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

Henrietta and I had discovered a pony trap with a pair of sturdy little mountain ponies, quite black, and we drove ourselves all over. Mother wouldn't let us go alone, so the stableman sent his son with us, aged 12 years. He wasn't much of a protector! but he knew the ponies, and the country, and everybody we met. He was a pretty little fellow—not at all the dark Italian type, rather fair, with blue eyes, but always the olive skin of the South. He invariably got off the little seat behind and took a short cut up the hills when the road was very steep, though I don't think his weight made any perceptible difference.

The evenings were delicious. We sat almost always on the balcony—sometimes with a light wrap when the breeze from the sea freshened about 9 o'clock. How beautiful it was; the sea deep blue, the islands changing from pink to purple, and as soon as it was dark Vesuvius sending up its pyramid of fire. It looked magnificent, but very formidable. Almost every morning we saw a party come and bathe in the little cove at the foot of the cliff—a pretty little boat came around the point with a family party on board—two ladies, one man and three children. I think they were English, their installation was so practical. They had a small tent, camp-stools, and table, also two toy sailboats which were a source of much pleasure and tribulation, as they frequently got jammed in between the rocks, or caught in the thick seaweed, and there was great excitement until they were started afresh. We made great friends with the sister of the man at the hotel. She was a nun, such a gentle, good face—she came every morning to get flowers for the little chapel of Maria—Stella del Mare—which was near the house, standing high on the hill and easily seen from the sea. One day she seemed very busy and anxious about her flowers, so we asked what was happening, and she said it was their great fête, and they were going to decorate the chapel and dress the Virgin—"should we like to see it?" The Virgin had a beautiful dress—white satin with silver embroidery and some fine jewels which some rich forestieri had given. We were delighted to go, and went with her to the little chapel, which looked very pretty filled with flowers and greens, one beautiful dark, shiny leaf which made much effect. The Virgin was removed from her niche—her vestments brought in with great care, wrapped in soft paper, and the good sister most reverently and happily began the toilet. The dress was very elaborate, had been the wedding dress of an Italian Principessa, and there were some handsome pins and rings—a gold chain on her neck with a pearl ornament. She was rather lamenting over the cessation of gifts—when I suddenly remembered my ring—quite a plain gold one with the cross (pax) one always sees in Rome, which had been blessed by the Pope. I put it on with three or four other little ornaments one day when we had an audience. I took it off, explained to her what it was, that it had been blessed by the Saint Père and that I should like very much to give it to the Virgin, if she wasn't afraid of accepting anything from a heretic. She was a little doubtful, but the fact of its having had the Pope's blessing outweighed other considerations, and the ring was instantly put on the Virgin's hand. She told us afterward that she had told it to the priest, and he said she was quite right to accept it, it might be the means of bringing me to the "true church." We grew really quite fond of her. It was such a simple, childish faith, her whole life was given up to her little chapel, cleaning and decorating it on feast days. All the children in the country brought flowers and leaves, one little boy came once, she told us, with a dead bird with bright feathers that he found, quite beautiful.

We made friends with the people at the table-d'hôte and they were very anxious we should come down to the reading-room at night and make music—but our mourning of course prevented that. We used to hear the piano sometimes and a man's voice singing, not too badly.

At last the wind seemed to have blown itself out, and our landlord said we could get easily to Capri. He could recommend an excellent boatman who had a large, safe boat and who was most prudent, as well as his son. With a fair wind we ought to go over in two hours. We wanted to stay over one night, and he arranged everything. The boat would wait and bring us back the next evening. We started early—about 9 o'clock—so as to get over for breakfast. The boat was most comfortable, a big broad tub, with rather a small sail, plenty of room for all our bags, wraps, etc. The sea was divine, blue and dancing, but there was not much wind. We progressed rather slowly, the breeze was mild, the boat heavy and the sail small, but nobody minded. It was delicious drifting along on that summer sea—just enough ripple to make little waves that tumbled up against the side of the boat, and a slight rocking motion that was delightful—couldn't have suggested sea-sickness or nervousness to the most timid sailor. There were plenty of boats about (mostly fishermen) of all sizes, some of them with the dark red sail that is so effective, and several pleasure boats and small yachts. They were almost as broad and solid as our boat; hadn't at all the graceful outlines and large sails that we are accustomed to. We were exactly three hours going over though the breeze freshened a little as we got near Capri. We were quite excited when we made out the landing-place ("Marina grande") and the long, steep flight of steps leading up to the town. The last time we were there we went by the regular tourist steamer from Naples. There were quantities of people and a perfect rush for donkeys and guides as soon as we arrived; also the whole population of Capri on the shore chattering, offering donkeys, flowers, funny little bottles of wine, and a troop of children running up the steps alongside of the donkeys and clamouring for "un piccolo soldo." This time there was no one at the landing-place, but the man of the hotel with a sedan chair for mother, donkeys for us if we wanted them (we didn't—preferred walking) and a wheelbarrow or hand cart of some kind for the luggage, which was slight—merely bags and wraps. There were a good many steps, but they were broad, we didn't mind. We found a very nice little hotel, kept by an English couple. The woman had been for years maid in the Sheridan family. She told us there was no one in the hotel but one Englishman—in fact no foreigners in the island. We had a very good breakfast in a nice, fairly large room with views of the sea in all directions, and started off immediately afterward to see as much as we could. Mother had her chair, but didn't go all the way with us. We passed through narrow, badly paved little streets with low, pink houses, lots of people, women and children, standing in the doorways—no men, I suppose they were all fishing—and then climbed up to the Villa Tiberius—a steep climb at the end, but such a view. Before we got quite to the top we stopped at the "Salto di Tiberio," a rock high up over the water from which the guide told us that monarch had his victims precipitated into the sea. We dropped down stones (I remember quite well doing the same thing when we were there before) to see how long it was before they touched the water, which showed at what a height one was. The palace is too much in ruins to be very interesting, but there was enough to show how large it must have been, and bits of wall and arches still standing. We went on to the chapel, drank some rather bad wine which the hermit offered us, bought some paper weights and crosses made out of bits of coloured marble which had been found in the ruins, and wrote our names in his book. We looked back in the book to see if there were any interesting signatures, but there was nothing remarkable—a great many Germans.

We came home by another path, winding down through small gardens, vineyards, and occasionally along the steep side of the mountain, all stones and ragged rocks, with the sea far down at our feet. There were a good many houses scattered about, one or two quite isolated near the top. We had a running escort of little black-eyed brown children all talking and offering little bunches of mountain flowers. The guides remonstrated vigorously occasionally and they would disappear, but were immediately replaced by another band from the next group of houses we passed.

We were rather tired when we got back to the hotel as the climbing was stiff in some parts, and glad to rest a little before dinner. The padrona came in and talked to us. It seemed funny to see an English woman in that milieu with her brown hair quite smooth and plain and a clean print dress. She said she liked her life, and the people of the island. They were industrious, simple and easy-going. She talked a great deal about the Sheridans, for whom she had of course the greatest admiration, said one of the sons came often to Capri, and that his cousin Norton had married a Capri fisher-girl. We had heard the story, of course, and were much interested in all she told us. She said the girl was lovely, an absolute peasant, had walked about with bare feet like all the rest, but that she had been over to England, was taught there all they could get into her head, and was quite changed, had two children. I remember their telling us in Rome what a difficult process that education was. She was willing and anxious to learn to read and write, but her ambition and her capability of receiving instruction stopped there—when they wanted to teach her a little history (not very far back either) and the glories of the Sheridan name she was recalcitrant, couldn't interest herself and dismissed the subject saying, "ma sono morti tutti" (they are all dead). She always kept her little house at Capri, in fact was there now, perhaps we should like to see her. We said we should very much.

We had nice, clean comfortable rooms and made out our plan for the next day. We didn't care about the Blue Grotto—we had seen it before, and besides they told us that at this season of the year it would be almost impossible, one must have a perfectly still sea as the entrance is not easy—very low—and a big wave would swamp the boat. We heard the wind getting up a little in the night and we woke the next morning to see a grey, cloudy sky, little showers falling occasionally, and a fine gale, sea rough, no little boats out, one or two fishing boats racing along under well-reefed sails, anything but tempting for a three hours' sail in an open boat. Mother looked decidedly nervous; however the matter was taken out of our hands, for the boatmen appeared saying they would not go out, which was rather a relief; we didn't mind staying. There was a fair library in the house, books that visitors had left, so we hunted up a history of Capri (Baedeker was soon exhausted), and got through our morning pretty well, some reading aloud, the others knitting or working. We had all taken some sort of work in our bags, various experiences of small hotels on rainy days having taught us to provide our own amusement.

It cleared in the afternoon though the wind was still very high and we set off—on donkeys this time—and mother in her chair, to the other side of the island. Two or three girls, handsome enough in their bright skirts, bare brown legs and thick braids of hair, came with us to take charge of the donkeys. As we were going up a steep flight of steps (which the donkeys did very well and deliberately) they began to tell us about Mrs. Norton and said we should pass her house. It was amusing to hear them talk of her wonderful luck in being married to this "bel Inglese"; "adesso fa la signora sta in camera tutto il giorno—colle mani bianche" ("Now she does the lady, sits in her room all day with white hands"). We passed several houses rather better than the ordinary fisherman's cottage and then came upon a nice little white house, standing rather high, with a garden and gate, which they told us was Mrs. Norton's. We stopped a moment at the gate, looking at the garden; mother's bearers put her chair down and gave themselves a rest, and we saw a lady appear very simply dressed in something dark, who came to the gate and asked us in very nice English with a pretty accent if we would come in and rest, as the day was hot and we had had a steep climb. We heard all the fisher-girls giggling and saying "Eccola la Signora." We were half ashamed to have been seen gaping in at her garden, but the invitation was simply and cordially given, and we accepted. Her manner to mother was quite pretty, respectful to the older lady. We went into a pretty little sitting-room quite simply furnished, with books and photographs about. She showed us pictures of all her family, her husband (regretting extremely that he was not there), her mother-in-law, Mrs. Norton, and her children. She seemed very proud of her son, said he was at school in England and didn't care very much for Capri. I asked her if she liked England, and though she said "very much," I thought I detected a regret for her old home, though not perhaps her old life. Her face quite lighted up when we said how much we admired her island with its high cliffs and beautiful blue sea. I didn't find her as handsome as I expected, but the eyes were fine and her smile charming. Her manner was perfectly natural, she showed us very simply all she had, and was not in the least curious about us—asked us no questions, was evidently accustomed to seeing foreigners and tourists at Capri. We stayed about half an hour, and then went on our way. She shook hands with us all, and looked most smilingly at mother; couldn't quite understand her black dress and white cap—said we mustn't let her do too much, "she is not so young as you, la mamma."

Of course the fisher-girls were in a wild state of excitement when we came out—all talked at once, stopping in the middle of the path, the donkeys, too; when they had much to say, and telling the whole story over again. I said to one of them, "Should you like to marry a 'bel Inglese' and go and live in another country far away from Capri with no sun nor blue sky?" She thought a moment, looking straight at me with her big, black eyes and then answered, sensibly enough, my rather foolish question—she had never thought about it—was quite happy where she was. It was a curious meeting.

When we got back to the hotel we asked our padrona about Mrs. Norton and the life she led. She told us Mrs. Norton mère[25 - The well-known poetess and beauty, née Sheridan.] had been in despair when her son married the fisher-girl—he was very good-looking and her favourite, and it was a great blow to her, but that she had been very good to her and was fond of the boy. She didn't seem to think the young woman had had a very happy life, but that she was always delighted to get back to Capri. "Did she see any of her old friends?" "Not much—that was difficult—she only came in the summer, the children generally with her, and they fished and sailed and made their own life apart."

We got back to Sorrento the next morning—the sea beautifully smooth and calm—no trace of the great waves that had roared all night into the numerous caves, throwing up showers of foam.

My dear, I seem to have prosed on for pages about Naples, but once started I couldn't stop. Tell Henrietta I feel rather like her when we used to call her Mrs. Nickleby, because she never could keep to any one subject, but always made long, foolish digressions.

    Monday, April 13th.

Last night we had a pleasant dinner at Mr. Hooker's, the American banker. He still lives in one end of his apartment in the Palazzo Bonaparte, but has rented the greater part to the Suzannets.[26 - Comte de Suzannet, Secretary of the French Embassy.] We were a small party—ourselves, Schuylers, Ristori (Marchesa Caprannica), and her charming daughter. Ristori is very striking looking—very large, but dignified and easy in her movements, and a wonderfully expressive face. The girl, Bianca Caprannica, is charming, tall, fair, graceful. Ristori talked a great deal, speaks French, of course, perfectly. She admires the French stage, and we discussed various actors and actresses. I should love to see her act once, her voice is so full and beautiful. Such a characteristic scene took place after coffee. We were still sitting in the dining-room when we heard a carriage come in, and instantly there was a great sound of stamping horses, angry coachman, whip freely applied, etc. It really made a great noise and disturbance. Ristori listened for a moment, then rushed to the window (very high up—we were on the top story), exclaiming it was her man, opened it, and proceeded to expostulate with the irate coachman in very energetic Italian—"Che diavolo!" were these her horses or his, was he a Christian man to treat poor brutes like that, etc.—a stream of angry remonstrance in her deep, tragic voice. There was a cessation of noise in the court-yard—her voice dominated everything—and then I suppose the coachman explained and excused himself, but we were so high up and inside that we couldn't hear. She didn't listen, but continued to abuse him until at length Hooker went to the window and suggested that she might cease scolding and come back into the room, which she did quite smilingly—the storm had passed.

This morning we have been to the Doria Gallery. The palace is enormous, a great court and staircase and some fine pictures. We liked a portrait by Velasquez of a Pope—Innocent X, I think—and some of the Claude Lorraines, with their curious blue-green color. We walked home by the Corso. It was rather warm, but shady always on one side of the street. After breakfast Cardinal Bibra, the Bishop of Frascati, came to see us. He was much disappointed that we had had such a horrid day for our Frascati and Tusculum expedition, and wants us to go again, but we haven't time. We want to go to Ostia and Albano if it is possible. He and W. plunged into ecclesiastical affairs. It is curious what an importance they all attach to W.'s being a Protestant; seem to think his judgment must be fairer. He also knew about Uncle Evelyn having married and settled in Perugia, and had heard the Pope speak about him. He spoke about the Marquis de Gabriac (Desprez's predecessor) and regretted his departure very much. I think he had not yet seen the new Ambassador. W. told him Desprez would do all he could to make things go smoothly, that his whole career had been made at the Quai d'Orsay, where every important question for years had been discussed with him.

    Tuesday, April 14th.

We dined last night at the Black Spanish Embassy with the Cardenas. It was very pleasant. We had two cardinals—Bibra and a Spanish cardinal whose name I didn't catch; he had a striking face, keen and stern, didn't talk much at dinner—Desprez and his son, the Sulmonas, Bandinis, Primolis (she is née Bonaparte), d'Aulnays, all the personnel of the French Embassy, and one or two young men from the other embassies; quite a small dinner. W. took in Princess Sulmona and enjoyed it very much. Primoli took me, and I had Prince Bandini on the other side. Both men were pleasant enough. All the women except me were in high dresses, and Primoli asked me how I had the conscience to appear "décolletée" and show bare shoulders to cardinals. I told him we weren't told that we should meet any cardinals, and that in these troubled days I thought a woman in full dress was such a minor evil that I didn't believe they would even notice what one had on; but he seemed to think they were observant, says all churchmen of any denomination are. Their life is so inactive that they get their experience from what they see and hear. I talked a few minutes to Princess Bandini after dinner, but she went away almost immediately, as she had music (Tosti) at home. We promised to go to her later—I wanted very much to hear Tosti. The evening was short. The cardinals always go away early—at 9.30 (we dined at 7.30, and every one was punctual). As long as they stayed the men made a circle around them. They are treated with much deference (we women were left to our own devices). W. said the conversation was not very interesting, they talk with so much reserve always. He said the Spaniard hardly spoke, and Cardinal Bibra talked antiquities, the excavations still to be made in Tusculum, etc. I think they go out very little now, only occasionally to Black embassies. Their position is of course much changed since the Italians are in Rome. They live much more quietly; never receive, their carriages are much simpler, no more red trappings, nothing to attract attention—so different from our day. When Pio Nono went out it was a real royal progress. First came the "batta strada" or "piqueur" on a good horse, stopping all the carriages and traffic; then the Pope in his handsome coach, one or two ecclesiastics with him, followed by several cardinals in their carriages, minor prelates, members of the household and the escort of "gardes nobles." All the gentlemen got out of their carriages, knelt or bowed very low; the ladies stood in theirs, making low curtseys, and many people knelt in the street. One saw the old man quite distinctly, dressed all in white; leaning forward a little and blessing the crowd with a large sweeping movement of his hand. He rarely walked in the streets of Rome, but often in the villas—Pamphili or Borghese. There almost all the people he met knelt; children kissed his hand, and he would sometimes pat their little black heads. We crossed him one day in the Villa Pamphili. We were a band of youngsters—Roman and foreigners—and all knelt. The old man looked quite pleased at the group of young people—stopped a moment and gave his blessing with a pretty smile. Some of our compatriots were rather horrified at seeing us kneel with all the rest—Protestants doing homage to the head of the Roman Catholic Church—and expressed their opinion to father: it would certainly be a very bad note for my brother.[27 - General Rufus King, last United States Minister to the Vatican.] However, father didn't think the United States Government would attach much importance to our papal demonstration, and we continued to kneel and ask his blessing whenever we met His Holiness. He had a kind, gentle face (a twinkle, too, in his eyes), and was always so fond of children and young people. The contrast between him and his successor is most striking. Leo XIII is tall, slight, hardly anything earthly about him—the type of the intellectual, ascetic priest—all his will and energy shining out of his eyes, which are extraordinarily bright and keen for a man of his age.

We didn't stay very long after the cardinals left, as I was anxious to get off to Princess Bandini. We found a great many people, and music going on. Some woman had been singing—a foreigner, either English or American—and Tosti was just settled at the piano. He is quite charming; has very little voice, but says his things delightfully, accompanying himself with a light, soft touch. He sang five or six times, principally his own songs, with much expression; also a French song extremely well. His diction is perfect, his style simple and easy. One wonders why every one doesn't sing in the same way. They don't, as we perceived when a man with a big voice, high barytone, came forward, and sang two songs, Italian and German. The voice was fine, and the man sang well, but didn't give half the pleasure that Tosti did with his "voix de compositeur" and wonderful expression. He was introduced to me, and we had a pleasant talk. He loves England, and goes there every season. A good many people came in after us. I wanted to introduce W. to some one and couldn't find him, thought he must have gone, and was just going to say good-night to Princess Bandini when her husband came up, saying, "You mustn't go yet—your husband is deep in a talk with Cardinal Howard," and took me to one of the small salons, where I saw the two gentlemen sitting, talking hard. The Cardinal was just going when we came in, so he intercepted W. and carried him off to this quiet corner where they would be undisturbed. They must have been there quite three-quarters of an hour, for I went back into the music-room, and it was some little time before W. found me there. Every one had gone, but we stayed on a little while, talking to the two Bandinis. It is a funny change for W. to plunge into all this clerical society of Rome; but he says he understands their point de vue much better, now that he sees them here, particularly when both parties can talk quite frankly. It would be almost impossible to have such a talk in France—each side begins with such an evident prejudice. The honest clerical really believes that the liberal is a man absolutely devoid of religious feeling of any kind—a dangerous character, incapable of real patriotic feeling, and doing great harm to his country. The liberal is not quite so narrow-minded; but he, too, in his heart holds the clergy responsible for the want of progress, the narrow grooves they would like the young generation to move in, and the influence they try to exercise in families through the women (who all go to church and confession). With the pitiless logic of the French character every disputed point stands out clear and sharp, and discussion is very difficult. Here they are more supple—leave a larger part to human weaknesses.

    Thursday, April 16th.

We have finally had our day at Albano, and delightful it was. W. and I went alone, as Gert was not very well, and afraid of the long day in the sun. We started early—at 8.30—though we had been rather late the night before as Count Coello, Spanish Ambassador,[28 - To the Quirinal.] sent us his box for the opera. It was Lohengrin—well enough given, orchestra and chorus good, but the soloists rather weak. Elsa, a very stout Italian woman of mature years, did not give one just the idea of the fair patrician maiden one imagines her to be. The Italian sounded very funny after hearing it always in German, and "Cigno gentil" didn't at all convey the same idea as "Lieber Schwan." The tenor had a pretty, sympathetic voice and looked his part well (rather more like Elsa's son than her lover), but one mustn't be too particular. The house was fairly brilliant—much fuller than the last time we were there—and quantities of people we knew. Hardly any one in full dress, which is a pity, as it makes the salle look dull. One or two women in white (one very handsome with diamond stars in her hair, whom nobody knew) stood out very well against the dark red of the boxes. Del Monte came in and sat some time with us. He is quite mad about Wagner—rare for an Italian. They generally like more melody and less science. We invited him to come to Albano with us and show us everything, and I think he was half inclined to accept, but he was de service that day and it was too late to find any one to replace him.

We finally decided to drive out after various consultations as to hours, routes, etc. It is quicker by the railway and we should perhaps have rather more time, but we both of us love the drive on the Campagna, and W. was very keen to take the old Via Appia again and realize more completely the street of tombs. It was a lovely morning and every minute of the drive interesting, even when we were almost shut in between the high grey walls which stretch out some little distance at first leaving the Porta San Sebastiano. They were covered with creepers, pink roses starting apparently out of all the crevices; pretty, dirty little children tumbling over the broken bits into the road almost under the horses' feet; every now and then a donkey's head emerging from an opening, or a wrinkled old woman appearing at some open door smiling and nodding a cheerful "Buon giorno!" to the passers-by. There was a long string of carts with nothing apparently in them. They didn't take much trouble about getting a little to one side to let the carriage pass; and their drivers—some of them stretched out on their backs in the carts, the reins hanging loosely over the seat—didn't at all mind the invectives our coachman hurled at them, "pigs, lazy dogs, etc." Of course we passed again Cecilia Metella, also two tombs said to be the Horatii and Curatii; and the Casale Rotondo with a house and olive trees on the top, but I cannot remember half the names, nor places.

We were armed with our Baedeker, but it goes into such details of all the supposed tombs and monuments that one gets rather lost. I don't know that it adds very much to the interest to know the names and dates of all the tombs. One feels in such an old-world atmosphere they speak for themselves. The colours were beautiful to-day—the old stones had a soft, grey tint. It is a desolate bit of road all the same—so little life or movement of any kind. As we got further out we came upon the long line of aqueducts, but there were apparently miles of plain with nothing in sight—occasionally a flock of sheep in the distance, the shepherd riding a rough, unkempt little pony, and looking a half-wild creature himself—some boys on donkeys, and the shepherds' dogs, which came barking and jumping over the plain toward the strangers. They are sometimes very fierce. Years ago in Rome when we used to make long excursions riding to Vei or Ostia, the gentlemen of the party always carried good big whips to keep them off. They have been known to spring on the horses, who are afraid of them. One sprang on Gert once, when we were cantering over the Campagna, and almost tore her habit off. We didn't meet any cart or vehicle of any description. I wondered where all these were going that we passed on the road, and asked our Giuseppe, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and said they were "robaccia" (trash).

We stopped a few minutes at the Osteria della Frattocchie—the man watered his horses (had a drink himself, too) and was very anxious we should try some of the "vino del paese." We tasted it—a sour, white wine, very like all the cheap Italian wines. The view from the Osteria looking back toward Rome was very striking. Long lines of ruined, crumbling tombs and arches—great blocks of stone, heads of columns, mounds, wide ditches choked up with weeds, broken walls—all the dead past of the great city. The sun was bright, but there were plenty of little clouds, and the changing lights and shades on the great expanse of the Campagna were beautiful. The hills seemed now so near that we almost felt like getting out and walking, but the man assured us we had still three or four miles before us, and a steep hill to climb—Albano on the top. The road was shady—between two lines of trees. As we got near the city we saw Pompey's tomb—a high tower with bits of marble still on the walls. W. is rather sceptical about all the tombs; would like to have time enough to investigate himself and make out all the inscriptions, but it would take a life-time.

We went at once to the hotel to order breakfast, and then strolled about in the streets until it was ready. It looked more changed to me than Frascati—more modern. They tell me many people go out there now for their summer "villegiatura," principally English and Americans, bankers, doctors, artists, etc., who are obliged to spend their summer in or near Rome. There were many new houses, and in all the old palaces apartments to rent. There were a few tourists walking about, but happily no Cook's this time. When we went back to the hotel we told the landlord what we wanted to see—Ariccia, Genzano and Nemi. He suggested donkeys, but that we both declined, so he said he had a good little carriage which could take us easily. The breakfast was good, we were both hungry, and after coffee we walked about in the Villa Doria under the ilex trees. W. smoked and was quite happy, and I wasn't sorry to walk a little after having been so long in the carriage. We went to the gardens of the Villa Altieri. It was there the Cardinal died in the cholera summer of '69 when we were at Frascati. We could almost have walked to Ariccia, it is so near, and such a lovely road, all ilex trees and great rocks, winding along the side of the hill. The church and old Chigi Palace look very grand and imposing as one gets near the gates of the little town. We walked about the streets and went into the church, but there was not much to see, and I thought it less effective seen near; then on to the gardens of the Capuchin Convent, from where there are splendid views in every direction, and always the thick shade of the ilex. We couldn't loiter very much as we had the drive to Genzano before us. The road was quite beautiful all the way; every turn familiar (how many times we have ridden over it), and Genzano with its little, old streets straggling up the hill looked exactly the same. I had forgotten the great viaduct which one sees all the time on that road, it is splendid. We again got out of the carriage and walked up a steep little path to have a view of Lake Nemi. It lay far down at our feet—a little green pond (yet high too), they say it was a volcanic crater. The water was perfectly still—not even a shimmer of light or movement. Every way we turned the view was beautiful—either down the valley where the colours were changing all the time, sometimes quite grey, when the sun was under a cloud (one almost felt a chill), and then every leaf and flower sparkling in the sunlight—or toward the hills where the little towns Rocca di Papa and Monte Cavo seemed hanging on the side of the mountain.

The drive back to Albano by the "Galleria di Sotto" under the enormous ilex trees was simply enchanting, the afternoon sun throwing beautiful streaks of yellow light through the thick shade, and the road most animated—groups of peasants coming in from their work in the fields; old women tottering along, almost disappearing beneath the great bundles of fagots they carried on their heads; girls with jet-black hair and eyes, in bright-coloured skirts, and little handkerchiefs pinned over their shoulders, laughing and singing and chaffing the drivers of the wine carts, who usually got down and walked along with them, leaving their horses, who followed quietly, the men turning around occasionally and talking to them. In the fields alongside there were teams of the splendid white oxen and quantities of children tumbling up and down the banks and racing after the carriage. They spot the foreigner at once. I had talked so much to W. about the beauty of the road, the Galleria in particular, that I was afraid he would be disappointed; but he wasn't, was quite as enthusiastic as I was.

When we got back to Albano I tried to find some of the little cakes (ciambelle) we used to buy when we rode over from Frascati; the little package wrapped up in greasy brown paper and tied to the pommel of the saddle; but the woman at the very nice baker's or confectioner's shop we went into hadn't any, but said she could make a "plome cheke" (she showed us the ticket with the name on it with pride), which was what all the "Inglesi" took.

The drive home was lovely—just enough of the beautiful sunset clouds to give colour to everything; the air soft and the world so still that a dog barking in one of the little old farms or shepherds' huts made quite a disturbance. As the evening closed in we heard the "grilli" (alas, no nightingales; it is still too early) and the bushes along the road were bright with fire-flies. The road seemed much less lonely going back to Rome; so many peasants were coming back from the fields, also boys on donkeys with empty sacks—had evidently taken olives, cheese, or dried herbs into the city—and always bands of girls laughing and singing. It was an ideal day, and after dinner we were just tired enough to settle in our respective arm-chairs and say how glad we were we had decided to come and spend these months in Italy.

The Schuylers came in for a cup of tea and Gert was rather sorry she hadn't come, as her headache wasn't very serious. I think they will take themselves out to Albano for a little stay as soon as the heat begins.

    Friday, April 17th.

This morning we went for a last turn in the Vatican. That is what W. likes best. There is so much to see in that marvellous collection. He wanted to copy one or two inscriptions, so I wandered about alone and talked to the custode, who has become an intimate friend of ours. He hovers about W. when he is taking notes or examining things closely, and is evidently much gratified at the interest he takes in everything—quite like a collector showing off his antiquities. We saw a little commotion at one end of the long gallery, and he came running up to say "His Holiness" was walking in the garden, and if we would come with him he would take us to a window from where we could see him quite distinctly. This of course we were delighted to do, as one never sees the present Pope, except in some great ceremony when he is carried in the "sedia gestatoria," but so high over the heads of the people that one can hardly distinguish his features. We walked down the gallery, through two or three passages, up a flight of stairs, and came upon a window looking down directly on the gardens. They are beautiful, more like a park than a garden, and one can quite understand that the Pope can get a very good drive there, the days he doesn't walk. The custode says he only walks when it is quite fine, is afraid of the damp or wind, but that he goes out every day. There is a wood, flowers, long alleys stretching far away bordered with box and quite wide enough for a carriage, various buildings, a casino, tower, observatory, etc., also fountains and a lake (I didn't see a boat upon it). In the middle of one of the alleys a little group was walking slowly in our direction—about 10 people I should think. The Pope, dressed always in white, seemed to walk easily enough. He carried himself very straight, and was talking with a certain animation to the two ecclesiastics who walked on each side of him. He stopped every now and then, going on with his conversation and using his hands freely. He was talking all the time, the others listening with much deference. The suite seemed to consist of three or four priests and two servants. I didn't see either a Suisse or Garde-Noble, but they may have been following at a distance. Our glimpse of him was fleeting, as he turned into a side alley before he got up to our window—still it was enough to realize his life—think of never going outside those walls, walking day after day in those same alleys, cut off from all the outside world and living his life in the stillness and monotony of the Vatican. However it certainly doesn't react in any way upon his intellect. They say he is just as keen and well up in everything as when he was Bishop of Perugia, and that his indomitable will will carry him through.

We thanked our old custode very warmly (and in many ways) for having brought us to the window, and also said good-bye to him, as this of course was our last visit to the Vatican. He begged us to come back, but it must be soon, or he wouldn't be there, as he was as old as the Pope.

When we got to the hotel we found Monsignor English in the salon with the Pope's photograph, very well framed with a gilt shield with the Papal arms on the top. It is exactly like him, sitting very straight in his chair, his hand lifted a little just as if he were speaking, and the other hand and arm resting on the arm of the chair. He is dressed in his white robes, red cape and embroidered stole, just as we saw him; and his little white cap on his head. He has written himself a few words in Latin, of which this is a free translation: "The woman who fears God, makes her own reputation. Her husband was celebrated in his country when he sat with the Senators of the land." I am so pleased to have the photograph—so many people told me I should never get it, that the Pope rarely gave his picture to anybody and never signed one. Monsignor English, too, was much pleased, as he had undertaken the whole thing. He said again that the Pope was glad to have seen W., found him so moderate, and yet very decided, too, about what the church mustn't do. Leo XIII. has an awfully difficult part to play—the ultra-Catholics disapprove absolutely his line—can't understand any concession or compromise with Republican France, and yet there are very good religious people on the liberal side, and he, as Head of the Church, must think about all his children, and try to conciliate, not alienate. It is wonderful that that old man sitting up there by himself at the top of the Vatican can think out all those perplexed questions and arrive at a solution. They say he works it all out himself—rarely asks advice. I daresay it wouldn't help him if he did, for of course there are divisions, too, in the clerical party of Rome, even among the Cardinals, where the difference of nationalities must have a very great influence. I should think there was almost as much difference between an American and an Italian Cardinal as between Protestants and Catholics. The American must look at things from a different point of view. Monsignor English quite understood that—said Americans were more independent—still when a great question came they must submit like all the rest.

We then had a most animated discussion as to how far it was possible for an intelligent man (or woman) to abdicate entirely his own judgment, and to accept a thing which he was not quite sure of because the church decided it must be. I think we should have gone on indefinitely with that conversation, never arriving at any solution, so it was just as well that breakfast put a stop to it.

We went for a lovely drive in the afternoon, out of the Porta del Popolo, across Ponte Molle, and then along the river until we came to that rough country road, or lane, leading across the fields where we have gone in so many times on horseback, to the Villa Madama. We drove as far as we could (almost to the gate) and then walked up the hill to the Villa itself. There everything was quite unchanged—the garden neglected, full of weeds, and grass growing high. The oval stone basin was there still, the sides covered with moss, and a few flowers coming quite promiscuously out of walls, stones, etc. We went into the loggia to see the paintings and frescoes, all in good condition, and then sat some time on the terrace looking at the view, which was divine—everything so soft in the distance, even the yellow Tiber looked silvery—at least I saw it so; I don't know that W. did. He generally finds it sluggish and muddy. We came home by the Porta Angelica and drove through the Square of St. Peter's. There are always people on the steps, not a crowd of course as on fête days, but enough to give animation, priests, beggars, and the people lounging and looking at whatever passes in the Square. It is so enormous, the Piazza, when one sees it empty, one can hardly realize what it used to be in the old days for the great Easter ceremony when the Pope gave his blessing from the balcony of St. Peter's. I can see it now, packed black with people, the French soldiers with their red caps and trousers making great patches of colour, and Montebello (who commanded the French Armée d'Occupation in Rome) with a brilliant staff in the centre of the Square—he and his black charger so absolutely motionless one might have thought both horse and rider were cast in bronze. There were all sorts of jokes and chattering in the crowd until the first glimpse of the waving peacock plumes, and banners, passing high, high up, and just visible through the arches, showed that the Pope's procession was arriving on the balcony; and when at last one saw distinctly the white figure as the old man was raised high in his chair there was an absolute stillness in all that great mass; every one knelt to receive the blessing, and the Pope's voice rang out clear and strong (one could hear every word). As soon as it was over cannon fired, bells rang, and there fluttered down over the crowd a quantity of little white papers (indulgences) which every one tried to grasp. It was a magnificent cadre for such a ceremony—the dome of St. Peter's towering above us straight up into the blue sky, the steps crowded with people, the red umbrellas of the peasants making a great show, and women of all conditions and all nationalities dressed in bright, gay colours; uniforms of all kinds, monks and priests of every order; the black of the priests rather lost in all the colour of uniforms, costumes, etc. The getting away was long—we might have had our carriage with the American cockade in one of the back courts of the Vatican, but we wanted to see everything and come home by the Ponte St. Angelo. It was a great show all the way—the long line of carriages and pedestrians streaming back to Rome, cut every now and then by a detachment of troops. Everybody was cheered, from Charette and his Zouaves to Montebello and his staff. The crowd was in a good humour—it was a splendid day, they had had a fine show, and politics and "foreign mercenaries" were forgotten for the moment. Everybody had a flower of some kind—the boys and young men in their hats, the girls in their hair. One heard on all sides "buona festa," "buona Pasqua." How we enjoyed it all, particularly the first time, when we were fresh from America and our principal idea of a fête was the 4th of July. That seemed a magnificent thing in our childish days, when we had friends on the lawn at Cherry Lawn, a torch-light procession with a band (such a band) from the town, and father's speech, standing at the top of the steps and telling the boys that if they worked hard and studied well, any one of them might become President of the United States, which statement of course was always received with roars of applause.

We went back to the Piazza always at night to see the "Girandola" fireworks, and there was almost the same crowd waiting for the first silvery light to appear on the façade of St. Peter's. It was marvellous to see the lines of light spread all over the enormous mass of stone, running around all the cupolas and statues like a trail of silver, in such quantities that the stone almost disappeared, and the church seemed made of light—quite beautiful. The illumination lasted a long time—gold light came after the silver, and I think it was perhaps more striking when they began to go out one by one, leaving great spaces in darkness—then one saw what an enormous edifice it was.

I have written you a volume—but every turn here recalls old, happy days—"Roma com'era"—and I must come back to the present and our farewell dinner at the Noailles'.

We were a small party—all the French Embassy, the Duc de Ripalda, the Chilian Minister and his wife, Maffel, Visconti Venosta, and Lanciani. W. and Noailles retired to the fumoir and talked politics hard. We shall soon be back in the thick of it now, and W. will take his place again in the Senate. It will seem funny to be quietly settled in the rue Dumont d'Urville—riding in the Bois in the morning and driving over to the Senate in the afternoon, with the boy, to get W. Ripalda and I had a long talk. He tells me he still holds the same opinion about American women—they are the prettiest and most attractive in the world. There is something—he doesn't know what—that makes them different from all the others. I asked him if he remembered Antoinette Polk; to which he promptly replied, "Ah, qu'elle était belle—une déesse." I must tell her how she lives in his old memory. I always find Noailles pleasant—so grand seigneur.

We found all sorts of cards and invitations when we came in, and a surprise for me from Father Smith which pleased me greatly, a silver medal of Leo XIII. in a case. It is about the size of a five-franc piece—rather larger if anything, and so like, the small head, and fine, sharply cut features, such a nice note, too, from Father Smith; he was very glad to be able to offer me something which he knew I would prize, and that it wasn't necessary to be of the same religion to admire and appreciate a great intellect and a good man. I am very proud of my two pictures, and shall show them triumphantly to some of my Catholic friends and relations who can't understand a Protestant and a heretic caring for such souvenirs.

We can't accept any more dinners as we leave on Monday, W. for Naples and I for Florence. I wanted very much to go to Ostia, I should like W. to see that desolate, sandy shore with the pines coming down almost to the water's edge, and the old castle rising up in the distance; but it is an all-day excursion and we haven't time. We will try and do Vei, which is an easy afternoon's drive. I must stop now—W. is deep in Baedeker, looking out Ostia and Vei, and must also write a note to Geoffroy about something they want to see to-morrow. I shall go and see something with Gert.

    Sunday, April 19, 1880.

Yesterday we had an enchanting day at Tivoli, W., Gert and I. Schuyler was detained in Rome, much to his disgust, on business. He loves a day in the country and is most amusing to go about with. He talks to everybody, priests, peasants, soldiers, and always gets odd bits of information about old customs, legends, family histories—all that makes the story of a nation. Tomba gave us a light carriage and a pair of strong horses (our little ones were not up to the long day). We started at 8 in the morning and didn't get back until 8.30. There is a steam tram now all the way out but we preferred driving, as we wanted to stop at Hadrian's Villa. We went out by Porta San Lorenzo, crossed the Arno (the river which makes the falls of Tivoli) at Ponte Mammolo, and had a good two hours' drive (rather more, in fact) to Hadrian's Villa. I didn't find that part of the Campagna very interesting (it was much finer after one left the Villa). We left the carriage at the entrance of a sort of lane (one doesn't see much before getting actually inside) between high banks covered with every description of vine and creepers; and wild flowers and weeds in a tangle at our feet (it was really difficult walking sometimes), and found ourselves in an open space, with ruins in every direction—a half-crumbling wall, weeds choking it up; part of a theatre with broken columns and steps, a few bits of mosaic but not much colour of any kind; some bas-reliefs very well preserved; but one felt that everything of value had been taken away, and what was left was so hidden in long grass and weeds that it was difficult to understand all the former magnificence of the famous Villa.

The custode was most conscientious, explained everything—the arena, theatre, baths, temples, etc., but my impression was a mass of grey, broken bits of stones and columns. There were one or two splendid stone pines standing up straight and tall, looking like guardians of past splendour, and in every direction the crooked little grey-green olive trees and fields full of flowers. Gert and I sat on the wall in a shady corner, while W. and the custode went off some little distance to look at a fountain, and we were not sorry to have the rest. The last part of the drive, winding up the hill to Tivoli, was beautiful—such splendid views all the time, either toward Rome (St. Peter's standing out, a faint blue dome at the end of the long, flat plains of the Campagna; or on the other side the Sabine Hills, Soracte, Frascati, etc.).

We went straight to the little old hotel of the Sybilla, which looks exactly the same as in our day, and ordered breakfast. We were quite ready for it, having had our "petit déjeuner" at 7.30. The padrone said he wanted half an hour to prepare it, as the regular table-d'hôte was over. Of course the railway tourists got out much quicker than we did and we met them all over the place, when we went out to see the famous Temple of Vesta. It is perched on the top of the cliff, looking as if it would take very little to precipitate it into the mass of rushing, leaping water tumbling itself over the rocks far below at our feet. We had a very good breakfast, capital trout for which Tivoli is famous, and a most talkative landlord who came to superintend the meal and give us any information we wanted. He said we must have donkeys to make the "giro," which would take us about two hours, and we could finish at the Villa d'Este, where the carriage would come and get us.

We walked about a little in the town after breakfast through narrow, dirty streets with curious old bits of architecture, and into the church, or cathedral as they grandly call it, of San Francesco; but there was really nothing to see; and at two we started for our tournée to the grottoes of Neptune and the Sirena. We all walked at first, two donkeys with the usual pretty little black-eyed boys at their heads following (W. of course wouldn't have a donkey but took a cane which the padrone of the Sybilla strongly recommended as the steps going down to the grotto were steep and slippery). I wondered how the donkeys would get on, but made no remarks as I knew I could always get off. We walked through the little town under a nice old arch and up a path which was pleasant enough at first, but when we wound round the side of the hill Gert and I were glad to mount our beasts as the sun was very hot and there wasn't an atom of shade. It was a beautiful excursion, always something to see—ruins of old castles, temples, gateways—so much really that one couldn't take in details. From certain "points de vue" the Temple of Vesta seemed almost standing on air—one lost the cliff, which disappeared in a sort of mist. As soon as we began to go down the noise of the rushing water was quite overpowering; we couldn't hear ourselves speak, and the glimpses we had of the quantities of little falls leaping over big rocks and stones were quite enchanting.

Our little donkeys were perfectly sure-footed and the path good though steep. We dismounted before getting quite down to the grottoes and the steps certainly were rough and slippery. The guide took charge of Gert, and I followed in W.'s wake very carefully. It was icy cold when we got all the way down. I am generally impervious to that sort of thing, but I felt the cold strike me and didn't stay long. The chill passed entirely as soon as we came out and began the ascent, leaving the dark, deep pool behind us.

The road back was, if possible, more beautiful; great ravines with olive trees half way down their sides, mountain streams in every direction making countless little cataracts, all dancing and sparkling in the sun—rocks covered with bright green moss, and fields carpeted with wild flowers. The guide pointed out various ruins—the Villa of Mæcenas—a great square mass on the top of a hill—but we didn't care to make a long détour to go up to it. We were quite satisfied with all the natural beauty we saw around us—one old bridge, the arches covered with moss and flowers, and every now and then through the olive trees one had glimpses of arches, columns, temples—quite beautiful. The only drawback was the Cook's tourists who were riding and walking and talking all over the place, making jokes with the guides and speaking the most execrable Italian. However they had already done the Villa d'Este, so we lost them there, which was a relief.

The Villa was enchanting after the heat and glare of the road, and at first we sat quite quietly on a grassy bank and enjoyed the thick shade of the enormous cypresses. The custode was very anxious we should make the classic tour with him but we told him we knew the place—it was by no means our first visit. I explained to him in Italian that I was a "vecchia Romana" (old Roman), to which he replied with true Italian gallantry, "non tanto vecchia—son to vecchio" (no, not at all old—I am old), and old he was, his face all yellow and wrinkled like the peasants who live on the Campagna and are poisoned with malaria.

I should think, though, the Villa d'Este was healthy, it stands so high. It is almost uninhabited, belongs now to Cardinal Hohenlohe, but they tell me he never lives there, never sleeps—comes out for the day from Rome and goes back at night. It is sometimes let to foreigners. The garden is quite beautiful, perfectly wild and neglected but a wealth of trees, fountains, statues, terraces—it might be made a paradise with a little care. There are few flowers (like most Italian gardens) except those that grow quite wild. There is still the same great arch at one end of the terrace which just frames a stretch of Campagna, making a beautiful picture.

We had a delicious hour wandering about, stopping to rest every now and then, and sitting on some old bit of wall or column—no one there but ourselves and not a sound except the splashing water of the fountains. W. was delighted, and we were very sorry to leave. The afternoon light was so beautiful, penetrating through the black cypress avenue, however, we had a long drive back, longer even than coming, as we wanted to make a détour to look at the sulphur lakes. Our coachman was evidently anxious to leave. We heard an animated parley at the gate of the Villa, and the custode appeared to say the carriage was there and the coachman said it was time to start if we wanted to get back to Rome before nightfall. I think he didn't want to be too late on the road.

It was still warm when we started back, but we hadn't gone very far when it changed completely and I was very glad to put on my jacket and a shawl over it. It is a long, barren stretch of Campagna toward the sulphur lakes; one smelt the sulphur some time before arriving. They were not particularly interesting, looked like big, stagnant ponds, with rather yellowish water. Our man was decidedly uncomfortable. The road was absolutely lonely—not a person nor a vehicle of any kind in sight, the long straight road before us, and the desolate plains of the Campagna on each side. He fidgeted on his box, looked nervously from side to side, whipped up his horses, until at last W. asked him what was the matter, what was he afraid of. "Nothing, nothing, but it was late. We were strangers and one never could be quite sure what one would meet." It was not very reassuring, and when we saw once or twice a figure looming up in the distance, a man or two men on horseback, who might be shepherds or who might be bandits, we were not very comfortable either; we seemed to feel suddenly that it was getting dark, that we were alone in a very lonely road in a strange country, and we didn't mind at all when the coachman urged his horses to a quick gallop, and got over the ground as fast as he could.