Part 22

You must have heard of Hamilton Aidé, the author of The Poet and the Prince and other works. He comes frequently to see us, and always brings either a new book or a new song--for he is not only a distinguished author, but a composer as well. He sings willingly when asked. He is very fond of one of his songs, called "The Danube River." If he had not brought the music and I had not seen the title as I laid it on the piano, I should never have known that it was anything so lively as a river he was singing about. Though I could occasionally hear the word "river," I hoped that as the river and singer went on they would have a little more "go" in them; but they continued babbling along regardless of obstacles and time. I was extremely mortified to see that several of my guests had dozed off. The river and the singer had had a too-lullaby effect on them.

ROME, 1883.

Dear ----,--Next to the Palazzo Tittoni lives a delightful family--the Count and Countess Gigliucci, with a son and two daughters. The Countess is the celebrated Clara Novello of oratorio fame. The three ladies are perfectly charming. I love to go to see them, and often drop in about tea-hour, when I get an excellent cup of English tea and delicious muffins, and enjoy them in this cozy family circle.

Though they live In a palace and have a showy portier, they do not disdain to do their shopping out of the window by means of a basket, which the servant-girl lets down on a string for the daily marketing. Even cards and letters are received in this way, as the porter refuses to carry anything up to their third story. "Sortita!" screamed down in a shrill voice is the answer to the visitor waiting below in the courtyard.

When the three ladies are sitting at the tea-table dispensing tea, one of them will suddenly commence the trio from "Elijah"--"Lift thine eyes"--the other two joining in (singing without an accompaniment, of course) in the most delicious manner. Their voices are so alike in timbre and quality that it is almost impossible to distinguish one from the other. After the trio they go on pouring out tea as if nothing had happened, whereas for me it is an event. It is such perfection!

Countess Gigliucci comes sometimes and sings with me. Her voice is still beautiful and clear as a bell. What must it have been in its prime? In her letters to me she calls me "my delicious blackbird."

ROME, March, 1883.

The King of Sweden came to Rome on an official visit to their Majesties. I suppose it is called official because he is staying as a guest at the Quirinal, therefore he is hardly seen in private. You remember that I saw a good deal of him when he was in Paris in 1867. He was then hereditary Prince to the throne of Sweden, and was called Prince Oscar. He only stayed three days at Rome. There was a gala dinner to which all the diplomats were invited. He greeted me very cordially, shook hands in his genial manner, and talked about the past (sixteen years ago) as if it were yesterday. He said, smilingly:

"You see, since I have become King I have cut my hair."

I had no idea what he meant and looked puzzled.

"Don't you remember," he said, "you called me 'the Hair Apparent' on account of my long locks?"

"Oh, your Majesty," I said, "how could I have been so rude?"

"It was not rudeness," he said, kindly. "You said what you liked in those days. You were not then a diplomat's wife."

The day of his departure from Rome we went to the station. The King was very gracious, and said to Johan, "I hope you and your wife will come some day to Sweden," and gave my hand an extra-hearty squeeze. A hearty squeeze from his hand was something to remember!

* * * * *

The Queen has asked me to sing with her, and I go regularly twice a week to the Quirinal at two o'clock. We sing all kinds of duets, classical and the ultra-modern. The Queen's singing-master, Signor Vera, and sometimes the composer, Signor Marchetti, accompany us--they bring new music which has appeared, which we déchiffrons under their critical eyes. It is the greatest delight I have to be able to be with her Majesty in such an informal way. She is so enchanting, so natural, so gay, and so fascinating. No one can resist her. Am I not a greatly privileged person? I presented Nina to her last week--her Majesty told me to bring her with me on one of our singing-lesson days at half past one--so we had a half-hour of conversation before the singing-master came. The Queen said, after Nina had gone: "What a beauty she is! She will set the world on fire."

May, 1883.

The visit of the newly married couple, Prince Tomaso, brother of the Queen, and Princess Isabella of Bavaria, has been the occasion of many festivities.

Yesterday there was a garden party in the Quirinal gardens. It was a perfect day, and the beautiful toilets of the ladies made the lawn look like a parterre of living flowers. The grounds are so large that there were several entertainments going on at the same time without interfering with one another.

A band of gipsies in their brilliant dresses were singing in one place, and in a bosquet a troupe of Neapolitans were dancing the tarantella in their white-stockinged feet. There were booths where you could have your photograph taken and your fortune told. Everywhere you were given souvenirs of some kind. One played at the tombola and always got a prize. Buffets, of course, at every turn. We went from one surprise to another. The Prince of Naples was omnipresent and seemed to enjoy himself immensely. Whoever arranged this fête ought to have received a decoration. Twilight and the obligation of having to dress for the evening concert put a stop to this delightful afternoon. In the evening there was a gala concert which was very entertaining. It commenced by a piece written by the Baron Renzie and very well performed by amateurs, and some mandolinists, who played several things more or less acceptably, and then came a long and tedious symphony which was too classical for the majority of the audience. The Queen and the Duchess of Genoa seemed to enjoy it. I did, too, but the King looked bored to death, and the bridegroom went fast to sleep. The Queen, who was sitting next to him, gave him a vigorous pinch to wake him up. The pinch had the intended effect, but the groan he gave was almost too audible. In the interlude when ices were passed the Princess talked with the wives of the diplomats who were brought up to her. The Queen, still laughing at her brother's discomfiture, passed about among the other guests.

December, 1883.

We returned to Rome a week ago. It was said that their Majesties had expressed the desire that as many diplomats as possible should be present when the Crown Prince of Germany came for his visit to the Quirinal.

During the stay of the Crown-Prince Frederic the crowds waited patiently outside the Quirinal, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He is very popular, and whenever he shows himself he is cheered to outrance. Sometimes he came out on the balcony, and once he took the Prince of Naples up in his strong arms and cried "Evviva l'Italia" The people clapped their hands till they were worn out.

There were fireworks from the Castel St. Angelo in his honor which were wonderfully fine.

To reach the balconies reserved for the Corps Diplomatique we were obliged to leave our carriages in a little side-street and go through a long carpeted passage, the walls of which were hung with fine old tapestries taken from the Quirinal in order to hide the unsightly objects concealed behind them. The balconies were erected on the outside of the dilapidated houses which overlook the Tiber and facing the Castel St. Angelo. How they ever managed to make this passage is a mystery! In the daytime one could not see the possibility of cutting through the labyrinth of these forlorn tumble-down houses. We sat trembling for fear that the shaky planks would suddenly give way and plunge us into the whirling Tiber under our feet. The fireworks were the most gorgeous display of pyrotechnics I ever saw. And the bouquet as the finale was a magnificent tornado of fire which left a huge "F" blazing, which lighted up the December night. We were thankful when we reached home alive.

The next and last evening of the festivities was a gala opera, where there was a great deal of clapping and enthusiasm which accompanied a rather poor performance of "Aida." They said that Verdi was in the audience, but he did not appear, nor was there any demonstration made for him.

ROME, January, 1884.

My dear ----,--There are a few changes in the Embassies. Sir Saville Lumley has succeeded Sir August Paget at the English Embassy. Sir Saville's own paintings now cover Lady Paget's chocolate cherubs--only those above the door and their bulrushes are left to tell the tale. Monsieur Decrais, the new French Ambassador and his wife, who replace the De Noailles in the Farnese Palace, are already established. The iciness of Siberia continues to pervade the palace in spite of all efforts to warm those vast salons, enormous in their proportions--I do not know how many métres they are to the ceiling. The Carracci gallery separates the bedrooms from the salons. Madame Decrais says that they are obliged to dress like Eskimos when they cross it, as they do twenty times a day.