Chapter XIV: Part 14

The costumes of the women are wonderful, full of complexities; you have to turn them around before you can tell if she is a man or a woman; they wear hats like a coal-carrier in England, pantaloons, an apron, and--well! the Countess had a woman brought to the _schloss_ and undressed, so that we could see how she was dressed. I ought to send a photograph, because I can never describe her. There is a bodice of black satin, short in the back, over a plastron of pasteboard of the same, and a huge black-satin cravat sticking out on both sides of her cheeks, a wadded skirt of blue alpaca, and pink leg-of-mutton sleeves. I can make nothing of this description when I read it. I hope you can!

Count Metternich entertained us all the afternoon talking about himself. He has fought with the Emperor Maximilian in Mexico, and when he speaks of him the tears roll down his bronzed cheeks. He has fought in all Don Carlos's battles, and is a strong partisan of the Carlist party. His description of Don Carlos makes one quite like him (I mean Don Carlos). He said that Don Carlos goes about in a simple black uniform and _béret_ (the red cap of the Pyrenees), with the gold tassels and the Order of the Golden Fleece on his neck (I call that fantastic, don't you?). During his campaign he suddenly swoops down upon people, no matter what their condition is, and immediately there is a sentinel placed before the door. The _consigne_ is not strict: any one can come and go as he pleases: photographers, autographers, reporters, without hindrance, and there is a general invitation to tea at headquarters. He has an army of volunteers, of whom the Count is one. The rations are one-half pound of meat, one-half pound of bread, and three-quarters liter of Navarre wine, which the Count says is more fit to eat than to drink, "it is so fat." Navarre furnishes the wine gratis, and promises to furnish twenty-four thousand rations daily as long as the war lasts. The artillery is "not good," Count Metternich added, but the officers are "colossal," a word in German that expresses everything.

Count Metternich is the greatest gentleman jockey in the world; he has not got a whole bone in his body. They call him _der Mexicano_, as he is so bronzed and dark-skinned and has been in Mexico.

But he cannot rival Count Westphal, who, in his time, was not only the greatest gentleman jockey, but a hero. At a famous race, where he was to ride the horse of Count Fürstenberg, he fell, breaking his collar-bone and his left arm; he picked himself up and managed to remount his horse. He held the reins in his mouth, and with the unbroken arm walloped the horse, got in first, and then fainted away.

It was the pluckiest thing ever seen, and won for him not only the race, but the greatest fame and his Countess, who made him promise never to ride in a race again, and he never has. She told me that many ladies fainted and men wept, so great was the excitement and enthusiasm! Count Fürstenberg had a bronze statue made of the horse, and it stands on Count Westphal's table now, and is an everlasting subject of conversation.

The Duke invited us all to come to Lippspringe. He and all the hunting-men have clubbed together and have hired the estate from the Baron B----, who owns both house and country and is fabulously rich, so people say. Here these gentlemen (I think there are twenty of them) go to pass two months every year to hunt foxes. There are forty couples of foxhounds, which have been imported from England.

There were eight of us, and we quite filled the four-horse break, servants and baggage followed later. We arrived at Paderborn, a thriving and interesting town of historical renown (see Baedeker). A two hours' drive left us rather cold and stiff, but we lunched on the carriage to save time. At the hotel we found a relay of four fresh horses harnessed in the principal street, the English grooms exciting great admiration by their neat get-up and their well-polished boots, and by the masterful manner they swore in English.

After racing through the quiet streets at a tearing pace, we arrived at the villa (_alias_ club-house) at six o'clock, in time to dress for dinner at eight. The gentlemen appeared in regular hunting-dress: red evening coats, white buckskin trousers, top-boots, white cravats, and white vests; the ladies were _décolletées en grande toilette_.

Our dinner lasted till ten o'clock. The French chef served a delicious repast; everything was faultless even to the minutest details; the servants were powdered, plushed, and shod to perfection. Then we went to the drawing-room, where cards, smoking, billiards, and flirtation went on simultaneously until the small hour of one, when we retired to our rooms.

Countess Westphal and I had adjoining rooms, very prettily furnished in chintz. Everything was in the most English style.

It is the correct thing here to affect awful clothes in the daytime. The Baron (_der alte Herr_), when not hunting, wears an Italian brigand costume (short breeches, tight leggings, stout boots) and some animal's front teeth sewed on his Tyrolean hat to hold the little feathers. But in the evening, oh, dear me! nothing is equal to his elegance.

The next day the gentlemen (twenty in number), all splendidly mounted on English hunters, rode off at eleven o'clock, masses of grooms and _piqueurs_, with lots of hunting-horns and the dogs. We ladies followed in the break. The masters of the hounds were already at the rendezvous on the hill. They soon started a fox, and then the dogs tore off yelping and barking, and the riders riding like mad; and we waited in the carriages, sorry not to be with them. The red coats looked well against the background; the dogs, all of the same pattern, were rushing about in groups with their tails in the air; but while our eyes were following them the fox ran right under our noses, within a hair's-breadth of our wheels. Of course the dogs lost the scent, and there was a general standstill until another fox was routed out, and off they flew again. _Der alte Herr_ is very much thought of in these parts; he was the only one who dared oppose the House of Peers in Berlin in the question of war with Austria in 1866, and made such an astounding speech that he was obliged to retire from politics and take to fox-hunting. He gave the speech to me to read, and--I--well!--I didn't read it!

The Westphalians seem to go on the let-us-alone principle; they seem to be anti-everything--from Bismarck and Protestantism downward. I sang the last evening of our stay here. The piano belonging to this hunting-lodge is as old as the _alte Herr_, and must have been here for years, and even at that must be an heirloom. The keys were yellow with age and misuse, and if it had ever been in tune it had forgotten all about it now and was out of it altogether. I picked the notes out which were still good, and by singing Gounod's "Biondina" in a loud voice and playing its dashing accompaniment with gusto, I managed to keep myself awake. As for the tired hunters who had been in the saddle all day, they were so worn out that nothing short of a brass band could rouse them long enough for them to keep their eyes open.

The next day we bade our hosts good-by and, thanking them for our delightful visit, we departed. I wonder if the gentlemen liked being trespassed upon as much as we did who did the trespassing. However, they were polite enough to say that they had never enjoyed anything so much as our visit, and especially my singing. What humbugs! I was polite enough not to say that I had _never_ enjoyed anything so _little_ as singing for sleepy fox-hunters.

ROME, _January, 1875._

DEAR MOTHER,--I am here in Rome, staying with my friends the Haseltines, who have a beautiful apartment that they have arranged in the most sumptuous and artistic manner in the Palazzo Altieri. Mr. Haseltine has two enormous rooms for his studio and has filled them with his faultless pictures, which are immensely admired and appreciated. His water-colors are perfection.

I have met many of your friends whom you will be glad to hear about; to begin with, the Richard Greenoughs, our cousins. We had much to talk about, as we had not seen each other since Paris, when he made that bust of me. They are the most delightful people, so talented in their different ways, and are full of interest in everything which concerns me. She has just published a book called _Mary Magdalene_, which I think is perfectly wonderful.

I have made the acquaintance of William Story (the sculptor). He spoke of you and Aunt Maria as his oldest and dearest friends, and therefore claimed the right to call me Lillie.

I have not only seen him, but I have been Mrs. Story, Miss Story, and the third story in the Palazzo Barberini, where they live, and I have already counted many times the tiresome one hundred and twenty-two steps which lead to their apartment, and have dined frequently with them in their chilly Roman dining-room. This room is only warmed by the little apparatus which in Rome passes for a stove. It has a thin leg that sticks out of a hole in the side of the house and could warm a flea at a pinch.

The hay on the stone floor made the thin carpet warmer to my cold toes, which, in their evening shoes, were away down below zero, but my cold and bare shoulders shivered in this Greenland icy-mountain temperature which belongs to Roman palaces. This was before I was an _habituée_; but after I had become one I wore, like the other jewel-bedecked dames, woolen stockings and fur-lined overshoes. The contrast must be funny, if one could see above board and under board at the same time.

The Storys generally have a lion for dinner and for their evening entertainments. My invitations to their dinners always read thus: "Dear Mrs. Moulton,--We are going to have (mentioning the lion) to dinner. Will you not join us, and if you would kindly bring a little music it would be such a," etc. No beating about the bush there! The other evening Miss Hosmer--female rival of Mr. Story in the sculpturing line--was the lion of the occasion, and was three-quarters of an hour late, her excuse being that she was studying the problem of perpetual motion. Mr. Story, who is a wit, said he wished the motion had been perpetuated in a _botta_ (which is Italian for cab).

_February 1st._

Last Thursday, at nine o'clock in the morning, a card was brought to my bedroom. Imagine my astonishment when I read the name of Baroness de C----, the wife of the French Ambassador to the Vatican. What could she want at that early hour? I had heard many stories of her absent- mindedness. I thought that nothing less than being very absent-minded, or else the wish to secure my help for some charity concert, could account for this matutinal visit, especially as I knew her so slightly.

To my great surprise she had only come to invite me to dinner, and never mentioned the word charity concert or music. I thought this very strange; but as she is so _distraite_ she probably did not know what time of day it was, and imagined she was making an afternoon visit.

One of the stories about her is that once she went to pay a formal call on one of her colleagues, and stayed on and on until the poor hostess was in despair, as it was getting late. Suddenly the ambassadress got up and said, "Pardon, dear Madame, I am very much engaged, and if you have nothing further to say to me I should be very grateful if you would leave me." The Baroness had been under the impression that she was in her own salon. They say that, one day, when she was walking in the Vatican gardens with the Pope, and they were talking politics, she said to him, "Oh, all this will be arranged as soon as the Pope dies!"

Well, we went to the dinner, which was quite a large one, and among the guests was Signor Tosti, which would seem to denote that there _was_, after all, "music in the air"; and sure enough, shortly after dinner the ambassadress begged me to sing some _petite chose_, and asked Tosti to accompany me. Neither of us refused, and I sang some of his songs which I happened to know, and some of my own, which I could play for myself.

However, I felt myself recompensed, for when she thanked me she asked if I had ever been present at any of the Pope's receptions.

I told her that I had not had the opportunity since I had been here.

"The Pope has a reception to-morrow morning," said she. "Would you care to go? If so, I should be delighted to take you."

"Oh," I said, "that is the thing of all others I should like to do!"

"Then," said she, "I will call for you and take you in my carriage."

This function requires a black dress, black veil, and a general funereal appearance and gloveless hands. Happily she did not forget, but came in her coupé at the appointed time to fetch me, and we drove to the Vatican.

The ambassadress was received at the entrance with bows and smiles of recognition by the numerous _camerieri_ and other splendidly dressed persons, and we were led through endless beautiful rooms before arriving at the gallery where we were to wait. It was not long before his Holiness (Pius IX.) appeared, followed by his suite of monsignors and prelates. I never was so impressed in my life as when I saw him. He wore a white-cloth _soutane_ and white-embroidered _calotte_ and red slippers, and looked so kind and full of benevolence that he seemed goodness personified. I knelt down almost with pleasure on the cold floor when he addressed me, and I kissed the emerald ring which he wore on his third finger as if I had been a born Catholic and had done such things all my life.

He asked me in English from which country I came, and when I answered, "America, your Holiness," he said, "What part of America?" I replied, "From Boston, Holy Father."

"It is a gallant town," the Pope remarked; "I have been there myself."

Having finished speaking with the men (all the ladies stood together on one side of the room and the men on the other), the Pope went to the end of the gallery. We all noticed that he seemed much agitated, and wondered why, and what could have happened to ruffle his benign face. It soon became known that there was an Englishman present who refused to kneel, although ordered to do so by the irate chamberlain, and who stood stolidly with arms folded, looking down with a sneer upon his better-behaved companions.

His Holiness made a rather lengthy discourse, and did not conceal his displeasure, alluding very pointedly to the unpardonable attitude of the stranger.

On leaving the gallery he turned around a last time, made the sign of the cross, giving us his blessing, and left us very much impressed. I looked about for my companion, but could not see her anywhere. Had she forgotten me and left me there to my fate? It would not be unlike her to do so.

I saw myself, in my mind's eye, being led out of the Vatican by the striped yellow and black legs and halberded guards, and obliged to find my way home alone; but on peering about in all the corners I caught sight of her seated on a bench fervently saying her prayers, evidently under the impression that she was in church during mass. As we were about to enter the coupé she hesitated before giving any orders to the servant, possibly not remembering where I had lived. But the footman, being accustomed to her vagaries, did not wait, and as he knew where to deposit me, I was landed safely at the Palazzo Altieri.

_February 15th._

The Storys gave "The Merchant of Venice" the other evening. They had put up in one of the salons a very pretty little stage; the fashionable world was _au complet_, and, after having made our bows to Mrs. Story, we took our places in the theater. Mr. Story was Shylock, and acted extremely well. Edith was very good as Portia. Waldo and Julian both took part. Mr. and Mrs. Prank Lascelles, of the English Embassy, both dressed in black velvet, played the married couple to the life, but did not look at all Italian. The whole performance was really wonderfully well done and most successful; the enthusiasm was sincere and warmed the cold hands by the frequent clapping. We were so glad to be enthusiastic!

Mr. Story gave me his book called _Roba di Roma_, which I will tell you does _not_ mean Italian robes--you might think so; it means things about Rome. I will also tell you, in case that your Italian does not go so far, that when I say that the Storys live in the third _piano_. I do not mean an upright or a grand--_piano_ is the Italian for story.

Madame Minghetti--the wife of the famous statesman--receives every Sunday twilight. Rome flocks there to hear music and to admire the artistic manner in which the rooms are arranged; flirtations are rife in the twilit corners, in which the salon abounds. As Madame Minghetti is very musical and appreciative, all the people one meets there pretend to be musical and appreciative, and do not talk or flirt during the music; so when I sing "Medjé" in the growing crepuscule I feel in perfect sympathy with my audience. Tosti and I alternate at the piano when there is nothing better. If no one else enjoys us, we enjoy each other.

I have always wanted very much to see the famous Garibaldi, and knowing he was in Rome I was determined to get a glimpse of him. But how could it be done? I had been told that he was almost unapproachable, and that he disliked strangers above all.

However, where there is a will there seems to come a way; at any rate, there did come one, and this is how it came:

At dinner at the French Embassy J sat next to Prince Odescalchi, and told him of my desire to see Garibaldi. He said: "Perhaps I can manage it for you. I have a friend who knows a friend of Garibaldi, and it might be arranged through him."

"Then," I said, "your friend who is a friend of Garibaldi's will let you know, and as you are a friend of my friend you will let _her_ know, and she will let _me_ know."

"It sounds very complicated," he answered, laughing, "and is perhaps impossible; but we will do our best."

No more than two days after this dinner there came a message from the Prince to say that, if Mrs. Haseltine and I would drive out to Garibaldi's villa, the friend and the friend of the friend would be there to meet us and present us. This we did, and found the two gentlemen awaiting us at the gate. I felt my heart beat a little faster at the thought of seeing the great hero.

Garibaldi was sitting in his garden, in a big, easy, wicker chair, and looked rather grumpy, I thought (probably he was annoyed at being disturbed). But he apparently made up his mind to accept the inevitable, and, rising, came toward us, and on our being presented stretched out a welcoming hand.

He had on a rather soiled cape, and a _foulard,_ the worse for wear, around his neck, where the historical red shirt was visible. His head, with its long hair, was covered with a velvet _calotte._ He looked more like an invalid basking in the sun with a shawl over his legs than he did like the hero of my imagination, and the only time he did look at all military was when he turned sharply to his parrot, who kept up an incessant chattering, and said, in a voice full of command, "Taci!" which the parrot did not in the least seem to mind (I hope Garibaldi's soldiers obeyed him better).

Garibaldi apologized for the parrot's bad manners by saying, "He is very unruly, but he talks well"; and added, with a rusty smile, "Better than his master."

"I don't agree with you," I said. "I can understand you, whereas I can't even tell what language he is speaking."

"He comes from Brazil, and was given to me by a lady."

"Does he only speak Brazilian?" I asked.

"Oh no, he can speak a little Italian; he can say 'Io t'amo' and 'Caro mio'."

"That shows how well the lady educated him. Will he not say 'Io t'amo' for me? I should so love to hear him."

But, in spite of tender pleadings, the parrot refused to do anything but scream in his native tongue.

Garibaldi talked Italian in a soft voice with his friend and French to us. He asked a few questions as to our nationality, and made some other commonplace remarks. When I told him I was an American he seemed to unbend a little, and said, "I like the Americans; they are an honorable, just, and intelligent people."

He must have read admiration in my eyes, for he "laid himself out" (so his friend said) to be amiable. Amiability toward strangers was evidently not his customary attitude.

He went so far as to give me his photograph, and wrote "Miss Moulton" on it with a hand far from clean; but it was the hand of a brave man, and I liked it all the better for being dirty. It seemed somehow to belong to a hero. I think that I would have been disappointed if he had had clean hands and well-trimmed finger-nails. On our taking leave of him he conjured up a wan smile and said, very pleasantly, giving us his ink- stained hand, "A rivederci."

I wondered if he really meant that he wanted to see us again; I doubt it, and did not take his remark seriously. On the contrary, I had the feeling that he was more than indifferent to the pleasure our visit had given him.

When we were driving back to Rome the horses took fright and began running away. They careered like wildfire through the gates of the Porta del Popolo, and bumped into a cart drawn by oxen and overloaded with wine- casks. Fortunately one of the horses fell down, and we came to a standstill. The coachman got down from the box and discovered that one of the wheels was twisted, the pole broken, and other damage done. We were obliged to leave the carriage and walk down the Corso to find a cab.

Just as we were getting into one we saw on the opposite side of the street a man who, while he was cleaning the windows in the third story of a house, lost his balance and fell into the street.

We dreaded to know what had happened, and avoided the crowd which quickly collected, thus shutting out whatever had happened from our view. We hurried home, trembling from our different emotions.

The next morning I awoke from my sleep, having had a most vivid dream. I thought I was in a shop, and the man serving me said, "If you take any numbers in the next lottery, take numbers 2, 18, and 9." This was extraordinary, and I immediately told the family about it: 2, 18, 9 (three numbers meant a _terno_, in other words, a _fortune_). Mr. H---- said, "Let us look out these numbers in the _Libro di Sogni_ (the Book of Dreams)," and sent out to buy the book. Imagine our feelings! Number 2 meant _caduta d'una finestra_ (fall from a window); number 18 meant _morte subito_ (sudden death), and number 9 meant _ospedale_ (hospital).

Just what had happened; the man had fallen from the window and had been carried dead to the hospital!

Perhaps you don't know what a tremendous part the lottery plays in Italy; it is to an Italian what sausages and beer are to a German. An Italian will spend his last _soldo_ to buy a ticket. He simply cannot live without it. The numbers are drawn every Saturday morning at twelve o'clock, and are instantly exposed in all the tobacco-shops in the town.

An hour after, whether lucky or unlucky, the Italian buys a new ticket for the following week, and lives on hope and dreams until the next Saturday; and when any event happens or any dream comes to him he searches in the dream-book for a number corresponding to them, and he is off like lightning to buy a ticket. I was told that the Marquis Rudini, on hearing that his mother had met her death in a railroad accident, sought in the dream-book for the number attached to "railroad accident," and bought a ticket before going to get her remains.

A winning _terno_ brings its lucky owner I don't know exactly how much-- but I know it is something enormous.

Well, this would be a _terno_ worth having. My dream, coming as it did straight from the blue, must be infallibility itself, and we felt perfectly sure that the three magical numbers would bring a fortune for every one of us, and we all sent out and bought tickets with all the money we could spare.

This was on Thursday, and we should have to wait two whole days before we became the roaring millionaires we certainly were going to be, and we strutted about thinking what presents we would make, what jewels we would buy; in fact, how we would use our fortunes! We sat up late at night discussing the wisest and best way to invest our money, and I could not sleep for fear of a _contre-coup_ in the shape of another dream. For instance, if I should dream of a cat miauling on a roof, it would mean disappointment. It would never do to give fate a chance like that!

Imagine with what feverish excitement we awoke on that Saturday, and how we watched the numbers, gazing from the carriage-windows, at the tobacco- shop! Well, not one of those numbers came out! We drove home in silence, with our feathers all drooping. However, we had had the sensation of being millionaires for those two days (ecstatic but short!), and felt that we had been defrauded by an unjust and cruel fate.

Unsympathetic Mr. Marshal said, mockingly: "How could you expect anything else, when you go on excursions with the Marquis Maurriti [that was the name of Garibaldi's friend]? You might have known that you would come to grief."

"Unfeeling man! Why should we come to grief?" we cried with impatience.

"Because, did you not know that he has the _mal'occhio_ [the evil eye]? I thought every one knew it," said he, making signs with his fingers to counteract the effect of the devil and all his works. We said indignantly, "If every one knows it, why were we not told?" Our tormentor continued; "There is no doubt about it, and nothing can better prove that people are afraid of him than that when, the other evening, he gave a _soirée_ and invited all Rome, only half a dozen people out of some five hundred ventured to go. The mountains of sandwiches, the cart-loads of cakes, the seas of lemonade, set forth on the supper-table, were attacked only by the courageous few."

"How dreadful to have such a thing said about you! Who can prove that he or any one else has got the evil eye?"

"Sometimes there is no foundation for the report; perhaps some one, out of spite or jealousy, spreads the rumor, and there you are."

"Does it not need more than a rumor?" I asked.

"Not much; but we must not talk about him, or something dreadful will happen to us."

"Do you also believe in such rank nonsense?" I asked.

"Of course I do!" Mr. Marshal replied. "You can see for yourself. If you had not gone with him your horses would not have run away, and you would surely have got your million."

"Well, we have escaped death and destruction and the million; perhaps we ought to be thankful. But in his case I would go and shut myself up in a monastery and have done with it."

"No monastery would take him. No brotherhood would brother _him_."

"You can't make me believe in the evil eye. Neither shall I ever believe in dreams again."

You will hardly believe how many acquaintances I have made here. I think I know all Rome, from the Quirinal and the Vatican down. The Haseltines know nearly every one, and whom they don't know I _do_.

We were invited to see the Colosseum and the Forum illuminations, and were asked to go to the Villino, which stands in the gardens of the Palace of the Caesars, just over the Forum.

That there would be a very select company we had been told; but we did not expect to see King Victor Emanuel, Prince Umberto, and Princess Margherita, who, with their numerous suites and many invited guests, quite filled the small rooms of the Villino. I was presented to them all.

I found the Princess perfectly bewitching and charming beyond words; the Prince was very amiable, and the King royally indifferent and visibly bored. That sums up my impressions.

At the risk of committing _lèse majesté_, I must say that the King is more than plain. He has the most enormous mustaches, wide-open eyes, and a very gruff, military voice, speaking little, but staring much. The Prince, whom I had seen in Paris during the Exposition, talked mostly about Paris and of his admiration of the Emperor and Empress. The Princess was fascinating, and captivated me on the spot by her affability and her natural and sweet manner.

The Colosseum looked rather theatrical in the glare of the red and green Bengal lights, and I think it lost a great deal of its dignity and grandeur by this cheap method of illumination.

I met there a Spanish gentleman whom I used to know in Paris years ago. He was at that time the Marquis de Lema, a middle-aged beau, who was always ready to fill any gap in society where a noble marquis was needed.

He began life, strange to say, as a journalist, and as such made himself so useful to the ex-King of Naples that the King, to reward him, hired the famous Farnesina Palace for ninety-nine years. Here the former Marquis, who is now Duke di Ripalda, lives very much aggrandized as a descendant of the Cid, glorying in his ancestorship.

He was very glad to see me again, he said, and to prove it came often to dine with us.

One day he asked Mrs. Lawrence, Miss Chapman, and myself to take tea with him in the romantic garden of the Farnesina. Mrs. Lawrence said it was like a dream, walking under the orange-trees and looking down on the old Tiber, which makes a sudden turn at the bottom of the broad terrace.

Her dream came suddenly to an end when she saw the stale cakes and the weak and watery tea and oily chocolate which, out of politeness, we felt obliged to swallow; and the nightmare set in when she saw his apartment on the first floor, furnished by himself with his own individual taste, which was simply awful. But who cares for the mother-of-pearl inlaid furniture covered with hideous modern blue brocade and the multicolored carpets in which his coat of arms were woven, when one can look at his Sodomas and Correggios and Raphaels? His coat of arms, which is a sword with "Si, si, no, no," is displayed everywhere throughout the palace.

The "_cid-evant_" Marquis told us that the Cid had given the sword to one of his ancestors, and remarked that it signified that his forefathers had very decided characters, and that it was either yes or no with them. I thought it might work the other way; it might just as well mean that the ancestors did not know their own minds, and that first it was _yes_ and then it was _no_ with them. The Duke, in a truly grandiose manner, lays no restriction on the public, but throws his whole palace open every first and fifteenth of the month, and allows people to roam at their pleasure through all the rooms; they can even sit on the blue brocade furniture if they like, and there is no officious guide ordering people about with their, "This way, Madame," or "Don't sit down," "Don't walk on the carpet," or "Don't spit on the floor."

On the ground floor are the celebrated frescoes of "Psyche," painted by Raphael, and in the large gallery there is a little design on the walls to which the Duke called our attention, saying it was Michelangelo's visiting-card, and told us that Michelangelo came one day, and, finding Raphael absent, took up his palette and painted this little picture, which still remains on the walls, framed and with a glass over it.

Mrs. Lawrence told us of a new acquaintance she had made, a Baron Montenaro, who said he was the last (the very last) of the Rienzis, a descendant of Cola di. The last tribune left! "Is it not romantic?" cried Mrs. Lawrence, and was all eyes and ears. But prosaic Duke di Ripalda said, "How can he say he is the last of the Rienzis, when he has a married brother who has prospects of a small tribune of his own?"

ROME, _April, 1875._

Mrs. Polk (widow of the former President Polk) and her two daughters are very much liked here. I call Miss Polk _la maîtresse demoiselle_, because she rules every one with a high and masterful hand.

They had some wonderful tableaux recently at their palace (Salviati), which were most beautiful and artistically arranged by different artists. They had turned a long gallery which had once served as a ballroom into the theater. I was asked to sing in a tableau representing a Bohemian hall, where, as a background, Bohemian peasants in brilliant costumes sat and stood about. I was also dressed in a Bohemian dress, and leaned against a pillar and held a tambourine in my hand. Tosti played the accompaniment of "Ma Mère était Bohémienne," which was most appropriate to the occasion.

The Princess Margherita sat in the front row, and a more sympathetic and lovelier face could never have inspired a singer. She insisted upon my repeating my song, which rather bored the other performers, as they had to stand quiet while the song was going on. Tosti made the accompaniment wonderfully well, considering that I had only played it once for him.

After the tableaux, and when the Princess had retired to a little salon placed at her disposal, she sent word to ask me to come to her, as she wished to speak with me. I was overjoyed to see her again, as the short interview at the Villino could hardly be called an interview. The Princess said; "I have heard a great deal about your singing; but I did not believe any amateur could sing as you do. Your phrasing and expression are quite perfect!" She finished by asking me to come to the Quirinal to see her, "and perhaps have a little music"; and added, "The Marquis Villamarina sings beautifully, and you shall hear him." The Princess is so lovely, no words can describe her charm and the sweet expression of her face. Her smile is a dream.

I had intended leaving Rome the very day she fixed for my going to her, but of course I postponed my departure and I went, and had a most delightful afternoon. It was the first time that I had seen the Quirinal and I was very much interested. One of the numerous _laquais_ who were standing about in the antechamber when I arrived preceded me into a salon where I found the Marquise Villamarina (first lady-in-waiting of the Princess). She came toward me, saying that the Princess was looking forward with pleasure to seeing me, and added that she hoped that I had thought to bring some music. I followed her through several very spacious salons until we reached a salon which evidently was the music-room, as there were two grand pianos and a quantity of music-books placed on shelves. Here I found the Princess waiting for me, and she received me with much cordiality.

The Marquis Villamarina has a most enchanting voice, liquid and velvety, the kind that one only hears in Italy. Signor Tosti (the composer) was already at the piano and accompanied the Marquis in "Ti rapirei, mio ben," a song he composed and dedicated to him. The Princess sang a very charming old Italian song. She has a mezzo-soprano voice and sings with great taste and sweetness. She, the Marquis, and I sang a trio of Gordigiani; then the Princess asked me to sing the "Ma Mère était Bohémienne," which i had sung at the tableaux. I also sang "Beware!" which she had never heard and which she was perfectly delighted with, and I promised to send her the music. It was a great pleasure to sing in this intimate and _sans façon_ way, with the most sympathetic and charming of Princesses. Chocolate, tea, and little cakes were served, which I supposed was the signal for departure. The Princess, on bidding me good-by, gave me her hand and said, "I hope to see you soon again."

"Alas!" I replied, "I am leaving Rome to-morrow," and as I stooped down to kiss her hand she drew me to her and said, "I am sorry that you are going, I hoped that you were staying longer," and kissed me on both cheeks.

PARIS, _May, 1875._

I have had a lazy month. Mrs. Moulton was delighted to have me back again, and I was glad to rest after all my junketing. Just think, I was almost a year in Germany!

Nina has had the measles, fortunately lightly; I was _garde malade_, and stayed with her in her sick-room.

Howard goes to a day-school not far from the Rue de Courcelles every morning, and comes home at two o'clock and shows with pride the book the teacher gives him to show. They must mean it to be shown, otherwise so much trouble would not be taken to make such lengthy and marvelous accounts of his prowess, the numbers running up in the thousands, and notations all through, such as _très bien, verbes sans faute_, and _dictés parfaits_. He can repeat all the departments of France backward and forward, and goes through the verbs, regular and irregular, like a machine. The French love these irregular verbs, so irregular sometimes that they border on frivolity. He has learned some rather inane patriotic poetry, which he recites with a childish dramatic swagger.

This is about all they teach in this school; but the _rapports_ are worth the money: they deceive the parents, making them believe their geese are swans of the first water.

PARIS, _May._

We have had real pleasure in hearing a young _pianiste_ from Venezuela called Teresa Careño. She is a _wunderkind_. Her mother says she is nine years old; she looks twelve, but may be sixteen. No one can ever tell how old a _wunderkind_ really is. Her playing is marvelous, her technic perfect. She knows about two hundred pieces by heart, is extremely pretty and attractive, and performs whenever she is asked. I think she has a great career before her, and she has already got the toss-back of her black hair in the most approved pianist manner. "Elle ne manque rien," the great Saint-Saëns said. One can't imagine that she could play better than she does; but she thinks that she is by no means perfect.

Though I said that I had led a _dolce-far-niente_ existence, and had been lazy, I have been dreadfully busy and have been on the go from morning till night: I might call it a _dolce-far-molto_ existence. I spend hours, which ought to be better spent, in shops. I simply revel in them.

You have heard of the famous actress Sarah Bernhardt. Well, she is not only an actress, but she is a sculptress, and is a very good one. She is now playing at the Vaudeville. But I must begin at the beginning, the whole thing was so amusing,

You remember Mrs. Bradley? You used to scold me for calling her "the Omelette." They are living now in Paris; her hair and complexion are just as yellow as they used to be; but her dresses are yellower. Beaumont said that she was "Une étude en jaune."

The other evening she had a box at the theater, and asked me to go to hear Sarah Bernhardt in "Le fils Giboyer." Her son, the immaculate Bostonian, went with us. He is a duplicate of his mother's yellowness. I took Nina, who looked extremely pretty: she was beaming with excitement; her cheeks were flushed, and her curly, golden hair made a halo about her delicate features. Every one stared at her when we entered the box. During the second act I let her take my place in front, and, observe how virtue is rewarded! In the following _entr'acte_ the _ouvreuse_ came in suddenly without knocking (_ouvreuses_ never knock! that is one of their many privileges) and begged to _parler à_ Monsieur. Imagine the chaste George's feelings when he was told that the famous Sarah wished to speak with him, and, moreover, desired him to come behind the scenes to her dressing-room. What a situation! His red hair blushed to the very roots, and his yellow face became n sunset. However, one is or one is not a man. He proved himself to be one who could face danger when the time came.

Trembling at the thought of Boston, the virtuous, hearing of it, he saw in his mind's eye the height the Puritan brows of his most distinguished family would reach when the news would be spread over the town, and a certain biblical scene passed before his mental vision.

He gave his lemon-colored mustache a final fascinating twist, and, humming to himself "Hail, the conquering hero comes!" he buckled on his sword and went--all his colors flying.

We waited breathlessly for his return, which was much sooner than we expected, and the smile he wore was not that of a conquering hero; it was another kind of a smile. Well, what do you think Madame Sarah wanted? Merely to know if the child in the box was his! His! His unmarried hair stood on end; he was so taken aback that he only had breath to mutter, "I am not married, Madame."

Then in her most dramatic tones she demanded, "Who is the child, then?"

He told her.

"Where does this Madame Moulton live?" she asked.

He told her that also. Then, with a dismissing wave of the hand, Sarah bade him farewell. It was all over. He had survived! Boston would never know.

The next day I received a note from Sarah Bernhardt, asking me if I would allow her to make a bust of _la charmante petite fille_. I answered that I should be delighted. Then came another note telling me at what time _l'enfant_ should come for the first sitting.

I took Nina to the studio, which was beyond the Boulevard de Courcelles in a courtyard. It was enchanting to watch the artist at work. She was dressed like a man: she wore white trousers and jacket, and a white _foulard_ tied artistically about her head. She had short and frizzly hair, and she showed us how she did it, gathering the four corners as if it were a handkerchief, with the ends sticking up on the top of her head. She smoked cigarettes all the time she was working.

She posed Nina in the attitude she thought interesting, with head down and eyes up--a rather tiring position. And to keep _l'enfant_ quiet she devised all sorts of things. Sometimes she would rehearse her rôles in the voice they speak of as golden; because it coins gold for her, I suppose. The rehearsing of her rôles was not so amusing, as there were no _répliques_; but what kept Nina most quiet was when Sarah told her of the album she was making for her. Every artist she knew was working at some offering, and when it would be finished Nina was to have it. She would expatiate for hours on the smallest details. Meissonier, for instance, was painting a water-color, a scene of the war: a German regiment attacking a French inn, which was being defended by French soldiers. Then Gounod was writing a bit of music dedicated to _la charmante modèle_, and so forth. Nina would listen with open mouth and glistening eyes, and at every sitting she would say, "Et mon album?" expecting each time to see it forthcoming. But it never came forth. It only existed in Madame Bernhardt's fertile brain. It had no other object than to keep the model still. It seemed cruel to deceive the child. Even to the last, when Nina had said for the last time, "And shall I have my album to-day?" Sarah answered that it was not _quite_ ready, as the binding was not satisfactory, and other tales, which, if not true, had the desired effect, and she finished the bust. It was not a very good likeness, but a very pretty artistic effort, and was sent to the next Exposition, receiving "honorable mention," perhaps more honorable than we mentioned her at home. She gave me a duplicate of it made of terra-cotta.

Don't expect any more letters, for I shall be very busy before my departure for America, which is next week, and then I shall.... Well, wait!

Good-by.

INDEX

AGASSIZ, Professor, "Father Nature" helped to pay for his new house.
Amateur theatricals.
American songs at the French court.
American soul-probes, intimate questions answered by the Emperor,
the Empress and Prosper Mérimée.
Americans seeking a hotel.
Anti-slavery anecdotes;
Joshua Green's forgetfulness;
Phillips Brooks's story of a convert's confession.
Auber, the composer, introduced by the Duke de Persigny;
writes a cadenza for Alabieff's "Rossignol";
at Meyerbeer's funeral;
his life in Paris;
"Le Rêve d'Amour" at eighty-three;
describes the slaughter of Generals Thomas and Lecomte;
his friendship with Massenet;
entertains Madame at breakfast during the siege;
dies on the ramparts.

BALL costumes. Ball of the Plebiscite. Bancroft, George, historian, presents a souvenir of an enjoyable evening. Bernhardt, Sara, makes a bust of Madame's daughter Nina. "Beware!", Longfellow's words set to music by Charles Moulton, wins praise. Birthday joy for Count Pourtales. Blind Tom imitates Auber. Brignoli, in his prime. Brooks, Phillips, anecdote by. Brunswick's wicked duke and his famous crime; his silken wig.

CAREÑO, TERESA, a _wunderkind_ at nine;
plays in Paris.
Carl XIV. of Sweden at the Exposition.
Castellane, Countess, exhibits her stable at a fancy ball.
Castiglione, Countess, as "Salammbô";
as "La Vérité".
Changarnier, General, in the lancers.
Charades and amateur theatricals.
Charity, singing for.
Cinderella coach, Mrs. Moulton's.
Compiègne and its festivities;
its grand officials and its guests;
ceremonies at the table;
dress etiquette.
Costumes for Compiègne.
Croquet at night with lamps;
imperial players;
beaten with a despised ivory mallet.
Cuba visited;
an old Harvard friend lands the party in Havana;
high officials escort Madame all over the island;
assisted by old acquaintances;
a curious Cuban waltz;
a hot time in Morro Castle;
international courtesies on the war-ships;
fame had preceded Madame;
discovers and visits Jules Alphonso;
news of Napoleon's death;
a German serenade;
"Pinafore" for the sailors;
a triumphal departure.
Curls from the "Magasin du Bon Dieu" cause a sensation.

D'AOUST'S, Marquis, operetta.
De Bassano, Duchess, _grande maîtresse_.
Delle Sedie, music-teacher, and his theories.
Delsarte and his emotion diagrams;
his "tabac,";
the Emperor's joke;
Madame visits him during the siege;
his evening dress.
De Morny, Duke (Queen Hortense's son), and his protégé;
as a librettist, with music by Offenbach;
his death.
Doré caricatures nobility.

EMERALDS from the Khedive.
Eugénie, Empress, skates with Madame;
"a beautiful apparition,";
in collision with an American;
at the play in Compiègne;
her flight from the Tuileries after Sedan assisted by Prince Metternich;
takes refuge with Dr. Evans;
widow and exile at Chiselhurst.
Evans, Dr., American dentist, shelters the fleeing Empress after Sedan.
Exposition of 1867.

GALLIFET, Marquis de, tells of his silver plate;
criticizes English idioms.
Garcia, Manuel, teacher of singing, engaged;
first impressions and lessons;
"Bel raggio" the first song.
Garibaldi in retirement;
autographs his portrait.
Gautier, Théophile, dinner companion, tells of his educated cats;
his poetical tribute to Madame.
Germans in Versailles.
Germany and the Rhineland;
visit to the Metternichs' château, Johannisberg;
reminiscences of the war;
famous Johannisberg wine;
a gentlemanly American bronco-buster captures the Westphals;
at Weimar;
calling on a noble farmer;
boar-hunting in Westphalia.
Gold button of the Imperial Hunt, a gift from Napoleon;
worn at a _chasse-à-tir_;
at a mock battle.
Gounod "hums" deliciously.
Green corn and a clay pipe at Fontainebleau.
Green, Joshua, and his Creator.
Gudin, William, artist, and his collection of cigars and cigarettes.

HATZFELDT, Count, married to Madame's sister Helen;
Bismarck's secretary;
his opinion of Napoleon;
German minister to Madrid.
Hegermann-Lindencrone, Madame Lillie de, prefatory note.

IN London society. Imperial gifts. Imperial hunt fashions and cruelty to animals; the dog's share.

"LA DIVA DU MONDE"--Strakosch tempts Madame to sing in concert;
an immediate success;
story of a floral harp;
a trying moment in oratorio;
news of Mr. Moulton's illness and sudden death.
Lincoln, President, at the Sanitary Fair;
compliments Madame;
news of his assassination.
Lind's, Jenny, American memories;
comparing trills;
duets with.
Liszt plays Auber's music and praises Massenet;
his letter to Madame.
Locket souvenirs.
Longfellow, the poet disapproves of but forgives a joke.
Lowell, James Russell, cousin, a substitute for Longfellow in the
Agassiz school.

MARGHERITA, Princess of Italy, entertains Madame at the Quirinal.
Massenet at Petit Val, the Moultons' country seat.
Maximilian's death in Mexico.
Mechanical piano dance music, a substitute for Waldteufel;
Madame takes a turn.
Melody, tears, and a "speech" in Rochester's "pen".
Mérimée, Prosper, "entrancing";
his long love affair.
Metternich, Prince, Austrian ambassador to France;
describes Rossini's home life;
entertains Madame at Johannisberg;
dedicates a volume, _A l'Inspiratice_.
Metternich, Princess, leader in society and fashion;
her enormous cigars;
one of her famous dances;
her home at Johannisberg.
Moulton, Charles, engaged to marry;
his family and musical talents;
author of "Beware!";
his illness and sudden death.
Musard, Madame, and her petroleum stock.

NAPOLEON III., Emperor, introduced to Madame on the ice by Prince Murat;
skates with Madame;
invites Madame to sing at the Tuileries;
the domino his favorite disguise;
dances the Virginia reel;
places Madame next to him at dinner;
a distorted joke;
takes command of the army;
his death.
New York mansion of the late fifties.
Nilsson in "Traviata";
her famous appetite.

OFFENBACH, JACQUES, composer, writes the music for a play by the Duke de Morny. Old family origins.

PATTI, reminiscences of.
Petit Val, the Moultons' country seat;
its princely neighbors and guests;
Napoleon builds a bridge for;
the nightingale in the cedar;
in the path of the German army;
Madame views ruin all around;
dining with the invaders;
conquering with song;
rescued by the American Minister Washburn.
Picnic at Grand Trianon.
Pierrefonds, ancient château, excursion to;
restored by Architect Viollet-le-Duc;
second visit to.
Prince Imperial as "Pan";
leaves for the war with the Emperor;
"le baptême du feu".
Prince Oscar's tributes of punch, bracelets, and poetry;
duet with;
visits Delsarte.

RIGAULT, RAOUL, Communard prefect of Paris, insults Madame;
decrees many arrests;
gives orders for the massacre of forty hostages.
Roman days with the Haseltines;
Sculptor Story and his family;
an Italian "Mrs. Malaprop";
audience with the Pope;
visit to Garibaldi;
an accident, a dream, and a lottery ticket;
presented to the royal family;
a typical nobleman;
President Polk's widow entertains;
Madame a guest at the Quirinal;
Tosti as accompanist.
Rossini, Gioachino, his home and his wigs;
highly praises Madame's voice;
severely criticizes Wagner but praises "Tannhäuser;"
approves of Gounod.
Rothschild, Baroness Alphonse, gives a concert with no one to hear it but
herself and Madame.
Rue de Courcelles and the Moulton Hotel during the siege;
Père Moulton's prevision;
farming and dairying in the conservatory;
visited by Courbet, the Communard artist;
Auber tells of the saturnalia;
Mère Moulton leaves for Dinard;
a notable dinner party has peas from Petit Val;
Massenet and Auber at the piano;
Whist under difficulties;
shut in;
despoiled of horse, but the cow is saved;
under fire;
succoring a wounded fugitive;
refuge at Dinard.

SCHOOL-DAYS at Cambridge under Professor Agassiz; Character sketches of the tutors, the best in Harvard. Skating on the lake at Suresnes with baby Nina; meets and teaches Napoleon and Eugénie; in the Bois. Strauss, at the Metternich ball, conducts "The Blue Danube" waltz. Sullivan's "Prodigal Son."