After breakfast Josephine and I walked quite up to the top of the hill, the trees making a perfect dome of verdure over our heads. There was no sound except our own voices, and the distant thud of horses' feet cantering in a meadow alongside, an absolute stillness everywhere. Such a view! Snow on the Sabine Mountains, sun on the Alban Hills, the Campagna on either side blue and broken like waves, and quite distinct, a long white line, the sea.
While we were walking about we noticed two carabinieri, very well mounted, who seemed to be always hovering near us, so we asked them what they were doing up there. They promptly replied, taking care of the "società." We could hardly believe we heard rightly; but it was quite true, they were there for us. They told us that when it was known that a number of people were coming up to Tusculum (there were two other parties besides us) they had orders to come up, keep us always in sight, and stay as long as we did. We gave them some wine and sandwiches, and they became quite communicative—told us there were brigands and "cattiva gente" (wicked people) about; that at Rocca di Papa, one of the little mountain villages quite near, there were 500 inhabitants, 450 of whom had been in prison for various crimes, and that people were constantly robbed in these parts. I wouldn't have believed it if any one had told us, but they always kept us in sight.
We decided to go home through the Villa Ruffinella. Donkeys are not allowed inside, and we thought probably not horses either, but the carabinieri came in and showed us the way down. The grounds are splendid—we walked first down through a beautiful green allée, then up, a good climb. The villa is enormous—uninhabited and uncared for—a charming garden and great terrace with stone benches before the house looking toward Rome. The garden, of course, wild and ragged, but with splendid possibilities. Just outside the gate we came upon a little church. Three or four girls and women with bright-coloured skirts and fichus and quantities of coarse jet-black hair were sitting on the steps working at what looked like coarse crochet work and talking hard. The carabinieri were always near, opened two or three gates for us, and only left us when we were quite close to the town, well past the gates of the Aldobrandini Villa.
As we had some little time before the train started, I went off with Bessie to have a look at Palazzo Marconi. It is now occupied by the municipio and quite changed. We found a youth downstairs who couldn't imagine what we wanted and why we wanted to go up; however, I explained that I had lived there many years ago, so finally he agreed to go up with us. The steps looked more worn and dirty—quite broken in some places—and the frescoes on the walls, which were bright blue and green in our time, are almost effaced. It was all so familiar and yet so changed. I went into father's room and opened the window on the terrace, where we had stood so often those hot August nights, watching the mist rise over the Campagna and the moon over the sea. There was very little furniture anywhere—a few chairs and couches in the small salon that we had made comfortable enough with our own furniture from Rome. The great round room with the marble statues has been turned into a salle de conseil, with a big writing-table in the middle, and chairs ranged in a semicircle around the room. There was nothing at all in our old bed-rooms—piles of cartons in one corner. The marble bath-tub was black and grimy. We couldn't see the dining-room, people were in it, but we went out to the hanging-garden—all weeds, and clothes hanging out to dry. The fountain was going at the back of the court, but covered with moss, and bits of stone were dropping off. It all looked very miserable—I don't think I shall ever care to go back. There seemed just the same groups of idle men standing about as in our time—dozens of them doing nothing, hanging over the wall looking at the people come up from the railway station. They tell me they never work; even when they own little lots of land or vignas they don't work themselves—the peasants from the Abruzzi come down at stated seasons, dig and plant and do all the work. One can't understand it, for they look a tall, fine race, all these peasants of the Castelli Romani, strong, well-fed, broad-shouldered. I suppose there must be a strong touch of indolence in all the Latin races.
It was after six when we got back to Rome. We had just time to rush home, get clean gloves and long skirts, and start for the Massimo Palace to see the great fête. Once a year the palace is opened to the general public, and the whole of Rome goes upstairs and into the chapel. It is on St. Philippe's day, when a miracle was performed in the Massimo family, a dead boy resuscitated in 1651. There was a crowd assembled as we drove up, tramways stopped, and the getting across the pavement was rather difficult. The walls of the palace and portico were hung with red and gold draperies, the porter and footman in gala liveries, the old beggars squatted about inside the portico, the gardes municipaux keeping order, and a motley crowd struggling up the grand staircase—priests, women, children, femmes du monde, peasants, policemen, forestieri, two cooks in their white vestons, nuns, Cappucini—all striving and jostling to get along. We stopped at Bebella's apartment, who gave us tea. She had been receiving all day, but almost every one had gone. We talked to her a few moments, and then d'Arsoli took us upstairs to the chapel (by no means an easy performance, as there were two currents going up and coming down). The chapel was brilliantly lighted, and crowded; a benedizione was going on, with very good music from the Pope's chapel—those curious, high, unnatural voices. All the relics were exposed, and Prince Massimo, in dress clothes and white cravat, was standing at the door. It was a most curious sight. D'Arsoli told us that people had begun to come at seven in the morning. When we went home there was still a crowd on the staircase, stretching out into the street, and a long line of tram-cars stopped.
Friday, March 18th.
It rained rather hard this morning, but we three got ourselves into the small carriage and went down to the Accademia di Santa Cecilia to hear the Benedictine monk Don Guery try the Gregorian chants with the big organ. The organ is a fine one, made at Nuremberg. An organist arrived from St. Anselmo to accompany the chants. They sounded very fine, but I thought rather too melodious and even modern, but Don Guery assured me that the one I particularly noticed was of the eleventh century.
Tuesday, 22d.
We seem always to be doing something, but have had two quiet evenings this week. Friday night we went to the Valle to see Marchesa Rudini's Fête de Bienfaisance. The heat was something awful, as the house was packed, and as at all amateur performances they were unpunctual, and there were terribly long intervals. The comédie was well acted, a little long, but the clou of the evening was the ballet-pantomime, danced by all the prettiest women in Rome. The young Marchesa Rudini (née Labouchère) looked charming as a white and silver butterfly, and danced beautifully, such pretty style, not a gesture nor a pas that any one could object to. The rest of the troop too were quite charming, coming in by couples—the Princess Teano and Thérèse Pécoul a picture—both tall, one dark, one fair, and making a lovely contrast. I should think they must have made a lot of money.
Saturday I had a pleasant afternoon at the Palazzo dei Cesari with Mr. and Mrs. Seth Low. He is an excellent guide, had already been all over the palace with Boni and knew exactly what to show us. It was a beautiful afternoon and the view over Rome, the seven hills, and the Forum was divine. These first Roman Emperors certainly knew where to pitch their tents—what a magnificent scale they built upon in those days. The old Augustus must have seen wonderful sights in the Forum from the heights of the Palatine.