From J.’s letter he spends most of his time in the hold, sorting out stores, when he is not interpreting for commander Belknap, or ravaging the cargo for sterilized milk. I had begun to write something of the Roman end of the frightful earthquake when I was taken ill from overwork for the profughi. How terrible it is that in this shuddering horror which really has engulfed all of us and turned the idlest into tremendous workers, I should still want to make notes for future use as “copy”? I do, though. It is like doctors and undertakers. They are not glad to have people suffering or dead, but as people must suffer and die, they must pull something out of it to their advantage.
Rome, January 25, 1909. J. came home last Sunday, none the worse, indeed much the better, for his errand of mercy in spite of the fact that he had been in a motor accident and his face was done up with sticking plaster. Commander Belknap, the leader of the expedition, called to tell me what good service he had done. My committee work keeps me very busy. Rome is crowded with the refugees and we are all at work trying to feed, clothe, and work for these poor bereft people. Of course this dreadful calamity, one of the most tragic events in history, has thrown everything out of kilter in the life of the city and the individual. The exhibition of “Diana of the Tides” had to be postponed—nobody has wanted to see pictures or do anything but his share in helping the sufferers. Queen Margherita has sent word that she will come in the early days of February to open the show.
One of my families of Messinesi, who have lost seventeen near relations, have asked me to try and find some black clothes for them. Poor lambs, we have all been so busy trying to keep them fed and alive that we have overlooked too much their natural feelings of grief and their desire to show respect to those they have lost by wearing mourning. I am buying up enormous quantities of handkerchiefs for my people—they all weep so terribly. It is a detail the larger committees leave out perforce.
Rome, February 23, 1909. To-day “Diana of the Tides” will be taken off the stretcher and packed. Till the last both Romans and tourists have swarmed to the studio. To-day came dear Mme. Helbig and the Professor. He called me his Aspasia and remembered my having posed for his tableau all those years ago. Mme. Barrère, the French Ambassadress, came to-day for the second time, bringing her daughter, who was a great friend of Mme. Blanc and knew all about you. It was one of the pleasant things to have the tables turned and to have the Romans who did not happen to have met or heard of you, admire your portrait as the mother-in-law and sometimes as the mother of the painter. You must not mind; the Romans had never heard of Paderewski when he came here quite lately to play. During his first concert they treated him rather cavalierly; that put him on his mettle, and before the end of the programme he had won out, but his audience with few exceptions had never heard about him, and were quite unaware that he was held to be the first living pianist!
Now comes the break-up of our second Roman home and our return to you. We shall have “wot larks” together. I shall not leave you again as long as you and I live, except at your request.
Boston, January 2, 1910. Went to our old friend Bowdoin’s (formerly my father’s steward) funeral and sent a wreath with this legend:
“From the children of Dr. Samuel G. Howe, in loving memory of their friend, Anthony Bowdoin.” The service was all as one would have wished, very properly done. I felt it deeply! The last of the old faithful hunting hounds of our great Huntsman gone! I think so much of that quality of leadership he had; when he wound his horn how these good hounds leaped to the chase,—Anagnos, Paddock, Bradford, Bowdoin, how many others, hardly a puling one in the pack.
Mr. Clement sent me a heavenly article about Papa. Not a review, but inspired by Laura’s book.[5] He has views, good ones, that we should interest ourselves in the memorial to S. G. H. If the movement is still-born as I fear, and there is nothing doing, I should like well to tell you Clement’s views. Where do we most belong,—in to-day, yesterday or to-morrow? That is the problem that confronts us all! We owe much to those who are gone, more to those who are living and most, perhaps, to those who will come after!