ROME, February, 1881.
Dear ____,—Mrs. Elliot brought Ouida to see me on my reception-day. Ouida is, I am afraid, a little bit of a poseuse, but geniuses have privileges which cannot be endured in ordinary people. She was dressed with a lofty disregard of Roman climate and its possibilities, and in utter defiance of common sense. She wore a dress open at the throat, with short sleeves, and the thinnest of shoes and stockings, which she managed to show more than was quite necessary. She spoke in an affected voice, and looked about her continually as if people were watching her and taking notes.
Among the ladies of the Queen here are three Americans who have married Italians and have entered the charmed circle of the court. Their services are only required upon certain gala occasions. One is the daughter of Hickson Fields (whom we used to know so well in Paris), who has married Prince Brancaccio. Another American lady, the wife of Prince Cenci, who is of the same family as the lady with the turban. Both the Prince and the Princess are at court, he as chamberlain and she as dame de palais. He is called the "Boeuf à la mode," not because he in any way looks like a boeuf, but because he is fine-looking, masterful, and à la mode.
Count Gianotti, first master of ceremonies, has also an American wife. She was a Miss Kinney, a daughter of Mrs. Kinney whom we knew in Washington. She is tall and striking-looking. Her Friday receptions are well attended, especially when she lets it be known that there will be particularly fine music. While the artist at the piano thinks he is making a heavy and great success and is wrestling with his arpeggios on a small piano, the guests come and go and rattle their teacups, regardless of the noise, while the music goes on. This is often the case in Roman salons.
The Marquis de Noailles is the French Ambassador. You recollect him and the Marquise, who were in Washington the first year we were there. He, as you know, is of the bluest blood of France. She is of Polish extraction and lived in Paris, where she had a succès de beauté in the Napoleonic days. After her first husband's death (Count Schwieskoska) she married de Noailles. They have an offspring, an enfant terrible, if there ever was one, who is about nine years old, and a worse torment never existed. Nobody on earth has the slightest control over him—neither father, mother, nor tutor. The Marquis makes excuses for his bringing-up by saying that, having had a very severe, rod-using father himself, he was determined that if he ever had a child he would spare the rod. He can flatter himself that he has thoroughly succeeded in spoiling the child.
When we were at a very large and official dinner at the Farnese Palace (the French Embassy), where the beautifully decorated tables filled the whole length of the Carracci Gallery, the guests were amazed as seeing Doudou (the name of the infant) come in on a velocipede and ride round and round the table, all the servants dodging about to avoid collision, holding their platters high in the air, for fear of being tripped up and spilling the food. The astonished guests expected every moment to have their chairs knocked from under them. This made this should-be-magnificent dinner into a sort of circus. No persuasion or threats could induce this terrible child to go away, and he continued during the dinner to do his velocipede exercises. He must be a very trying boy. His mother told me herself that he forces both her and his father to take castor or any other oil when the doctor prescribes it for him. People tell horrible stories about him. I am sure you will say what every one else says—"Why don't his parents give him a good spanking?"
At a small dinner at the English Embassy I met the celebrated tenor, Mario. I had not seen him since in Paris in 1868, when he was singing with Alboni and Patti in "Rigoletto." Alboni once invited the Duke and the Duchess of Newcastle, Mr. Tom Hohler, and ourselves to dinner to meet Mario in her cozy apartment in the Avenue Kleber. I was perfectly fascinated by Mario and thought him the beau ideal of a Lothario. His voice was melodious and caressante, as the French say, and altogether his manners were those of a charmer. It was a most interesting dinner, and I was all ears, not wanting to lose a word of what Alboni and he said. What they talked about most was their many reminiscences, and almost each of their phrases commenced, "Vous rappelez vous?" and then came the reminiscence. After fourteen years I meet him here, a grandpapa, traveling with his daughter. He is now the Marquis di Candia (having resumed his title), et l'homme du monde parfait; he is seventy years old and has a gray and rather scanty beard instead of the smooth, carefully trimmed brown one of autrefois. Why do captivating and fascinating creatures, such as he was, ever grow old? But, as Auber used to say, "the only way to become old is to live a long time."
At the Embassy dinner he did not sit next to me, alas! but afterward we sat on the sofa and talked of Alboni, Paris, and music. I told him that the first time I had heard him sing was in America, when he sang with Grisi.
"So long ago?" he said. "Why, you couldn't have been born!"
"Oh yes," I answered; "I was born, and old enough to appreciate your singing. I have never forgotten it, nor your voice. One will never hear anything like it again. Have you quite given up singing?" I asked.