clamouring to us to have a ride, expatiating on the merits of their
beasts, and making a perfect uproar. We explained to the porter that we
wanted beasts of some description to go up to Tusculum, and he said he
would arrange it for us. However, the boys pursued us to the gate,
dragging their donkeys after them. We went first to the Palazzo Marconi,
which is just outside the gates opposite the Torlonia villa. I wanted so
much to see the old house again, it was inhabited by a Russian family,
and at first there seemed some little difficulty about getting in, but
W. sent in his card, and after a little parley a servant appeared and
took us all over the house, except the dining-room where the family were
breakfasting. It looks exactly the same--only much more neglected and
uninhabited. The broken steps were more broken, the bright paint more
faded, and the look of discomfort much accentuated. I showed W. the room
where father died. It looked much more bare and empty, but the pink
walls were still there, and the door open giving on the terrace. How it
brought back those long, hot nights when we tried to hope--knowing quite
well there was no chance--but never daring to put the fear into words.
W. was much struck by the lonely, desolate look of the whole place. The
little salon which we had made so comfortable with tables, rugs, and
arm-chairs brought from Rome, looked perfectly bare--no furniture except
one or two red velvet benches close to the wall, and rather an ugly
marble table with nothing on it. The big round salon with its colossal
statues in their marble niches and the marble benches, was exactly the
same--only no piano. We went through the bed-rooms at the other end (our
three), the marble bath still in the middle one, which used to be
Henrietta's, but there was no trace of occupation, neither beds, washing
apparatus, tables, nor chairs. I suppose the "locataires" live in the
two rooms at the other end. There wasn't much furniture there, but I did
see some beds. We went out into the little raised garden behind the big
statue, but it was a wild waste of straggling vines and weeds. It was
rather sad--nothing changed and yet so different.
I explained our life to W.--our morning or evening rides, our music,
which was enchanting in the big salon--so mysterious, just a little
glow of light around the piano and other instruments, and the rest of
the great room almost dark, the white statues looking so huge and grim
in the half light. I was rather nervous the first nights out here when I
had to cross that room to go to mine with a very small Roman lamp in my
hand--but I soon got accustomed to my surroundings, and it seemed quite
natural to live our daily, modern life in that milieu of frescoes,
marble statues, hanging gardens, and strangers. I tried to find some
little flower in the mass of weeds in the garden, but there wasn't one,
so I send these periwinkles and anemones picked in the Villa Torlonia,
where we walked about for some time under the splendid old ilex trees.
[Illustration: Tomb of Viniciano, Between Frascati and Tusculum.]
Breakfast, a fairly good one, was ready when we got back to the hotel,
but no Schuyler. I think he was a wise man and foresaw what was going to
happen. Quite a number of strangers had come out by train--all English
and American, no one we knew--and the table-d'hote was quite full. As
soon as the gentlemen had had their coffee, about 1.30, we started for
Tusculum, Gert and I on donkeys with two pretty, chattering Italian boys
at their heads--Bunsen on a stout little mountain pony, and W. on foot.
He wouldn't hear of a donkey, and preferred to walk with the guide. We
climbed up the steep little path, between high walls at first, then
opening out on the hillside to the amphitheatre, which we saw quite
well. The arena and seats are very well preserved. There are still rows
of steps, slippery and green with moss. We went on again toward Cicero's
Villa, and for a moment the clouds cleared a little, and we saw what the
view might be straight over the Campagna to Rome (the dome of St.
Peter's just standing out--on one side the hills with the little
villages where we have ridden so often, Monte Compatri, Monte Porzio,
the Campi d'Annibale and Monastery of Monte Cave in the distance). I
wonder if the old monk would tell us to-day what one did years ago, when
we were standing on the terrace looking at the magnificent view: "Quando
fa bel tempo si puo vedere le montagne d'America" (When it is fine one
can see the mountains of America). I thought it was rather pretty, his
eagerness to make us understand what an extended view one had from his
mountain top, and he probably didn't know where America was. However,
our little gleam of sunlight didn't last--first came big drops, then a
regular downpour, and in a few minutes a thick white mist closed around
us, shutting out everything. We took refuge for a few moments under a
sort of ruined portico, but the rain came down harder, and we decided to
give up Cicero's Villa, and turn our faces homeward.
The descent was neither easy nor pleasant--a steep little path with the
donkeys slipping and stumbling, and the rain falling in buckets. I was
wet through in ten minutes, as I was very lightly dressed in a white
shirt and foulard skirt (having stupidly left my jacket at the hotel as
it was very warm when we started). Gert was better off, as she had her
tweed dress. I shan't soon forget that descent, and as we passed
Mondragone--the Borghese Palace--we had thunder and lightning, which
didn't add to my comfort--however, the donkeys didn't mind. I was wet to
the skin when we arrived at the hotel, and had to undress entirely and
go to bed wrapped up in a blanket. The chambermaid lighted a fire in the
room, and she and Gert dried my clothes as well as they could, and I had
a cup of hot tea. About 5 my things were fairly dry--Gert went shopping
in the town, and bought me a piece of flannel which I put on under my
corsage which was still damp. It rained a little when we started home,
but cleared about half-way, and we had the most glorious sunset.
It was too bad to have fallen upon such a day, and I am afraid we shan't
have time to attempt it again. I was half tempted to stay at Frascati
all night and try again the next morning, but the others thought it
better to come home. I went to bed immediately after dinner, and feel
quite well to-day--only a little stiff--the combined effect of the
donkey and the damp.
April 11, 1880.
Yesterday it rained hard all day, there was quite a little stream of
water in the Piazza coming down from the Pincio. Certainly Rome needs
sunshine, everything looked forlorn and colourless and everybody so
depressed. The Spanish Steps were quite deserted, no models nor children
galloping up and down. The coachmen of the fiacre-stand on the Piazza
dripping and dejected on their boxes--nobody wanting carriages and very
few people about. I really believe the Romans stay in when it rains. We
didn't, of course, as our time is getting short, and the galleries are
always a resource. We went off about 10 to the Vatican and spent two
hours there. Charles de Bunsen was very glad to see it all again. We
went first to the Cappella Paolina where there was not much to see--some
frescoes of Michelangelo's, not very well preserved. It used to be so
beautiful, Holy Week in Rome, when we were here before, brilliantly
lighted for a silent adoration and filled with people kneeling and
motionless.
Then we went on to the Cappella Sistina where there were a good many
people taking advantage of a rainy day to do the Vatican. It wasn't at
all dark--I don't know exactly why, for the rain was pouring straight
down. The Last Judgment is an awful picture. I had forgotten Charon and
his boat and the agonized faces of the people whom he is knocking back
with his oar. Some of the faces were too terrible, such despair and
suffering. I can't think why any artist ever chooses such subjects, one
would think they would be haunted by their own conceptions.
We walked through the Stanze, I wanted to see the Deliverance of St.
Peter; I remember so well the engraving that was in the dining-room at
Bond Street, which I have sat opposite to so often. I used to be
fascinated as a child with the Roman soldiers, particularly the one with
a torch. We sauntered through the picture gallery looking at the
beautiful Foligno Madonna, Communion of St. Jerome, and of course the
Marriage of St. Catherine, and really my copy by the young German is
good as I see the original again. We finished in the Galerie des
Inscriptions where W. always finds odd bits of inscriptions which are
wildly interesting to him. I think for the moment yellow-books and
interpellations and the "peuple souverain" generally as represented in
the Chambre des Deputes are out of his head.
The sun came out bright and warm in the afternoon and we drove to the
Villa Pamphili. We stopped at San Pietro in Montorio on our way. It is
there that St. Peter is said to have been crucified. The view from the
terrace is very fine--the whole of Rome at our feet stretching out over
the Campagna to the Alban Hills. It was too early really for the view,
as one ought to see it at sunset, when the hills take most beautiful
rose blue tints and the Campagna looks vague and mysterious, not the
long barren stretch of waste uncultivated land it is in the daylight.
We stopped again at the Fontana Paolina, looked at the rush of water
that tumbles into the stone basin, and climbed up the Janiculum, every
turn of the road giving the most enchanting view, out of the Porta San
Pancrazio to the Villa Pamphili--all Rome apparently was doing the same
thing; there were quantities of carriages. It was charming in the
Villa--many people had got out of their carriages and were walking about
in the shady alleys. It was a relief to get out of the sun. The stone
pines of course are magnificent, but I think I like them best from a
distance--from the terrace of the Villa Medici for instance they stand
out splendidly. What is grand is the view of St. Peter's. It seems to
stand alone as if there were no Rome anywhere near it. The dome rises
straight up above the green of Monte Mario, and looks enormous.
We walked about the gardens with the queer, old-fashioned flower-beds
and the little lake with a mosaic pattern at the bottom, and talked to
quantities of people. The drive down was enchanting; the sun setting,
clouds of every colour imaginable and a sort of soft "brume" that made
every dirty little street (and there are many in Rome) look picturesque.
We went to the ball at the British Embassy in the evening, taking
Charles de Bunsen, who protested at first he didn't go to balls any
more, etc., but he found plenty of old friends and was very glad he had
gone. The house looked very handsome--the ball-room with its decoration
of flowers, cupids, etc., had a decidedly festive appearance. I danced
two quadrilles--one with Count d'Aulnay and the other with the Duke of
Leuchtenberg who was here with his wife, Comtesse de Beauharnais. As it
is a morganatic marriage (he is a Royal Prince) she can't take his name
and title. She was beautifully dressed, had splendid jewels--pearls as
big as eggs.
[Illustration: Grounds of the Villa Doria-Pamphili, Rome.
From an unpublished photograph taken about 1869.]
The ball was very gay, lots of people. We stayed quite late; went to
supper, which W. generally refuses with scorn, and only left at 1.30.
They were preparing for the cotillon, but were going to dance a
"tempete" (whatever that may be) first. I hear they danced until 4
o'clock.
Thursday, 12th.
We had a nice dinner at the Villa Medici Tuesday night. The Director M.
Cabat, his wife and daughter, M. and Madame Geoffroy and 5 or 6 of the
young men. They all love Rome and say it is a paradise for an artist.
Such beautiful models of all kinds in the old pictures and statues. I
ventured to say that I thought one or two of the modern Roman
things--fountains and statues--were pretty, but I was instantly sat upon
by the whole party--"no originality; no strength, weak imitations of
great conceptions, etc." I suppose one's taste and judgment do get
formed looking at splendid models all the time; still the world of art
must go on and there is no reason why the present generation shouldn't
have graceful fancies, and power to carry out their dreams. We didn't
stay very late and went on to Countess Somaglia, who was receiving.
There were only two or three ladies. Her younger sister, Olympia Doria,
married to a Colonna, the Marquise Sant' Asilea and two others I didn't
know. Quantities of men came in and out, Calabrini, Vitelleschi,
Minghetti. The "maitre de maison" was not there. I was sorry, as I had
never seen him. Lucchesi-Palli came up and claimed acquaintance--said he
had danced at Casa Pierret in the old days. I introduced him to W. who
was rather interested at meeting a half brother of the Comte de
Chambord. He is much astonished at the quantity of people I know, but I
told him one couldn't live years in Rome without seeing almost every
one worth knowing, as everybody comes to Rome.
Yesterday Gert and I went out together. W. had an expedition of some
kind with de Rossi, and gave a dinner at the Falcone to Charles and some
of his men friends. The Roman menu didn't tempt me. I heard them talking
about porcupines and peacocks. I preferred dining with Gert--she asked
Mrs. Van Rensselaer, and we had a pleasant evening. Mrs. V. R. is clever
and original, very amusing over her Italian and the extraordinary
mistakes that she knows she makes, but she keeps on talking all the
same. It is curious how much colder Gert's apartment is than our rooms
at the hotel--I suppose no sun ever gets into that narrow street, and
one is quite struck with the cold the minute one gets into the palace
and on the stone staircase. We had a little fire and it wasn't at all
too much--of course in the Piazza di Spagna the sun streams into the
rooms all day. I came home early--about 10--and found the two gentlemen,
Charles and W., settled very comfortably each in a large arm-chair with
pipe and newspaper (you can imagine the atmosphere in a small hotel
sitting-room). They said their dinner was very good, even the ordinary
Roman wine, but they both agreed they wouldn't care to have that menu
every day. The talk was very interesting; some of the men had been in
Italy years ago, before the days of railways or modern conveniences of
any kind, and their experiences in some of the little towns near Rome
were most amusing--most of the peasants so mistrustful of the artist
baggage, white umbrella, camp-stool, etc., and so anxious, when they
finally understood no harm was intended, that they should sketch a nice
new house or a bit of wall freshly plastered instead of old gateways and
tumble-down palaces.
Charles is going back to Florence to-morrow; I think he has enjoyed his
visit very much, it brought back so many recollections (he was born in
Rome and spent all his early childhood there).[24]
[24] His father, Baron de Bunsen, was for years Prussian Minister at
Rome, a most intellectual, distinguished man; after Rome he was for many
years Minister in England, and their house in Carlton Terrace was the
rendezvous of all that was most brilliant and cosmopolitan in London. He
married Miss Waddington, and his son Charles also married Miss
Waddington, sister of William Waddington.
I wish they would settle in Rome instead of Florence, the life is so
much more interesting here. Florence is charming, but asleep--here there
is life, and the contrast between the old patrician city full of
old-world memories and prejudices, and the political, financial
atmosphere of this 19th century is most striking. W. has decided to go
to Naples for four or five days. I shan't go with him. He will be all
day in the museums, as there is a great deal to see, and I should bore
myself sitting alone in the hotel. If we could stay long enough to make
some excursions--see Sorrento, Capri, and Ischia, I would not hesitate,
I should love to see it all again. They say Vesuvius is giving signs of
a disturbance.
As we were talking about Capri and Vesuvius I told them my experience
there so many years ago, and both gentlemen told me I ought to write it
while it was still fresh in my memory, so here it is and you will send
the letter to the family in America.