Punctually to the minute the royal carriage drew up at the door of the Studio Corrodi. The servants on the box were dressed in dark colors,—the splendid scarlet liveries, alas! are Queen Margherita’s no longer; they are only worn by the servants of the reigning Queen. J. received her Majesty at the carriage door and escorted her up the marble stair to the big new studio. What a contrast to the dear old studio with the ancient courtyard, the murmuring fountain hundreds of years old, the water-worn stones dark with ages, where the maiden-hair fern grows in great feathery tufts! It all came back to me with a sudden rush of memory, as I followed the Queen up the wide white marble stair. I saw the two long flights of hollowed travertina steps that led to the old studio, the uneven brick floor, the window that gave on the court, where the falcon and the white doves from the Vatican lived, the birds of whose wings J. made such endless studies for the Hours in his “Triumph of Time.” How many hours, months, years, had flown by since we three last met!
Queen Margherita walked across the polished floor with the light step of a girl, and quite naturally, without prompting, took her place in the “Queen’s Chair.” The social temperature rose—we felt as children for whom “the party has begun.” How does she do it? That’s her secret, she could not tell us if she would. She is one of those rare beings who bring their own sunshine with them, whose presence warms us to the heart’s core! We hold out our hands towards the kindly glow, as we stretch chilled fingers to a cheerful fire.
“It’s because she’s all there!” Patsy said afterwards, trying to explain what we had all felt. After one quick glance about the studio, the royal visitor fixed her eyes on the big canvas.
“This is your Diana of the Tides for the new museum at Washington?” she said to J. “A fine opportunity; I congratulate you. At what height will it be placed, at what distance will it be seen?”
Her questions about the Diana, and the building it was painted for, were direct and to the point. She showed the closely trained mind of a woman used to dealing with many kinds of affairs, of giving instant and undivided attention to the matter in hand. “She was all there,” as Patsy put it. There was a great lesson in the power of concentration she showed. She is a busy active woman; every hour, each quarter of an hour of every day has its appointed duty. We had a sense that she took them up one by one with the same whole-hearted earnestness that made every word she said worthy to be graven on our memories. After she had looked a long time at the Diana, she walked across the studio to the easel with the portrait of the old Chieftainess. J. told her something of her life and work, and referred to the story that appeared a few days before in the Tribuna. In a recent speech before the Circolo Italiano of Boston, my mother had snapped out this witticism:
“The American Eagle came out of the egg of Columbus.”
The mot so delighted the Italians that it was quoted by the Italian press all over the world.
“What a beautiful old age!” sighed the Queen Mother, as she looked at the portrait of the woman who has been called in Boston’s Little Italy, “La Nonna degl’ Italiani.”
“You have painted a portrait of old age as it ought to be,” Queen Margherita continued; with that smile of hers, a little graver than of old but with the same piercing sweetness.
“Remember that,” murmured Patsy. “She hits the nail on the head every time; that’s the reason she has done so much for her generation. Come to think of it, they are two of a kind; both have served greatly and been greatly rewarded!” He looked from the face of the portrait on the easel to the face of the royal lady who stood before it.