The Sunny Side of Diplomatic Life, 1875-1912 Part 12

"No!" answered Sgambati. "The-whole meaning would be lost; but you can broaden it out and sing 'Miaa.'"

Another s.h.i.+ning light is Tosti, who comes to us very often. He is by far the best beloved of popular composers. He understands the voice thoroughly and composes songs which are melodious and easy to sing.

Therefore every one sings them. He has not much of a voice, but when he sings his compositions he makes them so charming that they sell like wildfire. He is the most amiable of geniuses, and never refuses to sing when he is asked.

Yesterday I sang something I had composed as a _vocalize_. He liked it so much that he asked why I did not sing it as a song.

I said, "I cannot write either it or the accompaniment."

"That is easy enough," he replied. "I will write it for you," and scribbled it off then and there.

He dedicated a piece to me called "Forever," which I sing on every occasion.

I have a great friend in Madame Helbig, the wife of Herr Helbig, the German archaeologist in Rome. She is born a Russian princess, and is certainly one of the best amateur musicians, if not the best, I have ever met. She is of immense proportions, being very tall and very stout. One might easily mistake her for a priest, as she is always dressed in a long black garment which is a sort of water-proof; and as her hair is short and she never wears a hat, you may well imagine that she is very well known in Rome. When she hails a cab to take her up the very steep Caffarelli Hill, where they live, the cabbies, who are humorists in their way, look at her, then at their poor, half-fed horses and the weak springs of their dilapidated _bottes_ (cabs), shake their heads, and, holding up two dirty fingers, say, "_In due volte_"

(which means "in two trips"). Mr. Ross, the Norwegian painter, whose English is not quite up to the mark, said she was the "h.e.l.l-biggest"

woman he ever saw; and when she undertook a journey to Russia, said, "Dear me, how can she ever travel with that corpse of hers?"

ROME, HOLY WEEK, _1881_.

My dear Aunt,--The churches are open all day. St. Peter's, Laterano, Santa Maria Maggiore each has one of the famous sopranos. The music is--well, simply divine! I can't say more. You must hear it to appreciate it. (Some day I hope you will.) Good Friday is the great day at St. Peter's. The church is so crowded that one can hardly get a place to stand. There are not chairs enough in any of the churches during Holy Week for the numerous strangers that pervade Rome. My servant generally carries a camp-stool and rug, and I sit entranced, listening in the deepening twilight to the heavenly strains of Palestrina, Pergolese, and Marcello. Sometimes the soloists sing Gounod's "Ava Maria" and Rossini's "Stabat Mater," and, fortunately, drown the squeaky tones of the old organ. A choir of men and boys accompanies them in "The Inflammatus," where the high notes of M.'s tearful voice are almost supernatural. People swarm to the Laterano on Sat.u.r.day to hear the Vespers, which are especially fine. After the solo is finished, the priests begin their monotonous Gregorian chants, and at the end of those they _slap-bang_ their prayer-books on the wooden benches on which they are sitting, making a noise to wake the dead. I thought they were furious with one another and were refusing to sing any more. It seemed very out of place for such an exhibition of temper.

A knowing friend told me that it was an old Jewish custom which had been repeated for ages on this particular day and at this hour. It closes the Lenten season.

On Easter Sunday I sang in the American church. Dr. Nevin urged me so much that I did not like to refuse. I chose Mendelssohn's beautiful anthem, "Come unto Me."

ROME, _1883_.

Dear ----,--We have moved from the Palazzo Rospigliosi to the Palazzo t.i.ttoni, in Via Rasella, which leads from the Palazzo Barberini down to the Fontana di Trevi. I never would have chosen this palace, beautiful as it is, if I could have foreseen the misery I suffer when I hear the wicked drivers goading and beating their poor beasts up this steep hill. The poor things strain every muscle under their incredible burdens, but are beaten, all the same. I am really happy when I hear the crow--I mean the bray--of a donkey. It has a jubiliant ring in it, as if he were somehow enjoying himself, and my heart sympathizes with him. But it may be only his way of expressing the deepest depths of woe.

Mrs. Charles Bristed, of New York, a recent convert to the Church of Rome, receives on Sat.u.r.day evenings. She has accomplished what hitherto has been considered impossible--that is, the bringing together of the "blacks" (the ultra-Catholic party, belonging to the Vatican) and the "whites," the party adhering to the Quirinal. These two parties meet in her _salon_ as if they were of the same color. The Pope's singers are the great attraction. She must either have a tremendously long purse or great persuasive powers to get them, for her _salon_ is the only place outside the churches where one can hear them. Therefore this _salon_ is the only platform in Rome where the two antagonistic parties meet and glare at each other.

We went there last Sat.u.r.day. The chairs were arranged in rows, superb in their symmetry at first, but after the first petticoats had swept by everything was in a hopeless confusion. Two ladies sitting on one chair, one lady appropriating two chairs instead of one, and another sitting sideways on three. The consequence was that there was a conglomeration of empty chairs in the middle of the room, while crowds of weary guests stood in and near the doorway, with the thermometer sky-high! When one sees the Pope's singers in evening dress and white cravats the prestige and effect are altogether lost. This particular evening was unusually brilliant, for the monsignores and cardinals were extra-abundant. There were printed programs handed to us with the list of the numerous songs that we were going to hear.

The famous Moresca, who sings at the Laterano, is a full-faced soprano of forty winters. He has a tear in each note and a sigh in each breath.

He sang the jewel song in "Faust," which seemed horribly out of place.

Especially when he asks (in the hand-gla.s.s) if he is really Marguerita, one feels tempted to answer, "_Macche_," for him. Then they sang a chorus of Palestrina, all screaming at the top of their lungs, evidently thinking they were in St. Peter's. It never occurred to them to temper their voices to the poor shorn lambs wedged up against the walls.

Afterward followed the duet, "_Quis est h.o.m.o_," of Rossini's "Stabat Mater," sung by two gray-haired sopranos. This was extremely beautiful, but the best of all was the solo sung by a fat, yellow-mustached barytone. I never heard anything to compare to his exquisite voice. We shall never hear anything like it in this world, and I doubt in the next. Maroni is the man who always directs the Pope's singers. He makes more noise beating time with his roll of music on the piano than all the cab-drivers below in the Piazza del Popolo.

The supper-room was a sight to behold--the enormous table fairly creaking under the weight of every variety of food filled half the room, leaving very little s.p.a.ce for the guests. The sopranos got in first, ahead even of the amiable hostess, who stopped the whole procession, trying to go abreast through the door with a portly cardinal and a white diplomat, leaving us, the hungry black and white sheep, still wrestling with the chairs.

You must have heard of Hamilton Aide, the author of _The Poet and the Prince_ and other works. He comes frequently to see us, and always brings either a new book or a new song--for he is not only a distinguished author, but a composer as well. He sings willingly when asked. He is very fond of one of his songs, called "The Danube River."

If he had not brought the music and I had not seen the t.i.tle as I laid it on the piano, I should never have known that it was anything so lively as a river he was singing about. Though I could occasionally hear the word "river," I hoped that as the river and singer went on they would have a little more "go" in them; but they continued babbling along regardless of obstacles and time. I was extremely mortified to see that several of my guests had dozed off. The river and the singer had had a too-lullaby effect on them.

ROME, _1883_.

Dear ----,--Next to the Palazzo t.i.ttoni lives a delightful family--the Count and Countess Gigliucci, with a son and two daughters. The Countess is the celebrated Clara Novello of oratorio fame. The three ladies are perfectly charming. I love to go to see them, and often drop in about tea-hour, when I get an excellent cup of English tea and delicious m.u.f.fins, and enjoy them in this cozy family circle.

Though they live In a palace and have a showy _portier_, they do not disdain to do their shopping out of the window by means of a basket, which the servant-girl lets down on a string for the daily marketing.

Even cards and letters are received in this way, as the porter refuses to carry anything up to their third story. "_Sort.i.ta!_" screamed down in a shrill voice is the answer to the visitor waiting below in the courtyard.

When the three ladies are sitting at the tea-table dispensing tea, one of them will suddenly commence the trio from "Elijah"--"Lift thine eyes"--the other two joining in (singing without an accompaniment, of course) in the most delicious manner. Their voices are so alike in _timbre_ and quality that it is almost impossible to distinguish one from the other. After the trio they go on pouring out tea as if nothing had happened, whereas for me it is an event. It is such perfection!

Countess Gigliucci comes sometimes and sings with me. Her voice is still beautiful and clear as a bell. What must it have been in its prime? In her letters to me she calls me "my delicious blackbird."

ROME, _March, 1883_.

The King of Sweden came to Rome on an official visit to their Majesties. I suppose it is called official because he is staying as a guest at the Quirinal, therefore he is hardly seen in private. You remember that I saw a good deal of him when he was in Paris in 1867. He was then hereditary Prince to the throne of Sweden, and was called Prince Oscar. He only stayed three days at Rome. There was a gala dinner to which all the diplomats were invited. He greeted me very cordially, shook hands in his genial manner, and talked about the past (sixteen years ago) as if it were yesterday. He said, smilingly:

"You see, since I have become King I have cut my hair."

I had no idea what he meant and looked puzzled.

"Don't you remember," he said, "you called me 'the _Hair_ Apparent' on account of my long locks?"

"Oh, your Majesty," I said, "how could I have been so rude?"

"It was not rudeness," he said, kindly. "You said what you liked in those days. You were not then a diplomat's wife."

The day of his departure from Rome we went to the station. The King was very gracious, and said to Johan, "I hope you and your wife will come some day to Sweden," and gave my hand an extra-hearty squeeze. A hearty squeeze from his hand was something to remember!

The Queen has asked me to sing with her, and I go regularly twice a week to the Quirinal at two o'clock. We sing all kinds of duets, cla.s.sical and the ultra-modern. The Queen's singing-master, Signor Vera, and sometimes the composer, Signor Marchetti, accompany us--they bring new music which has appeared, which we _dechiffrons_ under their critical eyes. It is the greatest delight I have to be able to be with her Majesty in such an informal way. She is so enchanting, so natural, so gay, and so fascinating. No one can resist her. Am I not a greatly privileged person? I presented Nina to her last week--her Majesty told me to bring her with me on one of our singing-lesson days at half past one--so we had a half-hour of conversation before the singing-master came. The Queen said, after Nina had gone: "What a beauty she is! She will set the world on fire."

_May, 1883._

The visit of the newly married couple, Prince Tomaso, brother of the Queen, and Princess Isabella of Bavaria, has been the occasion of many festivities.

Yesterday there was a garden party in the Quirinal gardens. It was a perfect day, and the beautiful toilets of the ladies made the lawn look like a _parterre_ of living flowers. The grounds are so large that there were several entertainments going on at the same time without interfering with one another.

A band of gipsies in their brilliant dresses were singing in one place, and in a _bosquet_ a troupe of Neapolitans were dancing the tarantella in their white-stockinged feet. There were booths where you could have your photograph taken and your fortune told. Everywhere you were given souvenirs of some kind. One played at the _tombola_ and always got a prize. Buffets, of course, at every turn. We went from one surprise to another. The Prince of Naples was omnipresent and seemed to enjoy himself immensely. Whoever arranged this _fete_ ought to have received a decoration. Twilight and the obligation of having to dress for the evening concert put a stop to this delightful afternoon. In the evening there was a gala concert which was very entertaining. It commenced by a piece written by the Baron Renzie and very well performed by amateurs, and some mandolinists, who played several things more or less acceptably, and then came a long and tedious symphony which was too cla.s.sical for the majority of the audience. The Queen and the d.u.c.h.ess of Genoa seemed to enjoy it. I did, too, but the King looked bored to death, and the bridegroom went fast to sleep. The Queen, who was sitting next to him, gave him a vigorous pinch to wake him up. The pinch had the intended effect, but the groan he gave was almost too audible. In the interlude when ices were pa.s.sed the Princess talked with the wives of the diplomats who were brought up to her. The Queen, still laughing at her brother's discomfiture, pa.s.sed about among the other guests.

_December, 1883._

We returned to Rome a week ago. It was said that their Majesties had expressed the desire that as many diplomats as possible should be present when the Crown Prince of Germany came for his visit to the Quirinal.

During the stay of the Crown-Prince Frederic the crowds waited patiently outside the Quirinal, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He is very popular, and whenever he shows himself he is cheered to _outrance_. Sometimes he came out on the balcony, and once he took the Prince of Naples up in his strong arms and cried "_Evviva l'Italia_"

The people clapped their hands till they were worn out.

There were fireworks from the Castel St. Angelo in his honor which were wonderfully fine.

To reach the balconies reserved for the _Corps Diplomatique_ we were obliged to leave our carriages in a little side-street and go through a long carpeted pa.s.sage, the walls of which were hung with fine old tapestries taken from the Quirinal in order to hide the unsightly objects concealed behind them. The balconies were erected on the outside of the dilapidated houses which overlook the Tiber and facing the Castel St. Angelo. How they ever managed to make this pa.s.sage is a mystery! In the daytime one could not see the possibility of cutting through the labyrinth of these forlorn tumble-down houses. We sat trembling for fear that the shaky planks would suddenly give way and plunge us into the whirling Tiber under our feet. The fireworks were the most gorgeous display of pyrotechnics I ever saw. And the bouquet as the _finale_ was a magnificent tornado of fire which left a huge "F"

blazing, which lighted up the December night. We were thankful when we reached home alive.