Three generations

January 21, 1895. Uncle Terry still goes to teas and flirts desperately with the girls who make much of the dear old fellow. Mrs. John L. Gardner is here with wonderful costumes from Paris and such furs—sables and chinchillas. My syndicate goes better always. I have seven subscribers now. I am very glad of the new ones, Louisville Courier Journal and St. Paul Despatch.

February 23. Rome is full of Americans, who keep me very busy. To-day I wrote the first stint of my newspaper carnival letter, then arranged the flowers and put my house in order for a luncheon party for Mrs. Potter Palmer. In the afternoon drove out with Mrs. Gardner to Villegas’ studio where she “acquired” some of his gorgeous stuffs, old Genoese velvet and the like. To tea at Mrs. MacVeagh’s, where I had a good talk with the Ambassador; he looks like his brother Franklin whom we liked so much in Chicago. To-night to a ball at the Artists’ Club. You must read Paul Sabatier’s “St. Francis of Assisi”; it is delicious. I have just suffered Zola’s “Debacle.” One doesn’t read that book, one suffers it.

April 1. Sunday was my reception day; there are only two more of them. They are voted a success. Helen (Gardner) makes the tea. The Price Colliers came. She is a pearl. They are an interesting couple. To-day to lunch with Auntie and Uncle Terry. They have bloomed out with the warm weather and look like a pair of roses. Dear old Mr. Hooker was a sad loss to them; his death has darkened their whole winter. Mr. Story is ill, but his daughter Edith Peruzzi is hopeful. Mr. Hurlbert told me that the reason Mr. Story didn’t recover was that he did not want to. His interest in life died with his wife. It seems that she had taken care of all the material side, his money, wardrobe, every practical detail! Losing her, he finds himself helpless, “perplexed”, as Hurlbert said, “at buying a shoe string.”

Saw Salvini in Alfieri’s “Saul” last night; a great joy. He is unchanged, showed not a trace of having “gone off!” I had hardly hoped for this happiness, as he almost never acts now, having retired after his last tour in the United States, with a handsome fortune. Mme. Modjeska in a stage box, looking lovely but older, the sad “older” that dresses like twenty-five and has the face and expression of fifty. But, bless you, if you want my news, buy the weekly Transcript; my letters are pretty apt to turn up in Rome, as many traveling Bostonians subscribe to it. The Barrett Wendell children confronted me with one of my own letters the other day and demanded to be taken to the tapestry factory I had described; fortunately it exists.

May 10. Two weeks ago I went to Sorrento to visit the Crawfords, then to Venice for a week with Mrs. Gardner. The celebration of the three hundredth anniversary of Torquato Tasso’s death took me to Sorrento. Crawford made the chief address, prefacing it with an apology for his Italian. The Bishop of Sorrento told me this was rather a jest, as Marion’s Italian was more elegant and correct than that of any other speaker.

In Venice the attraction was the opening of an exhibition of modern pictures. I found time for my old loves, Titian and Veronese, and took on two new ones, Tintoretto and Carpaccio. I was very comfortable at Marion’s, where he and Bessie were kind as kind. Mrs. Gardner has the Daniel Curtis apartment on the Grand Canal. John Sargent had been staying there and he had recommended Mancini to paint a portrait of Mr. Gardner. Mancini’s method of painting is to put a network of squares about two inches large in front of the canvas and to paint the picture through these squares. You sometimes see traces of these threads in Mancini’s work. J. thinks with Sargent that Mancini is a man of genius—he knows him well and I have been to his studio in Rome.

Mr. Curtis’s last mot. In the dining room of the Grand Hotel some one asks the name of a lady extremely décolletée.

“The Princess Chemisoff, née Alloff!” Curtis snapped out.

I am sending you for your birthday two bits of old lace; one is Mechlin, the other Palestrina. I bought them in Venice. Old lace is now almost priceless; there has been a tremendous run on it. Jesurum, the famous lace dealer in Venice, told me that most of the good old lace has gone to America. I got a deal of tutoring about lace from him and now understand something of it. It makes me faint to remember how carelessly I have worn some of your rare old pieces. You must get them together and let me bring them back to be repaired. I have a wonderful lace woman; she wears the most powerful glasses I ever saw. It’s an awful trade, lace making or mending, too often ending in blindness.

April 13. Busy this week with the Lenten services. The tenebrae and miserere very fine, the ceremony of washing the altar and displaying St. Veronica’s handkerchief and other relics impressive and beautiful. Somehow it is all arranging itself in my mind. At first I felt only dismay and bewilderment, now I begin to see the raison d’être. It’s not particularly Christian, but the symbolism is aesthetic and spiritual, a turning from mere material toil and contemplating the unseen and unknown. It’s a sort of theism that seems well suited to the Latins. Hardly a day passes without my going into St. Peter’s or to the Vatican. I take refuge there when too many “oxen come about me, fat bulls of Bashan compass me on every side”!

Paris. November 5, 1895. We have been in Paris three weeks, weather good for the season and Paris as ever the gayest, bonniest, neatest lass in the sisterhood of cities. We are shopping, sight-seeing, studying French and going to the theater. Last night to the Théâtre Français. The play was “L’Ami des Femmes” by Dumas. Not very “jeune fille” but more so than anything they are likely to give. The acting was exquisite and the hero, Worms, a man of eighty, a fine exemplar of the old school of legitimate drama. Rather trying, though, to see a man of that age in a part for a jeune premier. Compared to the Français I remember, with Mounet-Sully, Sarah Bernhardt and Croizette in their prime, playing the “Sphinx”, “Adrienne”, “L’Étrangère” and “Hernani”, it was slow music. The women were mostly old and the whole atmosphere fossilesque. I wonder if the greed for money doesn’t lure away many of the stars, or whether it was chance that made the performance seem so far below those I remember. The opera is only fair, all the best singers having gone to the United States. If they give the “Train de Plaisir” at home be sure and see it. ’Tis very funny and will give you a good laugh. The latest art news is that a fine new statue of Meissonier has just been unveiled. Paris is so Americanized that it’s tiresome. At the circus and the variety shows English is more spoken than French. At the Folies Bergères the French actors who took part acted in pantomime, while all the dialogue and the songs were in English. Isabel is a dear good affectionate child. If she learns one quarter of what I am learning in trying to teach her, it will be well for her.

Yesterday to see your old friend, Mrs. Greene.[3] She was charming, lying in bed dressed in blue satin and white lace, quite lovely to behold. She told me of Willie Greene’s fine boys; the eldest, son of the first wife, lives with her. I can still repeat every poem in W. G.’s two books, “Imogen” and the “Wild Cat Express.” His second marriage to his first love, Sally Austin, was most romantic, and has turned out a very happy one!

River Nile. On board the Rameses III. December 11, 1895. If you are as cold to-day in Boston as I am in Egypt, I am sorry for you. It is bitter, bitter! The journey began with a sandstorm. Egypt is Egypt still; this unseasonable weather will pass soon, and we shall have the usual cloudless skies. There are always the camels, the people, the dahabeahs, donkeys and palm trees, but I am glad I first saw it before it had become quite so much a beaten track for “trotters.” I have a little nig called Abdul for chambermaid. I like him better than anybody on the ship. We can’t talk much, but I teach him “trunk” and he says “skunk”, and I teach him “bottle” and he says “throttle”, which is pleasant.

Also I like M. Angier, a French gentleman, a lieutenant in the army. He is from Lyons, a legitimist, a devoted Catholic and an earnest little person. His amazement at the American Meess is amusing. The sunsets are supreme, the river as beautiful, the people, camels, donkeys, goats and buffaloes as picturesque as when you and I saw them. In Cairo things are changed; here on the Nile all is as in the days of Joseph. I read my Bible a great deal, looking up all references to Moses and all the rest of them.

Assouan. December 21, 1895. It is all as wonderful as ever. New temples, some of them unearthed by your Egyptian Exploration Fund, some by the French, are on every side. We arrived at Assouan yesterday. There is a small English garrison here and we had some of the pretty officers over to dance with the girls. Isabel is the sweetest-tempered creature alive. It’s nearly three months since we set sail; in all this time she has never been anything but sweet and docile. I think this is remarkable. The beauty of these Nubians is something you will remember. I am in a state of perfect delight all the time at the perfection of their type! The “black Hamburg bloom”, as you called it, makes white people look pale and washed out. I should like to buy one of these Nubians and bring him home as a present to you. Do you remember Constance Rothschild’s Nubian and how faithful he was to her? Oh, the beauty of Elephantine Island! and best of all, Philae lies before us to-morrow. This morning to the bazaars with M. Philipon, an Egyptologist, to pick up some trifles and to the quarries where we saw the half-cut obelisk lying there all unfinished. There are hotels now at Luxor and Assouan. I grow deeply interested in the lore of Egypt. I should like to pass a year here. I begin to understand the theory of hieroglyphics and would undertake to read the simple ones in six months. It’s a fascinating subject, the first step beyond mere picture language. We are living on very familiar terms with Thothmes, Rameses and Queen Hatasu.

Jaffa. January 1, 1896. It’s all just as it was! The house of Simon the Tanner, the queer little hotel kept by the German religious colonists, the big oranges, the delay of the steamer. We are toiling away at the Old and New Testaments. Have much enjoyed talks with young Bliss, son of President Bliss of Beirut College, a learned man bred for the orthodox church and now a sort of Unitarian. He is excavating in and about Jerusalem and is tracing the site of the old walls. We flounder along in Biblical history. We have now got the Jews out of Egypt and pulled Jericho about the ears of the unfortunate inhabitants. We have stopped the sun in the Valley and hanged the Five Kings. Now we are tackling Saul, David and Solomon. How perfectly gorgeous that old heathen’s love songs are!

The Bible you gave me before I left has proved invaluable. All through Palestine my Bible and my guidebook have hardly left my hands. My knowledge of the oratorios comes in well. I shall enjoy them as never before when I get back to Boston.

“What is the difference between Elisha and Elijah?” I heard an American tourist ask the other day. The words of our great basso, Myron Whitney, rang in my ears; I heard the stirring chorus from the “Elijah”!

I heard the tourist just quoted say to a fellow traveler:

“To-morrow we are going to see the Garden of the Yosemite,” meaning the Garden of Gethsemane. This showed how sadly the study of the Bible is neglected in modern education.

Our stay in Palestine was all too short. We had promised to return to Rome for the end of the season and in February we regretfully left the Holy Land for the Eternal City. During my absence J. had made some necessary alterations to our apartment, adding, among other things, a fireplace to our spare room, where our young guest soon began to feel herself at home.

Rome. February 23, 1896. Great depression here over the Abyssinian War. The poverty is very sad, and the Adowa defeat casts a gloom. It seems now that the carrying on of the war is a matter of pride and a fear of loss of Italy’s prestige; the pride will cost the nation a cruel tribute of blood, treasure and broken hearts.

We have just returned from a trip around the Sorrentine peninsula. You remember the beauty of that country? The drive is now completed; we drove to Amalfi from Sorrento and on to La Cava, stopped at Ravello and wandered over the villa of Mr. Reed, the English gentleman you remember. It was all just as it was when we saw it in 1878. From La Cava we visited the Benedictine monastery founded in the eleventh century. Saw many interesting manuscripts, among others a marriage contract written on a sheepskin so cut that one sees where the neck and the legs of the animal came. It is dated A.D. 710. The husband endowed the wife with one fourth of his worldly goods; save the Egyptian papyri, I have never seen so curious a document.

Langen Schwalbach. May 15, 1896. We spent a night at Weisbaden on our way here. There we had the luck to see the German Kaiser at the theater. The town was hung with wreaths, filled with triumphal arches, and quite beside itself on account of the visit of Imperial Bill. He sat in the front of the box surrounded by officers in shining uniform. I don’t like him, because he has treated his mother so outrageously, and because he is so selfish in constantly “dropping in” for a friendly visit to Italy, which costs the Italian Government a pretty penny it can ill afford. The visits are not returned, but he does not take the hint and comes again! He looks like his pictures, only more arrogant. Do you remember how gracious the old Emperor William was, and the Emperor Frederick? He is not like either of them.

Langen Schwalbach. June 20, 1896. I am aghast as you must be at the Cretan horror; and when the newspapers speak of the United States having helped the Cretans so much in the revolt against their Turkish masters in 1867, I think of Papa and you, who were the moving spirits in that great and generous American aid. I feel so little and helpless, I wish I could have been a giant too! But what was Caesar’s son? After all, I think you and Papa are lucky in that you didn’t have a family of fools, like so many great people.

Partenkirchen. July 4, 1896. Here we are in the Bavarian Highlands, near the boundary of the Austrian Tyrol. You can hardly fancy even with your poet’s imagination how lovely it is. Our hotel is a clean countrified sort of place built like a Swiss châlet. The men wear the pretty picturesque old costume almost exclusively. The green felt Tyrolese hat with the bunch of feathers at the back is universal with the middle class. The peasants wear black leather breeches embroidered daintily in green, ending above the knees, which are bare like the Highlanders’; below the knee is a gray or green stocking finishing just above the ankle. The white linen shirt is very full, with braces embroidered in green over it. The jacket, sported only when it is cold, is of gray or green cloth with silver or stag horn buttons. The politeness of the people I never saw equaled. Everybody bows to us, and in the more primitive towns the little children come gravely up to us and shake hands as we pass their houses. The piety is very impressive after Italy. There are shrines everywhere, and over many of the house fronts frescoes of sacred subjects; so far however I have not caught sight of a priest or a monk. I like these simple mountain folk much. From nine in the morning till nightfall we are out of doors; we climb, we walk, we drive. From here we shall visit poor King Ludwig’s wonderful castles, which perhaps cost him his crown, his liberty, his life.

Partenkirchen. July 11, 1896. I sent you a line from Oberammergau written on the way to that enchanted fairyland of the poor mad dreamer, Ludwig. We saw his two castles, Linderhof and Hohenschwangau, dreamlike places full of a haunting romance and fantastic luxury. Ludwig used to drive through the forests at night in a huge sledge of silver and blue drawn by six snow-white horses, his way lighted by flashing torches. On his visits to the castles he always arrived exactly at midnight. Hohenschwangau is built close to the old schloss of the Knights of the Swan. There are swans everywhere, a lake full of live ones, and in the Castle a thousand swans, of silver, ivory, porcelain,—every conceivable material. These castles are in the heart of the mountains, far from all other human habitations. The effect of this majestic luxury with the background of snow-capped mountains and foreground of forest and mountain brooks where we saw the deer running wild, surpasses anything I have ever seen.

I wonder if Ludwig II was really mad, or if he was only a born poet and dreamer who had the power to try and realize his dreams in bricks and mortar, as few poets ever had. He drained the treasury of his country to build these palaces, and it was not hard perhaps for his dull and greedy relatives to shut him up so that they might reign in his stead. One of his extravagances was to have the Wagner operas performed at midnight, his favorite hour, with no one present but himself.

We have had many glimpses of the Empress of Austria. She is an imperial looking woman with her splendid figure and her gorgeous hair, still bright brown, wound in close braids round and round her head. The day when we drove from Linderhof to Hohenschwangau, she walked! It took us six hours to drive and it took her ten hours to walk. She was accompanied by one forester and her Greek teacher, a young man of about thirty. She recognized us, for we have met her several times walking in the forest. She bowed and smiled very sweetly to us. Her face is tragically sad in repose. She lives in great retirement since the mysterious death, murder, or suicide, of her only son Rudolph, who was found with his mistress killed in a hunting lodge.

Baden Baden. August 1. We left Bayreuth day before yesterday. The operas were all that the most enthusiastic Wagnerian ever told you. They are given in the following sequence; the “Rheingold”, the “Walküre”, “Siegfried” and the “Götterdämmerung.” It is all very impressive, more like a religious function than an amusement. We stayed at the house of Carl Boller, kaufmann, had pleasant rooms infested with paper flowers and china knickknacks, but clean to a nicety and smelling only of new oil-cloth. The theater is finely situated outside the town on a hill. At four in the afternoon the audience of sixteen hundred and fifty souls assembled. The exterior of the building is ugly and humdrum but the acoustics are perfect. Shortly before the time for the beginning of the opera a band of trumpeters sounded forth a splendid call, different on each occasion and taken from some theme in the act following. At the third trumpet call the doors are shut, and the fellow who is shut out must wait till the act is over before they are opened. The theater is so constructed that it is claimed every seat is equally good, and while one may have one’s preference this is practically true; that there are no bad seats is certain. The floor slopes down like that in a circus but not so steep. The orchestra is out of sight. When the audience is comfortably seated the lights are turned low, the women take off their bonnets and the wonderful overture begins.

It is like a great fairy drama; the romance of it all is beyond telling. You are carried out of the world of mere personal artistic accomplishment into a universe of mysterious, terrible, delightful, primitive experiences. Gods, dragons, and talking birds seem as natural in this fairy realm as electric cars in Boston. You lose the personality of the artists, the wonderful art of the scene painter, the grandeur of the orchestra, all in the sublimated whole. A case in point,—I never cared to ask the names of the artists, and am now writing for a programme. It merely never struck me that these creatures were anything beside what they stood for in the Wagnerian universe.

The Hague. August 16. We are pleasantly situated here in a comfortable, old-fashioned hotel. Holland is quite unchanged, the cities as quaint and clean as ever and the sense of familiarity, of being at home here, stronger than ever. We did not have a Dutch ancestor for nothing, did we? We have some pleasant acquaintances here, the family of our friend John Loudon, Secretary of the Netherlands Legation in Rome. We took tea with these kind people yesterday at their miraculously lovely house, a sort of miniature museum filled with superb Dutch art objects, among others the finest collection of old Delft I know, also rare silver, tapestries, wood-carving and other things all Hollandish. After the incongruous hodgepodge some collectors make of their houses, the perfect harmony of this interior was refreshing. M. Loudon, père, spoke of Germany with a sort of intense dread. I gathered that the Dutch live in terror of being swallowed alive by their increasingly powerful neighbor. Of all the countries I have seen on this rather extended tour, Germany is the most changed in the last eighteen years. Nassau, which we remember so picturesque and not too tidy, has taken on an impress of military spruceness and precision that makes one think of Berlin, which is the same unsympathetic place, only much larger and even uglier than before.

38 Clarges Street, London. August 23. We are delightfully established in London lodgings, very comforting after the long months in hotels. To-day we went to church at St. Giles, Cripplegate, where we heard a good sermon. Yesterday we drove to Windsor and back by coach, a sixty-mile jaunt. The horses were changed eight times.

Braemar, Scotland. September 8. We stopped at Leeds on our way to Scotland and spent two days with the Henry Appletons. He is the leading solicitor of Leeds, a man with a comfortable fortune made by hard work, a delightful home, and an interesting family. The young people were full of friendliness and sparkle. The whole family in type strongly resemble our Boston Appletons and the New York branch. There is nothing more fascinating than this study of types. When I saw the famous Gainsborough portrait of Lord Heathfield, the defender of Gibraltar, I realized how strong the Elliott type is. Mr. Elliott, at the Norman farm, might have sat for that portrait, and yet he has no tradition of his descent. How curiously indifferent our people are to these matters!

Our next visit was to Sir James and Lady Bell; he is Lord Provost of Glasgow and owner of the yacht Thistle, which he brought to America some years ago. These are brilliant people. The last official act of Lord Rosebery’s administration was to write the Queen, asking her to make Mr. James Bell a baronet. They are simply and frankly delighted with this well-deserved honor. They are both Scotch and have a superb shooting property where we stayed for two days. The house was full of gay young people. Our last visit was to the dear Fergusons. Mrs. F. is lady-in-waiting to the Queen, and daughter of the Earl of Bridport. Their gorgeous country house with its enormous preserves is let to rich Manchester Jews for the shooting season, and the Fergusons are living in a little cottage on the estate. They took us over the great house and showed us the treasures of generations of Fergusons of Pitfour. At luncheon a piper in full regalia wearing the Ferguson tartan marched thrice round the table, playing on the pipes.

We are now at Braemar, eight miles from Balmoral, where we have found “the finest air in the world”, much to our liking. Yesterday I saw Queen Victoria twice. I was sitting writing when I heard the clatter of hoofs, sprang to the window and cried out to the others, “The Queen, the Queen!” Two outriders in plain black liveries rode before on iron-gray horses, then came the black landau drawn by four fine dappled grays tearing along at a great pace. The Queen wore a black mushroom hat and a black woolen dress. There were two ladies-in-waiting with her. The resemblance to you is still strong. She is much better looking than her photographs.

Scotland was sublime, I can’t remember if you ever saw it. We had only a hurried glimpse, but that included the heather in its fullest purple glory, the admirable city of Edinburgh, the Castle of Balmoral, the Queen, and Ben Marone. I spent an afternoon alone on the mountainside and watched with David Balfour for the red coats creeping through the bracken, and communed with R. L. S. among the hills he loved.

Paris. September 17, 1896. Last night to see Jane Hading in “L’Aventurière”; she is fine, but oh! the formality of the French drama! The Italian school of acting is so much finer that I am rather spoilt for the French; it seems to me stilted and academic after the art of Salvini, Ristori, Novelli, the Duse, and scores of others whose names I do not even know. You can see better acting in the average Italian theater than anywhere else in the world. I have Zola’s “Rome” for you. I don’t find it very interesting, though you might. The method he followed in writing it is illuminating. His wife and secretary came to Rome in advance and put in three months in getting the material together for the book. They interviewed scores of people, accumulated folios of notes and newspaper clippings. When all was ready Zola swooped down upon Rome, interviewed the most important people and put through the whole novel in a few weeks. I know so much of the sources from which he drew his anecdotes and characters that the book leaves me cold.

This is positively my last appearance on paper for the season. We came to Paris two days ago and have been hard at work shopping. Of the fitting of dresses there is no end. This will be a hectic visit, the days filled with dresses, bonnets and slippers, and partings with various beaux. We see some friends old and new. People are tonics, narcotics and irritants, also food and drink. David Hall once said I was like bread; now I fear I am more like a very hot ham sandwich!

This is probably the last letter you will receive from me; we sail in less than a fortnight. This almost makes me feel the frozen peaches of your cheek against mine when you come in from your morning trot on a cold day.

We keep up our exercise faithfully. If it is rainy we play ball, “I put my Ugly Mug In”, and “The Barberry Bush.” Mama works at her desk just as if she were at home and is hard at it writing her “Reminiscences.” I don’t believe she could ever have found time to write them in Boston.

January 16. We have seen Mme. Duse in Goldoni’s “Locandiera”, and in Gabriele d’Annunzio’s “Primavera”, a rotten piece, with which the great little woman did all she could. To-night we see her in “Magda.” The flocking Bostonians are in mid-career; on Sunday afternoons we have a houseful of them. I overheard Mama say to one the other day that she found “Boston more interesting than Rome.” Quand même she is really enjoying herself immensely and is ten years younger than when she sailed. The comfort of her presence is indescribable. The Richard Nortons are here for the winter; he lectures at the American School for Classical Studies. We may have the pleasure of hearing Courtland Palmer play at a concert to-day, but up till last night it was impossible to ascertain. The plays and the programmes of concerts are usually announced on the day of the performance. This is typical of the place and people. Yesterday we heard a good vesper service at St. Agnese in Piazza Navona, the music very fine. The other morning to St. Andrea della Valle to hear a mass by Chaldeans, according to their curious ritual. The Chaldeans looked remarkably like ordinary American negroes dressed in Oriental splendor.

Good luck is coming my way, for to-day I have an invitation to take tea with our friend Don R., the gobbo, a little South American humpback. You know, of course, that a gobbo brings luck. You must touch him if you can; if you can only manage to rub his hump you are likely to win the prize in the lottery. They say the reason why such people are so vain is that everybody tries to fondle them. His friend who lives with him, Mr. M., is a man so enormous that in the streets of Boston a lady stopped him and asked, “Sir, why are you so fat?”

The gobbo may weigh one hundred pounds; his friend the giant must weigh three hundred; they are a most diverting couple.

Rome. February 26, 1898. Hall Caine has been here for two hours. He got started talking on the subject of the Rossettis. He lived with Dante Gabriel Rossetti for the last eighteen months of his life. Rossetti died in his arms. The horror of the chloral habit which killed him was so indelibly impressed upon Caine’s mind that he could talk of little else, once the train of thought was started. Rossetti wrote the “White Ship” and the “King’s Tragedy” during this time and read both in manuscript to Caine. I am tingling with the pathos and the passion of it all!

Rome. February 11, 1896. To lunch with Mme. Labatt to meet Hall Caine again. He is a rosso, with no body, only a big head and consuming brown eyes. He is arranging “The Christian” for the stage and gave us the whole play from beginning to end in the rough, telling the great situations and giving fragments of the chief speeches. Caine talked to us from half-past twelve till four o’clock. He thinks the Roman campagna disgusting, says there isn’t a decent drive near Rome, also says the “Old Masters” are fakes. I said to him,

“Mr. Hall Caine, you have never learned to see. Stay in Italy till you have learned to use your eyes!” We had quite a fine row. We are to go for a drive and I am to try and teach him to see. It will be of no use, however!

To-day Mama and I went out to a tea where we met Mr. Butler, the author of Flora McFlimsey—“Nothing to Wear.” He is coming to see us to-morrow; he and Mama had endless literary reminiscences together.—We are very angry about the Maine tragedy. From the first moment I have been sure of foul play. I know too much of our naval men to believe in the possibility of such a hideous gigantic blunder—no, there’s malice in it.

March 26, 1898. We are living so much in ancient Rome that I can more easily tell you about Caligula and Caracalla, or even Numa Pompilius, than about modern politics and Crispi, upon whom the Chamber has passed a vote of censure. This is very sad, as no one believes that he was guilty of anything but that political dishonesty, which at home goes under the name of “campaign expenses”, but it was a cruel thing, though an act for which one must respect the Italian Government. The death of Cavalotti was a great misfortune for the liberal party. He was a remarkable man, the strongest and most honest of the radical deputies in the Chamber. He was a perfect firebrand, had fought thirty-eight duels and was killed in his thirty-ninth by a man with whom he had some political quarrel. The only good likely to come out of it is a generally increasing dislike of duels. Mama is so well that I don’t worry about her at all and hardly consider her more than I do myself. For the past hundred years the English doctors have been sending old people who wished to prolong their lives to Rome. This has to do with the effect of the climate on the action of the heart.

April 2, 1898. Raining again, this makes the fourteenth day. This is an old-fashioned rainy spring. We all keep well, for it is warm. Mama went out a little too much last week and so had one rather grievous day. She would drink champagne. It was a bang-up dinner, with dukes, ambassadors and princes, also, more interesting to her, Mrs. Pearse, the daughter of Mario and Grisi, who sang for us. The hostess sang and rather mangled the “Battle Hymn.” Mama recited her poem “The Flag” with great applause.—The tourist flood at its height; there will be one more month of it. I could not live without all these dear people from home, but the demands they make are sometimes pretty heavy.

April 29, 1898. The farewells are beginning for Mama. To-day I gave a tea and she a reading especially for the Ambassador and Mrs. Draper, who were in mourning when she

read before and have asked to hear her. The little house is brave with green boughs and roses from the terrace and a big azalea in full bloom. Mama will read her “Plea for Humor”, the most popular of the papers she has with her for a society audience. We expect J.’s friend, Lady Kenmare, with her two nieces, Lady Beatrice and Lady Katherine Thynne (later Lady Cromer). Our Muse, Mrs. Stillman, will pour tea. In two weeks our darling will sail for home with the Arthur Terrys, unless the war news makes this dangerous; General Draper thinks it will not. I can’t get over the feeling that all the enthusiasm at home is excessive—if we were going to hit a man of our own size—you see I know Spain very well. It may be necessary for our lusty youth of a nation to put its heel on the neck of a broken and aged nation, but it should be done in the spirit I feel in McKinley, sternly and firmly and without fireworks or bunkum. This may sound like treason at home, but it looks so to every Roman American I have talked with. It’s awful; I wish I were at home and not away from it all and out of the magnetic current, for it is not likely that I can ever enter into what seems to be the national spirit at home. F.’s letters in abuse of McKinley remind me of the Chinese who flog their gods when things do not suit them.

241 Beacon St., March 6, 1899.

My dearest Ewe-lamb: Here I sit in the dear old house which you helped so much to provide for my old age and at the desk where I have ground out the tasks so many years. My book of poems, “From Sunset Ridge”, is just out. I don’t expect to make any money by it, but am glad to have the poems preserved. I have corrected the proofs for my first installment of my “Reminiscences” for the Atlantic Monthly. When you last wrote me you were in Lucca. I did not know it was so rich in works of art. You must by now be settled in your pretty nest. Give my love to the flowers—how I did enjoy them and what a good time I had with you. Your two dear letters just received bring you so near to me that I must write you one word this very day to say how much of your life and cheer these letters bring me. I seem to smell the very atmosphere of the Rusticucci, to see the pictures on the wall, to hear N. asking for his daily orders. What you say about the Monsignore reassures me; you must not think for one minute that I undervalue your native good sense and power of discernment, only “them Jesuits” is very cunning people and I had a momentary spasm of fear which your dear letter has removed.

[To my Mother.]

Rome, April 11, 1899. Lady W., a stout Englishwoman, rich, respectable, a city “knightess” or ex-Lady Mayoress, desires me to help her in the selection of pleasant guests to entertain during the Congress of Women to be held in London in June. The ladies are to stay at her house. Constance Flower (Lady Battersea) asked this and is evidently to be a personage in the coming congress. I was invited to meet Lady W. especially for this object, so do you stir yourself and find out who the American delegates are, and suggest to Lady W. those she might invite, so that she may have acceptable guests.

Yesterday I had a “great daughters” tea party, the Longfellow women, Alice and Edith, Huxley’s daughter, and to meet them, Loyson, son of Père Hyacinthe and Penn Browning, son of Robert and Elizabeth.

Anacapri, October 12, 1899. I have begun many letters to you lately and finished some, but all have been torn up because a touch of east wind seemed somehow to get into them—it’s always like that after a long lonely hot summer in Rome. Now I can send you a flood of sunshine. Last Saturday Jessie Cochrane, John Loudon, and I came by invitation and took possession of the Foresteria, a little villa belonging to Dr. Axel Munthe at Anacapri. We had rather a troublous journey down, the Capri steamer was poor, the sea rough. We landed in pouring rain after dark and drove up and up the steep zigzagging road to Anacapri, which I think you never saw, a little town perched at the tiptop of the island of Capri. The road was not finished when you and I were here so long ago. We met Dr. Munthe walking on the road, followed by three immense wolfhounds, on his way to visit a patient. He had not expected us till the next day, so we slept that night at a quaint little inn, the Paradise, and on Sunday morning took possession of our Eden,—I can’t call it less. The Foresteria has a small garden filled with roses, passion flowers, grapes, figs and white doves. The house is perfect. I want it. It would just fit J. and me. Loudon sleeps at the hotel but is with us all day. Two dear Capriotes, man and wife, serve us and cook deliciously. We may give no orders to them; our host attends to all this. He lives close at hand, but we hardly see him.

Capri is one of the loveliest places in the world. The vintage is beginning; tall girls bearing baskets of purple grapes on their heads pass constantly up and down the street of stairs. The whole land is fragrant with new wine.

Dr. Munthe is a remarkable man. His patients, who often occupy the Foresteria, are mostly the rich and great of every land, with at least one royalty among them. He is a sort of overlord to the peasants, scolds them, tends them when they are ill, settles their disputes, in fine, acts the part of a benevolent despot. He has made some excavations with rich finds. You remember that Tiberius lived here and there were many sumptuous villas in the Capri of his time.

To call on C. C. Coleman. He spoke much of Kate Field, whom he greatly admired. Called on Captain Butler and saw his wife, the daughter of my old friend Anna, the guide of the Villa of “Timberio.” She has traces of the great beauty J. remembers, splendid teeth and eyes. Butler, who lost an arm in the Civil War, was a landscape and animal painter. After the loss of the right hand he had to learn to work with his left, and took up portrait painting, in which he is very successful. His attitude towards his wife was tender and chivalrous. The couple interested me deeply. They have a daughter and three sons, one a famous football player. They were living in a house they had taken near the pretty cottage Butler gave Anna. They gave me a glass of Capri wine, a present from the husband of Mrs. B.’s godchild. This relationship seems to be especially considered here. A godchild is a member of its madrina’s family. Mrs. Butler said she preferred the United States to Capri (they have a farm in New Jersey), but that “out there” she “missed the flowers.” I don’t wonder. The wonderful broom is ablaze, passion flowers such as I never dreamed of clasp and curl about every gate and pergola. The lovely myrtle is in bloom. The island is starred with wild flowers, many quite new to me.

To-day I enjoyed a sea bath at the Marina Grande, driving down from Anacapri. It was so like Newport, the cool blue water so very native, that I felt a little homesick. Tea at the Quisisana, a delightful hotel but expensive. The moon, a blood-red crescent, made a splendid descent behind the Sorrentine Peninsula. We watched it set from the balcony outside our room. The Bay of Naples was a pale turquoise, the sky old-rose color. The people here are as beautiful as tradition holds—the handsomest I ever saw.

November 9, 1899. Mother! The first cream of this day I skim for you as it is my birthday, and but for your kind assistance, I should never have been born at all, so in some measure you have your rights in my natal day. I don’t like to be quite so elderly (I heard you say to J. that you hated to see your daughters grow old) but I don’t mean to be so melancholy about it as your poems seem to imply you were,—“The shell of objects inwardly consumed, etc.” Last night John Loudon dined with us for the last time. He leaves to-morrow for the Hague where he has a fine appointment in the foreign office. He is in despair at going. Rome has gripped him hard and tight. His going leaves, as you will know, a great blank for us. He improves always, and the wrench I had at parting with him is the most severe since I put you on the steamer at Naples. My best news is that I am having an Emerson spree, having “shook with ol’ Shakespere” all summer. Read again the essays on Compensations and Self-Reliance.

The warm weather hangs on; last night at dinner my table was covered with roses from the terrace. Heard the “Barber of Seville” this week splendidly given. How I thought of your singing “Guarda Don Bartolo” and “Pace gioja sia con voi.” I like your singing better than the new soprano Tetrazzini, who has a flute-like exquisite voice.

December 4, 1899. To-day I begin my Christmas letter. May it find you as it leaves me, hopeful and in good spirits. The magnum opus (J.’s Public Library ceiling) is getting finished. Paul Sabatier saw it the other day and wants photographs to illustrate an article he will write about it.

If you should be in New York be sure and see Marion Crawford. His address is always the Macmillans. I wish you could write him and ask him to spend Christmas with you. He is very near to you and is better worth while than the silly intrusive strangers who gobble up so much of your time and strength. Do you remember the man who wrote you asking you to send him your “thoughts on the personality of God, by return mail?” Make good resolutions this new year to keep yourself aloof from mere curiosity seekers and lion hunters! A lecture, my little dear, from your wise old grandmother in Rome!

Did I write you how delightful Henry James was? We saw him constantly while he was here preparing the material for the life he is to write of Mr. Story. He is now old bacheloresque, but so dear though a wee thought cranky. I saw Apolloni and told him about your letter in re Mme. Papa (a lady who had been attacking the Italian Government). He said you were quite right in contradicting her, also in your view that the best hope for Italy is still in the dynasty. I feel pretty sure di Viti di Marco would say so too. They both deplore the suicidal policy of the government but A. say á propos of Mme. Papa’s attacks in America, “Let us wash our dirty linen at home.”

Villegas has been made Director of the Spanish Academy of Art in Rome and is much pleased with the appointment. Miss Leigh Smith and all your Roman friends are very sad not to have you among them again this winter as they had hoped. Miss L. S. reports that the recovery of the manuscript poems you left with Florence Nightingale cannot be hoped for.

Rome, April 26, 1899. Yesterday being the three hundredth anniversary of the birth of Oliver Cromwell, I had a tea party to honor the event. The “proceedings” opened by my reading a brief sketch I had prepared; this was followed by Reverend Leverett Bradley, who was the chief speaker. Then Paul Loyson in a masterly spirit took up certain points in Bradley’s address and poured forth a fine flow of eloquence.

To-day Lady Kenmare brought Henry James to tea. He was perfectly darling about your “Reminiscences”, saying the only fault with the book is that it is far too brief. He felt that on almost every topic touched you had not set down all you had to say. In spite of this he said,

“I find the volume perfectly delightful.”