Gert's dinner was pleasant—Mrs. Bruce, Comte Palfy, Father Smith, and Mr. Hooker. They all talked hard. Mr. Hooker has lived so many years in Rome that he has seen all its transformations; says the present busy, brilliant capital is so unlike the old Rome of his days that he can hardly believe it is the same place. It is incredible that a whole city should have lived so many years in such absolute submission to the Papal Government. In those days there were only two newspapers, each revised at the Vatican and nothing allowed to appear in either that wasn't authorized by the papal court; also the government exercised a paternal right over the jeunesse dorée, and when certain fair ladies with yellow hair and elaborate costumes appeared in the Villa Borghese, or on the Pincio, exciting great admiration in all the young men of the place (and filling the mammas and wives with horror), it was merely necessary to make a statement to the Vatican. The dangerous stranger was instantly warned that she must cross the frontier.
Palfy, too, remembered Rome in the old days, when the long drive along the Riviera in an old-fashioned travelling carriage (before railways were known in these parts) was a thing planned and arranged months beforehand—one such journey was made in a life-time. He said the little villages where they stopped were something awful; not the slightest idea of modern comfort or cleanliness. The ladies travelled with a retinue of servants, taking with them sheets, mattresses, washing materials (there was a large heavy silver basin and jug which always travelled with his family) and batterie de cuisine; also very often a doctor, as one was afraid of fever or a bad chill, as of course any heating apparatus was most primitive. The Italians sat in the sun all day and went to bed when it was dark and cold. One saw the country and the people much better in that way. Now we fly through at night in an express train, and the Rome we see to-day might be Paris, Vienna, or any modern capital. I mean, of course, inside the walls. As soon as one gets out of the gates and on the Campagna one feels as if by instinct all the dead past of the great city.
I told them that in our time, when we lived one summer in the Villa Marconi at Frascati, the arrangements were most primitive. The palace was supposed to be furnished, but as the furniture consisted chiefly of marble statues, benches, and baths—also a raised garden on a level with the upper rooms, opening out of the music-room, the door behind an enormous white marble statue of some mythological celebrity—it didn't seem very habitable to our practical American minds. There were beds and one or two wash-stands, also curtains in one room, but as for certain intimate domestic arrangements they didn't exist; and when we ventured to suggest that they were indispensable to our comfort we were told, "I principi romani non domandono altro" (Roman princes don't ask for anything more).
Heavens, how funny all the pourparlers were. Fanny[29] did all the talking, as we were still too new to the language to embark upon a business conversation. Her mother, who was an excellent maîtresse de maison, gave all the directions, which were most particular and detailed, as she was very anxious we should be comfortable, and very doubtful as to the resources of the establishment. The agent was visibly agacé and impatient. Fanny had on a pair of tortoise-shell star ear-rings, and the man told one of our friends afterward that "quella piccola colle stellette" (the young girl with the little stars) was a real "diavolo." It was funny to hear her beginning every sentence "Dice la signora" (madame says), and saying exactly what her mother told her; the mother, standing near, understanding every word, though she couldn't say anything, and looking hard at the agent. He understood her, too. However, we didn't get any more than the Roman princes had, and made our own arrangements as well as we could, having out a large van of furniture of all kinds from Rome.
Hooker remembered it all well, as he found the house for us and had many misgivings as to how we should get along. He was always keeping us straight in a financial point of view, as even then, before the days of the enormous American fortunes, Americans were careless about money, and didn't mind paying, and paying well, for what they wanted. In those days, too, it was rather cheap living in Italy, and we were so surprised often by the prices of the mere necessaries of life that we couldn't help expressing our astonishment freely. Poor Hooker was much disgusted. "You might as well ask them to cheat you." We learned better, however, later, particularly after several visits to Naples, where the first price asked for anything was about five times as much as the vender expected to get. "Le tout c'est de savoir."
Father Smith and W. got on swimmingly. It is too funny to see them together. The father's brogue is delightful and comes out strong whenever he talks about anything that interests him. He has such a nice twinkle, too, in his eye when he tells an Irish story or makes a little joke. I must say I am very sorry to go. It has been a real pleasure to be back again in Rome and to take up so many threads of my old life. I find Italians delightful to live with; they are so absolutely natural and unsnobbish—no pose of any kind; not that they under-rate themselves and their great historic names, but they are so simple and sure of themselves that a pose would never occur to them. Father Smith asked us a great deal about the German Crown Princess. He had never seen her, but had the greatest admiration for her character and intelligence—"a worthy daughter of her great mother"—thought it a pity that such a woman couldn't have remained in her own country, though he didn't see very well how it could have been managed. He doesn't at all approve of royal princesses marrying subjects. I think he is right—certainly democratic princes are a mistake. There should always be an idea of state—ermine and royal purple—connected with royalties. I remember quite well my disappointment at the first sovereign I saw. It was the Emperor of Austria coming out of his palace at Vienna. We had been loitering about, sight-seeing, and as we passed the Hof-Burg evident tourists, some friendly passers-by told us to stop a moment and we would see the Emperor, who was just driving out of the gates. When I saw a victoria with a pair of horses drive out with two gentlemen in very simple uniform, one bowing mechanically to the few people who were waiting, I was distinctly disappointed. I don't suppose I expected to see a monarch arrayed in ermine robes, with a crown on his head and a sceptre in his hand, but all the same it was a disillusion. Of course when one sees them at court, or at some great function, with brilliant uniforms, grand cordon, and diamond stars, they are more imposing. I don't know, though, whether that does make a difference. Do you remember one of A.'s stories? He was secretary to the British Embassy at Washington, and at one of the receptions at the White House (which are open receptions—all the world can go) all the corps diplomatique were present in the full glory of ribbons and plaques. He heard some one in the crowd saying, "What are all these men dressed up in gold lace and coloured ribbons?" The answer came after a moment's reflection, "I guess it's the band."
I don't think I can write any more to-night. I seem to be rambling on without anything much to say. If I could tell you all I am doing it would be much pleasanter. A pen seems to paralyze me and I feel a mantle of dulness settle down on me as soon as I take one in my hand. You will have to let me talk hard the first three or four days after I get home, and be the good listener you always are to your children.
It is a beautiful bright night, the sky almost as blue as in the day, and myriads of stars. The piazza is quite deserted. It is early, not yet 10.40, but the season is over, all the forestieri gone, and Rome is sinking back into its normal state of sleepiness and calm. How many times I have looked out on the piazza on just such a night (from Casa Pierret, our old house just next door)! It is the one place that hasn't changed in Rome. I almost feel as if I must go to bed at once, so as to be up early and in my habit for a meet at Cecilia Metella to-morrow morning. I do start to-morrow, but not very early—at ten. I have a line from Mary Bunsen this evening saying they will meet me at the station in Florence to-morrow. I shall arrive for dinner. I am half sorry now I didn't decide to go to Naples, after all. The weather is divine, and I should have liked to have another look at that beautiful bay, with its blue dancing water, and Capri and Ischia in the distance. We had had visions of Sicily, prolonging our stay another fortnight, but W. is rather worrying now to get home. He had a letter from Richard yesterday, telling him to be sure and come back for the Conseil Général.
There were two amusing articles in the papers the other day, one saying M. Waddington had been charged by the French Government with a delicate and confidential mission to the Pope; two days after, in another paper, a denial and most vicious attack on W., saying M. Waddington had evidently inspired the first article himself, that he had been charged with no mission of any kind, and they knew from private sources that he would not even be received by the Pope. I daresay a great many people believe both. W. naturally doesn't care—doesn't pay the least attention to what any paper says. I am getting hardened, too, though the process has been longer with me. I don't mind a good vicious article from an opposition paper—that is "de bonne guerre"—but the little perfidious insinuations of the so-called friendly sheets which one can't notice (and which always leave a trace) are very irritating.
W. has just come up. He lingered talking in the smoking-room with two Englishmen who have just arrived from Brindisi, and were full of India and all "the muddles our government is making," asking him if he wasn't disgusted as an Englishman at all the mistakes and stupidities they were making out there. They were so surprised when he said that he wasn't an Englishman that it was funny; and when he added that he was a Frenchman they really didn't know what he meant. He didn't explain his personality (I suppose the man of the hotel enlightened them afterward), but stayed on talking, as the men were clever and had seen a great deal. They had made a long tour in India, and said the country was most interesting. The ruins—also modern palaces—on such a gigantic scale.