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

The road wasn't very interesting. We had glimpses of the Alps occasionally, and the day was beautiful, making everything look picturesque and charming. It was rather a relief to get out of the rice fields and little canals. We stopped some little time at Novara—where we had a good cup of coffee. As we got near Turin everything looked very green. There seemed to be more trees and little woods than in the neighbourhood of Milan. The hotel porter was waiting for us at the station with a carriage—so we drove straight off, leaving Madame Hubert in charge of the porter, who spoke French perfectly, to follow with the trunks.

The hotel is on the great Place du Château, faces the Palazzo Madama. They have given us a nice apartment, with windows and a good balcony looking out on the Place. We went upstairs immediately to inspect the rooms—the padrone himself conducting us. There were flowers on the table, nice lounging chairs on the balcony. It looked charming. He wanted to send us tea or coffee—but we really couldn't take anything as it wasn't more than two hours since we had had a very fair little goûter at Novara. We said we would dine in the restaurant about 8. He was rather anxious we should have our dinner in the anteroom which was large and light—often used for a dining-room—but we told him we much preferred dining downstairs and seeing the people.

We brushed off a little dust—it wasn't a very dirty journey—and started off for a stroll across the Piazza Castello. It is a fine large square, high buildings all around it, and the great mediæval pile Palazzo Madama facing us as we went in. It looked more like a fortress than a palace, but there is a fine double staircase and façade with marble columns and statues—white, I suppose, originally, but now rather mellowed with years and exposure and taking a soft pink tint in the waning sunlight. It was inhabited by the mother of one of the kings, "Madama Reale," hence its name. There is a monument to the Sardinian army in front of the palace with very elaborate bas-reliefs. They told us there was nothing to see inside, so we merely walked all around it, and then went over to the Palazzo Reale, which is a large brick building, with no pretensions to architecture. They say it is very handsome inside—large, high rooms, very luxuriously furnished. Somehow or other luxuriously furnished apartments don't seem to go with Princes of the House of Savoy. One can't imagine them reclining in ladies' boudoirs on satin cushions, with silk and damask hangings. They seem always to have been simple, hardy soldiers, more at home on a battle-field than in a drawing-room. We asked at the entrance if the Duc d'Aoste was here. He told us when he was in Paris that if ever we came to Turin we must let him know—that he always received twice a week in the evening when he was at home and that he would be delighted to see us (I had put an evening dress in my trunk in case we should be invited anywhere)—however he isn't here, away in the country for three or four days on some inspection—so we wrote ourselves down in the book that he might see that we intended to pay our respects.

We walked through some of the squares—Piazza Carignano, with the great palace Carignano which also looks grim and frowning, more like a prison than a stately princely residence. I wonder if there are any what we should call comfortable rooms in those gaunt old palaces. I have visions of barred windows, very small panes of glass, brick floors, frescoed ceilings black with age and smoke, and straight-backed, narrow carved wooden chairs. However a fine race of sturdy, fighting men were brought up within those old walls—perhaps Italy would not have been "unita" so soon if the pioneers of freedom had been accustomed to all the luxury and gaiety of the present generation.

We wandered back through more squares and saw numberless statues of Princes and Dukes of Savoy—almost all equestrian—the Princes in armour, and generally a drawn sword in their hand—one feels that they were a fighting race.

The hills all around the city are charming, beautifully green, with hundreds of villas (generally white) in all directions; some so high up one wonders how the inhabitants ever get up there. In the distance always the beautiful snow mountains. The town doesn't look either very Italian or very Southern. I suppose the Piedmontese are a type apart.

We had a table to ourselves in the dining-room, which was almost empty—evidently people dine earlier than we do—and yet it is tempting to stay out on a lovely summer evening. There were several officers in uniform at one table—evidently a sort of mess—about 10. They were rather noisy, making all sorts of jokes with the waiters, but they had nearly finished when we came in and soon departed with a great clatter of spurs and swords. We went for a few moments into the reading-room, which was also quite deserted—only two couples, an English clergyman and his wife both buried in their papers—and a German ménage discussing routes and guides and prices for some excursion they wanted to make.

I had kept on my hat as we thought we would go out, take a turn in the arcades and have a "granita." The padrone told us of a famous café where the "granita" was very good, also very good music. W. is becoming such a flâneur, and so imbued with the dolce far niente of this enchanting country that I am rather anxious about him. I think he will want to go every evening to the "Ambassadeurs" when we get back to Paris.

We strolled about for some time. It was cool and there were not too many people. Everybody sitting out, smoking and drinking. We got a nice little table—each took an ice (they were very good—not too sweet), and the music was really charming—quite a large orchestra, all guitars and mandolins. Whenever they played a well-known air—song or waltz—the whole company joined in. It sounded very pretty—they didn't sing too loud, and enjoyed themselves extremely. We stayed some time.

I am writing as usual, late, while W. is putting his notes in order. He found a note, when he came in, from the Director of the Museum, saying he would be delighted to see W. at the Museum to-morrow morning at 9 o'clock, and would do the honours of the cabinet de médailles—also the card of a Mr. Hoffman who wants very much to see W. and renew his acquaintance with him after many years. He is in this hotel and will come and see us to-morrow. W. has no idea who he is, but of course there are many Hoffmans in the world. I suppose the gentleman will explain himself. If it is fine we shall drive to the Superga to-morrow afternoon, and start for Paris the next evening. W. says three séances (and his are long) will be all he wants in the Museum.

    May 14th.

It has been again a lovely summer day—not too hot, and a delicious breeze as we drove home from La Superga. I have been out all day. W. was off at 9 to meet his Director, and I started at 10 with Madame Hubert to flâner a little. We went first to the arcades where are all the best shops, but I can't say I was tempted. There was really nothing to buy—some nice blankets, half silk, half wool—not striped like the Como blankets, a plain centre, red or blue, with a bright border—but it was not a day to buy blankets, with the sun bright and strong over our heads. There was a good deal of iron work, rather nice. I didn't care for the jewellery. I didn't see myself with a wrought-iron chain and cross, but I did get a large ring—strong and prettily worked, which the man said many people bought to put in a hall and hang keys on. There were plenty of people about. I didn't think the peasants were any particular type—the men looked smaller than those about Milan—slight, wiry figures. A good many were evidently guides, with axes and coils of rope strapped on their backs. They told us in one of the shops (where as a true American I was asking questions, eager for information) that there were several interesting excursions to be made in the neighbourhood.

We went again to the Piazzo Castello which is so large that it is a very fair walk to go all around the square—and went into the hall to see the statue (equestrian of course) of Victor Amadeus the First. The horse is curious, in marble. Then we went to the Cathedral, which is not very interesting. The sacristan showed us a collection of small, dark pictures over the altar which he said were by Albert Dürer; but they were so black and confused I couldn't see anything—a little glimpse of gilding every now and then that might be a halo around a saint's head. What was interesting was the "Cappella del S. S. Sudario," where the linen cloth is kept which is said to have enveloped the body of our Saviour. It is kept in an urn, and only shown by special permission. This, however, the sacristan obtained for us. He disappeared into the sacristy and soon returned bringing with him a nice fat old priest in full canonicals and very conversationally disposed. He lifted off the top of the urn and drew out the linen cloth most carefully. It is very fine linen, quite yellow and worn—almost in holes in some parts. He spread it out most reverently on a marble slab, and showed us the outlines of a man's figure. Marks there were certainly. I thought I saw the head distinctly, but of course the imagination is a powerful factor on these occasions. The chapel was dimly lighted, a few tapers burning, and the old priest was so convinced and reverent that it was catching. I suppose it might be possible—certainly all these traditions and relics were an enormous strength to the Catholic Church in the early days when there were no books and little learning, and people believed more easily and simply than they do now. The chapel is a rather ugly, round building, almost black, and with a quantity of statues (white) which stand out well. It is the burial chapel of the House of Savoy, and there are statues apparently to every Emmanuel or Amadeus that ever existed—also a large marble monument to the late Queen of Sardinia. Do you remember when Prince Massimo, in Rome, always spoke of Victor Emmanuel, when he was King of Italy, and holding his court in Florence, as the King of Sardinia?

We had walked about longer than we thought, but everything is close together, and it was time to get back to the hotel for breakfast. I had the dining-room almost to myself—my table was drawn up close to the open window, a vase of roses upon it, and one or two papers—English, Italian, and the "Figaro." Paris seems to be amusing itself. Henrietta writes that the Champs Elysées are enchanting—all the horse chestnuts in full bloom. Here there is abundance of flowers—one gets glimpses of pretty gardens through open gates and openings in railings and walls. There are plenty of street stalls, too, with fruits and flowers, but one doesn't see the wealth of roses and wistaria climbing over every bit of wall and up the sides of houses as in Florence. The city is perfectly busy and prosperous, but has none of the delightful look of laziness and enjoyment of life and the blue sky and the sunshine that one feels in Rome and Florence.

W. came in about 3, having had a delightful morning in the cabinet des médailles. The Director, a most learned, courteous old gentleman, was waiting for him, and though he knew W. and his collection by reputation, he was quite surprised to find that W. knew quite as much about his coins and treasures as he did himself. He hadn't supposed it possible that a statesman with so many interests and calls upon his time could have kept up his scientific work.

We shall leave to-morrow night, and before we started for our drive we sent off letters and telegrams to Paris. I can hardly believe it possible that Friday morning I shall be breakfasting in Paris, going to mother to tea in the afternoon, and taking up my ordinary life. Henrietta writes that she has told Francis we are coming home, but frankness compels her to say that he has received that piece of information with absolute indifference. He has been as happy as a king all the months we have been away—spoiled to his heart's content and everybody in the two establishments his abject slaves.

We started about 4 for La Superga in a nice light basket carriage and pair of strong little horses. It was rather interesting driving all through the town, which is comparatively small—one is soon out of it. The streets are narrow, once one is out of the great thoroughfares, with high houses on each side. Every now and then an interesting cornice with a curious round tower and some funny old-fashioned houses with high pointed roofs and iron balconies running quite around the house, but on the whole it is much less picturesque and colder looking than the other Italian cities. The road was not very animated—few vehicles of any description, a few fiacres evidently bound for the Superga like us. There were not many carts nor many people about. What was lovely was the crown of green hills with little chestnut groves—some of the little woods we drove through were quite charming, with the long slanting rays of the afternoon sun shining through the branches—just as I remember the Galleria di Sotto at Albano—the chestnuts grow high on all the hillsides. We had quite a stiff mount before we got to the church (but the little horses trotted up very fairly) and a good climb after we left the carriage. One sees the church from a long distance. It has a fine colonnade and a high dome which lifts itself well up into the clouds. We followed a pretty steep, winding path up to the top, quantities of wild roses, a delicate pink, like our eglantine at home, twisting themselves around the bushes. There is nothing particularly interesting in the church. It is the burial place of the Kings of Savoy, and their vault is in the crypt. The last one buried there was Charles Albert. Victor Emmanuel is buried in the Pantheon in Rome. We found a nice old sacristan who took us about and explained various statues to us—also all the glories of the Casa di Savoia, winding up with an enthusiastic eulogy of Queen Margherita—but never as Queen of Italy, "nostra Principessa." She has certainly made herself a splendid place in the hearts of the people—they all adore her. We climbed up to the roof, and what a view we had, all Turin at our feet with its domes and high, pointed roofs, standing in the midst of the green plain dotted all over with villas, farms, gardens, little groves of chestnuts, the river meandering along through the meadows carpeted with flowers, and looking in the sunlight like a gold zig-zag with its numerous turns—always the beautiful crown of hills, and in the background the snow peaks of the Alps. It was very clear—they looked so near, as if one could throw a stone across. Our old man pointed out all the well-known peaks—Monte Rosa, Mont Cenis, and many others whose names I didn't catch. He said he had rarely seen the whole chain so distinct. It reminded me of the view we had of the Bernese Oberland so many years ago—the first time we had seen snow mountains. On arriving at Berne we were hurried out on the terrace by the padrone of the hotel as he said we might never again see all the chain of the Alps so distinctly. Beautiful it was—all the snow mountains rolling away in the distance; some of them straight up into the sunset clouds, others with little wreaths of white soft clouds half way up their summits, and clouds and snow so mingled that one could hardly distinguish which was snow. I thought they were all clouds—beautiful, airy intangible shapes.

We loitered about some time on the terrace after we came down, watching the lights fade and finally disappear—the mountains looking like great grey giants frowning down on the city. The air was decidedly cooler as we drove home, but it was a perfect summer evening. There were more people out as we got near Turin—all the workers getting a little breath of air after the toil of the day.

    May 15th.

I will send this very long letter off this evening. Our trunks are packed and downstairs, and I will finish this while we are waiting for dinner. We have had a nice day. Madame Hubert and I strolled about this morning and went to see the house where Cavour was born, and also to the Giardino Pubblico. The grounds are handsome, but not particularly interesting at that hour in the morning, and there wasn't a creature there but ourselves. There are various monuments—one of Manin with a fine figure of the Republic of Venice.

I breakfasted as usual alone, and at 3 W. came in, having quite finished his work at the Museum. He had given rendezvous to Mr. Hoffman for 3.30, and while we were sitting talking waiting for him the padrone came up and said an officer "de la part du Duc d'Aoste" wanted to see us. We begged him of course to send him up, and in a few minutes a very good-looking young officer in uniform made his appearance. He named himself—Count Colobiano I think—but we didn't catch the name very distinctly; said he had had the honour of dining with us at the Quai d'Orsay with his Prince, and that the Prince was "désolé" not to be in Turin these days and had sent him to put himself at our disposition. He proposed all sorts of things—the opera, a drive (or a ride if we preferred) to a sort of parade ground just outside the gates where we would see some cavalry manœuvres. He knew I rode, and could give me a capital lady's hack. I was rather sorry he hadn't come before—it would have amused us to see the manœuvres, and also to ride—but that would have been difficult as I had no habit with me. However, as we are leaving this evening there was nothing to be done. He was very civil and I think rather sorry not to do us the honours of his city. He said there were beautiful excursions to be made from Turin, and asked us if we had seen anything. We said only the Superga which he evidently didn't consider very interesting. He said the Duke was very sorry to have missed us, and that he thought I would have enjoyed an evening at the Palace, as the receptions were very gay and informal. I cannot imagine (I didn't tell him that) anything gay with the Duc d'Aoste. He is very sympathetic to me, but a type apart. A stern, almost ascetic appearance, very silent and shy, but a beautiful smile. He looks exactly as one would imagine a Prince of the House of Savoy would. We saw him often in Paris, and his face always interested me—so grave, and as if he were miles away from the ordinary modern world. It was just after he had given up his Spanish throne, and although I didn't think that crown weighed very heavily on his brow he must have had some curious experiences and seen human nature in perhaps not its best form. The young aide-de-camp paid us quite a visit, and we made him promise to come and see us if ever he came to Paris. We sent all sorts of messages and regrets to the Duke. Just as he was going out Mr. Hoffman appeared and he sat an hour with us. He was delightful, has lived almost all his life in and near Turin, and had all the history of Piedmont at his fingers' ends. He seems to have met W. years ago at a dinner in London and has always followed his career with much interest. It was most interesting to hear him talk. He admires Cavour immensely—said his death was a great calamity for Italy—that he hadn't given half of what he could, and that every year he lived he grew in intellect and knowledge of people. He also said (as they all do) that he mistrusted Louis Napoleon so intensely, and through all their negotiations and discussions as to Italy's future he was pursued by the idea that the Emperor would go back upon his word. He said the Piedmontese were a race apart—hardly considered themselves Italian, and that even now in the little hamlets in the mountains the peasants had vague ideas of nationality, and never spoke of themselves as Italians, or identified themselves with Italian interests and history—that in the upper classes traces of French occupation and education, superstition and priestly rule were just getting effaced. For years in the beginning of the century the priests (Jesuits) had it all their own way in Turin. The teaching in the schools was entirely in their hands, and most elementary; and numerous convents and monasteries were built. Cavour as a very young man soon emancipated himself from all those ideas, and if he had lived, Hoffman thinks, much trouble would have been averted, and that he would certainly have found some means of coming to a better understanding with the Vatican, "the most brilliant and far-seeing intellect I have ever met."

He wanted to take us to some palace where there are some very curious and inédites letters of Cavour's to the owner, who was one of his friends, and always on very confidential terms with him; but of course we couldn't do that as we are off in a few hours.

Hoffman would never have gone, I think, if the padrone hadn't appeared to say dinner was ready. I left him and W. talking while I went to give some last instructions to the maid, and when I got back to the salon they had drifted away from Cavour and Piedmont and were discussing French politics, the attitude of Germany and the anti-religious feeling in France.

I shall miss all the talk about Italy and her first struggles for independence when I get home. French people, as a rule, care so little for outside things. They travel very little, don't read much foreign literature, and are quite absorbed in their own interests and surroundings. Of course they are passing through a curious phase—so many old things passing away—habits and traditions of years upset, and the new régime not yet sufficiently established nor supported by all that is best in the country. I think W. has been impressed and rather surprised at the very easy way in which all religious questions are disposed of in Italy, and yet the people are certainly superstitious and have a sort of religious feeling. The churches are all full on great feast days, and one sees great big young peasants kneeling and kissing relics when they are exposed; and several times even here about Turin we have seen men and women kneeling at some of the crosses along the road. I have rarely seen that in France—but then the Italians are a more emotional race. They are difficult problems—a country can't live without a religion.

    Rue Dumont d'Urville.

We got back yesterday morning early. Hubert and the big mare were waiting for us, and we were whirled up to the house in a very un-Italian manner (for the horses in Italy are just as easy-going as the people and never hurry themselves nor display any undue energy). Francis and "nounou" were waiting at the door—he really quite excited and pleased to see us—and the sisters appeared about 11. We talked a little and they helped me unpack; and I went to see mother directly after breakfast and stayed there all the afternoon. This morning I am writing as usual at the window and hearing all the familiar Paris sounds. The goat-boy has just passed with his 6 goats and curious reed pipe, the marchande de cressons with her peculiar cry advertising her merchandise, and ending "pour la santé du corps" on a long shrill note—the man who sits on the pavement and mends china. He is just at our door, and has a collection of broken plates and cups around him. I suppose some are ours. The "light lady" next door is standing at her door in her riding habit, the skirt already very short and held well up over her arm displaying a fair amount of trousers and high boots. She is haranguing in very forcible language the groom who is cantering the horse up and down the street, and of course even in our quiet street there are always badauds who stop and ask questions, and hang around the porte-cochères to see all that is going on. W. has just started on horseback and that is a most interesting moment for the street, for his big black "Paddy" has a most uncomfortable trick. From the moment he takes the bridle in his hand and prepares to mount, the horse snorts, and stamps and backs, making such a noise in the little court-yard you would think he was kicking everything to pieces. As soon as the big doors are opened and he can get out he is as quiet as a lamb.

It is a beautiful morning and Paris looks its best—all the horse-chestnuts in full bloom, the sky a bright blue, and quantities of equipages and riders streaming out to the Bois. I suppose I shall ride too in a day or so, and by the end of the week Italy will be a thing of the past, and I shall be leading my ordinary Paris life.

There was a procession of people here all the afternoon yesterday to see W., and now he is quite au courant of all that has taken place in his absence, and I think in his heart he is delighted to be back and in the thick of the fight again. He is going to the Senate this afternoon.

We had a most comfortable journey from Turin—a lit-salon to ourselves, the maid just behind us. All the first hours were charming as long as we could see as all the country about Turin is so lovely. We passed Moncalieri which stands high on the hills—a long low building, and one or two other fine old castles, all perched high on the slope of the mountains. I always sleep so well in a train that I was hardly awake when we passed at Modane, though I was dimly conscious of the stop, the lanterns flashing along the train and a great deal of conversation. Nobody disturbed us as we had given our "laissez-passer" to the garde, but I fancy we made a long halt there as the train was very crowded. We had our coffee at Dijon very early in the morning. It was quite pleasant to see the regular little French brioche again.

I went to tea with Mother and afterward we went for a turn in the Bois, which looked beautiful—so green—all the horse-chestnuts out (the road from Auteuil to Boulogne with the rows of red horse-chestnuts on each side quite enchanting); the hills, St. Cloud and Mont Valérien blue and standing out sharply against the sky, but I missed the delicious soft atmosphere of Italy and the haze that always hung around the hills and softened all the outlines. The Seine looked quite animated. There really were one or two small boats out, and near Puteaux (the club) some women rowing, and of course the little river steamers flying up and down, crowded.

We are dining with l'Oncle Alphonse who will give us all the news of the day, and the opinion of the "Union."

PART II

ITALY REVISITED

To H. L. K

    Rome, Friday, February 12, 1904.

It seems so strange to be back here, dear, after twenty-four years, and to find Rome so changed, so unchanged. The new quarter, an absolutely new modern city, might be Wiesbaden, or Neuilly, or any cheerful resort of retired business men who build hideous villas with all sorts of excrescences—busts, vases, and plaques of bright-coloured majolica—and the old city with the dirty little winding streets going toward St. Peter's exactly the same; almost the same little ragged, black-eyed children playing in the gutters.

We had a most comfortable journey down. Hardly any one in the sleeping-car but ourselves, so we all had plenty of room. It was a bright, beautiful morning when we got to Modane—the mountains covered with snow, and the fresh keen wind blowing straight from the glaciers was enchanting after a night in the sleeping-car. They are frightfully overheated. I had some difficulty in persuading the attendant to open my window for the night; however, as I was alone in my compartment, he finally agreed, merely saying he would come and shut it when we passed through the great tunnel. We dined at the buffet at Genoa, and it didn't seem natural not to ask for the Alassio train. The station was crowded, the Roman train too—they put on extra carriages. We got to Rome about 9.30. I had been ready since 6.30, eagerly watching to get a glimpse of St. Peter's. I had visions of Cività Vecchia and running along by the sea in the early morning.

I was quite awake, but I didn't see St. Peter's until we were quite near Rome. We ran through long, level stretches of Campagna, with every now and then a great square building that had been probably a mediæval castle, but was now a farm—sheep and cattle wandering out of the old gateway, and those splendid big white oxen that one sees all over the Campagna—some shepherds' huts with their pointed thatched roofs dotted about, but nothing very picturesque or striking. We passed close to San Paolo Fuori le Mura, with the Testaccio quite near. We paid ourselves compliments when we arrived at the station for having made our long journey so easily and pleasantly. No one was tired and no one was bored. Between us all (we were four women) we had plenty of provisions and Bessie[30 - Marquise de Talleyrand-Périgord, née Curtis.] and Mme. de Bailleul were most successful with their afternoon tea, with delicious American cake, that Bessie had brought over in the steamer.

After all, Josephine[31 - Princess di Poggio-Suasa, née Curtis.] finds she has room for me and my maid, which of course is infinitely pleasanter for me than being at the hotel. Her house is charming—not one of the old palaces, but plenty of room and thoroughly Italian. The large red salon I delight in; it couldn't exist anywhere else but in Rome, with its red silk walls, heavy gilt furniture, pictures, and curious bits of old carving and majolica. It opens into a delightful music-room with fine frescoes on the walls (a beautiful bit of colour), and beyond that there is a small salon where we usually sit. She has a picture there of her husband, Don Emanuele Ruspoli (late syndic of Rome), which has rather taken possession of me. It is such a handsome, spirited face, energetic and rather imperious—he looks a born ruler of men, and I believe he was. They say Rome was never so well governed as in his time. He was one of the first of the young Roman nobles who emancipated themselves from the papal rule. As quite a youth he ran away from college and entered the Italian army as a simple soldier, winning his grade as captain on the battle-field. He was a loyal and devoted servant of the House of Savoy, and took a prominent part in all the events which ended in proclaiming Victor Emanuel King of Italy, with Rome his capital.

This quarter, Piazza Barberini, is quite new to me. It used to seem rather far off in the old days when we came to see the Storys in the Barberini Palace, but now it is quite central. The great new street—Via Veneto—runs straight away from the Piazza, past the Church of the Cappucini—you will remember the vaults with all the dead monks standing about—the Palace of the Queen Mother, and various large hotels, to Porta Pinciana. Just the other side of the road is the new gate opening into the Villa Borghese. I rather lost myself there the first day I prowled about alone. It was raining, but I wanted some air, and turned into the Via Veneto, which is broad and clean. I walked quite to the end, and then came to the Porta Pinciana, crossed the road, and found myself in a beautiful villa. I didn't come upon any special landmark until I got near the Museum, which, of course, looked quite familiar. However, I was bewildered and hailed a passing groom to inquire where I was, and even when he told me could scarcely believe it. I had never gone into the Villa Borghese except by the Piazza del Popolo. They have made extraordinary changes since the Government has bought it—opened out new roads and paths, planted quantities of trees and flowers, and cleaned up and trimmed in every direction. It will be a splendid promenade in the heart of the city, but no longer the old Villa Borghese we used to know, with ragged, unkempt corners, and little paths in out-of-the-way places, so choked up with weeds and long grass that one could hardly get through.

I haven't quite got my bearings yet, and for the first three or four mornings I took myself down to the Piazza di Spagna, and started from there. There, too, there are changes—new houses and shops (I was glad to see old Spithoever in the same place) and a decided look of business and modern life. There were not nearly so many people doing nothing, lounging about, leaning on the "barca," or playing mora on the Spanish Steps. All the botte were still standing in the middle of the street, the coachmen smiling, cracking their whips, and making frantic little dashes across the piazza whenever they saw an unwary stranger who might want a cab.

The Spanish Steps looked beautiful, glowing with colour—pink, yellow, and that soft grey tint that the Roman stones take in the sunlight. All the lower steps are covered with flower stalls (they are not allowed any longer scattered all over the piazza), and most picturesque they looked—daffodils, mimosa, and great bunches of peach-blossoms which were very effective. There were very few models in costume sitting about; a few children playing some sort of game with stones, which they interrupted to run after the forestieri and ask for a "piccolo soldo" (a penny), and one or two old men with long white beards—might have done for models of the apostles or Joseph in the flight into Egypt—wrapped in their wonderful long green cloaks, sitting in the sun. There is one novelty—an "ascenseur." I haven't been in it yet, but I shall try it some day. One must get accustomed to many changes in the Rome of to-day.

I recognised some of the houses at the top of the steps—the corner one between Vias Sistina and Gregoriana, where the Rodmans used to live one year, and where we have dined so often, sitting on the round balcony and seeing the moon rise over the Pincio.

I walked home the other day by the Via Sistina to the Piazza Barberini, and that part seemed to me absolutely unchanged. The same little open mosaic shops, with the workmen dressed in white working at the door—almost in the street. In one shop they were just finishing a table, putting in countless bits of coloured marble (some of them very small). It was exactly like the one we brought from Rome many years ago, which stands now in Francis's smoking-room. There was of course the inevitable jeweller's shop, with crosses and brooches of dull yellow Roman gold and mosaic, and silk shops with Roman silk scarfs, and a sort of coarse lace which I have seen everywhere. In the middle of the street a miserable wrinkled old woman, her face mahogany colour, attired in a red skirt with a green handkerchief on her head, was skirmishing with a band of dirty little children, who had apparently upset her basket of roast chestnuts, and were making off with as many as they could find, pursued by her shrill cries and "maledizioni."

We went out in the open carriage yesterday, and drove all around Rome leaving cards—finished with a turn in the Villa Borghese and Pincio. It was too late for the Villa—almost every one had gone, and one felt the chill strike one on going into the thick shade after coming out of the bright sun in the Piazza del Popolo. We crossed Queen Margherita at the gate. She looked so handsome—the black is very becoming and threw out well her fair hair and skin. She was driving in a handsome carriage—the servants in mourning. One lady was with her—another carriage and two cyclists following. All the people bowed and looked so pleased to see her, and her bow and smile of acknowledgment were charming.

We made a short turn in the Villa and then went on to the Pincio, which was crowded. There were some very handsome, stately Roman equipages, plenty of light victorias, a few men driving themselves in very high phaetons, and the inevitable botta with often three youths on the one seat. The carriages didn't draw up—the ladies holding a sort of reception as in our days, when all the "gilded youth" used to sit on the steps of the victorias and surround the carriages of the pretty women. They tell me the present generation comes much less to the Villa Borghese and Pincio. They are much more sporting—ride, drive automobiles and play golf. There are two golf clubs now—one at Villa Pamphili Doria, the other at Aqua Santa. Every time we go out on the Campagna we meet men with golf clubs and rackets.

Monday I prowled about in the morning, always making the same round—Via Sistina and the Spanish Steps. The lame man at the top of the steps knows me well now, and we always exchange a cheerful good morning. Sometimes I give him some pennies and sometimes I don't, but he is always just as smiling when I don't give him anything.

In the afternoon Madame de B. and I went for a drive and a little sight-seeing. She wanted a bottle of eucalyptus from the monks at Tre Fontane, so we took in San Paolo Fuori le Mura on our way. The drive out is charming—a few dirty little streets at first—past the Theatre of Marcellus, which looks blacker and grimmer, if possible, than when I last saw it—and then some distance along the river. There are great changes–high buildings, quays, boats, carts with heavy stones and quantities of workmen—really quite an air of a busy port—busy of course in a modified sense, as no Roman ever looks as if he were working hard, and there are always two or three looking on, and talking, for every one who works—however, there is certainly much more life in the streets and the city looks prosperous.

The great new Benedictine Monastery of Sant' Anselmo stands splendidly on the heights (Aventine) to the left, also the walls and garden of the Knights of Malta. The garden, with its long shady walks, between rows of tall cypress trees, looked most inviting. We left the Testaccio and Protestant Cemetery on our right and followed a long file of carriages evidently going, too, to San Paolo. That of course looked exactly the same—an enormous modern building with a wealth of splendid marble columns inside. The proportions and great spaces are very fine, and there was a brilliant effect of light and colour (as every column is different). Some of the red-pink was quite beautiful, but it is not in the least like a church—not at all devotional. One can't imagine any poor weary souls kneeling on that slippery, shining marble pavement and pouring out their hearts in prayer. It is more like a great hall or academy. We went out into the quiet of the cloisters, which are interesting, some curious old tombs and statues, but small for such a huge basilica—always the square green plot in the centre with a well.

We had some difficulty in making our way to the carriage through a perfect army of boys and men selling photographs, postal cards, mosaic pins with views of the church, etc., also bits of marble, giallo antico, porphyry and a piece of dark marble, almost black, which had come from the Marmorata close by.