"In spite of the lack of commas?" I asked.
"Yes, in spite of the lack of commas. But I wonder if all you wrote was
true?"
"How can we ever find out?"
"I hate to think of him as a myth."
"Please don't think of him as a myth. Think of him as you always have;
otherwise you will owe me a grudge."
Looking across the table to Signor Bonghi, he said: "He is a wonderful
man. I like his name, too--Ruggiero Bonghi, _tout court_."
"It sounds," I said, "so full of strength and power and straight to the
point, with no accessories, doesn't it?"
"You say that to _me_, who have twenty-four names."
"Twenty-four! Dear me! Do you know them all?"
"I must confess that I do not, but I will look them up in the Gotha and
write them out for you."
"Twenty-four," I repeated. "How out of breath the priest who baptized
you must have been!"
"Oh," cried the Prince, "he did not mind; he got a louis [twenty-franc
piece] for each name."
ROME, PALAZZO SFORZA-CESARINI, _January, 1887_.
My dear Aunt,--After the reception of the Diplomats on the 1st of
January we moved from Palazzo Tittoni to this, our new home.
We have in the largest _salon_ an enormous and gorgeously sculptured
chimneypiece which has a tiny fire-place that, when crammed full of
wood, and after we have puffed our lungs out blowing on it and prodded
it with tongs, etc., consents to smile and warm the chair nearest to
it, but nothing else.
The ceiling (a work of art of some old master) is way up in the clouds;
I am almost obliged to use an opera-glass to see which are angels' or
cherubs' legs up there in the blue.
The figures in the corners, I suppose, represent Faith, Hope, and
Charity; the fourth must be the Goddess of Plenty. She is emptying an
enormous cornucopia over our heads of the most tempting fruit, which
makes my mouth water and makes me wish she would drop some of it in my
lap.
This palace used to belong to that nice hospitable family you've heard
about--_the Borgias_. I dare say they did a good deal of their
poisoning in these very _salons_.
We were rather agitated the other day when a hole was discovered in one
of the walls. I put my hand way down in it as far as I could and pulled
out a little bottle which contained some dark liquid. Poison, for sure!
It looked very suspicious. Giuseppe, our Italian butler, who is as
Italian as an Italian can be, was frightened out of his senses (the few
he possesses) and held the bottle at arm's-length.
To test the contents of the vial he put half of it in some food he gave
to a thin and forlorn cat who hovered about our kitchen, and for whom
Giuseppe cherished no love. However, the cat survived with eight of its
lives. Then a rabbit a friend of Giuseppe's wanted to get rid of was
given the rest. He also lived and thrived. After these experiments we
don't think much of Borgia poisons.
One of the rooms behind the _salon_ (so large that it is divided into
four) has the most beautiful frescoed ceiling. It is a pity that it is
so dark there that one cannot see it properly. Perhaps originally it
was a chapel and the frescoes were easier seen when the altar-candles
were burning. But can one imagine a Borgia needing a chapel or a Borgia
ever praying?
Just around the corner from us is the _campo di fiori_ (field of
flowers), where one might expect to buy flowers, but it is the one
thing you do not find there. Everything else, from church ornaments to
umbrellas, from silver candlesticks to old clothes, you can buy for a
song not so musical as Mendelssohn's "without words"; on the contrary,
the buying of the most insignificant object is accompanied by a volume
of words screamed after the non-buyer in true Jewish style.
Then around another corner you come across the Torso, made famous by
that witty tailor called Pasquino, where he placarded his satirical
witticisms; his post-office for anonymous letters!
We have just come home from the Pantheon. There is held every year for
the anniversary of King Victor Emmanuel's death a memorial service
_pour le repos de son âme_. If it had been my soul it would never have
reposed; it would have jumped up and clapped its wings to applaud the
music, which, though always beautiful, to-day was divine.
I even forgot to freeze during the long two hours we stayed in the
icy-cold building, open to wind and weather above and full of piercing
draughts below. The marble pavement, which has collected damp and mold
since 27 B.C., has long since become so wavy and uneven that you walk
very unsteadily over it; the costly marbles of which the pavement is
made in fine mosaic-work have sunken away from their contours centuries
ago, so that now you only realize how beautiful it must have been in
its prime.
The high and imposing catafalque, erected for this occasion, which
filled the whole center of the large _basilique_, reaching almost to
the dome, was surrounded by enormous candelabra containing wax candles
as big as birch-trees.
The ministers of state and the diplomats had a _loge_ reserved for them
next to the orchestra, and, although there were carpets and rugs under
our feet, the humidity and cold penetrated to the marrow of our
stateful and diplomatic bones.
There were tiers of seats for people who were fortunate enough to
procure tickets.
Gayarré, the wonderful Spanish tenor, sang several solos, each one more
exquisite than the other. I have never heard a more beautiful voice,
and certainly have never heard a more perfect artist. The way he
phrases and manages his voice is a lesson in itself.
Tamagno, the famous Italian tenor, sings wonderfully also, but very
differently. He gives out all the voice he has, and you are overcome
with the strength and power and the compass of his unique voice. He is
the _tenor robusto par excellence_ of the world.
One cannot compare the two singers. Gayarré has the real quality of a
tenor, exquisitely tender, suave, and still powerful. He has a way of
keeping his voice bottled up until a grand climax; then he lets it
swell out in a triumphal burst.
This funeral service is a very long and fatiguing affair. I pity the
_carabinieri_ (the soldiers) who are on service that day. Although they
are men chosen for their powerful build, some of them cannot endure the
fatigue of standing "at arms" the two hours that the service lasts. I
suppose the poor things are put there from early dawn, and there they
must stand, stiff and straight, with uplifted sword, without moving a
muscle. We saw one (not this year, but last) faint dead away and drop
in a heap on the marble steps of the altar. His sword and casque made a
great clatter when they fell and rattled over the pavement. Four of his
comrades rushed in, picked him up, and carried him out, staggering
under his weight. He was replaced by another _carabinier_ noiselessly
and so quickly that you hardly knew that anything had happened.
The Argentina Theater attempted to give Wagner's Ring. It was a dismal
performance. Wagner is not at his best in an Italian setting, with all
the gas turned on and the scenery half tumbling down and the orchestra
fiddling in full view.
In the first act of "Rheingold," where the three maidens are swimming,
the poor girls, with hair of unequal lengths, sprawled about, their
arms clutching at air, and held up to the roof by visible and shaky
ropes, half the time forgetting to sing in their wild efforts to keep
themselves from falling, separated from the audience only by a gauze
curtain which was transparency itself.
DENMARK, _July, 1887_.
My dear Aunt,--Denmark in July is ideal. It is never too warm in the
day and always cool at night.