_Rome,
July._
It is a fête day in Rome, and a grand review of the troops was held
by the King. About half-past six the regimental bands began to pass up
the Via Venti Settembre. I enjoyed the lively airs which I could
faintly hear from far away, growing louder and louder till under my
very window there was a great burst of melody, mingled with the swash
of marching feet, which went by and became fainter in the distance
again. The review was in the Piazza dell’Indipendenza and a large
holiday crowd had gathered there. The King came with a big staff, the
Queen in semi-state, in a carriage with _corazzieri_. There were not
many troops, but I always like to see the _carabinieri_ with their
three-cornered hats and tail coats and crossed belts. The
_bersaglieri_, too, are amusing and exciting, going on the run,
trailing their guns, with their fluttering cock-feather hats, and
their fanfare in front tooting a gay quickstep.
The Corso, also, was crowded with a procession of bare-headed
_contadini_ in carriages with banners, the prizes won lately at the
festival of the _Divina Amore_. The cathedrals were thronged, the
doors hung with crimson and gold curtains, and within, hundreds of
candles burning. Little girls in their confirmation dresses walked in
procession, the proud parents following. It was all really very gay.
The Ambassador who has been away the past week, returned, and we made
a long excursion to Bracciano, the small town on a rock jutting into
the lake. The great castle, once the stronghold of the Orsini, but now
belonging to Prince Odescalchi, rises high above the village.
We had brought our luncheon and champagne, and had it served in the
dining hall of the château. It was a very jolly luncheon and a good
one. Then, after a rest, we climbed over the castello, up into the
battlements and towers, and looked down at the vineyards and the lake
far below us, and out over the chestnut-wooded mountains which stretch
away to the northward. Although Prince Odescalchi passes some time
here, and although he is very rich, yet the halls and courtyards are
crumbling into ruins.
I experienced an exciting incident since I last wrote, which, thank
God! had no terrible results. For a time, however, I felt I was
looking down on a fatal panic. A fire broke out in a crowded theatre
where I was, and I am much more moved by it now than I was at the
time, when I took the affair coolly enough, though it was really
frightful.
It was a gala night at the Opera House Costanzi, where we attended the
masked ball in the carnival season, you remember. The house was
crowded, the pit and orchestra jammed, the boxes all taken and a
ballet with gay music and dancing was being performed--when suddenly
in the molding above the top row of boxes,--I was in one with some
colleagues--there was a phit! phiz-z-z, and a blue flame shot out and
ran sputtering along the woodwork.
For a moment there was a dead stillness, and only the crackling flame
along the electric wire could be heard. Then came a horrible cry which
still rings in my ears, and it seemed as if the whole audience rose in
a mass and rushed to the exits where it struggled and swayed and
choked. The orchestra, instead of being panic-stricken and scrambling
away, played the Royal March, which could just be heard above the din
of confusion. Actors rushed to the front of the stage and tried to
stop the mad stampede. Into the empty boxes, which had cleared in a
twinkling, we rushed and hung out over the balustrade, trying to whip
out the fire with our coats.
In a few moments, some police and firemen joined us and chopped the
burning wood with axes and swords till it fell in sparks about the
orchestra. Then it was a fight until it was put out at last, and the
curtain dropped. Suddenly, again, this time nearer the proscenium,
with its wings, scenes, and flies, there was a sputter, a flash, and
the fire broke out again in a different place, evidently from the same
dangerous wire. Another moment of intense stillness, and then the
firemen rushed along the gallery a second time and whipped and beat
out the flames. The curtain rolled slowly up, showing the great stage
with the ballet only half-dressed, looking anxiously about. The actors
pluckily tried to continue the performance; a few people stayed, but
we scarcely felt in the humor for our coats were scorched and our
hands black. There were no terrible results, but it might have been so
frightful, and the glimpse of the possibility has made me realize the
terror of such a catastrophe.
I have been dining with Prince Boris lately; we do not speak of you,
he, because he dares not, I, because I will not. I would rather think
of you silently.
The heat is becoming intense and I’ve not been feeling very well
lately.
* * * * *