We made a short turn in the Villa and then went on to the Pincio, which was crowded. There were some very handsome, stately Roman equipages, plenty of light victorias, a few men driving themselves in very high phaetons, and the inevitable botta with often three youths on the one seat. The carriages didn't draw up—the ladies holding a sort of reception as in our days, when all the "gilded youth" used to sit on the steps of the victorias and surround the carriages of the pretty women. They tell me the present generation comes much less to the Villa Borghese and Pincio. They are much more sporting—ride, drive automobiles and play golf. There are two golf clubs now—one at Villa Pamphili Doria, the other at Aqua Santa. Every time we go out on the Campagna we meet men with golf clubs and rackets.
Monday I prowled about in the morning, always making the same round—Via Sistina and the Spanish Steps. The lame man at the top of the steps knows me well now, and we always exchange a cheerful good morning. Sometimes I give him some pennies and sometimes I don't, but he is always just as smiling when I don't give him anything.
In the afternoon Madame de B. and I went for a drive and a little sight-seeing. She wanted a bottle of eucalyptus from the monks at Tre Fontane, so we took in San Paolo Fuori le Mura on our way. The drive out is charming—a few dirty little streets at first—past the Theatre of Marcellus, which looks blacker and grimmer, if possible, than when I last saw it—and then some distance along the river. There are great changes—-high buildings, quays, boats, carts with heavy stones and quantities of workmen—really quite an air of a busy port—busy of course in a modified sense, as no Roman ever looks as if he were working hard, and there are always two or three looking on, and talking, for every one who works—however, there is certainly much more life in the streets and the city looks prosperous.
The great new Benedictine Monastery of Sant' Anselmo stands splendidly on the heights (Aventine) to the left, also the walls and garden of the Knights of Malta. The garden, with its long shady walks, between rows of tall cypress trees, looked most inviting. We left the Testaccio and Protestant Cemetery on our right and followed a long file of carriages evidently going, too, to San Paolo. That of course looked exactly the same—an enormous modern building with a wealth of splendid marble columns inside. The proportions and great spaces are very fine, and there was a brilliant effect of light and colour (as every column is different). Some of the red-pink was quite beautiful, but it is not in the least like a church—not at all devotional. One can't imagine any poor weary souls kneeling on that slippery, shining marble pavement and pouring out their hearts in prayer. It is more like a great hall or academy. We went out into the quiet of the cloisters, which are interesting, some curious old tombs and statues, but small for such a huge basilica—always the square green plot in the centre with a well.
We had some difficulty in making our way to the carriage through a perfect army of boys and men selling photographs, postal cards, mosaic pins with views of the church, etc., also bits of marble, giallo antico, porphyry and a piece of dark marble, almost black, which had come from the Marmorata close by.
We went on to the Tre Fontane, about half an hour's drive—real country, quite charming. We didn't see the churches until we were quite close to them—they are almost hidden by the trees. I never should have recognised the place. The eucalyptus trees which the monks were just beginning to plant when we were here before have grown up into a fine avenue. They were cutting and trimming them, and the ground was covered with great branches making a beautiful green carpet with a strong perfume. Various people were looking on and almost every one carried off a branch of eucalyptus. We did too, and one is now hanging over the bed in my room. It is supposed to be very healthy. It has a very strong odour—to me very agreeable.
A service was going on in one of the churches, the monks singing a low monotonous chant, and everything was so still; one was so shut in by the trees that the outside world, Rome and the Corso might have been miles away. We went into the church to see the three fountains built into the wall. Tradition says that when St. Paul was executed his head bounded three times and at each place a fountain sprang up. A tall young monk was going about with some seminarists explaining the legend to them. They were listening with rapt attention and drinking reverently at each fountain.
We went into the little farmacia and found there a German monk who was much pleased when he found we could speak German. He told us there were 90 monks there, and that the place was perfectly healthy—not as when they began their work, when many died of fever. We each bought a bottle of eucalyptus, and were sorry to come away. The light was fading—the eucalyptus avenue looked dark and mysterious, and the low chant of the monks was still going on.
We went to a beautiful ball in the evening at the Brancaccios'. They built their palace—which is enormous—has a fine marble staircase (which showed off the women's long trailing skirts splendidly) and quantities of rooms filled with beautiful things. I didn't take them all in as I was so much interested in the people, but Bessie has promised to take me all over the palace some morning.
To-day we have been to the Brancaccio garden. It was a beautiful bright morning, so Bessie Talleyrand proposed we should drive up and stroll about there. We telephoned to Brancaccio, who said he would meet us in the garden. You can't imagine anything more enchanting than that beautiful southern garden in the heart of Rome. We drove through the court-yard and straight up the hill to a little bridge that connects the garden with Mrs. Field's old apartment. Mrs. Field really made the garden (and loved it always). When they bought the ground it was simply an "orto" or field, and now it is a paradise filled with every possible variety of trees and flowers. It seems that wherever she saw a beautiful tree she immediately asked what it was and where it came from, and then had some sent to her from no matter where. Of course hundreds were lost—the journey, change of soil, transplanting them, etc., but hundreds remain and the effect is marvellous. Splendid tall palms from Bordighera, little delicate shrubs from America and Canada all growing and thriving side by side in the beautiful Roman garden. There is a fine broad allée which goes straight down from the winter garden to the end of the grounds with the Colosseum as background. It is planted on each side with green oaks, and between them rows of orange and mandarin trees—the branches heavy with the fruit. We picked delicious, ripe, warm mandarins from the trees, and eat them as we were strolling along. It was too early for the roses, of which there are thousands in the season—one saw the plants twining around all the trees. There are all sorts of ruins and old walls in the garden, baths of Titus, Sette Celle, and one comes unexpectedly, in odd corners, upon fine old bits of carving and wall which have no name now, but which certainly have had a history.