It was warm and lovely Tuesday. Bessie, Josephine and I walked down to
J.'s work-room in the Convent of St. Euphemia, somewhere beyond
Trajan's Forum, before breakfast. It was too warm walking along the
broad street by the Quirinal. We were thankful to take little dark
narrow side streets. The "ouvroir" (work-room) was interesting--quantities
of women and girls working--some of the work, fine lingerie, lace-mending,
embroidery beautifully done. It is managed by sisters, under Josephine's
direction, who gives a great deal of time and thought to her work. They
take in any child or girl from the street, feed them and have them taught
whatever they can do. It was pretty to see the little smiling faces and
bright eyes as Josephine passed through the rooms.
We went to a pleasant tea in the afternoon at Countess Gianotti's (wife
of Count Gianotti, Master of Ceremonies to the King). There were quite a
number of people--a very cosmopolitan society (she herself is an
American) and she gave us excellent waffles.
Yesterday we had a delightful excursion with Countess de Bertheny in her
automobile. She came to get me and Bessie about 11. We picked up two
young men and started for Nemi and the Castelli Romani. We drove
straight out from Porta San Giovanni to Albano. It was quite lovely all
the way, particularly when we began the steep ascent of Albano, and
looked back--the Campagna a beautiful stretch of purple, the aqueducts
standing well out all around us, and the statues of San Giovanni just
visible and looking enormous, in the mist that always hangs over Rome,
St. Peter's a great white spot with the sun full upon it. We rattled
through Albano. The streets looked animated, full of people, all getting
out of our way as fast as they could.
The door into the Doria Villa was open; we just had a glimpse of the
garden which looked cool and green, with a perspective of long walks,
ending in a sort of bosquet, but we passed so quickly that it was
merely a fleeting impression. We drove through Ariccia to Gensano--a
beautiful road, splendid trees, making a perfect shade, the great Chigi
Palace looking just the same, a huge grim pile--quite the old chateau
fort, built at the entrance of the little village to protect it from
invading enemies. If stones could speak I wonder what they would say to
modern inventions, automobiles, huge monsters certainly, but peaceful
ones, rushing past, trains puffing and smoking along the Campagna, great
carts drawn by fine white oxen going lazily along, the driver generally
asleep under his funny little tent of red or blue linen, and nobody
thinking of harm.
We drove through Gensano, then turned off sharp to the left to Nemi--a
fairly good road. We soon came in sight of the lake, which looked
exactly as I remembered it--a lifeless blue, like a deep cup surrounded
by green hills. They used to tell us, I remember, that there were no
fish, no living thing in the lake, but Ruspoli says there are plenty
now--very good ones.
We followed a beautiful winding road up to Nemi, which is a compact
little village on the top of a hill--the great castle standing out well.
It has just been bought by Don Enrico Ruspoli, and he and his charming
American wife are making it most picturesque and livable. We breakfasted
at the little Hotel de Nemi--not at all bad--the dining-room opening on
a terrace with such a view--at our feet the Campagna rolling away its
great waves of blue purple to a bright dazzling white streak, the
sea--on one side a stretch of green valley leading to all the different
little villages; on the other the lake with its crown of olive-covered
hills.
Just as we were finishing breakfast Ruspoli appeared to ask us if we
would come and see the castle. We entered directly from the little
square of the town--the big doors face the church. There is a fine stone
staircase, and halls and rooms innumerable. They have only just begun to
work on it--have made new floors (a sort of mosaic, small stones, just
as I remember them at Frascati in Villa Marconi) and put water
everywhere, but there is still a great deal to do. The proportions of
the rooms are beautiful, and the view divine. As in all old Italian
castles some of the village houses were built directly into the wall of
the castle. They have already bought and knocked down many of these
(giving the inhabitants instead comfortable, clean, modern houses which
they probably won't like nearly as well) and are arranging a beautiful
garden in their place. They have also a terrace planted with trees about
half-way down the slope to the lake, which would be a divine place to
read or dream away a long summer's day. I don't think there are ten
yards of level ground on the place.
[Illustration: Great New Bridge from Albano to Ariccia.
Built by Pope Pius IX.]
We couldn't stay very long as we were going on to Frascati and Castle
Gondolfo. They gave us tea, and when we came out on the piazza we found
the whole village congregated around the automobiles (another had
arrived from Rome--I am so cross I didn't bring mine with Strutz, it
would have been so convenient for all the excursions). It is a wild
beautiful spot, but I should think lonely. We went back to Albano, saw
the great bridge built by Pio Nono, with its three tiers of arches, the
famous tombs--Horatii, Curiatii and Pompey, and then drove along the
beautiful "galeria di sotto" to Castle Gondolfo, the old crooked ilex
trees nearly meeting over our heads, and the Campagna with lovely lights
and shades flitting over it, far down at our feet. There everything
looked exactly as I remembered it. It seemed to me the same priests were
walking about under the trees, the same men riding minute donkeys,
with their legs nearly touching the ground; the same great carts,
lumbering peacefully along, the driver usually asleep until the horn of
the automobile close behind him roused him into frantic energy; however
they were all most smiling, evidently don't hate the auto as they do in
some parts of France.
We stopped at the Villa Barberini at Castle Gondolfo--such a beautiful
garden, but so neglected--great long dark walks, trees like high black
walls on each side, and big bushes of white and red camellias almost as
tall as the trees, roses just beginning. In every direction broken
columns, vases, statues (minus arms and legs) carved benches, all
falling to pieces. We went into the Villa which is usually let to
strangers, but it was most primitive--brick floors everywhere (except in
the salons, where there was always the mosaic pavement), and the
simplest description of furniture--ordinary iron bed-steads, and iron
trepieds in the master's bed-rooms, but a magnificent view of sea and
Campagna from the balcony, and a beautiful cool, bracing air.
We drove on through Marino and Frascati. We passed the little chapel on
the road where we used to see all the people praying the great cholera
year. It was open, and one or two women were kneeling just inside. The
atmosphere was so transparent that Rocca di Papa and Monte Cavo seemed
quite near. The Piazza of Frascati was just the same, the Palazzo
Marconi at one side with the great Aldobrandini Villa overtopping it and
the Villa Torlonia opposite. We didn't go into the town, but took the
steep road down by the railway station. There everything is changed--it
didn't seem at all the Frascati we had once lived in--quantities of new,
ugly villas, and an enormous modern Grand Hotel.
We got home about 6.30--the Campagna quite beautiful and quiet in the
soft evening light. There were very few people on the road, every now
and then a shepherd in his long sheepskin cloak, staff and broad-brimmed
hat appearing on the top of one of the many little mounds which are
dotted all over the Campagna, and occasionally in the distance a dog
barking.
March 17th.
Bessie and I have just come in from the last meet of the season at
Cecilia Metella. It is such a favourite rendezvous that there is always
a great crowd, almost as many people walking about on the Campagna as
riding. It was a very pretty sight. There were quantities of handsome
horses, but I don't know that it was quite comfortable walking when the
hunt moved off. Some of the young men--principally officers--were taking
preliminary gallops in every direction, and jumping backward and forward
over a large ditch. One of them knocked down an Englishwoman--at least I
don't think he really knocked her, but he alighted so near her that she
was frightened, and slipped getting out of his way. We stopped to speak
to her, but she said she wasn't at all hurt, and had friends with her.
The master of the hounds--Marchese Roccagiovine--didn't look very
pleased, and I should think a large, motley field, with a good many
women and careless riders, would be most trying to a real sportsman,
such as he is. Giovanni Borghese told me there were two hundred people
riding, and I can quite believe it.
[Illustration: Roman Huntsmen on the Campagna.
Ancient Roman aqueduct in the background.]
We had a delightful day yesterday, but rather a fatiguing one--I am
still tired. We made an excursion (a family party--Bessie, Josephine,
her two children, Mr. Virgo and two of his friends--a Catholic priest
and a student preparing for orders--all Englishmen). We went by train
to Frascati, and from there to Tusculum, carrying our breakfast with us.
We passed the little Campagna station (Ciampino) where we have stopped
so often. Do you remember the old crazy-looking station, and the
station-master, yellow and shivering, and burned up with fever. Now it
is quite a busy little place, people getting on and off the trains and
one or two brisk porters. The arrival at Frascati was a sight. We were
instantly surrounded by a crowd of donkey-boys and carriages--nice
little victorias with red flowers in the horses' heads and feathers in
the coachmen's hats--all talking at the top of their voices; but between
Mr. Virgo and Pietro, Josephine's Italian footman, who had charge of the
valise with the luncheon, we soon came to terms, and declined all
carriages, taking three or four donkeys.
It isn't a long walk to Tusculum, and Josephine and I both preferred
walking--besides I don't think I should have had the courage to mount in
the piazza with all the crowd looking on and making comments; however,
Bessie did, and she sat her donkey very lightly and gracefully, making a
great effect with her red hat and red parasol. Perhaps the most
interesting show was Pietro. He was so well dressed in a light grey
country suit that I hardly recognised him. He stoutly refused to be
separated from his valise, put it in front of him on the donkey, sat
well back himself and beamed at the whole party. He is a typical Italian
servant--perfectly intelligent, perfectly devoted (can neither read nor
write), madly interested in everybody, but never familiar nor wanting in
respect. I ask him for everything I want. He does it, or has it done at
once, better and cheaper than I could, and I am quite satisfied when I
hear his delightful phrase "Ci penso io"--I am sure it will be done.
We went up through the Aldobrandini garden. It looked rather deserted;
no one ever lives there now, but it is let occasionally to strangers.
Men were working in the garden; there were plenty of violets and a few
roses--it is still early in the season for them. In a basin of one of
the fountains a pink water-lily--only one--quite beautiful. The
fountains were lovely--sparkling, splashing, living--everything else
seemed so dead.
As we wound up the steep paths we had enchanting views of the Campagna,
looking like a great blue sea, at our feet, and Rome seemed a long, low
line of sunlight, with the dome of St. Peter's hanging above it in the
clouds. The road was very steep, and decidedly sunny, so I mounted my
donkey, Father Evans walking alongside. Monte Cavo, Rocca di Papa, the
Madonna del Tufo, all seemed very near, it was so clear and the air was
delicious as we got higher. I recognised all the well-known places, the
beginning of the Roman pavement, the Columbarium, Cicero's house, etc.
We were quite ready for breakfast when we got to Tusculum, and looked
about for a shady spot under the trees. There are two great stones,
almost tables, in the middle of the "amfiteatro," where people usually
spread out their food, but the sun was shining straight down on them; we
didn't think we could stand that. We found a nice bit of grass under the
trees and established ourselves there. It was quite a summer's day, and
the rest and quiet after toiling up the steep paths was delightful.
[Illustration: Waiting for the Hounds.]
After breakfast Josephine and I walked quite up to the top of the hill,
the trees making a perfect dome of verdure over our heads. There was no
sound except our own voices, and the distant thud of horses' feet
cantering in a meadow alongside, an absolute stillness everywhere. Such
a view! Snow on the Sabine Mountains, sun on the Alban Hills, the
Campagna on either side blue and broken like waves, and quite
distinct, a long white line, the sea.
While we were walking about we noticed two carabinieri, very well
mounted, who seemed to be always hovering near us, so we asked them what
they were doing up there. They promptly replied, taking care of the
"societa." We could hardly believe we heard rightly; but it was quite
true, they were there for us. They told us that when it was known that a
number of people were coming up to Tusculum (there were two other
parties besides us) they had orders to come up, keep us always in sight,
and stay as long as we did. We gave them some wine and sandwiches, and
they became quite communicative--told us there were brigands and
"cattiva gente" (wicked people) about; that at Rocca di Papa, one of the
little mountain villages quite near, there were 500 inhabitants, 450 of
whom had been in prison for various crimes, and that people were
constantly robbed in these parts. I wouldn't have believed it if any one
had told us, but they always kept us in sight.
We decided to go home through the Villa Ruffinella. Donkeys are not
allowed inside, and we thought probably not horses either, but the
carabinieri came in and showed us the way down. The grounds are
splendid--we walked first down through a beautiful green allee, then up,
a good climb. The villa is enormous--uninhabited and uncared for--a
charming garden and great terrace with stone benches before the house
looking toward Rome. The garden, of course, wild and ragged, but with
splendid possibilities. Just outside the gate we came upon a little
church. Three or four girls and women with bright-coloured skirts and
fichus and quantities of coarse jet-black hair were sitting on the steps
working at what looked like coarse crochet work and talking hard. The
carabinieri were always near, opened two or three gates for us, and only
left us when we were quite close to the town, well past the gates of the
Aldobrandini Villa.
As we had some little time before the train started, I went off with
Bessie to have a look at Palazzo Marconi. It is now occupied by the
municipio and quite changed. We found a youth downstairs who couldn't
imagine what we wanted and why we wanted to go up; however, I explained
that I had lived there many years ago, so finally he agreed to go up
with us. The steps looked more worn and dirty--quite broken in some
places--and the frescoes on the walls, which were bright blue and green
in our time, are almost effaced. It was all so familiar and yet so
changed. I went into father's room and opened the window on the terrace,
where we had stood so often those hot August nights, watching the mist
rise over the Campagna and the moon over the sea. There was very little
furniture anywhere--a few chairs and couches in the small salon that we
had made comfortable enough with our own furniture from Rome. The great
round room with the marble statues has been turned into a salle de
conseil, with a big writing-table in the middle, and chairs ranged in a
semicircle around the room. There was nothing at all in our old
bed-rooms--piles of cartons in one corner. The marble bath-tub was black
and grimy. We couldn't see the dining-room, people were in it, but we
went out to the hanging-garden--all weeds, and clothes hanging out to
dry. The fountain was going at the back of the court, but covered with
moss, and bits of stone were dropping off. It all looked very
miserable--I don't think I shall ever care to go back. There seemed just
the same groups of idle men standing about as in our time--dozens of
them doing nothing, hanging over the wall looking at the people come up
from the railway station. They tell me they never work; even when they
own little lots of land or vignas they don't work themselves--the
peasants from the Abruzzi come down at stated seasons, dig and plant and
do all the work. One can't understand it, for they look a tall, fine
race, all these peasants of the Castelli Romani, strong, well-fed,
broad-shouldered. I suppose there must be a strong touch of indolence in
all the Latin races.
It was after six when we got back to Rome. We had just time to rush
home, get clean gloves and long skirts, and start for the Massimo Palace
to see the great fete. Once a year the palace is opened to the general
public, and the whole of Rome goes upstairs and into the chapel. It is
on St. Philippe's day, when a miracle was performed in the Massimo
family, a dead boy resuscitated in 1651. There was a crowd assembled as
we drove up, tramways stopped, and the getting across the pavement was
rather difficult. The walls of the palace and portico were hung with red
and gold draperies, the porter and footman in gala liveries, the old
beggars squatted about inside the portico, the gardes municipaux keeping
order, and a motley crowd struggling up the grand staircase--priests,
women, children, femmes du monde, peasants, policemen, forestieri, two
cooks in their white vestons, nuns, Cappucini--all striving and jostling
to get along. We stopped at Bebella's apartment, who gave us tea. She
had been receiving all day, but almost every one had gone. We talked to
her a few moments, and then d'Arsoli took us upstairs to the chapel (by
no means an easy performance, as there were two currents going up and
coming down). The chapel was brilliantly lighted, and crowded; a
benedizione was going on, with very good music from the Pope's
chapel--those curious, high, unnatural voices. All the relics were
exposed, and Prince Massimo, in dress clothes and white cravat, was
standing at the door. It was a most curious sight. D'Arsoli told us that
people had begun to come at seven in the morning. When we went home
there was still a crowd on the staircase, stretching out into the
street, and a long line of tram-cars stopped.
Friday, March 18th.
It rained rather hard this morning, but we three got ourselves into the
small carriage and went down to the Accademia di Santa Cecilia to hear
the Benedictine monk Don Guery try the Gregorian chants with the big
organ. The organ is a fine one, made at Nuremberg. An organist arrived
from St. Anselmo to accompany the chants. They sounded very fine, but I
thought rather too melodious and even modern, but Don Guery assured me
that the one I particularly noticed was of the eleventh century.
Tuesday, 22d.
We seem always to be doing something, but have had two quiet evenings
this week. Friday night we went to the Valle to see Marchesa Rudini's
Fete de Bienfaisance. The heat was something awful, as the house was
packed, and as at all amateur performances they were unpunctual, and
there were terribly long intervals. The comedie was well acted, a little
long, but the clou of the evening was the ballet-pantomime, danced by
all the prettiest women in Rome. The young Marchesa Rudini (nee
Labouchere) looked charming as a white and silver butterfly, and danced
beautifully, such pretty style, not a gesture nor a pas that any one
could object to. The rest of the troop too were quite charming, coming
in by couples--the Princess Teano and Therese Pecoul a picture--both
tall, one dark, one fair, and making a lovely contrast. I should think
they must have made a lot of money.
Saturday I had a pleasant afternoon at the Palazzo dei Cesari with Mr.
and Mrs. Seth Low. He is an excellent guide, had already been all over
the palace with Boni and knew exactly what to show us. It was a
beautiful afternoon and the view over Rome, the seven hills, and the
Forum was divine. These first Roman Emperors certainly knew where to
pitch their tents--what a magnificent scale they built upon in those
days. The old Augustus must have seen wonderful sights in the Forum from
the heights of the Palatine.
Josephine had a large dinner in the evening for the Grand Duchess and
Cardinal Vannutelli. It was very easy and pleasant, and we all wore our
little fichus most correctly as long as the Cardinal was there (they
never stay very long), but were glad to let them slip off as soon as he
went away, for we had a great many people in the evening and the rooms
were warm. I had rather an interesting talk with an old Italian friend
(not a Roman) over the tremendous influx of strangers and Italians from
all parts of Italy to Rome. He says au fond the Romans hate it--they
liked the old life very much better--they were of much more importance;
it meant something then to be a Roman prince. Now, with all the Northern
Italians, Court people and double Diplomatic Corps Rome has become too
cosmopolitan. People amuse themselves, and dance and hunt, and give
dinners at the Grand Hotel and trouble themselves very little about the
old Roman families (particularly those who have lost money and don't
receive any more). The Romans have a feeling of being put aside in their
own place.
It was beautiful this morning, so I took my convenient tram again and
went over to see the pictures of the Vatican. Such a typical peasant
couple were in the tram, evidently just down from the mountains, as they
were looking about at everything, and were rather nervous when the tram
made a sudden stop. The woman (young and rather pretty) had on a bright
blue skirt, a white shirt with a red corset over it, a pink flowered
apron, green fichu on her head, and long gold ear-rings with a coral
centre. The man, a big broad-shouldered fellow, had the long cloak with
the cape lined with green that the men all wear here, and a slouched hat
drawn low down over his brows. They got out at St. Peter's and went into
the church. I went around by the Colonnade as I was going to the
pictures. There were lots of people on the stairs. It certainly is a
good stiff pull up.
I stayed about an hour looking at the pictures--all hanging exactly
where I had always seen them, except the Sposalizio of St. Catherine,
which was on an easel near the window; some one evidently copying it. I
was quite horrified coming back through the Stanze by some English
people--three women--who were calmly lunching in one corner of the room.
They were all seated, eating sandwiches out of a paper bag, and drinking
out of a large green bottle. Everybody stopped and looked at them, and
they didn't mind at all. The gardien was looking on like all the rest. I
was so astounded at his making no remarks that I said to him, surely
such a thing is forbidden; to which he replied smilingly: "No--no, non
fanno male a nessnno--non fanno niente d'indecente" (No, they are doing
no harm to any one, they are doing nothing indecent). That evidently was
quite true; but I must say I think it required a certain courage to
continue their repast with all the public looking on, giggling and
criticising freely.
I dined this evening with Malcolm Kahn--Persian Minister--and an old
colleague of ours in London. It was very pleasant--General Brusatti, one
of the King's Aides-de-Camp, took me in, and I had Comte Greppi, ancien
Ambassadeur, on the other side. Greppi is marvellous--really a very old
man, but as straight as an arrow, and remembering everybody. Tittone,
Minister of Foreign Affairs, was there, but I wasn't near him at table,
which I regretted, as I should have liked to talk to him.
Palm Sunday, March 27th.