in crimson and black velvet robes, with large square velvet hats to
match, and thick gold chains about their necks, went chattering by; they
could not be silent! Siena sent a dozen pretty pages in
fifteenth-century dress: puffed satin doublets and jerkins, long silk
hose, and golden lovelocks on their shoulders. The gondoliers of Venice
(famous loyalists) were a fine group; two of the tallest carried between
them an enormous wreath of laurel, the gift of their guild.
There was a sudden stir in the crowd; then a deep sigh, as a gun
carriage drawn by two lean artillery horses came in sight, driven by a
grizzled gunner, the coffin strapped behind in the place of the gun. An
officer carrying King Umberto’s sword walked before, another followed,
bearing on a cushion the iron crown of Savoy; an orderly led his
favorite horse, the saddle draped in crape, the empty boots turned
backwards in the stirrups. King Victor followed close behind the coffin
on foot, with the Princes of Savoy, the Russian Grand Duke Alexis, the
Duke of Argyle, and other special envoys and guests of honor; among them
were Lord Currie, Mr. Iddings, and Colonel Needham, looking like a
pale-brown ghost.
Just as the gun carriage had passed, at a sudden unexplained noise--I
believe it was merely the knocking over of a chair--the panic-stricken
crowd surged into the street, broke up the procession, and nearly swept
King Victor off his feet.
There was a moment of sickening suspense; the gun carriage halted; the
King drew his sword, his kinsmen pressed close about him as if to
protect him. Then in the opposite balcony a tall handsome woman dressed
in mourning rose to her feet, and leaning well over the balcony waved
her handkerchief with a majestic gesture that quelled the panic. The
crowd understood the signal to mean “No danger!” The women in the
neighboring windows began to clap their hands. Meanwhile the gun
carriage waited, the young King stood at bay, startled, but ready for
whatever might happen. At the clapping of hands, the groans, the cries
of “Anarchists!” “A bomb!” “Traitors!” ceased, the insensate pushing and
jostling stopped, and before one could believe it possible order was
restored, and the procession took up its line of march. I never saw a
finer example of one individual of nerve and presence of mind
controlling the blind panic of a crowd.
Late, late in the procession marched a small band of old Garibaldians.
We recognized our friend from Nemi hobbling among them.
“They should not have been put off at the end of the procession, along
with the tailors and shoemakers of Rome. If it had not been for them
there would be no United Kingdom of Italy to-day,” J. said.
“Policy, my friend, policy!” said Patsy, his eyes a little dim at the
sight of the faded red shirts and the broken men who wore them.
“Nobody,” Patsy confessed, “feels the charm of gold lace more than I,
but did you notice how well the plain black coat of the American Chargé
d’Affaires looked among all those glittering liveries of kings? The
sight of it made me feel rather proud of being an American citizen!”
We waited in our balcony to see the return to the palace. Patsy, who
went to the Pantheon, where the funeral services were held, reported
them as admirably short and impressive.
“Throughout the ceremony,” he said, “Queen Margaret was given the place
of honor. At the end, just as they were about to leave the church, she
made a deep courtesy to her son, and stood back while the young King and
his wife went out before her. Think what that means! Queen Margaret,
from her fifteenth year the first lady in the land, entered the church
Queen of Italy and left it Queen Dowager. With that courtesy she stepped
from the first to the second place in the kingdom.”
“As long as she lives she will be first in every true Italian heart!”
“There’s the rub! She should not be.”
“That may be true; she will be all the same!”
There was a sudden sound of bugles, the clatter of horses’ feet. The
King’s guard, picked men, every one of them over six feet tall, came
dashing up the street to the crisp music of the royal march. In their
midst we caught a glimpse of King Victor, in a closed carriage, on his
way to take possession of the Quirinal Palace.
The King is dead. Long live the King!
August 14.
It is written that our last days in Rome shall not hang heavy on our
hands; emotion follows emotion! Last evening J. went to the station to
see Patsy off on the special train provided for Queen Elena’s sister
(married to the Russian Grand Duke) and the other royal and
distinguished personages who came to the funeral. They had all stayed on
to hear King Victor’s maiden speech to his Parliament--which, by the
way, was capital; he spoke of his mother in a manner that went to the
hearts of all good sons and daughters. Patsy told us, with the young
newspaper man’s air of supreme knowledge, that he had it on the best
authority that the King wrote his own speech. I believe this, more from
internal than external evidence; it rings true, not like an address
prepared by a minister for a monarch to deliver.
Patsy being gone, we thought to set about closing up our affairs in
earnest, when this morning arrives a note written on the back of an old
envelope in his hand.
“Send me some soup! I can’t stand this hospital diet. I am a bit shaken
up by the collision at Castel Giubileo last night. Nothing serious in my
condition, except the appetite.”
The scrawl was dated from the hospital of San Giacomo, where Filomena’s
brother has been a patient for a month past. I packed a basket with
provisions and drove directly to the hospital, taking Filomena with me.
We stopped on our way to see Dr. Massimo, who gave us a letter of
introduction to the house surgeon. The porter of the hospital took in my
card and note of introduction while we waited in the lodge. As we got
out of the cab Filomena behaved rather strangely; she asked the _gobbo_,
our cabman, to bring in the basket, and when he set it down on the not
too clean pavement, she let it remain where he put it.
“Please to take the basket off the pavement,” I said.
“Excuse me, Signora, it will be better to wait till the porter returns
and ask him either to carry the basket himself or to send another with
it. These people are very suspicious; they might think that _I_ was
trying to smuggle something into the hospital. The idea is, of course,
ridiculous, but these hospital employés are strangely suspicious
people.”
At that moment an enormous red-haired woman wearing a checked apron came
towards us; she spoke pleasantly to Filomena. “Well, my girl, I hear
that your brother is getting better fast. Ah! he has a good sister.” As
she spoke the giantess enveloped Filomena in a capacious embrace.
Beginning at the girl’s slender throat she passed her great arms and
hands down her body to the very feet, feeling her all over, pressing the
light cotton skirts so close about her that she looked like a Tanagra
figurine. Though Filomena endured the searching embrace with composure,
I saw her glance at me, and there is no denying that she turned scarlet.
“Nothing contraband this morning, eh?” said the good-natured giantess.
“This is my mistress,” Filomena interposed, anxious to shield herself
under my ægis. “She has brought some refreshments to a gentleman who was
hurt in the railroad accident last night. She has a letter from Dr.
Massimo.”
The giantess bowed to me politely. “There will be no difficulty, that
will arrange itself,” she said. “Won’t you be seated, Madam, till the
doctor comes? It is against the rule to allow any provisions to pass
without a special permission from the house physician. This pretty one
does not see the use of that rule, do you, my dear?”
If looks could kill, the giantess would have died, slain by the rage in
Filomena’s beautiful eyes.
I found Patsy, smelling horribly of carbolic acid, in a small iron bed,
a chart of his injuries--slight but numerous--fixed at the head of the
cot. His powers of speech had not been impaired.
“I knew you would come. Have you brought the soup, and some decent wine?
There’s the jolliest sister who takes care of me--that tall one with the
red cheeks--isn’t she a corker? She will heat the broth and cool the
wine.”
I asked the sister how long she would be obliged to keep her troublesome
patient. She said, “Only a few days; he might possibly be moved
to-morrow.” That was a hint for us to take him home, which I offered to
do. Patsy would not hear of this.
“Think of the copy I am getting,” he said. “I know more about the
Italian medical profession, nurses, and hospitals than I could have
learned in a year’s study outside. I have notes for three articles
already.”
“What are your views?”
“The doctors are clever fellows, the nurses angels, the hospital one
hundred years behind the times.”
When he had finished his soup Patsy told me about the accident.
“At Castel Giubileo, about eight miles out from Rome, another train ran
into ours and the two telescoped. Fortunately I was in the last of the
wrecked carriages--that was bad enough. I can’t talk about the other
people yet, the newspapers will give you all the dreadful details. In
our carriage there was only a fat deputy, the Honorable Somebody, and
myself. After the crash I found that I was pinned to the floor by a beam
and could not stir hand or foot. Presently a guard came along; he said
we were in no danger, and that we must lie still till they could dig us
out. I fancy I fainted or went to sleep then, for quite suddenly it was
dawn, and the deputy was crying out that he was dying and should never
see his Amelia again. Then I saw a man come clambering over the wrecked
smoking ruins of the cars towards us. Somehow he managed to reach down
through the débris and get the deputy by the hand.
“‘Courage, courage, _Onorevole_, thou art saved!’ he said in the
jolliest voice. A little later we heard his voice again, giving orders
to the men he had brought to dig us out; we were buried deep under the
splintered car ahead of us. As soon as I found myself in the blessed
cool air, I looked to see what sort of man had saved me from that pit of
hell; it was the King.”
“The King? are you sure?”
“Oh, you will find it all in the papers if you don’t believe me. The
Grand Duchess sent one of her suite directly to the palace to tell her
sister, Queen Elena, that she was not hurt, before she should hear of
the accident from any other source.
“The messenger waked the King and Queen--it was one o’clock in the
morning, they were asleep--told them what had happened and that a relief
train was being made up. Those young people dressed, and ran all the way
from the Quirinal to the railroad station--it must be close on a
mile--hoping to catch the relief train; they were too late; it had
already gone when they arrived. Outside the station they took the first
cab they met, and started to drive the eight miles to Castel Giubileo.
At the Porta Salaria the cab was overtaken by one of the royal carriages
from the Quirinal stables, which brought them the rest of the way. As
the Deputy and I were in the last of the wrecked carriages, we were less
hurt than anybody else, I fancy; we certainly were the last attended to;
and I saw the dreadful business through. The Queen worked over the
wounded women, trotting from one to the other, doing everything she
could to make them comfortable. At nine o’clock in the morning the Mayor
of Rome and some other old fogies came lumbering up in a landeau. They
met the King, black with smoke and grime, just starting to drive back to
town.”
“A man of action, like his father and grandfather before him,” I said.
“A chip of the old block,” cried Patsy. “She is admirable; if ever I saw
a pair of lovers, it is those two--that must be the best of it all.”
The tall sister evidently thought that Patsy was talking too much, so I
took my leave. If I had stayed ten minutes I too should have seen the
young King and Queen as Filomena saw them. At three o’clock they visited
the wounded at San Giacomo’s.
Filomena told me about it with flashing eyes.
“Ah, Signora, it is a pity you were in such a hurry. While I was talking
with my brother, who should come into the ward but the King and Queen!
They spoke to all the people who had been hurt in the accident. The
Queen is tall--oh, very tall! with great dark eyes and such hair, twice
as much as I have. I wish you had seen her dress, Signora, it was of
white silk and lace, and her hat! It was in the last fashion, and quite
the prettiest hat I ever saw. When the sick people saw who had come to
visit them, what do you think they did? In spite of the doctors and the
sisters, those patients sat up in their beds and cheered and clapped
their hands. I think they were perfectly right to do so; even the very
sick must have been made better by the sight of those royal spouses, and
the sound of the _evvivas_!”
August 31.
Our last day in Rome! The trunks were sent to the station this morning;
they have been forwarded direct to Genoa, where we take ship for home on
the 10th of September. We intend making a slight detour, going by way of
Oberammergau (where our seats and lodgings are engaged) to see the
Passion Play. The few pieces of furniture that remain--our beds, some
chairs, the dinner table and service--will be taken away to-morrow
morning. We consider it quite a feat to break up housekeeping after
nearly seven years in the Palazzo Rusticucci, and to sleep the last
night in Rome under our own roof. Very busy all day saying good-by. In
the morning Ignazio carried away the last load of our beloved plants.
Before he came I gathered all the flowers, and took an armful of roses,
oleanders, and jessamine to the cemetery in memory of the dear one who
made this Eternal City a second home to me--who shall say to how many
others?
Sora Giulia came in just after the trunks had gone, with some ravishing
old lace and embroidery. She is genuinely sorry we are going; we have
been good customers. As to Nena, tough old Spartan, she is nearer
weeping than she likes.
Patsy, discharged from the hospital this morning, came in to report
himself. He had talked so much with nurses, doctors, and patients, been
so busy getting his notes together, that a fever set in which kept him
at San Giacomo’s ten days after his bruises were healed. He confesses
that it was his own fault! Patsy stayed on to dine, so we had a little
feast, and, thanks to him, were able to make merry to the last--just
what I wished!
“Do you know,” Patsy said, “that you made a great mistake in the name of
your palace? It has always been known to the initiated as the Palazzo
Accoramboni. Whoever told you the name was Rusticucci was no better than
a fool.”
“He was a very wise man. To-morrow, when we shall have gone, the palace
will return to its old name; consequently we shall be the only people
who have ever lived in the Palazzo Rusticucci!” Don’t you think my
argument a good one?
After Patsy left we took our last look at the terrace. It was full moon,
as on that first night; the piazza, the fountains, the colonnade, the
obelisk were all there, just as we found them. The terrace, which J.
made as fragrant and lovely for me as the hanging gardens of Babylon, is
again as bare as my hand. Even the red rose of the monsignore which we
found here has been sent with other favorite flowers to a friend. I do
not think that black-a-vised French priest, the head of the fraternity,
would have cared for it, and it was the beginning of all our joy! In
the farthest corner of the terrace I saw a small dark object moving
slowly across the floor.
“It is Jeremy Bentham!” said J. We had almost forgotten our poor
tortoise, the least demonstrative of all our pets. We shall leave him
and the nightingale at the Spanish Academy to-morrow before going to the
station. The bells of St. Peter’s rang twelve before we came down. We
looked at all the familiar points, Soracte, Monte Cavo, the Castle of
Sant’ Angelo, and last and longest at St. Peter’s before we said
“_Addio, Roma Beata!_”
This is my last letter from Rome. There are many more things I want to
say to you, but I must leave you and say good-night. Pan the nightingale
wants to go to sleep, and is piping piteous appeals to me to go away and
leave him at peace in the pleasant darkness. Another little pipe.
Good-night!
FOOTNOTES:
[1] In the stillness of the morning at dawn, in the distance, and then
nearer to the residence--this has a very characteristic effect.
[2] In the crowd of the day, in the tumult of carriages and carts, this
minor air is very noticeable.
[3] Cardinal Hohenlohe, since dead, left what remained of his fortune
to the son of the man who in this way was the means of saving his life.
At the sale of the cardinal’s effects Monsignor O’Connell, of the
American College, bought the grand piano on which Liszt has so often
played.