Mr. and Mme. Minghetti are old friends--that is, I have known her from
1866. Then she was Princess Camporeale, very handsome and captivating.
She is just as attractive now and holds Rome in her hand. Her _salon_
is the _salon_ where all fashionable Rome flocks. She has arranged it
in the most artistic manner. It is crowded with furniture, with cozy
corners and flirtatious nooks between _armoires_ and palm-trees.
Valuable old pictures and tapestries decorate the walls. The _salon_ is
two stories high and has an ornamental little winding staircase on
which an enormous stuffed peacock stands with outspread tail, as if
guarding things below. On her Sunday afternoons one is sure to hear
some good music. No one refuses, as it gives a person a certain
prestige to be heard there.
Mr. Minghetti, possessing the order of the Annunciata (the highest
decoration of Italy), is called "_Le cousin du Roi_." He is a great
personage. He has been Prime Minister and still plays a very
conspicuous part in politics. He has written many books on
constitutional law. He is tall, handsome, and altogether delightful.
The Storys still live in the third heaven of the Barberini Palace,
where on Fridays there is a steady procession of tea-thirsty English
and Americans who toil upward.
The two sons are what Mr. Story calls "promising." Waldo (the elder)
promises to rival his father as a sculptor. Julian promises to be a
great painter. His picture of Cardinal Howard, all in red against a red
background, is a fine study in color besides being an excellent
likeness.
The Haseltines are flourishing like green bay-trees. Their beautiful
apartment in the Altieri Palace, where his _atelier_ is, is filled with
his exquisite water-colors and paintings. Her brother, Mr. Marshall, is
staying with them. He is very amusing. Last evening he held the table
in a roar when he told of a recent experience.
At the Duchess Fiano's costume ball he had worn a costume of a
Mignon-Henri-II. He described it to us. A light-blue satin jacket, and
trunk-hose, slashed to exaggeration, with white satin puffs, a jaunty
velvet cap with a long feather, and white satin shoes turned up at the
ends.
Worth had made it and put a price on it almost equal to Marshall's
income, and just because it had cost so much and he had received a good
many compliments he thought it was his duty to have it and himself
photographed as a memento of his reckless extravagance before the
costume was consigned to oblivion. On the day of his appointment with
the artist he was dressed and ready in his costume. As it was a rainy
day, he provided himself with an umbrella and a pair of india-rubbers
big enough to go over the gondola-like shoes. He also carried a stuffed
falcon in his hand so that there should be no doubt as to what he was.
Unluckily, the horse fell down on the slippery _Corso_, and the
coachman insisted upon Marshall's getting out.
"You may imagine my feelings," he said, "at being obliged to show
myself in broad daylight in this get-up. A crowd of gaping idiots
gathered about me and made particularly sarcastic remarks. One said,
'_E il Re!_' ('It is the King'). Another screamed, '_Quante e bello i
piccolo_!' There was I stranded in the middle of the _Corso_, holding
an umbrella over my head in one hand and that ridiculous falcon in the
other, my feather dripping down my back; and when I looked down at blue
legs fast turning another color and my huge india-rubbers I realized
what a spectacle I was making of myself...."
We laughed till the tears rolled down our cheeks. He showed us the
photograph, and I must say that a less Mignon-Henri-II-like Mignon and
a more typical American face and figure could not be imagined. If Henri
II had caught sight of him with his thin legs, side-whiskers, and
eye-glasses he would have turned in his grave.
Dr. Nevin, our pastoral shepherd, has really done a great deal for the
American church here and ought to have a vote of thanks. He has
collected so much money that he has not only built the pretty church,
but has decorated it with Burne-Jones's tall angels and copies of the
mosaics from Ravenna. He has also built a comfortable rectory, which he
has filled with rare _bric-à-brac_. They say that no one is a better
match for the wily dealers in antiquities than the reverend gentleman,
and the pert little cabmen don't dare to try any of their tricks on
him.
He shows another side of his character when in the pulpit.
The mere sound of his own voice in reading the Scriptures affects him
to tears. Last Sunday he almost broke down completely when he was
reading about Elijah and the bears (a tale which does not seem in the
least pathetic to me). He is a great sportsman and plays all games with
enthusiasm, and is a fervent but bad whist-player, and when he revokes
(which he often does) we suppose he is thinking out his next Sunday's
sermon. In the summer vacation he goes to the Rocky Mountains and kills
bears.
A few Sundays ago it was, if ever, the occasion to say, "Don't kill the
organist; he is doing his best." Signor Rotoli (the organist), who does
not know one word of English, was dozing through Dr. Nevin's usual
sermon, and, having the music open before him of the solo that Mr.
Grant (the tenor) was going to sing, heard the first words of the
prayer, "O Lord, grant--" thought that it was the signal for the
anthem, and crashed down the opening chords.
Dr. Nevin looked daggers at him, as if he could have killed him on the
spot, and had there been anything at hand heavier than his sermon he
certainly would have thrown it at him.
_March, 1881._
Dear ----,--The carnival is over. As it is the first carnival I have
ever seen, I must describe it to you. It lasts almost a week. It
commenced last Wednesday and finished yesterday. Mr. Saumares, of the
English Embassy, had taken a balcony just opposite the Palazzo Fiano,
where the Queen always goes. He invited us for the whole week, and when
we were not in the fray ourselves, we went there at five o'clock to
take tea and to see the _corso di barbeir_ (the race of the wild
horses). The first day of the carnival we were full of energy and
eagerness. We were all in our shabbiest clothes, as this is the
customary thing. The coachman and the valet also had their worst
clothes on, which is saying a good deal, and the horses were even worse
than usual, which is saying a good deal more. The carriages were filled
to overflowing with flowers, bonbons, and confetti by the bushel. Our
servant, Giuseppe, had been since early morning bargaining for the
things, and after tucking us in the carriage he contemplated us with
pride as we drove off.
We started from the Piazzo del Popolo at three o'clock, and pelted
every one, exhausting our ammunition recklessly. Dirty little
beggar-boys would jump on the step of the carriage and snatch what
flowers they could, even out of our hands, and would then sell them
back to us, scrambling for the soldi which we threw at them; and, what
was worse, they picked the same bouquets up, which by this time had
become mere stems without flowers and covered with mud, and threw them
at us. They wanted their fun, too.
At five o'clock we stood on the balcony to watch the race of the wild
horses. These are brought straight in from the country, quite wild and
untamed. They are covered with all sorts of dangling pointed tin things
and fire-crackers, which not only frighten them dreadfully, but hurt
them. They started at the Piazza del Popolo and were hooted and goaded
on by the excited screams of the populace all the way down the narrow
_Corso_, which is a mile long. It is a wonder that the poor creatures
in their fright did not dart into the howling crowd, but they did not.
They kept straight on their way, stung to desperation by the fireworks
on their backs. At the Piazza di Venezia the street narrows into a very
small passage, which divides the palazzo from its neighbor opposite.
Here sheets (or, rather, sails) were hung across this narrow place,
into which the horses, blinded with terror, puzzled and confused, ran
headlong, and were easily caught. The one who gets there first gets the
prize, and is led back through the streets, tired and meek, wearing his
number on a card around his neck. It is a cruel sport, but the Italians
enjoy it, believing, as they do, that animals have no souls, and
therefore can support any amount of torture.
Nothing is done on Friday. The following Tuesday--Mardi-gras--was the
last day. Then folly reigned supreme. After the horses had run their
race and twilight had descended on the scene, the _moccoletti_ began.
This is such a childish sport that it really seems impossible that
grown-up men and women could find any amusement in taking part in it.
Lighting your own small tallow candle and trying to put out your
neighbor's--that is what it amounts to. Does it not sound silly? Yet
all this vast crowd is as intent on it as if their lives and welfare
were at stake. At eight o'clock, however, this came to an end, the last
flickering light was put out, and we went home--one would think to play
with our dolls.