MONZA, _October 19th_.

Bonghi came yesterday. At the request of the Queen he read aloud my sketch of the Hamlet legend before the _promenade en voiture_. The Queen thanked me and said that she was going to keep the ma.n.u.script, but Bonghi cut my literary wings by p.r.o.nouncing in his brusque way that, although it was interesting and he liked the contents, it was badly written.

"_Chere madame_," he said, "you write very well, but you do not know the art of punctuating. You write as the water runs, as the arrow flies; therefore, in reading what you have written I have no time to breathe. I cannot separate the different ideas. A comma means a _point d'arret_, a moment of repose. Every period should be an instant in which to digest a thought."

I felt crushed by this, but tried to defend myself by saying that I had only written it for one indulgent eye, and ended lamely by promising that the next time I wrote anything I would be more careful. "I will do as Mark Twain did--put the punctuations at the end, and one can take one's choice."

We had some music again this evening. The Duke played some solos on his violoncello. He has a beautiful instrument. If Amati made cellos (perhaps he did), he must have made this one.

At dinner I sat next to him.

He said, "I was very much interested in what you wrote about Hamlet."

"In spite of the lack of commas?" I asked.

"Yes, in spite of the lack of commas. But I wonder if all you wrote was true?"

"How can we ever find out?"

"I hate to think of him as a myth."

"Please don't think of him as a myth. Think of him as you always have; otherwise you will owe me a grudge."

Looking across the table to Signor Bonghi, he said: "He is a wonderful man. I like his name, too--Ruggiero Bonghi, _tout court_."

"It sounds," I said, "so full of strength and power and straight to the point, with no accessories, doesn't it?"

"You say that to _me_, who have twenty-four names."

"Twenty-four! Dear me! Do you know them all?"

"I must confess that I do not, but I will look them up in the Gotha and write them out for you."

"Twenty-four," I repeated. "How out of breath the priest who baptized you must have been!"

"Oh," cried the Prince, "he did not mind; he got a louis [twenty-franc piece] for each name."

ROME, PALAZZO SFORZA-CESARINI, _January, 1887_.

My dear Aunt,--After the reception of the Diplomats on the 1st of January we moved from Palazzo t.i.ttoni to this, our new home.

We have in the largest _salon_ an enormous and gorgeously sculptured chimneypiece which has a tiny fire-place that, when crammed full of wood, and after we have puffed our lungs out blowing on it and prodded it with tongs, etc., consents to smile and warm the chair nearest to it, but nothing else.

The ceiling (a work of art of some old master) is way up in the clouds; I am almost obliged to use an opera-gla.s.s to see which are angels' or cherubs' legs up there in the blue.

The figures in the corners, I suppose, represent Faith, Hope, and Charity; the fourth must be the G.o.ddess of Plenty. She is emptying an enormous cornucopia over our heads of the most tempting fruit, which makes my mouth water and makes me wish she would drop some of it in my lap.

This palace used to belong to that nice hospitable family you've heard about--_the Borgias_. I dare say they did a good deal of their poisoning in these very _salons_.

We were rather agitated the other day when a hole was discovered in one of the walls. I put my hand way down in it as far as I could and pulled out a little bottle which contained some dark liquid. Poison, for sure!

It looked very suspicious. Giuseppe, our Italian butler, who is as Italian as an Italian can be, was frightened out of his senses (the few he possesses) and held the bottle at arm's-length.

To test the contents of the vial he put half of it in some food he gave to a thin and forlorn cat who hovered about our kitchen, and for whom Giuseppe cherished no love. However, the cat survived with eight of its lives. Then a rabbit a friend of Giuseppe's wanted to get rid of was given the rest. He also lived and thrived. After these experiments we don't think much of Borgia poisons.

One of the rooms behind the _salon_ (so large that it is divided into four) has the most beautiful frescoed ceiling. It is a pity that it is so dark there that one cannot see it properly. Perhaps originally it was a chapel and the frescoes were easier seen when the altar-candles were burning. But can one imagine a Borgia needing a chapel or a Borgia ever praying?

Just around the corner from us is the _campo di fiori_ (field of flowers), where one might expect to buy flowers, but it is the one thing you do not find there. Everything else, from church ornaments to umbrellas, from silver candlesticks to old clothes, you can buy for a song not so musical as Mendelssohn's "without words"; on the contrary, the buying of the most insignificant object is accompanied by a volume of words screamed after the non-buyer in true Jewish style.

Then around another corner you come across the Torso, made famous by that witty tailor called Pasquino, where he placarded his satirical witticisms; his post-office for anonymous letters!

We have just come home from the Pantheon. There is held every year for the anniversary of King Victor Emmanuel's death a memorial service _pour le repos de son ame_. If it had been my soul it would never have reposed; it would have jumped up and clapped its wings to applaud the music, which, though always beautiful, to-day was divine.

I even forgot to freeze during the long two hours we stayed in the icy-cold building, open to wind and weather above and full of piercing draughts below. The marble pavement, which has collected damp and mold since 27 B.C., has long since become so wavy and uneven that you walk very unsteadily over it; the costly marbles of which the pavement is made in fine mosaic-work have sunken away from their contours centuries ago, so that now you only realize how beautiful it must have been in its prime.

The high and imposing catafalque, erected for this occasion, which filled the whole center of the large _basilique_, reaching almost to the dome, was surrounded by enormous candelabra containing wax candles as big as birch-trees.

The ministers of state and the diplomats had a _loge_ reserved for them next to the orchestra, and, although there were carpets and rugs under our feet, the humidity and cold penetrated to the marrow of our stateful and diplomatic bones.

There were tiers of seats for people who were fortunate enough to procure tickets.

Gayarre, the wonderful Spanish tenor, sang several solos, each one more exquisite than the other. I have never heard a more beautiful voice, and certainly have never heard a more perfect artist. The way he phrases and manages his voice is a lesson in itself.

Tamagno, the famous Italian tenor, sings wonderfully also, but very differently. He gives out all the voice he has, and you are overcome with the strength and power and the compa.s.s of his unique voice. He is the _tenor robusto par excellence_ of the world.

One cannot compare the two singers. Gayarre has the real quality of a tenor, exquisitely tender, suave, and still powerful. He has a way of keeping his voice bottled up until a grand climax; then he lets it swell out in a triumphal burst.

This funeral service is a very long and fatiguing affair. I pity the _carabinieri_ (the soldiers) who are on service that day. Although they are men chosen for their powerful build, some of them cannot endure the fatigue of standing "at arms" the two hours that the service lasts. I suppose the poor things are put there from early dawn, and there they must stand, stiff and straight, with uplifted sword, without moving a muscle. We saw one (not this year, but last) faint dead away and drop in a heap on the marble steps of the altar. His sword and casque made a great clatter when they fell and rattled over the pavement. Four of his comrades rushed in, picked him up, and carried him out, staggering under his weight. He was replaced by another _carabinier_ noiselessly and so quickly that you hardly knew that anything had happened.

The Argentina Theater attempted to give Wagner's Ring. It was a dismal performance. Wagner is not at his best in an Italian setting, with all the gas turned on and the scenery half tumbling down and the orchestra fiddling in full view.

In the first act of "Rheingold," where the three maidens are swimming, the poor girls, with hair of unequal lengths, sprawled about, their arms clutching at air, and held up to the roof by visible and shaky ropes, half the time forgetting to sing in their wild efforts to keep themselves from falling, separated from the audience only by a gauze curtain which was transparency itself.

DENMARK, _July, 1887_.

My dear Aunt,--Denmark in July is ideal. It is never too warm in the day and always cool at night.

I have been spending a few days with Howard on his farm.

On the Fourth of July Howard wished to give the peasants in the neighborhood an entertainment to celebrate his country's "glorious Fourth." He hoped to inspire them with due enthusiasm and give them a good day's sport.

The Danish peasant's idea of amus.e.m.e.nt is to walk leisurely to the place of rendezvous, to sit quietly and rest from his week's hard work, eat plenty of Smorrebrod (sandwiches), drink barrels of beer, have tobacco _ad libitum_, and finally to leave as lazily as he came.

This feast was going to be otherwise. Everything was to be done _a l'Americaine_. The Fourth fell on a Sunday, and the farmers all accepted and came on the stroke of the clock, dressed in their Sunday-best clothes, which are of heavy broadcloth, made in the fashion of Louis Philippe, voluminous over the hips, thick, heavy-soled boots, and with long snake-like pipes hanging from their mouths.

Howard had arranged all sorts of _gymkhana_ sports, for which prizes were to be given. There were to be the long jump, the high jump, a running-race, catching the greased pig, pole-climbing, a race in a bag, and so forth.

"They shall have a high old time," said Howard.