After breakfast we all wandered out to the shore, and walked about a little, but the sun was hot and the glare very trying—the sea like a painted ocean, all the sails of the little pleasure boats, and even fishing boats further out, hanging in folds, the boats just drifting with the tide. The place is enchanting, and the little point of Nettuno quite white in the sun, stretching out into the blue sea, was fairy-like—the colours almost too vivid. The various boatmen lounging about in bright coloured shirts and sashes were very anxious we should sail or row to Nettuno, but the sea, though beautiful, looked hot, and we were rather sceptical about the breeze which they assured us always got up after 12.
We went off in the auto to the Villa Borghese, about half-way between Porta d'Anzio and Nettuno, which is a Paradise. It stands high, in a lovely green park and looks straight out to sea. The drive through the park by the galleria, trees meeting over our heads, and the road winding up and down through the little wood was delightful, so shady and resting to the eyes after the glare and sun of the beach. All the way to Nettuno there are quantities of villas, fronting the sea, some very high with terraces sloping down to the water, all with gardens. Nettuno itself is an interesting little place with a fine old feudal castle. Some of the party had chosen to sail from Porta d'Anzio to Nettuno, and we saw their boat, full of children, just moving along close to the shore.
We had tea on the shore, made in Countess Frankenstein's tea-basket, and it was delicious sitting there, seeing the little blue waves break at our feet, and the beautiful clear atmosphere making everything look so soft and near.
The coming home was enchanting, very few people on the road, so we could come quickly, and the flying through the air was delightful after the heat and fatigue of the day. The Campagna is beautiful at the end of the day; so quiet, long stretches of green just broken here and there by the shepherds' huts, and the long lines of aqueducts, curiously lonely so close to a great city.
We had just time to dress and dine, and start for the gala at the opera. The theatre (Argentina) is small, and stands in a narrow street. There was a long file of carriages, and so little space in front, that there could be no display of troops, music, etc., as one has always in Paris for a gala night at the Opera. Inside, too, all is small, the entrance, corridor, staircase, etc. Once we had got to our box the coup d'œil was charming. The whole house is boxes, tier upon tier, all dark red inside, which threw out the women's dresses and jewels splendidly. They were almost all in white with handsome tiaras, the men in uniform, at least the diplomatists and officers. The peuple souverain, senators, deputies, etc., in the parterre were in black. The heat was something awful. The Court came very punctually—the Queen looked handsome with her beautiful tiara, the King of course in uniform, the President between them in black with no decoration. The house went mad (every one standing of course) when they played the Marseillaise, all the parterre cheering and waving hats and handkerchiefs; equally mad when they stopped that and played the Marcia Reale. The King, who is generally quite impassive, looked pleased. The performance, like all gala performances, was long, but the Royal party didn't look bored, and seemed to talk to each other, and to Loubet quite a good deal. The King has a serious, almost stern face, with a keen, steady look in the eye. I should think he saw everything. The end of the ballet was a fine potpourri of French and Italian flags, Marseillaise and Marcia Reale, and the Court left in a roar of cheers. The Queen bowed very graciously and prettily right and left as she turned to go.
The getting away was difficult and disagreeable, the narrow street was crowded with royal carriages, all the horses prancing and backing, and no one paying attention to anything else. However, it was a fine, dry night, and once we had got across the street we found our carriage (guided by the faithful Pietro) without any trouble.
This morning the Piazza is most interesting. Evidently the King and President pass at the foot of the square, as there are troops everywhere, and a double line of soldiers stretching across the top of the Tritone. Every description of vehicle, omnibuses, fiacres, peasants' carts, people on horseback, all ranged close up behind the soldiers; groups of carabinieri with their red plumets are scattered about the Piazza; a long line of red-coated German seminarists crossing at one end, two or three Cappucini with their sandals, bare feet, and ropes at their waists, coming out of their church, but not stopping to see the show.
I am writing as usual at the window, and a fine smell of frittura comes up from the shop underneath. A most animated discussion is going on just under the window between a peasant, sitting well back on his donkey's tail, two baskets slung over his saddle, strawberries in one, nespoli (medlars) in the other, and a group of ragged, black-eyed little imps to whom some young Englishmen have just given some pennies. They all talk, and every now and then some enterprising boy makes a dive at the baskets, whereupon the man makes his donkey kick, and the children scatter. All the people in the street, and the coachmen of the little botte (there is a station in the Piazza Barberini) take a lively interest in the discussion; so do I from the window, but the police are arriving and the man will be obliged to come to terms. The coachmen of the botte are a feature of Rome, they spot the foreigner at once, and always try to get the better of him. I took a carriage the other day to go and breakfast with Mrs. Cameron in the Piazza di Spagna, about two minutes' drive, and asked our porter what I must give the coachman. He said one lira (franc). When we arrived I gave my franc, which he promptly refused to receive; however I told him I knew that was the tariff and I wouldn't give any more. He protested energetically, giving every possible reason why I should give more—his carriage was the best in the piazza, the road (Via Tritone) was very bad, down hill and slippery, he had waited some time in the piazza for me, etc.; however I was firm and said I would only give him one franc. Two other coachmen who were standing near joined in the discussion and told him he was quite wrong, that a franc was all he was entitled to. He instantly plunged into an angry dispute with them, and in the meantime Mrs. Cameron's door opened, so I put the franc on the cushion of the carriage, he in a frenzy, telling me he wouldn't go away, but would stay there with his carriage until I came out. That I told him he was at perfect liberty to do, and went into the house. He and the others then proceeded to abuse each other and make such a row that when I got up to Mrs. Cameron's rooms she said she couldn't think what was going on in the street, there was such a noise and violent quarrelling—so I told her it was all me and my botta.
Thursday, April 28th.
Well, dear, the fêtes are over, the President has departed, and the Piazza Barberini has at once resumed its ordinary aspect; no more carabinieri, nor police, nor carriages full of people, waiting all day in the square in the hope of seeing King or President pass. I wonder what the old Triton sitting on his shell with his dolphins around him thinks of this last show. He has sat there for centuries, throwing his jet of water high in the air, and seeing many wonderful sights.