Chapter XXI: Queen Margherita at Our Studio

The twentieth century dawned for us in Rome, where we were now in our sixth year of residence. The opening of the new cycle was marked by the magnificent pageants of the Pope’s jubilee. The pilgrimages that season exceeded all others in splendor. Pilgrims from all Christian lands, of every class from prince to peasant, poured into the Eternal City, past our windows to St. Peter’s and the Vatican. Looking back, this time seems one long carnival, when the streets were crowded by picturesque figures from every corner of the earth, clad in strange and striking costumes. The Russian Catholics wore rich Cossack dress; one huge fellow had a belt studded with turquoises a queen might have envied. The Easter church services were gorgeous and attracted crowds of tourists from England and America; the Anglo-American colony were hard put to it to meet the demands for hospitality that each day brought. For the English this was a grave time, as the tragedy of the Boer War cast its shadow wherever they assembled. I remember the excitement at a large dinner when the news of a Boer victory was whispered. I sat between two young diplomats representing a country much out of sympathy with Great Britain. I shall never forget the malicious expression of one of these attachés as he exclaimed:

“_Elle est fini!_” or his surprise at my sharp rejoinder:

“England finished? That’s something you will never live to see, young man!”

Among other distinguished visitors was the old Duke of Cambridge (cousin of Queen Victoria) who served in 1854 at Alma and Inkerman and for fifty years was Commander-in-chief of the British army. He was born in 1819, the year of my mother’s birth, and showed the same uncommon vitality at his advanced age that I have noticed in others of the exceptionally large number of famous people born that year. I had a tender spot in my heart for the Duke on account of his romantic marriage to the woman he loved in defiance of the commands of the Queen. With his sons, Colonel and Admiral Fitz-George, the old soldier came to pass some weeks at the Grand Hotel. It was the duty of the military attaché of the British Embassy to plan the Roman days of these exalted personages. As the Duke was not interested in antiquities, the attaché was sometimes hard pressed to fill up the time. Some one suggested that he bring the Duke to my husband’s studio, to see the Boston Public Library ceiling, now nearing completion. I was not present at the visit but well remember J.’s description of it.

The visitors were interested in the portraits J. had lately made of three heroes of the Boer War, Lord Ava, the handsome young son of Lord Dufferin, the Marquis of Winchester and General Wauchope. These portraits were J.’s contribution to Lady Lansdowne’s fund for the families of officers killed in the Boer War. He asked the Duke if he would pose for his portrait for the same charity.

“Why not, why not?” was the cheery answer. The sittings were full of interest, the Duke proving a genial sitter. He occasionally fell into a doze from which his son would gently rouse him, whereupon, to show how wide awake he was, he burst into song with snatches from grand opera in a voice that showed traces of a musical training. My husband was fortunate in making an excellent likeness. With the help of Lady Kenmare and Hamilton Aïdé the four portraits were taken to London and became the nucleus of the exhibition and sale of pictures held at the house of the Duke of Sutherland for the war fund. The portrait of the Duke of Cambridge, I believe, found its way into the War Office; the other three were purchased by the families of the fallen heroes.

Among the imperishable memories of this year is the long-drawn-out agony of Ladysmith, where for four months General White kept the enemy at bay. In this siege my young cousin Hugh Frazer was wounded. He recovered and lived to lay down his life in the World War, eighteen years later.

We seemed to be living more in South Africa than in Italy, so closely did we follow every move of that dreadful war. One night at the Grand Hotel I sat at dinner very near to Cecil Rhodes. He was the center of interest in a crowd of celebrities gathered together to commemorate some important event. Though I have forgotten what the occasion was, I can see the face of the great Dictator of South Africa as if I had seen it yesterday. He looked the empire builder he was, but most of all he looked like an American. He spoke as one having authority, and compelled, apparently without in the least wishing to do so, the attention of every person in the large company.

A year or two later I was fortunate in meeting Hunter Weston, the hero of the Boer War and the Gallipoli campaign. He held at this time the rank of Colonel, and was on his way home from the Transvaal, invalided. We met several times at Villa Florida, the home of Major Davis in Naples, and later he came to our house in Rome. What impressed one most about him was an amazing virility, together with a charm of speech and a grace of manner that made him a marked man in any gathering. He was a _preux chevalier_ among the sons of Mars.

Lest I forget, let me anticipate my story to note that we were in London at the close of the Boer War. The day peace was declared, May first, 1902, we took a cab and drove about the city. London was beside itself with joy. The streets were filled with people singing, dancing, cheering; the traditional English calm was swept away by a storm of rejoicing. J., who had lived out of his country since his boyhood, could not believe his eyes.

“I don’t know my own people,” he kept saying; “this is not my London.” A few nights later Colonel Hunter Weston dined with us. Talking of the demonstration, he agreed with what J. had said, adding, “Perhaps you do not realize how much cause there is for rejoicing!”

[To my Mother.]

Rome, April 10, 1900. This will be, I believe, my last Eastertide
in Rome. It is a restless time, floods and floods of people from
home. Other kinds of floods too; the rainy season has been
unspeakable. Great fear for the crops. The Tiber is higher than I
ever saw it. J. says if it were not for the embankment, people
would be rowing about in the Piazza del Popolo as he once saw them
when the Tiber overflowed. Life is full and interesting, with more
delightful strangers in town than we can do justice to. The Thomas
Bailey Aldriches are here. I had one good talk with him; he is as
enchanting as ever, though not looking very strong. Mrs. Aldrich
came to my reception, bringing one of the twins with her. I met the
Vernon Harcourts at lunch on Sunday at the Embassy. His talk about
the political situation was illuminating. She asked about you and
wished to be remembered.

* * * * *

May 30, 1900. J. sent off the drawings of General Wauchope, Marquis
of Winchester and Duke of Cambridge in the British Embassy bag to
Mrs. Hope. Villegas and the Signora called to take farewell. They
are off for Seville day after to-morrow. Only two months more of
our Roman palace; we begin to feel the tug of parting. The Easter
lilies are all in bloom. Miss Kemp buys plants from the terrace for
four hundred and twenty-one francs. This, with one hundred and
fifty from Mr. Bagot, for the roses, is quite a sum to pull off our
terrace.

* * * * *

May 31, 1900. J. wrote careful explanatory letters to Mrs. Hope
(Lady Lansdowne’s secretary) and to Hamilton Aïdé about the
drawings. A long visit to Miss Leigh Smith, who showed me a London
paper with a report of your having spoken at some public meeting
for the English. Miss L. S. pleased you should have come out strong
for her people, I more pleased to learn you were stirring about and
making speeches on your eighty-first birthday.

* * * * *

June 2, 1900. The plants sold Miss Kemp have been taken downstairs.
It has been a dreadful day to me. The lovely things were ruthlessly
torn from their home and carried down the long stairs--it has made
me almost ill. Six tall spirea in full bloom, four boxes of pink
ivy geranium, two large azaleas, two giant honeysuckles (one J. dug
up at the Villa Madama in the face of an angry bull), four
wistaria, thirty-six chrysanthemums, two rhododendrons, nine coral
geraniums.

* * * * *

June 4, 1900. Saw Miss Kemp and our lovely plants in their new
home. Terrace pulled together but much reduced; half its front
teeth are missing. To see de Musset’s “Lorenzacchio”, with Zacconi.
A slow dragging drama in five acts with great poetic quality but
crudely put together. Only a first-rate actor could have made it
“go” at all. Visit to the studio from Miss Wauchope, the sister of
the General, and her friend Miss Tesiger, daughter of the Lord
Chancellor. Miss Wauchope spoke in the warmest way of J.’s portrait
of her brother. Said it was inspired and far the best thing ever
made of him. Mr. Leech thought he might like to buy the remaining
honeysuckles, but found them too big. Decide to give Miss Kemp the
seventeen ivies, as they are hardly saleable in pots, but will do
finely in the ground, and their future will be assured in a good
garden. Have combined with Ignazio, our gardener, to take care of
Miss K.’s garden for thirty francs a month. Quite a comfort; the
dear plants will be well cared for by him, who more than any one
else helped J. create our paradise. Sent to the auction room much
_roba_,--better to sell it for a few francs than to pay for packing
and shipping.

* * * * *

June 5, 1900. The de Stirums want plants from the terrace for
thirty-four francs, Jessie Cochrane for one hundred; this brings up
the plant sales to six hundred and seventy francs. The gardenias
are astonishing, finer than ever before. J. has given the two big
honeysuckles and the passion flower to Boni to set out in the Roman
Forum. This is consoling.

* * * * *

June 9, 1900. Last evening at eight o’clock came a messenger from
the Marchese Guiccioli, chamberlain of the Queen, with the news
that the royal lady would come to the studio the next day at six in
the afternoon. Great excitement in _casa_ Elliott. Early in the
morning we raided the Villegas villa for flowers and borrowed
Lorenzo, their handy man, to come help put the studio to rights. I
dreamed of a crimson carpet hired for the event and palms to
redeem the grim entrance in the rear of the old Palazzo
Giraud-Torlonia, but J. said:

“No. She is quite accustomed to going to artists’ studios and
finding them as they are.”

Perhaps he was right, but I hankered for the crimson carpet. The
little outer studio was made neat and a corner of the great barn
itself looked brave with our big rug, the gold screens, a few good
chairs and the Portuguese leather armchair you always sat in. J.
asked Lord Currie to come and help do the honors. He was there
promptly at half-past five. We were all three in waiting at the
shabby old green door when the royal carriage with the scarlet
liveries drew up. Lord Currie handed out the Queen, saying,

“It gives me great pleasure to present my compatriot to your
Majesty.”

The Queen took the long flights of stairs easily, her
lady-in-waiting, the Duchess Massimo, panting behind. The Queen was
delighted with the work and looked at it from every point of view.
She asked for the sketches, studied them and asked many questions
about the building, the light, etc. She looked at every little
drawing in the studio, laughing heartily at the portrait of the
Duke of Cambridge, exclaiming:

“It is the old man to the very life.”

The visit lasted half an hour and was as friendly and easy as heart
could desire. The visitors departed in a blaze of scarlet and gold
lace, with congratulations and farewells. Lord Currie said that the
Queen had been really interested in the work. She certainly said
things to me that were pleasant to hear.

Queen Margherita has always been the friend and patron of artists and musicians and is greatly beloved by them. She finds a certain relief from the formalities of court life in the world of art, wherein as an excellent musician, she finds herself more at home than some royalties. She is herself a collector; on the occasion of my parting visit to her, some years later, it was a source of great pleasure to find in her private apartments two pictures by my husband.

July 4, 1900. Left Naples where we have been having a little outing
and returned to Rome, arriving at two o’clock. I tried to find some
Americans to foregather with, but there was no reception anywhere.
Left cards at the Iddings, out of town for the day at Frascati. If
I had not been away from Rome, I should myself have given a
Glorious Fourth tea. Saw the dear flag over Iddings’ door and had a
little drive with Mr. Richard Greenough.

The Chinese horror (the Boxer Rebellion) hangs heavy on us all. I
doubt if a single European escapes from Pekin, or indeed from
China. Their doom is sealed,--the opium traders seem to be
responsible for it all.

* * * * *

July 6, 1900. The Chinese horror confirmed. Last night came news
that all the Legations and the men, women and children had been
destroyed, the Empress Dowager and the Emperor forced to take
poison. There are said to be one hundred thousand Christian
converts. If true, I look with intense interest to see if
Christianity retains its leaven. Strange if our religion should
spread and conquer this stubborn old race. It will certainly count
for something in the coming struggle.--Mr. and Mrs. Iddings and
Mimo (Mrs. Hugh Fraser) to dine. She is very fascinating. She told
us much of Pekin. She has lived at the Embassy and knew many of the
people butchered there. I can think of little else.

* * * * *

July 13, 1900. Yesterday came Miss Mason of the Castle School at
Tarry town with six or seven jolly American girls from Texas,
Missouri, etc. They spent an hour at the studio. Miss Mason told me
that she had heard Bishop Potter describe J.’s “Triumph of Time” in
a sermon and that she could not leave Rome without seeing the
picture.

* * * * *

July 14, 1900. While we sat at dinner a messenger from the Casa
Reale was announced. We had a guest dining with us. J. went out and
stayed for some time. He came back with a letter in his hand from
the Marchesa Villamarina, who wrote “in the name of her august
Majesty” asking him to accept the accompanying jewel for his wife
in memory of her visit to the studio. He handed me a box wrapped in
soft white paper, saying, “I fancy this is for you.”

I opened it and found a medallion of blue enamel with M, the
Queen’s initial, set in diamonds on one side, on the reverse the
royal coat of arms, the whole encircled with diamonds and set
swinging from a bar pin of platinum and brilliants. A very
beautiful jewel.

* * * * *

July 27, 1900. A vast American pilgrimage is now in possession of
the city. The pilgrims brought a great sum of money as their
present to the Pope. They drive about the city all day in cabs and
landaus, four and five inside and a female on the box beside the
coachman. The Romans stare; such a sight as a woman on the box they
never saw. Seeing the American Roman Catholics in such large
numbers one recognizes a composite type, very unlike the typical
clean-cut New Englander.

On the 29th of July the King of Italy was assassinated by an anarchist at Monza.

Rome, August 2, 1900. The King is dead, long live the King! The
little new King, Victor Emmanuel III, has made so far a favorable
impression by the deep feeling he has shown. He got the news of his
father’s murder on his yacht, cruising with his young wife, the
Montenegrin Princess, in southern waters below Brindisi, and
hurried directly to Monza in Piedmont. Both the young people are
reported as having cried themselves sick. The King refused to see
all officials and ministers and rushed through Naples and Rome on
his special train. At Naples, when he heard that Crispi was waiting
in the station, he sent for him. The old man, very feeble, was
brought into the carriage and the two sobbed together. A letter was
handed him from the Queen directed simply “_A mio figlio_”; I
suppose she could not so soon give him his new title. She sent word
to the lady to whom poor Umberto had been attached for many years
that she might come and see the body at Monza. The bearing and
behavior of the Romans is admirable. I had looked for excess and
hysteria. The contrary has prevailed. The people are deeply moved;
there is a sombre hush everywhere, a decent, reserved mourning,
more what one would expect in England than Italy. Great indignation
is felt about the impunity with which two Italian newspapers,
published in Paterson, New Jersey, where the murderer had lived,
have advocated the murder of all rulers, especially the King of
Italy. Surely such sheets should not be allowed and the authorities
should have knowledge of what is printed in the papers, whether in
Italian, Yiddish or English. Nothing yet announced of the funeral
ceremonies or for the installation of the new king. I shall see all
I can of these events. Strange, I saw the great Victor Emmanuel
alive, I saw him dead and lying in state in the _capella ardente_,
at the Quirinal; I saw Umberto when the troops took the oath of
allegiance twenty-two years ago, and now I shall probably see him
dead and his son take the oath to support the Constitution. The
anarchist programme does seem to be having a measure of success. It
looks as if the plan to make the thrones of Europe so hot that no
royalty will sit upon them was succeeding.

Both the Prefect of Monza and his own court entourage had objected
to Umberto’s going to the festa at Monza, where he was killed, as
there was a general sense of uneasiness, but he was one of those
mortals who seem to be absolutely without fear, as brave a man as
ever lived. Courage, honesty, simplicity were his chief
characteristics. Whenever there was a serious fire, a bad accident,
a public disaster of any sort, he was sure to be on the spot among
the first. The Chief of Police told me that once,

when there was a terrible fire, he found the King among the
_vigiles_ (firemen), giving orders and helping generally in a most
dangerous place, where a wall was on the point of crumbling that
might have fallen and crushed him. The _Capo_ remonstrated with the
King and begged him to go away. The King refused; he liked the
active stir and rush and being able to do something besides
planning and thinking, which were not in his line. Then the _Capo_
said:

“Majesty, perhaps you have a right to risk your life, but have you
the right to risk ruining me?” The King saw the justice of the plea
and sadly retired to his palace. He has looked old and worried
lately and above all puzzled. He wanted so much to do the right
thing, but did not seem to know how to do it. I believe now he has
gone that account will be taken of the giant strides Italy has made
during his reign and that he will be found to have been a more
significant figure than his critics have realized.

* * * * *

August 5, 1900. It was lumbago. How did you hear about it? Who do
you suppose cured me? Henry James. He came to lunch one day early
in July. I managed to struggle into an armchair and sit at table.
Before he left he told me he had suffered much from this devil and
that he had found the only cure for it “perspiration!” only he
didn’t use that vulgar word of course; this is what he did say:

“Believe me, dear lady, there is but one cure for
lumbago,--transpiration, transpiration. Only transpire freely
enough, and it disappears, but alas! it is a malady that returns.”

After he had left with J. I managed to crawl up to the terrace at
four o’clock of a broiling July afternoon, found an old broom, and
while the heat was positively grilling, swept the terrace from end
to end. I got into a perfect bath of “transpiration”, rolled into
bed where I gradually cooled off, slept like a top and awoke next
day cured.

August 6, 1900. Grave news. The two big canvases have been taken
off the stretchers and rolled up. The engineer of the palace
forbade J. remaining longer in his studio. The cracks in the walls
have been growing wider and wider. The engineer said, and Boni bore
him out, that there was danger the roof might fall in any day and
destroy both artist and pictures.

* * * * *

August 14, 1900. The packers come to-morrow at nine for the big
pictures. They will be shipped August 21st on the Anchor Line
steamer _Bolivia_ and will be three weeks reaching Boston. To dine
with the Dutch Secretary, de Stirum, who has taken John Loudon’s
place. Met the Danish minister who told me that there really are
grounds for hoping the Legations (at Pekin) are safe. If this is
true, the newspaper correspondents who sent the despatches with the
horrid details of the supposed murders ought to have some of the
tortures they invented practiced on themselves. Mme. de Lucca (she
was Miss Kennedy of New Orleans) the mother of one of the Italian
secretaries at Pekin, met me in the street the other day. I suppose
my face showed the sympathy I felt for her, as the morning papers
stated that all the people at the Legations had been killed.

“Why do you look at me like that?” she asked. “Don’t you suppose I
should know if my son were dead? He is perfectly well and safe!”

* * * * *

August 20, 1900. J. decides he wants to go to Oberammergau for the
Passion Play. We got right to work at closing up, and shall work
like Indians till the last minute. The real hot weather began about
mid-July and has kept up steadily. No terrible days like those in
Seville where the mercury this month goes up to 110, but a dead
level of 85, rising to 90. Nights always cool with a sea breeze
coming up about ten o’clock. We dine on the terrace; at night the
loss of the flowers does not trouble us. There is always a jug of
iced lemonade for callers; as our terrace is voted the coolest
place in Rome, we are popular and keep late hours, making up for
it next day by the inevitable siesta from one to three. In the
shadow of St. Peter’s Dome we watch the constellations march across
the sky and think of you at home, looking at the same old
Cassiopeia from the piazza at Oak Glen.

For many years I kept up a desultory correspondence with Henry James; we wrote not more than a few times a year and only when we had something particular to say. I ought to have kept his letters with greater care, but in my wandering existence all papers became _anathema maranatha_. From the few that have survived I chose the following, written after receiving some rather poor photographs of J.’s “Triumph of Time”, which he had watched with such keen interest as it slowly grew into a reality in the Roman studio. It was now in its place on the ceiling of the Children’s Room in the Boston Public Library.

Lamb House,
Rye.

August 2d, 1901.

My dear Maud Elliott.

Your beautiful Newport (if Newport I may call it) letter greatly
touches and interests me, and the effect of it is enhanced or
confirmed by the arrival almost at the same moment of the pale
photographic reminder and pale, though not wholly ineffectual, of
the monumental composition. All thanks for everything, and most of
all for the friendly remembrance that has dictated them. It is a
great pleasure, a great pride, for me to possess the dim shadows of
the picture, and, shadows though they be, I shall suspend the most
substantial on one of my little room-walls, where it will keep
constantly in memory for me those too few weeks in Rome, more than
two years ago, when I assisted a little at the glorious but
difficult birth and since I am afraid I shall never see the great
canvas itself in place. And your letter is full of other echoes too
and of a further-away past and a prior state, almost, of being; so
extremely does your description of your soft grey day in that
unforgotten Clime bring the whole place and air and feeling back to
me, and transport me to my long-vanished youth, or put it again
before me. I am delighted you have so mildly-melancholy a refuge
from the rather screwed-up American summer. We read awful things of
heat-waves over here, but I hope you successfully oppose them with
the waves of the sea, since you suggest that you lead more or less
an amphibious life. We have moreover our own heat-waves here,
overwhelming enough (the globe surely is being resolved again into
its primal ball-of-fire condition), and without any sea-change for
_me_, whom salt-water afflicts and distance (the shining sands are
3 miles off) discourages. I greatly regret to hear of your mother’s
failure of health; it must be a comfort for you--as such comforts
go--to be able to be with her. She must indeed be grand, and above
all strongly fortified. May she long, may she subtly, and not too
painfully, resist! I venture to send her the benediction of my
sincerity. Your best news is that of your possible appearance here
at no distant date. Of course Elliott must go back to Rome and of
course the chance will come and the situation reconstitute itself.
Tell him, please, with my kind regards, that I put up for you both
that friendliest prayer. And don’t wait too long; I want to see you
there again; and _my_ sands are running low. But I want to see you
here too, and I should warmly welcome you.[4] Keep up your heart,
dear Maud Elliott, and believe in the extreme constancy of your
affectionate old friend

_Henry James._