In the Courts of Memory, 1858-1875 Part 53

"The Pope has a reception to-morrow morning," said she. "Would you care to go? If so, I should be delighted to take you."

"Oh," I said, "that is the thing of all others I should like to do!"

"Then," said she, "I will call for you and take you in my carriage."

This function requires a black dress, black veil, and a general funereal appearance and gloveless hands. Happily she did not forget, but came in her coupe at the appointed time to fetch me, and we drove to the Vatican.

The amba.s.sadress was received at the entrance with bows and smiles of recognition by the numerous _camerieri_ and other splendidly dressed persons, and we were led through endless beautiful rooms before arriving at the gallery where we were to wait. It was not long before his Holiness (Pius IX.) appeared, followed by his suite of monsignors and prelates. I never was so impressed in my life as when I saw him. He wore a white-cloth _soutane_ and white-embroidered _calotte_ and red slippers, and looked so kind and full of benevolence that he seemed goodness personified. I knelt down almost with pleasure on the cold floor when he addressed me, and I kissed the emerald ring which he wore on his third finger as if I had been a born Catholic and had done such things all my life.

He asked me in English from which country I came, and when I answered, "America, your Holiness," he said, "What part of America?" I replied, "From Boston, Holy Father."

"It is a gallant town," the Pope remarked; "I have been there myself."

Having finished speaking with the men (all the ladies stood together on one side of the room and the men on the other), the Pope went to the end of the gallery. We all noticed that he seemed much agitated, and wondered why, and what could have happened to ruffle his benign face. It soon became known that there was an Englishman present who refused to kneel, although ordered to do so by the irate chamberlain, and who stood stolidly with arms folded, looking down with a sneer upon his better-behaved companions.

His Holiness made a rather lengthy discourse, and did not conceal his displeasure, alluding very pointedly to the unpardonable att.i.tude of the stranger.

On leaving the gallery he turned around a last time, made the sign of the cross, giving us his blessing, and left us very much impressed. I looked about for my companion, but could not see her anywhere. Had she forgotten me and left me there to my fate? It would not be unlike her to do so.

I saw myself, in my mind's eye, being led out of the Vatican by the striped yellow and black legs and halberded guards, and obliged to find my way home alone; but on peering about in all the corners I caught sight of her seated on a bench fervently saying her prayers, evidently under the impression that she was in church during ma.s.s. As we were about to enter the coupe she hesitated before giving any orders to the servant, possibly not remembering where I had lived. But the footman, being accustomed to her vagaries, did not wait, and as he knew where to deposit me, I was landed safely at the Palazzo Altieri.

_February 15th._

The Storys gave "The Merchant of Venice" the other evening. They had put up in one of the salons a very pretty little stage; the fashionable world was _au complet_, and, after having made our bows to Mrs. Story, we took our places in the theater. Mr. Story was Shylock, and acted extremely well. Edith was very good as Portia. Waldo and Julian both took part. Mr.

and Mrs. Prank Lascelles, of the English Emba.s.sy, both dressed in black velvet, played the married couple to the life, but did not look at all Italian. The whole performance was really wonderfully well done and most successful; the enthusiasm was sincere and warmed the cold hands by the frequent clapping. We were so glad to be enthusiastic!

Mr. Story gave me his book called _Roba di Roma_, which I will tell you does _not_ mean Italian robes--you might think so; it means things about Rome. I will also tell you, in case that your Italian does not go so far, that when I say that the Storys live in the third _piano_. I do not mean an upright or a grand--_piano_ is the Italian for story.

Madame Minghetti--the wife of the famous statesman--receives every Sunday twilight. Rome flocks there to hear music and to admire the artistic manner in which the rooms are arranged; flirtations are rife in the twilit corners, in which the salon abounds. As Madame Minghetti is very musical and appreciative, all the people one meets there pretend to be musical and appreciative, and do not talk or flirt during the music; so when I sing "Medje" in the growing crepuscule I feel in perfect sympathy with my audience. Tosti and I alternate at the piano when there is nothing better.

If no one else enjoys us, we enjoy each other.

I have always wanted very much to see the famous Garibaldi, and knowing he was in Rome I was determined to get a glimpse of him. But how could it be done? I had been told that he was almost unapproachable, and that he disliked strangers above all.

However, where there is a will there seems to come a way; at any rate, there did come one, and this is how it came:

At dinner at the French Emba.s.sy J sat next to Prince Odescalchi, and told him of my desire to see Garibaldi. He said: "Perhaps I can manage it for you. I have a friend who knows a friend of Garibaldi, and it might be arranged through him."

"Then," I said, "your friend who is a friend of Garibaldi's will let you know, and as you are a friend of my friend you will let _her_ know, and she will let _me_ know."

"It sounds very complicated," he answered, laughing, "and is perhaps impossible; but we will do our best."

No more than two days after this dinner there came a message from the Prince to say that, if Mrs. Haseltine and I would drive out to Garibaldi's villa, the friend and the friend of the friend would be there to meet us and present us. This we did, and found the two gentlemen awaiting us at the gate. I felt my heart beat a little faster at the thought of seeing the great hero.

Garibaldi was sitting in his garden, in a big, easy, wicker chair, and looked rather grumpy, I thought (probably he was annoyed at being disturbed). But he apparently made up his mind to accept the inevitable, and, rising, came toward us, and on our being presented stretched out a welcoming hand.

He had on a rather soiled cape, and a _foulard,_ the worse for wear, around his neck, where the historical red shirt was visible. His head, with its long hair, was covered with a velvet _calotte._ He looked more like an invalid basking in the sun with a shawl over his legs than he did like the hero of my imagination, and the only time he did look at all military was when he turned sharply to his parrot, who kept up an incessant chattering, and said, in a voice full of command, "Taci!" which the parrot did not in the least seem to mind (I hope Garibaldi's soldiers obeyed him better).

Garibaldi apologized for the parrot's bad manners by saying, "He is very unruly, but he talks well"; and added, with a rusty smile, "Better than his master."

"I don't agree with you," I said. "I can understand you, whereas I can't even tell what language he is speaking."

"He comes from Brazil, and was given to me by a lady."

"Does he only speak Brazilian?" I asked.

"Oh no, he can speak a little Italian; he can say 'Io t'amo' and 'Caro mio'."

"That shows how well the lady educated him. Will he not say 'Io t'amo' for me? I should so love to hear him."

But, in spite of tender pleadings, the parrot refused to do anything but scream in his native tongue.

Garibaldi talked Italian in a soft voice with his friend and French to us.

He asked a few questions as to our nationality, and made some other commonplace remarks. When I told him I was an American he seemed to unbend a little, and said, "I like the Americans; they are an honorable, just, and intelligent people."

He must have read admiration in my eyes, for he "laid himself out" (so his friend said) to be amiable. Amiability toward strangers was evidently not his customary att.i.tude.

He went so far as to give me his photograph, and wrote "Miss Moulton" on it with a hand far from clean; but it was the hand of a brave man, and I liked it all the better for being dirty. It seemed somehow to belong to a hero. I think that I would have been disappointed if he had had clean hands and well-trimmed finger-nails. On our taking leave of him he conjured up a wan smile and said, very pleasantly, giving us his ink- stained hand, "A rivederci."

[Ill.u.s.tration: GIUSEPPE GARIBALDI]

I wondered if he really meant that he wanted to see us again; I doubt it, and did not take his remark seriously. On the contrary, I had the feeling that he was more than indifferent to the pleasure our visit had given him.

When we were driving back to Rome the horses took fright and began running away. They careered like wildfire through the gates of the Porta del Popolo, and b.u.mped into a cart drawn by oxen and overloaded with wine- casks. Fortunately one of the horses fell down, and we came to a standstill. The coachman got down from the box and discovered that one of the wheels was twisted, the pole broken, and other damage done. We were obliged to leave the carriage and walk down the Corso to find a cab.

Just as we were getting into one we saw on the opposite side of the street a man who, while he was cleaning the windows in the third story of a house, lost his balance and fell into the street.

We dreaded to know what had happened, and avoided the crowd which quickly collected, thus shutting out whatever had happened from our view. We hurried home, trembling from our different emotions.

The next morning I awoke from my sleep, having had a most vivid dream. I thought I was in a shop, and the man serving me said, "If you take any numbers in the next lottery, take numbers 2, 18, and 9." This was extraordinary, and I immediately told the family about it: 2, 18, 9 (three numbers meant a _terno_, in other words, a _fortune_). Mr. H---- said, "Let us look out these numbers in the _Libro di Sogni_ (the Book of Dreams)," and sent out to buy the book. Imagine our feelings! Number 2 meant _caduta d'una finestra_ (fall from a window); number 18 meant _morte subito_ (sudden death), and number 9 meant _ospedale_ (hospital).

Just what had happened; the man had fallen from the window and had been carried dead to the hospital!

Perhaps you don't know what a tremendous part the lottery plays in Italy; it is to an Italian what sausages and beer are to a German. An Italian will spend his last _soldo_ to buy a ticket. He simply cannot live without it. The numbers are drawn every Sat.u.r.day morning at twelve o'clock, and are instantly exposed in all the tobacco-shops in the town.

An hour after, whether lucky or unlucky, the Italian buys a new ticket for the following week, and lives on hope and dreams until the next Sat.u.r.day; and when any event happens or any dream comes to him he searches in the dream-book for a number corresponding to them, and he is off like lightning to buy a ticket. I was told that the Marquis Rudini, on hearing that his mother had met her death in a railroad accident, sought in the dream-book for the number attached to "railroad accident," and bought a ticket before going to get her remains.

A winning _terno_ brings its lucky owner I don't know exactly how much-- but I know it is something enormous.

Well, this would be a _terno_ worth having. My dream, coming as it did straight from the blue, must be infallibility itself, and we felt perfectly sure that the three magical numbers would bring a fortune for every one of us, and we all sent out and bought tickets with all the money we could spare.

This was on Thursday, and we should have to wait two whole days before we became the roaring millionaires we certainly were going to be, and we strutted about thinking what presents we would make, what jewels we would buy; in fact, how we would use our fortunes! We sat up late at night discussing the wisest and best way to invest our money, and I could not sleep for fear of a _contre-coup_ in the shape of another dream. For instance, if I should dream of a cat miauling on a roof, it would mean disappointment. It would never do to give fate a chance like that!

Imagine with what feverish excitement we awoke on that Sat.u.r.day, and how we watched the numbers, gazing from the carriage-windows, at the tobacco- shop! Well, not one of those numbers came out! We drove home in silence, with our feathers all drooping. However, we had had the sensation of being millionaires for those two days (ecstatic but short!), and felt that we had been defrauded by an unjust and cruel fate.

Unsympathetic Mr. Marshal said, mockingly: "How could you expect anything else, when you go on excursions with the Marquis Maurriti [that was the name of Garibaldi's friend]? You might have known that you would come to grief."

"Unfeeling man! Why should we come to grief?" we cried with impatience.