"The Pope has a reception to-morrow morning," said she. "Would you care to
go? If so, I should be delighted to take you."
"Oh," I said, "that is the thing of all others I should like to do!"
"Then," said she, "I will call for you and take you in my carriage."
This function requires a black dress, black veil, and a general funereal
appearance and gloveless hands. Happily she did not forget, but came in
her coupé at the appointed time to fetch me, and we drove to the Vatican.
The ambassadress was received at the entrance with bows and smiles of
recognition by the numerous _camerieri_ and other splendidly dressed
persons, and we were led through endless beautiful rooms before arriving
at the gallery where we were to wait. It was not long before his Holiness
(Pius IX.) appeared, followed by his suite of monsignors and prelates. I
never was so impressed in my life as when I saw him. He wore a white-cloth
_soutane_ and white-embroidered _calotte_ and red slippers, and looked so
kind and full of benevolence that he seemed goodness personified. I knelt
down almost with pleasure on the cold floor when he addressed me, and I
kissed the emerald ring which he wore on his third finger as if I had been
a born Catholic and had done such things all my life.
He asked me in English from which country I came, and when I answered,
"America, your Holiness," he said, "What part of America?" I replied,
"From Boston, Holy Father."
"It is a gallant town," the Pope remarked; "I have been there myself."
Having finished speaking with the men (all the ladies stood together on
one side of the room and the men on the other), the Pope went to the end
of the gallery. We all noticed that he seemed much agitated, and wondered
why, and what could have happened to ruffle his benign face. It soon
became known that there was an Englishman present who refused to kneel,
although ordered to do so by the irate chamberlain, and who stood stolidly
with arms folded, looking down with a sneer upon his better-behaved
companions.
His Holiness made a rather lengthy discourse, and did not conceal his
displeasure, alluding very pointedly to the unpardonable attitude of the
stranger.
On leaving the gallery he turned around a last time, made the sign of the
cross, giving us his blessing, and left us very much impressed. I looked
about for my companion, but could not see her anywhere. Had she forgotten
me and left me there to my fate? It would not be unlike her to do so.
I saw myself, in my mind's eye, being led out of the Vatican by the
striped yellow and black legs and halberded guards, and obliged to find my
way home alone; but on peering about in all the corners I caught sight of
her seated on a bench fervently saying her prayers, evidently under the
impression that she was in church during mass. As we were about to enter
the coupé she hesitated before giving any orders to the servant, possibly
not remembering where I had lived. But the footman, being accustomed to
her vagaries, did not wait, and as he knew where to deposit me, I was
landed safely at the Palazzo Altieri.
_February 15th._
The Storys gave "The Merchant of Venice" the other evening. They had put
up in one of the salons a very pretty little stage; the fashionable world
was _au complet_, and, after having made our bows to Mrs. Story, we took
our places in the theater. Mr. Story was Shylock, and acted extremely
well. Edith was very good as Portia. Waldo and Julian both took part. Mr.
and Mrs. Prank Lascelles, of the English Embassy, both dressed in black
velvet, played the married couple to the life, but did not look at all
Italian. The whole performance was really wonderfully well done and most
successful; the enthusiasm was sincere and warmed the cold hands by the
frequent clapping. We were so glad to be enthusiastic!
Mr. Story gave me his book called _Roba di Roma_, which I will tell you
does _not_ mean Italian robes--you might think so; it means things about
Rome. I will also tell you, in case that your Italian does not go so far,
that when I say that the Storys live in the third _piano_. I do not mean
an upright or a grand--_piano_ is the Italian for story.
Madame Minghetti--the wife of the famous statesman--receives every Sunday
twilight. Rome flocks there to hear music and to admire the artistic
manner in which the rooms are arranged; flirtations are rife in the twilit
corners, in which the salon abounds. As Madame Minghetti is very musical
and appreciative, all the people one meets there pretend to be musical and
appreciative, and do not talk or flirt during the music; so when I sing
"Medjé" in the growing crepuscule I feel in perfect sympathy with my
audience. Tosti and I alternate at the piano when there is nothing better.
If no one else enjoys us, we enjoy each other.
I have always wanted very much to see the famous Garibaldi, and knowing he
was in Rome I was determined to get a glimpse of him. But how could it be
done? I had been told that he was almost unapproachable, and that he
disliked strangers above all.
However, where there is a will there seems to come a way; at any rate,
there did come one, and this is how it came:
At dinner at the French Embassy J sat next to Prince Odescalchi, and told
him of my desire to see Garibaldi. He said: "Perhaps I can manage it for
you. I have a friend who knows a friend of Garibaldi, and it might be
arranged through him."
"Then," I said, "your friend who is a friend of Garibaldi's will let you
know, and as you are a friend of my friend you will let _her_ know,
and she will let _me_ know."
"It sounds very complicated," he answered, laughing, "and is perhaps
impossible; but we will do our best."
No more than two days after this dinner there came a message from the
Prince to say that, if Mrs. Haseltine and I would drive out to Garibaldi's
villa, the friend and the friend of the friend would be there to meet us
and present us. This we did, and found the two gentlemen awaiting us at
the gate. I felt my heart beat a little faster at the thought of seeing
the great hero.
Garibaldi was sitting in his garden, in a big, easy, wicker chair, and
looked rather grumpy, I thought (probably he was annoyed at being
disturbed). But he apparently made up his mind to accept the inevitable,
and, rising, came toward us, and on our being presented stretched out a
welcoming hand.
He had on a rather soiled cape, and a _foulard,_ the worse for wear,
around his neck, where the historical red shirt was visible. His head,
with its long hair, was covered with a velvet _calotte._ He looked
more like an invalid basking in the sun with a shawl over his legs than he
did like the hero of my imagination, and the only time he did look at all
military was when he turned sharply to his parrot, who kept up an
incessant chattering, and said, in a voice full of command, "Taci!" which
the parrot did not in the least seem to mind (I hope Garibaldi's soldiers
obeyed him better).
Garibaldi apologized for the parrot's bad manners by saying, "He is very
unruly, but he talks well"; and added, with a rusty smile, "Better than
his master."
"I don't agree with you," I said. "I can understand you, whereas I can't
even tell what language he is speaking."
"He comes from Brazil, and was given to me by a lady."
"Does he only speak Brazilian?" I asked.
"Oh no, he can speak a little Italian; he can say 'Io t'amo' and 'Caro
mio'."
"That shows how well the lady educated him. Will he not say 'Io t'amo' for
me? I should so love to hear him."
But, in spite of tender pleadings, the parrot refused to do anything but
scream in his native tongue.
Garibaldi talked Italian in a soft voice with his friend and French to us.
He asked a few questions as to our nationality, and made some other
commonplace remarks. When I told him I was an American he seemed to unbend
a little, and said, "I like the Americans; they are an honorable, just,
and intelligent people."
He must have read admiration in my eyes, for he "laid himself out" (so his
friend said) to be amiable. Amiability toward strangers was evidently not
his customary attitude.
He went so far as to give me his photograph, and wrote "Miss Moulton" on
it with a hand far from clean; but it was the hand of a brave man, and I
liked it all the better for being dirty. It seemed somehow to belong to a
hero. I think that I would have been disappointed if he had had clean
hands and well-trimmed finger-nails. On our taking leave of him he
conjured up a wan smile and said, very pleasantly, giving us his ink-
stained hand, "A rivederci."
[Illustration: GIUSEPPE GARIBALDI]
I wondered if he really meant that he wanted to see us again; I doubt it,
and did not take his remark seriously. On the contrary, I had the feeling
that he was more than indifferent to the pleasure our visit had given him.
When we were driving back to Rome the horses took fright and began running
away. They careered like wildfire through the gates of the Porta del
Popolo, and bumped into a cart drawn by oxen and overloaded with wine-
casks. Fortunately one of the horses fell down, and we came to a
standstill. The coachman got down from the box and discovered that one of
the wheels was twisted, the pole broken, and other damage done. We were
obliged to leave the carriage and walk down the Corso to find a cab.
Just as we were getting into one we saw on the opposite side of the street
a man who, while he was cleaning the windows in the third story of a
house, lost his balance and fell into the street.
We dreaded to know what had happened, and avoided the crowd which quickly
collected, thus shutting out whatever had happened from our view. We
hurried home, trembling from our different emotions.
The next morning I awoke from my sleep, having had a most vivid dream. I
thought I was in a shop, and the man serving me said, "If you take any
numbers in the next lottery, take numbers 2, 18, and 9." This was
extraordinary, and I immediately told the family about it: 2, 18, 9 (three
numbers meant a _terno_, in other words, a _fortune_). Mr. H---- said,
"Let us look out these numbers in the _Libro di Sogni_ (the Book of
Dreams)," and sent out to buy the book. Imagine our feelings! Number 2
meant _caduta d'una finestra_ (fall from a window); number 18 meant _morte
subito_ (sudden death), and number 9 meant _ospedale_ (hospital).
Just what had happened; the man had fallen from the window and had been
carried dead to the hospital!
Perhaps you don't know what a tremendous part the lottery plays in Italy;
it is to an Italian what sausages and beer are to a German. An Italian
will spend his last _soldo_ to buy a ticket. He simply cannot live
without it. The numbers are drawn every Saturday morning at twelve
o'clock, and are instantly exposed in all the tobacco-shops in the town.
An hour after, whether lucky or unlucky, the Italian buys a new ticket for
the following week, and lives on hope and dreams until the next Saturday;
and when any event happens or any dream comes to him he searches in the
dream-book for a number corresponding to them, and he is off like
lightning to buy a ticket. I was told that the Marquis Rudini, on hearing
that his mother had met her death in a railroad accident, sought in the
dream-book for the number attached to "railroad accident," and bought a
ticket before going to get her remains.
A winning _terno_ brings its lucky owner I don't know exactly how much--
but I know it is something enormous.
Well, this would be a _terno_ worth having. My dream, coming as it did
straight from the blue, must be infallibility itself, and we felt
perfectly sure that the three magical numbers would bring a fortune for
every one of us, and we all sent out and bought tickets with all the money
we could spare.
This was on Thursday, and we should have to wait two whole days before we
became the roaring millionaires we certainly were going to be, and we
strutted about thinking what presents we would make, what jewels we would
buy; in fact, how we would use our fortunes! We sat up late at night
discussing the wisest and best way to invest our money, and I could not
sleep for fear of a _contre-coup_ in the shape of another dream. For
instance, if I should dream of a cat miauling on a roof, it would mean
disappointment. It would never do to give fate a chance like that!
Imagine with what feverish excitement we awoke on that Saturday, and how
we watched the numbers, gazing from the carriage-windows, at the tobacco-
shop! Well, not one of those numbers came out! We drove home in silence,
with our feathers all drooping. However, we had had the sensation of being
millionaires for those two days (ecstatic but short!), and felt that we
had been defrauded by an unjust and cruel fate.
Unsympathetic Mr. Marshal said, mockingly: "How could you expect anything
else, when you go on excursions with the Marquis Maurriti [that was the
name of Garibaldi's friend]? You might have known that you would come to
grief."
"Unfeeling man! Why should we come to grief?" we cried with impatience.
"Because, did you not know that he has the _mal'occhio_ [the evil eye]? I
thought every one knew it," said he, making signs with his fingers to
counteract the effect of the devil and all his works. We said indignantly,
"If every one knows it, why were we not told?" Our tormentor continued;
"There is no doubt about it, and nothing can better prove that people are
afraid of him than that when, the other evening, he gave a _soirée_ and
invited all Rome, only half a dozen people out of some five hundred
ventured to go. The mountains of sandwiches, the cart-loads of cakes, the
seas of lemonade, set forth on the supper-table, were attacked only by the
courageous few."
"How dreadful to have such a thing said about you! Who can prove that he
or any one else has got the evil eye?"
"Sometimes there is no foundation for the report; perhaps some one, out of
spite or jealousy, spreads the rumor, and there you are."
"Does it not need more than a rumor?" I asked.
"Not much; but we must not talk about him, or something dreadful will
happen to us."
"Do you also believe in such rank nonsense?" I asked.
"Of course I do!" Mr. Marshal replied. "You can see for yourself. If you
had not gone with him your horses would not have run away, and you would
surely have got your million."
"Well, we have escaped death and destruction and the million; perhaps we
ought to be thankful. But in his case I would go and shut myself up in a
monastery and have done with it."
"No monastery would take him. No brotherhood would brother _him_."
"You can't make me believe in the evil eye. Neither shall I ever believe
in dreams again."
You will hardly believe how many acquaintances I have made here. I think I
know all Rome, from the Quirinal and the Vatican down. The Haseltines know
nearly every one, and whom they don't know I _do_.
We were invited to see the Colosseum and the Forum illuminations, and were
asked to go to the Villino, which stands in the gardens of the Palace of
the Caesars, just over the Forum.
That there would be a very select company we had been told; but we did not
expect to see King Victor Emanuel, Prince Umberto, and Princess
Margherita, who, with their numerous suites and many invited guests, quite
filled the small rooms of the Villino. I was presented to them all.
I found the Princess perfectly bewitching and charming beyond words; the
Prince was very amiable, and the King royally indifferent and visibly
bored. That sums up my impressions.
At the risk of committing _lèse majesté_, I must say that the King is
more than plain. He has the most enormous mustaches, wide-open eyes, and a
very gruff, military voice, speaking little, but staring much. The Prince,
whom I had seen in Paris during the Exposition, talked mostly about Paris
and of his admiration of the Emperor and Empress. The Princess was
fascinating, and captivated me on the spot by her affability and her
natural and sweet manner.
The Colosseum looked rather theatrical in the glare of the red and green
Bengal lights, and I think it lost a great deal of its dignity and
grandeur by this cheap method of illumination.
I met there a Spanish gentleman whom I used to know in Paris years ago. He
was at that time the Marquis de Lema, a middle-aged beau, who was always
ready to fill any gap in society where a noble marquis was needed.
He began life, strange to say, as a journalist, and as such made himself
so useful to the ex-King of Naples that the King, to reward him, hired the
famous Farnesina Palace for ninety-nine years. Here the former Marquis,
who is now Duke di Ripalda, lives very much aggrandized as a descendant of
the Cid, glorying in his ancestorship.
He was very glad to see me again, he said, and to prove it came often to
dine with us.
One day he asked Mrs. Lawrence, Miss Chapman, and myself to take tea with
him in the romantic garden of the Farnesina. Mrs. Lawrence said it was
like a dream, walking under the orange-trees and looking down on the old
Tiber, which makes a sudden turn at the bottom of the broad terrace.
Her dream came suddenly to an end when she saw the stale cakes and the
weak and watery tea and oily chocolate which, out of politeness, we felt
obliged to swallow; and the nightmare set in when she saw his apartment on
the first floor, furnished by himself with his own individual taste, which
was simply awful. But who cares for the mother-of-pearl inlaid furniture
covered with hideous modern blue brocade and the multicolored carpets in
which his coat of arms were woven, when one can look at his Sodomas and
Correggios and Raphaels? His coat of arms, which is a sword with "Si, si,
no, no," is displayed everywhere throughout the palace.
The "_cid-evant_" Marquis told us that the Cid had given the sword to
one of his ancestors, and remarked that it signified that his forefathers
had very decided characters, and that it was either yes or no with them. I
thought it might work the other way; it might just as well mean that the
ancestors did not know their own minds, and that first it was _yes_ and
then it was _no_ with them. The Duke, in a truly grandiose manner, lays no
restriction on the public, but throws his whole palace open every first
and fifteenth of the month, and allows people to roam at their pleasure
through all the rooms; they can even sit on the blue brocade furniture if
they like, and there is no officious guide ordering people about with
their, "This way, Madame," or "Don't sit down," "Don't walk on the
carpet," or "Don't spit on the floor."
On the ground floor are the celebrated frescoes of "Psyche," painted by
Raphael, and in the large gallery there is a little design on the walls to
which the Duke called our attention, saying it was Michelangelo's
visiting-card, and told us that Michelangelo came one day, and, finding
Raphael absent, took up his palette and painted this little picture, which
still remains on the walls, framed and with a glass over it.
Mrs. Lawrence told us of a new acquaintance she had made, a Baron
Montenaro, who said he was the last (the very last) of the Rienzis, a
descendant of Cola di. The last tribune left! "Is it not romantic?" cried
Mrs. Lawrence, and was all eyes and ears. But prosaic Duke di Ripalda
said, "How can he say he is the last of the Rienzis, when he has a married
brother who has prospects of a small tribune of his own?"