April 22, 1904.
Yesterday afternoon Bessie and I went to the reception at the Villa Médicis, which was pleasant. We liked the music of the Ier Prix de Rome, and it was interesting to see the pictures and sculpture. I think the faces of the young men interested me, perhaps, more than their work—they looked so young and intelligent and hopeful, so eager for the battle of life; and yet so many find it such a struggle. There is so much concurrence in everything, and an artist's life is precarious. The very qualities which make their genius unfit them so for all the cares and worries of a career which must always have ups and downs.
We went late for a drive in the Corso and Via Nazionale to see all the preparations for Loubet's arrival. They are certainly taking no end of trouble—flags, draperies, and festoons of flowers, in all the principal streets. The garden they are making in Piazza Colonna is quite wonderful—quite tall trees, little green lawns, and the statue of a Roman emperor. Quantities of people looking on at the workmen and walking about in the piazza. The Via Nazionale, too, is gorgeous with draperies, shields, and large medallions with French and Italian colours entwined.
This afternoon I went off alone and did some sight-seeing. We shall go in a few days, and I haven't seen half I wanted to. I went straight over to the Trastevere; first to Santa Maria, with its queer old mosaic façade, looking more Byzantine than Italian; then on to Santa Cecilia, where a nice old sacristan took me all over, showed me the chapel supposed to be directly over Santa Cecilia's bath-room (the church is said to be built on the very spot where her house stood), and of course the tomb of the saint. Then, as I had nothing particular to do, I drove out toward Monte Mario, which is a lovely drive in the afternoon, the view of Rome looking back is so beautiful. It is a long steep hill, with many turns, so one gets the view on all sides. The Cork Valley was green and lovely, and the road was unusually quiet. I think everybody is on the Corso looking at the festal preparations. I went back to the house to get Bessie, and we went to tea with the Waldo Storys, in his studio. He has some beautiful things—two fountains in particular are quite charming.
We all dined out, Bessie and Josephine with Cardinal Mathieu, I at the American Embassy with the Meyers. We had a pleasant dinner—four or five small tables. They have Mrs. Field's apartment in the Brancaccio Palace—entertain a great deal, and are much liked in Rome.
The Dining-room in the Brancaccio Palace.
We came home early, and I am finishing this letter to-night. It is very warm, the windows open, and the street sounds very gay. To say that we have heard the Marseillaise these last days but faintly expresses how we have been pursued by the well-known air. Everybody sings or whistles it, all the street musicians, hand-organs, guitars, accordions, and brass bands play it all day and all night; and we hear the music of a neighbouring barrack working at it every morning. At this present moment a band of youths are howling it under the window. I think they are getting ready to amuse themselves when the President arrives.
It was most amusing in the streets this morning, flags flying, draperies being put up everywhere, troops marching across the Piazza di Spagna, musique en tête, to exercise a little on the review ground before the great day—quantities of people everywhere. They say all the hotels will be crowded to-morrow, and with French people, which rather surprises me, but they tell me there are deputations from Avignon, Marseilles, and various other southern towns. They are beginning to arrange the Spanish Steps quite charmingly—a perfect carpet of flowers (if only it doesn't rain).
Saturday, April 23d.