We have finally had our day at Albano, and delightful it was. W. and I went alone, as Gert was not very well, and afraid of the long day in the sun. We started early--at 8.30--though we had been rather late the night before as Count Coello, Spanish Amba.s.sador,[28] sent us his box for the opera. It was Lohengrin--well enough given, orchestra and chorus good, but the soloists rather weak. _Elsa_, a very stout Italian woman of mature years, did not give one just the idea of the fair patrician maiden one imagines her to be. The Italian sounded very funny after hearing it always in German, and "Cigno gentil" didn't at all convey the same idea as "Lieber Schwan." The tenor had a pretty, sympathetic voice and looked his part well (rather more like _Elsa's_ son than her lover), but one mustn't be too particular. The house was fairly brilliant--much fuller than the last time we were there--and quant.i.ties of people we knew. Hardly any one in full dress, which is a pity, as it makes the salle look dull. One or two women in white (one very handsome with diamond stars in her hair, whom n.o.body knew) stood out very well against the dark red of the boxes. Del Monte came in and sat some time with us.

He is quite mad about Wagner--rare for an Italian. They generally like more melody and less science. We invited him to come to Albano with us and show us everything, and I think he was half inclined to accept, but he was de service that day and it was too late to find any one to replace him.

[28] To the Quirinal.

We finally decided to drive out after various consultations as to hours, routes, etc. It is quicker by the railway and we should perhaps have rather more time, but we both of us love the drive on the Campagna, and W. was very keen to take the old Via Appia again and realize more completely the street of tombs. It was a lovely morning and every minute of the drive interesting, even when we were almost shut in between the high grey walls which stretch out some little distance at first leaving the Porta San Sebastiano. They were covered with creepers, pink roses starting apparently out of all the crevices; pretty, dirty little children tumbling over the broken bits into the road almost under the horses' feet; every now and then a donkey's head emerging from an opening, or a wrinkled old woman appearing at some open door smiling and nodding a cheerful "Buon giorno!" to the pa.s.sers-by. There was a long string of carts with nothing apparently in them. They didn't take much trouble about getting a little to one side to let the carriage pa.s.s; and their drivers--some of them stretched out on their backs in the carts, the reins hanging loosely over the seat--didn't at all mind the invectives our coachman hurled at them, "pigs, lazy dogs, etc." Of course we pa.s.sed again Cecilia Metella, also two tombs said to be the Horatii and Curatii; and the Casale Rotondo with a house and olive trees on the top, but I cannot remember half the names, nor places.

We were armed with our Baedeker, but it goes into such details of all the supposed tombs and monuments that one gets rather lost. I don't know that it adds very much to the interest to know the names and dates of all the tombs. One feels in such an old-world atmosphere they speak for themselves. The colours were beautiful to-day--the old stones had a soft, grey tint. It is a desolate bit of road all the same--so little life or movement of any kind. As we got further out we came upon the long line of aqueducts, but there were apparently miles of plain with nothing in sight--occasionally a flock of sheep in the distance, the shepherd riding a rough, unkempt little pony, and looking a half-wild creature himself--some boys on donkeys, and the shepherds' dogs, which came barking and jumping over the plain toward the strangers. They are sometimes very fierce. Years ago in Rome when we used to make long excursions riding to Vei or Ostia, the gentlemen of the party always carried good big whips to keep them off. They have been known to spring on the horses, who are afraid of them. One sprang on Gert once, when we were cantering over the Campagna, and almost tore her habit off. We didn't meet any cart or vehicle of any description. I wondered where all these were going that we pa.s.sed on the road, and asked our Giuseppe, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and said they were "robaccia" (trash).

We stopped a few minutes at the Osteria della Frattocchie--the man watered his horses (had a drink himself, too) and was very anxious we should try some of the "vino del paese." We tasted it--a sour, white wine, very like all the cheap Italian wines. The view from the Osteria looking back toward Rome was very striking. Long lines of ruined, crumbling tombs and arches--great blocks of stone, heads of columns, mounds, wide ditches choked up with weeds, broken walls--all the dead past of the great city. The sun was bright, but there were plenty of little clouds, and the changing lights and shades on the great expanse of the Campagna were beautiful. The hills seemed now so near that we almost felt like getting out and walking, but the man a.s.sured us we had still three or four miles before us, and a steep hill to climb--Albano on the top. The road was shady--between two lines of trees. As we got near the city we saw Pompey's tomb--a high tower with bits of marble still on the walls. W. is rather sceptical about all the tombs; would like to have time enough to investigate himself and make out all the inscriptions, but it would take a life-time.

We went at once to the hotel to order breakfast, and then strolled about in the streets until it was ready. It looked more changed to me than Frascati--more modern. They tell me many people go out there now for their summer "villegiatura," princ.i.p.ally English and Americans, bankers, doctors, artists, etc., who are obliged to spend their summer in or near Rome. There were many new houses, and in all the old palaces apartments to rent. There were a few tourists walking about, but happily no Cook's this time. When we went back to the hotel we told the landlord what we wanted to see--Ariccia, Genzano and Nemi. He suggested donkeys, but that we both declined, so he said he had a good little carriage which could take us easily. The breakfast was good, we were both hungry, and after coffee we walked about in the Villa Doria under the ilex trees. W.

smoked and was quite happy, and I wasn't sorry to walk a little after having been so long in the carriage. We went to the gardens of the Villa Altieri. It was there the Cardinal died in the cholera summer of '69 when we were at Frascati. We could almost have walked to Ariccia, it is so near, and such a lovely road, all ilex trees and great rocks, winding along the side of the hill. The church and old Chigi Palace look very grand and imposing as one gets near the gates of the little town. We walked about the streets and went into the church, but there was not much to see, and I thought it less effective seen near; then on to the gardens of the Capuchin Convent, from where there are splendid views in every direction, and always the thick shade of the ilex. We couldn't loiter very much as we had the drive to Genzano before us. The road was quite beautiful all the way; every turn familiar (how many times we have ridden over it), and Genzano with its little, old streets straggling up the hill looked exactly the same. I had forgotten the great viaduct which one sees all the time on that road, it is splendid. We again got out of the carriage and walked up a steep little path to have a view of Lake Nemi. It lay far down at our feet--a little green pond (yet high too), they say it was a volcanic crater. The water was perfectly still--not even a shimmer of light or movement. Every way we turned the view was beautiful--either down the valley where the colours were changing all the time, sometimes quite grey, when the sun was under a cloud (one almost felt a chill), and then every leaf and flower sparkling in the sunlight--or toward the hills where the little towns Rocca di Papa and Monte Cavo seemed hanging on the side of the mountain.

The drive back to Albano by the "Galleria di Sotto" under the enormous ilex trees was simply enchanting, the afternoon sun throwing beautiful streaks of yellow light through the thick shade, and the road most animated--groups of peasants coming in from their work in the fields; old women tottering along, almost disappearing beneath the great bundles of f.a.gots they carried on their heads; girls with jet-black hair and eyes, in bright-coloured skirts, and little handkerchiefs pinned over their shoulders, laughing and singing and chaffing the drivers of the wine carts, who usually got down and walked along with them, leaving their horses, who followed quietly, the men turning around occasionally and talking to them. In the fields alongside there were teams of the splendid white oxen and quant.i.ties of children tumbling up and down the banks and racing after the carriage. They spot the foreigner at once. I had talked so much to W. about the beauty of the road, the Galleria in particular, that I was afraid he would be disappointed; but he wasn't, was quite as enthusiastic as I was.

When we got back to Albano I tried to find some of the little cakes (ciambelle) we used to buy when we rode over from Frascati; the little package wrapped up in greasy brown paper and tied to the pommel of the saddle; but the woman at the very nice baker's or confectioner's shop we went into hadn't any, but said she could make a "plome cheke" (she showed us the ticket with the name on it with pride), which was what all the "Inglesi" took.

The drive home was lovely--just enough of the beautiful sunset clouds to give colour to everything; the air soft and the world so still that a dog barking in one of the little old farms or shepherds' huts made quite a disturbance. As the evening closed in we heard the "grilli" (alas, no nightingales; it is still too early) and the bushes along the road were bright with fire-flies. The road seemed much less lonely going back to Rome; so many peasants were coming back from the fields, also boys on donkeys with empty sacks--had evidently taken olives, cheese, or dried herbs into the city--and always bands of girls laughing and singing. It was an ideal day, and after dinner we were just tired enough to settle in our respective arm-chairs and say how glad we were we had decided to come and spend these months in Italy.

The Schuylers came in for a cup of tea and Gert was rather sorry she hadn't come, as her headache wasn't very serious. I think they will take themselves out to Albano for a little stay as soon as the heat begins.

Friday, April 17th.

This morning we went for a last turn in the Vatican. That is what W.

likes best. There is so much to see in that marvellous collection. He wanted to copy one or two inscriptions, so I wandered about alone and talked to the custode, who has become an intimate friend of ours. He hovers about W. when he is taking notes or examining things closely, and is evidently much gratified at the interest he takes in everything--quite like a collector showing off his antiquities. We saw a little commotion at one end of the long gallery, and he came running up to say "His Holiness" was walking in the garden, and if we would come with him he would take us to a window from where we could see him quite distinctly. This of course we were delighted to do, as one never sees the present Pope, except in some great ceremony when he is carried in the "sedia gestatoria," but so high over the heads of the people that one can hardly distinguish his features. We walked down the gallery, through two or three pa.s.sages, up a flight of stairs, and came upon a window looking down directly on the gardens. They are beautiful, more like a park than a garden, and one can quite understand that the Pope can get a very good drive there, the days he doesn't walk. The custode says he only walks when it is quite fine, is afraid of the damp or wind, but that he goes out every day. There is a wood, flowers, long alleys stretching far away bordered with box and quite wide enough for a carriage, various buildings, a casino, tower, observatory, etc., also fountains and a lake (I didn't see a boat upon it). In the middle of one of the alleys a little group was walking slowly in our direction--about 10 people I should think. The Pope, dressed always in white, seemed to walk easily enough. He carried himself very straight, and was talking with a certain animation to the two ecclesiastics who walked on each side of him. He stopped every now and then, going on with his conversation and using his hands freely. He was talking all the time, the others listening with much deference. The suite seemed to consist of three or four priests and two servants. I didn't see either a Suisse or Garde-n.o.ble, but they may have been following at a distance. Our glimpse of him was fleeting, as he turned into a side alley before he got up to our window--still it was enough to realize his life--think of never going outside those walls, walking day after day in those same alleys, cut off from all the outside world and living his life in the stillness and monotony of the Vatican. However it certainly doesn't react in any way upon his intellect. They say he is just as keen and well up in everything as when he was Bishop of Perugia, and that his indomitable will will carry him through.

We thanked our old custode very warmly (and in many ways) for having brought us to the window, and also said good-bye to him, as this of course was our last visit to the Vatican. He begged us to come back, but it must be soon, or _he_ wouldn't be there, as he was as old as the Pope.

When we got to the hotel we found Monsignor English in the salon with the Pope's photograph, very well framed with a gilt shield with the Papal arms on the top. It is exactly like him, sitting very straight in his chair, his hand lifted a little just as if he were speaking, and the other hand and arm resting on the arm of the chair. He is dressed in his white robes, red cape and embroidered stole, just as we saw him; and his little white cap on his head. He has written himself a few words in Latin, of which this is a free translation: "The woman who fears G.o.d, makes her own reputation. Her husband was celebrated in his country when he sat with the Senators of the land." I am so pleased to have the photograph--so many people told me I should never get it, that the Pope rarely gave his picture to anybody and never signed one. Monsignor English, too, was much pleased, as he had undertaken the whole thing. He said again that the Pope was glad to have seen W., found him so moderate, and yet very decided, too, about what the church mustn't do.

Leo XIII. has an awfully difficult part to play--the ultra-Catholics disapprove absolutely his line--can't understand any concession or compromise with Republican France, and yet there are very good religious people on the liberal side, and he, as Head of the Church, must think about all his children, and try to conciliate, not alienate. It is wonderful that that old man sitting up there by himself at the top of the Vatican can think out all those perplexed questions and arrive at a solution. They say he works it all out himself--rarely asks advice. I daresay it wouldn't help him if he did, for of course there are divisions, too, in the clerical party of Rome, even among the Cardinals, where the difference of nationalities must have a very great influence.

I should think there was almost as much difference between an American and an Italian Cardinal as between Protestants and Catholics. The American must look at things from a different point of view. Monsignor English quite understood that--said Americans were more independent--still when a great question came they must submit like all the rest.

We then had a most animated discussion as to how far it was possible for an intelligent man (or woman) to abdicate entirely his own judgment, and to accept a thing which he was not quite sure of because the church decided it must be. I think we should have gone on indefinitely with that conversation, never arriving at any solution, so it was just as well that breakfast put a stop to it.

We went for a lovely drive in the afternoon, out of the Porta del Popolo, across Ponte Molle, and then along the river until we came to that rough country road, or lane, leading across the fields where we have gone in so many times on horseback, to the Villa Madama. We drove as far as we could (almost to the gate) and then walked up the hill to the Villa itself. There everything was quite unchanged--the garden neglected, full of weeds, and gra.s.s growing high. The oval stone basin was there still, the sides covered with moss, and a few flowers coming quite promiscuously out of walls, stones, etc. We went into the loggia to see the paintings and frescoes, all in good condition, and then sat some time on the terrace looking at the view, which was divine--everything so soft in the distance, even the yellow Tiber looked silvery--at least I saw it so; I don't know that W. did. He generally finds it sluggish and muddy. We came home by the Porta Angelica and drove through the Square of St. Peter's. There are always people on the steps, not a crowd of course as on fete days, but enough to give animation, priests, beggars, and the people lounging and looking at whatever pa.s.ses in the Square. It is so enormous, the Piazza, when one sees it empty, one can hardly realize what it used to be in the old days for the great Easter ceremony when the Pope gave his blessing from the balcony of St. Peter's. I can see it now, packed black with people, the French soldiers with their red caps and trousers making great patches of colour, and Montebello (who commanded the French Armee d'Occupation in Rome) with a brilliant staff in the centre of the Square--he and his black charger so absolutely motionless one might have thought both horse and rider were cast in bronze. There were all sorts of jokes and chattering in the crowd until the first glimpse of the waving peac.o.c.k plumes, and banners, pa.s.sing high, high up, and just visible through the arches, showed that the Pope's procession was arriving on the balcony; and when at last one saw distinctly the white figure as the old man was raised high in his chair there was an absolute stillness in all that great ma.s.s; every one knelt to receive the blessing, and the Pope's voice rang out clear and strong (one could hear every word). As soon as it was over cannon fired, bells rang, and there fluttered down over the crowd a quant.i.ty of little white papers (indulgences) which every one tried to grasp. It was a magnificent cadre for such a ceremony--the dome of St. Peter's towering above us straight up into the blue sky, the steps crowded with people, the red umbrellas of the peasants making a great show, and women of all conditions and all nationalities dressed in bright, gay colours; uniforms of all kinds, monks and priests of every order; the black of the priests rather lost in all the colour of uniforms, costumes, etc. The getting away was long--we might have had our carriage with the American c.o.c.kade in one of the back courts of the Vatican, but we wanted to see everything and come home by the Ponte St.

Angelo. It was a great show all the way--the long line of carriages and pedestrians streaming back to Rome, cut every now and then by a detachment of troops. Everybody was cheered, from Charette and his Zouaves to Montebello and his staff. The crowd was in a good humour--it was a splendid day, they had had a fine show, and politics and "foreign mercenaries" were forgotten for the moment. Everybody had a flower of some kind--the boys and young men in their hats, the girls in their hair. One heard on all sides "buona festa," "buona Pasqua." How we enjoyed it all, particularly the first time, when we were fresh from America and our princ.i.p.al idea of a fete was the 4th of July. That seemed a magnificent thing in our childish days, when we had friends on the lawn at Cherry Lawn, a torch-light procession with a band (such a band) from the town, and father's speech, standing at the top of the steps and telling the boys that if they worked hard and studied well, any one of them might become President of the United States, which statement of course was always received with roars of applause.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Last Benediction of Pope Pius IX. from the Balcony of St.

Peter's.]

We went back to the Piazza always at night to see the "Girandola"

fireworks, and there was almost the same crowd waiting for the first silvery light to appear on the facade of St. Peter's. It was marvellous to see the lines of light spread all over the enormous ma.s.s of stone, running around all the cupolas and statues like a trail of silver, in such quant.i.ties that the stone almost disappeared, and the church seemed made of light--quite beautiful. The illumination lasted a long time--gold light came after the silver, and I think it was perhaps more striking when they began to go out one by one, leaving great s.p.a.ces in darkness--then one saw what an enormous edifice it was.

I have written you a volume--but every turn here recalls old, happy days--"Roma com'era"--and I must come back to the present and our farewell dinner at the Noailles'.

We were a small party--all the French Emba.s.sy, the Duc de Ripalda, the Chilian Minister and his wife, Maffel, Visconti Venosta, and Lanciani.

W. and Noailles retired to the fumoir and talked politics hard. We shall soon be back in the thick of it now, and W. will take his place again in the Senate. It will seem funny to be quietly settled in the rue Dumont d'Urville--riding in the Bois in the morning and driving over to the Senate in the afternoon, with the boy, to get W. Ripalda and I had a long talk. He tells me he still holds the same opinion about American women--they are the prettiest and most attractive in the world. There is something--he doesn't know what--that makes them different from all the others. I asked him if he remembered Antoinette Polk; to which he promptly replied, "Ah, qu'elle etait belle--une deesse." I must tell her how she lives in his old memory. I always find Noailles pleasant--so grand seigneur.

We found all sorts of cards and invitations when we came in, and a surprise for me from Father Smith which pleased me greatly, a silver medal of Leo XIII. in a case. It is about the size of a five-franc piece--rather larger if anything, and so like, the small head, and fine, sharply cut features, such a nice note, too, from Father Smith; he was very glad to be able to offer me something which he knew I would prize, and that it wasn't necessary to be of the same religion to admire and appreciate a great intellect and a good man. I am very proud of my two pictures, and shall show them triumphantly to some of my Catholic friends and relations who can't understand a Protestant and a heretic caring for such souvenirs.

We can't accept any more dinners as we leave on Monday, W. for Naples and I for Florence. I wanted very much to go to Ostia, I should like W.

to see that desolate, sandy sh.o.r.e with the pines coming down almost to the water's edge, and the old castle rising up in the distance; but it is an all-day excursion and we haven't time. We will try and do Vei, which is an easy afternoon's drive. I must stop now--W. is deep in Baedeker, looking out Ostia and Vei, and must also write a note to Geoffroy about something they want to see to-morrow. I shall go and see something with Gert.

Sunday, April 19, 1880.

Yesterday we had an enchanting day at Tivoli, W., Gert and I. Schuyler was detained in Rome, much to his disgust, on business. He loves a day in the country and is most amusing to go about with. He talks to everybody, priests, peasants, soldiers, and always gets odd bits of information about old customs, legends, family histories--all that makes the story of a nation. Tomba gave us a light carriage and a pair of strong horses (our little ones were not up to the long day). We started at 8 in the morning and didn't get back until 8.30. There is a steam tram now all the way out but we preferred driving, as we wanted to stop at Hadrian's Villa. We went out by Porta San Lorenzo, crossed the Arno (the river which makes the falls of Tivoli) at Ponte Mammolo, and had a good two hours' drive (rather more, in fact) to Hadrian's Villa. I didn't find that part of the Campagna very interesting (it was much finer after one left the Villa). We left the carriage at the entrance of a sort of lane (one doesn't see much before getting actually inside) between high banks covered with every description of vine and creepers; and wild flowers and weeds in a tangle at our feet (it was really difficult walking sometimes), and found ourselves in an open s.p.a.ce, with ruins in every direction--a half-crumbling wall, weeds choking it up; part of a theatre with broken columns and steps, a few bits of mosaic but not much colour of any kind; some bas-reliefs very well preserved; but one felt that everything of value had been taken away, and what was left was so hidden in long gra.s.s and weeds that it was difficult to understand all the former magnificence of the famous Villa.

The custode was most conscientious, explained everything--the arena, theatre, baths, temples, etc., but my impression was a ma.s.s of grey, broken bits of stones and columns. There were one or two splendid stone pines standing up straight and tall, looking like guardians of past splendour, and in every direction the crooked little grey-green olive trees and fields full of flowers. Gert and I sat on the wall in a shady corner, while W. and the custode went off some little distance to look at a fountain, and we were not sorry to have the rest. The last part of the drive, winding up the hill to Tivoli, was beautiful--such splendid views all the time, either toward Rome (St. Peter's standing out, a faint blue dome at the end of the long, flat plains of the Campagna; or on the other side the Sabine Hills, Soracte, Frascati, etc.).

We went straight to the little old hotel of the Sybilla, which looks exactly the same as in our day, and ordered breakfast. We were quite ready for it, having had our "pet.i.t dejeuner" at 7.30. The padrone said he wanted half an hour to prepare it, as the regular table-d'hote was over. Of course the railway tourists got out much quicker than we did and we met them all over the place, when we went out to see the famous Temple of Vesta. It is perched on the top of the cliff, looking as if it would take very little to precipitate it into the ma.s.s of rushing, leaping water tumbling itself over the rocks far below at our feet. We had a very good breakfast, capital trout for which Tivoli is famous, and a most talkative landlord who came to superintend the meal and give us any information we wanted. He said we must have donkeys to make the "giro," which would take us about two hours, and we could finish at the Villa d'Este, where the carriage would come and get us.

We walked about a little in the town after breakfast through narrow, dirty streets with curious old bits of architecture, and into the church, or cathedral as they grandly call it, of San Francesco; but there was really nothing to see; and at two we started for our tournee to the grottoes of Neptune and the Sirena. We all walked at first, two donkeys with the usual pretty little black-eyed boys at their heads following (W. of course wouldn't have a donkey but took a cane which the padrone of the Sybilla strongly recommended as the steps going down to the grotto were steep and slippery). I wondered how the donkeys would get on, but made no remarks as I knew I could always get off. We walked through the little town under a nice old arch and up a path which was pleasant enough at first, but when we wound round the side of the hill Gert and I were glad to mount our beasts as the sun was very hot and there wasn't an atom of shade. It was a beautiful excursion, always something to see--ruins of old castles, temples, gateways--so much really that one couldn't take in details. From certain "points de vue"

the Temple of Vesta seemed almost standing on air--one lost the cliff, which disappeared in a sort of mist. As soon as we began to go down the noise of the rushing water was quite overpowering; we couldn't hear ourselves speak, and the glimpses we had of the quant.i.ties of little falls leaping over big rocks and stones were quite enchanting.

Our little donkeys were perfectly sure-footed and the path good though steep. We dismounted before getting quite down to the grottoes and the steps certainly were rough and slippery. The guide took charge of Gert, and I followed in W.'s wake very carefully. It was icy cold when we got all the way down. I am generally impervious to that sort of thing, but I felt the cold strike me and didn't stay long. The chill pa.s.sed entirely as soon as we came out and began the ascent, leaving the dark, deep pool behind us.

The road back was, if possible, more beautiful; great ravines with olive trees half way down their sides, mountain streams in every direction making countless little cataracts, all dancing and sparkling in the sun--rocks covered with bright green moss, and fields carpeted with wild flowers. The guide pointed out various ruins--the Villa of Maecenas--a great square ma.s.s on the top of a hill--but we didn't care to make a long detour to go up to it. We were quite satisfied with all the natural beauty we saw around us--one old bridge, the arches covered with moss and flowers, and every now and then through the olive trees one had glimpses of arches, columns, temples--quite beautiful. The only drawback was the Cook's tourists who were riding and walking and talking all over the place, making jokes with the guides and speaking the most execrable Italian. However they had already _done_ the Villa d'Este, so we lost them there, which was a relief.

The Villa was enchanting after the heat and glare of the road, and at first we sat quite quietly on a gra.s.sy bank and enjoyed the thick shade of the enormous cypresses. The custode was very anxious we should make the cla.s.sic tour with him but we told him we knew the place--it was by no means our first visit. I explained to him in Italian that I was a "vecchia Romana" (old Roman), to which he replied with true Italian gallantry, "non tanto vecchia--son to vecchio" (no, not at all old--I am old), and old he was, his face all yellow and wrinkled like the peasants who live on the Campagna and are poisoned with malaria.

I should think, though, the Villa d'Este was healthy, it stands so high.

It is almost uninhabited, belongs now to Cardinal Hohenlohe, but they tell me he never lives there, never sleeps--comes out for the day from Rome and goes back at night. It is sometimes let to foreigners. The garden is quite beautiful, perfectly wild and neglected but a wealth of trees, fountains, statues, terraces--it might be made a paradise with a little care. There are few flowers (like most Italian gardens) except those that grow quite wild. There is still the same great arch at one end of the terrace which just frames a stretch of Campagna, making a beautiful picture.

We had a delicious hour wandering about, stopping to rest every now and then, and sitting on some old bit of wall or column--no one there but ourselves and not a sound except the splashing water of the fountains.

W. was delighted, and we were very sorry to leave. The afternoon light was so beautiful, penetrating through the black cypress avenue, however, we had a long drive back, longer even than coming, as we wanted to make a detour to look at the sulphur lakes. Our coachman was evidently anxious to leave. We heard an animated parley at the gate of the Villa, and the custode appeared to say the carriage was there and the coachman said it was time to start if we wanted to get back to Rome before nightfall. I think _he_ didn't want to be too late on the road.

It was still warm when we started back, but we hadn't gone very far when it changed completely and I was very glad to put on my jacket and a shawl over it. It is a long, barren stretch of Campagna toward the sulphur lakes; one smelt the sulphur some time before arriving. They were not particularly interesting, looked like big, stagnant ponds, with rather yellowish water. Our man was decidedly uncomfortable. The road was absolutely lonely--not a person nor a vehicle of any kind in sight, the long straight road before us, and the desolate plains of the Campagna on each side. He fidgeted on his box, looked nervously from side to side, whipped up his horses, until at last W. asked him what was the matter, what was he afraid of. "Nothing, nothing, but it was late.

We were strangers and one never could be quite sure what one would meet." It was not very rea.s.suring, and when we saw once or twice a figure looming up in the distance, a man or two men on horseback, who might be shepherds or who might be bandits, we were not very comfortable either; we seemed to feel suddenly that it was getting dark, that we were alone in a very lonely road in a strange country, and we didn't mind at all when the coachman urged his horses to a quick gallop, and got over the ground as fast as he could.

We didn't say much until the little twinkling lights of the first "osterias" began to show themselves, and as we got nearer Rome and met the long lines of carts and peasants, some walking, some riding, we felt better and agreed that it wasn't pleasant to feel afraid, particularly a vague fear that didn't take shape.

When we drew up at the door of the hotel, after having deposited Gert at her Palazzo, we asked the coachman what he had been afraid of--was there any danger; to which he (safe on his box in the Piazza di Spagna) replied with a magnificent gesture that a Roman didn't know what fear meant, but he saw the ladies were nervous. It seems absurd now this morning, sitting at the window with the Piazza full of people, that we should have felt so uncomfortable. I asked W. if he was nervous. He said rather, for from the moment of starting he saw the coachman didn't want to take the side-road to the sulphur lakes, which was certainly wild and lonely, also that he was most anxious to get on. If the carriage had been merely stopped to rob us it would have been very disagreeable as we had no means of defence, nothing but our parasols, and of course n.o.body near to come to our rescue. I don't think our Giuseppe would have made a very vigorous resistance. After all, adventures do happen, and it would have been unpleasant to return to Paris minus one ear or one finger or any other souvenir of a sojourn in a bandit camp.

As we didn't get home until nearly nine I proposed no dinner, but "high tea" upstairs in our salon. W. demurred at first, like all men he loathes that meal dear to the female mind, but upon reflection thought it would be best. The gerant came up to speak about some boxes we want to send to Paris direct from here, and we told him of our return and the coachman's evident terror. He said he could quite understand it, that it was a very lonely, unfrequented bit of road leading to the sulphur lakes, and that we had chosen our time badly; all the tourists went first to the lakes before going to Tivoli, and it would have been a temptation to some of the wild shepherds and Campagna peasants to stop the carriage and insist upon having money or jewels. He didn't think there was any danger to our lives, nor even to our ears. They wouldn't have made much of a haul--I had no jewels of any kind, except my big pearl earrings--and W. very little money--three or four hundred francs.

It was a disagreeable experience, all the same. I don't like being afraid, and I was. We went a swinging pace for about three-quarters of an hour--the horses on a good quick gallop.

I went to church this morning. It is a nice walk from here and the day is enchanting--warm, but just air enough to make exercise pleasant. W.

was off early with Geoffroy. They put off yesterday's excursion until to-day, as W. was very anxious to see Tivoli.

The trunks are being packed, the gerant apparently superintending operations, as I hear a great deal of conversation in the anteroom.

Madame Hubert has an extraordinary faculty for getting all she wants--an excellent quality in a travelling maid. As you know she is very pretty, which again carries out my favourite theory that beauty is the most important gift for a woman. I daresay it won't bear discussion, and I ought to say "goodness," but my experience points the other way. I have so often heard father quote Madame de Stael (who was very kind to him when he was a young man in Paris) who, at the very height of her triumph as the great woman's intelligence of her time, said to him one evening at a big party in Paris, looking at Madame Recamier, who was beautiful, and surrounded by all that was most distinguished and brilliant in the room, "Je donnerai toute mon intelligence pour avoir sa beaute."

I am so sorry to go--though of course I shall be glad to see you all, but we have enjoyed ourselves so much. I wonder when I shall see it all again, and I also wonder what makes the great charm of Rome. It appeals to so many people of perfectly different tastes. W. has been perfectly happy and interested (and in many things, not only in inscriptions and antiquities) and I am sure such an absolute change of life and scenes was the best rest he could have after the very fatiguing life of the last two years.

Sunday, April 19, 1880, 10 o'clock.