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

We went on to the Tre Fontane, about half an hour's drive—real country, quite charming. We didn't see the churches until we were quite close to them—they are almost hidden by the trees. I never should have recognised the place. The eucalyptus trees which the monks were just beginning to plant when we were here before have grown up into a fine avenue. They were cutting and trimming them, and the ground was covered with great branches making a beautiful green carpet with a strong perfume. Various people were looking on and almost every one carried off a branch of eucalyptus. We did too, and one is now hanging over the bed in my room. It is supposed to be very healthy. It has a very strong odour—to me very agreeable.

A service was going on in one of the churches, the monks singing a low monotonous chant, and everything was so still; one was so shut in by the trees that the outside world, Rome and the Corso might have been miles away. We went into the church to see the three fountains built into the wall. Tradition says that when St. Paul was executed his head bounded three times and at each place a fountain sprang up. A tall young monk was going about with some seminarists explaining the legend to them. They were listening with rapt attention and drinking reverently at each fountain.

We went into the little farmacia and found there a German monk who was much pleased when he found we could speak German. He told us there were 90 monks there, and that the place was perfectly healthy—not as when they began their work, when many died of fever. We each bought a bottle of eucalyptus, and were sorry to come away. The light was fading—the eucalyptus avenue looked dark and mysterious, and the low chant of the monks was still going on.

We went to a beautiful ball in the evening at the Brancaccios'. They built their palace—which is enormous—has a fine marble staircase (which showed off the women's long trailing skirts splendidly) and quantities of rooms filled with beautiful things. I didn't take them all in as I was so much interested in the people, but Bessie has promised to take me all over the palace some morning.

To-day we have been to the Brancaccio garden. It was a beautiful bright morning, so Bessie Talleyrand proposed we should drive up and stroll about there. We telephoned to Brancaccio, who said he would meet us in the garden. You can't imagine anything more enchanting than that beautiful southern garden in the heart of Rome. We drove through the court-yard and straight up the hill to a little bridge that connects the garden with Mrs. Field's old apartment. Mrs. Field really made the garden (and loved it always). When they bought the ground it was simply an "orto" or field, and now it is a paradise filled with every possible variety of trees and flowers. It seems that wherever she saw a beautiful tree she immediately asked what it was and where it came from, and then had some sent to her from no matter where. Of course hundreds were lost—the journey, change of soil, transplanting them, etc., but hundreds remain and the effect is marvellous. Splendid tall palms from Bordighera, little delicate shrubs from America and Canada all growing and thriving side by side in the beautiful Roman garden. There is a fine broad allée which goes straight down from the winter garden to the end of the grounds with the Colosseum as background. It is planted on each side with green oaks, and between them rows of orange and mandarin trees—the branches heavy with the fruit. We picked delicious, ripe, warm mandarins from the trees, and eat them as we were strolling along. It was too early for the roses, of which there are thousands in the season—one saw the plants twining around all the trees. There are all sorts of ruins and old walls in the garden, baths of Titus, Sette Celle, and one comes unexpectedly, in odd corners, upon fine old bits of carving and wall which have no name now, but which certainly have had a history.

The sky was a deep blue over our heads, and the trees so thick, that the ugly new buildings which skirt one side of the garden are almost completely hidden. It was a pleasure just to sit on a bench and live—the air was so soft, and the garden smell so delicious.

After breakfast I went out early with Josephine—leaving of course some cards first—after that we took a turn on the Pincio, which was basking in the sunshine (but quite deserted at that hour except by nurses and children), and then drove out toward the Villa Pamphili. The road was so familiar, and yet so different. The same steep ascent to the Janiculum with the beggars and cripples of all ages running alongside the carriage and holding out withered arms and maimed limbs—awful to see. The road is much wider—more of a promenade, trees and flowers planted all along. The fountains of San Pietro in Montorio looked beautiful—such a rush of bright, dancing water. We drove through the Villa Corsini—quite new since my time—a beautiful drive, and drew up on the terrace just under the equestrian statue of Garibaldi from where there is a splendid view—the whole city of Rome at our feet, seen through a warm, grey mist that made even the ugly staring white and yellow houses of the new quarter look picturesque. They lost themselves in a charming ensemble. St. Peter's looked very near but always a little veiled by the haze which made the great mass more imposing. We looked straight across the city to the Campagna—all the well-known monuments—Cecilia Metella, aqueducts and the various tombs scattered along the Via Appia were quite distinct. The statue of the great revolutionary leader seemed curiously out of place. I should have preferred almost the traditional wolf with the two little boys sucking in her milk. We couldn't stay very long as we had a tea at home. We met many people and carriages going up as we came down, as it was the day for the Villa Pamphili, which is open to the public twice a week.

We went to a ball at the Storys' in the evening, and as we went up the great staircase of the Barberini Palace (the steps so broad and shallow that one could drive up in a light carriage) finishing with the steep little flight quite at the top which leads directly to the Story apartment, I could hardly realize how many years had passed since I had first danced in these same rooms, and that I shouldn't find the charming, genial maître de maison of my youth who made his house such an interesting centre. I think one of Mr. Story's greatest charms was his absolute simplicity, his keen interest in everything and his sympathy with younger men who were still fighting the great battle of life which he had brought to such a triumphant close. His son, Waldo Story,[32 - The well-known sculptor.] who has inherited his father's talent, keeps up the hospitable traditions of the house.

The ball was very animated—all the young dancing Rome was there.

    Monday, February 15th.

I am alone this morning—the others have gone to the meet at Cecchignola fuori Porta San Sebastiano. I should have liked to go for the sake of old times, but I was rather tired, and have the court ball to-night.

Last night I had a pleasant dinner at Count Vitali's. He has bought the Bandini palace, and made it, of course, most comfortable and modern. The rooms are beautiful—the splendid proportions and great space one only sees now in Rome in the old palaces. The dinner was for M. Nisard (French Ambassador to the Vatican), but it wasn't altogether Black. There were one of the Queen's ladies and one or two secretaries from the Quirinal embassies. The line between the two parties is not nearly so sharply drawn as when I was here so many years ago. A few people came in the evening. Among the first to appear was Cardinal Vincenzo Vannutelli, whom I was delighted to see again. It is long since I have seen a cardinal in all the bravery of his red robes and large jewelled cross, and for the first time I felt as if I were back in old Rome. We had a nice talk and plunged into Moscow and all the coronation festivities. I told him I was very anxious to see the Pope, which he said could easily be arranged. Nisard, too, was charming—said I should have an audience spéciale as ancienne ambassadrice. I waited to see the cardinal go with all the usual ceremonies for a prince of the Church. Two big footmen with flambeaux and tall candles escorted him to his carriage. The cardinal came alone, which surprised me. I thought they always had an attendant—a sort of ecclesiastical aide-de-camp.

Saturday Marquise de Bailleul and I were received by the Queen. Our audience was at four. I went for her a little before. We drove straight to the Quirinal, the great entrance on the piazza. Two swell porters were at the door, but no guards nor soldiers visible anywhere. We went up the grand staircase, where there was a red carpet and plenty of flowers, but no servants on the steps. The doors of a large anteroom at the top of the stairs were open, and there were four footmen in powder, culottes, and royal red liveries, and three or four men in black. We left our wraps. I wore my grey velvet and Marquise de Bailleul was in black with a handsome sable cape (which she was much disgusted at leaving). We went at once into a large room, where the dame de palais de service was waiting for us. She had a list in her hand, came forward at once and named herself, Duchesse d'Arscoli, said she supposed I was Madame Waddington. I introduced Marquise de Bailleul. The gentleman also came up and said a few words. There were one or two other ladies in the room, evidently waiting their turn. In a few minutes the door into the next room opened and two ladies came out. The duchess went in, remained a second, then coming back, waved us in. She didn't come in herself, didn't announce us, and shut the door behind us. We found ourselves in a large, rather bare room, with no trace of habitation—I fancy it is only used for official receptions. The Queen was standing at a table about the middle of the room. She is tall, dark, with fine eyes and a pretty smile. We made our two curtseys—hadn't time for the third, as she advanced a step, shook hands, and made us sit down. The visit didn't last very long. I fancy she was rather tired, as evidently she had been receiving a good many people, and was probably bored at having to make phrases to utter strangers she might never see again. We had the usual royal questions as to our children. As I only had one child my conversation on that subject soon came to an end, but Marquise de Bailleul has three small ones, so she got on swimmingly. The Queen talked very prettily and simply about her own children, and the difficulty of keeping them natural and unspoiled; said people gave them such beautiful presents—all sorts of wonderful mechanical toys which they couldn't appreciate. One thing she said was rather funny—that the present they liked best was a rag doll the American Ambassadress had brought them from America.

As soon as we came out other people went in. I fancy all the strangers asked to the ball had to be presented first to the Queen. I think the London rule was rather simpler. There the strangers were always presented at supper, when the Princess of Wales made her "cercle."

We went to a ball in the evening at Baron Pasetti's (Austrian Ambassador to the Quirinal). They have a fine apartment in the Palazzo Chigi. I remembered the rooms quite well, just as they were in the old days when Wimpffen was Ambassador. The hall was most brilliant—all Rome there. The Pasettis are going away, and will be much regretted. I think he is rather delicate and has had enough of public life. I hadn't seen him since Florence, when we were all young, and life was then a succession of summer days—long afternoons in the villas, with roses hanging over the walls, and evenings on the balcony, with nightingales singing in the garden and the scent of flowers in the air, "der goldener Zeit der jungen Liebe" (the golden days of young love).

Sunday Bessie and I went to the American church. Dr. Nevin is still away. The church is large, but was quite full—there are evidently many Americans in Rome. The great mosaics over the altar were given by Mrs. Field.

    Wednesday, February 17th.

Monday night we went to the court ball. It was very amusing, but extraordinarily simple, not to say democratic. Bessie and I went together early, so as to get good seats. If I hadn't known we were going to the palace I should have thought we had made a mistake in the house. The square of the Quirinal was so quiet, almost deserted—no troops nor music, nor crowd of people looking on and peering into the carriages to see the dresses and jewels—no soldiers nor officials of any kind on the grand staircase. Some tall cuirassiers and footmen in the anteroom—no chamberlains nor pages—nothing like the glittering crowd of gold lace and uniforms one usually sees in the anteroom of a palace. We walked through two or three handsome rooms to the ball-room, where there were already a great many people. The room is large, high, but rather too narrow, with seats all round. There was no raised platform for the court—merely a carpet and two large gilt arm-chairs for the King and Queen and a smaller one for the Comte de Turin. It was amusing to see all the people coming in, the different uniforms and jewels of the women giving at once an air of court. The entrance of the royal cortège was quite simple. They played the "Marcia Reale," which I don't at all care for. It is a frivolous, jumpy little tune, not at all the grave, dignified measure one would expect on such an occasion. There were no chamberlains walking backward with their great wands of office in their hands. The master of ceremonies, Count Gianotti, looking very well in his uniform and broad green ribbon, came first, and almost immediately behind him the King and Queen, arm in arm, the Count of Turin, and a small procession of court functionaries. The Queen looked very well in yellow, with a splendid tiara. She took her seat at once; the King and Comte de Turin remained standing. What was charming was the group of young court ladies who followed the Queen—tall, handsome women, very well dressed. There was no "quadrille d'honneur," none of the royalties danced. The dancing began as soon as the court was seated—any little couple, a young lieutenant, an American, any one, dancing under the nose of the sovereigns. The Queen remained sitting quite alone, hardly speaking to any one, through three or four dances; then there was a move, and she made her "cercle," going straight around the room, and speaking to almost every one. The King made no "cercle," remained standing near the "corps diplomatique," who were all massed on one side of the thrones (or arm-chairs). He talked to the ambassadors and étrangers de distinction (men—they say he rarely speaks to a woman). We all moved about a little after the Queen had passed, and I found plenty of old friends and colleagues to talk to. Neither the Russian Ambassador, Prince Ourousoff, nor any of his staff were present, on account of the war.

Tuesday it poured all the morning, so I didn't get my usual walk, and I tried to put some sort of order in our cards, which are in a hopeless confusion. The unfortunate porter is almost crazy. There are four of us here (as Madame de Bailleul's cards and invitations also come here), all with different names, and it must be impossible not to mix them.

It stopped raining in the afternoon and Josephine and I walked up to Palazzo Brancaccio after tea, to ask about Bessie, who has been ill ever since her ball. The streets were full of people, a few masks (as it was Mardi Gras), but quite in the lower classes. I should think the Carnival was dead, as far as Society is concerned. We got very little information about Bessie—the porter would not let us go upstairs, said the Princess was in the country, or perhaps in Paris. It seems he is quite a character, well known in Rome. When Mr. Field was ill, dying, of course everybody went to inquire, which seemed to exasperate him, as he finally replied, "ma sì, è malato, va morire, ma lasciarlo in pace—perchè venir seccar la gente?" (yes, yes, he is ill, dying, but leave him in peace—why do you come and bore people?).

We stepped in at a little church on our way back, where a benediction was going on. It was brilliantly lighted, and filled with people almost all kneeling—princesses and peasants—on the stone floor. It was a curious contrast to the motley, masquerading crowd just outside.

    Thursday, 18th.

It is still showery and the streets very muddy to-day. This morning I made a solitary expedition to St. Peter's—armed with an Italian guide-book M. Virgo lent me (it was red, like Baedeker, so I looked quite the tourist). I went by tram—M. Virgo and the children escorted me to the bottom of the Via Tritone, and started me. The tramway is most convenient. We went through the Piazza di Spagna, across the Piazza del Popolo, and turned off short to the left. It was all quite different from what I remembered—a fine broad road (Lungo Tevere) (along the Tiber) with quantities of high, ugly modern buildings, "maisons de location," villas, and an enormous Ministère, I forget which one, Public Works, I think, which could accommodate a village. Some of the villas are too awful—fancy white stucco buildings ornamented with cheap statues and plaques of majolica and coloured marble. The tram stopped at the end of the piazza facing the church, but one loses the sense of immensity being so near. I saw merely the façade and the great stone perron. I wandered about for an hour finding my way everywhere, and recognising all the old monuments—Christina of Sweden, the Stuart monuments, the Cappella Julia, etc. There were quite a number of people walking about and sitting on the benches, or in the stalls of the little side chapels, reading their Baedekers. I came home in a botta for the sum of one franc. I wanted to cross the St. Angelo Bridge and see the crooked dirty little streets and low dark shops I remembered so well—and which will all disappear one day—with new quarters and all the old buildings pulled down. They were all there quite unchanged, only a little dirtier—the same heaps of decayed vegetables lying about in the corners, girls and women in bright red skirts and yellow fichus on their heads, long gold earrings, and gold pins in their hair, standing talking in the doorways, children playing in the gutter, a general smell of frittura everywhere. The little dark shops have no windows, only a low, narrow door, and the people sit in the doorway to get all the light they can for their work.

We paid some visits in the afternoon, winding up with Princess Pallavicini. Her beautiful apartment looked just the same (only there, too, is an ascenseur) with the enormous anteroom and suites of salons before reaching the boudoir, where she gave us tea. I remembered everything, even the flowered Pompadour satin on the walls, just as I had always seen it.

    Saturday, February 20th.

These last two days have been beautiful—real Roman days, bright blue sky, warm sun, and just air enough to be pleasant. Yesterday I trammed over again to the Vatican (a trolley car is an abomination in Rome, but so convenient). I wanted to see the statues and my favourite Apollo Belvedere, who hasn't grown any older in 24 years—the same beautiful, spirited young god. As I was coming downstairs I saw some people going into the garden from a side door, so I stepped up to the gardien, and said I wanted to go too. He said it was quite impossible without a permesso signed by one of the officers of the Pope's household. I assured him in my best Italian that I could have all the permessi I wanted, that I knew a great many people, was only here de passage and might not be able to come back another day, and that as I was alone he really might let me pass—so after a little conversation he chose a time when no one was passing, opened the door as little as he could and let me through. There were two or three parties being conducted about by guides, but no one took any notice of me, and I wandered about for some time quite happy. It is a splendid garden—really a park. I seemed to have got out on a sort of terrace (the carriage road below me). There were some lovely walks, with cypress and ilex making thick shade, and hundreds of camellias—great trees. The view toward Monte Mario was divine—everything so clear, hardly any of the blue mist that one almost always sees on the Campagna near Rome. The sun was too hot when I had to cross an open space, and I was glad to get back to the dark cypress walks. It was enchanting, but I think the most beautiful nature would pall upon me if I knew I must always do the same thing. I am sure Léon XIII. must have pined often for the green plains and lovely valleys around Perugia, and I don't believe the most beautiful views of the Alban hills tipped with snow, and pink in the sunset hues, will make up to the present Pope for the Lagoons of Venice and the long sweep of the Grand Canal to the sea.

    Tuesday, 23d.

Yesterday Josephine and I drove out to the meet at Acqua Santa, out of Porta San Giovanni. There were quantities of carriages and led horses going out, as it is one of the favourite meets—you get out so soon into the open country. There was such a crowd as we got near that we got out and walked, scrambling over and through fences. It was a much larger field than I had ever seen in Rome—many officers (all in uniform) riding, and many women. The hounds broke away from a pretty little olive wood on a height, and stretched away across a field to two stone walls, which almost every one jumped. There were one or two falls, but nothing serious. They were soon out of sight, but we loitered on the Campagna, sitting on the stone walls, and talking to belated hunters who came galloping up, eager to know which way the hunt had gone.

Sunday we had a party and music at the French Embassy (Vatican). Diemor played beautifully, so did Teresina Tua. When they played together Griegg's sonata for piano and violin it was enchanting. All the Black world was there, and a good many strangers.

    Thursday, February 25th.

We dined last night at the Wurts', who have a charming apartment in one of the finest old palaces (Anticci Mattei) in Rome. The staircase beautiful, most elaborately carved, really reminded me of Mont St. Michel. Their rooms are filled with all sorts of interesting things, the collection of years. The dinner was very pleasant—half Italian, half diplomatic.

I have just come in from my audience with the Pope. I found the convocation when I got home last night. Bessie was rather disgusted at not having received hers, as we had planned to go together; but she said she would come with me. She would dress herself in regulation attire—long black dress and black veil—and take the chance. We had a mild humiliation as we got to the inner Court. The sentries would not let us pass. We had the small coupé, with one horse, and it seems one-horse vehicles are not allowed to enter these sacred precincts. We protested, saying we had a special audience, and that we couldn't get out on the muddy pavement, but it was no use; they wouldn't hear of our modest equipage going in, so we had to cross the court—quite a large one, and decidedly muddy—on foot, holding up our long dresses as well as we could.

It seemed so natural to go up the great stone staircase, with a few Swiss guards in their striped red and yellow uniform standing about. We spoke to one man in Italian, asking him the way, and he replied in German. I fancy very few of them speak Italian. We passed through a good many rooms filled with all sorts of people: priests, officers, gardes nobles, women in black, evidently waiting for an audience, valets de chambre dressed in red damask, camerieri segreti in black velvet doublets, ruffs and gold chains and cross—a most picturesque and polyglot assemblage; one heard every language under the sun.

We were passed on from one room to another, and finally came to a halt in a large square room, where there were more priests, one or two monsignori, in their violet robes, and two officers. I showed my paper, one of the monsignori, Bicletis (maestro di Casa di Sua Santità), came forward and said the Pope was expecting me; so then I presented Bessie, explained that her name had been sent in at the same time with mine, and that if she could be admitted (without the convocation) it would be a great pleasure to both of us to be received together. He said there would be no difficulty in that.

While we were talking to him the door into the audience chamber was opened, and a large party came out—the Comte and Comtesse d'Eu and their sons, with a numerous suite. We had barely time to exchange a few remarks, as Monsignor Bicletis was waiting for us to advance. We found the Pope standing in the centre of rather a small room. The walls were hung with red damask, the carpet also was red, and at one end were three gold chairs. We made low curtseys—didn't kneel nor kiss his hands, being Protestants. He advanced a few steps, shook hands, and made us sit down, one on each side of him. He was dressed, of course, entirely in white. He spoke only Italian—said he understood French, but didn't speak it easily. He has a beautiful face—so earnest, with a fine upward look in his eyes; not at all the intellectual, ascetic appearance of Léo XIII., nor the half-malicious, kindly smile of Pius IX., but a face one would remember. I asked him if he was less tired than when he was first named Pope. He said, oh, yes, but that the first days were very trying—the great heat, the change of habits and climate, and the change of food (so funny, one would think there needn't be any great change between Rome and Venice—less fish, perhaps). He talked a little—only a little—about France, and the difficult times we were passing through; knew that I was a Protestant and an "old Roman"; asked how many years since I had been back; said: "You won't find the old Rome you used to know; there are many, many changes."

He was much interested in all Bessie told him about America and the Catholic religion in the States—was rather amused when she suggested that another American cardinal might perhaps be a good thing. He asked us if we knew Venice, and his face quite lighted up when we spoke of all the familiar scenes where he had spent so many happy years. He was much beloved in Venice. He gave me the impression of a man who was still feeling his way, but who, when he had found it, would go straight on to what he considered his duty. But I must say that is not the general impression; most people think he will be absolutely guided by his "entourage," who will never leave him any initiative.

As we were leaving I said I had something to ask. "Dica, dica, La prego" (Please speak), so I explained that I was a Protestant, my son also, but that he had married a Catholic, and I would like his blessing for my daughter. He made me a sign to kneel and touched my head with his hand, saying the words in Latin, and adding, "E per Lei et tutta la sua famiglia" (for you and all your family). He turned his back slightly when we went out, so we were not obliged to back out altogether.

We talked a few moments in the anteroom with Monsignor Bicletis, but he was very busy, other people going in to the Pope, so we didn't stay and went down to Cardinal Mery del Val's apartment. He receives in the beautiful Borgia rooms, with Pinturicchio's marvellous frescoes (there was such a lovely Madonna over one of the doors, a young pure face against that curious light-green background one sees so often in the early Italian masters). The apartment was comparatively modern—calorifère, electric light, bells, etc. While we were waiting the Comte and Comtesse d'Eu and their party passed through.

The Cardinal received us standing, but made us sit down at once. He is a tall, handsome homme du monde, rather English looking, very young. He told us he was not yet forty years old. He speaks English as well as I do (his mother was English), and, they tell me, every other language equally well. He seemed to have read everything and to be au courant of all that was said and thought all over the world. He talked a little more politics than the Pope—deplored what was going on in France, was interested in all Bessie told him about America and Catholicism over there. They must be struck with the American priests and bishops whom they see in Europe, not only their conception, but their practice of their religion is so different. I had such an example of that one day when we asked a friend of ours, a most intelligent, highly educated modern priest, to meet Monsignor Ireland. He was charmed with him—listened most intently to all he said, particularly when he was speaking of the wild life out West, near California, and the difficulty of getting any hold over the miners. (He started a music hall, among other things, to have some place where the men could go in the evenings, and get out of the saloons and low drinking-shops.) Our friend perfectly appreciated the practical energy of the monsignor, but said such a line would be impossible in France. No priest, no matter how high his rank, would be allowed such initiative, and the people would not understand.

He didn't keep us very long, had evidently other audiences, and not time to talk to everybody. I am very glad to have seen him. He is quite unlike any cardinal I have ever met—perhaps because he is so much younger than most of them, perhaps because he seemed more homme du monde than ecclesiastic; but I daresay that type is changing, too, with everything else in Rome. We had a most interesting afternoon. After all, Rome and the Vatican are unique of their kind.

    Friday, February 26th.

I had my audience from Queen Margherita alone this afternoon. Bessie and Josephine have already been. Her palace is in the Veneto (our quarter) and very near. It is a large, fine building, but I should have liked it better standing back in a garden, not directly on the street. However, the Romans don't think so. There are always people standing about waiting to see her carriage or auto pass out—they wait hours for a smile from their beloved Regina Margherita. I went up in an ascenseur—three or four footmen (in black) and a groom of the chambers at the top. I was ushered down a fine long gallery with handsome furniture and pictures to a large room almost at the end, where I found the Marquise Villa Marina (who is always with the Queen), the Duchesse Sforza Cesarini (lady in waiting), and one gentleman. There were three or four people in the room, waiting also to be received. Almost immediately the door into the next room opened, and the Duchesse Sforza waved me in (didn't come in herself). I had at once the impression of a charming drawing-room, with flowers, pictures, books, bibelots—not in the least like the ordinary bare official reception room where Queen Elena received us. The Queen, dressed in black, was sitting on a sofa about the middle of the room, and really not much changed since I had seen her twenty-four years ago at the Quirinal, when the present King was a little boy, dressed in a blue sailor suit. She is a little stouter, but her blonde hair and colouring just the same, and si grand air. She was most charming, talked in French and English, about anything, everything—asked about my sister-in-law, Madame de Bunsen, and her daughter Beatrice, whom she had known as a little girl in Florence. She is very fond of automobiling, so we had at once one great point of sympathy. She had read "The Lightning Conductor" and was much amused with it. We talked a little about the great changes in Rome. I told her about our visit to the Pope, and the impression of simplicity and extreme goodness he had made upon us. I can't remember all we talked about. I had the same impression that I had twenty-four years ago—a visit to a charming, sympathetic woman, very large-minded, to whom one could talk of anything.

    Sunday, 28th.

It has poured all day, but held up a little in the afternoon, so we went (all four) to see Cardinal Mathieu, who lives in the Villa Wolkonsky. He had asked us to come and walk in his beautiful garden (with such a view of the Aqueducts) but that was of course out of the question. He is very clever and genial, and was rather amused at the account we gave him of our discussions. We are two Catholics and two Protestants, and argue from morning till night—naturally neither party convincing the other. He told us we should go to the Vatican to-morrow—there was a large French pèlerinage which he presented. We would certainly see the Pope and perhaps hear him speak.

    Monday.

We had a pleasant breakfast this morning with Bebella d'Arsoli,[33 - Princess d'Arsoli, née Bella Brancaccio, granddaughter of Hickson Field.] in their beautiful apartment in his father's (Prince Massimo's) palace. The palace looks so black and melancholy outside, with its heavy portico of columns (and always beggars sitting on the stone benches under the portico) that it was a surprise to get into their beautiful rooms—with splendid pictures and tapestries. The corner drawing-room, where she received us, flooded with light, showing off the old red damask of the walls and the splendid ceiling. We went to see the Chapel after breakfast, where there are wonderful relics, and a famous pavement in majolica.

About 3 we started off for St. Peter's. We had all brought our veils with us, and retired to Bebella's dressing-room where her maid arranged our heads. We left a pile of hats which Bebella promised to send home for us, and took ourselves off to the Vatican, taking little Victoria Ruspoli with us, who looked quite sweet in her white dress and veil—her great dark eyes bright with excitement. We found many carriages in the court, as we got to the Vatican, and many more soldiers on the stairs, and about in the passages. The rooms and long gallery were crowded—all sorts of people, priests, women, young men, children (some very nice-looking people) all speaking French. We went at first into the gallery, but there was such a crowd and such a smell of people closely packed that we couldn't stay, and just as we were wondering what to do, Monsignor Bicletis came through and at once told us to come with him. He took us through several rooms, one large one filled with people waiting for their audience, into the one next the Pope's, who he said was with Cardinal Mathieu, and would soon pass. We were quite alone in that room, except for three or four priests. In a few moments the Pope appeared with Cardinal Mathieu and quite a large suite. The Cardinal, who had promised to present Madame de B. (there had been some delay about her convocation), came up to us at once. We all knelt as the Pope came near, and he named Madame de B. and little Victoria, who asked for his blessing for her brothers. He recognised me and Bessie, and said we were welcome always at the Vatican. He only said a few words to Madame de B. as he had a long afternoon before him. Cardinal Mathieu told us to follow them, so we closed up behind the suite, and followed the Pope's procession.

There must have been over a hundred people waiting in the next room, and it was an impressive sight to see them all—men, women, and children—kneel as the Pope appeared. Some of the children were quite sweet, holding out their little hands full of medals and rosaries to be blessed—almost all the girls in white, with white veils, like the little first communiantes in France. The Pope made his "cercle," speaking to almost every one—sometimes only a word, sometimes quite a little talk. We followed him through one or two rooms to the open loggia, which was crowded. We were very hot, but he sent for his cloak and hat. We waited some little time but the crowd was so dense—he would have spoken from the other end of the loggia—and we couldn't possibly have got through—so we came away, having had again a very interesting afternoon.

It is most picturesque driving around the back of St. Peter's and the Vatican. There are such countless turns and courts and long stretches of high walls with little narrow windows quite up at the top. Always people coming and going—cardinals' carriages with their black horses, fiacres with tourists looking eagerly about them and speaking every possible language, priests, women in black with black veils, little squads of Papal troops marching across the squares—and Italian soldiers keeping order in the great piazza. A curious little old world in the midst of the cosmopolitan town Rome has become.

    Rome, March 2d.