Italian Letters of a Diplomat's Wife: January-May, 1880; February-April, 1904

This morning Josephine and I have been out to the new Benedictine Monastery of St. Anselmo, which stands high on a hill overlooking the Tiber. She had business with the Director, so I went into the chapel which is fine (quite modern with splendid marbles) and walked about a little in the garden (they wouldn't let me go far). We went afterward into the Villa Malta. There is an extraordinary view through the key-hole of the door—one looks straight down a long, narrow avenue with high trees on each side, to St. Peter's—a great blue dome at the end. We couldn't make out at first what the old woman meant who opened the door for us, she wouldn't let us come in, but pointed to the key-hole, mumbling something we couldn't understand. At last we heard "veduta" (view), and divined what she wanted us to do. It was most curious. The gardens are lovely still, green, cool. We went over the house, but there is nothing particularly interesting—portraits of all the "Grands Maîtres de l'Ordre de Malte." It was so lovely that we didn't want to come home, so we drove out as far at St. Paul's Fuori le Mura, and walked around the church to the front where they are making a splendid portico—all marble and mosaic. I should have liked it better without the mosaic—merely the fine granite and marble columns.

Tuesday, April 12th.

Yesterday we had a splendid ceremony at St. Peter's, the 13th anniversary of Pope Gregorio Magno. We started early, Josephine and I leaving the house together at 8, dressed in the regulation black dress and veil. I had on a short cloth skirt, which I regretted afterward, but as we had asked for no particular places, and were going to take our chance in the church with all the ordinary sight-seers, I hadn't made a very élégante toilette. We got along pretty well, though there were streams of carriages and people all going in the same direction, until we got near the St. Angelo bridge—there we took the file, hardly advanced at all, and met quantities of empty carriages coming back. I fancy most people started much earlier than we did. The piazza was fairly crowded (but not the compact mass we used to see in the old days when the Pope gave the Easter blessing from the balcony), all the Colonnade guarded by Italian troops, carabinieri and bersaglieri. We went round to the Sagrestia, and found our way easily into the church, and into our Tribune A, but we might just as well have remained at home, if we had wanted to see anything. We were far back, low, and could have just seen perhaps the top of the Pope's tiara when he was carried in his high chair in procession—however it was our own fault, as we had asked too late for our tickets. I was interested all the same seeing the different people come in (the church was very full). We sat there some little time, rather disgusted au fond at having such bad places, particularly when we saw some people we knew being escorted with much pomp past our obscure little tribune, toward the centre of the church. Finally one of the camerieri segreti in his uniform—black velvet, ruff and chain—recognised Josephine, and insisted that she should come with him and he would give her a proper place. She rather demurred at leaving me, but I urged her going, as I was sure she would find a seat for me somewhere. In a few minutes the gentleman returned, and put me first in the same tribune with her, a little farther back, but eventually conducted me to the Diplomatic Tribune, d'Antas, the Doyen, Portuguese Ambassador to the Quirinal, and an old colleague of ours in London, having said he would gladly give a place in their box to an ancienne collègue. That was the moment in which I regretted my short skirt. I had to cross the red carpet between rows of gardes-nobles and gala uniforms of all kinds and colours, and I was quite conscious that my dress was not up to the mark, a sentiment which gathered strength as I got to the Diplomatic Tribune, and saw all the ladies beautifully dressed, with long lace and satin dresses, pearl necklaces, and their veils fastened with diamond stars. However, it was a momentary ennui, and I could only hope nobody looked at me. Wasn't it silly of me to wear a plain little skirt—I can't think why I did it. Almost all the bishops and sommités of the clerical world were already assembled and walking about in the great space at the back of the altar. Just opposite us was the Tribune of the patriciat Romain. All the tribunes and columns were covered with red and gold draperies. A detachment of gardes-nobles, splendid in their red coats, white culottes and white plumes, surrounded the altar. There were two silver thrones for the Pope, one at one side of the church where he sat first, directly opposite to us, another quite at the end of the long nave behind the high altar. The entrance of the cardinals was very effective. They all wore white cloaks trimmed with silver, and silver mitres, each one accompanied by an attendant priest, who helped them take off and put on their mitres, which they did several times during the ceremony. The costumes were splendid, some high prelates, I suppose, in red skirts with splendid old lace; some in white and gold brocaded cloaks, also grey fur cloaks; and an Eastern bishop with a long beard, in purple flowered robes, a pink sash worn like a grand cordon over his shoulder, and purple mitre. It was a gorgeous effect of colour, showing all the more between the rows of tribunes where every one was in black.

We divined (as we were too far back to see) when the Pope's cortège entered the church. There was no sound—a curious silence—except the trumpets which preceded the cortège (they played a "Marcia pontificale," they told me). At last we saw the "sedia gestatoria" with the peacock fans appearing, and the Pope himself held high over the heads of the crowd (it seems he hates the sedia and hoped until the last moment not to be obliged to use it, but it is the tradition of St. Peter's, and really the only way for the people to see him). We saw him quite distinctly. He looked pale certainly, and a little tired, even before the ceremony began, but that may have been the effect of the swaying motion of the chair. There was the same silence when he was taken out of his chair and walked to the throne, not even the subdued hum of a great crowd. There was a little group of officiating priests and cardinals on the dais surrounding the throne. The Pope wore a long soutane of fine white cloth, white shoes, a splendid mantle of white and gold brocade, and a gold mitre with precious stones, principally pearls. He began his mass at once, a bishop holding the big book open before him, a priest on each side with a lighted taper. His voice sounded strong and clear, but I don't think it would carry very far. I was disappointed in the Gregorian chants. There were 1,500 voices, but they sounded meagre in that enormous space. The ceremony was very long. I couldn't follow it all, and at intervals couldn't see anything, as the priests stood often directly in front of the Pope. It was interesting to make out the various cardinals—Cardinal Vincenzo Vannutelli sat almost directly opposite to us, his tall figure standing out well. His brother Cardinal Serafino was always close to the Pope. I asked d'Antas to show me Cardinal Rampolla, who has a fine head and dignified carriage, rather a sad face. It was very impressive when the Pope left his throne by the altar and walked across the great space to the other one at the end of the nave. Every one knelt as he passed, the cardinals, bishops, gardes-nobles, everybody in the tribunes (at least everybody in the front row, I won't answer for the young ones behind, but they stood if they didn't kneel). There again the ceremonies were very long. When the Pope had taken his seat, many of the cardinals sat too on the steps of the dais. It was very picturesque, and the Eastern prelate stood out well from the group of white-robed Cardinals in his bright flowered garments. The Evangile was read in Latin and in Greek—a great many things and people were blessed, every one kneeling at the foot of the dais, and again when they got close up to the Pope; some quite prostrated themselves and kissed his slipper (a very nice white one) which they say he hates. Prince Orsini, premier assistant of the Saint Siège, officiated, and looked his part to perfection. He is tall, with a long white beard, and his short black velvet cloak, with a long white and silver mantle over it, was most effective. I don't know exactly what he did, but he appeared various times at the foot of the dais, knelt, and sometimes presented something on a platter. He was always accompanied (as were all who took any prominent part in the ceremony) by two priests, one on each side of him; sort of masters of ceremony who told him when to kneel, when to stand, etc. On the whole all the music disappointed me. The Gregorian chants were too thin; the Sistine choir didn't seem as full and fine as it used to be, and the silver trumpets absolutely trivial.

It was most impressive at the moment of the elevation, almost the whole assembly in that enormous church kneeling, and not a sound except the silver trumpets, which had seemed so divinely inspired to me in the old days. I remember quite well seeing Gounod on his knees, with tears streaming down his face, and we were quite enchanted, lifted out of ourselves and our every-day surroundings. This time I was perfectly conscious of a great spectacle of the Catholic Church with its magnificent "mise-en-scène," but nothing devotional or appealing to one's religious feelings.

I should have liked to hear a great solemn choral of Bach, not an ordinary melodious little tune; and yet for years after those first days in Rome I never could play or hear the music of the silver trumpets without being strangely moved.

I thought the Pope looked very pale and tired as he passed down the long nave the last time and was finally carried off in his chair with his peacock fans waving, and a stately procession of cardinals and prelates following. I think he regrets Venice and the simple life there as pastor of his people.

We saw plenty of people we knew as we were making our way through the crowd to the carriage. Some of the ladies told us they had left their hotel at 5.30 in the morning, they were so anxious to get a good place. I told d'Antas I was very grateful to him, for I saw everything of course perfectly, and took in many little details which I never could have seen if we hadn't been so near. I also apologized to Madame d'Antas for my modest, not to say mesquin attire; but she said as long as I was all black, and had the black veil, it was of no consequence. There were two or three ladies in the Royal Tribune—Grand Duchess of Saxe-Weimar and Duchess Paul of Mecklenburg. We were a long time getting home, but it was an interesting progress; all Rome out, a good many handsome carriages, and I should think people from every part of the world, Rome is so full of strangers.

Thursday, April 14th.

I never had a moment yesterday as it was the children's ball, and we were all taken up with the preparations. It went off very well, and was one of the prettiest sights I ever saw. The children danced extremely well, though even at the last repetition things didn't go perfectly; but evidently at all ages there is a sort of amour propre that carries one through, when there is a gallery. The dresses were Louis XVI., paniers and powder for the girls (and sweet they looked—Victoria quite a picture with her large dark eyes and bright colour), embroidered coats, long gilets, tricorne hats and swords for the boys. There were eight couples, and very good music—4 violins playing Boccherini's minuet. Bessie had arranged a very pretty "rampe" with white azaleas and pink and yellow ribbons, separating the upper part of the ball-room, and the space for the dancers was kept by 4 tall footmen in yellow gala liveries and powder, who stood at each corner of the square, in their hands tall gilt canes held together by bands of pink ribbon. It made a charming "cadre"—you can't imagine how pretty the little procession looked as they all filed in, the small ones first. I think perhaps the quite small ones were the best; they were so important, took much trouble and weren't as distracted by the spectators as the bigger ones. They were much applauded, and were obliged to repeat the minuet after a little rest. In an incredibly short time all the seats and various accessories were taken away, and the ball began, ending with a very spirited cotillon led by the son of the house, Don Camillo Ruspoli, and one of his friends, the Marquis Guglielmi. They kept it up until dinner time, when the various mammas, quite exhausted with the heat and the emotion of seeing their children perform in public, carried them off; but the children (ours certainly) were not at all tired.

Saturday, April 16th.

It is real summer weather—too hot to walk in the morning, particularly from here, where we have to cross the open piazza before we can get anywhere. Thursday we went to the races with the Brancaccios, on their coach. It was most amusing, the road very animated all the way out from Porta San Giovanni to Campanelle; every one making way for the coach as they do in England. There was every description of vehicle, and quantities of police and soldiers—the road very strictly guarded, as the King and Queen were coming. It looked very pretty to see a patrol of cuirassiers suddenly appearing from under an old archway, or behind a bit of ruined wall, or from time to time one solitary soldier standing on the top of a high mound. It was very hot, the sun too strong on our heads, but we didn't go very fast; couldn't, in such a crowd, so we were able to hold our parasols.

The course and all the tribunes were crowded; the women almost all in white or light dresses. The King and Queen came in an open carriage with four horses—no escort. We had a pleasant day, meeting quantities of people we knew. We had rather a struggle for tea; there were not nearly enough tables and chairs for so many people; but we finally got some under difficulties, two of us sitting on the same chair and thankful to get it.

The drive home was lovely, cool, and very little dust. Rome looked soft and warm in the sunset light as we got near, and the statues on San Giovanni Laterano almost golden as the light struck them. It was interminable when we got into the file, and Brancaccio had some difficulty in turning into his court-yard.

Monday, April 18th.

It is enchanting summer weather, but too hot for walking. I have had two charming auto expeditions with Mr. and Mrs. Bishop. Saturday we started after breakfast to Cività Vecchia. The country is not very interesting near Rome, but it was delightful running along by the sea—the road low and so close to the water that the little waves came nearly up to the wheels. Cività Vecchia looked quite picturesque, rising up out of the sea. We didn't stop there, merely drove through the town, and came home another way inland, through the hills, quite beautiful, but such sharp turns and steep bits. We climbed straight up a high hill (2,000 feet) soon after leaving Cività Vecchia, and had for some time a divine view of sea and coast; then plunged at once into the mountains, great barren, stony peaks with little old grey villages on top; hills rolling away on each side, a wild, desolate country. The road was very lonely, we met only a few carts; the peasants frantic with terror as the big auto dashed by.

We passed Bracciano, the great feudal castle of the Odescalchi, with the beautiful little blue lake at the bottom of the hill. It is a fine old pile, square and grey, with battlements running all around it—more imposing than attractive. After leaving Bracciano we flew—the road was straight and level—and got back to Rome by Ponte Molle and Porta del Popolo.

Sunday we made a longer expedition to the Falls of Terni. There were three autos—quite a party. The road was very different, but quite beautiful, green fields and olive woods, and lovely effects of light and shade on the Campagna. The day was grey, the sun appearing every now and then from behind a cloud, at first; later, when we stopped on the high road, with not a vestige of tree or bit of wall to give us shade, we longed for the clouds.

We soon began to climb, then down a long, winding hill to Cività Castellana, an old fortified town, walls all around. We drove in through the gate, and along a narrow steep street filled with people, as it was Sunday, and asked if they had seen another auto. They told us yes, in the piazza, so we went on, making our way with difficulty through the crowded streets; every one taking a lively interest in the auto. The square, too, was crowded, all the women in bright skirts and fichus, and a fair sprinkling of uniforms; little carts with fruit and vegetables, and two or three men with mandolins or violins (a mild little music) but no signs of an auto. A splendid gentleman in uniform with waving plumes and a sword (mayor, I suppose) came up and interviewed us, and told us an auto had been there, coming from Rome, but had left about ten minutes before; so we started off again, and had a beautiful drive to Terni. We passed Narni, which stands very well on the top of a rock, high above the little river which runs there through a narrow gorge to the Tiber. We crossed a fine large bridge, then down a hill to Terni, where we breakfasted. After breakfast we started for the Falls, about four miles further on, and quite beautiful they are, a great rush of sparkling water falling from a height and breaking into countless little falls over the green moss-covered rocks below. It was delicious to hear the sound of running water, and to feel the spray on our faces after our hot ride.

We didn't get out. We shouldn't have seen the Falls any better, and would have had to scramble over wet, slippery stones. There was the usual collection of guides, beggars, etc., offering us pieces of petrified stone, and of course post-cards of the Falls. Just around Terni the hills are very green, the slopes covered with olive trees, and quantities of white villas scattered about on the hillside, little groups of people loitering about, women and girls making pretty bits of colour as they strolled along. They love bright colours, and generally have on two or three, red or blue skirts, yellow fichus on their heads, or over their shoulders, coloured beads or gold pins. Some of them carried such heavy loads on their heads or backs, great bundles of fagots, or sacks of olives, old women generally. They are given that work as a rest when they are too old to do anything in the fields.

We came home by another road, always the same wild mountain scenery, always also the same sharp curves and steep descents. It is certainly lovely country, green hills breaking away in every direction. As we got higher, great stony, barren peaks, torrents rushing along at our feet, and always on the top of a rock, rising straight up out of the hills, a little old grey village (with usually a steeple and sometimes an old square castle). Some of the villages were stretched along the mountain-side about half-way up. They all looked perfectly lonely and inaccessible, but I suppose life goes on there with just as much interest to them, as in ours in the busy world beneath.

We raced up and down the hills, through beautiful country, scarcely slackening when we passed through some little walled towns (hardly more than one long crooked street), in at one gate and out at the other, people all crowding into the piazza, smiling and taking off their hats. Once or twice one heard them say "la Regina" evidently thinking it was Queen Margherita, who loves her auto, and makes long country excursions in it. It was a curious, fantastic progress, but enchanting.

The other autos had started some time ahead of us. We saw an object (stationary) as we were speeding down a steep hill, which proved, as we got near, to be one of them, stuck in a little stream, quite firmly embedded in the sand, and looking as if nothing would ever get it out. About 15 or 20 men were pulling and hauling, but it seemed quite hopeless. It wasn't a very pleasant prospect for us either, as our auto, too, was big and heavy, and we had to get across. It would have been too far to go back all the way round. However, Mr. Bishop's chauffeur was not in the least concerned, said he would certainly take his carriage over, and he did, Mrs. Bishop and me in it. We waited to see the other one emerge from its bed of sand. The men pulled well, and talked as hard as they pulled, and finally the great heavy machine was landed on the other side.

We had a long level stretch, about 20 kilometres, before we got into Rome, and we raced the train, all the passengers wildly excited. It is curious to see how one gets accustomed to the speed when the carriage rolls smoothly. It seemed quite natural to me to fly past everything, and yet when Strutz has occasionally whirled us in to La Ferté to catch the express I haven't been comfortable at all.

April 22, 1904.

Yesterday afternoon Bessie and I went to the reception at the Villa Médicis, which was pleasant. We liked the music of the Ier Prix de Rome, and it was interesting to see the pictures and sculpture. I think the faces of the young men interested me, perhaps, more than their work—they looked so young and intelligent and hopeful, so eager for the battle of life; and yet so many find it such a struggle. There is so much concurrence in everything, and an artist's life is precarious. The very qualities which make their genius unfit them so for all the cares and worries of a career which must always have ups and downs.

We went late for a drive in the Corso and Via Nazionale to see all the preparations for Loubet's arrival. They are certainly taking no end of trouble—flags, draperies, and festoons of flowers, in all the principal streets. The garden they are making in Piazza Colonna is quite wonderful—quite tall trees, little green lawns, and the statue of a Roman emperor. Quantities of people looking on at the workmen and walking about in the piazza. The Via Nazionale, too, is gorgeous with draperies, shields, and large medallions with French and Italian colours entwined.

This afternoon I went off alone and did some sight-seeing. We shall go in a few days, and I haven't seen half I wanted to. I went straight over to the Trastevere; first to Santa Maria, with its queer old mosaic façade, looking more Byzantine than Italian; then on to Santa Cecilia, where a nice old sacristan took me all over, showed me the chapel supposed to be directly over Santa Cecilia's bath-room (the church is said to be built on the very spot where her house stood), and of course the tomb of the saint. Then, as I had nothing particular to do, I drove out toward Monte Mario, which is a lovely drive in the afternoon, the view of Rome looking back is so beautiful. It is a long steep hill, with many turns, so one gets the view on all sides. The Cork Valley was green and lovely, and the road was unusually quiet. I think everybody is on the Corso looking at the festal preparations. I went back to the house to get Bessie, and we went to tea with the Waldo Storys, in his studio. He has some beautiful things—two fountains in particular are quite charming.

We all dined out, Bessie and Josephine with Cardinal Mathieu, I at the American Embassy with the Meyers. We had a pleasant dinner—four or five small tables. They have Mrs. Field's apartment in the Brancaccio Palace—entertain a great deal, and are much liked in Rome.

We came home early, and I am finishing this letter to-night. It is very warm, the windows open, and the street sounds very gay. To say that we have heard the Marseillaise these last days but faintly expresses how we have been pursued by the well-known air. Everybody sings or whistles it, all the street musicians, hand-organs, guitars, accordions, and brass bands play it all day and all night; and we hear the music of a neighbouring barrack working at it every morning. At this present moment a band of youths are howling it under the window. I think they are getting ready to amuse themselves when the President arrives.

It was most amusing in the streets this morning, flags flying, draperies being put up everywhere, troops marching across the Piazza di Spagna, musique en tête, to exercise a little on the review ground before the great day—quantities of people everywhere. They say all the hotels will be crowded to-morrow, and with French people, which rather surprises me, but they tell me there are deputations from Avignon, Marseilles, and various other southern towns. They are beginning to arrange the Spanish Steps quite charmingly—a perfect carpet of flowers (if only it doesn't rain).