1884
START FOR ITALY--THE CHOLERA--TEN DAYS IN QUARANTINE ON
LAKE MAGGIORE--A HEROIC KING--WE ARE PRESENTED TO QUEEN
MARGARET--AMERICAN ARTISTS IN ROME--THE ROYAL BALLS--
RECEPTIONS AND PARTIES--MEET MANY PEOPLE OF NOTE--THE HILLS
OF ROME--MINISTER ASTOR AND HIS HOME--HUGH CONWAY--IBSEN--
MARION CRAWFORD--ONE OF THE BONAPARTES--KEAT’S ROOM--THE
CARDINALS--ISCHIA DESTROYED--CHRISTMAS IN ROME--LETTER FROM
GENERAL SHERMAN--HIS VIEWS OF ROME--CLEVELAND’S ELECTION--
FRANZ LISZT AGAIN.
_August 4._--Sunday evening I walked from Bocken to Zurich to take
the train for my new post at Rome. Walked along the Albis hills above
the lake, ten miles. It was a delightful summer evening and the view
of mountains and lake seemed finer than ever before. I could not help
stopping many times to turn round and drink in the glorious scene,
possibly for the last time. It was the only time I ever shed tears on
leaving a scene of beauty. Besides I was leaving Switzerland, where I
had had fifteen happy years.
It was a dangerous time to go to Italy. The cholera was raging in
Spezia not less than in Marseilles and Toulon. Many Italians were
flying home from the scourge-stricken districts, and at the last
moment I learned that a quarantine had been established on the Italian
frontier. I hoped, however, to get through at a little village on Lake
Maggiore. To my surprise all the lake region was filled with guards
and I was soon arrested and cooped up with a thousand others at an old
sawmill by the lake.
For ten long days I walked alone up and down the upper floor of that
big sawmill, every hour expecting the cholera to break out among the
crowd of refugees down in the yard. Once a day a guard was sent to
conduct me down to the lake, where I could go in and swim. What a treat
that was for me! The guard stood on the shore with fixed bayonet,
watching that I did not swim out too far and get away. Mrs. Terry,
our good American friend, happened to be spending the summer in the
mountains near by. She heard of me and, like a good Samaritan, brought
me grapes and other delicacies. We could only stand and talk to each
other at a distance with the line of guards between us.
One morning I received a great big document, it looked like a college
diploma, saying that I had finished with the quarantine and could
proceed on my way.
In the early morning twilight I crossed beautiful Lake Maggiore in a
row boat, and like a bird let loose from its cage flew away to Rome.
Once on a time when my wife and I had been in Rome visiting, a lady
friend said to us just as we were about leaving: “Come first with me
to the fountain of Trevi, throw a penny into the water, and you will
return to Rome.” We went one beautiful moonlight night and tossed our
coins into the fountain. And now, sure enough, here I was again in the
Eternal City.
The officials of the consulate met me at the train. I went through
another terrible fumigation for the cholera, and was soon settled down
to live in Italy. The office was at once moved to Palazzo Mariani, 30
Via Venti Settembre, and there later we made our home, when it was safe
for my family to follow me.
My friends, Congressman Lacey and wife, who seemed to be about the only
strangers in Rome, also met me. We stopped at the great, big, empty
“Hotel di Roma.” We had it all to ourselves, and we had much amusement
with the waiter, who understood none of our lingo, nor we his, further
than the word “ancora” (more). The little mugs of milk he brought us
for our figs, were but spoonfuls, so we constantly cried “ancora!”
He smiled, and the mugs came almost by the dozen. I was no little
surprised to see on my bill a long list of repeated charges, sometimes
written out, sometimes dotted down, for half a yard. It was the word
“ancora,” at a half a franc apiece.
The Laceys left Rome, after taking one long, last look at me at the
station, for they believed they were leaving me there to die of the
cholera.
Rome was as silent as a grave that summer. Everybody seemed seized
with a panic, and fled to the sea or the mountains. I was indeed
lonesome, and with just half of an attack of cholera would have
probably succumbed. I saw little but closed shop windows, silent
streets, and men going about the alleys and corners scattering lime and
disinfectants. Everybody I knew or met carried a bottle of “cholera
cure” in his coat pocket for there was danger any moment of tumbling
over in the street. Away from the office I scarcely met a soul I could
talk with. Suddenly I bethought myself of my friend Frank Simmons, the
sculptor, and was at once ensconced with him in the rooms above his
studio. When not busy at the consulate I could spend my time watching
him turn his live models into clay and marble, and in the beautiful
summer nights we sat up in his rooms and talked of art, and America,
till midnight.
Mr. Hooker, the banker, (what American that ever went to Rome in
the last twenty-five years did not know him?) invited Mr. Simmons
and myself to supper. He lived in the palace once owned by Madame
Bonaparte, the mother of Napoleon. Here she died. The chambers were
still filled with paintings and sculpture and other souvenirs of the
Napoleon family. That night Mr. Hooker, Mr. Simmons and myself sat
till towards the morning round the little table in the very room where
Napoleon’s mother spent her evenings thinking of her eight children,
seven of whom were kings.
In a few weeks, the scare over, the people commenced returning. Then
the cholera broke out in Italy sure enough. It was at Naples now, and
with horrible fatality.
The brave King Humbert took train and went there to help and to
encourage the afflicted. He went into the hospitals everywhere, took
the sick by the hand, and possibly helped many a dying one to take
courage and live. He took his own provisions with him, even drinking
water, from Rome, and whenever he went among the sick he smoked
constantly. His staff complained he was leading them all to death, but
they had to follow into dens and holes and hospitals more dangerous
than a battle field.
[Illustration: King Humbert.--_Page 247._]
[Illustration: Queen Margherita.--_Page 247._]
_September._--My family have come, and now we are all living at the
Consulate, Via Venti Settembre 30.
The King came back to Rome from cholera-stricken Naples a day or
two ago. He has become the greatest hero in Italy. I never saw such
a reception. The main streets of Rome were packed solid with human
beings, trying to touch the King’s extended hand, his horses, the
wheels of the carriage. The beautiful Queen Margaret sat at his side
smiling and bowing right and left. The young Crown Prince sat on the
front seat. I did not know a King could be loved so by his people. But
this King was a hero.
The Van Marters had asked me to view the procession from their balcony
on the Via Nazionale. They had hung out American flags. The King saw
the colors, took off his hat and profoundly greeted them as he passed.
I never saw a President receive half the ovation that this King did,
riding through Rome with his Queen and son, and without any escort or
signs of royalty whatever. The vast crowd were simply mad with pride,
enthusiasm and love for their King and Queen Margaret.
_October._--It is easy enough to get acquainted in Rome, at least for
an official; besides, there are many of one’s countrymen living here,
and parties and receptions are the order of the day and night through
the entire social season. The members of the consular and diplomatic
corps we soon met, and then there are so many American artists here
worth knowing whose studios are open to all lovers of the beautiful.
We made immediately the acquaintance of U. S. Minister and Mrs. W.
W. Astor at their home in the Rospigliosi palace. There we met many
interesting people.
Mrs. Astor is a young and very beautiful woman, and very charming in
her manners. They have two pretty children. Mr. W. Waldorf Astor,
though a multi-millionaire, personally leads a simple life in Rome.
He is a close student. Every bright morning sees him riding with
an antiquarian among the outskirts and ruins of the city. He is an
acknowledged authority in kindred matters and his papers on the
discoveries in Yucatan and elsewhere, read before one of the learned
societies here, attracted attention. He is not playing ambassador as
an amusement. His legation business is as closely attended to as if
he were a poor, hard-working clerk in need of a salary. There is no
ostentation about him personally. Officially, he attends to it that the
social position of the United States Minister is what it should be.
One night at a dinner party he was relating the incident of a Union
soldier who had donned a gray uniform once and entered the Rebel army
at Atlanta. He had read a description of this soldier’s experiences
and hairbreadth escapes in the Atlantic Monthly, and had been
extraordinarily impressed. The soldier’s name, as he remembered it, was
the same as my own. Could we be related? I astonished him by saying
that I was more than related, that I was the soldier myself, and the
article in the Atlantic was my own. Mr. Astor grasped my hand,
saying he had thought of that soldier’s action a hundred times. My
narrative had made Mr. Astor a friend. He rarely introduced me to a
friend after that without adding: “He is the man who went into Atlanta.”
The palace where Mr. Astor lives is the same that our Minister Marsh
occupied when I was here some years ago. It is built on the ruins of
the Baths of Constantine.
I have looked everywhere trying to find the “hills” of Rome, but almost
in vain. They can barely be located, and are not half as defined as the
hills of Boston.
* * * * *
Yesterday I went to look at the apartment where the consulate used to
be by the Spanish stairway. The consul’s little back room is where
the Poet Keats died. I could think I saw him lying there waiting for
beautiful death to come, and I seemed to hear him say to his friend
Severn: “I already feel the flowers growing over me.” And I saw Severn
too, forgetting his easel, to sweep and cook and wait and watch all the
nights alone, till the beautiful soul of Keats should take its flight.
The room is a poorly lighted common little bedroom where the poet
died, but it will be visited many a day in memory of one who lived,
not between brick walls, but in high imaginations. We also went to the
poet’s simple grave, as we had often done before, and looked at the
green sod above one who
Had loved her with a love that was his doom.
It was the love for Fannie Brawn and not the bitter pens of the
Quarterlies, that killed John Keats after all. Severn found that out
only six short years ago, when the love letters from Keats to Fannie
Brawn were placed in the now old man’s hands.
_December 28._--Spite of bad weather we are having some wonderful
sunsets lately, and strangers in Rome linger long on the Spanish
stairway to enjoy a scene they have so often heard of--a sunset by the
Tiber.
Last night Madame Bompiani invited us to tea with her. She lives at
the Hilda’s tower palace, celebrated by Hawthorne, in the “Marble
Faun.” Her husband is a well-known Roman lawyer, and she herself writes
interesting letters to the Chicago _Interior_. We learned much about
things in Rome direct from him, and after the supper we were taken up
to the tower.
One of the guests was Madame Guyani, a sister of the hostess. She was
a fine conversationalist and interested us much. Only a few months ago
she was a sufferer in the terrible earthquake at Ischia. She is still
lame as a result of the experiences of that fearful night. She told us
all about the earthquake. The night of the disaster she wandered or
crept about the fields till morning. The parts of the island which were
nothing short of an earthly paradise in the evening were only piles of
ruins and dead people in the morning. It was as if Eden had been struck
by a thunderbolt, only here there was a happy, unsuspecting people to
be suddenly hurled out of existence.
_Sunday._--Instead of going to church I stay in Mr. Franklin Simmons’
studio and watch him making a bust of Marion Crawford, the novelist. He
has a good subject, for Marion Crawford is a large, handsome man with a
fine figure and a genial face. There was a joking dialogue going on as
to whether it is the great novelist now sitting to the sculptor Simmons
or the great sculptor Simmons doing the face of a novelist, each
modestly insisting the other only had claims on immortality. I liked
Crawford and his genial ways. I had just finished reading his “Roman
Singer.”
Frank Simmons seems to me to be the best sculptor in Rome, though he
is not yet the most celebrated. He does not seem to try to seek fame;
but lets it seek him, which it is doing. Marion Crawford, too, I know,
regarded Simmons as the best sculptor living, and some day he will
make him the hero of a great novel.
Italy is called the land of art and yet curiously there are few great
Italian artists. Its galleries sometimes seem to me like opened
coffins, where one beholds among the bones the jewel work of some
dead age. I feel here much as I felt in Berlin when looking on the
golden necklaces of Helen of Troy, dug up by Schliemann. All the fine
paintings and marbles here in Rome seem like the ruins, relics of
another time. Foreign artists by the hundred, live and work here for
the inspiration they get from the fragments of the past. They taste the
wine made good with age and mix some of it in the bottles of new wine
of their own making. There are more imitators in Rome than anywhere
else in the world.
* * * * *
The duties of the consulate here are nothing compared with Zurich
or with any other commercial consulate. The office is often full of
callers, but their errands are visits of courtesy or to have passports
issued and the like. The trade of Rome with America is insignificant.
There are two regular consular clerks here, burdened with nothing
to do. The laws provide for some thirteen of these “regulars” in
the consular service, who hold their places for life. They are
rarely promoted, and grow gray doing little. One good, hired clerk
whose staying in depends on his zeal and fitness and not on his
self-importance, is worth a dozen of them. They should be made
responsible to somebody. The salary of the Consul General does not pay
his expenses in Rome.
Palazzo Mariani, where we live, is a very magnificent structure
outside, with great white marble stairways within, leading from floor
to floor. But it is cold as a sepulcher. No stoves and no fire-places
save one little niche in the wall, where a few burning fagots scarcely
change the temperature.
At night we come home (very late, as parties only begin at nine or so),
and go to bed in a big cold bedroom with a brick floor. Our so-called
cook stove is a little iron box heated with charcoal, in a kitchen
about five feet square, but Antoinette seems to know how to broil a kid
on it every day.
Our drawing-room is heated (?) by the fagots in the niche in the wall;
but even this is _too warm_ for our Italian friends, who, when they
call, apologize and go and sit in the back end of the room as far from
the so-called fire as possible.
We have our furniture here from Switzerland, and to us that is a
comfort. Occasionally a couple of priests come into our house without
asking and walk about through all the rooms, sprinkling holy water
on the beds as is a custom here. On going out, they indicate their
willingness for a fee, which is not surprising in a land where feeing
is universal.
Like most modern houses in Rome, our big palace is built on top of a
series of old arches that once supported the houses of ancient Rome.
From our cellar we can prowl around unknown distances through these
mysterious chambers.
The water for the house is still conducted from the Alban hills in one
of the old Roman aqueducts. It is a queer combination, this old and new
in Rome.
* * * * *
Mr. Astor had written me that last night my wife and I were to be
presented at court. At ten we were climbing the magnificent stairs
of the Quirinal palace to be presented to Queen Margaret. Gorgeously
uniformed sentinels stood on the stairway left and right. We were
shortly escorted to one of the great drawing-rooms of the palace, where
we found other ladies and gentlemen also waiting to be presented. In
a little while we were all directed to stand in line around the walls
of the drawing-room. A dead silence ensued, and then the Queen of
Italy entered at our right, escorted by the Marchesa Villa Marina,
who had in her hand a list of all of our names. A few moments before
she had passed along the line whispering to each of us and confirming
the correctness of her list. Queen Margaret turned to her left as she
passed in and very graciously greeted a young Italian lady, whom she
seemed to know personally. She extended her hand to the young lady,
who, greatly honored, blushed and looked very pretty. This was the only
instance where the Queen gave her hand that evening. As she started
along the line toward us she halted before each one. The Marchesa
promptly made the presentation, when the Queen bowed very sweetly and
made some remarks. I noticed that in each case she spoke the language
of the lady or gentleman presented. I could hear her speaking German,
Italian, French. Certainly she cannot speak English, I meditated, but
in a moment our turn came. Our names were pronounced, and the Queen
commenced in very agreeable English. Her manner was extremely winning,
kind and simple. She “knew we would like Rome,” she said. “Everybody
did, and she hoped our stay would be long and very happy.” She wore
an elegant gown, cut extremely low, revealing a fine form. Around her
neck was the famous pearl necklace, to which the King adds a string of
pearls every birthday. She carried an enormous white fan of ostrich
plumes which she constantly waved while she talked with us. She looked
the queen, and I thought more German than Italian. Her whole bearing
was graciousness. Her smile seemed as sincere as beautiful, and no one
but would call her a happy, beautiful woman.
The presentation over, we will now be entitled to invitations to the
palace balls and other public functions. There is an American lady
here at court whom we knew in Switzerland. It is the Countess Ginotti,
formerly Miss Kinney, of Washington. Her husband is a court official
and is entrusted with important duties.
Last night we went to our second court ball at the Quirinal. A week
following our presentation we had had the customary invitation to
the first. We go at ten at night, ascend the same brilliantly lighted
stairway as at the presentation, and even more gorgeously uniformed
sentinels line the way on left and right.
The dress is prescribed; gentlemen in evening attire of course--there
is nothing else a man can do but dress himself in mourning and call
it festive; but so many ladies, in their elegant, light gowns and
extremely low bodices, with swan white necks and shining diamonds, made
a lovely scene. We shortly found ourselves seated among five hundred
other guests in a brilliant ballroom of the palace. A raised dais and
a royal chair stood at the end in front of us. There was a little
gossip with each other, a little wondering at the gorgeous gowns, when
suddenly the music from a lofty gallery proclaimed the coming of the
court. Instantly, side doors unfolded, and King Humbert with Queen
Margaret on his arm, marched toward the raised platform, followed by
the court officials and all the Ambassadors in Rome in gala attire.
We all rise, the ladies courtesying and the men bowing, as the King
gracefully swings Queen Margaret into her seat and takes his place,
standing beside her chair. There is some more bowing and smiling and
courtesying. The music changes for the dance and the guests look on
while the Queen and the Ambassadors and their wives dance the royal
cotillon. The Ambassador of Germany, the head of the diplomatic corps,
dances with Queen Margaret. It is all very lovely, though some of us
guests feel we could beat the dancing all to pieces. In a few moments
the Queen is back on the dais talking with the ladies privileged to
surround her. The music has changed and some of the five hundred
present are swinging in the waltz.
All has been simple and beautiful. Such a ball might take place in the
extremest republic in the world. Some formality, some etiquette, there
must be everywhere. While the others dance, the Queen and the King talk
with the ladies, with the Ministers, and the Ambassadors. I was close
to the King at different times in the evening. He was as unpretending
as any other gentleman in the room. He seemed to have a bad cough, and
his great eyes sometimes glanced around in a strange way. His mustache
is almost as big and bristling as was his father’s, Victor Emmanuel.
He has a kindly, earnest look, and Italy has in him a patriotic King.
At midnight everybody repaired to little marble tables in an adjoining
room, where most expensive refreshments were served. Every one seemed
to have a bottle of champagne to himself. I never saw such a flowing of
wines, yet all managed to keep sober. The ball souvenirs presented to
every guest were all made in Paris and of every conceivable and lovely
design.
* * * * *
We are not far from the “Porta Pia,” and often go out walking or
driving on the Campagna. Much of this barren land was a graveyard once,
and splendid broken marble tombs still stretch away for miles. One
can guess at the enormous wealth of the old city by walking for hours
among the fallen columns and broken tombs of the rich out here on the
Campagna. It is as if a wilderness of marble trees had at some past
time been torn down by a whirlwind, and only the debris left behind.
The most impressive scene about Rome is the great aqueducts by
moonlight, as they stretch across this waste of the Campagna. They are
one hundred feet high and built on immense arches. One gets an idea
of what the population of Rome must have been, on reflecting that at
one time there were twenty-four of these canals through the air for
carrying water into the city, and that fifty million cubic feet of
water a day flowed into Rome through them. I was surprised to learn
that hundreds of miles, too, of these aqueducts were built under
ground. A tunnel a few thousand feet long we regard as a wonder at
home, but some of these aqueducts were thirty-six miles at a stretch,
under ground.
The Campagna was honeycombed in all directions by these strange canals,
and the miles of arches above ground to-day impress one more than does
the Coliseum.
However desolate the Campagna to-day, in the olden time it must have
been a wonder with its catacombs and canals under ground and its
magnificent tombs, pillars and aqueducts above ground.
Evenings when the weather is fine we see the Cardinals with their
cassocks and hats of flaming red, taking the air. They drive over from
the Vatican in closed carriages and when once on the Campagna get out
and walk about.
Next to the Cardinals, these Campagna shepherds are picturesque and
interesting. They wear leather leggings, sheepskin jackets, goatskin
breeches with the long hair outside, a red sash and a rakish hat. They
look very much like stage villains, which they are not. When they ride
into town, two or three on the same donkey, they make a remarkable
figure; but a very miserable one, when the one behind is seen jabbing
the donkey with an awl to make him go faster with his load of vagabonds.
_January, 1885._--Christmas Day we went to see the magnificent
ceremonies in the church called the Santa Maria Maggiore. Its forest
of vast marble columns was wrapped in hangings of crimson and gold.
The priests, bishops, cardinals and other dignitaries wore the most
gorgeous regalia of the church.
At the height of the ceremony a part of the Holy Manger in a crystal
chest was borne up and down the aisles, among the kneeling, praying
multitudes. Whatever the history of this relic, I think it was regarded
that day by every one present as very sacred. I never saw a multitude
so impressed with one thought. To many present, death itself could not,
I think, have caused deeper emotion.
Great church ceremonies are all the time going on in Rome, and as there
are more than three hundred church buildings, one can go to a different
place every day in the year. Not at the Sistine Chapel alone, with
its “Last Judgment” scenes, its moving music and officiating Pope, need
one be interested; in dozens of churches great things are always going
on.
* * * * *
A few evenings ago we were invited to a party at the Danish consul’s.
Met a number of interesting people, but the lion of the evening was
Ibsen, the great dramatic writer. He is a little short man with a big
head, a great shock of white hair, and twinkling eyes. I talked with
him some in English. Famous as his dramas are, I knew little about
them, and our few minutes’ talk was on indifferent subjects, not
worth remembering or jotting down; only he talked like a very genial,
open-hearted man.
The next day there was an afternoon reception at our own home, and
among our guests was Hugh Conway, the author of “Called Back.” He
went with me to a little corner in the dining-room, where we had a
chat about his famous story, his own past, and his future hopes. He
had been an auctioneer in England, and on trying his hand at stories
was astonished to find himself suddenly famous. He was simple, kind
and communicative as a child. Shortly his wife joined us, agreeable
as himself, and they were promising much to themselves from another
season, which they intended spending in Rome. And we were going to be
friends. He told me of their children in England. We emptied a glass
to the children’s health, and the next day they started for Nice. He
took a cold on the way, and a little later came the sad news that the
lovable man was dead.
Almost every day, afternoon or evening, we go to receptions. Half the
Americans living here give them, to say nothing of those given by the
English, French and other foreign residents whom one happens to know.
One meets a sprinkling of Italians at all of them, but this is by no
means Roman society. That is something that few foreigners know very
much about. The receptions are all about alike, though differing in
interest of course, according to the personality of the entertainers.
People come to them and stand up and gossip a little; some pretty
girls pour tea, and occasionally there is a song by some visiting
celebrity. Getting a “celebrity” to be at one’s receptions and parties,
by the way, is a part of a society woman’s bounden duty in Rome.
What lions have we not met at these delightful afternoon and evening
affairs--Liszt, Crawford, Ibsen, Rogers, Fargus, Bonaparte, Houghton,
the Trollopes, Wallace, and how many others less great. One meets most
of them just long enough for a cup of tea together, or a glass of wine,
a hand shake, a few words, and then “au revoir.” Yet the memory of it
all remains.
Rome is always full of great people and they all seem to like to be
lionized. Then there are the distinguished artists of many countries
who live here by the hundred, and who honor the hostess and sometimes
themselves, by dropping in at these receptions for a stand-up cup of
tea and a general hand shake.
We have attended three, four, even half a dozen receptions the same
day. If ever I go into business in Rome it will be to sell tea to
people who give receptions. A man of war could float in the tea poured
out here by pretty girls every afternoon.
Some of the artists also, like Ezekiel, the sculptor, give unique
little receptions in their picturesque studios. These are almost the
best of all.
* * * * *
Had an interesting letter from General Sherman yesterday.
“ST. LOUIS, MO., Nov. 14, 1884.
“DEAR BYERS:--I was very glad to receive your letter of October
28, from Rome, telling us that you are now fairly established
in the Eternal City. Somehow that renowned city did not make
the impression on me that its fame warranted, but I was told
that it grew upon every man who dwelt there long enough. I
hope you will experience that result, and realize not only
contentment, but gather much material for future literary work,
because I fear your diplomatic career is drawing to a close.
It now seems almost certain that all the little petty causes
of discontent and opposition inside the Republican party have
united with the Democrats and elected Cleveland President. When
installed next spring he will be a stronger man that he has
credit for, if he can resist the pressure sure to be brought on
him, and consulships will be in great demand, for distance lends
enchantment, and exaggerates the value of such offices. I have
no fear of violence, and believe that Cleveland will not allow
the solid South to dictate to him. If he does, and the old Rebels
show the cloven foot, the reaction four years hence will be
overwhelming.
“We are all very well in St. Louis, and the autumn has been
beautiful, crops good and bountiful, general business dull by
reason of apprehended change of tariff, but the country growing
steadily all the time. My daughter Rachel is in Maine on a visit
to the Blaines, at this critical period. Mrs. Sherman is at
Philadelphia on a short visit to our daughter Elly, so that the
family here is small. I expect to make a short visit to New York
and Washington about Christmas, with which exception I propose to
remain quiet. Time, with me, glides along smoothly and I am amply
convinced that I was wise in retiring just when I did. I don’t
believe the Democrats will materially hurt the army, but they
will make Sheridan’s place uncomfortable. I visited Des Moines in
September and found it a prosperous, fine city. I should suppose
you might make it your home, devote your time to literature,
and give general supervision to your farm. I’m afraid, however,
that you have been so long abroad that it will be hard to break
yourself and family into the habits of Iowa farmers. Give to Mrs.
Byers and son the assurance of our best love.
“Your friend,
W. T. SHERMAN.”
The other night we were at a private musicale, next door to one of the
hotels. Some girls, and a certain princess, played and sang extremely
well. In the midst of the evening the door opened and who should walk
in? It was Franz Liszt. He was in his slippers just as he had been in
his room next door. He had heard the music and had just dropped in.
Quite a little emotion was created among us all, when after standing
and listening a little bit, he went straight over to the young girl
at the piano and put a rousing kiss on her forehead. She blushed, and
was stamped for immortality. To her last hour she will remember that
approving kiss of the master.
After the musicale I was presented and was glad he remembered me so
well from Zurich. He recalled a kissing scene that I had witnessed
there as well, and laughed heartily about it.
But Liszt is getting old. He has had his day of great life. What genius
and a great deal of work can do for a man in this world anyway! Liszt,
with his genius, worked too at the piano like a galley slave, years
before any soul applauded.
* * * * *
Yesterday, one of the Bonapartes came to the office on some business.
It was Napoleon Charles. He owns the villa Bonaparte and is a rich man,
for his villa grounds are to be sold off at great prices for the new
Rome rapidly building. I observed him closely because I had been told
that his is the real Bonaparte face. He is taller than was the First
Consul. His family name is still a power in Rome. It interested me to
see one who is closely connected with the Great Napoleon. He wrote me a
pretty French note of thanks, and that is pasted in among my autograph
letters from interesting people.