gloriously. What a thrill his voice has! We feed him on bullock’s heart.
Jeremy Bentham, the tortoise, knew me; he never was so friendly before;
he now snaps fresh lettuce-leaves out of my hand without trying to nip
my fingers. Our great Thomas cat threatened Pan, and my life was a
constant struggle to keep them apart, so I have sent Pan to the studio,
where J. has a falcon and two pigeons. He threatens to buy a jackdaw,
and was with difficulty restrained from purchasing a baby fox. It was
such an engaging little animal that I confess to have wanted it myself.
The happy family at the studio is cared for by Vincenzo, a young
painter, a scholar of J.’s. In the old days, when J. was a pupil of
Villegas, Vincenzo was the studio boy who washed their brushes. J.
thinks he has some talent and has given him a whole floor in his great
barrack of a studio.
Pompilia and Filomena had swept and garnished the house with flowers in
honor of our return. All our friends and our small world of hangers-on
(the ancient Romans called them clients) welcomed us kindly, with the
single exception of the porter.
Porters seem to be natural enemies, like mothers-in-law. We all know
shining exceptions, but the rule commonly holds good of both. None of
our friends are on speaking terms with their porters. Our old porter was
dreadful--dirty, drunk, disreputable. At first the new one seemed a
treasure. J. had recommended him for the place chiefly on account of his
lovely tenor voice. The man--we call him Ercole “because it is his
name”--used to sit at work (he is a mender of leather) on the sidewalk
opposite the studio singing airs from the latest operas, Bohême,
Pagliacci, Iris, but singing them like an artist. It helped J., shut up
at his work in the big studio, to hear him, and in a reckless moment he
spoke to Signor Mazzocchi about the singing saddler. Behold him
installed with his big, white-haired wife, Maria, his little daughter,
Lucrezia, brown and bonnie, in a grim room without light or air (you
would not put a cat in such a hole)--still, an improvement on their
former quarters. The landlord is responsible for the porter’s wages. We
give him a _mancia_ of ten francs a month, extras for extra service,
and a present at Christmas and at Easter. His duty towards us is to
receive our cards and letters and bring them up the three long flights
of stairs. Our mail grew staler and staler. The Paris New York _Herald_
(read by all Americans in Europe), instead of being served with
breakfast, arrived barely in time for luncheon. J. had built on the
first landing a little open stall, light and airy, where Ercole could
stitch his old saddles and harnesses and sing his jolly songs. Alas and
alas! there is a wine-shop opposite the palace, there is a _trattoria_
on the ground floor next the baker’s; both proprietors are generous and
soft-hearted. Somehow the fat wife, the slim daughter, are fed, but
Ercole stitches no longer, sings no more. Sober and poor, a rival to
Pan. Rich and drunk, he is sourly silent. It is a dangerous thing to
play at being providence! The _postino_ now brings up the mail and
delivers it at our door, _ultimo piano_ (top floor).
February, 1896.
Last week I took Isabel to a ball at the Princess del Drago’s. We have
kept Ercole up at night a good deal lately, so I took the key of the
big _portone_ and told him that he need not wait for us. Isabel’s maid,
Franceline, was to sit up and open the old green door of our apartment
the key of which weighs two pounds and will not go into my pocket. We
wore our very best gowns and trinkets, and Isabel had a pretty tinsel
ribbon in her hair which sparkled like diamonds. It was a great dance;
the drive home at three in the morning under a full silver moon, past
Hilda’s tower, the fountain of the Triton, and the hospital of Santo
Spirito was as far as I was concerned not the least of the fun. We met a
few empty cabs returning to their stables, and just as we entered the
Borgo Nuovo we passed a pair of grave _carabinieri_ (military police)
pacing their beat, wrapped in long black cloaks, their three-cornered
hats drawn over their eyes. Our good coachman Cesare opened the
_portone_, found and lighted the candle left on the lower step, as had
been arranged, and bade us good-night. We picked up our skirts and went
up the two easy flights chattering about the party. At the second
landing we stopped beside the Etruscan ladies to rest before breasting
the third short, steep flight. I rang softly, not to disturb the
sleepers, and waited. I rang loudly, and waited. Through the door came
a gentle, familiar murmur. Then the cracked bell rang out a tocsin that
should have roused the whole palace; still no sound from within save
that rhythmical murmur; we beat and kicked upon the door till hands and
feet were tired; we called, bellowed, screamed, shrieked for a matter of
five minutes, until the terrified Franceline, guilty yet denying sleep,
threw open the door. I was just dropping off into dreamland when I heard
the _portone_ shut heavily. As the stairway belongs exclusively to us, I
sat up and listened. There was a hubbub on the stairs. I heard Ercole’s
voice protesting, calling upon the Trinity first as a whole, then
severally, upon all the saints, last and loudest upon the Madonna, to
witness his innocence. A stern, accusing voice drowned Ercole’s. I threw
on a wrapper, ran to the door, and listened.
“Where are they, then? Make me to see them, those ladies, all festive
with jewels. Did we not ourselves behold them enter this _portone_,
laughing and talking gaily? this _portone_, brute beast, of which one
knows that thou, and thou only, hast the key. Did we not hear, we out in
the street, feminine yells horrible, to make one tremble, and thou
sayest thou heardst nothing? Animal, where are they, then? What have
you done with them, those ladies so bright, so beautiful? Robbed,
murdered, dying, perhaps--possibly dead.”
“By the mass, by Peter and Paul, I was asleep in my bed at ten o’clock.
Ask Maria, ask Lucrezia, ask the _padrone_ of the wine-shop, who turned
me out at that hour. I knew nothing till you came, _illustrissimi_, you
tore me from my bed. What do I know of the ladies? I saw them go at
quarter before eleven with Cesare in a coupé. Is it sensible to ask me?
Ask that fat pig, Cesare. If they are dead, he is responsible.”
“Might it not be well to ring the bell and ask the signore?” said a
third voice, that of the elder _carabiniere_. Explanations, apologies,
thanks, “_e buona notte_!”
February 4, 1897.
The ball at the embassy last night (given by Mr. MacVeagh, the retiring
American Ambassador, for the King and Queen) went off very well. Her
Majesty looked charming and danced the quadrille with great spirit. Some
of the dancers forgot the figures, she put them all straight, and was so
winning, so fascinating that the Americans were enthusiastic about her.
The King, who does not dance, seemed bored. He is first and above all
else a soldier, a man of action. I watched him as he stood pulling his
big mustachios, talking to an ancient ambassadress; by his expression it
was easy to see he would be glad when it was over and time to go home.
He was in uniform as usual, carrying his white-plumed helmet under his
arm. His honest face had that puzzled look it so often wears; no wonder!
Of all the monarchs in the world, his riddles are the hardest to read.
The Queen wore a superb dress of pale blue satin with point lace and her
famous pearls. The King gave her a string of pearls on each anniversary
of their marriage, it is said, till at their silver wedding she
protested she could not bear the weight of another rope. The finest
jewels after the royal pearls were Mrs. Potter Palmer’s. She wore the
crown of pearls and diamonds I remember her wearing at her reception for
the Spanish Infanta Eulalia at the time of the World’s Fair at Chicago.
The supper was served in an immense room, the handsomest in the
apartment, which occupies the _piano nobile_ of the Palazzo Ludovisi.
Nothing could be better arranged for entertaining in the grand manner
than the present American Embassy. You enter an enormous _anticamera_,
where the servants take your wraps, pass on through a second
waiting-room into a long corridor which runs the whole length of the
palace. The state rooms all lead from this corridor; they have
communicating doors, so that standing in the doorway of the supper-room
one looks through the two drawing-rooms to the ballroom, where on a
stage the musicians are seated. The diplomats all wore court dress. A
ball where the men as well as the women are splendid is naturally far
more brilliant than one of our balls, where the girls monopolize the
finery. The most striking figure there was the military attaché of the
Russian embassy. He wore the dress of a Cossack colonel, cartridge belt,
jewelled weapons, and all, and--as if to heighten the warlike look--a
black patch over one eye. The tender-hearted regarded him with sympathy:
“poor man, in what dreadful encounter with savage tribesmen had he lost
the missing eye?” Worse luck yet! It was knocked out by the point of an
umbrella carelessly handled by a lady in getting out of the travelling
compartment of a train!
I never saw such a crowd around a supper-table. Refreshments at most
entertainments here are simpler than would be believed at home. In this
the Italians are more civilized than the English or ourselves. The
supper last night was of the generous American order. The Romans seemed
to enjoy it and did not limit themselves to biscuits and lemonade. The
army officers in especial took kindly to the good things.
To-day I looked into St. Agostino and saw the beautiful miracle-working
Madonna. She is a lovely marble woman with a less lovely _bambino_. The
mother is literally covered with gems; she has strings upon strings of
pearls about her neck, her fingers are laden to the very tips with
rings; the child is hung with scores of watches. Both heads are deformed
with ugly crowns. The Madonna is by Jacopo Sansovino, a Florentine
sculptor of the fifteenth century. She is much adored and quite
adorable. She is very rich, has a good income of her own from the
various legacies she has received. On the pedestal below her silver
foot--the marble one was long since kissed out of existence--an
inscription states that “on the assurance of Pius the Seventh an
indulgence of two hundred days will be granted to whoever shall devoutly
touch the foot of this holy image and recite an _ave_.”
[Illustration: _The Madonna of St. Agostino_
From a photograph]
I also went to see the _appartamento Borgia_, newly opened at the
Vatican. It contains one of the most splendid pieces of decoration I
have ever seen--three rooms painted by Pinturicchio; they have been
closed for twenty years, having been used as libraries; the walls were
covered with books. The Pope has gone to great expense to put them in
order, and has thrown them open to the public. Artistic Rome has gone
mad about them. They surpass everything in the way of decoration here
save the Sistine Chapel and the Stanze of Raphael.
June 29 and 30, 1897.
To-night the Feast of St. Peter is to be celebrated by a dinner-party on
the terrace. That old statue of Jupiter in the great church across the
way,--now held venerable as a portrait of St. Peter--is dressed in his
best vestments, his finest tiara, and wears his most sumptuous sapphire
ring on his stiff forefinger. As the whole Borgo is under the protection
of St. Peter, I always make a little feast on his day. There are many
sermons preached about him; I heard an excellent one in a neighboring
church. The object of the saints’ days is to keep alive the memory of
noble lives. Just as on Washington’s Birthday the old stories of Valley
Forge and Yorktown are recited year after year, so the story of Peter is
told on the 29th of June every year. I was surprised to hear Signor
Rodolfo Lanciani say he thought it possible St. Peter had actually been
in Rome, and that in his opinion the great church may cover his last
resting-place as well as perpetuate his name.
Ripe figs are supposed to be eaten first on St. John’s Day, the 24th of
June. Tradition says that the first plate of figs was always presented
on that day to Pope Pius the Ninth. Either figs are late this season or
Pompilia has been slow about finding them, for the purple figs which
were served with cold boiled ham for our luncheon to-day are the first
we have seen this season. Naturally there was no second course to such a
superlative first. The terrace dinner was a great success. The table was
set under the _pergola_ covered thick with the second crop of roses. We
hung _lucerne_ (brass lamps for burning olive oil) from the yellow canes
of the crossed bamboos and lighted the farther end of our airy
dining-room with colored lanterns. Among the guests were Monsignor
William O’Connell, director of the American College, a genial
Irish-American priest, and Dr. William Bull, physician to the American
Embassy, guide, philosopher, and friend of all wandering Americans. He
is beloved of artists, a collector of antiquities, a genial, not a
melancholy Dane, a wise physician, and one of the most picturesque
figures in our Roman world. The sun was still staining the sky when we
sat down. By the time old Nena brought the ices from the _trattoria_
below, the full yellow moon came up over the Sabine Hills, flooding
every corner with its yellow light. Below, in the baker’s shop, the
nightingale sang to the roses. Our best rose, _il Capitano Christi_, is
a very large, flat, pink rose, growing on a stiff stalk with long,
fierce thorns. It opens wide as a saucer, and is of the most rapturous,
tender color. It is grafted on an excellent commonplace red rose-tree, a
generous and prolific bloomer, which yields a brave harvest, the first
to blossom, the last to wither, always to be depended on if I want roses
in a hurry. The Captain gives a rare rose, never more than one at a
time, but I know that it is to the Captain’s rose that the baker’s
nightingale sings.
IV
A PRESENTATION TO LEO THE THIRTEENTH
PALAZZO RUSTICUCCI, November 20, 1897.
Our mother, comfortably established in the guest-room under the
protection of Apollo, already feels at home in Rome. In the morning she
sits on the terrace in a grand hooded chair we had made for her in that
haunt of basket-makers, the Vicolo dei Canestrari--the little street of
the basket-makers--are not the names of the Roman streets delightful?
After luncheon we drive on the Pincio when the band plays, in the Doria
or the Borghese Villa, or, best of all, on the Campagna. She shall have
enough out-of-doors this winter! For a hundred years English doctors
have sent elderly people to Rome, “where the effect of the air on the
heart’s action tends to increase longevity.” The old here are uncommonly
frisky. Mr. Greenough, an octogenarian, trots up our stairs as if he
were twenty. On stormy days the mother drives to
[Illustration: _The Pincian Gate and Wall of Rome_
From a photograph]
St. Peter’s and takes her walk inside the church. It is so vast that it
has a climate of its own, varying only ten degrees in temperature during
the entire year, consequently it is warm in winter and cool in summer.
In August I put on a wrap when I go over there; in January I take off my
furs! Socially as well as climatically Rome is an ideal place for the
old; that horrid topic, _age_, is properly ignored. I have seen a
gentleman of seventy-nine waltzing at a ball with a partner not twenty
years his junior. The example of the Pope--always an old man--may have
something to do with this admirable energy of the elders; the age of the
civilization probably counts for more.
Do not believe what the papers say about the Pope; he is likely to live
for years. Eighty-seven is the prime of life for pontiffs. Leo the
Thirteenth serves the Italian newspaper men and foreign correspondents
as the sea-serpent serves ours. When news is scarce, when the rich and
great are veiled from the public eye by reason of summer seclusion or
wandering, that blessed serpent, sailing into the sea of ink, saves the
situation. The reports of _Sua Santita’s_ failing health used to rouse
my sympathy; now they only make me angry, because they hurt his poor
old feelings. He once said, on reading an account of his approaching end
in a Roman paper, “Why do they wish me dead?”
Was not that pathetic? In spite of being White in my politics, I feel a
personal sympathy for the Pope. We are such near neighbors, I see the
windows of his private apartment from the terrace; we both look down
upon the piazza of St. Peter’s; we have the same surgeon (Dr. Bull took
me to consult Mazzoni about a bicycle ankle); I know several of his
chamberlains; we both are left behind when the hot weather drives the
_beau monde_ out of Rome for the summer: you see, we have much in
common; his not knowing it does not alter my feelings; it’s one-sided,
like a book friendship. I was in Rome when Pius the Ninth died and Leo
the Thirteenth was elected. I remember how handsome Pius looked lying in
state, with his foot in such a position that his red slipper (it had a
cross embroidered on it) could be kissed. I do not remember much about
the coronation ceremonies, but I have a very clear impression of my
presentation to Pope Leo in the winter of 1878, very soon after he
became Pope. The mother refused to go: those stubborn Protestant knees
would not bow down to Baal or to the Pope. Our generation takes things
differently, not half so picturesquely. We say, “An old man’s blessing
is a good thing to have, whether he be a lama from Thibet or a priest of
Rome.” Two other young American girls went with me; there were, all
told, perhaps twenty people presented that day. We wore black, with such
diamonds as our mothers would lend us, and Spanish mantillas. A few
minutes before the Pope entered a chamberlain made us all kneel; then
Leo, dressed in white, with a heavy gold chain around his neck, from
which hung a cross set with emeralds, made the tour of the room,
stopping to speak to every one. The chamberlain mentioned our names and
nationality, the Pope asked each of us to what church we belonged. My
place was next an emotional convert; he hardly noticed her, merely
giving her his blessing and passing on. He asked me where I came from,
said Boston was a famous city, inquired how long I had been in Rome,
wished me a pleasant journey, and a safe return to my people. He spoke
longest to a little Jewess who was at my left--on the principle, I
suppose, that we already have our friends, and should make friends of
our enemies. We kissed his ring--a large amethyst--as we had been told,
_not_ his hand. I am not sure whether it was Pope Leo or Pius the Ninth
who always asked strangers how long they had been in Rome. When the
answer indicated that the stay had been for days or weeks, he said in
parting “_Addio_,” when it had been months, “_Arriverderci_”--au
revoir,--“because if you have been here only a short time, you may not
return, but if you have been here for months, you are sure to come
back.” I have heard it told of both; it very likely dates back to
Gregory the Sixteenth. Stories are immortal in Rome, those from the
“Gesta Romanorum” being still current.
December 27, 1897.
Oh! the terrace, the terrace! with the white hyacinths ablow, little
starry bunches of narcissi, pansies, a rare rose, and the yellow gourds
of the passion-flower hanging down through the crossed bamboos of the
trellis. Our mother feels the fascination of the terrace life more and
more. Yesterday she asked me to buy her a small watering-can,--ours are
huge,--and to-day she helped water the plants and weed the tulips. I put
the pots up on the wall for her where she could easily reach them, and
she pulled out the tender weeds with her beautiful hands. Bulbs do not
thrive so well the second year as the first. The delirium of the
hyacinths is gone with that precious burst of youth. This season they
bloom soberly; no more passionate, lavish giving, they have left that
behind,--like some other flowers,--but they do their little, middle-aged
best. We had a merry Christmas. The weather was perfect: a gift, the
first and best of all, of a clear, bracing morning. “Give me health and
a day, and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous.” No emperor
being at hand, we went to St. Peter’s, walked up and down the side
aisles, had just a whiff of the high mass, Cardinal Rampolla
officiating, the Pope’s angel singing the soprano part phenomenally. His
voice has a peculiar soaring quality; it seems to scale the heights and
knock at the door of heaven.
We met Boston society, as we always do when we go to St. Peter’s,--an
old friend and his bride, and a pair of pleasant Beacon Street
neighbors.
February 11, 1898.
J. says “Rome is always festering (_festa_-ing).” Between saints’ days,
national holidays, and our own private celebrations there _are_ rather
too many festivities. It is a pretty custom they have here of
celebrating the feast of the patron saint rather than the birthday. The
embarrassing question, “How old?” is thus avoided. It is also
convenient. On the feast of Santa Lucia I am reminded to go and see
Lucia di Villegas and carry her a bunch of flowers. I am sure to find
Villino Villegas swept and garnished, the signora dressed in her best,
all smiles and sweetness. She has been to mass and is ready to receive
friends and relatives. Anglo-Saxons are fond of saying that the home
does not exist in Latin lands. This is not quite true. In Italy the home
is less a social centre and more a family stronghold than with us. An
outsider is admitted to it only as the last test of friendship. It has
still a touch of oriental feeling. It is the place where the women
belong, where they mostly stay; it is jealously guarded from
strangers--from strange men especially; “_chi va piano va sano!_”
Wednesday, the anniversary of our wedding-day, was one long frolic. At
nine we went up to our play-house and played with our flower dolls. In
the evening we had a little dinner of intimates. Filomena arranged a
large horseshoe in double violets and pansies between J.’s place and
mine at table “for good luck.” In the morning she brought me a basket of
fresh eggs from her people in the country and wished me “_cento di
questi giorni_ (a hundred of these days).” Even Pompilia, the cook, who
has been rather cross lately, gave us two paper fans. In the kitchen a
_fiascone_ of wine and a huge _panettone_ were on tap; everybody who
passed that way drank our health. After dinner we sat over the fire till
past midnight telling ghost stories or listening to J. C. (the Muse of
Via Gregoriana), who played divinely to us. It was a good day.
We do not have much music worth hearing in Rome, so we doubly enjoy what
the gods send us. Sgambati’s concert last week began with that adorable
overture to Fingal’s Cave. Cotogni, an old singer (sixty-eight is old to
sing in concerts), sang well with the remains of a glorious bass voice
which he handled like a delicate soprano. He is just back from St.
Petersburg, where he has been the director of the Conservatory for
twenty years. I heard him again at Mme. Patti’s concert. They sang “_la
ci darem la mano_” from “Don Giovanni,” which they had last sung
together in their early youth. The gallant manner in which the old
singer handed out the _diva_ was very nice. Mme. Patti is here on a
wedding-tour with her husband,--Baron Cedarstrom,--a young Swede
twenty-eight years old, who used to take care of her throat. She wore a
pretty lilac dress which smelt of Paris and the Rue de la Paix.