Borghese, which is a paradise these lovely spring days; only the getting
to it is disagreeable. It is a hot, glaring walk up the Via Veneto, not
an atom of shade anywhere until one gets well inside the grounds. I was
walking about on the grass quite leisurely, and very distraite, not
noticing any one, when I heard my name. I turned and saw two ladies
making signs to me from the other side of the road, so I squeezed
through a very narrow opening in the fence, and found myself with the
grand duchess and her lady-in-waiting, who were taking their morning
walk. We strolled on together. She asked me if I always came to the
villa in the morning. I said "No," I often went shopping in the morning,
and told her about my photographer of the Via Sistina and the difficulty
of getting a photograph of Antonelli. She instantly said: "Oh, but I can
help you there, if you really would like a photograph of Antonelli. I
have a fine portrait of him that was painted for my beau-pere. It is in
the palace at Weimar, and I will give orders at once for the court
photographer to go and copy it." I was much pleased, as I _do_ want the
photograph and was rather in despair at not having found one. It seemed
incredible to me, until I had asked a little, that there should be
nothing of Antonelli. After all, it isn't very long since he played a
great part here, so it was a most fortunate rencontre for me this
morning. We parted at the gate--I walked home and she got into her
carriage.
Friday, April 7th.
We made a pleasant excursion yesterday to San Gregorio, the Brancaccios'
fine place beyond Tivoli. The day unluckily was grey, looked as if it
would pour every minute, we had none of the lovely lights and shades
that make the Campagna and the hills so beautiful. We went out in
Camillo Ruspoli's automobile, a Fiat, Italian make, strong and fast. The
road is not particularly interesting until one begins the steep ascent
to Tivoli; then looking back the view of course was beautiful. We didn't
have much time to admire it, for the auto galloped up the steep hill as
if it were nothing. After Tivoli the road goes straight up into the
Sabine hills, winding and narrow, with very sharp corners, which we
swung round quite easily certainly, as Ruspoli managed his carriage
perfectly--but still the road _was_ narrow and steep--hills rolling away
on one side, a precipice and deep valley on the other, no wall nor
parapet of any description, and it was absolutely lonely. If anything
had broken, or an animal crossed our road suddenly, and made us swerve,
I don't think anything could have saved us.
The castle looked very imposing as we came up to it, an enormous mass,
the village built into the castle walls, standing high on the top of a
hill. The flag was flying, all the population, wildly excited (another
automobile had arrived before us), were massed at the gates, the
drawbridge down, and Bessie and her husband waiting for us, also the
Bishops who had come in their auto. We took off some of our coats, but
not all, as the rooms are so enormous that it was cold, notwithstanding
a great fire in the big hall. We had an hour before breakfast, so they
showed us the house which is magnificent, with the most divine views on
all sides from all the balconies, corner windows, etc. It is beautifully
furnished, perfectly comfortable. I couldn't begin to describe it--one
couldn't take it all in in a flying visit. There are several complete
apartments with dressing-rooms, bath-rooms, etc., so curious to see so
much modern comfort and luxury inside this grim old castle on the top of
a rock far back in the Sabine hills.
It was very cold--I kept on my thick coat. There are balconies and
little bridges connecting towers, high terraces, staircases in every
direction--quite bewildering. We breakfasted in the large dining hall,
and it was pleasant to see the enormous logs, and to hear the crackling
and spluttering of a big fire. There are some fine Brancaccio portraits,
in the curious old-world court dress of the Neapolitan ladies of the
last century. They gave us an excellent breakfast, with a turkey bred
and fattened at the olive farm (it seems these olive-fed turkeys are
their specialty). We did some more sight-seeing after breakfast,
bachelor apartments principally, such curious old niches and steep,
narrow little staircases (we could only pass single file) cut in the
thick walls, and then started off to drive and walk in the park. They
had two nice little two-wheeled carts, with stout ponies, just the thing
for rough wood driving. The park is charming--long green alleys with
beautiful views--the country all around rather stony and barren, no
shade as there are few trees. We hadn't time to go to the olive farm,
which I was sorry for, as the people were all working there picking the
olives. I should have liked to see the women with their bright skirts
and corsets making a warm bit of colour in the midst of the grey-green
olive groves.
We started home rather sooner than we had intended, as the sky was
getting blacker, and a few drops already falling. We were in an open
automobile, and should have been half drowned going home if it had begun
to rain hard. We went back at a frightful pace. If I found the coming up
terrifying you can imagine what the descent was, flying around the
corners, and seeing the steep road zigzagging far down below us. I heard
smothered exclamations ("Oh, mon petit Camillo, pas si vite")
occasionally from Bessie, and I think Josephine was saying her
prayers--however we did get home without any accident or "panne" of any
kind, and Ruspoli assured us he had _crawled_ out of consideration for
us.
This morning Josephine and I have been out to the new Benedictine
Monastery of St. Anselmo, which stands high on a hill overlooking the
Tiber. She had business with the Director, so I went into the chapel
which is fine (quite modern with splendid marbles) and walked about a
little in the garden (they wouldn't let me go far). We went afterward
into the Villa Malta. There is an extraordinary view through the
key-hole of the door--one looks straight down a long, narrow avenue with
high trees on each side, to St. Peter's--a great blue dome at the end. We
couldn't make out at first what the old woman meant who opened the door
for us, she wouldn't let us come in, but pointed to the key-hole,
mumbling something we couldn't understand. At last we heard "veduta"
(view), and divined what she wanted us to do. It was most curious. The
gardens are lovely still, green, cool. We went over the house, but
there is nothing particularly interesting--portraits of all the "Grands
Maitres de l'Ordre de Malte." It was so lovely that we didn't want to
come home, so we drove out as far at St. Paul's Fuori le Mura, and
walked around the church to the front where they are making a splendid
portico--all marble and mosaic. I should have liked it better without
the mosaic--merely the fine granite and marble columns.
Tuesday, April 12th.
Yesterday we had a splendid ceremony at St. Peter's, the 13th
anniversary of Pope Gregorio Magno. We started early, Josephine and I
leaving the house together at 8, dressed in the regulation black dress
and veil. I had on a short cloth skirt, which I regretted afterward, but
as we had asked for no particular places, and were going to take our
chance in the church with all the ordinary sight-seers, I hadn't made a
very elegante toilette. We got along pretty well, though there were
streams of carriages and people all going in the same direction, until
we got near the St. Angelo bridge--there we took the file, hardly
advanced at all, and met quantities of empty carriages coming back. I
fancy most people started much earlier than we did. The piazza was
fairly crowded (but not the compact mass we used to see in the old days
when the Pope gave the Easter blessing from the balcony), all the
Colonnade guarded by Italian troops, carabinieri and bersaglieri. We
went round to the Sagrestia, and found our way easily into the church,
and into our Tribune A, but we might just as well have remained at home,
if we had wanted to see anything. We were far back, low, and could have
just seen perhaps the top of the Pope's tiara when he was carried in his
high chair in procession--however it was our own fault, as we had asked
too late for our tickets. I was interested all the same seeing the
different people come in (the church was very full). We sat there some
little time, rather disgusted au fond at having such bad places,
particularly when we saw some people we knew being escorted with much
pomp past our obscure little tribune, toward the centre of the church.
Finally one of the camerieri segreti in his uniform--black velvet, ruff
and chain--recognised Josephine, and insisted that she should come with
him and he would give her a proper place. She rather demurred at leaving
me, but I urged her going, as I was sure she would find a seat for me
somewhere. In a few minutes the gentleman returned, and put me first in
the same tribune with her, a little farther back, but eventually
conducted me to the Diplomatic Tribune, d'Antas, the Doyen, Portuguese
Ambassador to the Quirinal, and an old colleague of ours in London,
having said he would gladly give a place in their box to an ancienne
collegue. That was the moment in which I regretted my short skirt. I had
to cross the red carpet between rows of gardes-nobles and gala uniforms
of all kinds and colours, and I was quite conscious that my dress was
not up to the mark, a sentiment which gathered strength as I got to the
Diplomatic Tribune, and saw all the ladies beautifully dressed, with
long lace and satin dresses, pearl necklaces, and their veils fastened
with diamond stars. However, it was a momentary ennui, and I could only
hope nobody looked at me. Wasn't it silly of me to wear a plain little
skirt--I can't think why I did it. Almost all the bishops and sommites
of the clerical world were already assembled and walking about in the
great space at the back of the altar. Just opposite us was the Tribune
of the patriciat Romain. All the tribunes and columns were covered with
red and gold draperies. A detachment of gardes-nobles, splendid in
their red coats, white culottes and white plumes, surrounded the altar.
There were two silver thrones for the Pope, one at one side of the
church where he sat first, directly opposite to us, another quite at the
end of the long nave behind the high altar. The entrance of the
cardinals was very effective. They all wore white cloaks trimmed with
silver, and silver mitres, each one accompanied by an attendant priest,
who helped them take off and put on their mitres, which they did several
times during the ceremony. The costumes were splendid, some high
prelates, I suppose, in red skirts with splendid old lace; some in white
and gold brocaded cloaks, also grey fur cloaks; and an Eastern bishop
with a long beard, in purple flowered robes, a pink sash worn like a
grand cordon over his shoulder, and purple mitre. It was a gorgeous
effect of colour, showing all the more between the rows of tribunes
where every one was in black.
We divined (as we were too far back to see) when the Pope's cortege
entered the church. There was no sound--a curious silence--except the
trumpets which preceded the cortege (they played a "Marcia pontificale,"
they told me). At last we saw the "sedia gestatoria" with the peacock
fans appearing, and the Pope himself held high over the heads of the
crowd (it seems he hates the sedia and hoped until the last moment not
to be obliged to use it, but it is the tradition of St. Peter's, and
really the only way for the people to see him). We saw him quite
distinctly. He looked pale certainly, and a little tired, even before
the ceremony began, but that may have been the effect of the swaying
motion of the chair. There was the same silence when he was taken out of
his chair and walked to the throne, not even the subdued hum of a great
crowd. There was a little group of officiating priests and cardinals on
the dais surrounding the throne. The Pope wore a long soutane of fine
white cloth, white shoes, a splendid mantle of white and gold brocade,
and a gold mitre with precious stones, principally pearls. He began his
mass at once, a bishop holding the big book open before him, a priest on
each side with a lighted taper. His voice sounded strong and clear, but
I don't think it would carry very far. I was disappointed in the
Gregorian chants. There were 1,500 voices, but they sounded meagre in
that enormous space. The ceremony was very long. I couldn't follow it
all, and at intervals couldn't see anything, as the priests stood often
directly in front of the Pope. It was interesting to make out the
various cardinals--Cardinal Vincenzo Vannutelli sat almost directly
opposite to us, his tall figure standing out well. His brother Cardinal
Serafino was always close to the Pope. I asked d'Antas to show me
Cardinal Rampolla, who has a fine head and dignified carriage, rather a
sad face. It was very impressive when the Pope left his throne by the
altar and walked across the great space to the other one at the end of
the nave. Every one knelt as he passed, the cardinals, bishops,
gardes-nobles, everybody in the tribunes (at least everybody in the
front row, I won't answer for the young ones behind, but they stood if
they didn't kneel). There again the ceremonies were very long. When the
Pope had taken his seat, many of the cardinals sat too on the steps of
the dais. It was very picturesque, and the Eastern prelate stood out
well from the group of white-robed Cardinals in his bright flowered
garments. The Evangile was read in Latin and in Greek--a great many
things and people were blessed, every one kneeling at the foot of the
dais, and again when they got close up to the Pope; some quite
prostrated themselves and kissed his slipper (a very nice white one)
which they say he hates. Prince Orsini, premier assistant of the Saint
Siege, officiated, and looked his part to perfection. He is tall, with a
long white beard, and his short black velvet cloak, with a long white
and silver mantle over it, was most effective. I don't know exactly what
he did, but he appeared various times at the foot of the dais, knelt,
and sometimes presented something on a platter. He was always
accompanied (as were all who took any prominent part in the ceremony) by
two priests, one on each side of him; sort of masters of ceremony who
told him when to kneel, when to stand, etc. On the whole all the music
disappointed me. The Gregorian chants were too thin; the Sistine choir
didn't seem as full and fine as it used to be, and the silver trumpets
absolutely trivial.
It was most impressive at the moment of the elevation, almost the whole
assembly in that enormous church kneeling, and not a sound except the
silver trumpets, which had seemed so divinely inspired to me in the old
days. I remember quite well seeing Gounod on his knees, with tears
streaming down his face, and we were quite enchanted, lifted out of
ourselves and our every-day surroundings. This time I was perfectly
conscious of a great spectacle of the Catholic Church with its
magnificent "mise-en-scene," but nothing devotional or appealing to
one's religious feelings.
I should have liked to hear a great solemn choral of Bach, not an
ordinary melodious little tune; and yet for years after those first days
in Rome I never could play or hear the music of the silver trumpets
without being strangely moved.
I thought the Pope looked very pale and tired as he passed down the long
nave the last time and was finally carried off in his chair with his
peacock fans waving, and a stately procession of cardinals and prelates
following. I think he regrets Venice and the simple life there as pastor
of his people.
We saw plenty of people we knew as we were making our way through the
crowd to the carriage. Some of the ladies told us they had left their
hotel at 5.30 in the morning, they were so anxious to get a good place.
I told d'Antas I was very grateful to him, for I saw everything of
course perfectly, and took in many little details which I never could
have seen if we hadn't been so near. I also apologized to Madame d'Antas
for my modest, not to say mesquin attire; but she said as long as I was
all black, and had the black veil, it was of no consequence. There were
two or three ladies in the Royal Tribune--Grand Duchess of Saxe-Weimar
and Duchess Paul of Mecklenburg. We were a long time getting home, but
it was an interesting progress; all Rome out, a good many handsome
carriages, and I should think people from every part of the world, Rome
is so full of strangers.
Thursday, April 14th.
I never had a moment yesterday as it was the children's ball, and we
were all taken up with the preparations. It went off very well, and was
one of the prettiest sights I ever saw. The children danced extremely
well, though even at the last repetition things didn't go perfectly; but
evidently at all ages there is a sort of amour propre that carries one
through, when there is a gallery. The dresses were Louis XVI., paniers
and powder for the girls (and sweet they looked--Victoria quite a
picture with her large dark eyes and bright colour), embroidered coats,
long gilets, tricorne hats and swords for the boys. There were eight
couples, and very good music--4 violins playing Boccherini's minuet.
Bessie had arranged a very pretty "rampe" with white azaleas and pink
and yellow ribbons, separating the upper part of the ball-room, and the
space for the dancers was kept by 4 tall footmen in yellow gala liveries
and powder, who stood at each corner of the square, in their hands tall
gilt canes held together by bands of pink ribbon. It made a charming
"cadre"--you can't imagine how pretty the little procession looked as
they all filed in, the small ones first. I think perhaps the quite small
ones were the best; they were so important, took much trouble and
weren't as distracted by the spectators as the bigger ones. They were
much applauded, and were obliged to repeat the minuet after a little
rest. In an incredibly short time all the seats and various accessories
were taken away, and the ball began, ending with a very spirited
cotillon led by the son of the house, Don Camillo Ruspoli, and one of
his friends, the Marquis Guglielmi. They kept it up until dinner time,
when the various mammas, quite exhausted with the heat and the emotion
of seeing their children perform in public, carried them off; but the
children (ours certainly) were not at all tired.
Saturday, April 16th.
It is real summer weather--too hot to walk in the morning, particularly
from here, where we have to cross the open piazza before we can get
anywhere. Thursday we went to the races with the Brancaccios, on their
coach. It was most amusing, the road very animated all the way out from
Porta San Giovanni to Campanelle; every one making way for the coach as
they do in England. There was every description of vehicle, and
quantities of police and soldiers--the road very strictly guarded, as
the King and Queen were coming. It looked very pretty to see a patrol of
cuirassiers suddenly appearing from under an old archway, or behind a
bit of ruined wall, or from time to time one solitary soldier standing
on the top of a high mound. It was very hot, the sun too strong on our
heads, but we didn't go very fast; couldn't, in such a crowd, so we were
able to hold our parasols.
The course and all the tribunes were crowded; the women almost all in
white or light dresses. The King and Queen came in an open carriage with
four horses--no escort. We had a pleasant day, meeting quantities of
people we knew. We had rather a struggle for tea; there were not nearly
enough tables and chairs for so many people; but we finally got some
under difficulties, two of us sitting on the same chair and thankful to
get it.
The drive home was lovely, cool, and very little dust. Rome looked soft
and warm in the sunset light as we got near, and the statues on San
Giovanni Laterano almost golden as the light struck them. It was
interminable when we got into the file, and Brancaccio had some
difficulty in turning into his court-yard.
Monday, April 18th.
It is enchanting summer weather, but too hot for walking. I have had two
charming auto expeditions with Mr. and Mrs. Bishop. Saturday we started
after breakfast to Civita Vecchia. The country is not very interesting
near Rome, but it was delightful running along by the sea--the road low
and so close to the water that the little waves came nearly up to the
wheels. Civita Vecchia looked quite picturesque, rising up out of the
sea. We didn't stop there, merely drove through the town, and came home
another way inland, through the hills, quite beautiful, but _such_ sharp
turns and steep bits. We climbed straight up a high hill (2,000 feet)
soon after leaving Civita Vecchia, and had for some time a divine view
of sea and coast; then plunged at once into the mountains, great barren,
stony peaks with little old grey villages on top; hills rolling away on
each side, a wild, desolate country. The road was very lonely, we met
only a few carts; the peasants frantic with terror as the big auto
dashed by.
We passed Bracciano, the great feudal castle of the Odescalchi, with the
beautiful little blue lake at the bottom of the hill. It is a fine old
pile, square and grey, with battlements running all around it--more
imposing than attractive. After leaving Bracciano we flew--the road was
straight and level--and got back to Rome by Ponte Molle and Porta del
Popolo.
Sunday we made a longer expedition to the Falls of Terni. There were
three autos--quite a party. The road was very different, but quite
beautiful, green fields and olive woods, and lovely effects of light and
shade on the Campagna. The day was grey, the sun appearing every now and
then from behind a cloud, at first; later, when we stopped on the high
road, with not a vestige of tree or bit of wall to give us shade, we
longed for the clouds.
We soon began to climb, then down a long, winding hill to Civita
Castellana, an old fortified town, walls all around. We drove in through
the gate, and along a narrow steep street filled with people, as it was
Sunday, and asked if they had seen another auto. They told us yes, in
the piazza, so we went on, making our way with difficulty through the
crowded streets; every one taking a lively interest in the auto. The
square, too, was crowded, all the women in bright skirts and fichus, and
a fair sprinkling of uniforms; little carts with fruit and vegetables,
and two or three men with mandolins or violins (a mild little music) but
no signs of an auto. A splendid gentleman in uniform with waving plumes
and a sword (mayor, I suppose) came up and interviewed us, and told us
an auto had been there, coming from Rome, but had left about ten minutes
before; so we started off again, and had a beautiful drive to Terni. We
passed Narni, which stands very well on the top of a rock, high above
the little river which runs there through a narrow gorge to the Tiber.
We crossed a fine large bridge, then down a hill to Terni, where we
breakfasted. After breakfast we started for the Falls, about four miles
further on, and quite beautiful they are, a great rush of sparkling
water falling from a height and breaking into countless little falls
over the green moss-covered rocks below. It was delicious to hear the
sound of running water, and to feel the spray on our faces after our hot
ride.
We didn't get out. We shouldn't have seen the Falls any better, and
would have had to scramble over wet, slippery stones. There was the
usual collection of guides, beggars, etc., offering us pieces of
petrified stone, and of course post-cards of the Falls. Just around
Terni the hills are very green, the slopes covered with olive trees, and
quantities of white villas scattered about on the hillside, little
groups of people loitering about, women and girls making pretty bits of
colour as they strolled along. They love bright colours, and generally
have on two or three, red or blue skirts, yellow fichus on their heads,
or over their shoulders, coloured beads or gold pins. Some of them
carried such heavy loads on their heads or backs, great bundles of
fagots, or sacks of olives, old women generally. They are given that
work as a rest when they are too old to do anything in the fields.
We came home by another road, always the same wild mountain scenery,
always also the same sharp curves and steep descents. It is certainly
lovely country, green hills breaking away in every direction. As we got
higher, great stony, barren peaks, torrents rushing along at our feet,
and always on the top of a rock, rising straight up out of the hills, a
little old grey village (with usually a steeple and sometimes an old
square castle). Some of the villages were stretched along the
mountain-side about half-way up. They all looked perfectly lonely and
inaccessible, but I suppose life goes on there with just as much
interest to them, as in ours in the busy world beneath.