slackening when we passed through some little walled towns (hardly more
than one long crooked street), in at one gate and out at the other,
people all crowding into the piazza, smiling and taking off their hats.
Once or twice one heard them say "la Regina" evidently thinking it was
Queen Margherita, who loves her auto, and makes long country excursions
in it. It was a curious, fantastic progress, but enchanting.
The other autos had started some time ahead of us. We saw an object
(stationary) as we were speeding down a steep hill, which proved, as we
got near, to be one of them, stuck in a little stream, quite firmly
embedded in the sand, and looking as if nothing would ever get it out.
About 15 or 20 men were pulling and hauling, but it seemed quite
hopeless. It wasn't a very pleasant prospect for us either, as our auto,
too, was big and heavy, and we had to get across. It would have been too
far to go back all the way round. However, Mr. Bishop's chauffeur was
not in the least concerned, said he would certainly take _his_ carriage
over, and he did, Mrs. Bishop and me in it. We waited to see the other
one emerge from its bed of sand. The men pulled well, and talked as hard
as they pulled, and finally the great heavy machine was landed on the
other side.
We had a long level stretch, about 20 kilometres, before we got into
Rome, and we raced the train, all the passengers wildly excited. It is
curious to see how one gets accustomed to the speed when the carriage
rolls smoothly. It seemed quite natural to me to fly past everything,
and yet when Strutz has occasionally whirled us in to La Ferte to catch
the express I haven't been comfortable at all.
April 22, 1904.
Yesterday afternoon Bessie and I went to the reception at the Villa
Medicis, which was pleasant. We liked the music of the I^{er} Prix de
Rome, and it was interesting to see the pictures and sculpture. I think
the faces of the young men interested me, perhaps, more than their
work--they looked so young and intelligent and hopeful, so eager for the
battle of life; and yet so many find it such a struggle. There is so
much concurrence in everything, and an artist's life is precarious. The
very qualities which make their genius unfit them so for all the cares
and worries of a career which must always have ups and downs.
We went late for a drive in the Corso and Via Nazionale to see all the
preparations for Loubet's arrival. They are certainly taking no end of
trouble--flags, draperies, and festoons of flowers, in all the principal
streets. The garden they are making in Piazza Colonna is quite
wonderful--quite tall trees, little green lawns, and the statue of a
Roman emperor. Quantities of people looking on at the workmen and
walking about in the piazza. The Via Nazionale, too, is gorgeous with
draperies, shields, and large medallions with French and Italian colours
entwined.
This afternoon I went off alone and did some sight-seeing. We shall go
in a few days, and I haven't seen half I wanted to. I went straight over
to the Trastevere; first to Santa Maria, with its queer old mosaic
facade, looking more Byzantine than Italian; then on to Santa Cecilia,
where a nice old sacristan took me all over, showed me the chapel
supposed to be directly over Santa Cecilia's bath-room (the church is
said to be built on the very spot where her house stood), and of course
the tomb of the saint. Then, as I had nothing particular to do, I drove
out toward Monte Mario, which is a lovely drive in the afternoon, the
view of Rome looking back is so beautiful. It is a long steep hill, with
many turns, so one gets the view on all sides. The Cork Valley was green
and lovely, and the road was unusually quiet. I think everybody is on
the Corso looking at the festal preparations. I went back to the house
to get Bessie, and we went to tea with the Waldo Storys, in his studio.
He has some beautiful things--two fountains in particular are quite
charming.
We all dined out, Bessie and Josephine with Cardinal Mathieu, I at the
American Embassy with the Meyers. We had a pleasant dinner--four or five
small tables. They have Mrs. Field's apartment in the Brancaccio
Palace--entertain a great deal, and are much liked in Rome.
[Illustration: The Dining-room in the Brancaccio Palace.]
We came home early, and I am finishing this letter to-night. It is very
warm, the windows open, and the street sounds very gay. To say that we
have heard the Marseillaise these last days but faintly expresses how we
have been pursued by the well-known air. Everybody sings or whistles it,
all the street musicians, hand-organs, guitars, accordions, and brass
bands play it all day and all night; and we hear the music of a
neighbouring barrack working at it every morning. At this present moment
a band of youths are howling it under the window. I think they are
getting ready to amuse themselves when the President arrives.
It was most amusing in the streets this morning, flags flying, draperies
being put up everywhere, troops marching across the Piazza di Spagna,
musique en tete, to exercise a little on the review ground before the
great day--quantities of people everywhere. They say all the hotels will
be crowded to-morrow, and with French people, which rather surprises me,
but they tell me there are deputations from Avignon, Marseilles, and
various other southern towns. They are beginning to arrange the Spanish
Steps quite charmingly--a perfect carpet of flowers (if only it doesn't
rain).
Saturday, April 23d.
It poured this morning, and all night I heard the rain beating against
the window every time I woke. The clouds are breaking a little now, at
three o'clock, so perhaps it has rained itself out, and the President
may have the "Queen's weather" to-morrow. Our Loubet invitations are
beginning to come--a soiree at the Capitol; great ricevimento, all the
statues illuminated with pink lights; a gala at the opera; another great
reception at the French Embassy (Quirinal); and the review.
Josephine and I have been dining with the grand duchess at her hotel. We
were a small party, and it was pleasant enough. She talks easily about
everything, and loves Rome. The evening was not long. We all sat in a
semicircle around her sofa after dinner. Every one smoked (but me), and
she retired about ten.
We have been talking over plans since we got back. Bessie will start
to-morrow night. She is not keen naturally about the Loubet fetes, and
Palma[35] wants her to stay over two or three days with her in the
country somewhere near Ancona. She will meet me in Turin, and we will
come on together from there. It is still raining--I hope it will stop.
[35] Princesse di Poggio Suasa, nee Talleyrand-Perigord.
Tuesday, April 26th.
I had no time to write Sunday, as we were going all day. Bessie and I
went to church in the morning, and then I left some P. P. C. cards on
Cardinals Vannutelli, Mathieu, etc., also a note to the grand duchess to
thank her for the photographs of Antonelli which she sent me last
night--two very good ones, with a nice little note, saying she thought I
would perhaps keep the big one for myself "as a souvenir of old times
and new friends."
The Corso looked quite brilliant as we drove through--the bright sun
seemed to have completely dried the flags and festoons and the streets
were full of people, all gaping and smiling, and in high good-humour.
The Spanish Steps were charming, the great middle flight entirely
covered with flowers, looking like an enormous bright carpet.
We had some visits after breakfast, and started about three to the
Countess Bruschi's, who has an apartment with windows looking directly
over to the "Esedra di Termine," where the syndic, Prince Prosper
Colonna, was to receive the President. There was such a crowd, and there
were so many people going to the same place, that we thought that would
be hopeless, so we returned and made our way with difficulty, as the
streets were crowded, to the Via Nazionale, where a friend of
Josephine's had asked us to come. She established us on a balcony, and
there we saw splendidly. The street is rather narrow, and the balcony
not high. The crowd was most amusing, perfectly good-natured, even at
times when a band of roughs would try to break the lines, pushing
through the rows of screaming, struggling women and children, and
apparently coming to a hand-to-hand fight with the policemen; but as
soon as the soldiers charged into them--which they did repeatedly during
the afternoon--they dispersed; nobody was hurt (I never can imagine why
not, when the horses all backed down on them), nobody protested
violently, and the crowd cheered impartially both sides. These little
skirmishes went on the whole afternoon until we heard the Marcia Reale,
and saw the escort appearing. A troop of cuirassiers opened the march.
The royal carriages with the red Savoie liveries were very handsome--all
the uniforms making a great effect--the King and President together,
both looking very happy, the King in uniform, the President in plain
black with a high hat, returning all the salutations most smilingly. He
was enthusiastically received, certainly--there were roars of applause,
which became frantic when some of the military bands played the
Marseillaise. As soon as the cortege had passed the crowd broke up,
quantities of people following the carriage to the Quirinal, where the
great square was crowded. There, too, they were so enthusiastic that the
President had to appear on the balcony between the King and Queen.
We started out again after dinner, and wanted to see the torch-light
procession, but didn't, as our movements were a little complicated. We
took Bessie to the station, and waited to see her start. When we came
out the procession had passed, but the streets were still brilliantly
lighted and very gay, quantities of people about.
Yesterday we had a delightful expedition to Porta d'Anzio and
Nettuno--two autos--and some of the party by train. We were really glad
to get out of the streets and the crowd of sight-seers. Quantities of
people have come from all parts of Italy to see the show, and are
standing about all day in compact little groups, gaping at the festoons
and decorations. It is frightful to think of the microbes that are
flying about.
We started early, at 9.30, went straight out toward Albano, to the foot
of the hill, then turned off sharp to the right, taking a most lovely
road, chestnut trees on each side, and hedges white and fragrant with
hawthorn. As we got near Porta d'Anzio we had a beautiful view of a
bright blue summer sea. The first arrivals had ordered breakfast in
quite a clean hotel, evidently other people had thought too that it
would be pleasant to get out of Rome to-day, as there were several
parties in the dining-room, which was large and bright, but no view of
the sea.
After breakfast we all wandered out to the shore, and walked about a
little, but the sun was hot and the glare very trying--the sea like a
painted ocean, all the sails of the little pleasure boats, and even
fishing boats further out, hanging in folds, the boats just drifting
with the tide. The place is enchanting, and the little point of Nettuno
quite white in the sun, stretching out into the blue sea, was
fairy-like--the colours almost too vivid. The various boatmen lounging
about in bright coloured shirts and sashes were very anxious we should
sail or row to Nettuno, but the sea, though beautiful, looked hot, and
we were rather sceptical about the breeze which they assured us always
got up after 12.
We went off in the auto to the Villa Borghese, about half-way between
Porta d'Anzio and Nettuno, which is a Paradise. It stands high, in a
lovely green park and looks straight out to sea. The drive through the
park by the galleria, trees meeting over our heads, and the road winding
up and down through the little wood was delightful, so shady and
resting to the eyes after the glare and sun of the beach. All the way to
Nettuno there are quantities of villas, fronting the sea, some very high
with terraces sloping down to the water, all with gardens. Nettuno
itself is an interesting little place with a fine old feudal castle.
Some of the party had chosen to sail from Porta d'Anzio to Nettuno, and
we saw their boat, full of children, just moving along close to the
shore.
We had tea on the shore, made in Countess Frankenstein's tea-basket, and
it was delicious sitting there, seeing the little blue waves break at
our feet, and the beautiful clear atmosphere making everything look so
soft and near.
The coming home was enchanting, very few people on the road, so we could
come quickly, and the flying through the air was delightful after the
heat and fatigue of the day. The Campagna is beautiful at the end of the
day; so quiet, long stretches of green just broken here and there by the
shepherds' huts, and the long lines of aqueducts, curiously lonely so
close to a great city.
We had just time to dress and dine, and start for the gala at the opera.
The theatre (Argentina) is small, and stands in a narrow street. There
was a long file of carriages, and so little space in front, that there
could be no display of troops, music, etc., as one has always in Paris
for a gala night at the Opera. Inside, too, all is small, the entrance,
corridor, staircase, etc. Once we had got to our box the coup d'oeil was
charming. The whole house is boxes, tier upon tier, all dark red inside,
which threw out the women's dresses and jewels splendidly. They were
almost all in white with handsome tiaras, the men in uniform, at least
the diplomatists and officers. The peuple souverain, senators, deputies,
etc., in the parterre were in black. The heat was something awful. The
Court came very punctually--the Queen looked handsome with her beautiful
tiara, the King of course in uniform, the President between them in
black with no decoration. The house went mad (every one standing of
course) when they played the Marseillaise, all the parterre cheering and
waving hats and handkerchiefs; equally mad when they stopped that and
played the Marcia Reale. The King, who is generally quite impassive,
looked pleased. The performance, like all gala performances, was long,
but the Royal party didn't look bored, and seemed to talk to each other,
and to Loubet quite a good deal. The King has a serious, almost stern
face, with a keen, steady look in the eye. I should think he saw
everything. The end of the ballet was a fine potpourri of French and
Italian flags, Marseillaise and Marcia Reale, and the Court left in a
roar of cheers. The Queen bowed very graciously and prettily right and
left as she turned to go.
The getting away was difficult and disagreeable, the narrow street was
crowded with royal carriages, all the horses prancing and backing, and
no one paying attention to anything else. However, it was a fine, dry
night, and once we had got across the street we found our carriage
(guided by the faithful Pietro) without any trouble.
This morning the Piazza is most interesting. Evidently the King and
President pass at the foot of the square, as there are troops
everywhere, and a double line of soldiers stretching across the top of
the Tritone. Every description of vehicle, omnibuses, fiacres, peasants'
carts, people on horseback, all ranged close up behind the soldiers;
groups of carabinieri with their red plumets are scattered about the
Piazza; a long line of red-coated German seminarists crossing at one
end, two or three Cappucini with their sandals, bare feet, and ropes at
their waists, coming out of their church, but not stopping to see the
show.
I am writing as usual at the window, and a fine smell of frittura comes
up from the shop underneath. A most animated discussion is going on just
under the window between a peasant, sitting well back on his donkey's
tail, two baskets slung over his saddle, strawberries in one, nespoli
(medlars) in the other, and a group of ragged, black-eyed little imps to
whom some young Englishmen have just given some pennies. They all talk,
and every now and then some enterprising boy makes a dive at the
baskets, whereupon the man makes his donkey kick, and the children
scatter. All the people in the street, and the coachmen of the little
botte (there is a station in the Piazza Barberini) take a lively
interest in the discussion; so do I from the window, but the police are
arriving and the man will be obliged to come to terms. The coachmen of
the botte are a feature of Rome, they spot the foreigner at once, and
always try to get the better of him. I took a carriage the other day to
go and breakfast with Mrs. Cameron in the Piazza di Spagna, about two
minutes' drive, and asked our porter what I must give the coachman. He
said one lira (franc). When we arrived I gave my franc, which he
promptly refused to receive; however I told him I knew that was the
tariff and I wouldn't give any more. He protested energetically, giving
every possible reason why I should give more--his carriage was the best
in the piazza, the road (Via Tritone) was very bad, down hill and
slippery, he had waited some time in the piazza for me, etc.; however I
was firm and said I would only give him one franc. Two other coachmen
who were standing near joined in the discussion and told him he was
quite wrong, that a franc was all he was entitled to. He instantly
plunged into an angry dispute with them, and in the meantime Mrs.
Cameron's door opened, so I put the franc on the cushion of the
carriage, he in a frenzy, telling me he wouldn't go away, but would stay
there with his carriage until I came out. That I told him he was at
perfect liberty to do, and went into the house. He and the others then
proceeded to abuse each other and make such a row that when I got up to
Mrs. Cameron's rooms she said she couldn't think what was going on in
the street, there was such a noise and violent quarrelling--so I told
her it was all me and my botta.
Thursday, April 28th.
Well, dear, the fetes are over, the President has departed, and the
Piazza Barberini has at once resumed its ordinary aspect; no more
carabinieri, nor police, nor carriages full of people, waiting all day
in the square in the hope of seeing King or President pass. I wonder
what the old Triton sitting on his shell with his dolphins around him
thinks of this last show. He has sat there for centuries, throwing his
jet of water high in the air, and seeing many wonderful sights.
The reception at the Farnese Palace was most brilliant last night. We
got there too late to see the King and Queen and President receiving;
there was such a crowd in the streets, which were all illuminated, that
we couldn't get across the Corso, and were obliged to make a long
detour. The Farnese Palace looked beautiful as we came up, the rows of
lights throwing out the splendid facade, the big doors open, quantities
of handsome carriages, people in uniform and ladies in full dress and
jewels who had got out of their carriages, crowding into the grand old
court. The royal carriages were all drawn up inside the court, and the
group of footmen in their bright red liveries made a fine effect of
colour at the foot of the stairs. It was an interesting assemblage, all
Rome (White) there, and all most curious to see the President. I didn't
see either King or Queen. They were already making their progress
through the rooms, which were so crowded that it was impossible to pass.
The famous Carracci Gallery looked magnificent lighted. The Ambassador
and Madame Barrere received their numerous guests most courteously, and
didn't look tired, but I fancy it was a relief to them when the fetes
and their responsibility were over.
We have had to put off our journey until Saturday. They wouldn't
undertake to keep us reserved compartments, not even sleeping, until
Saturday, there would be such a crowd. I don't exactly know why, for the
President left this morning, going south, and we, of course, are coming
north, but every one told me not to go, so we have telegraphed to the
Ruspolis to say we would go out and breakfast with them at Nemi.
There were quantities of affiches posted everywhere this morning which I
shouldn't think would please either the King of Italy or the French
President: "Viva Loubet--Viva Combes--Viva la France anticlericale."
Josephine and I went for a drive. It had rained all the morning, and was
grey and damp, but we didn't mind. We both of us love the Campagna in
all its varying aspects. We walked about for some time, but had
difficulty in choosing our ground, on account of the shepherds' dogs,
which are very fierce sometimes, and the troops of buffaloes. Josephine
had a disagreeable experience one day with the buffaloes. She was
walking on the Campagna with her small children and her Italian footman,
when suddenly a troop of these wild creatures charged down upon her at a
headlong pace. There was no refuge of any kind near; the footman,
frightened to death, promptly ran away. She was terrified, but didn't
lose her head. She stood quite still, the children clinging to her
skirts, and the herd divided, passing by on either side; but she might
have been trampled to death. Naturally she has given them a wide berth
since.
Friday, April 29th.
I will finish to-night dear, as we have come upstairs early after a long
day in the country. The trunks are all ready, some of them downstairs,
and we start early to-morrow morning. They say the confusion yesterday
at the station, when the President departed, was awful,
people--ladies--rushing about distractedly trying to find places, no
footmen allowed inside, not enough porters to carry the heavy
dressing-bags and rouleaux. Some people couldn't get any places, could
only start last night.
We had a pleasant day at Nemi. We went out by train. There were a good
many people, evidently starting for the regular round of Castelli
Romani, principally English and Americans, and principally women, very
few men, but large parties, six and seven, of women and girls. It is a
pretty road across the Campagna and up the steep hill to Albano, and as
our speed was not terrifying we had ample time to see everything. The
Ruspoli carriage was waiting for us, and we had a beautiful drive to
Nemi. It is really a lovely little place--the deep blue lake at the foot
of the hills, and all the country about us green. Our hosts were waiting
for us in one of the numerous salons, and we had time to go over the
castle a little before breakfast, which we had in a charming
old-fashioned room, with wonderful frescoes on the walls. They have
already done wonders in the old feudal castle, and I should think it
would be a charming summer residence, as no heat could penetrate these
thick walls. The view from the balcony was divine, over green slopes and
little woods to the lake.
We missed our train at Albano, so drove on to Castel Gandolfo and waited
there for the next one. We had gouter in a lovely little pergola
overlooking the lake of Albano, with the great papal villa opposite. It
is not very interesting as to architecture, a large square pile. No Pope
has lived there since Pio Nono. I believe some French nuns are settled
there now.
It was very warm walking about the little old town, which looked as if
it had been asleep for years--no one in the streets, no beggars even, no
movement of any kind. Just as we were starting for the station three or
four carriages filled with tourists rattled through. It is curious to
see how life seems to go on in just the same grooves in all these little
towns. Rome has so changed--changes so all the time--is getting
cosmopolitan, a great capital; but all these little mountain villages
seem quite the same as in the old days of Savellis, Colonnas, and
Orsinis, when most of the great feudal chiefs were at daggers drawn and
all the country fought over, and changing hands after each fierce
encounter. The few people one meets look peaceful enough, but on the
smallest provocation eyes flash, tones and gestures get loud and
threatening, but apparently they calm down at once and are on the whole,
I fancy, a lazy, peaceable population.
It is warm to-night, the windows are open and the Marseillaise still has
the honours of the night--one hears it everywhere.
INDEX
Albano, 30
Alberti, 20-21
Alfieri, 105
Allessandri, Carlo, 27, 35
Altieri, Cardinal, death of, 30
Angelico, Fra, 39