I will send this very long letter off this evening. Our trunks are packed and downstairs, and I will finish this while we are waiting for dinner. We have had a nice day. Madame Hubert and I strolled about this morning and went to see the house where Cavour was born, and also to the Giardino Pubblico. The grounds are handsome, but not particularly interesting at that hour in the morning, and there wasn't a creature there but ourselves. There are various monuments—one of Manin with a fine figure of the Republic of Venice.

I breakfasted as usual alone, and at 3 W. came in, having quite finished his work at the Museum. He had given rendezvous to Mr. Hoffman for 3.30, and while we were sitting talking waiting for him the padrone came up and said an officer "de la part du Duc d'Aoste" wanted to see us. We begged him of course to send him up, and in a few minutes a very good-looking young officer in uniform made his appearance. He named himself—Count Colobiano I think—but we didn't catch the name very distinctly; said he had had the honour of dining with us at the Quai d'Orsay with his Prince, and that the Prince was "désolé" not to be in Turin these days and had sent him to put himself at our disposition. He proposed all sorts of things—the opera, a drive (or a ride if we preferred) to a sort of parade ground just outside the gates where we would see some cavalry manœuvres. He knew I rode, and could give me a capital lady's hack. I was rather sorry he hadn't come before—it would have amused us to see the manœuvres, and also to ride—but that would have been difficult as I had no habit with me. However, as we are leaving this evening there was nothing to be done. He was very civil and I think rather sorry not to do us the honours of his city. He said there were beautiful excursions to be made from Turin, and asked us if we had seen anything. We said only the Superga which he evidently didn't consider very interesting. He said the Duke was very sorry to have missed us, and that he thought I would have enjoyed an evening at the Palace, as the receptions were very gay and informal. I cannot imagine (I didn't tell him that) anything gay with the Duc d'Aoste. He is very sympathetic to me, but a type apart. A stern, almost ascetic appearance, very silent and shy, but a beautiful smile. He looks exactly as one would imagine a Prince of the House of Savoy would. We saw him often in Paris, and his face always interested me—so grave, and as if he were miles away from the ordinary modern world. It was just after he had given up his Spanish throne, and although I didn't think that crown weighed very heavily on his brow he must have had some curious experiences and seen human nature in perhaps not its best form. The young aide-de-camp paid us quite a visit, and we made him promise to come and see us if ever he came to Paris. We sent all sorts of messages and regrets to the Duke. Just as he was going out Mr. Hoffman appeared and he sat an hour with us. He was delightful, has lived almost all his life in and near Turin, and had all the history of Piedmont at his fingers' ends. He seems to have met W. years ago at a dinner in London and has always followed his career with much interest. It was most interesting to hear him talk. He admires Cavour immensely—said his death was a great calamity for Italy—that he hadn't given half of what he could, and that every year he lived he grew in intellect and knowledge of people. He also said (as they all do) that he mistrusted Louis Napoleon so intensely, and through all their negotiations and discussions as to Italy's future he was pursued by the idea that the Emperor would go back upon his word. He said the Piedmontese were a race apart—hardly considered themselves Italian, and that even now in the little hamlets in the mountains the peasants had vague ideas of nationality, and never spoke of themselves as Italians, or identified themselves with Italian interests and history—that in the upper classes traces of French occupation and education, superstition and priestly rule were just getting effaced. For years in the beginning of the century the priests (Jesuits) had it all their own way in Turin. The teaching in the schools was entirely in their hands, and most elementary; and numerous convents and monasteries were built. Cavour as a very young man soon emancipated himself from all those ideas, and if he had lived, Hoffman thinks, much trouble would have been averted, and that he would certainly have found some means of coming to a better understanding with the Vatican, "the most brilliant and far-seeing intellect I have ever met."

He wanted to take us to some palace where there are some very curious and inédites letters of Cavour's to the owner, who was one of his friends, and always on very confidential terms with him; but of course we couldn't do that as we are off in a few hours.

Hoffman would never have gone, I think, if the padrone hadn't appeared to say dinner was ready. I left him and W. talking while I went to give some last instructions to the maid, and when I got back to the salon they had drifted away from Cavour and Piedmont and were discussing French politics, the attitude of Germany and the anti-religious feeling in France.

I shall miss all the talk about Italy and her first struggles for independence when I get home. French people, as a rule, care so little for outside things. They travel very little, don't read much foreign literature, and are quite absorbed in their own interests and surroundings. Of course they are passing through a curious phase—so many old things passing away—habits and traditions of years upset, and the new régime not yet sufficiently established nor supported by all that is best in the country. I think W. has been impressed and rather surprised at the very easy way in which all religious questions are disposed of in Italy, and yet the people are certainly superstitious and have a sort of religious feeling. The churches are all full on great feast days, and one sees great big young peasants kneeling and kissing relics when they are exposed; and several times even here about Turin we have seen men and women kneeling at some of the crosses along the road. I have rarely seen that in France—but then the Italians are a more emotional race. They are difficult problems—a country can't live without a religion.

We got back yesterday morning early. Hubert and the big mare were waiting for us, and we were whirled up to the house in a very un-Italian manner (for the horses in Italy are just as easy-going as the people and never hurry themselves nor display any undue energy). Francis and "nounou" were waiting at the door—he really quite excited and pleased to see us—and the sisters appeared about 11. We talked a little and they helped me unpack; and I went to see mother directly after breakfast and stayed there all the afternoon. This morning I am writing as usual at the window and hearing all the familiar Paris sounds. The goat-boy has just passed with his 6 goats and curious reed pipe, the marchande de cressons with her peculiar cry advertising her merchandise, and ending "pour la santé du corps" on a long shrill note—the man who sits on the pavement and mends china. He is just at our door, and has a collection of broken plates and cups around him. I suppose some are ours. The "light lady" next door is standing at her door in her riding habit, the skirt already very short and held well up over her arm displaying a fair amount of trousers and high boots. She is haranguing in very forcible language the groom who is cantering the horse up and down the street, and of course even in our quiet street there are always badauds who stop and ask questions, and hang around the porte-cochères to see all that is going on. W. has just started on horseback and that is a most interesting moment for the street, for his big black "Paddy" has a most uncomfortable trick. From the moment he takes the bridle in his hand and prepares to mount, the horse snorts, and stamps and backs, making such a noise in the little court-yard you would think he was kicking everything to pieces. As soon as the big doors are opened and he can get out he is as quiet as a lamb.

It is a beautiful morning and Paris looks its best—all the horse-chestnuts in full bloom, the sky a bright blue, and quantities of equipages and riders streaming out to the Bois. I suppose I shall ride too in a day or so, and by the end of the week Italy will be a thing of the past, and I shall be leading my ordinary Paris life.

There was a procession of people here all the afternoon yesterday to see W., and now he is quite au courant of all that has taken place in his absence, and I think in his heart he is delighted to be back and in the thick of the fight again. He is going to the Senate this afternoon.

We had a most comfortable journey from Turin—a lit-salon to ourselves, the maid just behind us. All the first hours were charming as long as we could see as all the country about Turin is so lovely. We passed Moncalieri which stands high on the hills—a long low building, and one or two other fine old castles, all perched high on the slope of the mountains. I always sleep so well in a train that I was hardly awake when we passed at Modane, though I was dimly conscious of the stop, the lanterns flashing along the train and a great deal of conversation. Nobody disturbed us as we had given our "laissez-passer" to the garde, but I fancy we made a long halt there as the train was very crowded. We had our coffee at Dijon very early in the morning. It was quite pleasant to see the regular little French brioche again.

I went to tea with Mother and afterward we went for a turn in the Bois, which looked beautiful—so green—all the horse-chestnuts out (the road from Auteuil to Boulogne with the rows of red horse-chestnuts on each side quite enchanting); the hills, St. Cloud and Mont Valérien blue and standing out sharply against the sky, but I missed the delicious soft atmosphere of Italy and the haze that always hung around the hills and softened all the outlines. The Seine looked quite animated. There really were one or two small boats out, and near Puteaux (the club) some women rowing, and of course the little river steamers flying up and down, crowded.

We are dining with l'Oncle Alphonse who will give us all the news of the day, and the opinion of the "Union."

PART II

ITALY REVISITED

To H. L. K.

It seems so strange to be back here, dear, after twenty-four years, and to find Rome so changed, so unchanged. The new quarter, an absolutely new modern city, might be Wiesbaden, or Neuilly, or any cheerful resort of retired business men who build hideous villas with all sorts of excrescences—busts, vases, and plaques of bright-coloured majolica—and the old city with the dirty little winding streets going toward St. Peter's exactly the same; almost the same little ragged, black-eyed children playing in the gutters.

We had a most comfortable journey down. Hardly any one in the sleeping-car but ourselves, so we all had plenty of room. It was a bright, beautiful morning when we got to Modane—the mountains covered with snow, and the fresh keen wind blowing straight from the glaciers was enchanting after a night in the sleeping-car. They are frightfully overheated. I had some difficulty in persuading the attendant to open my window for the night; however, as I was alone in my compartment, he finally agreed, merely saying he would come and shut it when we passed through the great tunnel. We dined at the buffet at Genoa, and it didn't seem natural not to ask for the Alassio train. The station was crowded, the Roman train too—they put on extra carriages. We got to Rome about 9.30. I had been ready since 6.30, eagerly watching to get a glimpse of St. Peter's. I had visions of Cività Vecchia and running along by the sea in the early morning.

I was quite awake, but I didn't see St. Peter's until we were quite near Rome. We ran through long, level stretches of Campagna, with every now and then a great square building that had been probably a mediæval castle, but was now a farm—sheep and cattle wandering out of the old gateway, and those splendid big white oxen that one sees all over the Campagna—some shepherds' huts with their pointed thatched roofs dotted about, but nothing very picturesque or striking. We passed close to San Paolo Fuori le Mura, with the Testaccio quite near. We paid ourselves compliments when we arrived at the station for having made our long journey so easily and pleasantly. No one was tired and no one was bored. Between us all (we were four women) we had plenty of provisions and Bessie[30] and Mme. de Bailleul were most successful with their afternoon tea, with delicious American cake, that Bessie had brought over in the steamer.

After all, Josephine[31] finds she has room for me and my maid, which of course is infinitely pleasanter for me than being at the hotel. Her house is charming—not one of the old palaces, but plenty of room and thoroughly Italian. The large red salon I delight in; it couldn't exist anywhere else but in Rome, with its red silk walls, heavy gilt furniture, pictures, and curious bits of old carving and majolica. It opens into a delightful music-room with fine frescoes on the walls (a beautiful bit of colour), and beyond that there is a small salon where we usually sit. She has a picture there of her husband, Don Emanuele Ruspoli (late syndic of Rome), which has rather taken possession of me. It is such a handsome, spirited face, energetic and rather imperious—he looks a born ruler of men, and I believe he was. They say Rome was never so well governed as in his time. He was one of the first of the young Roman nobles who emancipated themselves from the papal rule. As quite a youth he ran away from college and entered the Italian army as a simple soldier, winning his grade as captain on the battle-field. He was a loyal and devoted servant of the House of Savoy, and took a prominent part in all the events which ended in proclaiming Victor Emanuel King of Italy, with Rome his capital.

This quarter, Piazza Barberini, is quite new to me. It used to seem rather far off in the old days when we came to see the Storys in the Barberini Palace, but now it is quite central. The great new street—Via Veneto—runs straight away from the Piazza, past the Church of the Cappucini—you will remember the vaults with all the dead monks standing about—the Palace of the Queen Mother, and various large hotels, to Porta Pinciana. Just the other side of the road is the new gate opening into the Villa Borghese. I rather lost myself there the first day I prowled about alone. It was raining, but I wanted some air, and turned into the Via Veneto, which is broad and clean. I walked quite to the end, and then came to the Porta Pinciana, crossed the road, and found myself in a beautiful villa. I didn't come upon any special landmark until I got near the Museum, which, of course, looked quite familiar. However, I was bewildered and hailed a passing groom to inquire where I was, and even when he told me could scarcely believe it. I had never gone into the Villa Borghese except by the Piazza del Popolo. They have made extraordinary changes since the Government has bought it—opened out new roads and paths, planted quantities of trees and flowers, and cleaned up and trimmed in every direction. It will be a splendid promenade in the heart of the city, but no longer the old Villa Borghese we used to know, with ragged, unkempt corners, and little paths in out-of-the-way places, so choked up with weeds and long grass that one could hardly get through.

I haven't quite got my bearings yet, and for the first three or four mornings I took myself down to the Piazza di Spagna, and started from there. There, too, there are changes—new houses and shops (I was glad to see old Spithoever in the same place) and a decided look of business and modern life. There were not nearly so many people doing nothing, lounging about, leaning on the "barca," or playing mora on the Spanish Steps. All the botte were still standing in the middle of the street, the coachmen smiling, cracking their whips, and making frantic little dashes across the piazza whenever they saw an unwary stranger who might want a cab.

The Spanish Steps looked beautiful, glowing with colour—pink, yellow, and that soft grey tint that the Roman stones take in the sunlight. All the lower steps are covered with flower stalls (they are not allowed any longer scattered all over the piazza), and most picturesque they looked—daffodils, mimosa, and great bunches of peach-blossoms which were very effective. There were very few models in costume sitting about; a few children playing some sort of game with stones, which they interrupted to run after the forestieri and ask for a "piccolo soldo" (a penny), and one or two old men with long white beards—might have done for models of the apostles or Joseph in the flight into Egypt—wrapped in their wonderful long green cloaks, sitting in the sun. There is one novelty—an "ascenseur." I haven't been in it yet, but I shall try it some day. One must get accustomed to many changes in the Rome of to-day.

I recognised some of the houses at the top of the steps—the corner one between Vias Sistina and Gregoriana, where the Rodmans used to live one year, and where we have dined so often, sitting on the round balcony and seeing the moon rise over the Pincio.

I walked home the other day by the Via Sistina to the Piazza Barberini, and that part seemed to me absolutely unchanged. The same little open mosaic shops, with the workmen dressed in white working at the door—almost in the street. In one shop they were just finishing a table, putting in countless bits of coloured marble (some of them very small). It was exactly like the one we brought from Rome many years ago, which stands now in Francis's smoking-room. There was of course the inevitable jeweller's shop, with crosses and brooches of dull yellow Roman gold and mosaic, and silk shops with Roman silk scarfs, and a sort of coarse lace which I have seen everywhere. In the middle of the street a miserable wrinkled old woman, her face mahogany colour, attired in a red skirt with a green handkerchief on her head, was skirmishing with a band of dirty little children, who had apparently upset her basket of roast chestnuts, and were making off with as many as they could find, pursued by her shrill cries and "maledizioni."

We went out in the open carriage yesterday, and drove all around Rome leaving cards—finished with a turn in the Villa Borghese and Pincio. It was too late for the Villa—almost every one had gone, and one felt the chill strike one on going into the thick shade after coming out of the bright sun in the Piazza del Popolo. We crossed Queen Margherita at the gate. She looked so handsome—the black is very becoming and threw out well her fair hair and skin. She was driving in a handsome carriage—the servants in mourning. One lady was with her—another carriage and two cyclists following. All the people bowed and looked so pleased to see her, and her bow and smile of acknowledgment were charming.

We made a short turn in the Villa and then went on to the Pincio, which was crowded. There were some very handsome, stately Roman equipages, plenty of light victorias, a few men driving themselves in very high phaetons, and the inevitable botta with often three youths on the one seat. The carriages didn't draw up—the ladies holding a sort of reception as in our days, when all the "gilded youth" used to sit on the steps of the victorias and surround the carriages of the pretty women. They tell me the present generation comes much less to the Villa Borghese and Pincio. They are much more sporting—ride, drive automobiles and play golf. There are two golf clubs now—one at Villa Pamphili Doria, the other at Aqua Santa. Every time we go out on the Campagna we meet men with golf clubs and rackets.

Monday I prowled about in the morning, always making the same round—Via Sistina and the Spanish Steps. The lame man at the top of the steps knows me well now, and we always exchange a cheerful good morning. Sometimes I give him some pennies and sometimes I don't, but he is always just as smiling when I don't give him anything.

In the afternoon Madame de B. and I went for a drive and a little sight-seeing. She wanted a bottle of eucalyptus from the monks at Tre Fontane, so we took in San Paolo Fuori le Mura on our way. The drive out is charming—a few dirty little streets at first—past the Theatre of Marcellus, which looks blacker and grimmer, if possible, than when I last saw it—and then some distance along the river. There are great changes—-high buildings, quays, boats, carts with heavy stones and quantities of workmen—really quite an air of a busy port—busy of course in a modified sense, as no Roman ever looks as if he were working hard, and there are always two or three looking on, and talking, for every one who works—however, there is certainly much more life in the streets and the city looks prosperous.

The great new Benedictine Monastery of Sant' Anselmo stands splendidly on the heights (Aventine) to the left, also the walls and garden of the Knights of Malta. The garden, with its long shady walks, between rows of tall cypress trees, looked most inviting. We left the Testaccio and Protestant Cemetery on our right and followed a long file of carriages evidently going, too, to San Paolo. That of course looked exactly the same—an enormous modern building with a wealth of splendid marble columns inside. The proportions and great spaces are very fine, and there was a brilliant effect of light and colour (as every column is different). Some of the red-pink was quite beautiful, but it is not in the least like a church—not at all devotional. One can't imagine any poor weary souls kneeling on that slippery, shining marble pavement and pouring out their hearts in prayer. It is more like a great hall or academy. We went out into the quiet of the cloisters, which are interesting, some curious old tombs and statues, but small for such a huge basilica—always the square green plot in the centre with a well.

We had some difficulty in making our way to the carriage through a perfect army of boys and men selling photographs, postal cards, mosaic pins with views of the church, etc., also bits of marble, giallo antico, porphyry and a piece of dark marble, almost black, which had come from the Marmorata close by.

We went on to the Tre Fontane, about half an hour's drive—real country, quite charming. We didn't see the churches until we were quite close to them—they are almost hidden by the trees. I never should have recognised the place. The eucalyptus trees which the monks were just beginning to plant when we were here before have grown up into a fine avenue. They were cutting and trimming them, and the ground was covered with great branches making a beautiful green carpet with a strong perfume. Various people were looking on and almost every one carried off a branch of eucalyptus. We did too, and one is now hanging over the bed in my room. It is supposed to be very healthy. It has a very strong odour—to me very agreeable.

A service was going on in one of the churches, the monks singing a low monotonous chant, and everything was so still; one was so shut in by the trees that the outside world, Rome and the Corso might have been miles away. We went into the church to see the three fountains built into the wall. Tradition says that when St. Paul was executed his head bounded three times and at each place a fountain sprang up. A tall young monk was going about with some seminarists explaining the legend to them. They were listening with rapt attention and drinking reverently at each fountain.

We went into the little farmacia and found there a German monk who was much pleased when he found we could speak German. He told us there were 90 monks there, and that the place was perfectly healthy—not as when they began their work, when many died of fever. We each bought a bottle of eucalyptus, and were sorry to come away. The light was fading—the eucalyptus avenue looked dark and mysterious, and the low chant of the monks was still going on.

We went to a beautiful ball in the evening at the Brancaccios'. They built their palace—which is enormous—has a fine marble staircase (which showed off the women's long trailing skirts splendidly) and quantities of rooms filled with beautiful things. I didn't take them all in as I was so much interested in the people, but Bessie has promised to take me all over the palace some morning.

To-day we have been to the Brancaccio garden. It was a beautiful bright morning, so Bessie Talleyrand proposed we should drive up and stroll about there. We telephoned to Brancaccio, who said he would meet us in the garden. You can't imagine anything more enchanting than that beautiful southern garden in the heart of Rome. We drove through the court-yard and straight up the hill to a little bridge that connects the garden with Mrs. Field's old apartment. Mrs. Field really made the garden (and loved it always). When they bought the ground it was simply an "orto" or field, and now it is a paradise filled with every possible variety of trees and flowers. It seems that wherever she saw a beautiful tree she immediately asked what it was and where it came from, and then had some sent to her from no matter where. Of course hundreds were lost—the journey, change of soil, transplanting them, etc., but hundreds remain and the effect is marvellous. Splendid tall palms from Bordighera, little delicate shrubs from America and Canada all growing and thriving side by side in the beautiful Roman garden. There is a fine broad allée which goes straight down from the winter garden to the end of the grounds with the Colosseum as background. It is planted on each side with green oaks, and between them rows of orange and mandarin trees—the branches heavy with the fruit. We picked delicious, ripe, warm mandarins from the trees, and eat them as we were strolling along. It was too early for the roses, of which there are thousands in the season—one saw the plants twining around all the trees. There are all sorts of ruins and old walls in the garden, baths of Titus, Sette Celle, and one comes unexpectedly, in odd corners, upon fine old bits of carving and wall which have no name now, but which certainly have had a history.

The sky was a deep blue over our heads, and the trees so thick, that the ugly new buildings which skirt one side of the garden are almost completely hidden. It was a pleasure just to sit on a bench and live—the air was so soft, and the garden smell so delicious.

After breakfast I went out early with Josephine—leaving of course some cards first—after that we took a turn on the Pincio, which was basking in the sunshine (but quite deserted at that hour except by nurses and children), and then drove out toward the Villa Pamphili. The road was so familiar, and yet so different. The same steep ascent to the Janiculum with the beggars and cripples of all ages running alongside the carriage and holding out withered arms and maimed limbs—awful to see. The road is much wider—more of a promenade, trees and flowers planted all along. The fountains of San Pietro in Montorio looked beautiful—such a rush of bright, dancing water. We drove through the Villa Corsini—quite new since my time—a beautiful drive, and drew up on the terrace just under the equestrian statue of Garibaldi from where there is a splendid view—the whole city of Rome at our feet, seen through a warm, grey mist that made even the ugly staring white and yellow houses of the new quarter look picturesque. They lost themselves in a charming ensemble. St. Peter's looked very near but always a little veiled by the haze which made the great mass more imposing. We looked straight across the city to the Campagna—all the well-known monuments—Cecilia Metella, aqueducts and the various tombs scattered along the Via Appia were quite distinct. The statue of the great revolutionary leader seemed curiously out of place. I should have preferred almost the traditional wolf with the two little boys sucking in her milk. We couldn't stay very long as we had a tea at home. We met many people and carriages going up as we came down, as it was the day for the Villa Pamphili, which is open to the public twice a week.

We went to a ball at the Storys' in the evening, and as we went up the great staircase of the Barberini Palace (the steps so broad and shallow that one could drive up in a light carriage) finishing with the steep little flight quite at the top which leads directly to the Story apartment, I could hardly realize how many years had passed since I had first danced in these same rooms, and that I shouldn't find the charming, genial maître de maison of my youth who made his house such an interesting centre. I think one of Mr. Story's greatest charms was his absolute simplicity, his keen interest in everything and his sympathy with younger men who were still fighting the great battle of life which he had brought to such a triumphant close. His son, Waldo Story,[32] who has inherited his father's talent, keeps up the hospitable traditions of the house.

The ball was very animated—all the young dancing Rome was there.

I am alone this morning—the others have gone to the meet at Cecchignola fuori Porta San Sebastiano. I should have liked to go for the sake of old times, but I was rather tired, and have the court ball to-night.

Last night I had a pleasant dinner at Count Vitali's. He has bought the Bandini palace, and made it, of course, most comfortable and modern. The rooms are beautiful—the splendid proportions and great space one only sees now in Rome in the old palaces. The dinner was for M. Nisard (French Ambassador to the Vatican), but it wasn't altogether Black. There were one of the Queen's ladies and one or two secretaries from the Quirinal embassies. The line between the two parties is not nearly so sharply drawn as when I was here so many years ago. A few people came in the evening. Among the first to appear was Cardinal Vincenzo Vannutelli, whom I was delighted to see again. It is long since I have seen a cardinal in all the bravery of his red robes and large jewelled cross, and for the first time I felt as if I were back in old Rome. We had a nice talk and plunged into Moscow and all the coronation festivities. I told him I was very anxious to see the Pope, which he said could easily be arranged. Nisard, too, was charming—said I should have an audience spéciale as ancienne ambassadrice. I waited to see the cardinal go with all the usual ceremonies for a prince of the Church. Two big footmen with flambeaux and tall candles escorted him to his carriage. The cardinal came alone, which surprised me. I thought they always had an attendant—a sort of ecclesiastical aide-de-camp.

Saturday Marquise de Bailleul and I were received by the Queen. Our audience was at four. I went for her a little before. We drove straight to the Quirinal, the great entrance on the piazza. Two swell porters were at the door, but no guards nor soldiers visible anywhere. We went up the grand staircase, where there was a red carpet and plenty of flowers, but no servants on the steps. The doors of a large anteroom at the top of the stairs were open, and there were four footmen in powder, culottes, and royal red liveries, and three or four men in black. We left our wraps. I wore my grey velvet and Marquise de Bailleul was in black with a handsome sable cape (which she was much disgusted at leaving). We went at once into a large room, where the dame de palais de service was waiting for us. She had a list in her hand, came forward at once and named herself, Duchesse d'Arscoli, said she supposed I was Madame Waddington. I introduced Marquise de Bailleul. The gentleman also came up and said a few words. There were one or two other ladies in the room, evidently waiting their turn. In a few minutes the door into the next room opened and two ladies came out. The duchess went in, remained a second, then coming back, waved us in. She didn't come in herself, didn't announce us, and shut the door behind us. We found ourselves in a large, rather bare room, with no trace of habitation—I fancy it is only used for official receptions. The Queen was standing at a table about the middle of the room. She is tall, dark, with fine eyes and a pretty smile. We made our two curtseys—hadn't time for the third, as she advanced a step, shook hands, and made us sit down. The visit didn't last very long. I fancy she was rather tired, as evidently she had been receiving a good many people, and was probably bored at having to make phrases to utter strangers she might never see again. We had the usual royal questions as to our children. As I only had one child my conversation on that subject soon came to an end, but Marquise de Bailleul has three small ones, so she got on swimmingly. The Queen talked very prettily and simply about her own children, and the difficulty of keeping them natural and unspoiled; said people gave them such beautiful presents—all sorts of wonderful mechanical toys which they couldn't appreciate. One thing she said was rather funny—that the present they liked best was a rag doll the American Ambassadress had brought them from America.

As soon as we came out other people went in. I fancy all the strangers asked to the ball had to be presented first to the Queen. I think the London rule was rather simpler. There the strangers were always presented at supper, when the Princess of Wales made her "cercle."

We went to a ball in the evening at Baron Pasetti's (Austrian Ambassador to the Quirinal). They have a fine apartment in the Palazzo Chigi. I remembered the rooms quite well, just as they were in the old days when Wimpffen was Ambassador. The hall was most brilliant—all Rome there. The Pasettis are going away, and will be much regretted. I think he is rather delicate and has had enough of public life. I hadn't seen him since Florence, when we were all young, and life was then a succession of summer days—long afternoons in the villas, with roses hanging over the walls, and evenings on the balcony, with nightingales singing in the garden and the scent of flowers in the air, "der goldener Zeit der jungen Liebe" (the golden days of young love).

Sunday Bessie and I went to the American church. Dr. Nevin is still away. The church is large, but was quite full—there are evidently many Americans in Rome. The great mosaics over the altar were given by Mrs. Field.

Monday night we went to the court ball. It was very amusing, but extraordinarily simple, not to say democratic. Bessie and I went together early, so as to get good seats. If I hadn't known we were going to the palace I should have thought we had made a mistake in the house. The square of the Quirinal was so quiet, almost deserted—no troops nor music, nor crowd of people looking on and peering into the carriages to see the dresses and jewels—no soldiers nor officials of any kind on the grand staircase. Some tall cuirassiers and footmen in the anteroom—no chamberlains nor pages—nothing like the glittering crowd of gold lace and uniforms one usually sees in the anteroom of a palace. We walked through two or three handsome rooms to the ball-room, where there were already a great many people. The room is large, high, but rather too narrow, with seats all round. There was no raised platform for the court—merely a carpet and two large gilt arm-chairs for the King and Queen and a smaller one for the Comte de Turin. It was amusing to see all the people coming in, the different uniforms and jewels of the women giving at once an air of court. The entrance of the royal cortège was quite simple. They played the "Marcia Reale," which I don't at all care for. It is a frivolous, jumpy little tune, not at all the grave, dignified measure one would expect on such an occasion. There were no chamberlains walking backward with their great wands of office in their hands. The master of ceremonies, Count Gianotti, looking very well in his uniform and broad green ribbon, came first, and almost immediately behind him the King and Queen, arm in arm, the Count of Turin, and a small procession of court functionaries. The Queen looked very well in yellow, with a splendid tiara. She took her seat at once; the King and Comte de Turin remained standing. What was charming was the group of young court ladies who followed the Queen—tall, handsome women, very well dressed. There was no "quadrille d'honneur," none of the royalties danced. The dancing began as soon as the court was seated—any little couple, a young lieutenant, an American, any one, dancing under the nose of the sovereigns. The Queen remained sitting quite alone, hardly speaking to any one, through three or four dances; then there was a move, and she made her "cercle," going straight around the room, and speaking to almost every one. The King made no "cercle," remained standing near the "corps diplomatique," who were all massed on one side of the thrones (or arm-chairs). He talked to the ambassadors and étrangers de distinction (men—they say he rarely speaks to a woman). We all moved about a little after the Queen had passed, and I found plenty of old friends and colleagues to talk to. Neither the Russian Ambassador, Prince Ourousoff, nor any of his staff were present, on account of the war.

Tuesday it poured all the morning, so I didn't get my usual walk, and I tried to put some sort of order in our cards, which are in a hopeless confusion. The unfortunate porter is almost crazy. There are four of us here (as Madame de Bailleul's cards and invitations also come here), all with different names, and it must be impossible not to mix them.

It stopped raining in the afternoon and Josephine and I walked up to Palazzo Brancaccio after tea, to ask about Bessie, who has been ill ever since her ball. The streets were full of people, a few masks (as it was Mardi Gras), but quite in the lower classes. I should think the Carnival was dead, as far as Society is concerned. We got very little information about Bessie—the porter would not let us go upstairs, said the Princess was in the country, or perhaps in Paris. It seems he is quite a character, well known in Rome. When Mr. Field was ill, dying, of course everybody went to inquire, which seemed to exasperate him, as he finally replied, "ma sì, è malato, va morire, ma lasciarlo in pace—perchè venir seccar la gente?" (yes, yes, he is ill, dying, but leave him in peace—why do you come and bore people?).

We stepped in at a little church on our way back, where a benediction was going on. It was brilliantly lighted, and filled with people almost all kneeling—princesses and peasants—on the stone floor. It was a curious contrast to the motley, masquerading crowd just outside.

It is still showery and the streets very muddy to-day. This morning I made a solitary expedition to St. Peter's—armed with an Italian guide-book M. Virgo lent me (it was red, like Baedeker, so I looked quite the tourist). I went by tram—M. Virgo and the children escorted me to the bottom of the Via Tritone, and started me. The tramway is most convenient. We went through the Piazza di Spagna, across the Piazza del Popolo, and turned off short to the left. It was all quite different from what I remembered—a fine broad road (Lungo Tevere) (along the Tiber) with quantities of high, ugly modern buildings, "maisons de location," villas, and an enormous Ministère, I forget which one, Public Works, I think, which could accommodate a village. Some of the villas are too awful—fancy white stucco buildings ornamented with cheap statues and plaques of majolica and coloured marble. The tram stopped at the end of the piazza facing the church, but one loses the sense of immensity being so near. I saw merely the façade and the great stone perron. I wandered about for an hour finding my way everywhere, and recognising all the old monuments—Christina of Sweden, the Stuart monuments, the Cappella Julia, etc. There were quite a number of people walking about and sitting on the benches, or in the stalls of the little side chapels, reading their Baedekers. I came home in a botta for the sum of one franc. I wanted to cross the St. Angelo Bridge and see the crooked dirty little streets and low dark shops I remembered so well—and which will all disappear one day—with new quarters and all the old buildings pulled down. They were all there quite unchanged, only a little dirtier—the same heaps of decayed vegetables lying about in the corners, girls and women in bright red skirts and yellow fichus on their heads, long gold earrings, and gold pins in their hair, standing talking in the doorways, children playing in the gutter, a general smell of frittura everywhere. The little dark shops have no windows, only a low, narrow door, and the people sit in the doorway to get all the light they can for their work.

We paid some visits in the afternoon, winding up with Princess Pallavicini. Her beautiful apartment looked just the same (only there, too, is an ascenseur) with the enormous anteroom and suites of salons before reaching the boudoir, where she gave us tea. I remembered everything, even the flowered Pompadour satin on the walls, just as I had always seen it.

These last two days have been beautiful—real Roman days, bright blue sky, warm sun, and just air enough to be pleasant. Yesterday I trammed over again to the Vatican (a trolley car is an abomination in Rome, but so convenient). I wanted to see the statues and my favourite Apollo Belvedere, who hasn't grown any older in 24 years—the same beautiful, spirited young god. As I was coming downstairs I saw some people going into the garden from a side door, so I stepped up to the gardien, and said I wanted to go too. He said it was quite impossible without a permesso signed by one of the officers of the Pope's household. I assured him in my best Italian that I could have all the permessi I wanted, that I knew a great many people, was only here de passage and might not be able to come back another day, and that as I was alone he really might let me pass—so after a little conversation he chose a time when no one was passing, opened the door as little as he could and let me through. There were two or three parties being conducted about by guides, but no one took any notice of me, and I wandered about for some time quite happy. It is a splendid garden—really a park. I seemed to have got out on a sort of terrace (the carriage road below me). There were some lovely walks, with cypress and ilex making thick shade, and hundreds of camellias—great trees. The view toward Monte Mario was divine—everything so clear, hardly any of the blue mist that one almost always sees on the Campagna near Rome. The sun was too hot when I had to cross an open space, and I was glad to get back to the dark cypress walks. It was enchanting, but I think the most beautiful nature would pall upon me if I knew I must always do the same thing. I am sure Léon XIII. must have pined often for the green plains and lovely valleys around Perugia, and I don't believe the most beautiful views of the Alban hills tipped with snow, and pink in the sunset hues, will make up to the present Pope for the Lagoons of Venice and the long sweep of the Grand Canal to the sea.

Yesterday Josephine and I drove out to the meet at Acqua Santa, out of Porta San Giovanni. There were quantities of carriages and led horses going out, as it is one of the favourite meets—you get out so soon into the open country. There was such a crowd as we got near that we got out and walked, scrambling over and through fences. It was a much larger field than I had ever seen in Rome—many officers (all in uniform) riding, and many women. The hounds broke away from a pretty little olive wood on a height, and stretched away across a field to two stone walls, which almost every one jumped. There were one or two falls, but nothing serious. They were soon out of sight, but we loitered on the Campagna, sitting on the stone walls, and talking to belated hunters who came galloping up, eager to know which way the hunt had gone.

Sunday we had a party and music at the French Embassy (Vatican). Diemor played beautifully, so did Teresina Tua. When they played together Griegg's sonata for piano and violin it was enchanting. All the Black world was there, and a good many strangers.