_Rome,
March._
I enclose some photographs of the “meets” on the Campagna--of the pack
and the huntsmen and tent, and a group of onlookers--the princess of
San Faustino, the last Orsini, and Prince Solofra who seems to be
scratching his head and meditating on the past glories of the great
feudal families. Also one of your friends, Gonzaga, with the Countess
he is going to marry.
There is an attempt being made to revive the Carnival fêtes--the races
in the Corso--but the Veglione won’t be so much fun as last year, I
know. Every moment of that night together is unforgettable. Poor
erratic Pittsburgo, how you did tease him! And dear old Checkers!
There’ll never again be anything so funny as he was in that round
masque with its fixed grin, dancing about on the floor of the
Costanzi. But now it isn’t carnival for me. Who could feel gay when
his love is not here? So I am only an observer, while others sport and
play the fool, more or less amusingly.
The Corso has been crowded, and many of the balconies draped with
bright carpets, and wreathed with flowers. Through the throngs there
moved an irregular succession of fantastic figures, men on horseback,
dressed in red and yellow, heralds, groups of historic patriots and
warriors, and even Marcus Aurelius so ingeniously imitated that he
appeared exactly like the statue on the Capitol, which is supposed to
have left its pedestal and come down to enjoy the mirth. Then there
was a “char” with Venus--to whom as the Goddess of love, I took off my
hat and bowed,--drawn by tinsel cupids and snowy pigeons tugging away
at the ends of stiff wires. There were sacrificial chariots, too, and
floats of hanging gardens, and still more Roman statues,--
“Priests and prophets of the ages,
Vestals, augurs, pontiffs, mages,
Brazen-belted, scarlet-shrouded,
All their altars incense-clouded,
Roman wealth of aeons massing
Now in golden pageant passing.”
The people threw flowers and confetti and everything else they could
lay their hands on. Between certain hours there was complete license,
and a mask could hit or kiss or be as wild as he pleased. (You know,
dear, there _is_ a certain kind of kissing I do not disapprove of.)
Yesterday, too, was gay with crowds of people in the streets, for it
was the King’s birthday, and I was awakened by the music of marching
bands, in time to see from my window the Persian Ambassador starting
to call on the King at the Quirinal. The gala carriages made a fine
show with their caparisoned horses, the three liveried footmen behind
and bewigged coachman stuck up in front. This important Embassy had
traveled all the way from Persia to tell the King that a new Shah had
come to the throne, a bit of news we had learned by telegraph months
ago,--but such are the ways of monarchs. I wonder when the Ambassador
will arrive from America to announce the accession of the new
Administration! The evening found me dining at the Foreign Office in
honor of His Majesty’s birthday. It was a very splendid and stately
affair, the diplomats and officials all in uniforms of gold lace,
cocked hats, with swords and fine feathers, my simple, unadorned black
coat being the only one at the table. (However, the servants were
dressed like me, though to be sure, even some of them were decorated!)
It was a dinner of fifty, long and ceremonious, and afterwards we all
stood about while I watched the Greek and Turk dodging each other, and
taking turns in talking excitably to their fellow guests. Tomorrow
they will probably be at each other’s throats.
The Ambassadorial family has just left, with a good many people to see
them off, chiefly officials. I put some flowers in their compartment,
as I did when my darling Polly left Rome. I had hoped to be able to
leave with them, but, as I wrote you, I must wait until a new
Ambassador, or his Secretary, arrives before I can turn over the
affairs and leave. Oh, Polly, I am so sorry for this further delay.
You know how disappointed I am, and you will be patient with me, won’t
you, dear?
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