was crowded. There were some very handsome, stately Roman equipages,
plenty of light victorias, a few men driving themselves in very high
phaetons, and the inevitable botta with often three youths on the one
seat. The carriages didn't draw up--the ladies holding a sort of
reception as in our days, when all the "gilded youth" used to sit on the
steps of the victorias and surround the carriages of the pretty women.
They tell me the present generation comes much less to the Villa
Borghese and Pincio. They are much more sporting--ride, drive
automobiles and play golf. There are two golf clubs now--one at Villa
Pamphili Doria, the other at Aqua Santa. Every time we go out on the
Campagna we meet men with golf clubs and rackets.
Monday I prowled about in the morning, always making the same round--Via
Sistina and the Spanish Steps. The lame man at the top of the steps
knows me well now, and we always exchange a cheerful good morning.
Sometimes I give him some pennies and sometimes I don't, but he is
always just as smiling when I don't give him anything.
In the afternoon Madame de B. and I went for a drive and a little
sight-seeing. She wanted a bottle of eucalyptus from the monks at Tre
Fontane, so we took in San Paolo Fuori le Mura on our way. The drive out
is charming--a few dirty little streets at first--past the Theatre of
Marcellus, which looks blacker and grimmer, if possible, than when I
last saw it--and then some distance along the river. There are great
changes---high buildings, quays, boats, carts with heavy stones and
quantities of workmen--really quite an air of a busy port--busy of
course in a modified sense, as no Roman ever looks as if he were working
hard, and there are always two or three looking on, and talking, for
every one who works--however, there is certainly much more life in the
streets and the city looks prosperous.
The great new Benedictine Monastery of Sant' Anselmo stands splendidly
on the heights (Aventine) to the left, also the walls and garden of the
Knights of Malta. The garden, with its long shady walks, between rows of
tall cypress trees, looked most inviting. We left the Testaccio and
Protestant Cemetery on our right and followed a long file of carriages
evidently going, too, to San Paolo. That of course looked exactly the
same--an enormous modern building with a wealth of splendid marble
columns inside. The proportions and great spaces are very fine, and
there was a brilliant effect of light and colour (as every column is
different). Some of the red-pink was quite beautiful, but it is not in
the least like a church--not at all devotional. One can't imagine any
poor weary souls kneeling on that slippery, shining marble pavement and
pouring out their hearts in prayer. It is more like a great hall or
academy. We went out into the quiet of the cloisters, which are
interesting, some curious old tombs and statues, but small for such a
huge basilica--always the square green plot in the centre with a well.
We had some difficulty in making our way to the carriage through a
perfect army of boys and men selling photographs, postal cards, mosaic
pins with views of the church, etc., also bits of marble, giallo
antico, porphyry and a piece of dark marble, almost black, which had
come from the Marmorata close by.
We went on to the Tre Fontane, about half an hour's drive--real country,
quite charming. We didn't see the churches until we were quite close to
them--they are almost hidden by the trees. I never should have
recognised the place. The eucalyptus trees which the monks were just
beginning to plant when we were here before have grown up into a fine
avenue. They were cutting and trimming them, and the ground was covered
with great branches making a beautiful green carpet with a strong
perfume. Various people were looking on and almost every one carried off
a branch of eucalyptus. We did too, and one is now hanging over the bed
in my room. It is supposed to be very healthy. It has a very strong
odour--to me very agreeable.
A service was going on in one of the churches, the monks singing a low
monotonous chant, and everything was so still; one was so shut in by the
trees that the outside world, Rome and the Corso might have been miles
away. We went into the church to see the three fountains built into the
wall. Tradition says that when St. Paul was executed his head bounded
three times and at each place a fountain sprang up. A tall young monk
was going about with some seminarists explaining the legend to them.
They were listening with rapt attention and drinking reverently at each
fountain.
We went into the little farmacia and found there a German monk who was
much pleased when he found we could speak German. He told us there were
90 monks there, and that the place was perfectly healthy--not as when
they began their work, when many died of fever. We each bought a bottle
of eucalyptus, and were sorry to come away. The light was fading--the
eucalyptus avenue looked dark and mysterious, and the low chant of the
monks was still going on.
We went to a beautiful ball in the evening at the Brancaccios'. They
built their palace--which is enormous--has a fine marble staircase
(which showed off the women's long trailing skirts splendidly) and
quantities of rooms filled with beautiful things. I didn't take them all
in as I was so much interested in the people, but Bessie has promised to
take me all over the palace some morning.
To-day we have been to the Brancaccio garden. It was a beautiful bright
morning, so Bessie Talleyrand proposed we should drive up and stroll
about there. We telephoned to Brancaccio, who said he would meet us in
the garden. You can't imagine anything more enchanting than that
beautiful southern garden in the heart of Rome. We drove through the
court-yard and straight up the hill to a little bridge that connects the
garden with Mrs. Field's old apartment. Mrs. Field really made the
garden (and loved it always). When they bought the ground it was simply
an "orto" or field, and now it is a paradise filled with every possible
variety of trees and flowers. It seems that wherever she saw a beautiful
tree she immediately asked what it was and where it came from, and then
had some sent to her from no matter where. Of course hundreds were
lost--the journey, change of soil, transplanting them, etc., but
hundreds remain and the effect is marvellous. Splendid tall palms from
Bordighera, little delicate shrubs from America and Canada all growing
and thriving side by side in the beautiful Roman garden. There is a fine
broad allee which goes straight down from the winter garden to the end
of the grounds with the Colosseum as background. It is planted on each
side with green oaks, and between them rows of orange and mandarin
trees--the branches heavy with the fruit. We picked delicious, ripe,
warm mandarins from the trees, and eat them as we were strolling along.
It was too early for the roses, of which there are thousands in the
season--one saw the plants twining around all the trees. There are all
sorts of ruins and old walls in the garden, baths of Titus, Sette Celle,
and one comes unexpectedly, in odd corners, upon fine old bits of
carving and wall which have no name now, but which certainly have had a
history.
The sky was a deep blue over our heads, and the trees so thick, that the
ugly new buildings which skirt one side of the garden are almost
completely hidden. It was a pleasure just to sit on a bench and
live--the air was so soft, and the garden smell so delicious.
[Illustration: The Barberini Palace.
The residence of the Storys.]
After breakfast I went out early with Josephine--leaving of course some
cards first--after that we took a turn on the Pincio, which was basking
in the sunshine (but quite deserted at that hour except by nurses and
children), and then drove out toward the Villa Pamphili. The road was so
familiar, and yet so different. The same steep ascent to the Janiculum
with the beggars and cripples of all ages running alongside the carriage
and holding out withered arms and maimed limbs--awful to see. The road
is much wider--more of a promenade, trees and flowers planted all along.
The fountains of San Pietro in Montorio looked beautiful--such a rush of
bright, dancing water. We drove through the Villa Corsini--quite new
since my time--a beautiful drive, and drew up on the terrace just under
the equestrian statue of Garibaldi from where there is a splendid
view--the whole city of Rome at our feet, seen through a warm, grey mist
that made even the ugly staring white and yellow houses of the new
quarter look picturesque. They lost themselves in a charming
ensemble. St. Peter's looked very near but always a little veiled by the
haze which made the great mass more imposing. We looked straight across
the city to the Campagna--all the well-known monuments--Cecilia Metella,
aqueducts and the various tombs scattered along the Via Appia were quite
distinct. The statue of the great revolutionary leader seemed curiously
out of place. I should have preferred almost the traditional wolf with
the two little boys sucking in her milk. We couldn't stay very long as
we had a tea at home. We met many people and carriages going up as we
came down, as it was the day for the Villa Pamphili, which is open to
the public twice a week.
We went to a ball at the Storys' in the evening, and as we went up the
great staircase of the Barberini Palace (the steps so broad and shallow
that one could drive up in a light carriage) finishing with the steep
little flight quite at the top which leads directly to the Story
apartment, I could hardly realize how many years had passed since I had
first danced in these same rooms, and that I shouldn't find the
charming, genial maitre de maison of my youth who made his house such an
interesting centre. I think one of Mr. Story's greatest charms was his
absolute simplicity, his keen interest in everything and his sympathy
with younger men who were still fighting the great battle of life which
he had brought to such a triumphant close. His son, Waldo Story,[32] who
has inherited his father's talent, keeps up the hospitable traditions of
the house.
[32] The well-known sculptor.
The ball was very animated--all the young dancing Rome was there.
Monday, February 15th.
I am alone this morning--the others have gone to the meet at Cecchignola
fuori Porta San Sebastiano. I should have liked to go for the sake of
old times, but I was rather tired, and have the court ball to-night.
Last night I had a pleasant dinner at Count Vitali's. He has bought the
Bandini palace, and made it, of course, most comfortable and modern. The
rooms are beautiful--the splendid proportions and great space one only
sees now in Rome in the old palaces. The dinner was for M. Nisard
(French Ambassador to the Vatican), but it wasn't altogether Black.
There were one of the Queen's ladies and one or two secretaries from the
Quirinal embassies. The line between the two parties is not nearly so
sharply drawn as when I was here so many years ago. A few people came in
the evening. Among the first to appear was Cardinal Vincenzo Vannutelli,
whom I was delighted to see again. It is long since I have seen a
cardinal in all the bravery of his red robes and large jewelled cross,
and for the first time I felt as if I were back in old Rome. We had a
nice talk and plunged into Moscow and all the coronation festivities. I
told him I was very anxious to see the Pope, which he said could easily
be arranged. Nisard, too, was charming--said I should have an audience
speciale as ancienne ambassadrice. I waited to see the cardinal go with
all the usual ceremonies for a prince of the Church. Two big footmen
with flambeaux and tall candles escorted him to his carriage. The
cardinal came alone, which surprised me. I thought they always had an
attendant--a sort of ecclesiastical aide-de-camp.
Saturday Marquise de Bailleul and I were received by the Queen. Our
audience was at four. I went for her a little before. We drove straight
to the Quirinal, the great entrance on the piazza. Two swell porters
were at the door, but no guards nor soldiers visible anywhere. We went
up the grand staircase, where there was a red carpet and plenty of
flowers, but no servants on the steps. The doors of a large anteroom at
the top of the stairs were open, and there were four footmen in powder,
culottes, and royal red liveries, and three or four men in black. We
left our wraps. I wore my grey velvet and Marquise de Bailleul was in
black with a handsome sable cape (which she was much disgusted at
leaving). We went at once into a large room, where the dame de palais de
service was waiting for us. She had a list in her hand, came forward at
once and named herself, Duchesse d'Arscoli, said she supposed I was
Madame Waddington. I introduced Marquise de Bailleul. The gentleman also
came up and said a few words. There were one or two other ladies in the
room, evidently waiting their turn. In a few minutes the door into the
next room opened and two ladies came out. The duchess went in, remained
a second, then coming back, waved us in. She didn't come in herself,
didn't announce us, and shut the door behind us. We found ourselves in a
large, rather bare room, with no trace of habitation--I fancy it is only
used for official receptions. The Queen was standing at a table about
the middle of the room. She is tall, dark, with fine eyes and a pretty
smile. We made our two curtseys--hadn't time for the third, as she
advanced a step, shook hands, and made us sit down. The visit didn't
last very long. I fancy she was rather tired, as evidently she had been
receiving a good many people, and was probably bored at having to make
phrases to utter strangers she might never see again. We had the usual
royal questions as to our children. As I only had _one_ child my
conversation on that subject soon came to an end, but Marquise de
Bailleul has three small ones, so she got on swimmingly. The Queen
talked very prettily and simply about her own children, and the
difficulty of keeping them natural and unspoiled; said people gave them
such beautiful presents--all sorts of wonderful mechanical toys which
they couldn't appreciate. One thing she said was rather funny--that the
present they liked best was a rag doll the American Ambassadress had
brought them from America.
As soon as we came out other people went in. I fancy all the strangers
asked to the ball had to be presented first to the Queen. I think the
London rule was rather simpler. There the strangers were always
presented at supper, when the Princess of Wales made her "cercle."
We went to a ball in the evening at Baron Pasetti's (Austrian Ambassador
to the Quirinal). They have a fine apartment in the Palazzo Chigi. I
remembered the rooms quite well, just as they were in the old days when
Wimpffen was Ambassador. The hall was most brilliant--all Rome there.
The Pasettis are going away, and will be much regretted. I think he is
rather delicate and has had enough of public life. I hadn't seen him
since Florence, when we were all young, and life was then a succession
of summer days--long afternoons in the villas, with roses hanging over
the walls, and evenings on the balcony, with nightingales singing in the
garden and the scent of flowers in the air, "der goldener Zeit der
jungen Liebe" (the golden days of young love).
Sunday Bessie and I went to the American church. Dr. Nevin is still
away. The church is large, but was quite full--there are evidently many
Americans in Rome. The great mosaics over the altar were given by Mrs.
Field.
Wednesday, February 17th.
Monday night we went to the court ball. It was very amusing, but
extraordinarily simple, not to say democratic. Bessie and I went
together early, so as to get good seats. If I hadn't known we were going
to the palace I should have thought we had made a mistake in the house.
The square of the Quirinal was so quiet, almost deserted--no troops nor
music, nor crowd of people looking on and peering into the carriages to
see the dresses and jewels--no soldiers nor officials of any kind on the
grand staircase. Some tall cuirassiers and footmen in the anteroom--no
chamberlains nor pages--nothing like the glittering crowd of gold lace
and uniforms one usually sees in the anteroom of a palace. We walked
through two or three handsome rooms to the ball-room, where there were
already a great many people. The room is large, high, but rather too
narrow, with seats all round. There was no raised platform for the
court--merely a carpet and two large gilt arm-chairs for the King and
Queen and a smaller one for the Comte de Turin. It was amusing to see
all the people coming in, the different uniforms and jewels of the women
giving at once an air of court. The entrance of the royal cortege was
quite simple. They played the "Marcia Reale," which I don't at all care
for. It is a frivolous, jumpy little tune, not at all the grave,
dignified measure one would expect on such an occasion. There were no
chamberlains walking backward with their great wands of office in their
hands. The master of ceremonies, Count Gianotti, looking very well in
his uniform and broad green ribbon, came first, and almost immediately
behind him the King and Queen, arm in arm, the Count of Turin, and a
small procession of court functionaries. The Queen looked very well in
yellow, with a splendid tiara. She took her seat at once; the King and
Comte de Turin remained standing. What was charming was the group of
young court ladies who followed the Queen--tall, handsome women, very
well dressed. There was no "quadrille d'honneur," none of the royalties
danced. The dancing began as soon as the court was seated--any little
couple, a young lieutenant, an American, any one, dancing under the nose
of the sovereigns. The Queen remained sitting quite alone, hardly
speaking to any one, through three or four dances; then there was a
move, and she made her "cercle," going straight around the room, and
speaking to almost every one. The King made no "cercle," remained
standing near the "corps diplomatique," who were all massed on one side
of the thrones (or arm-chairs). He talked to the ambassadors and
etrangers de distinction (men--they say he rarely speaks to a woman). We
all moved about a little after the Queen had passed, and I found plenty
of old friends and colleagues to talk to. Neither the Russian
Ambassador, Prince Ourousoff, nor any of his staff were present, on
account of the war.
Tuesday it poured all the morning, so I didn't get my usual walk, and I
tried to put some sort of order in our cards, which are in a hopeless
confusion. The unfortunate porter is almost crazy. There are four of us
here (as Madame de Bailleul's cards and invitations also come here), all
with different names, and it must be impossible not to mix them.
[Illustration: Victor Emanuel III., King of Italy.]
It stopped raining in the afternoon and Josephine and I walked up to
Palazzo Brancaccio after tea, to ask about Bessie, who has been ill ever
since her ball. The streets were full of people, a few masks (as it was
Mardi Gras), but quite in the lower classes. I should think the
Carnival was dead, as far as Society is concerned. We got very little
information about Bessie--the porter would not let us go upstairs, said
the Princess was in the country, or perhaps in Paris. It seems he is
quite a character, well known in Rome. When Mr. Field was ill, dying, of
course everybody went to inquire, which seemed to exasperate him, as he
finally replied, "ma si, e malato, va morire, ma lasciarlo in
pace--perche venir seccar la gente?" (yes, yes, he is ill, dying, but
leave him in peace--why do you come and bore people?).
We stepped in at a little church on our way back, where a benediction
was going on. It was brilliantly lighted, and filled with people almost
all kneeling--princesses and peasants--on the stone floor. It was a
curious contrast to the motley, masquerading crowd just outside.
Thursday, 18th.
It is still showery and the streets very muddy to-day. This morning I
made a solitary expedition to St. Peter's--armed with an Italian
guide-book M. Virgo lent me (it was red, like Baedeker, so I looked
quite the tourist). I went by tram--M. Virgo and the children escorted
me to the bottom of the Via Tritone, and started me. The tramway is most
convenient. We went through the Piazza di Spagna, across the Piazza del
Popolo, and turned off short to the left. It was all quite different
from what I remembered--a fine broad road (Lungo Tevere) (along the
Tiber) with quantities of high, ugly modern buildings, "maisons de
location," villas, and an enormous Ministere, I forget which one, Public
Works, I think, which could accommodate a village. Some of the villas
are too awful--fancy white stucco buildings ornamented with cheap
statues and plaques of majolica and coloured marble. The tram stopped
at the end of the piazza facing the church, but one loses the sense of
immensity being so near. I saw merely the facade and the great stone
perron. I wandered about for an hour finding my way everywhere, and
recognising all the old monuments--Christina of Sweden, the Stuart
monuments, the Cappella Julia, etc. There were quite a number of people
walking about and sitting on the benches, or in the stalls of the little
side chapels, reading their Baedekers. I came home in a botta for the
sum of one franc. I wanted to cross the St. Angelo Bridge and see the
crooked dirty little streets and low dark shops I remembered so
well--and which will all disappear one day--with new quarters and all
the old buildings pulled down. They were all there quite unchanged, only
a little dirtier--the same heaps of decayed vegetables lying about in
the corners, girls and women in bright red skirts and yellow fichus on
their heads, long gold earrings, and gold pins in their hair, standing
talking in the doorways, children playing in the gutter, a general smell
of frittura everywhere. The little dark shops have no windows, only a
low, narrow door, and the people sit in the doorway to get all the light
they can for their work.
We paid some visits in the afternoon, winding up with Princess
Pallavicini. Her beautiful apartment looked just the same (only there,
too, is an ascenseur) with the enormous anteroom and suites of salons
before reaching the boudoir, where she gave us tea. I remembered
everything, even the flowered Pompadour satin on the walls, just as I
had always seen it.
Saturday, February 20th.