Dear ----,--We have moved from the Palazzo Rospigliosi to the Palazzo
Tittoni, in Via Rasella, which leads from the Palazzo Barberini down to
the Fontana di Trevi. I never would have chosen this palace, beautiful
as it is, if I could have foreseen the misery I suffer when I hear the
wicked drivers goading and beating their poor beasts up this steep
hill. The poor things strain every muscle under their incredible
burdens, but are beaten, all the same. I am really happy when I hear
the crow--I mean the bray--of a donkey. It has a jubiliant ring in it,
as if he were somehow enjoying himself, and my heart sympathizes with
him. But it may be only his way of expressing the deepest depths of
woe.
Mrs. Charles Bristed, of New York, a recent convert to the Church of
Rome, receives on Saturday evenings. She has accomplished what hitherto
has been considered impossible--that is, the bringing together of the
"blacks" (the ultra-Catholic party, belonging to the Vatican) and the
"whites," the party adhering to the Quirinal. These two parties meet in
her _salon_ as if they were of the same color. The Pope's singers are
the great attraction. She must either have a tremendously long purse or
great persuasive powers to get them, for her _salon_ is the only place
outside the churches where one can hear them. Therefore this _salon_ is
the only platform in Rome where the two antagonistic parties meet and
glare at each other.
We went there last Saturday. The chairs were arranged in rows, superb
in their symmetry at first, but after the first petticoats had swept by
everything was in a hopeless confusion. Two ladies sitting on one
chair, one lady appropriating two chairs instead of one, and another
sitting sideways on three. The consequence was that there was a
conglomeration of empty chairs in the middle of the room, while crowds
of weary guests stood in and near the doorway, with the thermometer
sky-high! When one sees the Pope's singers in evening dress and white
cravats the prestige and effect are altogether lost. This particular
evening was unusually brilliant, for the monsignores and cardinals were
extra-abundant. There were printed programs handed to us with the list
of the numerous songs that we were going to hear.
The famous Moresca, who sings at the Laterano, is a full-faced soprano
of forty winters. He has a tear in each note and a sigh in each breath.
He sang the jewel song in "Faust," which seemed horribly out of place.
Especially when he asks (in the hand-glass) if he is really Marguerita,
one feels tempted to answer, "_Macché_," for him. Then they sang a
chorus of Palestrina, all screaming at the top of their lungs,
evidently thinking they were in St. Peter's. It never occurred to them
to temper their voices to the poor shorn lambs wedged up against the
walls.
Afterward followed the duet, "_Quis est homo_," of Rossini's "Stabat
Mater," sung by two gray-haired sopranos. This was extremely beautiful,
but the best of all was the solo sung by a fat, yellow-mustached
barytone. I never heard anything to compare to his exquisite voice. We
shall never hear anything like it in this world, and I doubt in the
next. Maroni is the man who always directs the Pope's singers. He makes
more noise beating time with his roll of music on the piano than all
the cab-drivers below in the Piazza del Popolo.
The supper-room was a sight to behold--the enormous table fairly
creaking under the weight of every variety of food filled half the
room, leaving very little space for the guests. The sopranos got in
first, ahead even of the amiable hostess, who stopped the whole
procession, trying to go abreast through the door with a portly
cardinal and a white diplomat, leaving us, the hungry black and white
sheep, still wrestling with the chairs.
You must have heard of Hamilton Aidé, the author of _The Poet and the
Prince_ and other works. He comes frequently to see us, and always
brings either a new book or a new song--for he is not only a
distinguished author, but a composer as well. He sings willingly when
asked. He is very fond of one of his songs, called "The Danube River."
If he had not brought the music and I had not seen the title as I laid
it on the piano, I should never have known that it was anything so
lively as a river he was singing about. Though I could occasionally
hear the word "river," I hoped that as the river and singer went on
they would have a little more "go" in them; but they continued babbling
along regardless of obstacles and time. I was extremely mortified to
see that several of my guests had dozed off. The river and the singer
had had a too-lullaby effect on them.