Italian Letters of a Diplomat's Wife: January-May, 1880; February-April, 1904

I have just come in from my audience with the Pope. I found the convocation when I got home last night. Bessie was rather disgusted at not having received hers, as we had planned to go together; but she said she would come with me. She would dress herself in regulation attire—long black dress and black veil—and take the chance. We had a mild humiliation as we got to the inner Court. The sentries would not let us pass. We had the small coupé, with one horse, and it seems one-horse vehicles are not allowed to enter these sacred precincts. We protested, saying we had a special audience, and that we couldn't get out on the muddy pavement, but it was no use; they wouldn't hear of our modest equipage going in, so we had to cross the court—quite a large one, and decidedly muddy—on foot, holding up our long dresses as well as we could.

It seemed so natural to go up the great stone staircase, with a few Swiss guards in their striped red and yellow uniform standing about. We spoke to one man in Italian, asking him the way, and he replied in German. I fancy very few of them speak Italian. We passed through a good many rooms filled with all sorts of people: priests, officers, gardes nobles, women in black, evidently waiting for an audience, valets de chambre dressed in red damask, camerieri segreti in black velvet doublets, ruffs and gold chains and cross—a most picturesque and polyglot assemblage; one heard every language under the sun.

We were passed on from one room to another, and finally came to a halt in a large square room, where there were more priests, one or two monsignori, in their violet robes, and two officers. I showed my paper, one of the monsignori, Bicletis (maestro di Casa di Sua Santità), came forward and said the Pope was expecting me; so then I presented Bessie, explained that her name had been sent in at the same time with mine, and that if she could be admitted (without the convocation) it would be a great pleasure to both of us to be received together. He said there would be no difficulty in that.

While we were talking to him the door into the audience chamber was opened, and a large party came out—the Comte and Comtesse d'Eu and their sons, with a numerous suite. We had barely time to exchange a few remarks, as Monsignor Bicletis was waiting for us to advance. We found the Pope standing in the centre of rather a small room. The walls were hung with red damask, the carpet also was red, and at one end were three gold chairs. We made low curtseys—didn't kneel nor kiss his hands, being Protestants. He advanced a few steps, shook hands, and made us sit down, one on each side of him. He was dressed, of course, entirely in white. He spoke only Italian—said he understood French, but didn't speak it easily. He has a beautiful face—so earnest, with a fine upward look in his eyes; not at all the intellectual, ascetic appearance of Léo XIII., nor the half-malicious, kindly smile of Pius IX., but a face one would remember. I asked him if he was less tired than when he was first named Pope. He said, oh, yes, but that the first days were very trying—the great heat, the change of habits and climate, and the change of food (so funny, one would think there needn't be any great change between Rome and Venice—less fish, perhaps). He talked a little—only a little—about France, and the difficult times we were passing through; knew that I was a Protestant and an "old Roman"; asked how many years since I had been back; said: "You won't find the old Rome you used to know; there are many, many changes."

He was much interested in all Bessie told him about America and the Catholic religion in the States—was rather amused when she suggested that another American cardinal might perhaps be a good thing. He asked us if we knew Venice, and his face quite lighted up when we spoke of all the familiar scenes where he had spent so many happy years. He was much beloved in Venice. He gave me the impression of a man who was still feeling his way, but who, when he had found it, would go straight on to what he considered his duty. But I must say that is not the general impression; most people think he will be absolutely guided by his "entourage," who will never leave him any initiative.

As we were leaving I said I had something to ask. "Dica, dica, La prego" (Please speak), so I explained that I was a Protestant, my son also, but that he had married a Catholic, and I would like his blessing for my daughter. He made me a sign to kneel and touched my head with his hand, saying the words in Latin, and adding, "E per Lei et tutta la sua famiglia" (for you and all your family). He turned his back slightly when we went out, so we were not obliged to back out altogether.

We talked a few moments in the anteroom with Monsignor Bicletis, but he was very busy, other people going in to the Pope, so we didn't stay and went down to Cardinal Mery del Val's apartment. He receives in the beautiful Borgia rooms, with Pinturicchio's marvellous frescoes (there was such a lovely Madonna over one of the doors, a young pure face against that curious light-green background one sees so often in the early Italian masters). The apartment was comparatively modern—calorifère, electric light, bells, etc. While we were waiting the Comte and Comtesse d'Eu and their party passed through.

The Cardinal received us standing, but made us sit down at once. He is a tall, handsome homme du monde, rather English looking, very young. He told us he was not yet forty years old. He speaks English as well as I do (his mother was English), and, they tell me, every other language equally well. He seemed to have read everything and to be au courant of all that was said and thought all over the world. He talked a little more politics than the Pope—deplored what was going on in France, was interested in all Bessie told him about America and Catholicism over there. They must be struck with the American priests and bishops whom they see in Europe, not only their conception, but their practice of their religion is so different. I had such an example of that one day when we asked a friend of ours, a most intelligent, highly educated modern priest, to meet Monsignor Ireland. He was charmed with him—listened most intently to all he said, particularly when he was speaking of the wild life out West, near California, and the difficulty of getting any hold over the miners. (He started a music hall, among other things, to have some place where the men could go in the evenings, and get out of the saloons and low drinking-shops.) Our friend perfectly appreciated the practical energy of the monsignor, but said such a line would be impossible in France. No priest, no matter how high his rank, would be allowed such initiative, and the people would not understand.

He didn't keep us very long, had evidently other audiences, and not time to talk to everybody. I am very glad to have seen him. He is quite unlike any cardinal I have ever met—perhaps because he is so much younger than most of them, perhaps because he seemed more homme du monde than ecclesiastic; but I daresay that type is changing, too, with everything else in Rome. We had a most interesting afternoon. After all, Rome and the Vatican are unique of their kind.

Friday, February 26th.

I had my audience from Queen Margherita alone this afternoon. Bessie and Josephine have already been. Her palace is in the Veneto (our quarter) and very near. It is a large, fine building, but I should have liked it better standing back in a garden, not directly on the street. However, the Romans don't think so. There are always people standing about waiting to see her carriage or auto pass out—they wait hours for a smile from their beloved Regina Margherita. I went up in an ascenseur—three or four footmen (in black) and a groom of the chambers at the top. I was ushered down a fine long gallery with handsome furniture and pictures to a large room almost at the end, where I found the Marquise Villa Marina (who is always with the Queen), the Duchesse Sforza Cesarini (lady in waiting), and one gentleman. There were three or four people in the room, waiting also to be received. Almost immediately the door into the next room opened, and the Duchesse Sforza waved me in (didn't come in herself). I had at once the impression of a charming drawing-room, with flowers, pictures, books, bibelots—not in the least like the ordinary bare official reception room where Queen Elena received us. The Queen, dressed in black, was sitting on a sofa about the middle of the room, and really not much changed since I had seen her twenty-four years ago at the Quirinal, when the present King was a little boy, dressed in a blue sailor suit. She is a little stouter, but her blonde hair and colouring just the same, and si grand air. She was most charming, talked in French and English, about anything, everything—asked about my sister-in-law, Madame de Bunsen, and her daughter Beatrice, whom she had known as a little girl in Florence. She is very fond of automobiling, so we had at once one great point of sympathy. She had read "The Lightning Conductor" and was much amused with it. We talked a little about the great changes in Rome. I told her about our visit to the Pope, and the impression of simplicity and extreme goodness he had made upon us. I can't remember all we talked about. I had the same impression that I had twenty-four years ago—a visit to a charming, sympathetic woman, very large-minded, to whom one could talk of anything.

Sunday, 28th.

It has poured all day, but held up a little in the afternoon, so we went (all four) to see Cardinal Mathieu, who lives in the Villa Wolkonsky. He had asked us to come and walk in his beautiful garden (with such a view of the Aqueducts) but that was of course out of the question. He is very clever and genial, and was rather amused at the account we gave him of our discussions. We are two Catholics and two Protestants, and argue from morning till night—naturally neither party convincing the other. He told us we should go to the Vatican to-morrow—there was a large French pèlerinage which he presented. We would certainly see the Pope and perhaps hear him speak.

Monday.

We had a pleasant breakfast this morning with Bebella d'Arsoli,33 in their beautiful apartment in his father's (Prince Massimo's) palace. The palace looks so black and melancholy outside, with its heavy portico of columns (and always beggars sitting on the stone benches under the portico) that it was a surprise to get into their beautiful rooms—with splendid pictures and tapestries. The corner drawing-room, where she received us, flooded with light, showing off the old red damask of the walls and the splendid ceiling. We went to see the Chapel after breakfast, where there are wonderful relics, and a famous pavement in majolica.

About 3 we started off for St. Peter's. We had all brought our veils with us, and retired to Bebella's dressing-room where her maid arranged our heads. We left a pile of hats which Bebella promised to send home for us, and took ourselves off to the Vatican, taking little Victoria Ruspoli with us, who looked quite sweet in her white dress and veil—her great dark eyes bright with excitement. We found many carriages in the court, as we got to the Vatican, and many more soldiers on the stairs, and about in the passages. The rooms and long gallery were crowded—all sorts of people, priests, women, young men, children (some very nice-looking people) all speaking French. We went at first into the gallery, but there was such a crowd and such a smell of people closely packed that we couldn't stay, and just as we were wondering what to do, Monsignor Bicletis came through and at once told us to come with him. He took us through several rooms, one large one filled with people waiting for their audience, into the one next the Pope's, who he said was with Cardinal Mathieu, and would soon pass. We were quite alone in that room, except for three or four priests. In a few moments the Pope appeared with Cardinal Mathieu and quite a large suite. The Cardinal, who had promised to present Madame de B. (there had been some delay about her convocation), came up to us at once. We all knelt as the Pope came near, and he named Madame de B. and little Victoria, who asked for his blessing for her brothers. He recognised me and Bessie, and said we were welcome always at the Vatican. He only said a few words to Madame de B. as he had a long afternoon before him. Cardinal Mathieu told us to follow them, so we closed up behind the suite, and followed the Pope's procession.

There must have been over a hundred people waiting in the next room, and it was an impressive sight to see them all—men, women, and children—kneel as the Pope appeared. Some of the children were quite sweet, holding out their little hands full of medals and rosaries to be blessed—almost all the girls in white, with white veils, like the little first communiantes in France. The Pope made his "cercle," speaking to almost every one—sometimes only a word, sometimes quite a little talk. We followed him through one or two rooms to the open loggia, which was crowded. We were very hot, but he sent for his cloak and hat. We waited some little time but the crowd was so dense—he would have spoken from the other end of the loggia—and we couldn't possibly have got through—so we came away, having had again a very interesting afternoon.

It is most picturesque driving around the back of St. Peter's and the Vatican. There are such countless turns and courts and long stretches of high walls with little narrow windows quite up at the top. Always people coming and going—cardinals' carriages with their black horses, fiacres with tourists looking eagerly about them and speaking every possible language, priests, women in black with black veils, little squads of Papal troops marching across the squares—and Italian soldiers keeping order in the great piazza. A curious little old world in the midst of the cosmopolitan town Rome has become.

Rome, March 2d.

Yesterday Madame de B. and I made an expedition to the Catacombs of San Calisto fuori Porta San Sebastiano. It was decidedly cold and we were very glad we hadn't taken the open carriage. The drive out was charming—first inside the gates, passing the Colosseum, the two great arches of Constantine and Titus, and directly under the Palatine Hill and Baths of Caracalla, and then going out through the narrow little gateway, and for some little distance through high stone walls, we came upon the countless towers, tombs and columns standing alone in the middle of the fields, having no particular connection with anything, that mark the Appian Way, and make it so extraordinarily interesting and unlike any other drive in the world. I was delighted when we came upon that funny little stone house, built on the top of a high circular tomb—I remembered it perfectly.

The Catacombs stand in a sort of garden or vineyard. There were people already there, and a party just preparing to go down as we appeared. They had asked for a guide who spoke French, as they knew no Italian, and a nice-looking, intelligent young monk was marshalling his party and lighting the tapers. I thought they were rather short (I am rather nervous about subterraneous expeditions and one has heard gruesome tales of people lost in the Catacombs, not so very long ago) but they lasted quite well.

It was curious to see all the old symbols again—the fish, the pax (cross) and to think what they represented to the early bands of Christians, when the mere fact of being a Christian meant persecution, suffering, and often a terrible death in the arena of the Colosseum.

Some of the frescoes are wonderfully preserved—we saw quite well the heads of saints, martyrs, and decorations of wreaths of flowers or a delicate arabesque tracery; the most favourite subjects were Jonah and the whale, a shepherd with a lamb on his shoulders, and kneeling women's figures. The ladies in our party were wildly interested in the mummies (terrible looking things), particularly one with the hair quite visible. We saw of course the niche where the body of Ste. Cecilia was found—but the body is now removed to the church of Ste. Cecilia in the Trastevere. They have put, however, a model of the body, representing it exactly, in the niche, so the illusion is quite possible.

We walked about for an hour, following quantities of narrow passages, coming suddenly into small round rooms, which had been chapels, and still seeing in some of the stone coffins bits of bones, and inscriptions on the walls. It was rather weird to see the procession moving along, Indian file, holding their tapers, which gave a faint, flickering light. The guide had rather a bigger one—on the end of a long stick. We stopped at San Clemente on our way back, hoping to see the underground church, but it was too late. The sacristan said we should have come yesterday—there was a fête, and the two churches were illuminated.

Friday, 4th.

It has been another beautiful day. I trammed over to the Vatican to see the Sistine Chapel this time and the Stanze and Loggie of Raphael. It is a good pull up to the Sistine Chapel, by a rather dark staircase, but the day was so bright I saw everything very well when I once got there. The Vatican was very full—people in every direction—almost all English and German—I didn't hear a word of French or Italian. Two young men were stretched out flat on their backs on one of the benches, trying to get a good look at the ceiling through their glasses. I was delighted to see the Stanze again with many old friends. Do you remember the "Poesia" on the ceiling of one of the rooms—a lovely figure clad in light blue draperies, with a young, pure face? I wandered up and down the Loggie, but I think I was more interested looking down into the Court of San Damaso, filled with carriages, priests, women in black with black veils coming and going (I should think the Pope would be exhausted with all the people he sees) and the general little clerical bustle. The striped Swiss guard were lounging about in the gateway, and a fine stately porter in cocked hat and long red cloak at each door.

Josephine had a dinner in the evening—Cardinal Mathieu, the Austrian Ambassador to the Vatican and his wife, and other notabilities. There was quite a large reception after dinner, among others the Grand Duchess of Saxe-Weimar, who is very easy, charming—likes to see everybody. When I came downstairs to dinner I found all the ladies with lace fichus or boas on their shoulders, and I was told that I was quite incorrect—that one couldn't appear décolletée in a cardinal's presence. I could find nothing in my hurry when I went back to my room, but a little (very little) ermine cravat, but still even that modified my low body somewhat, and at least showed that my intentions were good. The big red salon looks charming in the evening and is a most becoming room—the dark red silk walls show off the dresses so well. The cardinal had his whist, or rather his bridge, after dinner, for even the Church has succumbed to the universal craze—one sees all the ecclesiastics in Black circles just as intent upon their game and criticising their partner's play quite as keenly as the most ardent clubmen. I suppose bridge is a pleasure to those who play, but they don't look as though they were enjoying themselves—their faces so set and drawn, any interruption a catastrophe, and nobody ever satisfied with his partner's play.

We had very good music. An American protégé of Josephine's with a good high barytone voice sang very well, and the young French trio (all élèves du Conservatoire de Paris) really played extremely well. The piano in one of Mendelssohn's trios was quite charming—so sure and delicate. It was a pleasure to see the young, refined, intelligent faces so absorbed in their music, quite indifferent to the gallery. The young violinist played a romance (I forget what—Rubinstein, I think) with so much sentiment that I said to him "Vous êtes trop jeune pour jouer avec tant d'âme," to which he replied proudly, "Madame, j'ai vingt ans." C'est beau d'avoir vingt ans. I wonder how many of us at fifty remember how we thought and felt at twenty. Perhaps there would be fewer heart-burnings in the world if we older ones did remember sometimes our own youth.

Sunday, March 6th.

Yesterday I walked up to Santa Maria Maggiore and San Giovanni in Laterano. I took the Scala Santa on my way to San Giovanni. Several people were going up—some priests, Italian soldiers, two or three peasants and two ladies—mother and daughter, I should think, their long black cloth dresses very much in their way evidently. I watched them for some time. I wonder what it means to them, and if they really believe that they are the steps from Jerusalem which our Saviour came down. I stayed some little time in San Giovanni. It is magnificent certainly, but there is too much gilding and mosaic and modern decoration. The view from the steps was enchanting when I came out; the air was delicious, the sun bright in a bright blue sky, and the mountains soft and purple in the distance.

We had an interesting breakfast—two Benedictine monks from the great abbaye of Solesmes. They talked very moderately about their expulsion, and the wrench it was to leave the old monastery and begin life again in new surroundings. The older man especially seemed to feel it very much. I suppose he had spent all his life inside those old grey walls—reading and meditating and bound up in the interests and routine of his order. They had come to Rome to see the Pope, and consult with him about suppressing secular music in the churches, and substituting the Gregorian chants everywhere. It is a very difficult question; of course some of the music they have now in the churches is impossible. When you hear the "Méditation de Thaïs" played at some ceremony, and you think what Thaïs was, it is out of the question to admit such music in a church—on the other hand the strict Gregorian chant is very severe, particularly sung without any organ. I daresay educated musicians would prefer it, but to the ordinary assemblage, accustomed to the great peal of the organ with occasionally, in the country for instance at some festa, the national anthem or some well-known military march being played, the monotonous, old-world chant would say nothing. We shall hear them at the great festival at St. Peter's for San Gregorio.

Thursday, 10th.

It was warm and lovely Tuesday. Bessie, Josephine and I walked down to J.'s work-room in the Convent of St. Euphemia, somewhere beyond Trajan's Forum, before breakfast. It was too warm walking along the broad street by the Quirinal. We were thankful to take little dark narrow side streets. The "ouvroir" (work-room) was interesting—quantities of women and girls working—some of the work, fine lingerie, lace-mending, embroidery beautifully done. It is managed by sisters, under Josephine's direction, who gives a great deal of time and thought to her work. They take in any child or girl from the street, feed them and have them taught whatever they can do. It was pretty to see the little smiling faces and bright eyes as Josephine passed through the rooms.

We went to a pleasant tea in the afternoon at Countess Gianotti's (wife of Count Gianotti, Master of Ceremonies to the King). There were quite a number of people—a very cosmopolitan society (she herself is an American) and she gave us excellent waffles.

Yesterday we had a delightful excursion with Countess de Bertheny in her automobile. She came to get me and Bessie about 11. We picked up two young men and started for Nemi and the Castelli Romani. We drove straight out from Porta San Giovanni to Albano. It was quite lovely all the way, particularly when we began the steep ascent of Albano, and looked back—the Campagna a beautiful stretch of purple, the aqueducts standing well out all around us, and the statues of San Giovanni just visible and looking enormous, in the mist that always hangs over Rome, St. Peter's a great white spot with the sun full upon it. We rattled through Albano. The streets looked animated, full of people, all getting out of our way as fast as they could.

The door into the Doria Villa was open; we just had a glimpse of the garden which looked cool and green, with a perspective of long walks, ending in a sort of bosquet, but we passed so quickly that it was merely a fleeting impression. We drove through Ariccia to Gensano—a beautiful road, splendid trees, making a perfect shade, the great Chigi Palace looking just the same, a huge grim pile—quite the old château fort, built at the entrance of the little village to protect it from invading enemies. If stones could speak I wonder what they would say to modern inventions, automobiles, huge monsters certainly, but peaceful ones, rushing past, trains puffing and smoking along the Campagna, great carts drawn by fine white oxen going lazily along, the driver generally asleep under his funny little tent of red or blue linen, and nobody thinking of harm.