Italian Letters of a Diplomat's Life Part 7

Cabat, his wife and daughter, M. and Madame Geoffroy and 5 or 6 of the young men. They all love Rome and say it is a paradise for an artist.

Such beautiful models of all kinds in the old pictures and statues. I ventured to say that I thought one or two of the modern Roman things--fountains and statues--were pretty, but I was instantly sat upon by the whole party--"no originality; no strength, weak imitations of great conceptions, etc." I suppose one's taste and judgment do get formed looking at splendid models all the time; still the world of art must go on and there is no reason why the present generation shouldn't have graceful fancies, and power to carry out their dreams. We didn't stay very late and went on to Countess Somaglia, who was receiving.

There were only two or three ladies. Her younger sister, Olympia Doria, married to a Colonna, the Marquise Sant' Asilea and two others I didn't know. Quant.i.ties of men came in and out, Calabrini, Vitelleschi, Minghetti. The "maitre de maison" was not there. I was sorry, as I had never seen him. Lucchesi-Palli came up and claimed acquaintance--said he had danced at Casa Pierret in the old days. I introduced him to W. who was rather interested at meeting a half brother of the Comte de Chambord. He is much astonished at the quant.i.ty of people I know, but I told him one couldn't live years in Rome without seeing almost every one worth knowing, as everybody comes to Rome.

Yesterday Gert and I went out together. W. had an expedition of some kind with de Rossi, and gave a dinner at the Falcone to Charles and some of his men friends. The Roman menu didn't tempt me. I heard them talking about porcupines and peac.o.c.ks. I preferred dining with Gert--she asked Mrs. Van Rensselaer, and we had a pleasant evening. Mrs. V. R. is clever and original, very amusing over her Italian and the extraordinary mistakes that she knows she makes, but she keeps on talking all the same. It is curious how much colder Gert's apartment is than our rooms at the hotel--I suppose no sun ever gets into that narrow street, and one is quite struck with the cold the minute one gets into the palace and on the stone staircase. We had a little fire and it wasn't at all too much--of course in the Piazza di Spagna the sun streams into the rooms all day. I came home early--about 10--and found the two gentlemen, Charles and W., settled very comfortably each in a large arm-chair with pipe and newspaper (you can imagine the atmosphere in a small hotel sitting-room). They said their dinner was very good, even the ordinary Roman wine, but they both agreed they wouldn't care to have that menu every day. The talk was very interesting; some of the men had been in Italy years ago, before the days of railways or modern conveniences of any kind, and their experiences in some of the little towns near Rome were most amusing--most of the peasants so mistrustful of the artist baggage, white umbrella, camp-stool, etc., and so anxious, when they finally understood no harm was intended, that they should sketch a nice new house or a bit of wall freshly plastered instead of old gateways and tumble-down palaces.

Charles is going back to Florence to-morrow; I think he has enjoyed his visit very much, it brought back so many recollections (he was born in Rome and spent all his early childhood there).[24]

[24] His father, Baron de Bunsen, was for years Prussian Minister at Rome, a most intellectual, distinguished man; after Rome he was for many years Minister in England, and their house in Carlton Terrace was the rendezvous of all that was most brilliant and cosmopolitan in London. He married Miss Waddington, and his son Charles also married Miss Waddington, sister of William Waddington.

I wish they would settle in Rome instead of Florence, the life is so much more interesting here. Florence is charming, but asleep--here there is life, and the contrast between the old patrician city full of old-world memories and prejudices, and the political, financial atmosphere of this 19th century is most striking. W. has decided to go to Naples for four or five days. I shan't go with him. He will be all day in the museums, as there is a great deal to see, and I should bore myself sitting alone in the hotel. If we could stay long enough to make some excursions--see Sorrento, Capri, and Ischia, I would not hesitate, I should love to see it all again. They say Vesuvius is giving signs of a disturbance.

As we were talking about Capri and Vesuvius I told them my experience there so many years ago, and both gentlemen told me I ought to write it while it was still fresh in my memory, so here it is and you will send the letter to the family in America.

We went to Naples in October, 1867. Father died at Frascati the 27th of September, and we all needed change after the long nursing and watching.

All our friends in Rome were most anxious we should get off; affairs were rapidly coming to a crisis in Italy and it was evident that the days of the temporal power of the Pope were numbered. At any moment the Italians under Garibaldi might appear at the gates of Rome and it was not considered safe for women and foreigners to remain there. No one thought or talked of anything else, and though we were absorbed by father's illness and the numerous duties that a sick room entails we were quite as excited as all our friends. Of course we heard the two sides--the liberals who had high hopes of liberty and "Italia Unita" and the "papalini" who were convinced that the Italians would only enter Rome over the bodies of the faithful. Our young imaginations pictured anything, everything; the Garibaldians penetrating quite to the Court of the Vatican, the Swiss Guard, Charette and his Zouaves, ma.s.sacred; priests flying in every direction pursued by a crowd of soldiers and infuriated populace. Good old Dr. Valery, who knew his countrymen better than we did, a.s.sured us there was no danger. When resistance was perfectly useless it would be wicked to shed blood, and Pio Nono himself would be the first to advise submission to the inevitable. We couldn't believe that such a tremendous change and uprooting of the traditions of centuries could be accomplished so quietly. We stayed two days only in Rome after leaving Frascati. We laid father at rest in the little English churchyard just by the San Paolo gate. There was a mortuary chapel where he could stay till he was taken home to the old family churchyard at Jamaica where Grandpapa King and a long line of children and grandchildren are buried. We had to see about our mourning and were finally hustled out of Rome the third day, Mr. Hooker (the American banker), our great friend, fairly standing over us while the trunks were being packed. He was quite right. We took the last train that went through to Naples, carrying with us a number of letters which our liberal friends had asked us to mail as soon as we crossed the frontier,--they naturally being unwilling to trust them to the Roman post-office. Rome looked deserted, very few people about, some of the shops and hotels still closed, but one felt a suppressed excitement in the air. Some of our friends, jubilant, came to see us off at "Termine"

and promised to send us a telegram at Naples if anything happened. Mr.

Hooker was rather anxious. He too thought the Papal court wouldn't make any resistance if the Italians came, or rather when the Italians came, as they were marching on Rome; but he thought there might be trouble in the streets. He had his large American flag ready to protect the bank.

We of course made our journey very quietly and comfortably, as Garibaldi and his men were not on that road. I was rather disappointed, I should have liked to have had a glimpse of the famous revolutionary leader in his cla.s.sic red shirt. We found Naples just the same, very full, people everywhere, in the Via Toledo, on the quays, etc. There wasn't much apparent excitement, all the red-capped, bare-legged fishermen were lounging about on the quays or in the numberless little boats of all descriptions flying about in every direction. The same songs, "Julia Gentil," "La Luissella," "La Bella Sorrentina," were sung under our windows every night with an accompaniment of mandolins and a sort of tambourine. From time to time the voices would cease and then there would be a most lively dance--tarantella, saltarella--all the dancers moving lightly and quickly and always in perfect time. The nights were beautiful--warm and clear--the whole population lived in the streets and we were always on the balcony. The islands, Ischia and Capri, took such beautiful colours, at sunset; seemed almost like painted islands rising straight up out of a perfectly blue sea. Vesuvius, too, was most interesting. Savants were prophesying an eruption and every now and then faint, very faint curls of smoke came out of the crater. We knew nothing of what was going on; had no communication with Rome, and were entirely dependent for news on the landlord, whose information was certainly fantastic; also the little Naples paper, the "Pungolo," which made marvellous statements every morning--the streets of Rome running with blood, etc. Finally came the first news--the battle of "Monte Rotondo," Garibaldi and his men victorious. From Paris we heard that the French troops had started and were at Civita Vecchia, but there were so many conflicting stories that we really didn't know how much to believe.

Then came Mentana--the Garibaldians driven back by the Papal and French troops; the Pope still supreme in Rome. We had a telegram from one of our liberal friends, "Le malade va bien," which meant that the Pope had conquered, and Rome was not yet the capital of "Italia Unita." There was no fighting at all in the streets of Rome; a great deal of patriotic talk among the young liberals, but I don't think any of them absolutely enrolled themselves in Garibaldi's band. It wouldn't have made any difference--they could do nothing against the combined Papal and French troops--but it might have been a personal satisfaction to have struck a blow for the liberal cause. There again the common sense of the Italians showed itself--there was no resisting "le fait accompli," they had only to bide their time. We had lovely days at Naples, making all sorts of excursions--Posilippo, Capo di Monte, Camaldoli, etc. Every morning we went to the Museum; I was madly interested in the Pompeian relics, particularly the mummies. It seemed impossible to believe that those little black bundles had once been human beings feeling and living as keenly as we do now. We always kept our eyes on Vesuvius as it really did seem as if something was going on. The column of smoke looked thicker and we could quite well see little jets of sand or small stones thrown up from the crater. One afternoon when we came in from driving everybody in the street was looking hard at the mountain and the padrone informed us that the eruption had begun. We didn't see anything, but after dinner when we were standing on the balcony suddenly we saw a great tongue of flame leap out from the crater and a stream of fire running down the side of the mountain. The flame disappeared almost immediately; came back three or four times in the course of the evening, but didn't gain very much in height or intensity. The next day, however, it had increased considerably and was a fine sight at dark, every few moments a great tongue of fire with quant.i.ties of stones and gravel thrown high in the air. We almost fancied we heard the noise of thunder, but I don't think we did. People were flocking into Naples, and we of course, like all the rest, were most anxious to make the ascent. The landlord told us there was no danger; that the authorities never permitted an ascent if there was danger, and no guides would go, as they are very prudent. One would go up on one side (the only thing to avoid was the stream of red-hot lava). Mother was rather unwilling, particularly as we were to go at night (and at night from our balcony the mountain did look rather a formidable thing to tackle). We waited still another day and then when we had seen some English people--two ladies and a youth who had made the excursion and said it was not at all alarming and most interesting--she agreed to let us go. Anne stayed with her, she doesn't like donkey riding under any circ.u.mstances, and a donkey at night on the slopes of Vesuvius in eruption, with a stream of red-hot lava running alongside, didn't strike her absolutely as a pleasant performance. We started about 7 o'clock, William, Henrietta, Gertrude, and I. The drive out all the way to Resina was most amusing.

Quant.i.ties of people, the famous Naples "cariole" crammed with peasants and children, and all eyes turned to the mountain. Our landlord had made all the arrangements for us, secured the best guides, donkeys, etc., and we were in great spirits. The mountain looked forbidding; as we came nearer we heard the noise, rumbling and thunder--the thunder always preceding a great burst of flames and showers of stones thrown up very high and falling one didn't know exactly where. I didn't say anything as I was very anxious to make the ascent, but I did wonder where these red stones fell and how one could know exactly beforehand. We drove as far as we could and then arrived at the Hermitage and Observatory, where there was a very primitive sort of wooden house, half tavern, half inn.

Here donkeys and guides (very voluble) were waiting, and we started. It had begun to rain a little, but the guides a.s.sured us that it would not last and we should soon be above the clouds. It was almost dark--not quite--and everything looked weird, even the faces of the guides seemed to me to have a curious expression; they looked fierce and wild. We went on quietly at first though the rumblings under our feet and sudden light as the flames burst out were unpleasant. When we began the last steep ascent I had got very nervous. I was the last of the party, and when the donkey-boy (an infant) took a short cut, when the path was steep, calling out cheerfully "Coraggio Signorina," and left me and the donkey alone to clamber over the great slippery blocks of lava, I was frightened and felt I should never get up to the top. It was really terrifying--the rain and mist had increased very much, it was pitch dark, rumbling and thunder all the time, and such noises under our feet that I was sure a great hole would open and we should all be swallowed up. I didn't like the dark, but I certainly didn't like the light either, when a great tongue of flame would spring out of the crater spreading out like a fan and throwing a ma.s.s of stones and gravel high in the air which all fell somewhere on the mountain. The red stream of lava looked wider and seemed to me to be coming nearer. I called out to William, who was far ahead and looked gigantic in the mist where he was crossing some great rocks of lava (quite black and shiny when they are old), and told him I was too frightened, that I should go back to the Hermitage and wait there. He was much disgusted--said there was no possible danger. All the guides and donkey-boys repeated the same thing, but it was no use, I was thoroughly unnerved and couldn't make up my mind to go on. We had a consultation with the guides as he didn't like the idea of my going back alone to the inn, but they told him it was all right, that the padrone was a "brav'uomo" and would take care of me until they came back; so most reluctantly they went on, and I turned my face homeward, always with my minute attendant whom I would gladly have shaken as he was laughing and chattering and repeating twenty times, "non c'e pericolo." I think the going down was rather worse; I had the rain in my face, heard all the same unearthly noises around me, and from time to time had glimpses of the whole country-side--Naples, the little villages, the islands, the bay standing out well in the red light thrown on them by the flames from the crater; then absolute darkness and stillness, nothing apparently on the mountain but me and the donkey scrambling and stumbling over the wet, slippery stones. How we ever got down to the inn I don't know, but both boy and donkey seemed to know the road. I was thankful when we emerged on a sort of terrace and saw a faint light, which meant the little inn. The boy helped me off (it was pouring), called out something at the door, told me to go in and go upstairs, then disappeared around the corner with the donkey. I called--no one answered--so I went upstairs, just seeing my way by the light of a little dull, smoky lamp put in a niche of the wall. I saw two doors when I got up to the top of the stairs, both shut, so I called again, knocked; a man's voice said something which I supposed to be "entrate" and I walked in. I found myself in a big room hardly lighted--a small lamp on a table, a fire of a sort of peat and wood, a bed in one corner on which was stretched a big man with a black beard and red shirt; another man not quite so big, but also in a red shirt and a hat on his head, got up when I came in, from a chair where he had been sitting by the fire. He said something I couldn't understand, first to me and then to his companion on the bed, who answered I thought rather gruffly (they both spoke Neapolitan "patois" which I couldn't understand at first). I didn't feel very comfortable (still I liked even that room with those two brigand-looking men better than the mountain-side with the flames and the lava), but I tried to explain, took off my wet cloak which spoke for itself, and went toward the fire. My friend with the hat always keeping up a running conversation with the man on the bed, brought up a chair, then a sort of stand over which he hung my cloak, and proceeded to take a bottle out of a cupboard which I supposed was their famous wine (lacrima Christi) which one always drinks at Naples.

However that I declined and established myself on the chair by the fire.

He took the other one, and when I looked at him I saw that he had rather a nice face; so I took courage. He pointed to my shoes, which were wet as we had walked a little, and wanted to talk. After a little while I began to understand him, and he me; and we had quite a friendly conversation. He looked at my shoes, asked me where they were made, and when I said in Rome was madly interested; he had a brother in Rome, a shoemaker, perhaps I knew him "Giuseppe Ricci," he might have made those very shoes--instantly confided that interesting piece of information to the gentleman on the bed. He told me they were three brothers, the eldest was the shoemaker, then came he the padrone of the osteria, and the other one "there on the bed" had vines and made very good wine. He asked me if I had ever seen the Pope, or Garibaldi (there was a picture of Garibaldi framed on the wall), and when I said I had often seen the former, and that he had a good, kind face, he again conversed amicably with the gentleman on the bed, who first raised himself into a sitting posture, and finally got up altogether and came over to the fire, evidently rather anxious to take part in the conversation. He was an enormous man and didn't look as nice as the "padrone." He rather startled me when he bent down, took my foot in his hand and inspected the shoe which he p.r.o.nounced well made. We must have sat there fully half an hour talking--they were perfectly easy, but not familiar, and wanted to hear anything I would tell them about Rome. Every now and then they dropped off into some side talk in their "patois," and I looked at the fire and thought what an extraordinary experience it was, sitting alone with such odd-looking companions in that big, bare room on the top of Mount Vesuvius. The fire had almost died out, the miserable little lamp gave a faint flickering light that only made everything look more uncanny, and every now and then the whole room would be flooded with a red lurid light (heralded always by a violent explosion which made the crazy little house shake) which threw out the figures of the two men sitting with their long legs stretched out to the fire, and keeping up a steady talk in a low voice. Still I wasn't afraid; I was quite sure they would be respectful, and do all they could to help me. They had a sort of native politeness, too, for they stopped their talk occasionally and made conversation for me; one looked out of the window and said the rain had stopped, but that the night was "brutta" and they referred to other eruptions and told me stories of accidents that had happened to people--two young men, "Inglesi," who were killed because they would go on their own way and not listen to the guides, consequently were knocked on the head by some huge stones; always a.s.suring me that this eruption was nothing. However I was getting tired, and found the time long, when suddenly we heard the noise of a party arriving, and for a moment I thought it was my people; but no, they were coming the other way, up the mountain. There was a great commotion and talking, lanterns flashing backward and forward, donkeys being led out and all preparations made for the ascent--but there seemed a hitch of some kind and I heard a woman's voice speaking English. The "padrone" had rushed downstairs as soon as he heard the party arriving, and presently he reappeared talking very hard to a lady and two gentlemen who were coming upstairs behind him and evidently wanting something which they couldn't make him understand. He was telling them to have patience, that there was an "Inglese" upstairs who would talk to them. They were so astounded when they saw me that they were speechless--il y avait de quoi--seeing a girl established there in rather a dishevelled condition, her hat off, wet cloak hanging over the chair, and entirely alone with those "Neapolitan brigands"--but one man ventured to ask timidly "did I speak English." Oh yes--Italian, too--what could I do for them. They explained that the lady was tired, cold and wet (she looked miserable, poor thing) and wanted a hot drink--brandy, anything she could get. She didn't look as if she could go on, but she said she would be all right if she could have something hot, and that nothing would induce her to give up the excursion, having come so far; so a fresh piece of wood, or peat rather of some kind (it looked quite black), was put on the fire, also water in a most primitive pot. I suggested that she should take off her cloak and let it dry a little. The men brought in some more chairs and then the new comers began to wonder who I was and what I was doing there alone at that hour of the night. They were Americans, told me their name, but I have forgotten it, it is so long ago. I told them my experience--that I was absolutely unnerved, in a dead funk, and would have done anything rather than go on toward that horrible crater. They couldn't understand that I wasn't much more afraid of spending two hours in that lonely little house in such company, and begged me to try again--there was really no danger, people were going up all the time, etc. The older man was very earnest--said they couldn't leave a compatriot in such straits--he would give me his donkey if another one couldn't be procured and would walk--how could my brother have permitted me to come back alone, etc. However I rea.s.sured him as well as I could--told them I was perfectly accustomed to Italians and knew the language well (which was a great help to me, I don't know what I should have done if I hadn't been able to talk and understand them). They stayed about 20 minutes--the lady said her drink was very nasty, but hot, and she looked better for the rest and partial drying. She wasn't as wet as I was, the rain had stopped when they were half-way up. I told them who I was and begged them to say, if they met my people coming down, a gentleman and two ladies, that they had seen me, and that I was quite dry and comfortable.

They went away most reluctantly, were half inclined to stay until the others should come back, but the guides were anxious to be off. Even at the last moment when they had got downstairs, the older man came back and begged me to come with them--"I a.s.sure you, my dear young lady, you don't know in what a dangerous position you are; if I had any authority over you I should insist, etc." He was very nice, and left all sorts of recommendations in English and a very good fee to the padrone, who of course didn't understand a word of what he was saying, but seemed to divine in some mysterious way. He looked smilingly at me, told me to cheer up ("Coraggio" is their way of saying it) and told the American, in Italian, that he would take good care of me. He was very sorry to go and leave me, said he had never done anything he liked so little. As soon as the excitement of their departure was over the two men came back. The "vigneron" went back to his bed, from where he conversed with us occasionally, and the other one settled down in his chair, and seemed half asleep. It wasn't very long before my party came back. The men heard them before I did, and told me they were arriving. I must say I was glad to see them. They had had a splendid time, seen everything beautifully, gone quite up to the stream of red-hot lava, put umbrellas and canes into it (the ends were quite black and burnt)--they were not in the least nervous, and jibed well at me. William said he had rather an uncomfortable feeling at first when he saw me and my very small attendant depart, but he forgot it in the excitement and novelty of their excursion. He thanked the padrone for taking such good care of me, proposed a hot drink (very bad it was) all round, and we took quite a friendly leave of the two gentlemen. I promised to try and find the brother shoemaker. They had crossed my American friends on the way back--William said they were just starting down when they saw another party appearing and he heard a gentleman say, "I think this must be Mr.

King." He was very much surprised to hear his name, but rode up to the speaker, to see who he was, and then the gentleman told him of his amazement at meeting his sister in that wretched little shanty and how miserable he had felt at leaving me there alone, with two Neapolitan brigands, but that I had a.s.sured him I was quite safe and not at all afraid of the two black giants--but he begged William to hurry on, as it was not really the place to leave a girl--even an American who would know how to take care of herself. We made our journey down quite easily.

It was still pitch dark, except when the fire of the mountain lighted up everything, but there was neither rain nor wind, the air was soft, and the little outlying villages looked quite quiet and peaceable, as if no great mountain was throwing up ma.s.ses of ashes and stones just over their heads, which might after all destroy them entirely. There must always be a beginning, and I suppose in the old days of Pompeii and Herculaneum the beginning was just what we have seen--first columns of smoke, then the lava stream and showers of red-hot stones, and none of the people frightened at first. We found Mother and Anne waiting for us with supper. They had been a little anxious, particularly as the weather was so bad, and they evidently had had more of a tempest than we had.

They were of course madly interested in our expedition and were astounded that I was the coward. They wouldn't have been at all surprised if it had been Gert. It is true she is nearly always timid, and we used to play all sorts of tricks on her when we were children at Cherry Lawn, beguile her up into the big cherry tree, then take the ladder away and tell her to climb down; or take the peg out of the boat, let in a little water and pretend it was sinking--so she was triumphant this time. I can't understand why I was so frightened. I am not usually afraid of anything, but that time no reasoning would have been of the least use, and nothing would have made me go on to the crater. Mother was rather like the American--she wouldn't have liked the flames and the awful rumbling noises any more than I did, but she would have been much more afraid of the lonely house and long wait on the mountain in that wretched little inn with those two big, black-bearded Neapolitans.

Le monde est pet.i.t--years afterward my brother William was travelling in America, and in the smoking-room all the men were telling their experiences either at home or abroad--many strange adventures. One gentleman said he had never forgotten a curious scene on the top of Mount Vesuvius in eruption, when he had met an American girl, quite alone, at night, in the dark and rain, in a miserable little shanty with two great, big Neapolitans "looking like brigands" (he evidently always retained that first impression of my companions). He told all the story, giving my name, which excited much comment; some of the listeners evidently thought it was a traveller's tale, arranged on some slight foundation of truth--however, when he had finished William said: "That story is perfectly true. The young lady is my sister, and I am the Mr.

King to whom you spoke that night on the mountain, in the dark, begging me to hurry down, and not leave my sister any longer alone in such company." They naturally didn't recognise each other, having merely met for a moment in the dark, both wrapped up in cloaks and under umbrellas.

They had quite a talk, and the gentleman was very anxious to know how they found me--whether I wasn't really more uncomfortable than I allowed, and what had become of me.

We decided to move on to Sorrento and settle ourselves there for some time. We also wanted to go to Capri, but the steamers had stopped running, and we could only get over in a sailboat. The man of the hotel advised us to go from Sorrento, it was shorter and a charming sail on a bright day. The drive from Castellamare was beautiful; divine views of the sea all the time and equally lovely when we came down upon Sorrento, which seemed to stand in the midst of orange groves and vineyards. The Hotel Sirena is perched on the top of a high cliff rising up straight from the sea. We had charming rooms with a nice broad balcony, and at our feet a little sheltered cove and beach of golden sand. There were very few people in the hotel--the one or two English spinsters of a certain age whom one always meets travelling, and two artists. We were only about twelve people at table-d'hote; and as we were six that didn't leave many outsiders. It was before the days of restaurants and small tables. There was one long, narrow table--the padrone carved himself at a smaller one, and talked to us occasionally. There was too much wind the first days to think of attempting Capri, so we drove all over the country, walked about in the orange groves and up and down the steep hills, through lovely little paths that wound in and out of olive woods along the side of the mountain, sometimes clambering up a bit of straight rock, that seemed a wall impossible to get over--when it was too stiff there would be steps cut out in the earth on one side, half hidden by the long gra.s.s and weeds.

Henrietta and I had discovered a pony trap with a pair of st.u.r.dy little mountain ponies, quite black, and we drove ourselves all over. Mother wouldn't let us go alone, so the stableman sent his son with us, aged 12 years. He wasn't much of a protector! but he knew the ponies, and the country, and everybody we met. He was a pretty little fellow--not at all the dark Italian type, rather fair, with blue eyes, but always the olive skin of the South. He invariably got off the little seat behind and took a short cut up the hills when the road was very steep, though I don't think his weight made any perceptible difference.

The evenings were delicious. We sat almost always on the balcony--sometimes with a light wrap when the breeze from the sea freshened about 9 o'clock. How beautiful it was; the sea deep blue, the islands changing from pink to purple, and as soon as it was dark Vesuvius sending up its pyramid of fire. It looked magnificent, but very formidable. Almost every morning we saw a party come and bathe in the little cove at the foot of the cliff--a pretty little boat came around the point with a family party on board--two ladies, one man and three children. I think they were English, their installation was so practical. They had a small tent, camp-stools, and table, also two toy sailboats which were a source of much pleasure and tribulation, as they frequently got jammed in between the rocks, or caught in the thick seaweed, and there was great excitement until they were started afresh.

We made great friends with the sister of the man at the hotel. She was a nun, such a gentle, good face--she came every morning to get flowers for the little chapel of Maria--Stella del Mare--which was near the house, standing high on the hill and easily seen from the sea. One day she seemed very busy and anxious about her flowers, so we asked what was happening, and she said it was their great fete, and they were going to decorate the chapel and dress the Virgin--"should we like to see it?"

The Virgin had a beautiful dress--white satin with silver embroidery and some fine jewels which some rich forestieri had given. We were delighted to go, and went with her to the little chapel, which looked very pretty filled with flowers and greens, one beautiful dark, shiny leaf which made much effect. The Virgin was removed from her niche--her vestments brought in with great care, wrapped in soft paper, and the good sister most reverently and happily began the toilet. The dress was very elaborate, had been the wedding dress of an Italian Principessa, and there were some handsome pins and rings--a gold chain on her neck with a pearl ornament. She was rather lamenting over the cessation of gifts--when I suddenly remembered my ring--quite a plain gold one with the cross (pax) one always sees in Rome, which had been blessed by the Pope. I put it on with three or four other little ornaments one day when we had an audience. I took it off, explained to her what it was, that it had been blessed by the Saint Pere and that I should like very much to give it to the Virgin, if she wasn't afraid of accepting anything from a heretic. She was a little doubtful, but the fact of its having had the Pope's blessing outweighed other considerations, and the ring was instantly put on the Virgin's hand. She told us afterward that she had told it to the priest, and he said she was quite right to accept it, it might be the means of bringing me to the "true church." We grew really quite fond of her. It was such a simple, childish faith, her whole life was given up to her little chapel, cleaning and decorating it on feast days. All the children in the country brought flowers and leaves, one little boy came once, she told us, with a dead bird with bright feathers that he found, quite beautiful.

We made friends with the people at the table-d'hote and they were very anxious we should come down to the reading-room at night and make music--but our mourning of course prevented that. We used to hear the piano sometimes and a man's voice singing, not too badly.

At last the wind seemed to have blown itself out, and our landlord said we could get easily to Capri. He could recommend an excellent boatman who had a large, safe boat and who was most prudent, as well as his son.

With a fair wind we ought to go over in two hours. We wanted to stay over one night, and he arranged everything. The boat would wait and bring us back the next evening. We started early--about 9 o'clock--so as to get over for breakfast. The boat was most comfortable, a big broad tub, with rather a small sail, plenty of room for all our bags, wraps, etc. The sea was divine, blue and dancing, but there was not much wind.

We progressed rather slowly, the breeze was mild, the boat heavy and the sail small, but n.o.body minded. It was delicious drifting along on that summer sea--just enough ripple to make little waves that tumbled up against the side of the boat, and a slight rocking motion that was delightful--couldn't have suggested sea-sickness or nervousness to the most timid sailor. There were plenty of boats about (mostly fishermen) of all sizes, some of them with the dark red sail that is so effective, and several pleasure boats and small yachts. _They_ were almost as broad and solid as our boat; hadn't at all the graceful outlines and large sails that we are accustomed to. We were exactly three hours going over though the breeze freshened a little as we got near Capri. We were quite excited when we made out the landing-place ("Marina grande") and the long, steep flight of steps leading up to the town. The last time we were there we went by the regular tourist steamer from Naples. There were quant.i.ties of people and a perfect rush for donkeys and guides as soon as we arrived; also the whole population of Capri on the sh.o.r.e chattering, offering donkeys, flowers, funny little bottles of wine, and a troop of children running up the steps alongside of the donkeys and clamouring for "un piccolo soldo." This time there was no one at the landing-place, but the man of the hotel with a sedan chair for mother, donkeys for us if we wanted them (we didn't--preferred walking) and a wheelbarrow or hand cart of some kind for the luggage, which was slight--merely bags and wraps. There were a good many steps, but they were broad, we didn't mind. We found a very nice little hotel, kept by an English couple. The woman had been for years maid in the Sheridan family. She told us there was no one in the hotel but one Englishman--in fact no foreigners in the island. We had a very good breakfast in a nice, fairly large room with views of the sea in all directions, and started off immediately afterward to see as much as we could. Mother had her chair, but didn't go all the way with us. We pa.s.sed through narrow, badly paved little streets with low, pink houses, lots of people, women and children, standing in the doorways--no men, I suppose they were all fishing--and then climbed up to the Villa Tiberius--a steep climb at the end, but such a view. Before we got quite to the top we stopped at the "Salto di Tiberio," a rock high up over the water from which the guide told us that monarch had his victims precipitated into the sea. We dropped down stones (I remember quite well doing the same thing when we were there before) to see how long it was before they touched the water, which showed at what a height one was. The palace is too much in ruins to be very interesting, but there was enough to show how large it must have been, and bits of wall and arches still standing. We went on to the chapel, drank some rather bad wine which the hermit offered us, bought some paper weights and crosses made out of bits of coloured marble which had been found in the ruins, and wrote our names in his book. We looked back in the book to see if there were any interesting signatures, but there was nothing remarkable--a great many Germans.

We came home by another path, winding down through small gardens, vineyards, and occasionally along the steep side of the mountain, all stones and ragged rocks, with the sea far down at our feet. There were a good many houses scattered about, one or two quite isolated near the top. We had a running escort of little black-eyed brown children all talking and offering little bunches of mountain flowers. The guides remonstrated vigorously occasionally and they would disappear, but were immediately replaced by another band from the next group of houses we pa.s.sed.

We were rather tired when we got back to the hotel as the climbing was stiff in some parts, and glad to rest a little before dinner. The padrona came in and talked to us. It seemed funny to see an English woman in that milieu with her brown hair quite smooth and plain and a clean print dress. She said she liked her life, and the people of the island. They were industrious, simple and easy-going. She talked a great deal about the Sheridans, for whom she had of course the greatest admiration, said one of the sons came often to Capri, and that his cousin Norton had married a Capri fisher-girl. We had heard the story, of course, and were much interested in all she told us. She said the girl was lovely, an absolute peasant, had walked about with bare feet like all the rest, but that she had been over to England, was taught there all they could get into her head, and was quite changed, had two children. I remember their telling us in Rome what a difficult process that education was. She was willing and anxious to learn to read and write, but her ambition and her capability of receiving instruction stopped there--when they wanted to teach her a little history (not very far back either) and the glories of the Sheridan name she was recalcitrant, couldn't interest herself and dismissed the subject saying, "ma sono morti tutti" (they are all dead). She always kept her little house at Capri, in fact was there now, perhaps we should like to see her. We said we should very much.

We had nice, clean comfortable rooms and made out our plan for the next day. We didn't care about the Blue Grotto--we had seen it before, and besides they told us that at this season of the year it would be almost impossible, one must have a perfectly still sea as the entrance is not easy--very low--and a big wave would swamp the boat. We heard the wind getting up a little in the night and we woke the next morning to see a grey, cloudy sky, little showers falling occasionally, and a fine gale, sea rough, no little boats out, one or two fishing boats racing along under well-reefed sails, anything but tempting for a three hours' sail in an open boat. Mother looked decidedly nervous; however the matter was taken out of our hands, for the boatmen appeared saying they would not go out, which was rather a relief; we didn't mind staying. There was a fair library in the house, books that visitors had left, so we hunted up a history of Capri (Baedeker was soon exhausted), and got through our morning pretty well, some reading aloud, the others knitting or working.

We had all taken some sort of work in our bags, various experiences of small hotels on rainy days having taught us to provide our own amus.e.m.e.nt.

It cleared in the afternoon though the wind was still very high and we set off--on donkeys this time--and mother in her chair, to the other side of the island. Two or three girls, handsome enough in their bright skirts, bare brown legs and thick braids of hair, came with us to take charge of the donkeys. As we were going up a steep flight of steps (which the donkeys did very well and deliberately) they began to tell us about Mrs. Norton and said we should pa.s.s her house. It was amusing to hear them talk of her wonderful luck in being married to this "bel Inglese"; "adesso fa la signora sta in camera tutto il giorno--colle mani bianche" ("Now she does the lady, sits in her room all day with white hands"). We pa.s.sed several houses rather better than the ordinary fisherman's cottage and then came upon a nice little white house, standing rather high, with a garden and gate, which they told us was Mrs. Norton's. We stopped a moment at the gate, looking at the garden; mother's bearers put her chair down and gave themselves a rest, and we saw a lady appear very simply dressed in something dark, who came to the gate and asked us in very nice English with a pretty accent if we would come in and rest, as the day was hot and we had had a steep climb. We heard all the fisher-girls giggling and saying "Eccola la Signora." We were half ashamed to have been seen gaping in at her garden, but the invitation was simply and cordially given, and we accepted. Her manner to mother was quite pretty, respectful to the older lady. We went into a pretty little sitting-room quite simply furnished, with books and photographs about. She showed us pictures of all her family, her husband (regretting extremely that he was not there), her mother-in-law, Mrs.

Norton, and her children. She seemed very proud of her son, said he was at school in England and didn't care very much for Capri. I asked her if she liked England, and though she said "very much," I thought I detected a regret for her old home, though not perhaps her old life. Her face quite lighted up when we said how much we admired her island with its high cliffs and beautiful blue sea. I didn't find her as handsome as I expected, but the eyes were fine and her smile charming. Her manner was perfectly natural, she showed us very simply all she had, and was not in the least curious about us--asked us no questions, was evidently accustomed to seeing foreigners and tourists at Capri. We stayed about half an hour, and then went on our way. She shook hands with us all, and looked most smilingly at mother; couldn't quite understand her black dress and white cap--said we mustn't let her do too much, "she is not so young as you, la mamma."

Of course the fisher-girls were in a wild state of excitement when we came out--all talked at once, stopping in the middle of the path, the donkeys, too; when they had much to say, and telling the whole story over again. I said to one of them, "Should you like to marry a 'bel Inglese' and go and live in another country far away from Capri with no sun nor blue sky?" She thought a moment, looking straight at me with her big, black eyes and then answered, sensibly enough, my rather foolish question--she had never thought about it--was quite happy where she was.

It was a curious meeting.

When we got back to the hotel we asked our padrona about Mrs. Norton and the life she led. She told us Mrs. Norton mere[25] had been in despair when her son married the fisher-girl--he was very good-looking and her favourite, and it was a great blow to her, but that she had been very good to her and was fond of the boy. She didn't seem to think the young woman had had a very happy life, but that she was always delighted to get back to Capri. "Did she see any of her old friends?" "Not much--that was difficult--she only came in the summer, the children generally with her, and they fished and sailed and made their own life apart."

[25] The well-known poetess and beauty, nee Sheridan.

We got back to Sorrento the next morning--the sea beautifully smooth and calm--no trace of the great waves that had roared all night into the numerous caves, throwing up showers of foam.

My dear, I seem to have prosed on for pages about Naples, but once started I couldn't stop. Tell Henrietta I feel rather like her when we used to call her Mrs. Nickleby, because she never could keep to any one subject, but always made long, foolish digressions.

Monday, April 13th.

Last night we had a pleasant dinner at Mr. Hooker's, the American banker. He still lives in one end of his apartment in the Palazzo Bonaparte, but has rented the greater part to the Suzannets.[26] We were a small party--ourselves, Schuylers, Ristori (Marchesa Caprannica), and her charming daughter. Ristori is very striking looking--very large, but dignified and easy in her movements, and a wonderfully expressive face.

The girl, Bianca Caprannica, is charming, tall, fair, graceful. Ristori talked a great deal, speaks French, of course, perfectly.

[26] Comte de Suzannet, Secretary of the French Emba.s.sy.

She admires the French stage, and we discussed various actors and actresses. I should love to see her act once, her voice is so full and beautiful. Such a characteristic scene took place after coffee. We were still sitting in the dining-room when we heard a carriage come in, and instantly there was a great sound of stamping horses, angry coachman, whip freely applied, etc. It really made a great noise and disturbance.

Ristori listened for a moment, then rushed to the window (very high up--we were on the top story), exclaiming it was her man, opened it, and proceeded to expostulate with the irate coachman in very energetic Italian--"Che diavolo!" were these her horses or his, was he a Christian man to treat poor brutes like that, etc.--a stream of angry remonstrance in her deep, tragic voice. There was a cessation of noise in the court-yard--her voice dominated everything--and then I suppose the coachman explained and excused himself, but we were so high up and inside that we couldn't hear. She didn't listen, but continued to abuse him until at length Hooker went to the window and suggested that she might cease scolding and come back into the room, which she did quite smilingly--the storm had pa.s.sed.

This morning we have been to the Doria Gallery. The palace is enormous, a great court and staircase and some fine pictures. We liked a portrait by Velasquez of a Pope--Innocent X, I think--and some of the Claude Lorraines, with their curious blue-green color. We walked home by the Corso. It was rather warm, but shady always on one side of the street.

After breakfast Cardinal Bibra, the Bishop of Frascati, came to see us.

He was much disappointed that we had had such a horrid day for our Frascati and Tusculum expedition, and wants us to go again, but we haven't time. We want to go to Ostia and Albano if it is possible. He and W. plunged into ecclesiastical affairs. It is curious what an importance they all attach to W.'s being a Protestant; seem to think his judgment must be fairer. He also knew about Uncle Evelyn having married and settled in Perugia, and had heard the Pope speak about him. He spoke about the Marquis de Gabriac (Desprez's predecessor) and regretted his departure very much. I think he had not yet seen the new Amba.s.sador. W.

told him Desprez would do all he could to make things go smoothly, that his whole career had been made at the Quai d'Orsay, where every important question for years had been discussed with him.

Tuesday, April 14th.

We dined last night at the Black Spanish Emba.s.sy with the Cardenas. It was very pleasant. We had two cardinals--Bibra and a Spanish cardinal whose name I didn't catch; he had a striking face, keen and stern, didn't talk much at dinner--Desprez and his son, the Sulmonas, Bandinis, Primolis (she is nee Bonaparte), d'Aulnays, all the personnel of the French Emba.s.sy, and one or two young men from the other emba.s.sies; quite a small dinner. W. took in Princess Sulmona and enjoyed it very much.

Primoli took me, and I had Prince Bandini on the other side. Both men were pleasant enough. All the women except me were in high dresses, and Primoli asked me how I had the conscience to appear "decolletee" and show bare shoulders to cardinals. I told him we weren't told that we should meet any cardinals, and that in these troubled days I thought a woman in full dress was such a minor evil that I didn't believe they would even notice what one had on; but he seemed to think they were observant, says all churchmen of any denomination are. Their life is so inactive that they get their experience from what they see and hear.

I talked a few minutes to Princess Bandini after dinner, but she went away almost immediately, as she had music (Tosti) at home. We promised to go to her later--I wanted very much to hear Tosti. The evening was short. The cardinals always go away early--at 9.30 (we dined at 7.30, and every one was punctual). As long as they stayed the men made a circle around them. They are treated with much deference (we women were left to our own devices). W. said the conversation was not very interesting, they talk with so much reserve always. He said the Spaniard hardly spoke, and Cardinal Bibra talked antiquities, the excavations still to be made in Tusculum, etc. I think they go out very little now, only occasionally to Black emba.s.sies. Their position is of course much changed since the Italians are in Rome. They live much more quietly; never receive, their carriages are much simpler, no more red trappings, nothing to attract attention--so different from our day. When Pio Nono went out it was a real royal progress. First came the "batta strada" or "piqueur" on a good horse, stopping all the carriages and traffic; then the Pope in his handsome coach, one or two ecclesiastics with him, followed by several cardinals in their carriages, minor prelates, members of the household and the escort of "gardes n.o.bles." All the gentlemen got out of their carriages, knelt or bowed very low; the ladies stood in theirs, making low curtseys, and many people knelt in the street. One saw the old man quite distinctly, dressed all in white; leaning forward a little and blessing the crowd with a large sweeping movement of his hand. He rarely walked in the streets of Rome, but often in the villas--Pamphili or Borghese. There almost all the people he met knelt; children kissed his hand, and he would sometimes pat their little black heads. We crossed him one day in the Villa Pamphili. We were a band of youngsters--Roman and foreigners--and all knelt. The old man looked quite pleased at the group of young people--stopped a moment and gave his blessing with a pretty smile. Some of our compatriots were rather horrified at seeing us kneel with all the rest--Protestants doing homage to the head of the Roman Catholic Church--and expressed their opinion to father: it would certainly be a very bad note for my brother.[27] However, father didn't think the United States Government would attach much importance to our papal demonstration, and we continued to kneel and ask his blessing whenever we met His Holiness. He had a kind, gentle face (a twinkle, too, in his eyes), and was always so fond of children and young people. The contrast between him and his successor is most striking. Leo XIII is tall, slight, hardly anything earthly about him--the type of the intellectual, ascetic priest--all his will and energy shining out of his eyes, which are extraordinarily bright and keen for a man of his age.

[27] General Rufus King, last United States Minister to the Vatican.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Pope Pius IX.]

We didn't stay very long after the cardinals left, as I was anxious to get off to Princess Bandini. We found a great many people, and music going on. Some woman had been singing--a foreigner, either English or American--and Tosti was just settled at the piano. He is quite charming; has very little voice, but says his things delightfully, accompanying himself with a light, soft touch. He sang five or six times, princ.i.p.ally his own songs, with much expression; also a French song extremely well.

His diction is perfect, his style simple and easy. One wonders why every one doesn't sing in the same way. They don't, as we perceived when a man with a big voice, high barytone, came forward, and sang two songs, Italian and German. The voice was fine, and the man sang well, but didn't give half the pleasure that Tosti did with his "voix de compositeur" and wonderful expression. He was introduced to me, and we had a pleasant talk. He loves England, and goes there every season. A good many people came in after us. I wanted to introduce W. to some one and couldn't find him, thought he must have gone, and was just going to say good-night to Princess Bandini when her husband came up, saying, "You mustn't go yet--your husband is deep in a talk with Cardinal Howard," and took me to one of the small salons, where I saw the two gentlemen sitting, talking hard. The Cardinal was just going when we came in, so he intercepted W. and carried him off to this quiet corner where they would be undisturbed. They must have been there quite three-quarters of an hour, for I went back into the music-room, and it was some little time before W. found me there. Every one had gone, but we stayed on a little while, talking to the two Bandinis. It is a funny change for W. to plunge into all this clerical society of Rome; but he says he understands their point de vue much better, now that he sees them here, particularly when both parties can talk quite frankly. It would be almost impossible to have such a talk in France--each side begins with such an evident prejudice. The honest clerical really believes that the liberal is a man absolutely devoid of religious feeling of any kind--a dangerous character, incapable of real patriotic feeling, and doing great harm to his country. The liberal is not quite so narrow-minded; but he, too, in his heart holds the clergy responsible for the want of progress, the narrow grooves they would like the young generation to move in, and the influence they try to exercise in families through the women (who all go to church and confession). With the pitiless logic of the French character every disputed point stands out clear and sharp, and discussion is very difficult. Here they are more supple--leave a larger part to human weaknesses.

Thursday, April 16th.