The Schuylers stayed talking some little while, then had to go, as they were dining out, but promised to come in after dinner. W. asked me if I was too tired to go for a little stroll (the tea had refreshed us), so we started up the Spanish Steps to the Villa Medici, where we had that beautiful view of Rome. I showed him the stone pines of the Doria-Pamphili, which stood out splendidly against the last bright clouds of the sunset—it was quite lovely. We stayed out quite late, and were received with respectful, but decidedly disapproving greetings from the gérant when we came in. It was not at all prudent for "Eccellenza" and Madame to remain out late, particularly as they must be very tired after a long journey. We dined downstairs in the big dining-room. There was a long table d'hôte full—people about half through their dinner—and at the extreme end of the room five or six small tables, one of which had been reserved for us. I didn't see any one I knew, but two men got up and bowed as we passed. The dinner was good—the head waiter hovering about us all the time, and of course always addressing W. as "Eccellenza." We had coffee upstairs. W. smoked and I read the paper and one or two notes. About ten the Schuylers appeared, very cheerful and full of propositions of all kinds. They have got a big reception for us on Sunday night—Roman and diplomatic—and we agreed to breakfast with them to-day. Gert looked very well in blue, with her diamond necklace and feathers. They don't seem very pleased with Marsh—our Minister. Always the same old story and jealousy—the ministers consider themselves so far above a consul. But really when the Consul-General happens to be Schuyler and his wife King, one would think these two names would speak for themselves—for Americans, at any rate.
We told Schuyler how many compliments we had had both in Paris and Florence for his "Peter the Great"—so much in it, and yet the subject one that had been written about so often. They went off about eleven, and I was glad to go to bed; could hardly believe I was sleeping again in the Piazza di Spagna. I certainly never imagined when I left Rome tearfully so many years ago that I would come back as the wife of a French statesman.
I was busy all the morning unpacking and settling myself, and of course looking out of the window. It is all so delightfully familiar—all the botte standing in the middle of the street, and the coachman trying so hard to understand when some English or American tourists give them some impossible address in Italian—you know the kind of people I mean, conscientious tourists who think they must always speak the language of the country they are in, learned out of a phrase-book. We have various invitations, from our two Embassies, Quirinal and Vatican, also the Teanos, and W. had a nice visit from Lanciani, who wants to show him all Rome. We took a botta to go to the Schuylers. It isn't far, but I wasn't quite sure of finding my way the first time. They have a charming apartment in Palazzo Altemps, near the Piazza Navona, not at all far really from our hotel, and now that I know the way I can often walk over in the mornings when W. is off sight-seeing seriously with some of his learned friends. It is a fine old palace with a large open court and broad stone staircase. San Carlo Borromeo is supposed to have lived there. Their apartment belongs to Mrs. Terry, wife of the artist, who had arranged it very comfortably, and the Schuylers have put in all their Turkish rugs, carpets, and bibelots, so it really looks very pretty. There are quantities of green plants and flowers about (they are both fond of flowers and are always making experiments and trying something new) and of course books, papers, reviews, and a piano.
I told Gert I thought I would write to Vera and have some singing lessons—I have done so little singing since I have been married. Eugene is a charming host, and he and W. had plenty to talk about. I inspected Gert's wardrobe while they were smoking. Her dresses are all right, and I think her maid is good. I wrote all this after I came in. The man of the hotel had engaged a carriage for us—a nice little victoria with a pair of greys. It comes from Tomba's stables—do you remember the name? The same loueur we had when we lived here. The coachman said he remembered me perfectly, had often driven the "signorine" to the meets, and hoped la maman was well. We were lucky to get such a nice little carriage. The d'Aubignys, a French couple, had just given it up, as they were leaving the Embassy here for Berlin.
We drove about a little—left cards for the Noailles, Desprez, Cairolis, and wound up in the Villa Borghese, which was again quite changed—such quantities of carriages and people walking, also Italian officers riding, and soldiers, bersaglieri, etc., about. We crossed the Wimpffens, looking very smiling, and saw in the distance, as we were coming out, the royal red liveries, but the carriage was too far off to see who was in it. Now we are going to dinner, and I shall be glad to get to bed early. I think I am more tired than yesterday.
Hôtel de Londres,
February 26, 1880.
I will begin again this afternoon, as I have a little time before dinner. The weather is divine, quite the same deep-blue sky and bright sun of our first Roman winter. We have had an enchanting drive out of Porta San Sebastiano and along the Via Appia as far as Cecilia Metella—everything exactly the same as when we were there so many years ago. The same peasant carts blocking up the narrow gateway, everybody talking at once, white teeth gleaming, and quantities of little brown children with black eyes and jet black hair tumbling down over their eyes and outstretched hands for anything the forestieri would put into them. W. was a little disappointed at first. The road is narrow, an atrocious pavement, and high walls almost shutting out the view. However, as we got farther out there came gaps in the walls through which one saw the whole stretch of the Campagna with the Claudian Aqueduct on one side, and when we finally emerged into the open fields, he was delighted. How extraordinary all these old tombs and pyramids are, most of them falling in ruins, with roses and creepers of all kinds holding them together. On one of the largest round tombs there was a peasant house with a garden and vines, and smoke coming out of the chimney, perched quite on the top, with a steep, stony path winding down, where the coachman told me the donkey went up and down, as he too lived in the house with the family. Some of the tombs are very high—real towers. There is hardly a trace of marble or inscription left, but the original building so strong that the walls remain.
The queer old tombs, towers, and bits of ruins all along the road interested W. immensely; though he has never been here he knows them all from photographs and reproductions, and could tell me a great deal more than I could tell him. We went as far as the round tomb of Cecilia Metella, and then got out and walked a little. I wanted to show him the low wall which we used to jump always when the meet was at Cecilia Metella. Do you remember the first time you came out to see us jump, not at a hunt but one afternoon with Dyer practising to see what the horses and riders would do? You saw us start at a canter for the wall, and then shut your eyes tight until we called out to you from the other side.
This morning W. and I had our first regular turn at sight-seeing. We took a nice little botta on the Piazza, had our Baedeker—a red one, like all the tourists—and were quite happy. Some of the old colleagues were highly entertained seeing us driving about with our Baedeker; said it was W. under a wholly different aspect. We wandered about the Vatican for two hours, seeing quantities of things—Sistine Chapel, Stanze Raphael, Apollo Belvedere, etc., and always a beautiful view over the gardens. Later, he says, he must do it all regularly and intelligently with one of his men friends, as I naturally could not stand for hours recognising and deciphering an old inscription. I left him from time to time, sat down on one of the stone benches, talked to the custode, looked at the other people, and gave them any information I could. It interested me to see the different nationalities—almost entirely English, American, German, very few Italian, and no French—yes, one artist, a rather nice looking young fellow who was copying something on the ceiling of one of the "Stanze," rather a difficult process apparently. There were many more women than men—groups of English spinsters doing their sights most thoroughly—the Americans more casual. The Apollo looked splendid, so young and spirited. We walked some little distance, coming home before we could get a fiacre, and I had forgotten how cruel that Roman pavement was. I don't believe any of my boots will stand it; I shall have to get somewhere here a pair of thick-soled walking shoes.
We had a quiet hour after breakfast. I have arranged a ladies' corner in the drawing-room. I was in despair the first two days over the room. I had never lived in small hotel quarters with a man, and I had no idea how disorderly they are. The table was covered with pens, papers—piles of them, three or four days old, thick with dust—cigars, cigar ashes over everything, two or three large, bulky black portfolios, very often a pot hat, etc. So we compromised; W. took one end of the room and I the other. I obtained from the gérant (thanks to Madame Hubert, who is very pretty and on the best of terms with him) a small table, large china vase for a plant, a nice arm-chair, and a cushion for the sofa, borrowed a table-cloth from Gert, also some small things for my table, and my end looked quite respectable and feminine. The room is large, so we can really get on very well. We had a pleasant visit from the Marquis de Noailles, French Ambassador to the Quirinal, before we went out. He has a charming, easy manner. We are to breakfast at the Embassy, Palazzo Farnese, to-morrow for me to make Madame de Noailles's acquaintance. I wonder what I shall think of her? The men all say she is a charmeuse. She is Polish born, was a beautiful woman—I think all Poles have a great charm of manner.