Part 35

But, although the bear was addressed in terms of tenderest endearment and although we hoped that he would obey his master and do honor to the occasion, he did nothing of the kind. On the contrary, instead of lying down and humming he stood up his full height on his hind legs and began to waltz, swaying his long, plump body and shaking his thick, brown fur.

He opened his mouth wide, showing his white teeth and his great red tongue, and looked as if he were laughing and as if it was the funniest thing in the world that he was doing.

"He does not seem to be very obedient," smiled her Majesty.

"He is afraid," said the man, trying to make excuses for his pet.

"You must come again," said the Queen, "when your bear is better trained," and, turning to Signor Borea (her chamberlain), told him to give the man some money and direct him to the forester's lodge, where some food should be given to him.

The young Italian's face beamed with joy when he beheld the vast sum (twenty lire) he had received, and led his disobedient companion away in disgrace; but the bear, quite unconscious of being in disgrace, turned his head for a last friendly glance, walked on his hind legs in his clumsy and swaggering manner, but with a certain dignity, down the avenue.

The King, who was with us on the terrace, had been a silent witness of the whole scene, and, not being able to resist the promptings of his kind heart, followed the couple. We saw him put a gold piece in the brown palm of the poor fellow, whose "only friend" had failed him on this unique occasion. He seemed quite overcome by this Danaë-like shower of gold, and hesitated before taking the piece, thinking, perhaps, that on this occasion honesty might be the best policy, and said:

"The Queen has already given me much."

"That does not matter," said the King. "You must take what I give you. Do you know who I am?"

"No, signor. Are you Garibaldi?"

The King laughed. "No, I am not Garibaldi; I am the King."

This second surprise was too much for the little man, and he almost fell down in his emotion.

What his dreams were that night must have been like one of the Arabian Nights.

REGGIO, October 17th.

Dear ----,--Count Spaletti has a very fine château (a large park and a beautiful forest), where he and his family live in patriarchal style. It is the true Italian traditional home-life in every respect.

There is on the farm a large building in which the famous Parmesan cheese is made. We were shown the entire process from the milking of the cows down to the great wheels (which look like millstones) and the completed cheese. Milking is a process with which you are, perhaps, not familiar. It is done with the help of a maiden and a three-legged stool, while the cow goes on chewing the worn-out cud of her last meal, occasionally giving a Cenci-like glance of approbation.

But I won't tell you about that; I will let you in the secrets of Parmesan-cheese making, so that when you are eating it grated on macaroni you may know what an old stager you have to do with. The milk is put in great vats just as it comes from the mesdames les vaches; there it remains, occasionally turned around, not churned, with a wooden paddle, until it becomes a solid substance.

When it is hard enough to handle it is put into large round wooden forms and allowed to remain untouched--for how long do you think? One year! Then they put it under the oil régime--that is to say, olive-oil is poured through the cheese at regular intervals until the rind is as black and thick as leather. In four years it is ready to be sold. Each cheese weighs several hundred pounds, is a foot thick, and is as big as a cart-wheel. We eat it every day for luncheon and dinner. I like it so much better, fresh and straight from the farm (if anything four years old can be called fresh), than when stale and grated.

ROME, 1888.

My dear Aunt,--Leo XIII.'s jubilee has been the means of bringing the world to Rome. Every day during these last weeks we have watched the carts passing our house piled with huge cases which contained the presents destined for the Holy Father.

The streets are filled with pilgrims from everywhere. One cannot look in any direction without seeing processions of nuns, priests, and monks of all nations and denominations, from the dingy brown Franciscans, the Capucines with their white mantles displaying their bare legs, to the youthful disciples of the Propaganda in their brilliant scarlet cassocks, not to speak of the forestiere armed with their red Baedekers, who are doing Rome and at the same time doing the Pope's Jubilee.

Everything and every one on the way to the Vatican.

We went to see the gifts, which are exposed in many rooms on the ground floor of the Vatican. There was an enormous quantity of things of every description, useful, ornamental, and superfluous. The windmills, bells, every sort of vehicle, rowboats, sailboats, and every modern invention had been put out in the Vatican gardens.

You can have no idea of the incredible amount of slippers sent (thousands of them); church vêtements by the hundreds, embroidered by millions of women who must have worked themselves blind; the most exquisite articles of needlework, incrusted with pearls and precious stones which have probably cost a mint of money.

The Princess del Drago's gift was a large diamond cross with an enormous emerald in the center, an heirloom from her mother, the Queen of Spain. There were many other private gifts which were equally valuable. Almost a ship-load of canned fruits and vegetables sent from America; these were arranged in a gigantic pyramid. Just to look at them made my mouth water and me homesick.

Ridiculous objects from naïf donors, such as babies' socks and jackets, and silver things for a lady's toilet-table, and other equally inappropriate things, must have surprised the Pope when he saw them. I have not mentioned the millions of francs the Pope received in money; he can easily dispose of that; and he intends, I believe, to make presents to every church in Italy of the different objects which can be useful. But what can he do with the babies' socks?

On last Thursday the Pope said mass in St. Peter's. It was the great event of the year.

As we are accredited to the Quirinal, of course I never can have the opportunity to be received by his Holiness; therefore I was very glad when the monsignore who is still Dantefying us offered to give me a carte d'entrée.