More wonderful still! I have just been into a coiffeur’s in the Via Condotti to be shaved, and the young gentleman officiating, after lathering me, said in the most unconcerned way possible: ‘Let me see, I thinks that you like him a razor fine, if right I remembers?’ I stared at the man in astonishment, and stammered: ‘Do you know me, then?’ ‘Ah, sare,’ was the reply, ‘I shave you often last year, at the Toilet Club, Brighton. No you remember?’ The world is decidedly small. I am looking about Rome now with some hope of coming upon the cabman to whom I gave a sovereign instead of a shilling in the Old Kent Road in the summer of ’81. I really don’t see why he shouldn’t come round the corner accidentally.
Rome has just recovered from the incursion of the pilgrims to the tomb of Victor Emmanuel, and Society is returning to the capital. The ‘pilgrimage’ business scared many people from the city, for there was a good deal of wild talk about riots and I know not what. You see, this pilgrimage has been an organized Government affair, got up entirely for political purposes. The vast horde of folks who flocked from all parts of Italy came, not to show their attachment and devotion to monarchical institutions, but to see Rome and enjoy themselves. The railway companies brought ‘pilgrims’ at a reduction of 75 per cent. on the regular fares.
Although nothing has appeared in the papers, it is common talk in Rome that one train-load was stoned by the mob, and in several places this ‘loyal’ demonstration was hissed and hooted. Italy teems with dissension and discontent, and how fully the Government is aware of the fact is best proved by the enormous pains that have been taken to organize and carry out this solemn farce of a national pilgrimage to the tomb of the late King.
It is fair to say that this view of the pilgrimage is taken only in clerical and Republican circles. I am assured by many Italians that it has really been a great success, from a political point of view. There is no doubt that the ‘merry jests of King Victor Emmanuel’ endeared him to a large number of his subjects, and the stories that are being told of him now would fill a book.
The stories of his hobnobbing with peasants and boors, and finding his pleasure in bourgeois life, have caused the old canard to be revived about his identity. My waiter in Rome imparted it to me confidentially one morning while I was struggling to eat some gnocchis à la Romaine without injuring all that is left of my liver for life. I will give it as I received it:
‘Wunst was a fire—big fire, while Vittor Emanuele he was baby in de palace. Real royal baby he was burn to death. To prevent being found out what happen, de nurse she put her baby in de place of other, and nobody not find out, so Victor Emanuele he really was one of de people, and dat was what make him so fond of sit in beerhouse and eat sausage and bread with a big knife.’
There is a big movement afoot in Rome to revive the Barberi races in the Corso. The Corso, as all my readers are aware, is a long, narrow street in the fashionable quarter of Rome, and the Barberi are poor horses who are let loose at the top with spiked balls fastened to their sides, which goad them almost to madness, and make them fly like the wind. Last year the cruel sport was abandoned, owing to its having caused a terrible accident just under the Queen’s balcony the previous year. This time, however, there is a great outcry for a revival, and the chief sinners are not the cruel Romans, but the humane English and American visitors and residents.
As in these days of extended travel everyone goes to Rome, I should like to say a word about the nonsense that is talked about the unhealthiness of the climate and the danger of malaria. ‘Roman fever’ is a bogey which frightens hundreds of good folk from enjoying one of the greatest treats the world can give. There is very little danger to people who live carefully and don’t rush. If people will go to Rome in the blazing heat of summer, and gallop about from place to place like madmen, now sweltering in the sun, and now burrowing into the icy depths of a ruined temple, or wandering in the cold galleries of a church, chills will follow, and fever may ensue; but in nine cases out of ten fear is the great cause of the illness of English travellers.
The Roman water, again, which some folks warn you not to drink, is the purest water in the whole wide world, and there is a supply, brought through the restoration of some of the classical aqueducts a distance of thirty-six miles, which is equal to 300 gallons per day for each inhabitant, and this is flowing day and night uninterruptedly. London Water Companies please note.
There is one thing which makes Rome unendurable to nervous, excitable people, and which, combined with the sirocco, has driven me away. To be harassed and tortured at every turn is death to a rheumatic, dyspeptic, quiet-seeking man whose nerves are champion jumpers. To show what I mean, I will exactly reproduce my last walk in Rome. I have read Mr. Hare’s ‘Walks in Rome,’ but mine is the walk of a Hunted Hare.