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

There are of course great changes since I have seen the Forum. They are excavating and working here all the time. The King takes a great interest in all that sort of work, and often appears, it seems, early in the morning and unexpectedly, when anything important is going on. The Basilica Julia (enormous) has been quite opened out since my day; and another large temple opposite is most interesting, with splendid bits left of marble pavement—some quite large squares of pink marble that were beautiful; and in various places quantities of coins melted and incrusted in the marble which looks as if the temple had been destroyed by a fire.

There was little shade anywhere. I hadn't the courage to walk in the sun as far as the Vestals' house, which is really most interesting. The recent excavations have brought to light so many rooms, passages, frescoes, etc., that the ordinary, every-day life of the Vestal Virgins has been quite reconstructed. One could follow them in their daily avocations. From where I was sitting I could see some of the great statues—some of the figures in quite good preservation, two of them holding their lamps. I found a nice square stone, and sat there lazily taking in the enchanting views on all sides—the Palatine Hill behind me, the Capitol on one side, on the other the three enormous arches of the Temple of Constantine; at my feet the Via Sacra running straight away to the Colosseum, the sky a deep, soft blue throwing out every line and bit of sculpture on the countless pillars, temples and arches that spring up on all sides. From a height, the Palatine Hill, for instance, the Forum always looks to me like an enormous cemetery—one loses the impression of each separate building or ruin. It might be a street of tombs rather than the busy centre of a great city.

There were plenty of people going about—bands of Cook's tourists being personally conducted and instructed. If the gentleman who explains Roman history gives the same loose rein to his imagination as the one we used to hear in Versailles conducting the British public through the Historical Portrait Gallery, the present generation will have curious ideas as to the deeds of daring and wonderful rule of all the Augustuses and Vespasians who have made the Palace of the Cæsars the keystone of magnificent and Imperial Rome; and again "unwritten history" will be responsible for many wonderful statements. However, I wasn't near enough to hear the explanations. People were still coming in when I left, and all the way home I met carriages filled with strangers.

We went out again rather late. I went for tea to Marchesa Vitelleschi, and before I came away Vitelleschi came in. I wanted to see him to thank him for sending me his book, a Roman novel, "Roma che se ne va."[34 - Rome which is disappearing.] It is very cleverly written, and an excellent picture of the Rome of 35 years ago, as we first knew it. I should think it would interest English and Americans very much, I wonder he hasn't translated it.

I found quite a party assembled in the little green salon when I got back—Don Guery, the Benedictine monk, who wishes to arrange a concert with Josephine for her charities, and M. Alphonse Mustel, who has just come from Paris with his beautiful organ. He arrived this morning early and hadn't yet found a room anywhere—all the hotels crowded. They say that for years they haven't had so many strangers for Holy Week. He is coming to play here Thursday afternoon.

We had a quiet evening, and after dinner Mr. Virgo read to us the book I am so mad about, "The Call of the Wild." He read extremely well, and I liked the book even better hearing it read. It is a marvellous description of that wild life in the Klondyke, and a beautiful poetical strain all through. The children listened attentively, were wildly interested, particularly when poor Buck was made to drag the sledge so heavily loaded, for his master to win his bet. We also want to read Cardinal Mathieu's article in the "Revue des Deux Mondes," "Les derniers jours de Léon XIII."; but we have so rarely a quiet evening, and in the daytime every one is out in the beautiful Roman sunshine.

We have all come upstairs early (ten o'clock) so I am profiting of a quiet hour to write, as I can't go to bed so early. This street is rather noisy. It is on the way to the station and some of the big hotels. Cabs and big omnibuses go through it all day and all night. I don't mind the noise. I rather like the roar of a big city—it means life.

    Thursday, March 31st.

It is pouring to-day, and we have been out all day. I went to church this morning, but didn't get too wet with a thick serge dress and umbrella; then to breakfast at the Grand Hotel with some friends, and an excursion to the Palace of the Cæsars in prospect, under the guidance of Mr. Baddeley, who is an authority on all Roman antiquities and a great friend of Boni's. It rained so hard when we were sitting in the Palm Garden for coffee, that it seemed impossible the drops shouldn't come through, and we looked to see if little puddles were not forming themselves on the floor under our chairs, but no, it was quite dry.

We started in shut carriages, thinking we would try for the Palace of the Cæsars, where we could get refuge, but it was shut, so we went on to San Giovanni in Laterano, and had an interesting hour wandering about the church. Our guide had old artistic Rome at his fingers' ends, and it certainly makes all the difference in seeing the curious old tombs and monuments when one has some idea as to who the people were, and what sort of lives they led. Mr. Baddeley said, like all the people who really live in Italy, that the summer was the time to see Rome; that no one could imagine what a Roman "festa" was unless he had seen one in the height of summer, when the whole population was out and in the streets all day and all night, in a frenzy of amusement. No priests were in the streets; a sort of tacit concession, or tolerance for just one or two occasions.

We came back here for tea, as M. Mustel had promised to play for us this afternoon, and Josephine had asked some of her friends. The organ sounded splendidly in her big music-room, where there is little furniture and no draperies to deaden the sound. He played of course extremely well, and brought out every sound of his instrument. Two preludes of Bach were quite beautiful; also the prelude of "Parsifal"—so much sound at times that it seemed an orchestra, and then again beautifully soft. We were all delighted with it.

People stayed rather late, but Bessie and I and Sir Donald Wallace, who had come to tea, started off to St. Peter's. It is the tradition in Rome to go to St. Peter's on Holy Thursday. In our time the whole city went—it was quite a promenade de société. I believe they do still, but we were rather late. The church looked quite beautiful as we drove up—brilliantly lighted, the big doors open, quantities of people going up the steps and through a double line of Italian soldiers into the church. The "Miserere" was over, but the chapel was still lighted, a good many people kneeling at the altar. The church was crowded, and every one pushing toward the grand altar, which was being washed. They were also exposing the relics from the two high balconies on each side of the altar. Many people were kneeling, and every now and then a procession came through the crowd of priests and choir-boys with banners, all chanting, and kneeling when they came near the altar—of course there was the usual collection of gaping, irreverent tourists, commenting audibly, and wondering if anybody really believed those were the actual nails that came out of the cross, or the thorn out of the Crown of Thorns, etc., etc., also "why are they making such a fuss washing their altar—why couldn't they do it this morning when no one was in the church."

We had some little difficulty in getting away, as the crowd was awful—getting worse every moment. It was beautiful when we did get out—the great Piazza quite black, a steady stream still pouring into the church. The lights from inside threw little bright spots on the gun-barrels and belts of the soldiers—the great mass of the Vatican quite black, with little lights twinkling high up in some of the windows.

I am decidedly tired and stiff—I think being rained upon all day and standing on damp pavements and in windy corners is rather a trial to any one with rheumatic tendencies—but I have enjoyed my day thoroughly, particularly the end at St. Peter's. It so reminded me of old times when we used to go to all the ceremonies, beginning with the "Pastorale" at Christmas time and finishing with the Easter Benediction and "Girandola."

We finished "The Call of the Wild" this evening, and now we must take something else. I should like the "Figlia di Jorio" of d'Annunzio. They say the Italian is quite beautiful, but the morals, I am afraid, are not of the same high order. I shall try and see it.

    Rome, Saturday, April 2, 1904.

It was bright yesterday, but cold. The snow was quite thick on the Sabine Hills—they looked beautiful as we drove out into the country through Porta San Giovanni before going to the church of Santa Croce in Jerusalemme, where Prince Colonna had asked us to come and see a curious ceremony—he himself carrying a cross at the head of a procession. Bessie and I with the two children and the dog (we would have left him in the carriage) tried to see some of the churches and hear some music, but there were such crowds everywhere that we couldn't get in, so we took a drive instead. There was such a crowd at Santa Croce that we couldn't have got anywhere near the altar if we hadn't had a card from Colonna; that took us into the Sagrestia where they gave us chairs, and we sat there some little time watching all the "neri" (Blacks) assemble. They proposed to show us the relics to while away the time, so we were taken up a very steep staircase, along a narrow short passage to a small room where they are kept. The priest lighted tapers, made his little prayer, and then unveiled his treasures. There were pieces of the Cross, a nail, St. Thomas's unbelieving finger, and the inscription on a piece of wood that was over the Cross, "Jesus King of the Jews." It was an old, blackened, almost rotten square, with the inscription in Latin, hardly legible, but the priest showed us some letters and numbers that were quite distinct.

When we got back again to the sacristy the procession was forming—a number of gentlemen dressed in black, with gold chains and crosses around their necks, and a long procession of monks, priests, and choristers. Colonna himself at the head, carrying quite simply a rather large wooden cross; all with tapers and all chanting. As soon as they had filed out of the sacristy we went upstairs again to a high balcony, from which we had a fine view of the church. It was packed with people, the crowd just opening enough to allow the procession to pass, which looked like a line of fire winding in and out. There was a short, simple service, and then all turned toward the balcony from where the relics were shown, every one in the church kneeling, as far as I could see. We came away before the end, and had great difficulty in getting through the crowd to our carriages.

This morning it was beautiful so we all started off early to the Wurts' Villa (old Sciarra Villa) on the Janiculum. Just as we crossed the bridge the bells rang out the Hallelujah (the first time they had rung since Wednesday). They sounded beautiful, so joyous, a real Easter peal. We had a delightful hour in the garden of the Villa. There were armies of workmen in every direction, and the place will be a perfect Paradise. There are fine trees in the garden, masses of rhododendrons, every description of palm, and of course flowers everywhere. The views were divine to-day—the Sabine Mountains with a great deal of snow, Soracte blue and solitary rising straight out of the Campagna, and the Abruzzi snow-topped in the distance. Mr. and Mrs. Wurts were there and showed us all the improvements they intend making.

After breakfast I walked about in the Via Sistina looking for some photographs. I wanted to find some of old Rome (at least Rome of 24 years ago) but that seemed hopeless. My artist friend had promised to look in some of his father's old portfolios and see what he could find, but he was not in a business frame of mind this afternoon. He was eating his dinner at his counter, his slouched hat on his head, which he didn't remove while I was talking to him. A young woman with her face tied up in a red fichu was stretched out on the floor behind the counter, sound asleep, her head on a pile of books; another over at the other end of the shop, her chair tilted back, talking sometimes to him and sometimes to people in the street. I suppose my eyes wandered to the one who was asleep, for he instantly said, "She is ill, tired, don't disturb her." He said he hadn't found any old photographs, only one rather bad and half-effaced of Pio IX. I said I wanted one of Antonelli. "E morto lui." I said I knew that, but he had lived however once, and not so very long ago, and had been a person of some importance. He evidently didn't think it worth while to continue that conversation, and had certainly no intention of looking for any photographs for me that day. It was "festa"—Easter Eve—and work was over for him until Monday morning, so I was really obliged to go, he wishing me "buon giorno" and "buona Pasqua" quite cheerfully, without getting up or taking off his hat.

I came in to tea, as Mustel was to play. We had about 40 people, and he was much pleased at the way in which every one listened, and appreciated his instrument. Of course he plays it divinely and brings out every sound. Josephine had asked the Marquise Villa Marina to come and hear him. He naturally wants very much to play for Queen Margherita (who is a very good musician and plays the organ herself), and if the Marquise makes a good report the Queen will perhaps send for him to play for her.

    Easter Sunday, April 3d.

It has been a beautiful day. Bessie and I went to the English church, which was crowded. We could only find seats quite at the bottom of the church, and those were chairs which had been brought in at the last moment. We went afterward to breakfast with the Wurts in their beautiful apartment. They had flowers everywhere (from their villa) and the rooms looked like a garden. We were quite a party—16—and stayed there talking and looking at everything until after three. Then we started for a drive. I wanted to go to the Protestant Cemetery and see the little mortuary chapel we built after father's death. Some one told me it was utterly uncared for, going to ruin. The gates were open as we drove up, a good many carriages waiting, and plenty of people walking about inside. It is a lovely, peaceful spot, so green and still, many fine trees, quantities of camellias, and violets on almost every grave. The chapel stood just as I remembered it—in the middle of the cemetery. It is in perfectly good order, and had evidently been used quite lately as there were wooden trestles to support a coffin, and bits of wreaths and stalks of flowers lying about. The two inscriptions, Latin on one side and English on the other, are both quite well preserved and legible. I wanted very much to see a guardian or director of the cemetery, but there was only a woman at the gate, who knew nothing, hadn't been there very long, in fact she knew nothing about the chapel, and showed me a room opening into the old cemetery (where Keats is buried) which looked more like a lumber room than anything else. There are some interesting monuments, one to Mrs. Story, quite simple and beautiful, an angel kneeling with folded wings. It was done by her husband, the last thing he did, his son told me. The old cemetery looks quite deserted, close under the great pyramid of Caius Cestius, the few graves quite uncared for, a general air of neglect, a fitting resting-place for the poor young poet whose profound discouragement will go down to posterity. Every one goes to the grave and reads the melancholy inscription, "Here lies one whose name was writ in water."

It was such a lovely afternoon that we drove on to Tre Fontane. There, too, there were people. The churches were open, but there was no service going on; however the place has always a great charm. The tops of the eucalyptus trees were swaying in a little breeze, and the smell was stronger and more aromatic than when we were there the other day.

We have had a quiet evening, all of us, children and grown-ups, Protestants and Catholics, singing the English Easter Hymns. Josephine, who is a very strict Catholic, loves the English hymns, and certainly we can all sing "Christ the Lord is Risen To-day," for Easter is a fête for all the world. I am sorry I didn't go to St. Peter's this morning. I don't know that there was any special ceremony, but for the sake of old times I should have liked to have had my Easter and Hallelujah there.

I am writing rather under difficulties as the telephone is ringing furiously (it goes all day, as every one in the house uses it for everything). At the present moment Josephine seems conversing with "all manner of men"—the Marquise Villa Marina from the Queen's Palace, the padrone of the hotel where Mustel is staying, and one or two others. It seems Queen Margherita would like to have Mustel and his organ to-morrow night at the Palace; and has asked us three, Bessie, Josephine and me, to come. I am very glad for Mustel who wants so much to be heard by the Queen. He hopes to sell some of his organs here. They are not expensive, but so few people care about an organ of their own.

    Wednesday, April 6th.

We had an interesting evening at the palace on Monday. I couldn't get there for the beginning, as I had a big dinner, and a very pleasant one, at the Iddings'. When I arrived I heard the music going on, but the Marquise de Villa Marina came to meet me in the corridor, and we walked up and down talking until the piece was over. I found a small party—the Queen, her mother, the Duchess of Genoa, and about fifteen or twenty people. The Queen was in black, with beautiful pearl necklace. She received me charmingly and was most kind and gracious to Mustel, saying she was so pleased to see a French artist, and taking great interest in his instrument. He played several times: Handel's grand aria, Bach, and the Marche des Pèlerins from "Tannhäuser," which sounded magnificent—quite an effect of orchestra.

About 11.30 there was a pause. The Duchess of Genoa came over and talked to me a little, saying she had known my husband and followed his career with great interest, his English origin and education making him quite different from the usual run of French statesmen. She also spoke of my sister-in-law, Madame de Bunsen, whom she had known formerly in Florence. She exchanged a few words with the other ladies, and then withdrew, the Queen and her ladies accompanying her to her apartments. We remained talking with the other guests until Queen Margherita came back. She asked Mustel to play once more—and then we had orangeade, ices, and cakes. There was a small buffet at one end of the drawing-room. It was quite half-past twelve when the Queen dismissed us. We had a real musical evening, pleasant and easy.

It was beautiful this morning, so I went for a turn in the Villa Borghese, which is a paradise these lovely spring days; only the getting to it is disagreeable. It is a hot, glaring walk up the Via Veneto, not an atom of shade anywhere until one gets well inside the grounds. I was walking about on the grass quite leisurely, and very distraite, not noticing any one, when I heard my name. I turned and saw two ladies making signs to me from the other side of the road, so I squeezed through a very narrow opening in the fence, and found myself with the grand duchess and her lady-in-waiting, who were taking their morning walk. We strolled on together. She asked me if I always came to the villa in the morning. I said "No," I often went shopping in the morning, and told her about my photographer of the Via Sistina and the difficulty of getting a photograph of Antonelli. She instantly said: "Oh, but I can help you there, if you really would like a photograph of Antonelli. I have a fine portrait of him that was painted for my beau-père. It is in the palace at Weimar, and I will give orders at once for the court photographer to go and copy it." I was much pleased, as I do want the photograph and was rather in despair at not having found one. It seemed incredible to me, until I had asked a little, that there should be nothing of Antonelli. After all, it isn't very long since he played a great part here, so it was a most fortunate rencontre for me this morning. We parted at the gate—I walked home and she got into her carriage.

    Friday, April 7th.

We made a pleasant excursion yesterday to San Gregorio, the Brancaccios' fine place beyond Tivoli. The day unluckily was grey, looked as if it would pour every minute, we had none of the lovely lights and shades that make the Campagna and the hills so beautiful. We went out in Camillo Ruspoli's automobile, a Fiat, Italian make, strong and fast. The road is not particularly interesting until one begins the steep ascent to Tivoli; then looking back the view of course was beautiful. We didn't have much time to admire it, for the auto galloped up the steep hill as if it were nothing. After Tivoli the road goes straight up into the Sabine hills, winding and narrow, with very sharp corners, which we swung round quite easily certainly, as Ruspoli managed his carriage perfectly—but still the road was narrow and steep—hills rolling away on one side, a precipice and deep valley on the other, no wall nor parapet of any description, and it was absolutely lonely. If anything had broken, or an animal crossed our road suddenly, and made us swerve, I don't think anything could have saved us.

The castle looked very imposing as we came up to it, an enormous mass, the village built into the castle walls, standing high on the top of a hill. The flag was flying, all the population, wildly excited (another automobile had arrived before us), were massed at the gates, the drawbridge down, and Bessie and her husband waiting for us, also the Bishops who had come in their auto. We took off some of our coats, but not all, as the rooms are so enormous that it was cold, notwithstanding a great fire in the big hall. We had an hour before breakfast, so they showed us the house which is magnificent, with the most divine views on all sides from all the balconies, corner windows, etc. It is beautifully furnished, perfectly comfortable. I couldn't begin to describe it—one couldn't take it all in in a flying visit. There are several complete apartments with dressing-rooms, bath-rooms, etc., so curious to see so much modern comfort and luxury inside this grim old castle on the top of a rock far back in the Sabine hills.

It was very cold—I kept on my thick coat. There are balconies and little bridges connecting towers, high terraces, staircases in every direction—quite bewildering. We breakfasted in the large dining hall, and it was pleasant to see the enormous logs, and to hear the crackling and spluttering of a big fire. There are some fine Brancaccio portraits, in the curious old-world court dress of the Neapolitan ladies of the last century. They gave us an excellent breakfast, with a turkey bred and fattened at the olive farm (it seems these olive-fed turkeys are their specialty). We did some more sight-seeing after breakfast, bachelor apartments principally, such curious old niches and steep, narrow little staircases (we could only pass single file) cut in the thick walls, and then started off to drive and walk in the park. They had two nice little two-wheeled carts, with stout ponies, just the thing for rough wood driving. The park is charming—long green alleys with beautiful views—the country all around rather stony and barren, no shade as there are few trees. We hadn't time to go to the olive farm, which I was sorry for, as the people were all working there picking the olives. I should have liked to see the women with their bright skirts and corsets making a warm bit of colour in the midst of the grey-green olive groves.

We started home rather sooner than we had intended, as the sky was getting blacker, and a few drops already falling. We were in an open automobile, and should have been half drowned going home if it had begun to rain hard. We went back at a frightful pace. If I found the coming up terrifying you can imagine what the descent was, flying around the corners, and seeing the steep road zigzagging far down below us. I heard smothered exclamations ("Oh, mon petit Camillo, pas si vite") occasionally from Bessie, and I think Josephine was saying her prayers—however we did get home without any accident or "panne" of any kind, and Ruspoli assured us he had crawled out of consideration for us.

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.