Chapter IV: Part 4

I mounted the broad, winding staircase, went through the long gallery lined with lackeys, and reached the _salon_, where the Marquise Villamarina was waiting to receive me. After the usual greetings she said, "_Sa Majesté vous attend_," and led me through many _salons_ to the one where the Queen was. I noticed, as we walked along, that the Marquise removed her right-hand glove, I took this as a hint that I should do the same. The Queen was standing when I entered the room. I made a deep courtesy before going in. She came forward and gave me her ungloved hand, over which I bowed deeply. The Marquise retired, leaving me alone with the Queen, who motioned me to sit beside her on the sofa. She spoke French, and so rapidly that I could hardly follow her. She was kindness itself, as affable and charming as one could possibly be, and put me at my ease immediately.

She had a little diamond ball hanging on a chain in the folds of her dress, the prettiest little watch I ever saw. After a half-hour, which passed like a flash, the Marquise reappeared in the doorway. This was a signal for me to take my leave. The Queen rose, gave me her hand, and said, "Good-by, Madame de Hegermann; I'm so glad to have you here in Rome."

I should have liked to kiss her hand, but I was told that the wife of a foreign minister never kisses the hand of any queen save her own.

I feel now that I am really launched. Let us hope that my barque will ride the waves successfully! In Europe visits are not as with us in America. Here the residents wait until the stranger makes the first visit; in America it is just the contrary. I must say I like the European way best. It would be very awkward for _me_ to receive visitors now, especially when my household is in its present chaotic state. I hope it will be only a question of cards for some time yet.

_January 20, 1881._

Dear Mother,--Last night the Princess Palavicini gave what she intended to be the finest ball of the season, for which no expense was spared. They had sent to Paris for the cotillon favors, to Nice for flowers to decorate the magnificent _salons_ of the Palazzo Rospigliosi, and to Naples for the famous Neapolitan orchestra.

The Princess Palavicini is one of the Queen's ladies of honor, belongs to one of the most aristocratic families in Italy, and claims to have the most select society in Rome. The King and the Queen had consented to grace the ball with their presence. That the King had promised to go was a great exception, as he has never been willing to go to any function outside of the Quirinal since the much-talked-of ball at the Duke di Fiano's. I believe that it is only his keen sense of duty that makes him attend his own entertainments.

All the guests were assembled and awaiting the arrival of their Majesties, but they did not come. The reason given was that the present members of the Ministry took exception to the fact that neither they nor their wives had been invited. The Ministers sent word to the King that if their Majesties attended the ball they would give in their resignations _en bloc_. The result was that the ball was a complete failure. All the spirit had gone out of the guests, who moved about aimlessly, talking in groups, and then quietly disappeared. The dancers of the cotillon waited for the supper, which they said was magnificent and sufficient for a hungry army.

ROME, _February 1881_.

Dear ----,--The two sons of the King of Sweden (Prince Oscar and Prince Carl) are here for a fortnight's visit, and are seeing Rome thoroughly in the company of two chamberlains, two cicerones, and some friends. The young princes gave a dinner at the Hôtel Quirinal, to which we were invited. They had engaged the Neapolitan singers from Naples, who sang the most delightful and lively songs. We felt like dancing a _saltarello_, and perhaps might have done so if we had been in less princely presences. The Scandinavian Club gave a feast--the finest and greatest in the annals of the club--in honor of the two princes, to welcome the Swedish and Norwegian Minister's bride, and also to welcome us--a great combination--and to celebrate the carnival by a fancy ball.

People were begged to come in costume, which, to be amiable, every one was delighted to do. The costumes were not original. Roman peasants were abundant. This costume needs only a towel folded square and put on the head, and a Roman apron, easily obtained at the Campo di Fiore for a song. Flower-girls with hats turned up on the side and baskets of flowers were also popular. The handsome Prince Carl, who is six feet six, needed only a helmet to personify to perfection a youthful god Mars. Prince Oscar merely wore his naval mess-jacket. Herr Ross (the Norwegian artist) was the head and spirit of the ball and directed everything. He was dressed appropriately as a _pierrot_, with a wand in his hand, and pirouetted about to his heart's content.

All was done on the most economical basis, as the club is entirely composed of artists, who, consequently, are poor. The lines were drawn apparently at the food, but in _skaals_ (toasts)--the thing dearest the Scandinavian heart--they were extremely liberal and reckless. All six of us were toasted to a crisp brown, and at each separate toast we stood up and listened to the tale of our virtues.

The celebrated Ibsen honored this feast with his presence, and especially honored the Chianti and Genzano wines, which were served copiously, in _fiascos_. When you see Ibsen, with his lion face and tangle of hair, for the first time, you are fascinated by him, knowing what a genius he is, but when you talk with him, and feel his piercing, critical eyes looking at you from under his bushy brows, and see his cruel, satirical smile, you are a little prejudiced against him. We meet him often at our friend Ross's studio at afternoon teas, where there is always a little music. Ibsen sits sullen, silent, and indifferent. He does not like music, and does not disguise his dislike. This is not, as you may imagine, inspiring to the performers. In fact, just to look at him takes all the life out of you. He is a veritable wet blanket. I have read all his works in the original. I think they lose a great deal in being translated. The Norwegian language is very curt and concise, each word conveying almost the meaning of two in English, which enables the author to paint a whole situation in a few words. I can see the difference, in reading the English translations, and where they fail to convey his real meaning. Strangers who wish to see Ibsen must go to the cheap Italian restaurant, "Falcone," where he sits before a small iron table, eating deviled devil-fish. No wonder that he is morbid and his plays weird!

_February, 1881._

Dear Mother,--I know you would like to hear about the first ball at the Quirinal. It was very splendid. Since the last and famous ball at the Tuileries I had seen nothing like it. When we had mounted the guard-lined staircase and passed through innumerable _salons_ we were received by the _Grande Maîtresse_, surrounded by numerous _dames de palais_, all so beautiful that I wondered if they had been chosen for their beauty alone. I never saw so many handsome women grouped together. Numerous chamberlains preceded us into the ballroom and showed us the benches where the _Corps Diplomatique_ have their places. The benches looked inviting enough, with their red-velvet coverings and their gilded legs, but I did not feel as if I should care to sit on them for hours.

Madame Minghetti sat on one of the _taborets_ on one side of the throne, and Madame Cairoli (wife of the Minister of Foreign Affairs) occupied the _taboret_ on the other side. These two ladies are the only ones who have the right to sit on the little square stools that are called _taborets_.

We waited in our places until we heard the orchestra start the national hymn, then every one stood up as the King and the Queen entered arm in arm, followed by splendidly dressed and bejeweled _dames d'honneur_ and the numerous suite. Their Majesties went to the throne, stood there a moment, then stepped down and spoke to the two ladies on the _taborets_. The _quadrille d'honneur_ commenced almost immediately. Count Wimphen approached the Queen, making the deepest of bows, offered her his hand, and led her to her place on the floor. M. de Keudell and the Countess Wimphen took their places opposite the Queen. There were only two other couples. Every one stood while this quadrille was being danced.

The Queen looked exquisite, and seemed to be in the best of spirits. She was the _point de mire_ of all eyes. She wore a superb gown of light-blue brocade, the front entirely trimmed with old Venetian lace. Her necklace and tiara were of enormous pearls and diamonds. She was truly a vision of beauty and queenly grace.

After the _quadrille d'honneur_ the dancing became general. The Queen first talked to the Ambassadresses, then to the wives of the Ministers, sitting down on the bench beside the lady she desired to converse with, the one on the other side moving on discreetly to make more room for the Queen.

The King never came anywhere near the ladies, but talked only with the gentlemen, frequently keeping one by his side and addressing him while he talked with another.

The dancing continued until the Queen had returned from a tour of the other _salons_, where she had been talking with those assembled there. Re-entering the ballroom, preceded as always by her chamberlains and followed by her ladies, she joined the King, and both, bowing graciously as if to say good night, retired.

ROME, _February, 1881_.

Dear ----,--Mrs. Elliot brought Ouida to see me on my reception-day. Ouida is, I am afraid, a little bit of a _poseuse_, but geniuses have privileges which cannot be endured in ordinary people. She was dressed with a lofty disregard of Roman climate and its possibilities, and in utter defiance of common sense. She wore a dress open at the throat, with short sleeves, and the thinnest of shoes and stockings, which she managed to show more than was quite necessary. She spoke in an affected voice, and looked about her continually as if people were watching her and taking notes.

Among the ladies of the Queen here are three Americans who have married Italians and have entered the charmed circle of the court. Their services are only required upon certain gala occasions. One is the daughter of Hickson Fields (whom we used to know so well in Paris), who has married Prince Brancaccio. Another American lady, the wife of Prince Cenci, who is of the same family as the lady with the turban. Both the Prince and the Princess are at court, he as chamberlain and she as _dame de palais_. He is called the "_Boeuf à la mode_," not because he in any way looks like a _boeuf_, but because he is fine-looking, masterful, and _à la mode_.

Count Gianotti, first master of ceremonies, has also an American wife. She was a Miss Kinney, a daughter of Mrs. Kinney whom we knew in Washington. She is tall and striking-looking. Her Friday receptions are well attended, especially when she lets it be known that there will be _particularly_ fine music. While the artist at the piano thinks he is making a heavy and great success and is wrestling with his _arpeggios_ on a small piano, the guests come and go and rattle their teacups, regardless of the noise, while the music goes on. This is often the case in Roman _salons_.

The Marquis de Noailles is the French Ambassador. You recollect him and the Marquise, who were in Washington the first year we were there. He, as you know, is of the bluest blood of France. She is of Polish extraction and lived in Paris, where she had a _succès de beauté_ in the Napoleonic days. After her first husband's death (Count Schwieskoska) she married de Noailles. They have an offspring, an _enfant terrible_, if there ever was one, who is about nine years old, and a worse torment never existed. Nobody on earth has the slightest control over him--neither father, mother, nor tutor. The Marquis makes excuses for his bringing-up by saying that, having had a very severe, rod-using father himself, he was determined that if he ever had a child he would spare the rod. He can flatter himself that he has thoroughly succeeded in spoiling the child.

When we were at a very large and official dinner at the Farnese Palace (the French Embassy), where the beautifully decorated tables filled the whole length of the Carracci Gallery, the guests were amazed as seeing Doudou (the name of the infant) come in on a velocipede and ride round and round the table, all the servants dodging about to avoid collision, holding their platters high in the air, for fear of being tripped up and spilling the food. The astonished guests expected every moment to have their chairs knocked from under them. This made this should-be-magnificent dinner into a sort of circus. No persuasion or threats could induce this terrible child to go away, and he continued during the dinner to do his velocipede exercises. He must be a very trying boy. His mother told me herself that he forces both her and his father to take castor or any other oil when the doctor prescribes it for him. People tell horrible stories about him. I am sure you will say what every one else says--"Why don't his parents give him a good spanking?"

At a small dinner at the English Embassy I met the celebrated tenor, Mario. I had not seen him since in Paris in 1868, when he was singing with Alboni and Patti in "Rigoletto." Alboni once invited the Duke and the Duchess of Newcastle, Mr. Tom Hohler, and ourselves to dinner to meet Mario in her cozy apartment in the Avenue Kleber. I was perfectly fascinated by Mario and thought him the beau ideal of a Lothario. His voice was melodious and _caressante_, as the French say, and altogether his manners were those of a charmer. It was a most interesting dinner, and I was all ears, not wanting to lose a word of what Alboni and he said. What they talked about most was their many reminiscences, and almost each of their phrases commenced, "_Vous rappelez vous_?" and then came the reminiscence. After fourteen years I meet him here, a grandpapa, traveling with his daughter. He is now the Marquis di Candia (having resumed his title), _et l'homme du monde parfait_; he is seventy years old and has a gray and rather scanty beard instead of the smooth, carefully trimmed brown one of _autrefois_. Why do captivating and fascinating creatures, such as he was, ever grow old? But, as Auber used to say, "the only way to become old is to live a long time."

At the Embassy dinner he did not sit next to me, alas! but afterward we sat on the sofa and talked of Alboni, Paris, and music. I told him that the first time I had heard him sing was in America, when he sang with Grisi.

"So long ago?" he said. "Why, you couldn't have been born!"

"Oh yes," I answered; "I was born, and old enough to appreciate your singing. I have never forgotten it, nor your voice. One will never hear anything like it again. Have you quite given up singing?" I asked.

"Why, I am a grandfather! You would not have a grandfather sing, would you?"

"I would," I answered, "if the grandfather was Mario."

ROME, _1881_.

Dear ----,--The opening of the Parliament is a great occasion in Rome (where one would like to be both inside and outside at the same time). The children's governess had a friend who offered them seats in her window, and this is what they saw outside:

The streets lined with soldiers from the Quirinal to the House of Parliament, the large places in the Square swept clean and sanded (an unusual sight in Rome), thousands of citizens hanging out of the windows, flags and pennants waving in the air; brilliant cavalcades followed one another, accompanied by military bands playing inspiring music, and then came the Bersagliere, in their double-quick step, sounding their bugles as they marched along, their hats cocked very much on one side, with long rooster feathers streaming out in the wind. This is the most unique regiment (I was going to say cockiest) one can imagine. Their uniforms are very dark green, their hats are black patent leather, and they wear black gloves and leggings. I am told that these soldiers do not live long--that they hardly ever reach the age of forty. The strain on the heart, caused by their quick pace, which is something between a run and a trot, is too great, especially for the buglers, who blow their bugles while running. At last came the splendid gala coaches of the King and the Queen, followed by many others, and then the military suite, making a splendid procession.

Inside, the large building was crowded to its limit. The state Ministers were in their seats in front, the members of Parliament behind them. The balconies were filled with people, and every available place was occupied. When the Queen entered the royal _loge_ with her ladies and chamberlains, there was a great deal of clapping of hands, which is the way an Italian shows his enthusiasm and loyalty. Every one arose and remained standing while the Queen came forward to the front of her _loge_, bowed and smiled, and bowed and bowed again until the clapping ceased; then she took her seat, and every one sat down.

The _loge_ reserved for the Diplomatic Corps is directly opposite the Queen's. After a few moments' pause the platform supporting the throne was noiselessly invaded by numerous officers in their glittering and brilliant uniforms, and members of the court in their court dress covered with decorations, who took their places on each side of the throne. The King came in quietly without any pomp, and was greeted by the most enthusiastic and prolonged demonstration. He acknowledged the ovation, but evidently chafed under the slight delay, as if impatient to commence his speech. Before doing so he turned toward the Queen's _loge_ with a respectful inclination of the head, as if to acknowledge her presence, then, bowing to the Diplomatic _loge_ and turning to the audience, read his proclamation.

It was most difficult to hear what the King said, perched as we were high above him; but we understood by the frequent interruptions and the enthusiastic _benes_ and _bravos_ and the clapping of hands that what he said pleased his subjects. The speech over, the King, accompanied by his suite, left as quietly as he had entered, amid the vociferous applause that followed. The Queen then arose, smiled and bowed to the assembly, and withdrew.

The streets were thronged with soldiers and people, and it was as much as his life was worth for the coachman to draw up in front of the door.

Mr. and Mrs. Field have almost completed their enormous palace out by Santa Maria Maggiore, but they have not, as they hoped, succeeded in making that part of Rome fashionable. They have bought land as far as the Colosseum; Nero's gold house, which stands in a _finocchi_ patch, is theirs too. The tenement-houses near them continue to festoon the façades with the week's wash in every state of unrepair. There is no privacy about the Italians washing their dirty linen, though they do wash at home.

I seem to be introducing you to all Rome.

Mr. and Mme. Minghetti are old friends--that is, I have known her from 1866. Then she was Princess Camporeale, very handsome and captivating. She is just as attractive now and holds Rome in her hand. Her _salon_ is the _salon_ where all fashionable Rome flocks. She has arranged it in the most artistic manner. It is crowded with furniture, with cozy corners and flirtatious nooks between _armoires_ and palm-trees. Valuable old pictures and tapestries decorate the walls. The _salon_ is two stories high and has an ornamental little winding staircase on which an enormous stuffed peacock stands with outspread tail, as if guarding things below. On her Sunday afternoons one is sure to hear some good music. No one refuses, as it gives a person a certain prestige to be heard there.

Mr. Minghetti, possessing the order of the Annunciata (the highest decoration of Italy), is called "_Le cousin du Roi_." He is a great personage. He has been Prime Minister and still plays a very conspicuous part in politics. He has written many books on constitutional law. He is tall, handsome, and altogether delightful.

The Storys still live in the third heaven of the Barberini Palace, where on Fridays there is a steady procession of tea-thirsty English and Americans who toil upward.

The two sons are what Mr. Story calls "promising." Waldo (the elder) promises to rival his father as a sculptor. Julian promises to be a great painter. His picture of Cardinal Howard, all in red against a red background, is a fine study in color besides being an excellent likeness.

The Haseltines are flourishing like green bay-trees. Their beautiful apartment in the Altieri Palace, where his _atelier_ is, is filled with his exquisite water-colors and paintings. Her brother, Mr. Marshall, is staying with them. He is very amusing. Last evening he held the table in a roar when he told of a recent experience.

At the Duchess Fiano's costume ball he had worn a costume of a Mignon-Henri-II. He described it to us. A light-blue satin jacket, and trunk-hose, slashed to exaggeration, with white satin puffs, a jaunty velvet cap with a long feather, and white satin shoes turned up at the ends.

Worth had made it and put a price on it almost equal to Marshall's income, and just because it had cost so much and he had received a good many compliments he thought it was his duty to have it and himself photographed as a memento of his reckless extravagance before the costume was consigned to oblivion. On the day of his appointment with the artist he was dressed and ready in his costume. As it was a rainy day, he provided himself with an umbrella and a pair of india-rubbers big enough to go over the gondola-like shoes. He also carried a stuffed falcon in his hand so that there should be no doubt as to what he was.

Unluckily, the horse fell down on the slippery _Corso_, and the coachman insisted upon Marshall's getting out.

"You may imagine my feelings," he said, "at being obliged to show myself in broad daylight in this get-up. A crowd of gaping idiots gathered about me and made particularly sarcastic remarks. One said, '_E il Re!_' ('It is the King'). Another screamed, '_Quante e bello i piccolo_!' There was I stranded in the middle of the _Corso_, holding an umbrella over my head in one hand and that ridiculous falcon in the other, my feather dripping down my back; and when I looked down at blue legs fast turning another color and my huge india-rubbers I realized what a spectacle I was making of myself...."

We laughed till the tears rolled down our cheeks. He showed us the photograph, and I must say that a less Mignon-Henri-II-like Mignon and a more typical American face and figure could not be imagined. If Henri II had caught sight of him with his thin legs, side-whiskers, and eye-glasses he would have turned in his grave.

Dr. Nevin, our pastoral shepherd, has really done a great deal for the American church here and ought to have a vote of thanks. He has collected so much money that he has not only built the pretty church, but has decorated it with Burne-Jones's tall angels and copies of the mosaics from Ravenna. He has also built a comfortable rectory, which he has filled with rare _bric-à-brac_. They say that no one is a better match for the wily dealers in antiquities than the reverend gentleman, and the pert little cabmen don't dare to try any of their tricks on him.

He shows another side of his character when in the pulpit.

The mere sound of his own voice in reading the Scriptures affects him to tears. Last Sunday he almost broke down completely when he was reading about Elijah and the bears (a tale which does not seem in the least pathetic to me). He is a great sportsman and plays all games with enthusiasm, and is a fervent but bad whist-player, and when he revokes (which he often does) we suppose he is thinking out his next Sunday's sermon. In the summer vacation he goes to the Rocky Mountains and kills bears.

A few Sundays ago it was, if ever, the occasion to say, "Don't kill the organist; he is doing his best." Signor Rotoli (the organist), who does not know one word of English, was dozing through Dr. Nevin's usual sermon, and, having the music open before him of the solo that Mr. Grant (the tenor) was going to sing, heard the first words of the prayer, "O Lord, grant--" thought that it was the signal for the anthem, and crashed down the opening chords.

Dr. Nevin looked daggers at him, as if he could have killed him on the spot, and had there been anything at hand heavier than his sermon he certainly would have thrown it at him.

_March, 1881._

Dear ----,--The carnival is over. As it is the first carnival I have ever seen, I must describe it to you. It lasts almost a week. It commenced last Wednesday and finished yesterday. Mr. Saumares, of the English Embassy, had taken a balcony just opposite the Palazzo Fiano, where the Queen always goes. He invited us for the whole week, and when we were not in the fray ourselves, we went there at five o'clock to take tea and to see the _corso di barbeir_ (the race of the wild horses). The first day of the carnival we were full of energy and eagerness. We were all in our shabbiest clothes, as this is the customary thing. The coachman and the valet also had their worst clothes on, which is saying a good deal, and the horses were even worse than usual, which is saying a good deal more. The carriages were filled to overflowing with flowers, bonbons, and confetti by the bushel. Our servant, Giuseppe, had been since early morning bargaining for the things, and after tucking us in the carriage he contemplated us with pride as we drove off.

We started from the Piazzo del Popolo at three o'clock, and pelted every one, exhausting our ammunition recklessly. Dirty little beggar-boys would jump on the step of the carriage and snatch what flowers they could, even out of our hands, and would then sell them back to us, scrambling for the soldi which we threw at them; and, what was worse, they picked the same bouquets up, which by this time had become mere stems without flowers and covered with mud, and threw them at us. They wanted their fun, too.

At five o'clock we stood on the balcony to watch the race of the wild horses. These are brought straight in from the country, quite wild and untamed. They are covered with all sorts of dangling pointed tin things and fire-crackers, which not only frighten them dreadfully, but hurt them. They started at the Piazza del Popolo and were hooted and goaded on by the excited screams of the populace all the way down the narrow _Corso_, which is a mile long. It is a wonder that the poor creatures in their fright did not dart into the howling crowd, but they did not. They kept straight on their way, stung to desperation by the fireworks on their backs. At the Piazza di Venezia the street narrows into a very small passage, which divides the palazzo from its neighbor opposite. Here sheets (or, rather, sails) were hung across this narrow place, into which the horses, blinded with terror, puzzled and confused, ran headlong, and were easily caught. The one who gets there first gets the prize, and is led back through the streets, tired and meek, wearing his number on a card around his neck. It is a cruel sport, but the Italians enjoy it, believing, as they do, that animals have no souls, and therefore can support any amount of torture.

Nothing is done on Friday. The following Tuesday--Mardi-gras--was the last day. Then folly reigned supreme. After the horses had run their race and twilight had descended on the scene, the _moccoletti_ began. This is such a childish sport that it really seems impossible that grown-up men and women could find any amusement in taking part in it. Lighting your own small tallow candle and trying to put out your neighbor's--that is what it amounts to. Does it not sound silly? Yet all this vast crowd is as intent on it as if their lives and welfare were at stake. At eight o'clock, however, this came to an end, the last flickering light was put out, and we went home--one would think to play with our dolls.

ROME, _1881_.

Dear ----,--Since we are bereft of balls and _soirées_ we devote our time to improving our Italian. Johan and I take lessons of a monsignore who appears precisely at ten every morning. We struggle through some verbs, and then he dives into Dante, the most difficult thing to comprehend in the Italian language. Then he tries to explain it in Italian to us, which is more difficult still. He makes us read aloud to him, during which he folds his hands over his fat stomach and audibly goes to sleep. He will awake with a start and excuse himself, saying that he gets up at five o'clock in the morning for _matines_, and that naturally at eleven he is sleepy; but I think he only pretends to sleep and takes refuge behind his eyelids, in order to ponder over the Italian language as "she is spoke."

Sgambati, the very best composer and pianist in Rome, gives lessons to Nina, who he says has "_molto talento_." Sgambati has a wonderful and sympathetic touch, which is at once velvety and masterful. His gavotte is a _chef-d'oeuvre_. He calls it a gavotte, but I tell him he ought to call it "The Procession of the Cavaliers," because it has such a martial ring to it. It does not in the least resemble a Gavotte Louis XV. I seem to see in my mind's eye Henry V. trying to rally his comrades about him and incite them to combat. Sgambati looks like a _preux chevalier_ himself, with his soft, mild blue eyes and long hair and serene brow. He brought a song that he composed, he said, "_per la distinta Eccellenza Hegermann_ expressly by her devoted and admiring Sgambati." Although the song was beautiful as a piano piece and as _he_ played it, I could not sing it. I said:

"My dear Sgambati, I can never sing 'Mio' on a si-bemol. Can I not change it for an 'A'?"

"No!" answered Sgambati. "The-whole meaning would be lost; but you can broaden it out and sing 'Miaa.'"

Another shining light is Tosti, who comes to us very often. He is by far the best beloved of popular composers. He understands the voice thoroughly and composes songs which are melodious and easy to sing. Therefore every one sings them. He has not much of a voice, but when he sings his compositions he makes them so charming that they sell like wildfire. He is the most amiable of geniuses, and never refuses to sing when he is asked.

Yesterday I sang something I had composed as a _vocalize_. He liked it so much that he asked why I did not sing it as a song.

I said, "I cannot write either it or the accompaniment."

"That is easy enough," he replied. "I will write it for you," and scribbled it off then and there.

He dedicated a piece to me called "Forever," which I sing on every occasion.

I have a great friend in Madame Helbig, the wife of Herr Helbig, the German archæologist in Rome. She is born a Russian princess, and is certainly one of the best amateur musicians, if not the best, I have ever met. She is of immense proportions, being very tall and very stout. One might easily mistake her for a priest, as she is always dressed in a long black garment which is a sort of water-proof; and as her hair is short and she never wears a hat, you may well imagine that she is very well known in Rome. When she hails a cab to take her up the very steep Caffarelli Hill, where they live, the cabbies, who are humorists in their way, look at her, then at their poor, half-fed horses and the weak springs of their dilapidated _bottes_ (cabs), shake their heads, and, holding up two dirty fingers, say, "_In due volte_" (which means "in two trips"). Mr. Ross, the Norwegian painter, whose English is not quite up to the mark, said she was the "hell-biggest" woman he ever saw; and when she undertook a journey to Russia, said, "Dear me, how can she ever travel with that corpse of hers?"

ROME, HOLY WEEK, _1881_.

My dear Aunt,--The churches are open all day. St. Peter's, Laterano, Santa Maria Maggiore each has one of the famous sopranos. The music is--well, simply divine! I can't say more. You must hear it to appreciate it. (Some day I hope you will.) Good Friday is the great day at St. Peter's. The church is so crowded that one can hardly get a place to stand. There are not chairs enough in any of the churches during Holy Week for the numerous strangers that pervade Rome. My servant generally carries a camp-stool and rug, and I sit entranced, listening in the deepening twilight to the heavenly strains of Palestrina, Pergolese, and Marcello. Sometimes the soloists sing Gounod's "Ava Maria" and Rossini's "Stabat Mater," and, fortunately, drown the squeaky tones of the old organ. A choir of men and boys accompanies them in "The Inflammatus," where the high notes of M.'s tearful voice are almost supernatural. People swarm to the Laterano on Saturday to hear the Vespers, which are especially fine. After the solo is finished, the priests begin their monotonous Gregorian chants, and at the end of those they _slap-bang_ their prayer-books on the wooden benches on which they are sitting, making a noise to wake the dead. I thought they were furious with one another and were refusing to sing any more. It seemed very out of place for such an exhibition of temper. A knowing friend told me that it was an old Jewish custom which had been repeated for ages on this particular day and at this hour. It closes the Lenten season.

On Easter Sunday I sang in the American church. Dr. Nevin urged me so much that I did not like to refuse. I chose Mendelssohn's beautiful anthem, "Come unto Me."

ROME, _1883_.

Dear ----,--We have moved from the Palazzo Rospigliosi to the Palazzo Tittoni, in Via Rasella, which leads from the Palazzo Barberini down to the Fontana di Trevi. I never would have chosen this palace, beautiful as it is, if I could have foreseen the misery I suffer when I hear the wicked drivers goading and beating their poor beasts up this steep hill. The poor things strain every muscle under their incredible burdens, but are beaten, all the same. I am really happy when I hear the crow--I mean the bray--of a donkey. It has a jubiliant ring in it, as if he were somehow enjoying himself, and my heart sympathizes with him. But it may be only his way of expressing the deepest depths of woe.

Mrs. Charles Bristed, of New York, a recent convert to the Church of Rome, receives on Saturday evenings. She has accomplished what hitherto has been considered impossible--that is, the bringing together of the "blacks" (the ultra-Catholic party, belonging to the Vatican) and the "whites," the party adhering to the Quirinal. These two parties meet in her _salon_ as if they were of the same color. The Pope's singers are the great attraction. She must either have a tremendously long purse or great persuasive powers to get them, for her _salon_ is the only place outside the churches where one can hear them. Therefore this _salon_ is the only platform in Rome where the two antagonistic parties meet and glare at each other.

We went there last Saturday. The chairs were arranged in rows, superb in their symmetry at first, but after the first petticoats had swept by everything was in a hopeless confusion. Two ladies sitting on one chair, one lady appropriating two chairs instead of one, and another sitting sideways on three. The consequence was that there was a conglomeration of empty chairs in the middle of the room, while crowds of weary guests stood in and near the doorway, with the thermometer sky-high! When one sees the Pope's singers in evening dress and white cravats the prestige and effect are altogether lost. This particular evening was unusually brilliant, for the monsignores and cardinals were extra-abundant. There were printed programs handed to us with the list of the numerous songs that we were going to hear.

The famous Moresca, who sings at the Laterano, is a full-faced soprano of forty winters. He has a tear in each note and a sigh in each breath. He sang the jewel song in "Faust," which seemed horribly out of place. Especially when he asks (in the hand-glass) if he is really Marguerita, one feels tempted to answer, "_Macché_," for him. Then they sang a chorus of Palestrina, all screaming at the top of their lungs, evidently thinking they were in St. Peter's. It never occurred to them to temper their voices to the poor shorn lambs wedged up against the walls.

Afterward followed the duet, "_Quis est homo_," of Rossini's "Stabat Mater," sung by two gray-haired sopranos. This was extremely beautiful, but the best of all was the solo sung by a fat, yellow-mustached barytone. I never heard anything to compare to his exquisite voice. We shall never hear anything like it in this world, and I doubt in the next. Maroni is the man who always directs the Pope's singers. He makes more noise beating time with his roll of music on the piano than all the cab-drivers below in the Piazza del Popolo.

The supper-room was a sight to behold--the enormous table fairly creaking under the weight of every variety of food filled half the room, leaving very little space for the guests. The sopranos got in first, ahead even of the amiable hostess, who stopped the whole procession, trying to go abreast through the door with a portly cardinal and a white diplomat, leaving us, the hungry black and white sheep, still wrestling with the chairs.

You must have heard of Hamilton Aidé, the author of _The Poet and the Prince_ and other works. He comes frequently to see us, and always brings either a new book or a new song--for he is not only a distinguished author, but a composer as well. He sings willingly when asked. He is very fond of one of his songs, called "The Danube River." If he had not brought the music and I had not seen the title as I laid it on the piano, I should never have known that it was anything so lively as a river he was singing about. Though I could occasionally hear the word "river," I hoped that as the river and singer went on they would have a little more "go" in them; but they continued babbling along regardless of obstacles and time. I was extremely mortified to see that several of my guests had dozed off. The river and the singer had had a too-lullaby effect on them.

ROME, _1883_.

Dear ----,--Next to the Palazzo Tittoni lives a delightful family--the Count and Countess Gigliucci, with a son and two daughters. The Countess is the celebrated Clara Novello of oratorio fame. The three ladies are perfectly charming. I love to go to see them, and often drop in about tea-hour, when I get an excellent cup of English tea and delicious muffins, and enjoy them in this cozy family circle.

Though they live In a palace and have a showy _portier_, they do not disdain to do their shopping out of the window by means of a basket, which the servant-girl lets down on a string for the daily marketing. Even cards and letters are received in this way, as the porter refuses to carry anything up to their third story. "_Sortita!_" screamed down in a shrill voice is the answer to the visitor waiting below in the courtyard.

When the three ladies are sitting at the tea-table dispensing tea, one of them will suddenly commence the trio from "Elijah"--"Lift thine eyes"--the other two joining in (singing without an accompaniment, of course) in the most delicious manner. Their voices are so alike in _timbre_ and quality that it is almost impossible to distinguish one from the other. After the trio they go on pouring out tea as if nothing had happened, whereas for me it is an event. It is such perfection!

Countess Gigliucci comes sometimes and sings with me. Her voice is still beautiful and clear as a bell. What must it have been in its prime? In her letters to me she calls me "my delicious blackbird."

ROME, _March, 1883_.

The King of Sweden came to Rome on an official visit to their Majesties. I suppose it is called official because he is staying as a guest at the Quirinal, therefore he is hardly seen in private. You remember that I saw a good deal of him when he was in Paris in 1867. He was then hereditary Prince to the throne of Sweden, and was called Prince Oscar. He only stayed three days at Rome. There was a gala dinner to which all the diplomats were invited. He greeted me very cordially, shook hands in his genial manner, and talked about the past (sixteen years ago) as if it were yesterday. He said, smilingly:

"You see, since I have become King I have cut my hair."

I had no idea what he meant and looked puzzled.

"Don't you remember," he said, "you called me 'the _Hair_ Apparent' on account of my long locks?"

"Oh, your Majesty," I said, "how could I have been so rude?"

"It was not rudeness," he said, kindly. "You said what you liked in those days. You were not then a diplomat's wife."

The day of his departure from Rome we went to the station. The King was very gracious, and said to Johan, "I hope you and your wife will come some day to Sweden," and gave my hand an extra-hearty squeeze. A hearty squeeze from his hand was something to remember!

* * * * *

The Queen has asked me to sing with her, and I go regularly twice a week to the Quirinal at two o'clock. We sing all kinds of duets, classical and the ultra-modern. The Queen's singing-master, Signor Vera, and sometimes the composer, Signor Marchetti, accompany us--they bring new music which has appeared, which we _déchiffrons_ under their critical eyes. It is the greatest delight I have to be able to be with her Majesty in such an informal way. She is so enchanting, so natural, so gay, and so fascinating. No one can resist her. Am I not a greatly privileged person? I presented Nina to her last week--her Majesty told me to bring her with me on one of our singing-lesson days at half past one--so we had a half-hour of conversation before the singing-master came. The Queen said, after Nina had gone: "What a beauty she is! She will set the world on fire."

_May, 1883._

The visit of the newly married couple, Prince Tomaso, brother of the Queen, and Princess Isabella of Bavaria, has been the occasion of many festivities.

Yesterday there was a garden party in the Quirinal gardens. It was a perfect day, and the beautiful toilets of the ladies made the lawn look like a _parterre_ of living flowers. The grounds are so large that there were several entertainments going on at the same time without interfering with one another.

A band of gipsies in their brilliant dresses were singing in one place, and in a _bosquet_ a troupe of Neapolitans were dancing the tarantella in their white-stockinged feet. There were booths where you could have your photograph taken and your fortune told. Everywhere you were given souvenirs of some kind. One played at the _tombola_ and always got a prize. Buffets, of course, at every turn. We went from one surprise to another. The Prince of Naples was omnipresent and seemed to enjoy himself immensely. Whoever arranged this _fête_ ought to have received a decoration. Twilight and the obligation of having to dress for the evening concert put a stop to this delightful afternoon. In the evening there was a gala concert which was very entertaining. It commenced by a piece written by the Baron Renzie and very well performed by amateurs, and some mandolinists, who played several things more or less acceptably, and then came a long and tedious symphony which was too classical for the majority of the audience. The Queen and the Duchess of Genoa seemed to enjoy it. I did, too, but the King looked bored to death, and the bridegroom went fast to sleep. The Queen, who was sitting next to him, gave him a vigorous pinch to wake him up. The pinch had the intended effect, but the groan he gave was almost too audible. In the interlude when ices were passed the Princess talked with the wives of the diplomats who were brought up to her. The Queen, still laughing at her brother's discomfiture, passed about among the other guests.

_December, 1883._

We returned to Rome a week ago. It was said that their Majesties had expressed the desire that as many diplomats as possible should be present when the Crown Prince of Germany came for his visit to the Quirinal.

During the stay of the Crown-Prince Frederic the crowds waited patiently outside the Quirinal, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He is very popular, and whenever he shows himself he is cheered to _outrance_. Sometimes he came out on the balcony, and once he took the Prince of Naples up in his strong arms and cried "_Evviva l'Italia_" The people clapped their hands till they were worn out.

There were fireworks from the Castel St. Angelo in his honor which were wonderfully fine.

To reach the balconies reserved for the _Corps Diplomatique_ we were obliged to leave our carriages in a little side-street and go through a long carpeted passage, the walls of which were hung with fine old tapestries taken from the Quirinal in order to hide the unsightly objects concealed behind them. The balconies were erected on the outside of the dilapidated houses which overlook the Tiber and facing the Castel St. Angelo. How they ever managed to make this passage is a mystery! In the daytime one could not see the possibility of cutting through the labyrinth of these forlorn tumble-down houses. We sat trembling for fear that the shaky planks would suddenly give way and plunge us into the whirling Tiber under our feet. The fireworks were the most gorgeous display of pyrotechnics I ever saw. And the bouquet as the _finale_ was a magnificent tornado of fire which left a huge "F" blazing, which lighted up the December night. We were thankful when we reached home alive.

The next and last evening of the festivities was a gala opera, where there was a great deal of clapping and enthusiasm which accompanied a rather poor performance of "Aida." They said that Verdi was in the audience, but he did not appear, nor was there any demonstration made for him.

ROME, _January, 1884_.

My dear ----,--There are a few changes in the Embassies. Sir Saville Lumley has succeeded Sir August Paget at the English Embassy. Sir Saville's own paintings now cover Lady Paget's chocolate cherubs--only those above the door and their bulrushes are left to tell the tale. Monsieur Decrais, the new French Ambassador and his wife, who replace the De Noailles in the Farnese Palace, are already established. The iciness of Siberia continues to pervade the palace in spite of all efforts to warm those vast _salons_, enormous in their proportions--I do not know how many _métres_ they are to the ceiling. The Carracci gallery separates the bedrooms from the _salons_. Madame Decrais says that they are obliged to dress like Eskimos when they cross it, as they do twenty times a day.

How the Roman climate must have changed since the time when the Romans went about in togas and sandals and lay on slabs of marble after their bath!

We are delighted to have our dear friend M. de Schlözer here. He is Minister to the Vatican, and is (or ought to be) as black as ink, while we Quirinalers are as white as the driven snow; but he has no prejudice as to color, nor have we, so we see one another very often and dine together whenever we can. As soon as his silver was unpacked we were invited straightway to dinner. His rooms in the Palazzo Capranica (belonging to the family of Madame Ristori's husband) are as bare as those he occupied in Washington--barer, even, for here there are no _portières_. In the _salon_ he had his beloved Steinway grand, one stiff sofa, four enormous _fauteuils_, destined for his cardinals, a few small gilt _chaises volantes_ (as he calls little chairs that are easy to move about), one table on which reposes the last piece of marble picked up while strolling in the Forum, and, as a supreme banality, his niece's Christmas present, a _lamp-mat_, on which stands the lamp in solitary glory.

Schlözer's dinners are of the best, and are most amusing. He superintends everything himself and gives himself no end of trouble. Each course as it is served receives an introductory speech: "_Ce paté, mon cher, est la gloire de ma cuisinière_" etc.

He says that all _volaille_ ought to be carved at the table, therefore he carves the birds and the chickens himself, brandishing the knife with gusto while sharpening it.

And as for the wines! Dear me! After filling his glass he holds it against the light, tastes the wine, smacks his lips, and says: "_Ce vin de Bordeaux est du '64. Il faut le boire avec recueillement. Je l'ai débouché moi-même_."

He has a great liking for Lenbach (the famous painter), although they are utterly different in character and ways. Lenbach is not musical, and is rather rough and gruff in his manners. Even his best friends acknowledge that he does not possess the thing called manners. He is clever and witty in his way, but his way is sarcastic and peevish. Sometimes when he is talking to you he beams and scowls alternately behind his spectacles. You think that he is listening to you, but not at all! He is only thinking out his own thoughts, in which he seems always to be wrapped.

Lenbach occupies the same apartment in the Palazzo Borghese that Pauline Bonaparte lived in. Probably the very couch is still there on which she reclined for her famous statue. You remember what a modest lady friend said to her, "_Cela m'étonne que vous ayez pu poser comme cela_!"--meaning, without clothes; to which the Princess replied: "But why do you wonder? Canova had a fire in the room."

Lenbach asked permission to paint Nina. We did not refuse, and expected great things. He photographed her twenty times in different poses, turning her head (physically, not morally) every which way, and painted thirteen pictures of her, but there was only one (a very pretty profile in crayon with a pink ear and a little dash of yellow on the hair) which he thought good enough to give us.

Do not ask me what we have done or whom we have seen. We are out morning, noon, and night. Every day there is a regular "precession of the equinoxes"--luncheons, dinners, and _soirées_ galore.

I sing twice a week with the Queen--red-letter days for me. I look forward with joy to passing that hour with her. I never knew any one so full of interest, humor, and intelligence. It is delightful to see her when she is amused. She can laugh so heartily, and no one, when there is occasion for sympathy, is more ready to give it. Her kind eyes can fill with tears as quickly as they can see the fun in a situation.