I was too tired to-day to do anything, as yesterday we were out all day. W. and I walked about in the morning, going into all sorts of churches whenever we saw one open. There were always people, and in the smaller churches they looked devout and absorbed, but the crowd of strangers in the large, better known basilicas took away any religious feeling. It all seemed a great show, which is practically what Holy Week is in Rome. They say they have not had so many foreigners in years. Last night the "gérant" begged us not to come downstairs until 8 o'clock, or even a quarter past, as they needed all the small tables for the table-d'hôte. It was not so very crowded this morning as we breakfast at 12.30, much earlier than the foreigners, who are usually English and come in for luncheon at 1.30.
Yesterday afternoon we went to St. Peter's and found ourselves in a long file of carriages going the same way; also all kinds of pedestrians, priests, nuns, soldiers, artists, Cook's tourists, etc. W. was rather horrified at the crowd in the church, and the regular "bousculade" at the big doors. There was to be very good singing at one of the small chapels, but it was already so full that we couldn't get in, though we had cards from one of the Monsignori. We tried to make our way in but it was utterly impossible, and then stood outside, thinking we might hear; but the people all talked so much that we heard nothing except every now and then a few notes in that curious, high, unnatural voice of the Papal Choir. Two young German priests, with keen intelligent faces, were so put out—begged the people near not to talk—"in zehn Minuten ist alles vorüber" (in ten minutes it will be all over). All Rome was walking about the church, talking and looking about as if they were in a great hall of some kind—a crowd of strangers pushing, jostling, and trying to get up to the High Altar, or the statue of St. Peter where all the faithful were kissing the toe. It was certainly not solemn nor edifying, except when we came upon a quiet corner, with some old chapel filled with tombs of dead Romans, Popes or Princes, who had played a great part in their day. That took us back into the past, and we could realize that we were really in St. Peter's. I tried to show W. the part that was shut off for the great Ecumenical Council under Pio Nono, but I couldn't remember exactly. We shall come back another day with Father Smith who will know all about it. I did find the Stuart monument with the busts of Charles Edward and Cardinal York. People kept pouring into the church, but it is so enormous that, except at certain places, it was quite easy to circulate. All the women (except a few stray tourists) were in black, and every now and then one saw a long file of séminaristes, also in black, but with a coloured sash to mark their nationality. I think the Americans wear blue—the French are quite black—no colour. We talked to quantities of people—it was like an enormous reception. I was very tired when we finally came out, as of course we were walking and standing about all the time. There is no aisle with regular seats as in most churches—merely a few prie-Dieu inside the side chapels. The drive home was lovely—we went at a walk almost all the time, there were so many carriages.
I went out after all this afternoon with W. and Monsignor English to St. John Lateran, where they were singing a Miserere of Cappoci's. It is most strange, weird music, and the voices of the men are so unlike anything one hears elsewhere. There was always the same crowd. I will say Cook does his business thoroughly—wherever there is anything to see or hear he pilots all his band. After the Miserere was over we stood some time at the foot of the Scala Santa. It was black with people going up on their knees, saying a prayer at each step (I think there are 30) and some of them did look serious and absorbed. They were principally peasants—every now and then some well-dressed bourgeois. Monsignor English told us we would be surprised at the class of people (society) who come early, before the great crowd of sight-seers.
We went back to the Palazzo Altemps, picking up Count Palfy on the way, where Gert had promised us tea and hot cross buns from Spillman's (very good they were).
We found a note from the Quirinal when we came home saying the Queen would receive us to-morrow at 2.30. Desprez came and sat some time. He told W. all that was going on in Paris—the Ministry as usual struggling against the Radicals who are always wanting to suppress the French Embassy at the Vatican. It doesn't make the position of the Ambassador very pleasant, but Desprez is very wise, has had long training at the Foreign Office, and will certainly do all he can to conciliate and keep things straight.
To H. L. K.
Saturday, March 27, 1880.
It was raining this morning and I was very glad. The dust was getting most disagreeable in one's eyes and throat, and covering everything. I am glad, too, that it is cool, decidedly, as I wanted to wear my blue velvet. If it had been a bright warm day it would have looked dark and heavy. It is four o'clock—we have just come in from our audience, and I will write at once while the impression is fresh. W. has a "rendezvous" with some of the French Institute people, and I shall not see him again until dinner time. We got to the palace (a great ugly yellow building, standing high) quickly enough, as there was no one in the streets at that hour, and drove into the court-yard to a handsome entrance and staircase. There were a few soldiers about, but not much movement. A carriage came in behind us, and just as we were going upstairs some one called my name. It was Bessie Brancaccio,[21] who had also an audience with the Queen. She had come to thank her for her appointment as dame de palais. I was glad to have just that glimpse of her, as they are not in Rome this winter. Their beautiful house is not ready for them, so they have been spending the winter in Nice. We walked through a large anteroom where there were three or four servants and an "écuyer," and in the first salon we were received by the Comtesse Marcello, one of the Queen's ladies, a Venetian and a great friend of Mary's, and the gentleman-in-waiting, whose name I didn't master. We talked for a few minutes—she said a lady was with the Queen. The room was handsome, prettily furnished and opened into another—three or four, in fact, all communicating. After about ten minutes we saw a lady come out of the end room, the door of which was open, so Comtesse Marcello ushered us through the suite. We went to the corner room, quite at the end, where the Queen was waiting standing. We went through the usual ceremony. The Comtesse Marcello made a low curtsey on the threshold, saying, "I have the honour to present his Excellency, M. Waddington and Madame Waddington," and instantly retired. The Queen was standing quite at the end of the room (a lovely, bright corner room, with lots of windows and a magnificent view over Rome—even on a dull day it looked cheerful and spacious). I had ample time for my three curtseys. She let us come quite close up to her, and then shook hands with us both and made us sit down—I next to her on the sofa, W. in an arm-chair in front. I found her rather changed since I had seen her. She has lost the girlish appearance she had so long, and her manner was nervous, particularly at first. When she began to talk and was interested and animated she was more like what I remembered her as Princess Marguerite. She was dressed in bronze satin, with a flowered brocade "casaque," and one string of splendid pearls. She told W. she was very pleased to see him, remembered that I had lived in Rome before my marriage, and asked if I still sang, Vera had talked so much about the music in Casa Pierret, and the trios we used to sing there with Lovatelli and Malatesta. The talk was most easy, about everything, generally in French, but occasionally breaking into English, which she speaks quite well. W. was delighted with her—found her most interesting and "très instruite"—not at all the banal talk one expects to have with sovereigns—in fact, I quite forgot we were having a royal audience. It was a very pleasant visit to a charming woman, in a pretty room with all sorts of beautiful pictures and "bibelots" about. While we were still there the Prince of Naples[22] came in. We both got up; she told him to shake hands with W. and to kiss me, and to ask me how old my little boy was, which he did quite simply and naturally. He told his mother he was going to ride. I asked him if he had a nice pony, to which he replied in English, "Oh, yes, jolly," and asked if my little boy rode. I said not yet; he was only two years old. The child looked intelligent, but delicate. They say his mother makes him work too much, is so ambitious for him; and he has rather that look. The Princes of Savoy have always been soldiers rather than scholars, but I suppose one could combine the two. The Queen also spoke about the Bunsens, and "little Beatrice";[23] said she was very fond of Mary. I was very sorry when the audience was over and she dismissed me, saying she had people waiting.
Queen Margherita and the Prince of Naples (Present King of Italy) in 1880.