LITMIR.BIZ

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after he came in we had visits—Hooker, Monsignor English, a French priest, head of St. Louis des Français, and Del Monte, whom I hadn't yet seen. He was so nice and friendly—doesn't look really much older, though he says he feels so. I told him it seemed unnatural not to have a piano. He would have brought his cello, and we could have plunged into music and quite forgotten how many years had passed since we first played and sang the "Stella Confidente."

      After they had all gone we started out to the "Tre Fontane," taking Gert with us to see the establishment of the French Trappists who are trying to "assainir" the Campagna by planting eucalyptus trees. It is an interesting experiment, but rather a dangerous one, as several of the fathers have died. The summer here, with that deadly mist that rises from the Campagna, must be fatal, and the two monks we saw looked yellow and shrivelled with fever. However, they will persevere, with that extraordinary tenacity and devotion of the Catholic priests when they undertake anything of that kind. I carried off a bottle of Elixir of Eucalpytus, for I am sorry to say these last bright days have given me an unpleasant souvenir in the shape of a cold chill every now and then between the shoulders, and evidently there is still truth in the Roman proverb "Cuore di donna, onde di mare, sole di Marzo, non ti fidare." (Don't trust a woman's heart, the waves of the sea, nor the March sun.)

      We got home about half-past six, had tea and more visits—Calabrini, Vitelleschi, and Princess Pallavicini, who was most animated, and talked politics hard with W. We dined at home and had a little talk, just as we were finishing dinner, with Menabrea, who was dining at a table next ours. They say he will go to the Paris Embassy in Cialdini's place. W. wouldn't go out again, so I went alone to Gert's, who had a few people—Mrs. Van Rensselaer, clever and original; Countess Calice, an American; her husband, a cousin of the Malatestas; Vera; young Malatesta, a son of Francesco; a Russian secretary, and one or two others. It was rather a pleasant evening. They had tea in the dining-room—everybody walked about, and the men smoked.

Tuesday, March 13, 1880.

      Yesterday morning W. and I had a good outing, wandering about the Capitol. First we walked around Marcus Aurelius, then up the old worn stone steps to the Ara Cœli. I told W. how we used to go there always on Christmas Eve to see the Crèche and the Bambino. It was very well done, and most effective. The stable, beasts, shepherds, and kings (one quite black with a fine crown). There were always children singing the "storia di Gesù" and babies in arms stretching out their hands to the lights. Yesterday the church was quite empty, as there is not much to attract the ordinary tourist. We made our way slowly, W. stopping every moment before an inscription, or a sarcophagus, or a fresco, to the room of the "Dying Gladiator," which he found magnificent—was not at all disappointed; afterward the faun—and then sauntered though all the rooms. I had forgotten the two skeletons in one of the sarcophagi—the woman's with rings on her fingers, most ghastly.

      After lunch Countess Wimpffen came in to know if I would drive with her to the Villa Borghese, and do two teas afterwards—Madame Cairoli and Madame Westenberg (wife of the Dutch Minister, an American and a great friend of Gert's); but I couldn't arrange it, as W. wanted to come with me to the Affaires Etrangères—so we agreed to go another day. I always liked both Wimpffens so much when they were in Paris that it is a great pleasure to find them here. Wimpffen likes to get hold of W. and talk about France and French politics.

      Our dinner at Mrs. Bruce's was very gay. I told her I didn't find her salon much prettier than in our days when we lived on the first floor of Perret's house (she on the second), and she always said we made Perret send up to her all the ugly furniture we wouldn't have. What we kept was so bad, that I think the "rebut" must have been something awful. We had the Minghettis, Vitelleschis, Wurts, Wilbrahams, Schuylers, and one or two stray Englishmen. Vitelleschi took me in, and I had Minghetti on the other side, so I was very well placed. It is killing to hear them talk politics—discussing all the most burning questions with a sort of easy persiflage and "esprit de conciliation" that would astound our "grands politiques" at home. Minghetti said the most absolutely liberal man he had ever known was Pio Nono—but what could he do, once he was Pope.

      It was really a charming dinner—Mrs. Bruce is an ideal hostess. She likes to hear the clever men discuss, and always manages to put them on their mettle. We all came away about the same time, and W. and I went on to the opera "Tor di None." Bibra had invited us to come to his box. The house was much less "élégante" than the Paris house—hardly any one in a low dress, no tiaras, and few jewels. The Royal box empty. Princess Bandini was in the next box with Del Monte and Trochi. The Minghettis opposite with the Wimpffens. The "salle" was badly lighted—one could hardly make the people out.

      W. had rather a shock—we had scarcely got in—(Bibra not yet come) when the door opened and in came Maurizio Cavaletti—enchanted to see me—seizing both my hands—"Maria mia adorata—cara regazza, etc.," utterly oblivious of "cara Maria's" husband, who stood stiff and cold (an icicle) in the background, with Anglo-Saxon written all over him; waiting for the exuberant demonstration to finish, and a presentation to be made. As soon as I could I presented Monsieur le Marquis in proper form, and explained that we were very old friends, had not met for years, etc., but W. hardly thawed all the evening.

      When he went out of the box to pay a visit to our neighbours I remonstrated vigorously with Maurizio, but he was so unfeignedly astonished at being taken to task for greeting a very old friend warmly, that I didn't make much impression. The ballet was pretty, and of course there was an influx of young men as soon as it began—a handsome, rather stout "ballerina" being evidently a favourite.

      To-day we breakfasted with the Schuylers to meet Mrs. Bruce and Cardinal Howard—no one else. We had a pretty little breakfast, most lively. I didn't find the Cardinal much changed, a little stouter perhaps. He was quite surprised at W.'s English; knew of course that he had been educated at Rugby and Cambridge, and had the Chancellor's medal, but thought he would have lost it a little having lived so many years in France, and having made all his political career in French. I asked him if he was as particular as ever about his horses. He always had such splendid black horses when we lived in Rome, but he said, rather sadly, that times were changed. W. and he talked a long time after breakfast. He was very anxious to know whether all the religious orders were threatened in France or merely the Jesuits. Comte Palfy (Austrian) came in just as we were leaving. He is so attractive—a great friend of l'Oncle Alphonse—knows everybody here and loves Rome.

      W. and I went off to the Villa Albani—out of Porta Salara. We walked through the rooms—there are principally busts, statues, bas-reliefs, etc.—and then loitered about the gardens which are fine. Fountains, vases, and statues in every direction, and always that beautiful view of the hills in the soft afternoon light.

      I will finish when I come home from our Black dinner. We are asked for seven, so of course will get back early, as we do not go anywhere afterward. I shall wear black, as I hear so many Princes of the church are to be there. Madame Hubert is very sorry I can't wear the long black veil that I did for the Pope—she found that most becoming.

Tuesday, March 12, 1880, 10.30 p.m.

      We are just home from our dinner at the Portuguese Embassy, so I have got out of my gauds and into my tea-gown, and will finish this long letter. It was most interesting—a great deal of couleur locale. We arrived very punctually—three or four carriages driving up at the same time. There was of course a magnificent porter downstairs, and quantities of servants in handsome liveries; a good deal of red and powder. Two giants at the foot of the staircase, with the enormous tall candles which are de rigueur at a Black embassy when cardinals or ambassadors dine. They were just preparing to escort some swell up the staircase as we arrived; there was a moment's halt, and the swell turned out to be M. Desprez, the new French Ambassador to the Vatican (replacing the Marquis de Cabriac). He was half embarrassed when he recognised us; W. had so lately been his chef that he couldn't quite make up his mind to pass before him—especially under such novel and rather trying conditions. However, there was nothing to be done, and he started up the great staircase between the tall candles, W. and I followed modestly in his wake. We found several people, including two or three cardinals, already there. The apartment is very handsome. The Ambassador (Thomar) looked very well—"très grand seigneur"—standing at the door of the first salon, and one saw quite a vista of large, brilliantly lighted rooms beyond. All the guests arrived very

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