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

    Tuesday, March 30, 1880.

It is much pleasanter to-day—quite Spring-like, and the Piazza is full of people. I have drawn my little writing table close up to the window, and I am afraid my correspondence will suffer, as there is always so much to see. Almost all the little botte have departed, in fact W., who has just started off with Visconti for the Vatican to look at the coins, took the last one. Cook's two big omnibuses have also just started for Tivoli—crammed. Some of the people dashed into Nazzari's, and reappeared with little paper bags, filled evidently with goodies.

Yesterday W. and I breakfasted again at the Noailles', and they took us over the palace (Farnese) which is quite splendid, such enormous rooms and high ceilings. The great gallery with the famous Carracci frescoes looked beautiful in the daylight, and we saw them much better. The colours are still quite wonderful, hardly faded, some of the figures so graceful and life-like. Madame de Noailles' bed-room and dressing-room are huge. The enormous bedstead hardly took up any room at all. She said it took her some little time to accustom herself to such very spacious apartments, she almost had the impression of sleeping in the streets.

We went for a drive afterward out of Porta Maggiore to look at the Baker's tomb—do you remember it, a great square tomb with rows of little cells? We wandered about on foot for some time, looked at the bits that remain of the old Roman road, and then drove out some distance toward the arches of the Claudian Viaduct. It is the road we shall take when we go to Tivoli. It was not quite clear, so the hills hadn't the beautiful colour they have when the sun is on them—but the grey atmosphere seems to suit the Campagna, which is after all a long stretch of barren, desolate country broken at intervals by the long lines of aqueducts—every now and then a square tower standing out straight and solitary against the sky, and hardly visible until one comes close upon it, and a few shepherds' huts, sometimes with a thatched roof, sometimes what remains of an old tomb, with a dried-up old woman apparently as old as the tomb spinning in the doorway. We met very few vehicles of any description.

We dined at the Palazzo della Consultà where Cairoli, Foreign Minister, lives. There were not many women—Madame de Noailles, Gert, Madame de Sant' Onofrio (wife of one of Cairoli's secretaries), and quantities of men. They divided the honours—Cairoli took in Madame de Noailles—Madame Cairoli, W. The Préfet of Rome, Gravina, took me and put me on Cairoli's left. We all talked Italian, and I rather enjoyed myself. I told Gravina how much I preferred "Roma com' era," that the new buildings and the boulevards and the bustle and the quantities of people had spoiled the dear, dead, old Rome of our days—to which he replied "but you, Madame, are an American born, you surely can't be against progress." Oh, no, I like progress in my own country, but certainly not here. Rome was never intended to be modern and go-ahead—it didn't go with the monuments and the ruins and the traditions of old Rome. However he answered me quite seriously that not only every country, but every individual, must "marcher," or else they would "dépérir." Cairoli joined in the conversation, others too, and there was rather an interesting discussion as to how much could be left to sentiment, association of the past, etc., when an old historic city was being transformed into a busy, modern, political centre.

After dinner Madame Cairoli came and sat down by me, and was pleasant enough. She looked handsome—very wide awake—still continues to call me Madame la Comtesse, so I have given up correcting her. She is well up on all subjects, particularly art, music, pictures, etc. She was rather amusing over the state of society and all the great Roman ladies whom she didn't know (there is such a division between the Government people and the old Romans) but said she had a very pleasant entourage with all the diplomatists and the distinguished strangers (with a little bow to me) and really didn't notice the absence of the grandes dames. She asked me about my audience with the Queen—had we been able to talk to her at all. She had been so tired lately and nervous that any attempt at conversation was an effort. I told her that on the contrary she talked a great deal, and that I didn't find her changed.

Maffei came up and talked—asked me if I really liked Rome better as it used to be—I must surely prefer life to stagnation. He speaks English well, and likes to speak. They tell me that all the present generation of Romans speak English perfectly—much better than French. There was a small reception after dinner, some of the young diplomatists and political men. We came away early—10.30, and plunged into our Paris letters, of which we found quantities.

    Friday, April 2, 1880.

It is raining quite hard this morning, so I will write and not go out until after breakfast. Yesterday was beautiful, and we had a charming day at the races. I drove out with Madame de Wimpffen in her victoria—W. and Wimpffen together. I wore my brown cloth with the coat trimmed with gold braid and a great bunch of yellow roses on my hat, but I was sorry I hadn't sent for something lighter, as almost all the women were in white. I had thought of having two dresses sent by the "valise" (I hadn't time to have them sent by ordinary express). I consulted Noailles, who was very amiable, and said he would do what he could, but that the rules were very strict now for the "valise," as there had been such abuse. I rather protested, so he remarked with a twinkle in his eye that I had better speak to my husband, as he was the Minister who had insisted on a reform being made—he added that it was Princess Lise Troubetzkoi who made the final scandal—that when St. Vallier was French Ambassador to Berlin she was always sending things to Petersburg, via Berlin, by the "valise." When the "petit paquet" she had spoken of turned out to be a grand piano there was a row, and W., who was then Foreign Minister, decreed that henceforth no "paquets" of any kind that were not on official business could be sent by the "valise." I suppose a pink tulle ball dress would hardly come under that head.

The Queen was there looking very well and bright, dressed in light grey with a big black hat—very becoming. There were a great many pretty women. We came away before the end and drew up a little distance from the gate where a long string of carriages was waiting to see the Queen pass. The cortège was simple—first two dragoons, then a "piqueur" and her carriage with four horses, postillion and two servants behind in the scarlet liveries. The Countess Marcello was seated alongside of the Queen—two gentlemen (I couldn't make out who they were) facing her; a second carriage with two horses with two gentlemen in it followed, all very well turned out. The scarlet liveries make a great effect, one sees them from such a distance. The crowd was very respectful—not particularly enthusiastic. The Queen bowed right and left very prettily. I talked to lots of people at the races—among others to Madame Alphonse Rothschild who is here for a few days, and to Mesdames Somaglia, Rignano, Celleri, etc. I walked about a little with Sant' Asilea, but it was not easy to move—most of the ladies stayed quietly in the tribunes. We stopped at Nazzari's coming back and W. treated us all to tea—then we sent our carriage away as we wanted it at night for the Teano ball, and we walked about in the Corso, looking at all the turn-outs. The Teano four-in-hand was very handsome, and there were one or two others we couldn't make out which were very well turned out—some of the victorias, too, very smart, with handsome stepping horses. The Corso was full of people waiting to see the "retour"—it looked so gay. About eleven we went off to the Teano ball, which was most brilliant—all the société there. Again I was sorry I hadn't sent for another dress as my red satin looked heavy and wintry. Princess Teano in white, with a diamond tiara, looked charming. Of course all the young generation who were dancing were strangers to me, but I met many old friends. I had quite a talk with Doria who wanted to be introduced to W. whom he had not yet seen. We stayed until 1.30, and when we came away they were just beginning the cotillon. In the old days we used to arrive at the balls about 12.30 or 1 o'clock just so as to have one waltz before the cotillon which was usually the best of the evening, as all the serious people had gone, and the mammas were at supper fortifying themselves for the long hours before them, so the ball-room was comparatively empty and one could get a good turn.

    Saturday, April 3, 1880.

It is a beautiful morning, so was yesterday, an ideal Roman day—the sky so blue and just a soft little air that makes the awnings over the shops opposite flap lazily and indisposes one to any exertion. We walked about a little before breakfast, inspected the Fountain of Trevi where Neptune sits in state, looking at the rush of water falling over the rocks and splashing into the great marble basin. The water is beautifully clear, and sparkled and glistened in the sunlight. There were a good many people about—girls with pitchers on their heads, old men and women with pails and cans, all after water. The Trevi water is considered the best in Rome and is in great demand. We loitered about in the small narrow streets that branch off in every direction, always seeing something interesting. I think we lost our way as we found ourselves down by Trajan's Column and Forum, but we managed to get back to the Piazza di Spagna in good time for breakfast.

We started again in the afternoon for tea at the Farnesina Palace with the Duke di Ripalda. We stopped at the Farnese Palace to pick up Madame de Noailles, who was coming too, and we had a charming afternoon. Ripalda took us all over the Palace, and W. was delighted with the frescoes, particularly Sodoma's. The garden was lovely, though they have cut off a great piece for their quays and works along the river. They are enlarging the Tiber, making great walls, etc. The City of Rome gave Ripalda a large sum of money, but he is much disgusted as it had taken a good bit off his garden. More people came in—the wife of the Peruvian Minister, a very pretty woman, and one or two men. We had tea in the long gallery with all Raphael's and Carracci's beautiful gods and cupids over our heads. How many different scenes they must have looked down on—not always so peaceful as this quiet party.

    Saturday evening, April 3, 1880, 10 p.m.

We went to the German Embassy on our way home to write ourselves down for the German Crown Princess, who had just arrived there for a short stay. I hope I shall see her—W. admires her so much. He saw her often when he was in Berlin for the Congress, and found her most sympathetic and charming. Turkam Bey came in just before dinner and had a great deal to say about the Khedive, and what France would have done if he had resisted, retired up the country, and obliged the French and English to depose him by force. It was evident that the suite had been talking to him, and talking very big—he was very anxious to have a categorical answer. W. said very quietly they had never considered that emergency, as it was quite evident from the beginning that the Khedive had no intention of resisting. "Cependant, monsieur, s'il avait voulu," etc., so W. could only repeat the same thing—that they had never been anxious on that point.

We dined quietly at home, and in the course of the evening there came a note from Keudell, the German Ambassador (whom we don't either of us know), saying that "par ordre de Son Altesse Impériale la Princesse Héréditaire d'Allemagne" he had the honour to ask M. and Madame Waddington to dine to-day at 7.30 at the Embassy "en petit comité." We should find a small party—the Wimpffens and Pagets. The Princess only arrived on Thursday, and W. is much pleased that she should have thought of us at once. Keudell has been ill with gout ever since we have been here. We have never once seen him, but various people told W. he regretted so much not seeing him, that the other day we tried to find him, but the porter said he was still in his room.

    Sunday, April 4, 1880.

Our dinner was charming. I was not a bit disappointed in the Princess. W. had talked so much about her that I had rather made up my mind I should find her very formal and German—and she isn't either one or the other. We left a little after seven (I wearing black satin). I am so bored with always wearing the same dresses. If I had had any idea we should go out every night I should have brought much more, but W. spoke of "a nice quiet month in Rome, sight-seeing and resting." We were the first to arrive. Keudell was at the door, introduced himself, and took us into the large salon, where Madame Keudell was waiting. She looked slight and rather delicate, and he really ill, so very white. He said he had had a long, sharp attack of gout—had not been out for some time, and was in the salon for the first time the day the Princess arrived. While we were waiting for the others to come he showed us the rooms and pictures. I recognised at once one of those pretty child's heads by Otto Brandt like the one we have. He was much interested in knowing that we had bought one so long ago, he thought Brandt had so much talent. There was a grand piano, of course, as he is a fine musician. The Pagets and Wimpffens came together almost, and as soon as they were there the Princess came in. She had one lady with her and a "chambellan"—Count Seckendorff. She was dressed in black, with a handsome string of pearls. She is short, and rather stout, carries herself very well and moves gracefully. We all made low curtseys—the men kissed her hand, Sir Augustus Paget just touching the floor with his knee, the first time I had seen a man kneel to any one in a salon. She received W. most charmingly, and was very gracious to me—asked me at once why I didn't accompany my husband to Berlin. I said, "Principally because he didn't want me," which was perfectly true. He said when he was named Plenipotentiary that it was all new ground to him, that he would have plenty to do, and didn't want to have a woman to look after. He rather protests now, but that is really what he said, and I certainly didn't go. The dinner was pleasant enough. The Princess talked a great deal, and as the party was small, general conversation was quite easy. The talk was all in French, which really was very amiable for us—we were the only foreigners present, and naturally if we hadn't been there every one would have spoken German. After dinner she made a short "cercle," standing in the middle of the room, all of us around her, then made a sign to W. to come and talk to her, sat down on the big sofa, he on a chair next, and they talked for about half an hour. We all remained standing. I asked Keudell about his piano. He told me that he liked the Erard grand very much, but that they didn't stand travelling well. In a few moments the Princess told us all to sit down, particularly Keudell, who looked quite white and exhausted. I sat by Madame Keudell, and as she is very fond of Italy, and Rome in particular, we got on very well. When the Princess had finished her talk with W. she came over and sat down by me—was most charming and easy. She has the Queen's beautiful smile, and such an expressive face. We spoke English; she asked me if I had become very French (I wonder?)—that she had always heard American women were so adaptable, taking at once their husband's nationality when they married foreigners. She had always remained very fond of England and English ways—the etiquette and formality of the German Court had tried her at first. She asked me, of course, how many children I had—said one was not enough. "If anything should happen to him, what would your life be?" and then spoke a great deal about the son she lost last summer by diphtheria, said he was the most promising of all her children, and she sometimes thought she never could be resigned. I said that her life was necessarily so full, she had so many obligations of all kinds, had so many to think about, that she would be taken out of herself. "Ah, yes, there is much to do, and one can't sit down with one's sorrow, but the mother who has lost her child carries a heavy heart all her life." It was all so simply said—so womanly. She said she was very glad to meet W. again, thought he looked very well—was sure the change and rest were doing him good. She regretted his departure from the Quai d'Orsay and public life generally. I told her he was still a Senator, and always interested in politics. I didn't think a few months' absence at this time would affect his political career much, and that he found so much to interest him that he really didn't miss the busy, agitated life he had been leading for so long. She said she intended to spend a quiet fortnight here as a tourist, seeing all she could. She then talked to all the other ladies, and about ten said she was tired and would go to her own rooms. She shook hands with the ladies, the men kissed her hand, and when she got to the door she turned and made a very pretty curtsey to us all. We stayed on about a quarter of an hour.

The Wimpffens have arranged a dinner for her on Thursday (to which she said she would like to have us invited), just the same party with the addition of the Minghettis. As we were going on to Madame Minghetti's reception, Countess Wimpffen asked us to tell them to keep themselves disengaged for Thursday, as she wanted them for dinner to meet the Princess—she would write, of course, but sent the message to gain time. They brought in tea and orangeade, and I talked a little to Count Seckendorff—he speaks English as well as I do. He told me the Princess was quite pleased when she heard W. was here, and hoped to see him often. We hadn't the courage to stay any longer—poor Keudell looked ready to drop—and started off to the Minghettis'.

It was a beautiful, bright night, and the Capitol and all its surroundings looked gigantic, Marcus Aurelius on his big bronze horse standing out splendidly. We found a large party at Madame Minghetti's—principally political—not many women, but I should think every man in Rome. Alfieri, Visconti Venosta, Massari, Bonghi, Sella, Teano, etc. It was evidently a "centre" for the intelligent, serious men of all parties. There was quite a buzz, almost a noise, of talking as we came in—rather curious, every one seemed to be talking hard, almost like a meeting of some kind. They were all talking about the English elections, which apparently are going dead against the Ministry. Minghetti said it was quite their own fault—a cabinet that couldn't control the elections was not fit to live. Of course their time was over—there was no use in even attempting a fight—they had quite lost their hold on the country. Madame Minghetti seems as keen about politics as her husband. She has many friends in England. I told her about the Wimpffen dinner—they will go, of course. She asked a great deal about the Princess—said she was very glad she had decided to come to Rome, that she couldn't help being interested and distracted here, which she needed, as she was so upset by her son's death. We talked music—she sings very well—and we agreed to sing together some afternoon, perhaps at the German Embassy, as Keudell is a beautiful musician and loves to accompany.

Mrs. Bruce was there and I sat down by her a little while, looking at the people. She pointed out various political swells, and a nice young Englishman (whose name I didn't catch) joined us, saying he wished he understood Italian, as it was evident the group of men around Minghetti was discussing English politics, and he would so like to know what they were saying. Mrs. Bruce told him it was just as well he didn't understand, as, from the echoes that came to her, she didn't believe it was altogether complimentary to John Bull. I don't believe political men of any nationality ever approve any ministry. It seems to me that as soon as a man becomes a cabinet minister, or prominent in any way, he is instantly attacked on all sides.

We didn't stay very long, as we had promised to go for a few moments to the Farnese Palace, where the Noailles had also a reception. I had some difficulty in extracting W. from the group of men. He naturally was much interested in all the talk, and as almost all the men were, or had been ministers, their criticisms were most lively. They appealed to him every now and then, he having been so lately in the fray himself, and he was a funny contrast with his quiet voice and manner to the animated group of Italians, all talking at once, and as much with their hands as with their tongues.

It was very late—after eleven—but we thought we would try for the Noailles, and there were still many carriages at the door when we drove up. We met so many people coming away, on the stairs and in the long anteroom, that it didn't seem possible there could be any one left, but the rooms were quite full still. The palace looked regal—all lighted—and there were enough people to take away the bare look that the rooms usually have. They are very large, very high, and scarcely any furniture (being only used for big receptions), so unless there are a great many people there is a look of emptiness, which would be difficult to prevent. Madame de Noailles was no longer at the door, but I found her seated in the end room with a little group of ladies, all smoking cigarettes, and we had an agreeable half hour. Madame Visconti Venosta was there, and another lady who was presented to me—Madame Pannissera, wife of one of the "grand-maîtres de cérémonie" at court. W. was at once absorbed into the circle of men, also talking politics, English elections, etc., but he was ready to come away when I made the move. Noailles insisted upon taking me to the buffet, though I told him I had done nothing but eat and drink since 7.30 (with a little conversation thrown in). It was rather amusing walking through the rooms and seeing all the people, but at 12.30 I struck. I really was incapable of another remark of any kind.

I will finish this very long letter to-day. I wonder if you will ever have patience to read it. I am sure I shouldn't if it were written to me. I hope I shall remember all the things I want to tell when we get back—so much that one can't write. My black satin was right—the Princess was in mourning, the other ladies equally in black. W. wants me to be photographed in the black dress and long veil I wore at the Pope's audience. He found it very becoming, and thinks Francis ought to have one; but it is so difficult to find time for anything.

    Saturday, April 10, 1880.

We had a nice musical evening the other night at Gert's. All the vieille garde turned up, Vera, Malatesta, Del Monte (with his violoncello), and Grant. We sang all the evening, and enjoyed ourselves immensely. I was sorry Edith Peruzzi couldn't come, as she sings so well, and it would have been nice to have another lady. She has been nursing her mother, who has been ill (so ill that they sent for Edith to come from Florence), but she is getting all right now, and I don't think Edith will stay much longer. Charles de Bunsen has arrived for a few days. We took for him a room at our hotel, and we have been doing all manner of sight-seeing. Thursday morning we went to the Accademia of San Luca, where we had not yet been. It was rather interesting, but there is much less to see than in the other galleries. There are some good busts and modern pictures—a pretty Greuze.

Our dinner at the Wimpffens' was very pleasant. We arrived very punctually at 7.20 and found the Keudells already there. He told us the Princess was very tired, she had been all day in the galleries standing, looking at pictures, and he didn't think she would stay late. He still looked very tired and pale, but said he was much better and that the royal visit did not tire him at all. The Princess was very considerate and went about quite simply with her lady and Count Seckendorff. The other guests arrived almost immediately—the Pagets, Minghettis, Gosselins of the British Embassy, and Maffei, Under-Secretary of the Foreign Office. About a quarter to eight the Princess arrived with her lady and chamberlain, she was dressed in black, with a long string of pearls. We went at once to dinner (which was announced as she entered the room), Wimpffen of course taking the Princess, who had Minghetti on her other side. Sir Augustus Paget took me, and I had Gosselin on the other side. W. sat next Countess Wimpffen. The talk was easy and animated, quite like the other day at the Palazzo Caffarelli (German Embassy). The Princess talked a great deal to Minghetti, principally art, old Rome, pictures, etc.—she herself draws and paints very well. After dinner she sat down at once (said she didn't usually mind standing, but the long days in the galleries tried her), made us all sit down, and for about half an hour she was most charming, talking about all sorts of things, and keeping the conversation general. When she had had enough of female conversation she said something in a low tone to Lady Paget, who got up, crossed the room to where W. was standing, and told him the Princess wished to speak to him. He came at once, of course—she made him sit down, and they talked for a long time. She is naturally a Protestant, but very liberal, and quite open to new ideas. She was much interested in French Protestants—had always heard they were very strict, very narrow-minded, in fact, rather Calvinistic. She kept W. until she went away, early—about ten—as she was tired. She has an extraordinary charm of manner. Her way of taking leave of us was so pretty and gracious. She dines quietly at the British Embassy to-morrow night, and when Lady Paget asked her who she would have, said: "Cardinal Howard and Mr. Story." She wants to see all manner of men.

Yesterday we made our first excursion to Frascati, and most unpleasant it was. We had chosen our day so as to have Charles Bunsen with us, and one also when we had nothing in the evening, as one is so tired after being out all day. We started about 9—in the carriage—W. and I, Gert and Charles. It looked grey (was perfectly mild) and rather threatening, but the hotel man and coachman assured us we should have no rain—merely a covered day which would be more agreeable than the bright sun. Schuyler promised to come out by train for breakfast. The drive out was delicious, out of the Porta San Giovanni, the whole road lined with tombs, arches, ruined villas, always the aqueducts on one side, and the blue hills directly in front of us. The sun came out occasionally through little bits of white clouds, and the Campagna looked enchanting, almost alive. We passed close to the Osteria del Pino—where the meet used to be often in old hunting days. It was so familiar as we drove up the steep hill and recognised all the well-known places—the Pallavicini villa at the side of the road, half-way up the hill; the Torlonia gardens, and the gateway of the funny little town. We went straight to the hotel, the same one as in our day, Albergo di Londra (that shows what a haunt of "forestieri" it is), ordered breakfast, and then sallied out for a walk.

The little piazza before the hotel was filled with donkeys and boys, all clamouring to us to have a ride, expatiating on the merits of their beasts, and making a perfect uproar. We explained to the porter that we wanted beasts of some description to go up to Tusculum, and he said he would arrange it for us. However, the boys pursued us to the gate, dragging their donkeys after them. We went first to the Palazzo Marconi, which is just outside the gates opposite the Torlonia villa. I wanted so much to see the old house again, it was inhabited by a Russian family, and at first there seemed some little difficulty about getting in, but W. sent in his card, and after a little parley a servant appeared and took us all over the house, except the dining-room where the family were breakfasting. It looks exactly the same—only much more neglected and uninhabited. The broken steps were more broken, the bright paint more faded, and the look of discomfort much accentuated. I showed W. the room where father died. It looked much more bare and empty, but the pink walls were still there, and the door open giving on the terrace. How it brought back those long, hot nights when we tried to hope—knowing quite well there was no chance—but never daring to put the fear into words. W. was much struck by the lonely, desolate look of the whole place. The little salon which we had made so comfortable with tables, rugs, and arm-chairs brought from Rome, looked perfectly bare—no furniture except one or two red velvet benches close to the wall, and rather an ugly marble table with nothing on it. The big round salon with its colossal statues in their marble niches and the marble benches, was exactly the same—only no piano. We went through the bed-rooms at the other end (our three), the marble bath still in the middle one, which used to be Henrietta's, but there was no trace of occupation, neither beds, washing apparatus, tables, nor chairs. I suppose the "locataires" live in the two rooms at the other end. There wasn't much furniture there, but I did see some beds. We went out into the little raised garden behind the big statue, but it was a wild waste of straggling vines and weeds. It was rather sad—nothing changed and yet so different.

I explained our life to W.—our morning or evening rides, our music, which was enchanting in the big salon—so mysterious, just a little glow of light around the piano and other instruments, and the rest of the great room almost dark, the white statues looking so huge and grim in the half light. I was rather nervous the first nights out here when I had to cross that room to go to mine with a very small Roman lamp in my hand—but I soon got accustomed to my surroundings, and it seemed quite natural to live our daily, modern life in that milieu of frescoes, marble statues, hanging gardens, and strangers. I tried to find some little flower in the mass of weeds in the garden, but there wasn't one, so I send these periwinkles and anemones picked in the Villa Torlonia, where we walked about for some time under the splendid old ilex trees.

Breakfast, a fairly good one, was ready when we got back to the hotel, but no Schuyler. I think he was a wise man and foresaw what was going to happen. Quite a number of strangers had come out by train—all English and American, no one we knew—and the table-d'hôte was quite full. As soon as the gentlemen had had their coffee, about 1.30, we started for Tusculum, Gert and I on donkeys with two pretty, chattering Italian boys at their heads—Bunsen on a stout little mountain pony, and W. on foot. He wouldn't hear of a donkey, and preferred to walk with the guide. We climbed up the steep little path, between high walls at first, then opening out on the hillside to the amphitheatre, which we saw quite well. The arena and seats are very well preserved. There are still rows of steps, slippery and green with moss. We went on again toward Cicero's Villa, and for a moment the clouds cleared a little, and we saw what the view might be straight over the Campagna to Rome (the dome of St. Peter's just standing out—on one side the hills with the little villages where we have ridden so often, Monte Compatri, Monte Porzio, the Campi d'Annibale and Monastery of Monte Cave in the distance). I wonder if the old monk would tell us to-day what one did years ago, when we were standing on the terrace looking at the magnificent view: "Quando fa bel tempo si può vedere le montagne d'America" (When it is fine one can see the mountains of America). I thought it was rather pretty, his eagerness to make us understand what an extended view one had from his mountain top, and he probably didn't know where America was. However, our little gleam of sunlight didn't last—first came big drops, then a regular downpour, and in a few minutes a thick white mist closed around us, shutting out everything. We took refuge for a few moments under a sort of ruined portico, but the rain came down harder, and we decided to give up Cicero's Villa, and turn our faces homeward.

The descent was neither easy nor pleasant—a steep little path with the donkeys slipping and stumbling, and the rain falling in buckets. I was wet through in ten minutes, as I was very lightly dressed in a white shirt and foulard skirt (having stupidly left my jacket at the hotel as it was very warm when we started). Gert was better off, as she had her tweed dress. I shan't soon forget that descent, and as we passed Mondragone—the Borghese Palace—we had thunder and lightning, which didn't add to my comfort—however, the donkeys didn't mind. I was wet to the skin when we arrived at the hotel, and had to undress entirely and go to bed wrapped up in a blanket. The chambermaid lighted a fire in the room, and she and Gert dried my clothes as well as they could, and I had a cup of hot tea. About 5 my things were fairly dry—Gert went shopping in the town, and bought me a piece of flannel which I put on under my corsage which was still damp. It rained a little when we started home, but cleared about half-way, and we had the most glorious sunset.

It was too bad to have fallen upon such a day, and I am afraid we shan't have time to attempt it again. I was half tempted to stay at Frascati all night and try again the next morning, but the others thought it better to come home. I went to bed immediately after dinner, and feel quite well to-day—only a little stiff—the combined effect of the donkey and the damp.

    April 11, 1880.

Yesterday it rained hard all day, there was quite a little stream of water in the Piazza coming down from the Pincio. Certainly Rome needs sunshine, everything looked forlorn and colourless and everybody so depressed. The Spanish Steps were quite deserted, no models nor children galloping up and down. The coachmen of the fiacre-stand on the Piazza dripping and dejected on their boxes—nobody wanting carriages and very few people about. I really believe the Romans stay in when it rains. We didn't, of course, as our time is getting short, and the galleries are always a resource. We went off about 10 to the Vatican and spent two hours there. Charles de Bunsen was very glad to see it all again. We went first to the Cappella Paolina where there was not much to see—some frescoes of Michelangelo's, not very well preserved. It used to be so beautiful, Holy Week in Rome, when we were here before, brilliantly lighted for a silent adoration and filled with people kneeling and motionless.

Then we went on to the Cappella Sistina where there were a good many people taking advantage of a rainy day to do the Vatican. It wasn't at all dark—I don't know exactly why, for the rain was pouring straight down. The Last Judgment is an awful picture. I had forgotten Charon and his boat and the agonized faces of the people whom he is knocking back with his oar. Some of the faces were too terrible, such despair and suffering. I can't think why any artist ever chooses such subjects, one would think they would be haunted by their own conceptions.

We walked through the Stanze, I wanted to see the Deliverance of St. Peter; I remember so well the engraving that was in the dining-room at Bond Street, which I have sat opposite to so often. I used to be fascinated as a child with the Roman soldiers, particularly the one with a torch. We sauntered through the picture gallery looking at the beautiful Foligno Madonna, Communion of St. Jerome, and of course the Marriage of St. Catherine, and really my copy by the young German is good as I see the original again. We finished in the Galerie des Inscriptions where W. always finds odd bits of inscriptions which are wildly interesting to him. I think for the moment yellow-books and interpellations and the "peuple souverain" generally as represented in the Chambre des Députés are out of his head.

The sun came out bright and warm in the afternoon and we drove to the Villa Pamphili. We stopped at San Pietro in Montorio on our way. It is there that St. Peter is said to have been crucified. The view from the terrace is very fine—the whole of Rome at our feet stretching out over the Campagna to the Alban Hills. It was too early really for the view, as one ought to see it at sunset, when the hills take most beautiful rose blue tints and the Campagna looks vague and mysterious, not the long barren stretch of waste uncultivated land it is in the daylight.

We stopped again at the Fontana Paolina, looked at the rush of water that tumbles into the stone basin, and climbed up the Janiculum, every turn of the road giving the most enchanting view, out of the Porta San Pancrazio to the Villa Pamphili—all Rome apparently was doing the same thing; there were quantities of carriages. It was charming in the Villa—many people had got out of their carriages and were walking about in the shady alleys. It was a relief to get out of the sun. The stone pines of course are magnificent, but I think I like them best from a distance—from the terrace of the Villa Medici for instance they stand out splendidly. What is grand is the view of St. Peter's. It seems to stand alone as if there were no Rome anywhere near it. The dome rises straight up above the green of Monte Mario, and looks enormous.

We walked about the gardens with the queer, old-fashioned flower-beds and the little lake with a mosaic pattern at the bottom, and talked to quantities of people. The drive down was enchanting; the sun setting, clouds of every colour imaginable and a sort of soft "brume" that made every dirty little street (and there are many in Rome) look picturesque.

We went to the ball at the British Embassy in the evening, taking Charles de Bunsen, who protested at first he didn't go to balls any more, etc., but he found plenty of old friends and was very glad he had gone. The house looked very handsome—the ball-room with its decoration of flowers, cupids, etc., had a decidedly festive appearance. I danced two quadrilles—one with Count d'Aulnay and the other with the Duke of Leuchtenberg who was here with his wife, Comtesse de Beauharnais. As it is a morganatic marriage (he is a Royal Prince) she can't take his name and title. She was beautifully dressed, had splendid jewels—pearls as big as eggs. The ball was very gay, lots of people. We stayed quite late; went to supper, which W. generally refuses with scorn, and only left at 1.30. They were preparing for the cotillon, but were going to dance a "tempête" (whatever that may be) first. I hear they danced until 4 o'clock.

    Thursday, 12th.

We had a nice dinner at the Villa Medici Tuesday night. The Director M. Cabat, his wife and daughter, M. and Madame Geoffroy and 5 or 6 of the young men. They all love Rome and say it is a paradise for an artist. Such beautiful models of all kinds in the old pictures and statues. I ventured to say that I thought one or two of the modern Roman things—fountains and statues—were pretty, but I was instantly sat upon by the whole party—"no originality; no strength, weak imitations of great conceptions, etc." I suppose one's taste and judgment do get formed looking at splendid models all the time; still the world of art must go on and there is no reason why the present generation shouldn't have graceful fancies, and power to carry out their dreams. We didn't stay very late and went on to Countess Somaglia, who was receiving. There were only two or three ladies. Her younger sister, Olympia Doria, married to a Colonna, the Marquise Sant' Asilea and two others I didn't know. Quantities of men came in and out, Calabrini, Vitelleschi, Minghetti. The "maître de maison" was not there. I was sorry, as I had never seen him. Lucchesi-Palli came up and claimed acquaintance—said he had danced at Casa Pierret in the old days. I introduced him to W. who was rather interested at meeting a half brother of the Comte de Chambord. He is much astonished at the quantity of people I know, but I told him one couldn't live years in Rome without seeing almost every one worth knowing, as everybody comes to Rome.

Yesterday Gert and I went out together. W. had an expedition of some kind with de Rossi, and gave a dinner at the Falcone to Charles and some of his men friends. The Roman menu didn't tempt me. I heard them talking about porcupines and peacocks. I preferred dining with Gert—she asked Mrs. Van Rensselaer, and we had a pleasant evening. Mrs. V. R. is clever and original, very amusing over her Italian and the extraordinary mistakes that she knows she makes, but she keeps on talking all the same. It is curious how much colder Gert's apartment is than our rooms at the hotel—I suppose no sun ever gets into that narrow street, and one is quite struck with the cold the minute one gets into the palace and on the stone staircase. We had a little fire and it wasn't at all too much—of course in the Piazza di Spagna the sun streams into the rooms all day. I came home early—about 10—and found the two gentlemen, Charles and W., settled very comfortably each in a large arm-chair with pipe and newspaper (you can imagine the atmosphere in a small hotel sitting-room). They said their dinner was very good, even the ordinary Roman wine, but they both agreed they wouldn't care to have that menu every day. The talk was very interesting; some of the men had been in Italy years ago, before the days of railways or modern conveniences of any kind, and their experiences in some of the little towns near Rome were most amusing—most of the peasants so mistrustful of the artist baggage, white umbrella, camp-stool, etc., and so anxious, when they finally understood no harm was intended, that they should sketch a nice new house or a bit of wall freshly plastered instead of old gateways and tumble-down palaces.

Charles is going back to Florence to-morrow; I think he has enjoyed his visit very much, it brought back so many recollections (he was born in Rome and spent all his early childhood there).[24 - His father, Baron de Bunsen, was for years Prussian Minister at Rome, a most intellectual, distinguished man; after Rome he was for many years Minister in England, and their house in Carlton Terrace was the rendezvous of all that was most brilliant and cosmopolitan in London. He married Miss Waddington, and his son Charles also married Miss Waddington, sister of William Waddington.]

I wish they would settle in Rome instead of Florence, the life is so much more interesting here. Florence is charming, but asleep—here there is life, and the contrast between the old patrician city full of old-world memories and prejudices, and the political, financial atmosphere of this 19th century is most striking. W. has decided to go to Naples for four or five days. I shan't go with him. He will be all day in the museums, as there is a great deal to see, and I should bore myself sitting alone in the hotel. If we could stay long enough to make some excursions—see Sorrento, Capri, and Ischia, I would not hesitate, I should love to see it all again. They say Vesuvius is giving signs of a disturbance.

As we were talking about Capri and Vesuvius I told them my experience there so many years ago, and both gentlemen told me I ought to write it while it was still fresh in my memory, so here it is and you will send the letter to the family in America.

We went to Naples in October, 1867. Father died at Frascati the 27th of September, and we all needed change after the long nursing and watching. All our friends in Rome were most anxious we should get off; affairs were rapidly coming to a crisis in Italy and it was evident that the days of the temporal power of the Pope were numbered. At any moment the Italians under Garibaldi might appear at the gates of Rome and it was not considered safe for women and foreigners to remain there. No one thought or talked of anything else, and though we were absorbed by father's illness and the numerous duties that a sick room entails we were quite as excited as all our friends. Of course we heard the two sides—the liberals who had high hopes of liberty and "Italia Unita" and the "papalini" who were convinced that the Italians would only enter Rome over the bodies of the faithful. Our young imaginations pictured anything, everything; the Garibaldians penetrating quite to the Court of the Vatican, the Swiss Guard, Charette and his Zouaves, massacred; priests flying in every direction pursued by a crowd of soldiers and infuriated populace. Good old Dr. Valery, who knew his countrymen better than we did, assured us there was no danger. When resistance was perfectly useless it would be wicked to shed blood, and Pio Nono himself would be the first to advise submission to the inevitable. We couldn't believe that such a tremendous change and uprooting of the traditions of centuries could be accomplished so quietly. We stayed two days only in Rome after leaving Frascati. We laid father at rest in the little English churchyard just by the San Paolo gate. There was a mortuary chapel where he could stay till he was taken home to the old family churchyard at Jamaica where Grandpapa King and a long line of children and grandchildren are buried. We had to see about our mourning and were finally hustled out of Rome the third day, Mr. Hooker (the American banker), our great friend, fairly standing over us while the trunks were being packed. He was quite right. We took the last train that went through to Naples, carrying with us a number of letters which our liberal friends had asked us to mail as soon as we crossed the frontier,—they naturally being unwilling to trust them to the Roman post-office. Rome looked deserted, very few people about, some of the shops and hotels still closed, but one felt a suppressed excitement in the air. Some of our friends, jubilant, came to see us off at "Termine" and promised to send us a telegram at Naples if anything happened. Mr. Hooker was rather anxious. He too thought the Papal court wouldn't make any resistance if the Italians came, or rather when the Italians came, as they were marching on Rome; but he thought there might be trouble in the streets. He had his large American flag ready to protect the bank. We of course made our journey very quietly and comfortably, as Garibaldi and his men were not on that road. I was rather disappointed, I should have liked to have had a glimpse of the famous revolutionary leader in his classic red shirt. We found Naples just the same, very full, people everywhere, in the Via Toledo, on the quays, etc. There wasn't much apparent excitement, all the red-capped, bare-legged fishermen were lounging about on the quays or in the numberless little boats of all descriptions flying about in every direction. The same songs, "Julia Gentil," "La Luissella," "La Bella Sorrentina," were sung under our windows every night with an accompaniment of mandolins and a sort of tambourine. From time to time the voices would cease and then there would be a most lively dance—tarantella, saltarella—all the dancers moving lightly and quickly and always in perfect time. The nights were beautiful—warm and clear—the whole population lived in the streets and we were always on the balcony. The islands, Ischia and Capri, took such beautiful colours, at sunset; seemed almost like painted islands rising straight up out of a perfectly blue sea. Vesuvius, too, was most interesting. Savants were prophesying an eruption and every now and then faint, very faint curls of smoke came out of the crater. We knew nothing of what was going on; had no communication with Rome, and were entirely dependent for news on the landlord, whose information was certainly fantastic; also the little Naples paper, the "Pungolo," which made marvellous statements every morning—the streets of Rome running with blood, etc. Finally came the first news—the battle of "Monte Rotondo," Garibaldi and his men victorious. From Paris we heard that the French troops had started and were at Cività Vecchia, but there were so many conflicting stories that we really didn't know how much to believe. Then came Mentana—the Garibaldians driven back by the Papal and French troops; the Pope still supreme in Rome. We had a telegram from one of our liberal friends, "Le malade va bien," which meant that the Pope had conquered, and Rome was not yet the capital of "Italia Unita." There was no fighting at all in the streets of Rome; a great deal of patriotic talk among the young liberals, but I don't think any of them absolutely enrolled themselves in Garibaldi's band. It wouldn't have made any difference—they could do nothing against the combined Papal and French troops—but it might have been a personal satisfaction to have struck a blow for the liberal cause. There again the common sense of the Italians showed itself—there was no resisting "le fait accompli," they had only to bide their time. We had lovely days at Naples, making all sorts of excursions—Posilippo, Capo di Monte, Camaldoli, etc. Every morning we went to the Museum; I was madly interested in the Pompeian relics, particularly the mummies. It seemed impossible to believe that those little black bundles had once been human beings feeling and living as keenly as we do now. We always kept our eyes on Vesuvius as it really did seem as if something was going on. The column of smoke looked thicker and we could quite well see little jets of sand or small stones thrown up from the crater. One afternoon when we came in from driving everybody in the street was looking hard at the mountain and the padrone informed us that the eruption had begun. We didn't see anything, but after dinner when we were standing on the balcony suddenly we saw a great tongue of flame leap out from the crater and a stream of fire running down the side of the mountain. The flame disappeared almost immediately; came back three or four times in the course of the evening, but didn't gain very much in height or intensity. The next day, however, it had increased considerably and was a fine sight at dark, every few moments a great tongue of fire with quantities of stones and gravel thrown high in the air. We almost fancied we heard the noise of thunder, but I don't think we did. People were flocking into Naples, and we of course, like all the rest, were most anxious to make the ascent. The landlord told us there was no danger; that the authorities never permitted an ascent if there was danger, and no guides would go, as they are very prudent. One would go up on one side (the only thing to avoid was the stream of red-hot lava). Mother was rather unwilling, particularly as we were to go at night (and at night from our balcony the mountain did look rather a formidable thing to tackle). We waited still another day and then when we had seen some English people—two ladies and a youth who had made the excursion and said it was not at all alarming and most interesting—she agreed to let us go. Anne stayed with her, she doesn't like donkey riding under any circumstances, and a donkey at night on the slopes of Vesuvius in eruption, with a stream of red-hot lava running alongside, didn't strike her absolutely as a pleasant performance. We started about 7 o'clock, William, Henrietta, Gertrude, and I. The drive out all the way to Resina was most amusing. Quantities of people, the famous Naples "cariole" crammed with peasants and children, and all eyes turned to the mountain. Our landlord had made all the arrangements for us, secured the best guides, donkeys, etc., and we were in great spirits. The mountain looked forbidding; as we came nearer we heard the noise, rumbling and thunder—the thunder always preceding a great burst of flames and showers of stones thrown up very high and falling one didn't know exactly where. I didn't say anything as I was very anxious to make the ascent, but I did wonder where these red stones fell and how one could know exactly beforehand. We drove as far as we could and then arrived at the Hermitage and Observatory, where there was a very primitive sort of wooden house, half tavern, half inn. Here donkeys and guides (very voluble) were waiting, and we started. It had begun to rain a little, but the guides assured us that it would not last and we should soon be above the clouds. It was almost dark—not quite—and everything looked weird, even the faces of the guides seemed to me to have a curious expression; they looked fierce and wild. We went on quietly at first though the rumblings under our feet and sudden light as the flames burst out were unpleasant. When we began the last steep ascent I had got very nervous. I was the last of the party, and when the donkey-boy (an infant) took a short cut, when the path was steep, calling out cheerfully "Coraggio Signorina," and left me and the donkey alone to clamber over the great slippery blocks of lava, I was frightened and felt I should never get up to the top. It was really terrifying—the rain and mist had increased very much, it was pitch dark, rumbling and thunder all the time, and such noises under our feet that I was sure a great hole would open and we should all be swallowed up. I didn't like the dark, but I certainly didn't like the light either, when a great tongue of flame would spring out of the crater spreading out like a fan and throwing a mass of stones and gravel high in the air which all fell somewhere on the mountain. The red stream of lava looked wider and seemed to me to be coming nearer. I called out to William, who was far ahead and looked gigantic in the mist where he was crossing some great rocks of lava (quite black and shiny when they are old), and told him I was too frightened, that I should go back to the Hermitage and wait there. He was much disgusted—said there was no possible danger. All the guides and donkey-boys repeated the same thing, but it was no use, I was thoroughly unnerved and couldn't make up my mind to go on. We had a consultation with the guides as he didn't like the idea of my going back alone to the inn, but they told him it was all right, that the padrone was a "brav'uomo" and would take care of me until they came back; so most reluctantly they went on, and I turned my face homeward, always with my minute attendant whom I would gladly have shaken as he was laughing and chattering and repeating twenty times, "non c'è pericolo." I think the going down was rather worse; I had the rain in my face, heard all the same unearthly noises around me, and from time to time had glimpses of the whole country-side—Naples, the little villages, the islands, the bay standing out well in the red light thrown on them by the flames from the crater; then absolute darkness and stillness, nothing apparently on the mountain but me and the donkey scrambling and stumbling over the wet, slippery stones. How we ever got down to the inn I don't know, but both boy and donkey seemed to know the road. I was thankful when we emerged on a sort of terrace and saw a faint light, which meant the little inn. The boy helped me off (it was pouring), called out something at the door, told me to go in and go upstairs, then disappeared around the corner with the donkey. I called—no one answered—so I went upstairs, just seeing my way by the light of a little dull, smoky lamp put in a niche of the wall. I saw two doors when I got up to the top of the stairs, both shut, so I called again, knocked; a man's voice said something which I supposed to be "entrate" and I walked in. I found myself in a big room hardly lighted—a small lamp on a table, a fire of a sort of peat and wood, a bed in one corner on which was stretched a big man with a black beard and red shirt; another man not quite so big, but also in a red shirt and a hat on his head, got up when I came in, from a chair where he had been sitting by the fire. He said something I couldn't understand, first to me and then to his companion on the bed, who answered I thought rather gruffly (they both spoke Neapolitan "patois" which I couldn't understand at first). I didn't feel very comfortable (still I liked even that room with those two brigand-looking men better than the mountain-side with the flames and the lava), but I tried to explain, took off my wet cloak which spoke for itself, and went toward the fire. My friend with the hat always keeping up a running conversation with the man on the bed, brought up a chair, then a sort of stand over which he hung my cloak, and proceeded to take a bottle out of a cupboard which I supposed was their famous wine (lacrima Christi) which one always drinks at Naples. However that I declined and established myself on the chair by the fire. He took the other one, and when I looked at him I saw that he had rather a nice face; so I took courage. He pointed to my shoes, which were wet as we had walked a little, and wanted to talk. After a little while I began to understand him, and he me; and we had quite a friendly conversation. He looked at my shoes, asked me where they were made, and when I said in Rome was madly interested; he had a brother in Rome, a shoemaker, perhaps I knew him "Giuseppe Ricci," he might have made those very shoes—instantly confided that interesting piece of information to the gentleman on the bed. He told me they were three brothers, the eldest was the shoemaker, then came he the padrone of the osteria, and the other one "there on the bed" had vines and made very good wine. He asked me if I had ever seen the Pope, or Garibaldi (there was a picture of Garibaldi framed on the wall), and when I said I had often seen the former, and that he had a good, kind face, he again conversed amicably with the gentleman on the bed, who first raised himself into a sitting posture, and finally got up altogether and came over to the fire, evidently rather anxious to take part in the conversation. He was an enormous man and didn't look as nice as the "padrone." He rather startled me when he bent down, took my foot in his hand and inspected the shoe which he pronounced well made. We must have sat there fully half an hour talking—they were perfectly easy, but not familiar, and wanted to hear anything I would tell them about Rome. Every now and then they dropped off into some side talk in their "patois," and I looked at the fire and thought what an extraordinary experience it was, sitting alone with such odd-looking companions in that big, bare room on the top of Mount Vesuvius. The fire had almost died out, the miserable little lamp gave a faint flickering light that only made everything look more uncanny, and every now and then the whole room would be flooded with a red lurid light (heralded always by a violent explosion which made the crazy little house shake) which threw out the figures of the two men sitting with their long legs stretched out to the fire, and keeping up a steady talk in a low voice. Still I wasn't afraid; I was quite sure they would be respectful, and do all they could to help me. They had a sort of native politeness, too, for they stopped their talk occasionally and made conversation for me; one looked out of the window and said the rain had stopped, but that the night was "brutta" and they referred to other eruptions and told me stories of accidents that had happened to people—two young men, "Inglesi," who were killed because they would go on their own way and not listen to the guides, consequently were knocked on the head by some huge stones; always assuring me that this eruption was nothing. However I was getting tired, and found the time long, when suddenly we heard the noise of a party arriving, and for a moment I thought it was my people; but no, they were coming the other way, up the mountain. There was a great commotion and talking, lanterns flashing backward and forward, donkeys being led out and all preparations made for the ascent—but there seemed a hitch of some kind and I heard a woman's voice speaking English. The "padrone" had rushed downstairs as soon as he heard the party arriving, and presently he reappeared talking very hard to a lady and two gentlemen who were coming upstairs behind him and evidently wanting something which they couldn't make him understand. He was telling them to have patience, that there was an "Inglese" upstairs who would talk to them. They were so astounded when they saw me that they were speechless—il y avait de quoi—seeing a girl established there in rather a dishevelled condition, her hat off, wet cloak hanging over the chair, and entirely alone with those "Neapolitan brigands"—but one man ventured to ask timidly "did I speak English." Oh yes—Italian, too—what could I do for them. They explained that the lady was tired, cold and wet (she looked miserable, poor thing) and wanted a hot drink—brandy, anything she could get. She didn't look as if she could go on, but she said she would be all right if she could have something hot, and that nothing would induce her to give up the excursion, having come so far; so a fresh piece of wood, or peat rather of some kind (it looked quite black), was put on the fire, also water in a most primitive pot. I suggested that she should take off her cloak and let it dry a little. The men brought in some more chairs and then the new comers began to wonder who I was and what I was doing there alone at that hour of the night. They were Americans, told me their name, but I have forgotten it, it is so long ago. I told them my experience—that I was absolutely unnerved, in a dead funk, and would have done anything rather than go on toward that horrible crater. They couldn't understand that I wasn't much more afraid of spending two hours in that lonely little house in such company, and begged me to try again—there was really no danger, people were going up all the time, etc. The older man was very earnest—said they couldn't leave a compatriot in such straits—he would give me his donkey if another one couldn't be procured and would walk—how could my brother have permitted me to come back alone, etc. However I reassured him as well as I could—told them I was perfectly accustomed to Italians and knew the language well (which was a great help to me, I don't know what I should have done if I hadn't been able to talk and understand them). They stayed about 20 minutes—the lady said her drink was very nasty, but hot, and she looked better for the rest and partial drying. She wasn't as wet as I was, the rain had stopped when they were half-way up. I told them who I was and begged them to say, if they met my people coming down, a gentleman and two ladies, that they had seen me, and that I was quite dry and comfortable. They went away most reluctantly, were half inclined to stay until the others should come back, but the guides were anxious to be off. Even at the last moment when they had got downstairs, the older man came back and begged me to come with them—"I assure you, my dear young lady, you don't know in what a dangerous position you are; if I had any authority over you I should insist, etc." He was very nice, and left all sorts of recommendations in English and a very good fee to the padrone, who of course didn't understand a word of what he was saying, but seemed to divine in some mysterious way. He looked smilingly at me, told me to cheer up ("Coraggio" is their way of saying it) and told the American, in Italian, that he would take good care of me. He was very sorry to go and leave me, said he had never done anything he liked so little. As soon as the excitement of their departure was over the two men came back. The "vigneron" went back to his bed, from where he conversed with us occasionally, and the other one settled down in his chair, and seemed half asleep. It wasn't very long before my party came back. The men heard them before I did, and told me they were arriving. I must say I was glad to see them. They had had a splendid time, seen everything beautifully, gone quite up to the stream of red-hot lava, put umbrellas and canes into it (the ends were quite black and burnt)—they were not in the least nervous, and jibed well at me. William said he had rather an uncomfortable feeling at first when he saw me and my very small attendant depart, but he forgot it in the excitement and novelty of their excursion. He thanked the padrone for taking such good care of me, proposed a hot drink (very bad it was) all round, and we took quite a friendly leave of the two gentlemen. I promised to try and find the brother shoemaker. They had crossed my American friends on the way back—William said they were just starting down when they saw another party appearing and he heard a gentleman say, "I think this must be Mr. King." He was very much surprised to hear his name, but rode up to the speaker, to see who he was, and then the gentleman told him of his amazement at meeting his sister in that wretched little shanty and how miserable he had felt at leaving me there alone, with two Neapolitan brigands, but that I had assured him I was quite safe and not at all afraid of the two black giants—but he begged William to hurry on, as it was not really the place to leave a girl—even an American who would know how to take care of herself. We made our journey down quite easily. It was still pitch dark, except when the fire of the mountain lighted up everything, but there was neither rain nor wind, the air was soft, and the little outlying villages looked quite quiet and peaceable, as if no great mountain was throwing up masses of ashes and stones just over their heads, which might after all destroy them entirely. There must always be a beginning, and I suppose in the old days of Pompeii and Herculaneum the beginning was just what we have seen—first columns of smoke, then the lava stream and showers of red-hot stones, and none of the people frightened at first. We found Mother and Anne waiting for us with supper. They had been a little anxious, particularly as the weather was so bad, and they evidently had had more of a tempest than we had. They were of course madly interested in our expedition and were astounded that I was the coward. They wouldn't have been at all surprised if it had been Gert. It is true she is nearly always timid, and we used to play all sorts of tricks on her when we were children at Cherry Lawn, beguile her up into the big cherry tree, then take the ladder away and tell her to climb down; or take the peg out of the boat, let in a little water and pretend it was sinking—so she was triumphant this time. I can't understand why I was so frightened. I am not usually afraid of anything, but that time no reasoning would have been of the least use, and nothing would have made me go on to the crater. Mother was rather like the American—she wouldn't have liked the flames and the awful rumbling noises any more than I did, but she would have been much more afraid of the lonely house and long wait on the mountain in that wretched little inn with those two big, black-bearded Neapolitans.

Le monde est petit—years afterward my brother William was travelling in America, and in the smoking-room all the men were telling their experiences either at home or abroad—many strange adventures. One gentleman said he had never forgotten a curious scene on the top of Mount Vesuvius in eruption, when he had met an American girl, quite alone, at night, in the dark and rain, in a miserable little shanty with two great, big Neapolitans "looking like brigands" (he evidently always retained that first impression of my companions). He told all the story, giving my name, which excited much comment; some of the listeners evidently thought it was a traveller's tale, arranged on some slight foundation of truth—however, when he had finished William said: "That story is perfectly true. The young lady is my sister, and I am the Mr. King to whom you spoke that night on the mountain, in the dark, begging me to hurry down, and not leave my sister any longer alone in such company." They naturally didn't recognise each other, having merely met for a moment in the dark, both wrapped up in cloaks and under umbrellas. They had quite a talk, and the gentleman was very anxious to know how they found me—whether I wasn't really more uncomfortable than I allowed, and what had become of me.

We decided to move on to Sorrento and settle ourselves there for some time. We also wanted to go to Capri, but the steamers had stopped running, and we could only get over in a sailboat. The man of the hotel advised us to go from Sorrento, it was shorter and a charming sail on a bright day. The drive from Castellamare was beautiful; divine views of the sea all the time and equally lovely when we came down upon Sorrento, which seemed to stand in the midst of orange groves and vineyards. The Hôtel Sirena is perched on the top of a high cliff rising up straight from the sea. We had charming rooms with a nice broad balcony, and at our feet a little sheltered cove and beach of golden sand. There were very few people in the hotel—the one or two English spinsters of a certain age whom one always meets travelling, and two artists. We were only about twelve people at table-d'hôte; and as we were six that didn't leave many outsiders. It was before the days of restaurants and small tables. There was one long, narrow table—the padrone carved himself at a smaller one, and talked to us occasionally. There was too much wind the first days to think of attempting Capri, so we drove all over the country, walked about in the orange groves and up and down the steep hills, through lovely little paths that wound in and out of olive woods along the side of the mountain, sometimes clambering up a bit of straight rock, that seemed a wall impossible to get over—when it was too stiff there would be steps cut out in the earth on one side, half hidden by the long grass and weeds.