We drove through Gensano, then turned off sharp to the left to Nemi—a fairly good road. We soon came in sight of the lake, which looked exactly as I remembered it—a lifeless blue, like a deep cup surrounded by green hills. They used to tell us, I remember, that there were no fish, no living thing in the lake, but Ruspoli says there are plenty now—very good ones.
We followed a beautiful winding road up to Nemi, which is a compact little village on the top of a hill—the great castle standing out well. It has just been bought by Don Enrico Ruspoli, and he and his charming American wife are making it most picturesque and livable. We breakfasted at the little Hôtel de Nemi—not at all bad—the dining-room opening on a terrace with such a view—at our feet the Campagna rolling away its great waves of blue purple to a bright dazzling white streak, the sea—on one side a stretch of green valley leading to all the different little villages; on the other the lake with its crown of olive-covered hills.
Just as we were finishing breakfast Ruspoli appeared to ask us if we would come and see the castle. We entered directly from the little square of the town—the big doors face the church. There is a fine stone staircase, and halls and rooms innumerable. They have only just begun to work on it—have made new floors (a sort of mosaic, small stones, just as I remember them at Frascati in Villa Marconi) and put water everywhere, but there is still a great deal to do. The proportions of the rooms are beautiful, and the view divine. As in all old Italian castles some of the village houses were built directly into the wall of the castle. They have already bought and knocked down many of these (giving the inhabitants instead comfortable, clean, modern houses which they probably won't like nearly as well) and are arranging a beautiful garden in their place. They have also a terrace planted with trees about half-way down the slope to the lake, which would be a divine place to read or dream away a long summer's day. I don't think there are ten yards of level ground on the place.
Great New Bridge from Albano to Ariccia. Built by Pope Pius IX.
We couldn't stay very long as we were going on to Frascati and Castle Gondolfo. They gave us tea, and when we came out on the piazza we found the whole village congregated around the automobiles (another had arrived from Rome—I am so cross I didn't bring mine with Strutz, it would have been so convenient for all the excursions). It is a wild beautiful spot, but I should think lonely. We went back to Albano, saw the great bridge built by Pio Nono, with its three tiers of arches, the famous tombs—Horatii, Curiatii and Pompey, and then drove along the beautiful "galeria di sotto" to Castle Gondolfo, the old crooked ilex trees nearly meeting over our heads, and the Campagna with lovely lights and shades flitting over it, far down at our feet. There everything looked exactly as I remembered it. It seemed to me the same priests were walking about under the trees, the same men riding minute donkeys, with their legs nearly touching the ground; the same great carts, lumbering peacefully along, the driver usually asleep until the horn of the automobile close behind him roused him into frantic energy; however they were all most smiling, evidently don't hate the auto as they do in some parts of France.
We stopped at the Villa Barberini at Castle Gondolfo—such a beautiful garden, but so neglected—great long dark walks, trees like high black walls on each side, and big bushes of white and red camellias almost as tall as the trees, roses just beginning. In every direction broken columns, vases, statues (minus arms and legs) carved benches, all falling to pieces. We went into the Villa which is usually let to strangers, but it was most primitive—brick floors everywhere (except in the salons, where there was always the mosaic pavement), and the simplest description of furniture—ordinary iron bed-steads, and iron trépieds in the master's bed-rooms, but a magnificent view of sea and Campagna from the balcony, and a beautiful cool, bracing air.
We drove on through Marino and Frascati. We passed the little chapel on the road where we used to see all the people praying the great cholera year. It was open, and one or two women were kneeling just inside. The atmosphere was so transparent that Rocca di Papa and Monte Cavo seemed quite near. The Piazza of Frascati was just the same, the Palazzo Marconi at one side with the great Aldobrandini Villa overtopping it and the Villa Torlonia opposite. We didn't go into the town, but took the steep road down by the railway station. There everything is changed—it didn't seem at all the Frascati we had once lived in—quantities of new, ugly villas, and an enormous modern Grand Hotel.
We got home about 6.30—the Campagna quite beautiful and quiet in the soft evening light. There were very few people on the road, every now and then a shepherd in his long sheepskin cloak, staff and broad-brimmed hat appearing on the top of one of the many little mounds which are dotted all over the Campagna, and occasionally in the distance a dog barking.
March 17th.