trees half way down their sides, mountain streams in every direction
making countless little cataracts, all dancing and sparkling in the
sun--rocks covered with bright green moss, and fields carpeted with wild
flowers. The guide pointed out various ruins--the Villa of Maecenas--a
great square mass on the top of a hill--but we didn't care to make a
long detour to go up to it. We were quite satisfied with all the natural
beauty we saw around us--one old bridge, the arches covered with moss
and flowers, and every now and then through the olive trees one had
glimpses of arches, columns, temples--quite beautiful. The only drawback
was the Cook's tourists who were riding and walking and talking all over
the place, making jokes with the guides and speaking the most execrable
Italian. However they had already _done_ the Villa d'Este, so we lost
them there, which was a relief.
The Villa was enchanting after the heat and glare of the road, and at
first we sat quite quietly on a grassy bank and enjoyed the thick shade
of the enormous cypresses. The custode was very anxious we should make
the classic tour with him but we told him we knew the place--it was by
no means our first visit. I explained to him in Italian that I was a
"vecchia Romana" (old Roman), to which he replied with true Italian
gallantry, "non tanto vecchia--son to vecchio" (no, not at all old--I am
old), and old he was, his face all yellow and wrinkled like the
peasants who live on the Campagna and are poisoned with malaria.
I should think, though, the Villa d'Este was healthy, it stands so high.
It is almost uninhabited, belongs now to Cardinal Hohenlohe, but they
tell me he never lives there, never sleeps--comes out for the day from
Rome and goes back at night. It is sometimes let to foreigners. The
garden is quite beautiful, perfectly wild and neglected but a wealth of
trees, fountains, statues, terraces--it might be made a paradise with a
little care. There are few flowers (like most Italian gardens) except
those that grow quite wild. There is still the same great arch at one
end of the terrace which just frames a stretch of Campagna, making a
beautiful picture.
We had a delicious hour wandering about, stopping to rest every now and
then, and sitting on some old bit of wall or column--no one there but
ourselves and not a sound except the splashing water of the fountains.
W. was delighted, and we were very sorry to leave. The afternoon light
was so beautiful, penetrating through the black cypress avenue, however,
we had a long drive back, longer even than coming, as we wanted to make
a detour to look at the sulphur lakes. Our coachman was evidently
anxious to leave. We heard an animated parley at the gate of the Villa,
and the custode appeared to say the carriage was there and the coachman
said it was time to start if we wanted to get back to Rome before
nightfall. I think _he_ didn't want to be too late on the road.
It was still warm when we started back, but we hadn't gone very far when
it changed completely and I was very glad to put on my jacket and a
shawl over it. It is a long, barren stretch of Campagna toward the
sulphur lakes; one smelt the sulphur some time before arriving. They
were not particularly interesting, looked like big, stagnant ponds, with
rather yellowish water. Our man was decidedly uncomfortable. The road
was absolutely lonely--not a person nor a vehicle of any kind in sight,
the long straight road before us, and the desolate plains of the
Campagna on each side. He fidgeted on his box, looked nervously from
side to side, whipped up his horses, until at last W. asked him what was
the matter, what was he afraid of. "Nothing, nothing, but it was late.
We were strangers and one never could be quite sure what one would
meet." It was not very reassuring, and when we saw once or twice a
figure looming up in the distance, a man or two men on horseback, who
might be shepherds or who might be bandits, we were not very comfortable
either; we seemed to feel suddenly that it was getting dark, that we
were alone in a very lonely road in a strange country, and we didn't
mind at all when the coachman urged his horses to a quick gallop, and
got over the ground as fast as he could.
We didn't say much until the little twinkling lights of the first
"osterias" began to show themselves, and as we got nearer Rome and met
the long lines of carts and peasants, some walking, some riding, we felt
better and agreed that it wasn't pleasant to feel afraid, particularly a
vague fear that didn't take shape.
When we drew up at the door of the hotel, after having deposited Gert at
her Palazzo, we asked the coachman what he had been afraid of--was there
any danger; to which he (safe on his box in the Piazza di Spagna)
replied with a magnificent gesture that a Roman didn't know what fear
meant, but he saw the ladies were nervous. It seems absurd now this
morning, sitting at the window with the Piazza full of people, that we
should have felt so uncomfortable. I asked W. if he was nervous. He
said rather, for from the moment of starting he saw the coachman didn't
want to take the side-road to the sulphur lakes, which was certainly
wild and lonely, also that he was most anxious to get on. If the
carriage had been merely stopped to rob us it would have been very
disagreeable as we had no means of defence, nothing but our parasols,
and of course nobody near to come to our rescue. I don't think our
Giuseppe would have made a very vigorous resistance. After all,
adventures do happen, and it would have been unpleasant to return to
Paris minus one ear or one finger or any other souvenir of a sojourn in
a bandit camp.
As we didn't get home until nearly nine I proposed no dinner, but "high
tea" upstairs in our salon. W. demurred at first, like all men he
loathes that meal dear to the female mind, but upon reflection thought
it would be best. The gerant came up to speak about some boxes we want
to send to Paris direct from here, and we told him of our return and the
coachman's evident terror. He said he could quite understand it, that it
was a very lonely, unfrequented bit of road leading to the sulphur
lakes, and that we had chosen our time badly; all the tourists went
first to the lakes before going to Tivoli, and it would have been a
temptation to some of the wild shepherds and Campagna peasants to stop
the carriage and insist upon having money or jewels. He didn't think
there was any danger to our lives, nor even to our ears. They wouldn't
have made much of a haul--I had no jewels of any kind, except my big
pearl earrings--and W. very little money--three or four hundred francs.
It was a disagreeable experience, all the same. I don't like being
afraid, and I was. We went a swinging pace for about three-quarters of
an hour--the horses on a good quick gallop.
I went to church this morning. It is a nice walk from here and the day
is enchanting--warm, but just air enough to make exercise pleasant. W.
was off early with Geoffroy. They put off yesterday's excursion until
to-day, as W. was very anxious to see Tivoli.
The trunks are being packed, the gerant apparently superintending
operations, as I hear a great deal of conversation in the anteroom.
Madame Hubert has an extraordinary faculty for getting all she wants--an
excellent quality in a travelling maid. As you know she is very pretty,
which again carries out my favourite theory that beauty is the most
important gift for a woman. I daresay it won't bear discussion, and I
ought to say "goodness," but my experience points the other way. I have
so often heard father quote Madame de Stael (who was very kind to him
when he was a young man in Paris) who, at the very height of her triumph
as the great woman's intelligence of her time, said to him one evening
at a big party in Paris, looking at Madame Recamier, who was beautiful,
and surrounded by all that was most distinguished and brilliant in the
room, "Je donnerai toute mon intelligence pour avoir sa beaute."
I am so sorry to go--though of course I shall be glad to see you all,
but we have enjoyed ourselves so much. I wonder when I shall see it all
again, and I also wonder what makes the great charm of Rome. It appeals
to so many people of perfectly different tastes. W. has been perfectly
happy and interested (and in many things, not only in inscriptions and
antiquities) and I am sure such an absolute change of life and scenes
was the best rest he could have after the very fatiguing life of the
last two years.
Sunday, April 19, 1880, 10 o'clock.
We have just come in from our farewell dinner with Gert, our last in
Rome, or rather my last. I go to Florence to-morrow morning, but W.
stays on till Tuesday. He is going to dine at the Wimpffens to-morrow
night with some colleagues and political people. He has stopped
downstairs to finish his cigar and give directions about some books he
wants sent to Paris, and I will finish this letter. I have nothing to
do--the trunks are all packed, some already downstairs, and the salon
looks quite bare and uncomfortable, notwithstanding some flowers which
Mrs. Bruce and Trocchi have sent for good-bye.
Gert and I had a nice afternoon. It was so beautiful that we went for a
last drive in the country, and I shall carry away a last summer
impression almost, all blue sky, bright flowers, deep shadows, and a
warm light over everything. It is wonderful how the Campagna
changes--almost from day to day (not only with the change of seasons),
quite like the ocean. To-day, for instance, was enchanting, the air soft
and mild, a smell of fresh earth and flowers everywhere, the old towers
and tombs standing well out, rising out of a mass of high grass and wild
flowers, and taking a soft pink colour in the warm sunlight--so clear
that one could see a great distance--and all the little villages made
white spots on the hills. It is quite different from the winter
Campagna, which stretches away--miles of barren, desolate plains; the
rocks look quite bare, the hills are shrouded in mist, and one has a
feeling of solitude and of dead nature which is curious. I suppose
history and all the old legends work upon the imagination and incline us
to idealize the most ordinary surroundings; but there are always the
long lines of ruined aqueducts, the square, massive towers, and great
memorial stones that one comes upon in most unexpected places; and an
extraordinary feeling of a great dead past which I don't think one has
anywhere else.
We passed through the Piazza Montanara, and by the old theatre of
Marcellus on our way out. I wanted to see the little, dark, dirty corner
I was always so fond of. The fruit-stall was still there, jammed up
against the wall, half hidden by the great stones, remains of balconies,
and arched windows that jut out from the great black mass--all that
remains of the once famous theatre. The piazza was very full--peasants,
donkeys, boys selling fruit and drinks, and in one corner the "scrivano"
(public letter-writer) with his rickety little old table, pen, paper,
and ink, waiting for any one who needed his services. Thirty years ago,
it seems, he did a flourishing trade, Sundays particularly, and there
would be a long string of people patiently waiting their turn. Much
chaffing and commenting when some pretty girl appeared, smiling and
blushing, wanting to have a letter written to her sweetheart away with
his regiment in foreign parts or high up on some of the hills with his
sheep or cattle. To-day there was hardly any one--a wrinkled old woman
dictating something about a soldier and apparently not making it very
clear, as the writer (not the classic old man with a long beard, but a
youth) seemed decidedly impatient. We had quite time to take it all in,
as the people (donkeys too) were all standing in the middle of the
street and didn't hurry themselves at all to move apart and let the
carriage pass. We were evidently near the "Ghetto," as we saw some fine
types of Jewish women, tall, handsome creatures, carrying themselves
very well; quite unlike the men, who were a dirty, hard-featured lot,
creeping along with that cringing, deprecatory manner which seems
inherent in the race.
We crossed the bridge and drove through part of the Trastevere, which
certainly looked remarkably dark and uninviting on this lovely summer
afternoon. There are of course fine buildings, churches, and old
palaces, some half tumbling down, and all black with dirt and age. The
streets were dirty, the children (quantities of them playing in the
streets) dirty and unkempt; clothes of all kinds were hanging out of the
windows, falling over sculptured balconies and broken statues, in what
had been stately palaces--every now and then flowers in a broken vase.
There were some fine old arched gateways with a rope across on which
clothes and rags were drying, and dreadful old men and women sitting
under them on dirty benches and broken chairs. There was a smell (not to
use a stronger word) of dirt and stale things, fruit and vegetables,
also a little "frittura," which one always perceives in the people's
quarter in Rome. I had forgotten how wretched it all was, and we were
glad to get away from the smells and the dirt and find ourselves on the
road along the river which leads to Ponte Molle. It was too late to
think of Vei, but we drove some distance along the road. The Campagna
looked quite beautiful, and every group we passed a picture in the soft
evening light. Sometimes a woman with a baby on her shoulder (the child
with a red cap) standing well out against the sky--sometimes one or two
shepherds on their shaggy mountain ponies seeming quite close to us, but
really far away on the plains (always wrapped in their long cloaks,
though it was a summer evening). Every now and then a merry band of
girls and soldiers. The "bersaglieri" with their long feathers and the
girls with bright, striped skirts swinging along at a great pace, always
singing and laughing; of course the inevitable old woman carrying a
heavy load of fagots or dried grass on her poor bent back; and equally
of course the man with her lounging along, a cigar in his mouth and
hands in his pockets, evidently thinking that to carry a heavy burden
was "lavoro di donna." Poor old women! I daresay they hardly remember
that they were once straight, active girls, singing and dancing in the
sunlight with no thought of old age nor fears for the future.
As soon as we crossed the bridge going back there were many more people
on the road. There are "osterias," gardens, and small vineyards on each
side of the road almost up to the Porta del Popolo, and as it was
Sunday, the whole population was abroad. Many of the women carry their
babies perched on their shoulders (not in their arms) and steady them
with one hand. The little creatures, their black heads just showing out
of the sort of bag or tight bands they are wrapped in, look quite
contented--some of them asleep.
[Illustration: St. Peter's from the Pincio.]
We went up to the Pincio, to have a last look at St. Peter's and the
Doria pines before the sun went down. There were few people; it was
late, and we had the terrace to ourselves. The dome stood out, quite
purple, against a clear blue sky, and seemed almost resting on the
clouds. There was a slight mist, which detached it from the mass of
buildings. Rome hardly existed--we only saw the dome. I was sorry W. was
not there to have that last beautiful picture in his mind. Del Monte,
who was also lingering on the terrace, joined us and said he would walk
back with me along the terrace of the Villa Medici, so I sent Gert back
to her palazzo in the carriage and he and I strolled along and talked
over old times; so many recollections of things done together--rides on
the Campagna, hours of music of all kinds, particularly at the Villa
Marconi at Frascati. I asked him if he had ever gone back there since we
left. The villa was often let to forestieri. One year there was an
English family there, father, mother, _one_ son, and _eight_ daughters.
They used to go about always in three carriages. He said he had never
known any one there since us. He remembered so well all the music we did
in the big room. When it was a fine night all the mezzo ceto (petite
bourgeoisie) who were in "villegiatura" at Frascati would congregate
under our windows, whenever we were singing and playing. If they liked
our music they applauded; if they didn't (which happened sometimes, when
the strains were not melodious enough) they were too polite to express
disapproval, and would remain perfectly silent. We used to hear them
singing and whistling our songs when they went home. We amused ourselves
often trying them with music they couldn't possibly know--plantation
songs or amateur music which had never been published. We would sing
them one evening; the next they would come back and sing all our songs
perfectly well (no words, of course). They had an extraordinary musical
facility. Often when we stopped, or on some of the rare occasions when
we didn't do any music, they would sing some of their songs--many of
them ending on a long, sustained note quite charming.
It was pleasant to recall all the "tempi passati." We lingered a few
moments at the top of the Spanish Steps, quite deserted at this hour of
the evening, and when he left me at the door of the hotel I had barely
time to talk a little to W. before dressing for dinner. He was rather
wondering what had become of me. He had had a delightful afternoon with
his friends. They had walked along the banks of the Tiber on the way to
Ostia. He says there are all sorts of interesting things to be found
there--tombs, bits of Roman wall and pavements, traces of old quays, and
subterraneous passages all mixed up with modern improvements. The City
of Rome is spending a great deal of money in building new quays,
bridges, etc., on a most elaborate and expensive scale. I should think
the sluggish old Tiber would hardly know itself flowing between such
energetic, busy banks.
They drove out for some distance on the road to Ostia, but only got as
far as the Monte di San Paolo (I think), from where they had a fine view
of the sea, and the pine forests. I am sorry they hadn't time to go on,
but we must leave something for the next time. I wonder when it will be.
Gert's dinner was pleasant--Mrs. Bruce, Comte Palfy, Father Smith, and
Mr. Hooker. They all talked hard. Mr. Hooker has lived so many years in
Rome that he has seen all its transformations; says the present busy,
brilliant capital is so unlike the old Rome of his days that he can
hardly believe it is the same place. It is incredible that a whole city
should have lived so many years in such absolute submission to the Papal
Government. In those days there were only two newspapers, each revised
at the Vatican and nothing allowed to appear in either that wasn't
authorized by the papal court; also the government exercised a paternal
right over the jeunesse doree, and when certain fair ladies with yellow
hair and elaborate costumes appeared in the Villa Borghese, or on the
Pincio, exciting great admiration in all the young men of the place (and
filling the mammas and wives with horror), it was merely necessary to
make a statement to the Vatican. The dangerous stranger was instantly
warned that she must cross the frontier.
Palfy, too, remembered Rome in the old days, when the long drive along
the Riviera in an old-fashioned travelling carriage (before railways
were known in these parts) was a thing planned and arranged months
beforehand--one such journey was made in a life-time. He said the little
villages where they stopped were something awful; not the slightest idea
of modern comfort or cleanliness. The ladies travelled with a retinue of
servants, taking with them sheets, mattresses, washing materials (there
was a large heavy silver basin and jug which always travelled with his
family) and batterie de cuisine; also very often a doctor, as one was
afraid of fever or a bad chill, as of course any heating apparatus was
most primitive. The Italians sat in the sun all day and went to bed when
it was dark and cold. One saw the country and the people much better in
that way. Now we fly through at night in an express train, and the Rome
we see to-day might be Paris, Vienna, or any modern capital. I mean, of
course, inside the walls. As soon as one gets out of the gates and on
the Campagna one feels as if by instinct all the dead past of the great
city.
I told them that in our time, when we lived one summer in the Villa
Marconi at Frascati, the arrangements were most primitive. The palace
was supposed to be furnished, but as the furniture consisted chiefly of
marble statues, benches, and baths--also a raised garden on a level with
the upper rooms, opening out of the music-room, the door behind an
enormous white marble statue of some mythological celebrity--it didn't
seem very habitable to our practical American minds. There were beds and
one or two wash-stands, also curtains in one room, but as for certain
intimate domestic arrangements they didn't exist; and when we ventured
to suggest that they were indispensable to our comfort we were told, "I
principi romani non domandono altro" (Roman princes don't ask for
anything more).
Heavens, how funny all the pourparlers were. Fanny[29] did all the
talking, as we were still too new to the language to embark upon a
business conversation. Her mother, who was an excellent maitresse de
maison, gave all the directions, which were most particular and
detailed, as she was very anxious we should be comfortable, and very
doubtful as to the resources of the establishment. The agent was visibly
agace and impatient. Fanny had on a pair of tortoise-shell star
ear-rings, and the man told one of our friends afterward that "quella
piccola colle stellette" (the young girl with the little stars) was a
real "diavolo." It was funny to hear her beginning every sentence "Dice
la signora" (madame says), and saying exactly what her mother told her;
the mother, standing near, understanding every word, though she couldn't
say anything, and looking hard at the agent. He understood her, too.
However, we didn't get any more than the Roman princes had, and made our
own arrangements as well as we could, having out a large van of
furniture of all kinds from Rome.
[29] Miss Fanny King, daughter of General Rufus King, United States
Minister to the Vatican, now Mrs. Edward Ward.
Hooker remembered it all well, as he found the house for us and had many
misgivings as to how we should get along. He was always keeping us
straight in a financial point of view, as even then, before the days of
the enormous American fortunes, Americans were careless about money, and
didn't mind paying, and paying well, for what they wanted. In those
days, too, it was rather cheap living in Italy, and we were so surprised
often by the prices of the mere necessaries of life that we couldn't
help expressing our astonishment freely. Poor Hooker was much disgusted.
"You might as well ask them to cheat you." We learned better, however,
later, particularly after several visits to Naples, where the first
price asked for anything was about five times as much as the vender
expected to get. "Le tout c'est de savoir."