had been destroyed
by a fire.

There was little shade anywhere. I hadn't the courage to walk in the sun
as far as the Vestals' house, which is really most interesting. The
recent excavations have brought to light so many rooms, passages,
frescoes, etc., that the ordinary, every-day life of the Vestal Virgins
has been quite reconstructed. One could follow them in their daily
avocations. From where I was sitting I could see some of the great
statues--some of the figures in quite good preservation, two of them
holding their lamps. I found a nice square stone, and sat there lazily
taking in the enchanting views on all sides--the Palatine Hill behind
me, the Capitol on one side, on the other the three enormous arches of
the Temple of Constantine; at my feet the Via Sacra running straight
away to the Colosseum, the sky a deep, soft blue throwing out every line
and bit of sculpture on the countless pillars, temples and arches that
spring up on all sides. From a height, the Palatine Hill, for instance,
the Forum always looks to me like an enormous cemetery--one loses the
impression of each separate building or ruin. It might be a street of
tombs rather than the busy centre of a great city.

There were plenty of people going about--bands of Cook's tourists being
personally conducted and instructed. If the gentleman who explains Roman
history gives the same loose rein to his imagination as the one we used
to hear in Versailles conducting the British public through the
Historical Portrait Gallery, the present generation will have curious
ideas as to the deeds of daring and wonderful rule of all the Augustuses
and Vespasians who have made the Palace of the Cæsars the keystone of
magnificent and Imperial Rome; and again "unwritten history" will be
responsible for many wonderful statements. However, I wasn't near enough
to hear the explanations. People were still coming in when I left, and
all the way home I met carriages filled with strangers.

We went out again rather late. I went for tea to Marchesa Vitelleschi,
and before I came away Vitelleschi came in. I wanted to see him to
thank him for sending me his book, a Roman novel, "Roma che se ne
va."[34] It is very cleverly written, and an excellent picture of the
Rome of 35 years ago, as we first knew it. I should think it would
interest English and Americans very much, I wonder he hasn't translated
it.

[34] Rome which is disappearing.

I found quite a party assembled in the little green salon when I got
back--Don Guery, the Benedictine monk, who wishes to arrange a concert
with Josephine for her charities, and M. Alphonse Mustel, who has just
come from Paris with his beautiful organ. He arrived this morning early
and hadn't yet found a room anywhere--all the hotels crowded. They say
that for years they haven't had so many strangers for Holy Week. He is
coming to play here Thursday afternoon.

We had a quiet evening, and after dinner Mr. Virgo read to us the book I
am so mad about, "The Call of the Wild." He read extremely well, and I
liked the book even better hearing it read. It is a marvellous
description of that wild life in the Klondyke, and a beautiful poetical
strain all through. The children listened attentively, were wildly
interested, particularly when poor Buck was made to drag the sledge so
heavily loaded, for his master to win his bet. We also want to read
Cardinal Mathieu's article in the "Revue des Deux Mondes," "Les derniers
jours de Léon XIII."; but we have so rarely a quiet evening, and in the
daytime every one is out in the beautiful Roman sunshine.

We have all come upstairs early (ten o'clock) so I am profiting of a
quiet hour to write, as I can't go to bed so early. This street is
rather noisy. It is on the way to the station and some of the big
hotels. Cabs and big omnibuses go through it all day and all night. I
don't mind the noise. I rather like the roar of a big city--it means
life.


                                                 Thursday, March 31st.

It is pouring to-day, and we have been out all day. I went to church
this morning, but didn't get too wet with a thick serge dress and
umbrella; then to breakfast at the Grand Hotel with some friends, and an
excursion to the Palace of the Cæsars in prospect, under the guidance of
Mr. Baddeley, who is an authority on all Roman antiquities and a great
friend of Boni's. It rained so hard when we were sitting in the Palm
Garden for coffee, that it seemed impossible the drops shouldn't come
through, and we looked to see if little puddles were not forming
themselves on the floor under our chairs, but no, it was quite dry.

We started in shut carriages, thinking we would try for the Palace of
the Cæsars, where we could get refuge, but it was shut, so we went on to
San Giovanni in Laterano, and had an interesting hour wandering about
the church. Our guide had old artistic Rome at his fingers' ends, and it
certainly makes all the difference in seeing the curious old tombs and
monuments when one has some idea as to who the people were, and what
sort of lives they led. Mr. Baddeley said, like all the people who
really live in Italy, that the summer was the time to see Rome; that no
one could imagine what a Roman "festa" was unless he had seen one in the
height of summer, when the whole population was out and in the streets
all day and all night, in a frenzy of amusement. No priests were in the
streets; a sort of tacit concession, or tolerance for just one or two
occasions.

We came back here for tea, as M. Mustel had promised to play for us this
afternoon, and Josephine had asked some of her friends. The organ
sounded splendidly in her big music-room, where there is little
furniture and no draperies to deaden the sound. He played of course
extremely well, and brought out every sound of his instrument. Two
preludes of Bach were quite beautiful; also the prelude of
"Parsifal"--so much sound at times that it seemed an orchestra, and then
again beautifully soft. We were all delighted with it.

People stayed rather late, but Bessie and I and Sir Donald Wallace, who
had come to tea, started off to St. Peter's. It is the tradition in Rome
to go to St. Peter's on Holy Thursday. In our time the whole city
went--it was quite a promenade de société. I believe they do still, but
we were rather late. The church looked quite beautiful as we drove
up--brilliantly lighted, the big doors open, quantities of people going
up the steps and through a double line of _Italian_ soldiers into the
church. The "Miserere" was over, but the chapel was still lighted, a
good many people kneeling at the altar. The church was crowded, and
every one pushing toward the grand altar, which was being washed. They
were also exposing the relics from the two high balconies on each side
of the altar. Many people were kneeling, and every now and then a
procession came through the crowd of priests and choir-boys with
banners, all chanting, and kneeling when they came near the altar--of
course there was the usual collection of gaping, irreverent tourists,
commenting audibly, and wondering if anybody really believed those were
the actual nails that came out of the cross, or the thorn out of the
Crown of Thorns, etc., etc., also "why are they making such a fuss
washing their altar--why couldn't they do it this morning when no one
was in the church."

We had some little difficulty in getting away, as the crowd was
awful--getting worse every moment. It was beautiful when we did get
out--the great Piazza quite black, a steady stream still pouring into
the church. The lights from inside threw little bright spots on the
gun-barrels and belts of the soldiers--the great mass of the Vatican
quite black, with little lights twinkling high up in some of the
windows.

I am decidedly tired and stiff--I think being rained upon all day and
standing on damp pavements and in windy corners is rather a trial to any
one with rheumatic tendencies--but I have enjoyed my day thoroughly,
particularly the end at St. Peter's. It so reminded me of old times when
we used to go to all the ceremonies, beginning with the "Pastorale" at
Christmas time and finishing with the Easter Benediction and
"Girandola."

We finished "The Call of the Wild" this evening, and now we must take
something else. I should like the "Figlia di Jorio" of d'Annunzio. They
say the Italian is quite beautiful, but the morals, I am afraid, are not
of the same high order. I shall try and see it.


                                        ROME, Saturday, April 2, 1904.

It was bright yesterday, but cold. The snow was quite thick on the
Sabine Hills--they looked beautiful as we drove out into the country
through Porta San Giovanni before going to the church of Santa Croce in
Jerusalemme, where Prince Colonna had asked us to come and see a curious
ceremony--he himself carrying a cross at the head of a procession.
Bessie and I with the two children and the dog (we would have left him
in the carriage) tried to see some of the churches and hear some music,
but there were such crowds everywhere that we couldn't get in, so we
took a drive instead. There was such a crowd at Santa Croce that we
couldn't have got anywhere near the altar if we hadn't had a card from
Colonna; that took us into the Sagrestia where they gave us chairs, and
we sat there some little time watching all the "neri" (Blacks) assemble.
They proposed to show us the relics to while away the time, so we were
taken up a very steep staircase, along a narrow short passage to a small
room where they are kept. The priest lighted tapers, made his little
prayer, and then unveiled his treasures. There were pieces of the Cross,
a nail, St. Thomas's unbelieving finger, and the inscription on a piece
of wood that was over the Cross, "Jesus King of the Jews." It was an
old, blackened, almost rotten square, with the inscription in Latin,
hardly legible, but the priest showed us some letters and numbers that
were quite distinct.

When we got back again to the sacristy the procession was forming--a
number of gentlemen dressed in black, with gold chains and crosses
around their necks, and a long procession of monks, priests, and
choristers. Colonna himself at the head, carrying quite simply a rather
large wooden cross; all with tapers and all chanting. As soon as they
had filed out of the sacristy we went upstairs again to a high balcony,
from which we had a fine view of the church. It was packed with people,
the crowd just opening enough to allow the procession to pass, which
looked like a line of fire winding in and out. There was a short, simple
service, and then all turned toward the balcony from where the relics
were shown, every one in the church kneeling, as far as I could see. We
came away before the end, and had great difficulty in getting through
the crowd to our carriages.

This morning it was beautiful so we all started off early to the Wurts'
Villa (old Sciarra Villa) on the Janiculum. Just as we crossed the
bridge the bells rang out the Hallelujah (the first time they had rung
since Wednesday). They sounded beautiful, so joyous, a real Easter
peal. We had a delightful hour in the garden of the Villa. There were
armies of workmen in every direction, and the place will be a perfect
Paradise. There are fine trees in the garden, masses of rhododendrons,
every description of palm, and of course flowers everywhere. The views
were divine to-day--the Sabine Mountains with a great deal of snow,
Soracte blue and solitary rising straight out of the Campagna, and the
Abruzzi snow-topped in the distance. Mr. and Mrs. Wurts were there and
showed us all the improvements they intend making.

After breakfast I walked about in the Via Sistina looking for some
photographs. I wanted to find some of old Rome (at least Rome of 24
years ago) but that seemed hopeless. My artist friend had promised to
look in some of his father's old portfolios and see what he could find,
but he was not in a business frame of mind this afternoon. He was eating
his dinner at his counter, his slouched hat on his head, which he didn't
remove while I was talking to him. A young woman with her face tied up
in a red fichu was stretched out on the floor behind the counter, sound
asleep, her head on a pile of books; another over at the other end of
the shop, her chair tilted back, talking sometimes to him and sometimes
to people in the street. I suppose my eyes wandered to the one who was
asleep, for he instantly said, "She is ill, tired, don't disturb her."
He said he hadn't found any old photographs, only one rather bad and
half-effaced of Pio IX. I said I wanted one of Antonelli. "E morto lui."
I said I knew that, but he _had_ lived however once, and not so very
long ago, and had been a person of some importance. He evidently didn't
think it worth while to continue that conversation, and had certainly no
intention of looking for any photographs for me that day. It was
"festa"--Easter Eve--and work was over for him until Monday morning, so
I was really obliged to go, he wishing me "buon giorno" and "buona
Pasqua" quite cheerfully, without getting up or taking off his hat.

I came in to tea, as Mustel was to play. We had about 40 people, and he
was much pleased at the way in which every one listened, and appreciated
his instrument. Of course he plays it divinely and brings out every
sound. Josephine had asked the Marquise Villa Marina to come and hear
him. He naturally wants very much to play for Queen Margherita (who is a
very good musician and plays the organ herself), and if the Marquise
makes a good report the Queen will perhaps send for him to play for her.


                                              Easter Sunday, April 3d.

It has been a beautiful day. Bessie and I went to the English church,
which was crowded. We could only find seats quite at the bottom of the
church, and those were chairs which had been brought in at the last
moment. We went afterward to breakfast with the Wurts in their beautiful
apartment. They had flowers everywhere (from their villa) and the rooms
looked like a garden. We were quite a party--16--and stayed there
talking and looking at everything until after three. Then we started for
a drive. I wanted to go to the Protestant Cemetery and see the little
mortuary chapel we built after father's death. Some one told me it was
utterly uncared for, going to ruin. The gates were open as we drove up,
a good many carriages waiting, and plenty of people walking about
inside. It is a lovely, peaceful spot, so green and still, many fine
trees, quantities of camellias, and violets on almost every grave. The
chapel stood just as I remembered it--in the middle of the cemetery. It
is in perfectly good order, and had evidently been used quite lately as
there were wooden trestles to support a coffin, and bits of wreaths and
stalks of flowers lying about. The two inscriptions, Latin on one side
and English on the other, are both quite well preserved and legible. I
wanted very much to see a guardian or director of the cemetery, but
there was only a woman at the gate, who knew nothing, hadn't been there
very long, in fact she knew nothing about the chapel, and showed me a
room opening into the old cemetery (where Keats is buried) which looked
more like a lumber room than anything else. There are some interesting
monuments, one to Mrs. Story, quite simple and beautiful, an angel
kneeling with folded wings. It was done by her husband, the last thing
he did, his son told me. The old cemetery looks quite deserted, close
under the great pyramid of Caius Cestius, the few graves quite uncared
for, a general air of neglect, a fitting resting-place for the poor
young poet whose profound discouragement will go down to posterity.
Every one goes to the grave and reads the melancholy inscription, "Here
lies one whose name was writ in water."

It was such a lovely afternoon that we drove on to Tre Fontane. There,
too, there were people. The churches were open, but there was no service
going on; however the place has always a great charm. The tops of the
eucalyptus trees were swaying in a little breeze, and the smell was
stronger and more aromatic than when we were there the other day.

We have had a quiet evening, all of us, children and grown-ups,
Protestants and Catholics, singing the English Easter Hymns. Josephine,
who is a very strict Catholic, loves the English hymns, and certainly we
can all sing "Christ the Lord is Risen To-day," for Easter is a fête for
all the world. I am sorry I didn't go to St. Peter's this morning. I
don't know that there was any special ceremony, but for the sake of old
times I should have liked to have had my Easter and Hallelujah there.

I am writing rather under difficulties as the telephone is ringing
furiously (it goes all day, as every one in the house uses it for
everything). At the present moment Josephine seems conversing with "all
manner of men"--the Marquise Villa Marina from the Queen's Palace, the
padrone of the hotel where Mustel is staying, and one or two others. It
seems Queen Margherita would like to have Mustel and his organ to-morrow
night at the Palace; and has asked us three, Bessie, Josephine and me,
to come. I am very glad for Mustel who wants so much to be heard by the
Queen. He hopes to sell some of his organs here. They are not expensive,
but so few people care about an organ of their own.


                                                 Wednesday, April 6th.

We had an interesting evening at the palace on Monday. I couldn't get
there for the beginning, as I had a big dinner, and a very pleasant one,
at the Iddings'. When I arrived I heard the music going on, but the
Marquise de Villa Marina came to meet me in the corridor, and we walked
up and down talking until the piece was over. I found a small party--the
Queen, her mother, the Duchess of Genoa, and about fifteen or twenty
people. The Queen was in black, with beautiful pearl necklace. She
received me charmingly and was most kind and gracious to Mustel, saying
she was so pleased to see a French artist, and taking great interest in
his instrument. He played several times: Handel's grand aria, Bach, and
the Marche des Pèlerins from "Tannhäuser," which sounded
magnificent--quite an effect of orchestra.

About 11.30 there was a pause. The Duchess of Genoa came over and
talked to me a little, saying she had known my husband and followed his
career with great interest, his English origin and education making him
quite different from the usual run of French statesmen. She also spoke
of my sister-in-law, Madame de Bunsen, whom she had known formerly in
Florence. She exchanged a few words with the other ladies, and then
withdrew, the Queen and her ladies accompanying her to her apartments.
We remained talking with the other guests until Queen Margherita came
back. She asked Mustel to play once more--and then we had orangeade,
ices, and cakes. There was a small buffet at one end of the
drawing-room. It was quite half-past twelve when the Queen dismissed us.
We had a real musical evening, pleasant and easy.

[Illustration: Cardinal Antonelli. From a picture painted for the Grand
Duke of Saxe-Weimar.

From a photograph given to Madame Waddington by the Hereditary Grand
Duchess of Saxe-Weimar at Rome.]

It was beautiful this morning, so I went for a turn in the Villa
Borghese, which is a paradise these lovely spring days; only the getting
to it is disagreeable. It is a hot, glaring walk up the Via Veneto, not
an atom of shade anywhere until one gets well inside the grounds. I was
walking about on the grass quite leisurely, and very distraite, not
noticing any one, when I heard my name. I turned and saw two ladies
making signs to me from the other side of the road, so I squeezed
through a very narrow opening in the fence, and found myself with the
grand duchess and her lady-in-waiting, who were taking their morning
walk. We strolled on together. She asked me if I always came to the
villa in the morning. I said "No," I often went shopping in the morning,
and told her about my photographer of the Via Sistina and the difficulty
of getting a photograph of Antonelli. She instantly said: "Oh, but I can
help you there, if you really would like a photograph of Antonelli. I
have a fine portrait of him that was painted for my beau-père. It is in
the palace at Weimar, and I will give orders at once for the court
photographer to go and copy it." I was much pleased, as I _do_ want the
photograph and was rather in despair at not having found one. It seemed
incredible to me, until I had asked a little, that there should be
nothing of Antonelli. After all, it isn't very long since he played a
great part here, so it was a most fortunate rencontre for me this
morning. We parted at the gate--I walked home and she got into her
carriage.


                                                    Friday, April 7th.

We made a pleasant excursion yesterday to San Gregorio, the Brancaccios'
fine place beyond Tivoli. The day unluckily was grey, looked as if it
would pour every minute, we had none of the lovely lights and shades
that make the Campagna and the hills so beautiful. We went out in
Camillo Ruspoli's automobile, a Fiat, Italian make, strong and fast. The
road is not particularly interesting until one begins the steep ascent
to Tivoli; then looking back the view of course was beautiful. We didn't
have much time to admire it, for the auto galloped up the steep hill as
if it were nothing. After Tivoli the road goes straight up into the
Sabine hills, winding and narrow, with very sharp corners, which we
swung round quite easily certainly, as Ruspoli managed his carriage
perfectly--but still the road _was_ narrow and steep--hills rolling away
on one side, a precipice and deep valley on the other, no wall nor
parapet of any description, and it was absolutely lonely. If anything
had broken, or an animal crossed our road suddenly, and made us swerve,
I don't think anything could have saved us.

The castle looked very imposing as we came up to it, an enormous mass,
the village built into the castle walls, standing high on the top of a
hill. The flag was flying, all the population, wildly excited (another
automobile had arrived before us), were massed at the gates, the
drawbridge down, and Bessie and her husband waiting for us, also the
Bishops who had come in their auto. We took off some of our coats, but
not all, as the rooms are so enormous that it was cold, notwithstanding
a great fire in the big hall. We had an hour before breakfast, so they
showed us the house which is magnificent, with the most divine views on
all sides from all the balconies, corner windows, etc. It is beautifully
furnished, perfectly comfortable. I couldn't begin to describe it--one
couldn't take it all in in a flying visit. There are several complete
apartments with dressing-rooms, bath-rooms, etc., so curious to see so
much modern comfort and luxury inside this grim old castle on the top of
a rock far back in the Sabine hills.

It was very cold--I kept on my thick coat. There are balconies and
little bridges connecting towers, high terraces, staircases in every
direction--quite bewildering. We breakfasted in the large dining hall,
and it was pleasant to see the enormous logs, and to hear the crackling
and spluttering of a big fire. There are some fine Brancaccio portraits,
in the curious old-world court dress of the Neapolitan ladies of the
last century. They gave us an excellent breakfast, with a turkey bred
and fattened at the olive farm (it seems these olive-fed turkeys are
their specialty). We did some more sight-seeing after breakfast,
bachelor apartments principally, such curious old niches and steep,
narrow little staircases (we could only pass single file) cut in the
thick walls, and then started off to drive and walk in the park. They
had two nice little two-wheeled carts, with stout ponies, just the thing
for rough wood driving. The park is charming--long green alleys with
beautiful views--the country all around rather stony and barren, no
shade as there are few trees. We hadn't time to go to the olive farm,
which I was sorry for, as the people were all working there picking the
olives. I should have liked to see the women with their bright skirts
and corsets making a warm bit of colour in the midst of the grey-green
olive groves.

We started home rather sooner than we had intended, as the sky was
getting blacker, and a few drops already falling. We were in an open
automobile, and should have been half drowned going home if it had begun
to rain hard. We went back at a frightful pace. If I found the coming up
terrifying you can imagine what the descent was, flying around the
corners, and seeing the steep road zigzagging far down below us. I heard
smothered exclamations ("Oh, mon petit Camillo, pas si vite")
occasionally from Bessie, and I think Josephine was saying her
prayers--however we did get home without any accident or "panne" of any
kind, and Ruspoli assured us he had _crawled_ out of consideration for
us.

This morning Josephine and I have been out to the new Benedictine
Monastery of St. Anselmo, which stands high on a hill overlooking the
Tiber. She had business with the Director, so I went into the chapel
which is fine (quite modern with splendid marbles) and walked about a
little in the garden (they wouldn't let me go far). We went afterward
into the Villa Malta. There is an extraordinary view through the
key-hole of the door--one looks straight down a long, narrow avenue with
high trees on each side, to St. Peter's--a great blue dome at the end. We
couldn't make out at first what the old woman meant who opened the door
for us, she wouldn't let us come in, but pointed to the key-hole,
mumbling something we couldn't understand. At last we heard "veduta"
(view), and divined what she wanted us to do. It was most curious. The
gardens are lovely still, green, cool. We went over the house, but
there is nothing particularly interesting--portraits of all the "Grands
Maîtres de l'Ordre de Malte." It was so lovely that we didn't want to
come home, so we drove out as far at St. Paul's Fuori le Mura, and
walked around the church to the front where they are making a splendid
portico--all marble and mosaic. I should have liked it better without
the mosaic--merely the fine granite and marble columns.


                                                  Tuesday, April 12th.

Yesterday we had a splendid ceremony at St. Peter's, the 13th
anniversary of Pope Gregorio Magno. We started early, Josephine and I
leaving the house together at 8, dressed in the regulation black dress
and veil. I had on a short cloth skirt, which I regretted afterward, but
as we had asked for no particular places, and were going to take our
chance in the church with all the ordinary sight-seers, I hadn't made a
very élégante toilette. We got along pretty well, though there were
streams of carriages and people all going in the same direction, until
we got near the St. Angelo bridge--there we took the file, hardly
advanced at all, and met quantities of empty carriages coming back. I
fancy most people started much earlier than we did. The piazza was
fairly crowded (but not the compact mass we used to see in the old days
when the Pope gave the Easter blessing from the balcony), all the
Colonnade guarded by Italian troops, carabinieri and bersaglieri. We
went round to the Sagrestia, and found our way easily into the church,
and into our Tribune A, but we might just as well have remained at home,
if we had wanted to see anything. We were far back, low, and could have
just seen perhaps the top of the Pope's tiara when he was carried in his
high chair in procession--however it was our own fault, as we had asked
too late for our tickets. I was interested all the same seeing the
different people come in (the church was very full). We sat there some
little time, rather disgusted au fond at having such bad places,
particularly when we saw some people we knew being escorted with much
pomp past our obscure little tribune, toward the centre of the church.
Finally one of the camerieri segreti in his uniform--black velvet, ruff
and chain--recognised Josephine, and insisted that she should come with
him and he would give her a proper place. She rather demurred at leaving
me, but I urged her going, as I was sure she would find a seat for me
somewhere. In a few minutes the gentleman returned, and put me first in
the same tribune with her, a little farther back, but eventually
conducted me to the Diplomatic Tribune, d'Antas, the Doyen, Portuguese
Ambassador to the Quirinal, and an old colleague of ours in London,
having said he would gladly give a place in their box to an ancienne
collègue. That was the moment in which I regretted my short skirt. I had
to cross the red carpet between rows of gardes-nobles and gala uniforms
of all kinds and colours, and I was quite conscious that my dress was
not up to the mark, a sentiment which gathered strength as I got to the
Diplomatic Tribune, and saw all the ladies beautifully dressed, with
long lace and satin dresses, pearl necklaces, and their veils fastened
with diamond stars. However, it was a momentary ennui, and I could only
hope nobody looked at me. Wasn't it silly of me to wear a plain little
skirt--I can't think why I did it. Almost all the bishops and sommités
of the clerical world were already assembled and walking about in the
great space at the back of the altar. Just opposite us was the Tribune
of the patriciat Romain. All the tribunes and columns were covered with
red and gold draperies. A detachment of gardes-nobles, splendid in
their red coats, white culottes and white plumes, surrounded the altar.
There were two silver thrones for the Pope, one at one side of the
church where he sat first, directly opposite to us, another quite at the
end of the long nave behind the high altar. The entrance of the
cardinals was very effective. They all wore white cloaks trimmed with
silver, and silver mitres, each one accompanied by an attendant priest,
who helped them take off and put on their mitres, which they did several
times during the ceremony. The costumes were splendid, some high
prelates, I suppose, in red skirts with splendid old lace; some in white
and gold brocaded cloaks, also grey fur cloaks; and an Eastern bishop
with a long beard, in purple flowered robes, a pink sash worn like a
grand cordon over his shoulder, and purple mitre. It was a gorgeous
effect of colour, showing all the more between the rows of tribunes
where every one was in black.

We divined (as we were too far back to see) when the Pope's cortège
entered the church. There was no sound--a curious silence--except the
trumpets which preceded the cortège (they played a "Marcia pontificale,"
they told me). At last we saw the "sedia gestatoria" with the peacock
fans appearing, and the Pope himself held high over the heads of the
crowd (it seems he hates the sedia and hoped until the last moment not
to be obliged to use it, but it is the tradition of St. Peter's, and
really the only way for the people to see him). We saw him quite
distinctly. He looked pale certainly, and a little tired, even before
the ceremony began, but that may have been the effect of the swaying
motion of the chair. There was the same silence when he was taken out of
his chair and walked to the throne, not even the subdued hum of a great
crowd. There was a little group of officiating priests and cardinals on
the dais surrounding the throne. The Pope wore a long soutane of fine
white cloth, white shoes, a splendid mantle of white and gold brocade,
and a gold mitre with precious stones, principally pearls. He began his
mass at once, a bishop holding the big book open before him, a priest on
each side with a lighted taper. His voice sounded strong and clear, but
I don't think it would carry very far. I was disappointed in the
Gregorian chants. There were 1,500 voices, but they sounded meagre in
that enormous space. The ceremony was very long. I couldn't follow it
all, and at intervals couldn't see anything, as the priests stood often
directly in front of the Pope. It was interesting to make out the
various cardinals--Cardinal Vincenzo Vannutelli sat almost directly
opposite to us, his tall figure standing out well. His brother Cardinal
Serafino was always close to the Pope. I asked d'Antas to show me
Cardinal Rampolla, who has a fine head and dignified carriage, rather a
sad face. It was very impressive when the Pope left his throne by the
altar and walked across the great space to the other one at the end of
the nave. Every one knelt as he passed, the cardinals, bishops,
gardes-nobles, everybody in the tribunes (at least everybody in the
front row, I won't answer for the young ones behind, but they stood if
they didn't kneel). There again the ceremonies were very long. When the
Pope had taken his seat, many of the cardinals sat too on the steps of
the dais. It was very picturesque, and the Eastern prelate stood out
well from the group of white-robed Cardinals in his bright flowered
garments. The Evangile was read in Latin and in Greek--a great many
things and people were blessed, every one kneeling at the foot of the
dais, and again when they got close up to the Pope; some quite
prostrated themselves and kissed his slipper (a very nice white one)
which they say he hates. Prince Orsini, premier assistant of the Saint
Siège, officiated, and looked his part to perfection. He is tall, with a
long white beard, and his short black velvet cloak, with a long white
and silver mantle over it, was most effective. I don't know exactly what
he did, but he appeared various times at the foot of the dais, knelt,
and sometimes presented something on a platter. He was always
accompanied (as were all who took any prominent part in the ceremony) by
two priests, one on each side of him; sort of masters of ceremony who
told him when to kneel, when to stand, etc. On the whole all the music
disappointed me. The Gregorian chants were too thin; the Sistine choir
didn't seem as full and fine as it used to be, and the silver trumpets
absolutely trivial.

It was most impressive at the moment of the elevation, almost the whole
assembly in that enormous church kneeling, and not a sound except the
silver trumpets, which had seemed so divinely inspired to me in the old
days. I remember quite well seeing Gounod on his knees, with tears
streaming down his face, and we were quite enchanted, lifted out of
ourselves and our every-day surroundings. This time I was perfectly
conscious of a great spectacle of the Catholic Church with its
magnificent "mise-en-scène," but nothing devotional or appealing to
one's religious feelings.

I should have liked to hear a great solemn choral of Bach, not an
ordinary melodious little tune; and yet for years after those first days
in Rome I never could play or hear the music of the silver trumpets
without being strangely moved.

I thought the Pope looked very pale and tired as he passed down the long
nave the last time and was finally carried off in his chair with his
peacock fans waving, and a stately procession of cardinals and prelates
following. I think he regrets Venice and the simple life there as pastor
of his people.

We saw plenty of people we knew as we were making our way through the
crowd to the carriage. Some of the ladies told us they had left their
hotel at 5.30 in the morning, they were so anxious to get a good place.
I told d'Antas I was very grateful to him, for I saw everything of
course perfectly, and took in many little details which I never could
have seen if we hadn't been so near. I also apologized to Madame d'Antas
for my modest, not to say mesquin attire; but she said as long as I was
all black, and had the black veil, it was of no consequence. There were
two or three ladies in the Royal Tribune--Grand Duchess of Saxe-Weimar
and Duchess Paul of Mecklenburg. We were a long time getting home, but
it was an interesting progress; all Rome out, a good many handsome
carriages, and I should think people from every part of the world, Rome
is so full of strangers.


                                                 Thursday, April 14th.

I never had a moment yesterday as it was the children's ball, and we
were all taken up with the preparations. It went off very well, and was
one of the prettiest sights I ever saw. The children danced extremely
well, though even at the last repetition things didn't go perfectly; but
evidently at all ages there is a sort of amour propre that carries one
through, when there is a gallery. The dresses were Louis XVI., paniers
and powder for the girls (and sweet they looked--Victoria quite a
picture with her large dark eyes and bright colour), embroidered coats,
long gilets, tricorne hats and swords for the boys. There were eight
couples, and very good music--4 violins playing Boccherini's minuet.
Bessie had arranged a very pretty "rampe" with white azaleas and pink
and yellow ribbons, separating the upper part of the ball-room, and the
space for the dancers was kept by 4 tall footmen in yellow gala liveries
and powder, who stood at each corner of the square, in their hands tall
gilt canes held together by bands of pink ribbon. It made a charming
"cadre"--you can't imagine how pretty the little procession looked as
they all filed in, the small ones first. I think perhaps the quite small
ones were the best; they were so important, took much trouble and
weren't as distracted by the spectators as the bigger ones. They were
much applauded, and were obliged to repeat the minuet after a little
rest. In an incredibly short time all the seats and various accessories
were taken away, and the ball began, ending with a very spirited
cotillon led by the son of the house, Don Camillo Ruspoli, and one of
his friends, the Marquis Guglielmi. They kept it up until dinner time,
when the various mammas, quite exhausted with the heat and the emotion
of seeing their children perform in public, carried them off; but the
children (ours certainly) were not at all tired.


                                                 Saturday, April 16th.

It is real summer weather--too hot to walk in the morning, particularly
from here, where we have to cross the open piazza before we can get
anywhere. Thursday we went to the races with the Brancaccios, on their
coach. It was most amusing, the road very animated all the way out from
Porta San Giovanni to Campanelle; every one making way for the coach as
they do in England. There was every description of vehicle, and
quantities of police and soldiers--the road very strictly guarded, as
the King and Queen were coming. It looked very pretty to see a patrol of
cuirassiers suddenly appearing from under an old archway, or behind a
bit of ruined wall, or from time to time one solitary soldier standing
on the top of a high mound. It was very hot, the sun too strong on our
heads, but we didn't go very fast; couldn't, in such a crowd, so we were
able to hold our parasols.

The course and all the tribunes were crowded; the women almost all in
white or light dresses. The King and Queen came in an open carriage with
four horses--no escort. We had a pleasant day, meeting quantities of
people we knew. We had rather a struggle for tea; there were not nearly
enough tables and chairs for so many people; but we finally got some
under difficulties, two of us sitting on the same chair and thankful to
get it.

The drive home was lovely, cool, and very little dust. Rome looked soft
and warm in the sunset light as we got near, and the statues on San
Giovanni Laterano almost golden as the light struck them. It was
interminable when we got into the file, and Brancaccio had some
difficulty in turning into his court-yard.


                                                   Monday, April 18th.

It is enchanting summer weather, but too hot for walking. I have had two
charming auto expeditions with Mr. and Mrs. Bishop. Saturday we started
after breakfast to Cività Vecchia. The country is not very interesting
near Rome, but it was delightful running along by the sea--the road low
and so close to the water that the little waves came nearly up to the
wheels. Cività Vecchia looked quite picturesque, rising up out of the
sea. We didn't stop there, merely drove through the town, and came home
another way inland, through the hills, quite beautiful, but _such_ sharp
turns and steep bits. We climbed straight up a high hill (2,000 feet)
soon after leaving Cività Vecchia, and had for some time a divine view
of sea and coast; then plunged at once into the mountains, great barren,
stony peaks with little old grey villages on top; hills rolling away on
each side, a wild, desolate country. The road was very lonely, we met
only a few carts; the peasants frantic with terror as the big auto
dashed by.

We passed Bracciano, the great feudal castle of the Odescalchi, with the
beautiful little blue lake at the bottom of the hill. It is a fine old
pile, square and grey, with battlements running all around it--more
imposing than attractive. After leaving Bracciano we flew--the road was
straight and level--and got back to Rome by Ponte Molle and Porta del
Popolo.

Sunday we made a longer expedition to the Falls of Terni. There were
three autos--quite a party. The road was very different, but quite
beautiful, green fields and olive woods, and lovely effects of light and
shade on the Campagna. The day was grey, the sun appearing every now and
then from behind a cloud, at first; later, when we stopped on the high
road, with not a vestige of tree or bit of wall to give us shade, we
longed for the clouds.

We soon began to climb, then down a long, winding hill to Cività
Castellana, an old fortified town, walls all around. We drove in through
the gate, and along a narrow steep street filled with people, as it was
Sunday, and asked if they had seen another auto. They told us yes, in
the piazza, so we went on, making our way with difficulty through the
crowded streets; every one taking a lively interest in the auto. The
square, too, was crowded, all the women in bright skirts and fichus, and
a fair sprinkling of uniforms; little carts with fruit and vegetables,
and two or three men with mandolins or violins (a mild little music) but
no signs of an auto. A splendid gentleman in uniform with waving plumes
and a sword (mayor, I suppose) came up and interviewed us, and told us
an auto had been there, coming from Rome, but had left about ten minutes
before; so we started off again, and had a beautiful drive to Terni. We
passed Narni, which stands very well on the top of a rock, high above
the little river which runs there through a narrow gorge to the Tiber.
We crossed a fine large bridge, then down a hill to Terni, where we
breakfasted. After breakfast we started for the Falls, about four miles
further on, and quite beautiful they are, a great rush of sparkling
water falling from a height and breaking into countless little falls
over the green moss-covered rocks below. It was delicious to hear the
sound of running water, and to feel the spray on our faces after our hot
ride.

We didn't get out. We shouldn't have seen the Falls any better, and
would have had to scramble over wet, slippery stones. There was the
usual collection of guides, beggars, etc., offering us pieces of
petrified stone, and of course post-cards of the Falls. Just around
Terni the hills are very green, the slopes covered with olive trees, and
quantities of white villas scattered about on the hillside, little
groups of people loitering about, women and girls making pretty bits of
colour as they strolled along. They love bright colours, and generally
have on two or three, red or blue skirts, yellow fichus on their heads,
or over their shoulders, coloured beads or gold pins. Some of them
carried such heavy loads on their heads or backs, great bundles of
fagots, or sacks of olives, old women generally. They are given that
work as a rest when they are too old to do anything in the fields.

We came home by another road, always the same wild mountain scenery,
always also the same sharp curves and steep descents. It is certainly
lovely country, green hills breaking away in every direction. As we got
higher, great stony, barren peaks, torrents rushing along at our feet,
and always on the top of a rock, rising straight up out of the hills, a
little old grey village (with usually a steeple and sometimes an old
square castle). Some of the villages were stretched along the
mountain-side about half-way up. They all looked perfectly lonely and
inaccessible, but I suppose life goes on there with just as much
interest to them, as in ours in the busy world beneath.

We raced up and down the hills, through beautiful country, scarcely
slackening when we passed through some little walled towns (hardly more
than one long crooked street), in at one gate and out at the other,
people all crowding into the piazza, smiling and taking off their hats.
Once or twice one heard them say "la Regina" evidently thinking it was
Queen Margherita, who loves her auto, and makes long country excursions
in it. It was a curious, fantastic progress, but enchanting.

The other autos had started some time ahead of us. We saw an object
(stationary) as we were speeding down a steep hill, which proved, as we
got near, to be one of them, stuck in a little stream, quite firmly
embedded in the sand, and looking as if nothing would ever get it out.
About 15 or 20 men were pulling and hauling, but it seemed quite
hopeless. It wasn't a very pleasant prospect for us either, as our auto,
too, was big and heavy, and we had to get across. It would have been too
far to go back all the way round. However, Mr. Bishop's chauffeur was
not in the least concerned, said he would certainly take _his_ carriage
over, and he did, Mrs. Bishop and me in it. We waited to see the other
one emerge from its bed of sand. The men pulled well, and talked as hard
as they pulled, and finally the great heavy machine was landed on the
other side.

We had a long level stretch, about 20 kilometres, before we got into
Rome, and we raced the train, all the passengers wildly excited. It is
curious to see how one gets accustomed to the speed when the carriage
rolls smoothly. It seemed quite natural to me to fly past everything,
and yet when Strutz has occasionally whirled us in to La Ferté to catch
the express I haven't been comfortable at all.


                                                       April 22, 1904.

Yesterday afternoon Bessie and I went to the reception at the Villa
Médicis, which was pleasant. We liked the music of the I^{er} Prix de
Rome, and it was interesting to see the pictures and sculpture. I think
the faces of the young men interested me, perhaps, more than their
work--they looked so young and intelligent and hopeful, so eager for the
battle of life; and yet so many find it such a struggle. There is so
much concurrence in everything, and an artist's life is precarious. The
very qualities which make their genius unfit them so for all the cares
and worries of a career which must always have ups and downs.

We went late for a drive in the Corso and Via Nazionale to see all the
preparations for Loubet's arrival. They are certainly taking no end of
trouble--flags, draperies, and festoons of flowers, in all the principal
streets. The garden they are making in Piazza Colonna is quite
wonderful--quite tall trees, little green lawns, and the statue of a
Roman emperor. Quantities of people looking on at the workmen and
walking about in the piazza. The Via Nazionale, too, is gorgeous with
draperies, shields, and large medallions with French and Italian colours
entwined.

This afternoon I went off alone and did some sight-seeing. We shall go
in a few days, and I haven't seen half I wanted to. I went straight over
to the Trastevere; first to Santa Maria, with its queer old mosaic
façade, looking more Byzantine than Italian; then on to Santa Cecilia,
where a nice old sacristan took me all over, showed me the chapel
supposed to be directly over Santa Cecilia's bath-room (the church is
said to be built on the very spot where her house stood), and of course
the tomb of the saint. Then, as I had nothing particular to do, I drove
out toward Monte Mario, which is a lovely drive in the afternoon, the
view of Rome looking back is so beautiful. It is a long steep hill, with
many turns, so one gets the view on all sides. The Cork Valley was green
and lovely, and the road was unusually quiet. I think everybody is on
the Corso looking at the festal preparations. I went back to the house
to get Bessie, and we went to tea with the Waldo Storys, in his studio.
He has some beautiful things--two fountains in particular are quite
charming.

We all dined out, Bessie and Josephine with Cardinal Mathieu, I at the
American Embassy with the Meyers. We had a pleasant dinner--four or five
small tables. They have Mrs. Field's apartment in the Brancaccio
Palace--entertain a great deal, and are much liked in Rome.

[Illustration: The Dining-room in the Brancaccio Palace.]

We came home early, and I am finishing this letter to-night. It is very
warm, the windows open, and the street sounds very gay. To say that we
have heard the Marseillaise these last days but faintly expresses how we
have been pursued by the well-known air. Everybody sings or whistles it,
all the street musicians, hand-organs, guitars, accordions, and brass
bands play it all day and all night; and we hear the music of a
neighbouring barrack working at it every morning. At this present moment
a band of youths are howling it under the window. I think they are
getting ready to amuse themselves when the President arrives.

It was most amusing in the streets this morning, flags flying, draperies
being put up everywhere, troops marching across the Piazza di Spagna,
musique en tête, to exercise a little on the review ground before the
great day--quantities of people everywhere. They say all the hotels will
be crowded to-morrow, and with French people, which rather surprises me,
but they tell me there are deputations from Avignon, Marseilles, and
various other southern towns. They are beginning to arrange the Spanish
Steps quite charmingly--a perfect carpet of flowers (if only it doesn't
rain).


                                                  Saturday, April 23d.

It poured this morning, and all night I heard the rain beating against
the window every time I woke. The clouds are breaking a little now, at
three o'clock, so perhaps it has rained itself out, and the President
may have the "Queen's weather" to-morrow. Our Loubet invitations are
beginning to come--a soirée at the Capitol; great ricevimento, all the
statues illuminated with pink lights; a gala at the opera; another great
reception at the French Embassy (Quirinal); and the review.

Josephine and I have been dining with the grand duchess at her hotel. We
were a small party, and it was pleasant enough. She talks easily about
everything, and loves Rome. The evening was not long. We all sat in a
semicircle around her sofa after dinner. Every one smoked (but me), and
she retired about ten.

We have been talking over plans since we got back. Bessie will start
to-morrow night. She is not keen naturally about the Loubet fêtes, and
Palma[35] wants her to stay over two or three days with her in the
country somewhere near Ancona. She will meet me in Turin, and we will
come on together from there. It is still raining--I hope it will stop.

[35] Princesse di Poggio Suasa, née Talleyrand-Périgord.


                                                  Tuesday, April 26th.

I had no time to write Sunday, as we were going all day. Bessie and I
went to church in the morning, and then I left some P. P. C. cards on
Cardinals Vannutelli, Mathieu, etc., also a note to the grand duchess to
thank her for the photographs of Antonelli which she sent me last
night--two very good ones, with a nice little note, saying she thought I
would perhaps keep the big one for myself "as a souvenir of old times
and new friends."

The Corso looked quite brilliant as we drove through--the bright sun
seemed to have completely dried the flags and festoons and the streets
were full of people, all gaping and smiling, and in high good-humour.
The Spanish Steps were charming, the great middle flight entirely
covered with flowers, looking like an enormous bright carpet.

We had some visits after breakfast, and started about three to the
Countess Bruschi's, who has an apartment with windows looking directly
over to the "Esedra di Termine," where the syndic, Prince Prosper
Colonna, was to receive the President. There was such a crowd, and there
were so many people going to the same place, that we thought that would
be hopeless, so we returned and made our way with difficulty, as the
streets were crowded, to the Via Nazionale, where a friend of
Josephine's had asked us to come. She established us on a balcony, and
there we saw splendidly. The street is rather narrow, and the balcony
not high. The crowd was most amusing, perfectly good-natured, even at
times when a band of roughs would try to break the lines, pushing
through the rows of screaming, struggling women and children, and
apparently coming to a hand-to-hand fight with the policemen; but as
soon as the soldiers charged into them--which they did repeatedly during
the afternoon--they dispersed; nobody was hurt (I never can imagine why
not, when the horses all backed down on them), nobody protested
violently, and the crowd cheered impartially both sides. These little
skirmishes went on the whole afternoon until we heard the Marcia Reale,
and saw the escort appearing. A troop of cuirassiers opened the march.
The royal carriages with the red Savoie liveries were very handsome--all
the uniforms making a great effect--the King and President together,
both looking very happy, the King in uniform, the President in plain
black with a high hat, returning all the salutations most smilingly. He
was enthusiastically received, certainly--there were roars of applause,
which became frantic when some of the military bands played the
Marseillaise. As soon as the cortège had passed the crowd broke up,
quantities of people following the carriage to the Quirinal, where the
great square was crowded. There, too, they were so enthusiastic that the
President had to appear on the balcony between the King and Queen.

We started out again after dinner, and wanted to see the torch-light
procession, but didn't, as our movements were a little complicated. We
took Bessie to the station, and waited to see her start. When we came
out the procession had passed, but the streets were still brilliantly
lighted and very gay, quantities of people about.

Yesterday we had a delightful expedition to Porta d'Anzio and
Nettuno--two autos--and some of the party by train. We were really glad
to get out of the streets and the crowd of sight-seers. Quantities of
people have come from all parts of Italy to see the show, and are
standing about all day in compact little groups, gaping at the festoons
and decorations. It is frightful to think of the microbes that are
flying about.

We started early, at 9.30, went straight out toward Albano, to the foot
of the hill, then turned off sharp to the right, taking a most lovely
road, chestnut trees on each side, and hedges white and fragrant with
hawthorn. As we got near Porta d'Anzio we had a beautiful view of a
bright blue summer sea. The first arrivals had ordered breakfast in
quite a clean hotel, evidently other people had thought too that it
would be pleasant to get out of Rome to-day, as there were several
parties in the dining-room, which was large and bright, but no view of
the sea.

After breakfast we all wandered out to the shore, and walked about a
little, but the sun was hot and the glare very trying--the sea like a
painted ocean, all the sails of the little pleasure boats, and even
fishing boats further out, hanging in folds, the boats just drifting
with the tide. The place is enchanting, and the little point of Nettuno
quite white in the sun, stretching out into the blue sea, was
fairy-like--the colours almost too vivid. The various boatmen lounging
about in bright coloured shirts and sashes were very anxious we should
sail or row to Nettuno, but the sea, though beautiful, looked hot, and
we were rather sceptical about the breeze which they assured us always
got up after 12.

We went off in the auto to the Villa Borghese, about half-way between
Porta d'Anzio and Nettuno, which is a Paradise. It stands high, in a
lovely green park and looks straight out to sea. The drive through the
park by the galleria, trees meeting over our heads, and the road winding
up and down through the little wood was delightful, so shady and
resting to the eyes after the glare and sun of the beach. All the way to
Nettuno there are quantities of villas, fronting the sea, some very high
with terraces sloping down to the water, all with gardens. Nettuno
itself is an interesting little place with a fine old feudal castle.
Some of the party had chosen to sail from Porta d'Anzio to Nettuno, and
we saw their boat, full of children, just moving along close to the
shore.

We had tea on the shore, made in Countess Frankenstein's tea-basket, and
it was delicious sitting there, seeing the little blue waves break at
our feet, and the beautiful clear atmosphere making everything look so
soft and near.

The coming home was enchanting, very few people on the road, so we could
come quickly, and the flying through the air was delightful after the
heat and fatigue of the day. The Campagna is beautiful at the end of the
day; so quiet, long stretches of green just broken here and there by the
shepherds' huts, and the long lines of aqueducts, curiously lonely so
close to a great city.

We had just time to dress and dine, and start for the gala at the opera.
The theatre (Argentina) is small, and stands in a narrow street. There
was a long file of carriages, and so little space in front, that there
could be no display of troops, music, etc., as one has always in Paris
for a gala night at the Opera. Inside, too, all is small, the entrance,
corridor, staircase, etc. Once we had got to our box the coup d'oeil was
charming. The whole house is boxes, tier upon tier, all dark red inside,
which threw out the women's dresses and jewels splendidly. They were
almost all in white with handsome tiaras, the men in uniform, at least
the diplomatists and officers. The peuple souverain, senators, deputies,
etc., in the parterre were in black. The heat was something awful. The
Court came very punctually--the Queen looked handsome with her beautiful
tiara, the King of course in uniform, the President between them in
black with no decoration. The house went mad (every one standing of
course) when they played the Marseillaise, all the parterre cheering and
waving hats and handkerchiefs; equally mad when they stopped that and
played the Marcia Reale. The King, who is generally quite impassive,
looked pleased. The performance, like all gala performances, was long,
but the Royal party didn't look bored, and seemed to talk to each other,
and to Loubet quite a good deal. The King has a serious, almost stern
face, with a keen, steady look in the eye. I should think he saw
everything. The end of the ballet was a fine potpourri of French and
Italian flags, Marseillaise and Marcia Reale, and the Court left in a
roar of cheers. The Queen bowed very graciously and prettily right and
left as she turned to go.

The getting away was difficult and disagreeable, the narrow street was
crowded with royal carriages, all the horses prancing and backing, and
no one paying attention to anything else. However, it was a fine, dry
night, and once we had got across the street we found our carriage
(guided by the faithful Pietro) without any trouble.

This morning the Piazza is most interesting. Evidently the King and
President pass at the foot of the square, as there are troops
everywhere, and a double line of soldiers stretching across the top of
the Tritone. Every description of vehicle, omnibuses, fiacres, peasants'
carts, people on horseback, all ranged close up behind the soldiers;
groups of carabinieri with their red plumets are scattered about the
Piazza; a long line of red-coated German seminarists crossing at one
end, two or three Cappucini with their sandals, bare feet, and ropes at
their waists, coming out of their church, but not stopping to see the
show.

I am writing as usual at the window, and a fine smell of frittura comes
up from the shop underneath. A most animated discussion is going on just
under the window between a peasant, sitting well back on his donkey's
tail, two baskets slung over his saddle, strawberries in one, nespoli
(medlars) in the other, and a group of ragged, black-eyed little imps to
whom some young Englishmen have just given some pennies. They all talk,
and every now and then some enterprising boy makes a dive at the
baskets, whereupon the man makes his donkey kick, and the children
scatter. All the people in the street, and the coachmen of the little
botte (there is a station in the Piazza Barberini) take a lively
interest in the discussion; so do I from the window, but the police are
arriving and the man will be obliged to come to terms. The coachmen of
the botte are a feature of Rome, they spot the foreigner at once, and
always try to get the better of him. I took a carriage the other day to
go and breakfast with Mrs. Cameron in the Piazza di Spagna, about two
minutes' drive, and asked our porter what I must give the coachman. He
said one lira (franc). When we arrived I gave my franc, which he
promptly refused to receive; however I told him I knew that was the
tariff and I wouldn't give any more. He protested energetically, giving
every possible reason why I should give more--his carriage was the best
in the piazza, the road (Via Tritone) was very bad, down hill and
slippery, he had waited some time in the piazza for me, etc.; however I
was firm and said I would only give him one franc. Two other coachmen
who were standing near joined in the discussion and told him he was
quite wrong, that a franc was all he was entitled to. He instantly
plunged into an angry dispute with them, and in the meantime Mrs.
Cameron's door opened, so I put the franc on the cushion of the
carriage, he in a frenzy, telling me he wouldn't go away, but would stay
there with his carriage until I came out. That I told him he was at
perfect liberty to do, and went into the house. He and the others then
proceeded to abuse each other and make such a row that when I got up to
Mrs. Cameron's rooms she said she couldn't think what was going on in
the street, there was such a noise and violent quarrelling--so I told
her it was all me and my botta.


                                                 Thursday, April 28th.

Well, dear, the fêtes are over, the President has departed, and the
Piazza Barberini has at once resumed its ordinary aspect; no more
carabinieri, nor police, nor carriages full of people, waiting all day
in the square in the hope of seeing King or President pass. I wonder
what the old Triton sitting on his shell with his dolphins around him
thinks of this last show. He has sat there for centuries, throwing his
jet of water high in the air, and seeing many wonderful sights.

The reception at the Farnese Palace was most brilliant last night. We
got there too late to see the King and Queen and President receiving;
there was such a crowd in the streets, which were all illuminated, that
we couldn't get across the Corso, and were obliged to make a long
détour. The Farnese Palace looked beautiful as we came up, the rows of
lights throwing out the splendid façade, the big doors open, quantities
of handsome carriages, people in uniform and ladies in full dress and
jewels who had got out of their carriages, crowding into the grand old
court. The royal carriages were all drawn up inside the court, and the
group of footmen in their bright red liveries made a fine effect of
colour at the foot of the stairs. It was an interesting assemblage, all
Rome (White) there, and all most curious to see the President. I didn't
see either King or Queen. They were already making their progress
through the rooms, which were so crowded that it was impossible to pass.
The famous Carracci Gallery looked magnificent lighted. The Ambassador
and Madame Barrère received their numerous guests most courteously, and
didn't look tired, but I fancy it was a relief to them when the fêtes
and their responsibility were over.

We have had to put off our journey until Saturday. They wouldn't
undertake to keep us reserved compartments, not even sleeping, until
Saturday, there would be such a crowd. I don't exactly know why, for the
President left this morning, going south, and we, of course, are coming
north, but every one told me not to go, so we have telegraphed to the
Ruspolis to say we would go out and breakfast with them at Nemi.

There were quantities of affiches posted everywhere this morning which I
shouldn't think would please either the King of Italy or the French
President: "Viva Loubet--Viva Combes--Viva la France anticléricale."

Josephine and I went for a drive. It had rained all the morning, and was
grey and damp, but we didn't mind. We both of us love the Campagna in
all its varying aspects. We walked about for some time, but had
difficulty in choosing our ground, on account of the shepherds' dogs,
which are very fierce sometimes, and the troops of buffaloes. Josephine
had a disagreeable experience one day with the buffaloes. She was
walking on the Campagna with her small children and her Italian footman,
when suddenly a troop of these wild creatures charged down upon her at a
headlong pace. There was no refuge of any kind near; the footman,
frightened to death, promptly ran away. She was terrified, but didn't
lose her head. She stood quite still, the children clinging to her
skirts, and the herd divided, passing by on either side; but she might
have been trampled to death. Naturally she has given them a wide berth
since.


                                                   Friday, April 29th.

I will finish to-night dear, as we have come upstairs early after a long
day in the country. The trunks are all ready, some of them downstairs,
and we start early to-morrow morning. They say the confusion yesterday
at the station, when the President departed, was awful,
people--ladies--rushing about distractedly trying to find places, no
footmen allowed inside, not enough porters to carry the heavy
dressing-bags and rouleaux. Some people couldn't get any places, could
only start last night.

We had a pleasant day at Nemi. We went out by train. There were a good
many people, evidently starting for the regular round of Castelli
Romani, principally English and Americans, and principally women, very
few men, but large parties, six and seven, of women and girls. It is a
pretty road across the Campagna and up the steep hill to Albano, and as
our speed was not terrifying we had ample time to see everything. The
Ruspoli carriage was waiting for us, and we had a beautiful drive to
Nemi. It is really a lovely little place--the deep blue lake at the foot
of the hills, and all the country about us green. Our hosts were waiting
for us in one of the numerous salons, and we had time to go over the
castle a little before breakfast, which we had in a charming
old-fashioned room, with wonderful frescoes on the walls. They have
already done wonders in the old feudal castle, and I should think it
would be a charming summer residence, as no heat could penetrate these
thick walls. The view from the balcony was divine, over green slopes and
little woods to the lake.

We missed our train at Albano, so drove on to Castel Gandolfo and waited
there for the next one. We had goûter in a lovely little pergola
overlooking the lake of Albano, with the great papal villa opposite. It
is not very interesting as to architecture, a large square pile. No Pope
has lived there since Pio Nono. I believe some French nuns are settled
there now.

It was very warm walking about the little old town, which looked as if
it had been asleep for years--no one in the streets, no beggars even, no
movement of any kind. Just as we were starting for the station three or
four carriages filled with tourists rattled through. It is curious to
see how life seems to go on in just the same grooves in all these little
towns. Rome has so changed--changes so all the time--is getting
cosmopolitan, a great capital; but all these little mountain villages
seem quite the same as in the old days of Savellis, Colonnas, and
Orsinis, when most of the great feudal chiefs were at daggers drawn and
all the country fought over, and changing hands after each fierce
encounter. The few people one meets look peaceful enough, but on the
smallest provocation eyes flash, tones and gestures get loud and
threatening, but apparently they calm down at once and are on the whole,
I fancy, a lazy, peaceable population.

It is warm to-night, the windows are open and the Marseillaise still has
the honours of the night--one hears it everywhere.




INDEX


Albano, 30

Alberti, 20-21

Alfieri, 105

Allessandri, Carlo, 27, 35

Altieri, Cardinal, death of, 30

Angelico, Fra, 39

Antonelli, Cardinal, 61, 284, 288, 306

d'Aosta, Duke, 223

Apponyi, Count, 73

Arbuthnot, Miss, 26

d'Asoli, 271

d'Asoli, Princess, 254

d'Aubigny, M. and Madame, 45

d'Aulnay, 62, 116

d'Aulnay, Comtesse, 57

Austria, Emperor of, 177

d'Autas, 295


Baddeley, Mr., 280

Bailey, Mrs., 76

Bailleul, Madame de, 230;
  received by the Queen, 240, 244, 257

Bandini, Prince, 144

Bandini, Princess, 51, 54, 63, 69, 145;
  gives musicale, 146

Beauharnais, Comtesse de, 116

Bertheny, Countess de, 262

Bibra, 62, 69, 143, 145

Bicletis, Monsignor, 249, 250, 251, 255

Bishop, Mr. and Mrs., 299

Bonghi, 105

Borghese, Giovanni, 266

Brancaccio, Princess, 93

Brandt, Otto, 102

Brinquant, 21

Bruce, Mrs., 41, 50, 51;
  gives dinner, 68-69, 89, 106, 169, 174

Brusatti, General, 275

Bruschi, Countess, 306

Bunsen, Charles de, 14, 34;
  arrives at Rome, 108, 110, 114, 118;
  returns to Florence, 119, 180

Bunsen, Madame de, 14, 15, 34, 179, 180, 254, 288


Cabat, M., 117

Cabriac, Marquis de, 71

Cairoli, 45, 52, 64, 80;
  speaks in Chamber, 83;
  gives dinner, 96-98

Cairoli, Madame, 45, 51, 64, 68;
  gives dinner, 96-98

Calabrini, 51, 56, 62, 63, 67, 81

Calice, Countess, 67

Cameron, Mrs., 311

Caprannica, Bianca, 142

Caprannica, Marchesa, 142

Cardenas, the, give dinner, 144

Cavaletti, Maurizio, 69

Cavour, 84, 223, 224

Celleri, Countess, 80, 99

Cenci, 54

Cesarini, Marquise Villa, 253

Chambord, Comte de, 117

Charles Albert, King of Savoy, 220

Charette, 120

Chigi, Marquise, 89

Cialdini, 67

Coello, Count, 148

Colobiano, Count, 222

Colonna, Prince, 282, 283, 306

Colonna, Princess, death of, 30

Comandi, 29

Cook, 91, 95

Crosby, Schuyler, 37

Curtis, Bessie, 61, 230


Daudet, M., 200

Del Monte, 108, 148;
  walk with, 172

Despretis, Madame, 51

Desprez, 45, 55, 57, 71, 92, 144

Diemor, 248

Director of Museum at Milan, 186, 199, 212, 216

Doria, 100

Doria, Gwendoline, 81


Edwards, Mrs., 65

Edwards, Hon. Sylvia, 65

Elena, Queen of Italy, gives audience, 240-242;
  at the court ball, 243, 253, 299;
  at the opera, 310;
  gives reception in honour of President Loubet, 312

English, Monsignor, 63, 66, 79;
  brings Pope's photograph, 155

d'Eu, Comte and Comtesse, 250

Evans, Father, 268


Field, Mr., 245

Field, Mrs., 237, 305

Forbes, Misses, 26, 184

Frankenstein, Countess, 309

Freycinet, 5, 60

Freycinet, Madame de, 6

Fua, Teresina, 248


Gabriac, Marquis de, 144

Garibaldi, 120, 122

Genoa, Duchess of, 287, 288

Geoffroy, 62, 63, 64, 89, 117, 168

Geoffroy, Madame, 117

Germany, Crown Princess of, 101, 104, 108, 109, 207;
  daughters of, 210

Gianotti, Count, 243, 262

Gianotti, Countess, gives afternoon tea, 262

Gittone, 275

Gosselins, 108, 109

Gounod, 296

Grants, 51

Gravina, 96

Greppi, Comte, 275

Grévy, Madame, 9, 11

Guadagni, Madame, 34

Guery, Don, 272, 279

Guglielmi, Marquis, 298


Helena, Queen of Italy, see Elena

Hoffman, Mr., 216, 222, 223

Hohenlohe, Cardinal, 165

Hooker Mr., 51, 66, 120;
  gives dinner, 142, 174;
  recollections, 176

Howard, Cardinal, 50, 61, 70, 75, 109, 147

Hubert, 225

Hubert, Madame, 13, 47, 58, 63, 71, 168, 185, 188, 196, 200, 203, 216, 221

Humbert, King of Italy, 65, 66;
  birthday, 76, 79, 91


Ireland, Monsignor, 23

Ismail, Pasha, ex-Khedive of Egypt, 76


Kahn, Malcolm, 275

Keats, John, 286

Keudell, 101-103, 106, 108

Keudell, Madame, 102, 103, 108

King, Charles, 30;
  death of, 119-120

King, Fanny, 176

King, Henrietta, 124, 134, 218

King, Mrs., 123, 132, 134, 137, 139

King, William, 124, 132

Kruft, 5


Lanciani, 44, 63, 88, 89, 159

Landi, Madame, 40

Law, Mrs., 275

Leuchtenberg, Duke of, 116

Loubet, President, 305;
  reception of, 306-307;
  at the opera, 309-310;
  at the reception at the Farnese Palace, 312, 314

Lovatellis, 51, 94

Low, Mr. and Mrs. Seth, 273

Lucchesi-Palli, 117

Lyons, Lord, 7


MacMahon, Madame de, 10, 11

MacMahon, Marshal, 10, 73

Maffei, 64, 97, 108, 159

Malatesta, Felice, 59, 61, 86, 94, 108

Malatesta, Countess, 75

Maquay, George, 32, 35, 184

Maquay, Louisa, 36, 184

Maquay, Nina, 36, 184

Marcello, Comtesse, 93, 95, 98

Margherita, Queen of Italy, 220, 234;
  gives audience, 253, 285, 287

Marina, Marquise Villa, 253, 285, 287

Massari, 87, 105

Massimo, Prince, 74, 218, 255, 272

Mathieu, Cardinal, 254, 255, 304, 306

Medici, Catherine de', 33

Menabrea, 67

Meyers, the, give dinner, 304

Michelangelo, 59

Minghetti, 52, 56, 69, 81, 105, 181-183

Minghetti, Madame, 51, 52, 56, 57, 69, 81;
  receives, 105, 108

Mirafiori, Comtesse, 183

Mohl, Madame, 50

Murrays, 209, 210-211

Mustel, M. Alphonse, 279, 280, 285;
  plays before Queen Margherita, 287


Naples, Prince of, 86, 94

Napoleon, Louis, 84, 223

Nassau, Duke of, 28

Nevin, Dr., 48, 88, 242

Nina, Cardinal, 61, 80

Nisard, M., 240

Noailles, Marquis de, 45, 48, 87, 98

Noailles, Marquise de, 48, 51, 56, 57;
  gives dinner, 64, 87, 96, 100;
  receives, 107, 108;
  gives farewell dinner to the Waddingtons, 159

Norton, Mrs., 139-142


Orloff, Prince, 10

Orsini, Prince, 295

"Ouida," 27;
  description of, 28

Ouronsoff, Prince, 244


Paget, Sir Augustus, 51, 64, 82, 102, 109

Paget, Lady, 51, 57, 64;
  receives, 89, 102, 109

Palfy, Count, 52, 70, 92;
  conversation with, 174

Pallavicini, Princess, 51, 54, 67;
  gives reception, 86-87, 246;
  receives, 277

Pannissera, Madame, 107

Pasetti, Baron, 242

Paul, Duchess of Mecklenburg, 297

Pécoul, Thérèse, 273

Perret, 68

Peruzzi, Edith, 18, 36, 108, 184

Peruzzi, Ubaldino, 181, 206

Pierson, 4

Pietro, 267, 310

Pietro, Cardinal di, 79

Poggio-Suasa, Princess di (née Curtis), 230, 238, 244, 248;
  gives dinner, 259, 262, 266;
  gives dinner, 273, 285, 286, 291, 292, 294, 304, 305, 313

Poggio-Suasa, Princess di (née Talleyrand-Périgord), 305

Polk, Antoinette, 160

Pontécoulant, Comte de, 8, 12

Pope Leo XIII, 58;
  audience with, 59;
  described, 59, 60, 71, 146;
  in his garden, 155, 156, 250

Pope Pius IX, 56, 58, 59, 69;
  how he was received in the streets when he rode out, 146;
  description of the blessing from the balcony of St. Peter's,
       157-158, 250, 264, 315

Pope Pius X, audience with, 249-251;
  description of, 250

Primoli, 144


Queen of Naples, Dowager, death of, 30


Ramée, Mlle. de la, 27

Rampolla, Cardinal, 295

Récamier, Madame, 168

Rignano, Madame, 99

Ripaldi, Duke di, 57, 100, 159

Ristori, Madame, 142

Roccagiovine, Marchese, 266

Rodmans, 233

Rossi, de, 89

Rothschild, Madame Alphonse, 99

Rudini, Marchesa, gives fête, 272

Ruspoli, Camillo, 289, 291, 298

Ruspoli, Don Emanuele, 231, 263

Ruspoli, Victoria, 255;
  gives dinner, 276, 315


St. Asilea, 87, 98

Sand, George, 38

Sant' Onofrio, Madame de, 96

Savonarola, 39

Savoy, Princes of, 94

Saxe-Weimar, Grand Duchess, 259, 297

Say, Léon, 60

Schuyler, Eugene, 35, 41, 42, 44, 56, 69, 77, 110, 112, 142

Schuyler, Mrs. Eugene ("Gert"), 35, 41, 42, 44, 61, 62, 63, 64, 67, 69;
  trouble with maid, 76-78, 79, 80, 82, 89, 92, 108, 110, 113, 118, 124,
        132, 142;
  at Tivoli, 161;
  gives farewell dinner, 174, 197

Sciarra, Princess, 49, 89

Seckendorff, Count, 103, 105, 108

Sella, 81, 84, 105

Sermoneta, Duke of, 54

Serristori, 35

Sibbern, Madame, 5

Smith, Father, 55, 79, 87, 91;
  presents a medal, 160, 174;
  conversations with, 177

Somaglia, Countess, 81, 87, 98, 117;
  her daughters, 117

Spencer, Mrs. Lorillard, 83

Staël, Madame de, 168

Stanley, Dean, 50

Stanley, Lady Augusta, 50

Sternberg, Mlle. de, 15, 18

Story, Mrs., 286

Story, Waldo, 239, 304

Story, W. W., 18, 109, 239

Sulmona, 72-73

Sulmona, Princess, 73, 87, 144

Sutteroth, M. Alphonse, 5, 8, 200, 227


Talleyrand-Périgord, Charles de, 26

Talleyrand-Périgord, Madame de, 27, 61

Talleyrand-Périgord, Marquise de (née Curtis), 230, 237, 242, 244;
  audience with the Pope, 249-251, 262, 266, 267, 275, 285, 290, 302, 304;
  leaves Rome, 307

Tchaitcheff, Madame de, 16, 25

Teano, Prince, 51, 54, 56, 105

Teano, Princess, gives ball, 99, 272

Theoduli, Marchesa, 83

Thomar, 71

Thurn, Princess de, 54

Tosti, 145;
  described and criticised, 147

Townshend, Mrs. Charles L., 95

Trocchi, 48;
  sends flowers, 169

Troubetzkoi, Princess Lise, 98

Turin, Comte de, 243

Turkam, Pasha, 76, 101


Uffizi, 36

Uxkull, 64, 81


Val, Cardinal Mery del, audience with, 251-252

Valery, Dr., 30, 77, 120

Van Loo, 62

Vannutelli, Cardinal Serafino, 295

Vannutelli, Cardinal Vincenzo, 240;
  dinner given for, 273, 295, 306

Van Rensselaer, Mrs., 67, 118

Van Schaick, Lottie, 16, 17, 35, 40, 184

Venosta, Visconti, 52;
  speaks in Chamber, 80, 83, 105, 159

Venosta, Madame Visconti, 64, 81, 89, 107

Vera, 108

Vicovaro, Princess, 83, 85

Victor Emmanuel, King of Italy, 218, 220, 231

Victor Emmanuel III, King of Italy, at the court ball, 243, 277, 299;
  receives President Loubet, 306-307;
  at the Opera, 310;
  gives reception in honour of President Loubet, 312

Villamarina, Marquis de, 81, 87

Virgo, M., 245, 266, 279

Visconti, 89

Vitali, Count, gives dinner for French Ambassador, 240

Vitelleschi, 67, 69, 87, 279

Vitelleschi, Marchesa, gives tea, 278


Waddington, Evelyn, 61

Waddington, Francis, has Christmas tree, 5;
  left in Paris, 12, 108, 225, 251

WADDINGTON, Madame, leaves Quai d'Orsay, 3-4;
  calls on Madame de Freycinet, 6;
  formal receptions, 8;
  receives Mesdames Grévy and MacMahon, 11;
  arrives at Florence, 12;
  arrives at M. de Bunsen's, 14;
  atypical Florentine party, 18;
  a visit from Alberti, 20;
  recalls picnic at Segna, 20-22;
  visits the Ponte Vecchio, 24;
  drives to Santa Maria Novella, 25;
  tea at Camerata, 26;
  dines with Talleyrand-Périgord, 26;
  takes tea with "Ouida," 27;
  impressions of "Ouida," 28;
  drives to Villa Careggi, 31;
  drives to the Certosa and Casa Guadagni, 34;
  decides to go to Rome, 35;
  Maquay dinner, 35;
  drives out Fiesole way, 37;
  visits Fra Angelico's and Savonarola's cells at San Marco, 39;
  musical evening with the Landis, 40;
  arrives at Rome, 41;
  her father's illness, 42;
  calls on Eugene Schuyler, 44;
  invitations from Embassies, 44;
  drives along the Via Appia, 45;
  visit to the Vatican, 47;
  visit from the Marquis de Noailles, 48;
  Princess Sciarra's ball, 49;
  recollections of Dean Stanley and Cardinal Howard, 50;
  reception at the Schuylers', 51;
  reception at Princess Pallavicini's, 54;
  pointed out as distinguished strangers, 55;
  dinner at the Teanos', 56;
  breakfast at the Noailles', 57;
  audience with the Pope, 58-60;
  dinner at the of, 63;
  dinner at the Noailles', 64;
  attends the opera, 69;
  dines at the Portuguese Embassy, 71-74;
  dines with the Pagets, 81;
  dinner at the Calabrinis', 84;
  attends American Church, 88;
  walk on Good Friday, 90;
  service at St. Peter's, 90;
  service at St. John Lateran, 91;
  note from the Quirinal, 92;
  audience with the Queen of Italy, 92-95;
  meets the Prince of Naples, 94;
  breakfast with the Noailles, 95;
  sees Farnese Palace, 95;
  visits the Bakers' tomb, 96;
  dines with the Cairoli, 96-98;
  day at the races, 98-99;
  protests against "valise" regulations, 98;
  attends Teano ball, 99;
  visits the Trevi Fountain, 100;
  tea with the Duke di Ripaldo, 100;
  dines at German Embassy and meets German Crown Princess, 102-105;
  attends reception at the Noailles', 107;
  musical evening at the Schuylers', 108;
  dinner with the Wimpffens, 108;
  meets Crown Princess again, 109;
  excursion to Frascati, 110;
  fails to visit Tusculum, 112, 113;
  trip to the Vatican, 114-115;
  ball at the British Embassy, 116;
  dinner at Villa Medici, 117;
  recollections of 1867, 119;
  goes to Naples, 119;
  sees Vesuvius in eruption, 123;
  ascends Mt. Vesuvius, 124-125;
  a long wait at an inn, 126-130;
  fête at the Stella del Mare, 135;
  the nun, 135;
  sail to Capri, 136;
  Capri, 137;
  a Capri fisher-girl, 139-141;
  dinner at Mr. Hooker's, 142;
  visit to the Doria Gallery, 143;
  dines at the Spanish Embassy, 144;
  musicale at Princess Bandini's, 146;
  hears Lohengrin in Italian, 148;
  drives to Albano, 149-153;
  last turn in the Vatican, 154;
  receives the Pope's photograph, 155;
  drives to the Villa Madama, 157;
  farewell dinner at the Noailles', 159;
  a day at Tivoli, 161-165;
  a lonely road, 167;
  last drive in the country, 169;
  walk with Del Monte, 173;
  arrives at Milan, 180;
  attends the races, 183;
  holds small reception, 184;
  a drive about Milan, 187;
  a visit to the Brera, 188-189;
  visit to the Duomo, 190;
  a second visit to the Brera, 192-193;
  describes the Piazza dei Mercanti, 201, 202;
  an afternoon at Monza, 204-206;
  leaves Milan and arrives at Turin, 211;
  trip to La Superga, 219-221;
  returns to Paris, 225;
  Rome revisited, 229;
  attends a ball at the Storys', 239;
  dinner at Count Vitali's, 240;
  received by the Queen, 240-242;
  attends the court ball, 243-244;
  in the garden of the Vatican, 247;
  music at the French Embassy, 248;
  audience with the Pope, 249-251;
  audience with Cardinal Mery del Val, 251-252;
  audience with Queen Margherita, 253;
  breakfast with Princess d'Arsoli, 254;
  at the Pope's audience, 255-256;
  an expedition to the Catacombs, 257;
  dines with Princess Poggio-Suasa, 259;
  automobile excursion with Countess de Bertheny, 262-265;
  trip to Tusculum, 267;
  special guards, 269;
  fête at the Massimo Palace, 271;
  fête given by Marchesa Rudini, 272;
  dines with Malcolm Kahn, 275;
  dines with the Ruspolis, 276;
  Holy Thursday at St. Peter's, 281;
  visits her father's grave, 285;
  a musical evening at the Palace, 287-288;
  excursion to San Gregorio, 289-291;
  attends ceremony at St. Peter's, the 13th anniversary of Pope Gregorio
        Magno, 292-296;
  children's ball, 297-298;
  auto trips with the Bishops, 299-301;
  reception at the Villa Médicis, 303;
  dines with the Meyers, 304;
  dines with the Grand Duchess, 305;
  reception of President Loubet, 306-307;
  attends gala night at the opera, 309-310;
  reception at the Farnese Palace, 312-313

_Waddington_, M. William H., resigns as Premier, 3;
  refuses London Embassy, 6;
  leaves Paris and arrives at Florence, 12;
  arrives at M. de Bunsen's, 14;
  attends the Peruzzis' party and meets Bentivoglio, 18;
  dines with Talleyrand-Périgord, 26;
  calls on Madame Guadagni, 34;
  arrival at Rome, 41;
  talks with Eugene Schuyler, 44;
  various invitations from Embassies, 44;
  visit to the Vatican, 47;
  visit from Marquis de Noailles, 48;
  reception in his honour at the Schuylers', 51;
  pointed out as a celebrated man, 55;
  has audience with the Pope and converses about politics, 50-60;
  the Pope's opinion of him, 63;
  dinner at the Noailles', "Cotelettes à la Waddington," 64;
  has audience with King Humbert, 65-66;
  meets Cardinal Howard, 70;
  curiosity to meet him, 75;
  attends the Chambre des Députés, 80;
  second visit to the Chambre des Députés, 83;
  goes to San Clemente, 87;
  walk on the Campagna, 88;
  audience with the Queen of Italy, 92-95;
  insists on "valise" reform, 98;
  delighted with di Ripalda's frescoes, etc., 101;
  conversation with Turkam Bey, 101;
  received by the German Crown Princess, 103;
  dines with de Rossi, 118;
  change of mental atmosphere, 147;
  trip to Albano, 149-153;
  last visit to the Vatican, 154;
  conversation with Father Smith, 177;
  speech-making, 181;
  visits the cabinet de médailles at Milan, 186;
  a visit to the Brera, 192-193;
  receives Mr. Hoffman, 223-224;
  arrives in Paris, 225

Wales, Princess of, 242

Wallace, Sir Donald, 281

Weling, Mlle. de, 28

Westenberg, Madame, 68

Wilbrahams, the, 69

Wimpffen, Count, 64, 81, 89, 107, 242

Wimpffen, Comtesse, 56;
  gives dinner, 62, 64, 68, 83;
  gives reception, 84-87, 89, 98, 105;
  dinner to German Crown Princess, 108-109

Wurts, Mr. and Mrs., 69;
  give dinner, 248, 284, 285


Zuylen, Cornélie, 83




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Transcriber's note:

Spelling has been made consistent throughout but reflects the
author's preference. Hyphenation has been made consistent.