Count Gianotti, first master of ceremonies, has also an American wife.

She was a Miss Kinney, a daughter of Mrs. Kinney whom we knew in Washington. She is tall and striking-looking. Her Friday receptions are well attended, especially when she lets it be known that there will be _particularly_ fine music. While the artist at the piano thinks he is making a heavy and great success and is wrestling with his _arpeggios_ on a small piano, the guests come and go and rattle their teacups, regardless of the noise, while the music goes on. This is often the case in Roman _salons_.

The Marquis de Noailles is the French Amba.s.sador. You recollect him and the Marquise, who were in Washington the first year we were there. He, as you know, is of the bluest blood of France. She is of Polish extraction and lived in Paris, where she had a _succes de beaute_ in the Napoleonic days. After her first husband's death (Count Schwieskoska) she married de Noailles. They have an offspring, an _enfant terrible_, if there ever was one, who is about nine years old, and a worse torment never existed. n.o.body on earth has the slightest control over him--neither father, mother, nor tutor. The Marquis makes excuses for his bringing-up by saying that, having had a very severe, rod-using father himself, he was determined that if he ever had a child he would spare the rod. He can flatter himself that he has thoroughly succeeded in spoiling the child.

When we were at a very large and official dinner at the Farnese Palace (the French Emba.s.sy), where the beautifully decorated tables filled the whole length of the Carracci Gallery, the guests were amazed as seeing Doudou (the name of the infant) come in on a velocipede and ride round and round the table, all the servants dodging about to avoid collision, holding their platters high in the air, for fear of being tripped up and spilling the food. The astonished guests expected every moment to have their chairs knocked from under them. This made this should-be-magnificent dinner into a sort of circus. No persuasion or threats could induce this terrible child to go away, and he continued during the dinner to do his velocipede exercises. He must be a very trying boy. His mother told me herself that he forces both her and his father to take castor or any other oil when the doctor prescribes it for him. People tell horrible stories about him. I am sure you will say what every one else says--"Why don't his parents give him a good spanking?"

At a small dinner at the English Emba.s.sy I met the celebrated tenor, Mario. I had not seen him since in Paris in 1868, when he was singing with Alboni and Patti in "Rigoletto." Alboni once invited the Duke and the d.u.c.h.ess of Newcastle, Mr. Tom Hohler, and ourselves to dinner to meet Mario in her cozy apartment in the Avenue Kleber. I was perfectly fascinated by Mario and thought him the beau ideal of a Lothario. His voice was melodious and _caressante_, as the French say, and altogether his manners were those of a charmer. It was a most interesting dinner, and I was all ears, not wanting to lose a word of what Alboni and he said. What they talked about most was their many reminiscences, and almost each of their phrases commenced, "_Vous rappelez vous_?" and then came the reminiscence. After fourteen years I meet him here, a grandpapa, traveling with his daughter. He is now the Marquis di Candia (having resumed his t.i.tle), _et l'homme du monde parfait_; he is seventy years old and has a gray and rather scanty beard instead of the smooth, carefully trimmed brown one of _autrefois_. Why do captivating and fascinating creatures, such as he was, ever grow old? But, as Auber used to say, "the only way to become old is to live a long time."

At the Emba.s.sy dinner he did not sit next to me, alas! but afterward we sat on the sofa and talked of Alboni, Paris, and music. I told him that the first time I had heard him sing was in America, when he sang with Grisi.

"So long ago?" he said. "Why, you couldn't have been born!"

"Oh yes," I answered; "I was born, and old enough to appreciate your singing. I have never forgotten it, nor your voice. One will never hear anything like it again. Have you quite given up singing?" I asked.

"Why, I am a grandfather! You would not have a grandfather sing, would you?"

"I would," I answered, "if the grandfather was Mario."

ROME, _1881_.

Dear ----,--The opening of the Parliament is a great occasion in Rome (where one would like to be both inside and outside at the same time).

The children's governess had a friend who offered them seats in her window, and this is what they saw outside:

The streets lined with soldiers from the Quirinal to the House of Parliament, the large places in the Square swept clean and sanded (an unusual sight in Rome), thousands of citizens hanging out of the windows, flags and pennants waving in the air; brilliant cavalcades followed one another, accompanied by military bands playing inspiring music, and then came the Bersagliere, in their double-quick step, sounding their bugles as they marched along, their hats c.o.c.ked very much on one side, with long rooster feathers streaming out in the wind.

This is the most unique regiment (I was going to say c.o.c.kiest) one can imagine. Their uniforms are very dark green, their hats are black patent leather, and they wear black gloves and leggings. I am told that these soldiers do not live long--that they hardly ever reach the age of forty. The strain on the heart, caused by their quick pace, which is something between a run and a trot, is too great, especially for the buglers, who blow their bugles while running. At last came the splendid gala coaches of the King and the Queen, followed by many others, and then the military suite, making a splendid procession.

[Ill.u.s.tration: KING VICTOR EMMANUEL From a photograph given to Madame de Hegermann-Lindencrone in 1893.]

Inside, the large building was crowded to its limit. The state Ministers were in their seats in front, the members of Parliament behind them. The balconies were filled with people, and every available place was occupied. When the Queen entered the royal _loge_ with her ladies and chamberlains, there was a great deal of clapping of hands, which is the way an Italian shows his enthusiasm and loyalty. Every one arose and remained standing while the Queen came forward to the front of her _loge_, bowed and smiled, and bowed and bowed again until the clapping ceased; then she took her seat, and every one sat down.

The _loge_ reserved for the Diplomatic Corps is directly opposite the Queen's. After a few moments' pause the platform supporting the throne was noiselessly invaded by numerous officers in their glittering and brilliant uniforms, and members of the court in their court dress covered with decorations, who took their places on each side of the throne. The King came in quietly without any pomp, and was greeted by the most enthusiastic and prolonged demonstration. He acknowledged the ovation, but evidently chafed under the slight delay, as if impatient to commence his speech. Before doing so he turned toward the Queen's _loge_ with a respectful inclination of the head, as if to acknowledge her presence, then, bowing to the Diplomatic _loge_ and turning to the audience, read his proclamation.

It was most difficult to hear what the King said, perched as we were high above him; but we understood by the frequent interruptions and the enthusiastic _benes_ and _bravos_ and the clapping of hands that what he said pleased his subjects. The speech over, the King, accompanied by his suite, left as quietly as he had entered, amid the vociferous applause that followed. The Queen then arose, smiled and bowed to the a.s.sembly, and withdrew.

The streets were thronged with soldiers and people, and it was as much as his life was worth for the coachman to draw up in front of the door.

Mr. and Mrs. Field have almost completed their enormous palace out by Santa Maria Maggiore, but they have not, as they hoped, succeeded in making that part of Rome fashionable. They have bought land as far as the Colosseum; Nero's gold house, which stands in a _finocchi_ patch, is theirs too. The tenement-houses near them continue to festoon the facades with the week's wash in every state of unrepair. There is no privacy about the Italians washing their dirty linen, though they do wash at home.

I seem to be introducing you to all Rome.

Mr. and Mme. Minghetti are old friends--that is, I have known her from 1866. Then she was Princess Camporeale, very handsome and captivating.

She is just as attractive now and holds Rome in her hand. Her _salon_ is the _salon_ where all fashionable Rome flocks. She has arranged it in the most artistic manner. It is crowded with furniture, with cozy corners and flirtatious nooks between _armoires_ and palm-trees.

Valuable old pictures and tapestries decorate the walls. The _salon_ is two stories high and has an ornamental little winding staircase on which an enormous stuffed peac.o.c.k stands with outspread tail, as if guarding things below. On her Sunday afternoons one is sure to hear some good music. No one refuses, as it gives a person a certain prestige to be heard there.

Mr. Minghetti, possessing the order of the Annunciata (the highest decoration of Italy), is called "_Le cousin du Roi_." He is a great personage. He has been Prime Minister and still plays a very conspicuous part in politics. He has written many books on const.i.tutional law. He is tall, handsome, and altogether delightful.

The Storys still live in the third heaven of the Barberini Palace, where on Fridays there is a steady procession of tea-thirsty English and Americans who toil upward.

The two sons are what Mr. Story calls "promising." Waldo (the elder) promises to rival his father as a sculptor. Julian promises to be a great painter. His picture of Cardinal Howard, all in red against a red background, is a fine study in color besides being an excellent likeness.

The Haseltines are flourishing like green bay-trees. Their beautiful apartment in the Altieri Palace, where his _atelier_ is, is filled with his exquisite water-colors and paintings. Her brother, Mr. Marshall, is staying with them. He is very amusing. Last evening he held the table in a roar when he told of a recent experience.

At the d.u.c.h.ess Fiano's costume ball he had worn a costume of a Mignon-Henri-II. He described it to us. A light-blue satin jacket, and trunk-hose, slashed to exaggeration, with white satin puffs, a jaunty velvet cap with a long feather, and white satin shoes turned up at the ends.

Worth had made it and put a price on it almost equal to Marshall's income, and just because it had cost so much and he had received a good many compliments he thought it was his duty to have it and himself photographed as a memento of his reckless extravagance before the costume was consigned to oblivion. On the day of his appointment with the artist he was dressed and ready in his costume. As it was a rainy day, he provided himself with an umbrella and a pair of india-rubbers big enough to go over the gondola-like shoes. He also carried a stuffed falcon in his hand so that there should be no doubt as to what he was.

Unluckily, the horse fell down on the slippery _Corso_, and the coachman insisted upon Marshall's getting out.

"You may imagine my feelings," he said, "at being obliged to show myself in broad daylight in this get-up. A crowd of gaping idiots gathered about me and made particularly sarcastic remarks. One said, '_E il Re!_' ('It is the King'). Another screamed, '_Quante e bello i piccolo_!' There was I stranded in the middle of the _Corso_, holding an umbrella over my head in one hand and that ridiculous falcon in the other, my feather dripping down my back; and when I looked down at blue legs fast turning another color and my huge india-rubbers I realized what a spectacle I was making of myself...."

We laughed till the tears rolled down our cheeks. He showed us the photograph, and I must say that a less Mignon-Henri-II-like Mignon and a more typical American face and figure could not be imagined. If Henri II had caught sight of him with his thin legs, side-whiskers, and eye-gla.s.ses he would have turned in his grave.

Dr. Nevin, our pastoral shepherd, has really done a great deal for the American church here and ought to have a vote of thanks. He has collected so much money that he has not only built the pretty church, but has decorated it with Burne-Jones's tall angels and copies of the mosaics from Ravenna. He has also built a comfortable rectory, which he has filled with rare _bric-a-brac_. They say that no one is a better match for the wily dealers in antiquities than the reverend gentleman, and the pert little cabmen don't dare to try any of their tricks on him.

He shows another side of his character when in the pulpit.

The mere sound of his own voice in reading the Scriptures affects him to tears. Last Sunday he almost broke down completely when he was reading about Elijah and the bears (a tale which does not seem in the least pathetic to me). He is a great sportsman and plays all games with enthusiasm, and is a fervent but bad whist-player, and when he revokes (which he often does) we suppose he is thinking out his next Sunday's sermon. In the summer vacation he goes to the Rocky Mountains and kills bears.

A few Sundays ago it was, if ever, the occasion to say, "Don't kill the organist; he is doing his best." Signor Rotoli (the organist), who does not know one word of English, was dozing through Dr. Nevin's usual sermon, and, having the music open before him of the solo that Mr.

Grant (the tenor) was going to sing, heard the first words of the prayer, "O Lord, grant--" thought that it was the signal for the anthem, and crashed down the opening chords.

Dr. Nevin looked daggers at him, as if he could have killed him on the spot, and had there been anything at hand heavier than his sermon he certainly would have thrown it at him.

_March, 1881._

Dear ----,--The carnival is over. As it is the first carnival I have ever seen, I must describe it to you. It lasts almost a week. It commenced last Wednesday and finished yesterday. Mr. Saumares, of the English Emba.s.sy, had taken a balcony just opposite the Palazzo Fiano, where the Queen always goes. He invited us for the whole week, and when we were not in the fray ourselves, we went there at five o'clock to take tea and to see the _corso di barbeir_ (the race of the wild horses). The first day of the carnival we were full of energy and eagerness. We were all in our shabbiest clothes, as this is the customary thing. The coachman and the valet also had their worst clothes on, which is saying a good deal, and the horses were even worse than usual, which is saying a good deal more. The carriages were filled to overflowing with flowers, bonbons, and confetti by the bushel. Our servant, Giuseppe, had been since early morning bargaining for the things, and after tucking us in the carriage he contemplated us with pride as we drove off.

We started from the Piazzo del Popolo at three o'clock, and pelted every one, exhausting our ammunition recklessly. Dirty little beggar-boys would jump on the step of the carriage and s.n.a.t.c.h what flowers they could, even out of our hands, and would then sell them back to us, scrambling for the soldi which we threw at them; and, what was worse, they picked the same bouquets up, which by this time had become mere stems without flowers and covered with mud, and threw them at us. They wanted their fun, too.

At five o'clock we stood on the balcony to watch the race of the wild horses. These are brought straight in from the country, quite wild and untamed. They are covered with all sorts of dangling pointed tin things and fire-crackers, which not only frighten them dreadfully, but hurt them. They started at the Piazza del Popolo and were hooted and goaded on by the excited screams of the populace all the way down the narrow _Corso_, which is a mile long. It is a wonder that the poor creatures in their fright did not dart into the howling crowd, but they did not.

They kept straight on their way, stung to desperation by the fireworks on their backs. At the Piazza di Venezia the street narrows into a very small pa.s.sage, which divides the palazzo from its neighbor opposite.

Here sheets (or, rather, sails) were hung across this narrow place, into which the horses, blinded with terror, puzzled and confused, ran headlong, and were easily caught. The one who gets there first gets the prize, and is led back through the streets, tired and meek, wearing his number on a card around his neck. It is a cruel sport, but the Italians enjoy it, believing, as they do, that animals have no souls, and therefore can support any amount of torture.

Nothing is done on Friday. The following Tuesday--Mardi-gras--was the last day. Then folly reigned supreme. After the horses had run their race and twilight had descended on the scene, the _moccoletti_ began.

This is such a childish sport that it really seems impossible that grown-up men and women could find any amus.e.m.e.nt in taking part in it.

Lighting your own small tallow candle and trying to put out your neighbor's--that is what it amounts to. Does it not sound silly? Yet all this vast crowd is as intent on it as if their lives and welfare were at stake. At eight o'clock, however, this came to an end, the last flickering light was put out, and we went home--one would think to play with our dolls.

ROME, _1881_.

Dear ----,--Since we are bereft of b.a.l.l.s and _soirees_ we devote our time to improving our Italian. Johan and I take lessons of a monsignore who appears precisely at ten every morning. We struggle through some verbs, and then he dives into Dante, the most difficult thing to comprehend in the Italian language. Then he tries to explain it in Italian to us, which is more difficult still. He makes us read aloud to him, during which he folds his hands over his fat stomach and audibly goes to sleep. He will awake with a start and excuse himself, saying that he gets up at five o'clock in the morning for _matines_, and that naturally at eleven he is sleepy; but I think he only pretends to sleep and takes refuge behind his eyelids, in order to ponder over the Italian language as "she is spoke."

Sgambati, the very best composer and pianist in Rome, gives lessons to Nina, who he says has "_molto talento_." Sgambati has a wonderful and sympathetic touch, which is at once velvety and masterful. His gavotte is a _chef-d'oeuvre_. He calls it a gavotte, but I tell him he ought to call it "The Procession of the Cavaliers," because it has such a martial ring to it. It does not in the least resemble a Gavotte Louis XV. I seem to see in my mind's eye Henry V. trying to rally his comrades about him and incite them to combat. Sgambati looks like a _preux chevalier_ himself, with his soft, mild blue eyes and long hair and serene brow. He brought a song that he composed, he said, "_per la distinta Eccellenza Hegermann_ expressly by her devoted and admiring Sgambati." Although the song was beautiful as a piano piece and as _he_ played it, I could not sing it. I said:

"My dear Sgambati, I can never sing 'Mio' on a si-bemol. Can I not change it for an 'A'?"