It was most impressive at the moment of the elevation, almost the whole assembly in that enormous church kneeling, and not a sound except the silver trumpets, which had seemed so divinely inspired to me in the old days. I remember quite well seeing Gounod on his knees, with tears streaming down his face, and we were quite enchanted, lifted out of ourselves and our every-day surroundings. This time I was perfectly conscious of a great spectacle of the Catholic Church with its magnificent "mise-en-scène," but nothing devotional or appealing to one's religious feelings.
I should have liked to hear a great solemn choral of Bach, not an ordinary melodious little tune; and yet for years after those first days in Rome I never could play or hear the music of the silver trumpets without being strangely moved.
I thought the Pope looked very pale and tired as he passed down the long nave the last time and was finally carried off in his chair with his peacock fans waving, and a stately procession of cardinals and prelates following. I think he regrets Venice and the simple life there as pastor of his people.
We saw plenty of people we knew as we were making our way through the crowd to the carriage. Some of the ladies told us they had left their hotel at 5.30 in the morning, they were so anxious to get a good place. I told d'Antas I was very grateful to him, for I saw everything of course perfectly, and took in many little details which I never could have seen if we hadn't been so near. I also apologized to Madame d'Antas for my modest, not to say mesquin attire; but she said as long as I was all black, and had the black veil, it was of no consequence. There were two or three ladies in the Royal Tribune—Grand Duchess of Saxe-Weimar and Duchess Paul of Mecklenburg. We were a long time getting home, but it was an interesting progress; all Rome out, a good many handsome carriages, and I should think people from every part of the world, Rome is so full of strangers.
Thursday, April 14th.
I never had a moment yesterday as it was the children's ball, and we were all taken up with the preparations. It went off very well, and was one of the prettiest sights I ever saw. The children danced extremely well, though even at the last repetition things didn't go perfectly; but evidently at all ages there is a sort of amour propre that carries one through, when there is a gallery. The dresses were Louis XVI., paniers and powder for the girls (and sweet they looked—Victoria quite a picture with her large dark eyes and bright colour), embroidered coats, long gilets, tricorne hats and swords for the boys. There were eight couples, and very good music—4 violins playing Boccherini's minuet. Bessie had arranged a very pretty "rampe" with white azaleas and pink and yellow ribbons, separating the upper part of the ball-room, and the space for the dancers was kept by 4 tall footmen in yellow gala liveries and powder, who stood at each corner of the square, in their hands tall gilt canes held together by bands of pink ribbon. It made a charming "cadre"—you can't imagine how pretty the little procession looked as they all filed in, the small ones first. I think perhaps the quite small ones were the best; they were so important, took much trouble and weren't as distracted by the spectators as the bigger ones. They were much applauded, and were obliged to repeat the minuet after a little rest. In an incredibly short time all the seats and various accessories were taken away, and the ball began, ending with a very spirited cotillon led by the son of the house, Don Camillo Ruspoli, and one of his friends, the Marquis Guglielmi. They kept it up until dinner time, when the various mammas, quite exhausted with the heat and the emotion of seeing their children perform in public, carried them off; but the children (ours certainly) were not at all tired.
Saturday, April 16th.
It is real summer weather—too hot to walk in the morning, particularly from here, where we have to cross the open piazza before we can get anywhere. Thursday we went to the races with the Brancaccios, on their coach. It was most amusing, the road very animated all the way out from Porta San Giovanni to Campanelle; every one making way for the coach as they do in England. There was every description of vehicle, and quantities of police and soldiers—the road very strictly guarded, as the King and Queen were coming. It looked very pretty to see a patrol of cuirassiers suddenly appearing from under an old archway, or behind a bit of ruined wall, or from time to time one solitary soldier standing on the top of a high mound. It was very hot, the sun too strong on our heads, but we didn't go very fast; couldn't, in such a crowd, so we were able to hold our parasols.
The course and all the tribunes were crowded; the women almost all in white or light dresses. The King and Queen came in an open carriage with four horses—no escort. We had a pleasant day, meeting quantities of people we knew. We had rather a struggle for tea; there were not nearly enough tables and chairs for so many people; but we finally got some under difficulties, two of us sitting on the same chair and thankful to get it.
The drive home was lovely, cool, and very little dust. Rome looked soft and warm in the sunset light as we got near, and the statues on San Giovanni Laterano almost golden as the light struck them. It was interminable when we got into the file, and Brancaccio had some difficulty in turning into his court-yard.