Chapter 29

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 "Medjé" 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 Embassy 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 attitude.

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."

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 bumped 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 Saturday 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 Saturday; 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 Saturday, 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.

"Because, did you not know that he has the _mal'occhio_ [the evil eye]? I thought every one knew it," said he, making signs with his fingers to counteract the effect of the devil and all his works. We said indignantly, "If every one knows it, why were we not told?" Our tormentor continued; "There is no doubt about it, and nothing can better prove that people are afraid of him than that when, the other evening, he gave a _soirée_ and invited all Rome, only half a dozen people out of some five hundred ventured to go. The mountains of sandwiches, the cart-loads of cakes, the seas of lemonade, set forth on the supper-table, were attacked only by the courageous few."

"How dreadful to have such a thing said about you! Who can prove that he or any one else has got the evil eye?"

"Sometimes there is no foundation for the report; perhaps some one, out of spite or jealousy, spreads the rumor, and there you are."

"Does it not need more than a rumor?" I asked.

"Not much; but we must not talk about him, or something dreadful will happen to us."

"Do you also believe in such rank nonsense?" I asked.

"Of course I do!" Mr. Marshal replied. "You can see for yourself. If you had not gone with him your horses would not have run away, and you would surely have got your million."

"Well, we have escaped death and destruction and the million; perhaps we ought to be thankful. But in his case I would go and shut myself up in a monastery and have done with it."

"No monastery would take him. No brotherhood would brother _him_."

"You can't make me believe in the evil eye. Neither shall I ever believe in dreams again."

You will hardly believe how many acquaintances I have made here. I think I know all Rome, from the Quirinal and the Vatican down. The Haseltines know nearly every one, and whom they don't know I _do_.

We were invited to see the Colosseum and the Forum illuminations, and were asked to go to the Villino, which stands in the gardens of the Palace of the Caesars, just over the Forum.

That there would be a very select company we had been told; but we did not expect to see King Victor Emanuel, Prince Umberto, and Princess Margherita, who, with their numerous suites and many invited guests, quite filled the small rooms of the Villino. I was presented to them all.

I found the Princess perfectly bewitching and charming beyond words; the Prince was very amiable, and the King royally indifferent and visibly bored. That sums up my impressions.

At the risk of committing _lèse majesté_, I must say that the King is more than plain. He has the most enormous mustaches, wide-open eyes, and a very gruff, military voice, speaking little, but staring much. The Prince, whom I had seen in Paris during the Exposition, talked mostly about Paris and of his admiration of the Emperor and Empress. The Princess was fascinating, and captivated me on the spot by her affability and her natural and sweet manner.

The Colosseum looked rather theatrical in the glare of the red and green Bengal lights, and I think it lost a great deal of its dignity and grandeur by this cheap method of illumination.

I met there a Spanish gentleman whom I used to know in Paris years ago. He was at that time the Marquis de Lema, a middle-aged beau, who was always ready to fill any gap in society where a noble marquis was needed.

He began life, strange to say, as a journalist, and as such made himself so useful to the ex-King of Naples that the King, to reward him, hired the famous Farnesina Palace for ninety-nine years. Here the former Marquis, who is now Duke di Ripalda, lives very much aggrandized as a descendant of the Cid, glorying in his ancestorship.

He was very glad to see me again, he said, and to prove it came often to dine with us.

One day he asked Mrs. Lawrence, Miss Chapman, and myself to take tea with him in the romantic garden of the Farnesina. Mrs. Lawrence said it was like a dream, walking under the orange-trees and looking down on the old Tiber, which makes a sudden turn at the bottom of the broad terrace.

Her dream came suddenly to an end when she saw the stale cakes and the weak and watery tea and oily chocolate which, out of politeness, we felt obliged to swallow; and the nightmare set in when she saw his apartment on the first floor, furnished by himself with his own individual taste, which was simply awful. But who cares for the mother-of-pearl inlaid furniture covered with hideous modern blue brocade and the multicolored carpets in which his coat of arms were woven, when one can look at his Sodomas and Correggios and Raphaels? His coat of arms, which is a sword with "Si, si, no, no," is displayed everywhere throughout the palace.

The "_cid-evant_" Marquis told us that the Cid had given the sword to one of his ancestors, and remarked that it signified that his forefathers had very decided characters, and that it was either yes or no with them. I thought it might work the other way; it might just as well mean that the ancestors did not know their own minds, and that first it was _yes_ and then it was _no_ with them. The Duke, in a truly grandiose manner, lays no restriction on the public, but throws his whole palace open every first and fifteenth of the month, and allows people to roam at their pleasure through all the rooms; they can even sit on the blue brocade furniture if they like, and there is no officious guide ordering people about with their, "This way, Madame," or "Don't sit down," "Don't walk on the carpet," or "Don't spit on the floor."

On the ground floor are the celebrated frescoes of "Psyche," painted by Raphael, and in the large gallery there is a little design on the walls to which the Duke called our attention, saying it was Michelangelo's visiting-card, and told us that Michelangelo came one day, and, finding Raphael absent, took up his palette and painted this little picture, which still remains on the walls, framed and with a glass over it.

Mrs. Lawrence told us of a new acquaintance she had made, a Baron Montenaro, who said he was the last (the very last) of the Rienzis, a descendant of Cola di. The last tribune left! "Is it not romantic?" cried Mrs. Lawrence, and was all eyes and ears. But prosaic Duke di Ripalda said, "How can he say he is the last of the Rienzis, when he has a married brother who has prospects of a small tribune of his own?"

ROME, _April, 1875._

Mrs. Polk (widow of the former President Polk) and her two daughters are very much liked here. I call Miss Polk _la maîtresse demoiselle_, because she rules every one with a high and masterful hand.

They had some wonderful tableaux recently at their palace (Salviati), which were most beautiful and artistically arranged by different artists. They had turned a long gallery which had once served as a ballroom into the theater. I was asked to sing in a tableau representing a Bohemian hall, where, as a background, Bohemian peasants in brilliant costumes sat and stood about. I was also dressed in a Bohemian dress, and leaned against a pillar and held a tambourine in my hand. Tosti played the accompaniment of "Ma Mère était Bohémienne," which was most appropriate to the occasion.

The Princess Margherita sat in the front row, and a more sympathetic and lovelier face could never have inspired a singer. She insisted upon my repeating my song, which rather bored the other performers, as they had to stand quiet while the song was going on. Tosti made the accompaniment wonderfully well, considering that I had only played it once for him.

After the tableaux, and when the Princess had retired to a little salon placed at her disposal, she sent word to ask me to come to her, as she wished to speak with me. I was overjoyed to see her again, as the short interview at the Villino could hardly be called an interview. The Princess said; "I have heard a great deal about your singing; but I did not believe any amateur could sing as you do. Your phrasing and expression are quite perfect!" She finished by asking me to come to the Quirinal to see her, "and perhaps have a little music"; and added, "The Marquis Villamarina sings beautifully, and you shall hear him." The Princess is so lovely, no words can describe her charm and the sweet expression of her face. Her smile is a dream.

I had intended leaving Rome the very day she fixed for my going to her, but of course I postponed my departure and I went, and had a most delightful afternoon. It was the first time that I had seen the Quirinal and I was very much interested. One of the numerous _laquais_ who were standing about in the antechamber when I arrived preceded me into a salon where I found the Marquise Villamarina (first lady-in-waiting of the Princess). She came toward me, saying that the Princess was looking forward with pleasure to seeing me, and added that she hoped that I had thought to bring some music. I followed her through several very spacious salons until we reached a salon which evidently was the music-room, as there were two grand pianos and a quantity of music-books placed on shelves. Here I found the Princess waiting for me, and she received me with much cordiality.

The Marquis Villamarina has a most enchanting voice, liquid and velvety, the kind that one only hears in Italy. Signor Tosti (the composer) was already at the piano and accompanied the Marquis in "Ti rapirei, mio ben," a song he composed and dedicated to him. The Princess sang a very charming old Italian song. She has a mezzo-soprano voice and sings with great taste and sweetness. She, the Marquis, and I sang a trio of Gordigiani; then the Princess asked me to sing the "Ma Mère était Bohémienne," which i had sung at the tableaux. I also sang "Beware!" which she had never heard and which she was perfectly delighted with, and I promised to send her the music. It was a great pleasure to sing in this intimate and _sans façon_ way, with the most sympathetic and charming of Princesses. Chocolate, tea, and little cakes were served, which I supposed was the signal for departure. The Princess, on bidding me good-by, gave me her hand and said, "I hope to see you soon again."

"Alas!" I replied, "I am leaving Rome to-morrow," and as I stooped down to kiss her hand she drew me to her and said, "I am sorry that you are going, I hoped that you were staying longer," and kissed me on both cheeks.

PARIS, _May, 1875._

I have had a lazy month. Mrs. Moulton was delighted to have me back again, and I was glad to rest after all my junketing. Just think, I was almost a year in Germany!

Nina has had the measles, fortunately lightly; I was _garde malade_, and stayed with her in her sick-room.

Howard goes to a day-school not far from the Rue de Courcelles every morning, and comes home at two o'clock and shows with pride the book the teacher gives him to show. They must mean it to be shown, otherwise so much trouble would not be taken to make such lengthy and marvelous accounts of his prowess, the numbers running up in the thousands, and notations all through, such as _très bien, verbes sans faute_, and _dictés parfaits_. He can repeat all the departments of France backward and forward, and goes through the verbs, regular and irregular, like a machine. The French love these irregular verbs, so irregular sometimes that they border on frivolity. He has learned some rather inane patriotic poetry, which he recites with a childish dramatic swagger.

This is about all they teach in this school; but the _rapports_ are worth the money: they deceive the parents, making them believe their geese are swans of the first water.

PARIS, _May._

We have had real pleasure in hearing a young _pianiste_ from Venezuela called Teresa Careño. She is a _wunderkind_. Her mother says she is nine years old; she looks twelve, but may be sixteen. No one can ever tell how old a _wunderkind_ really is. Her playing is marvelous, her technic perfect. She knows about two hundred pieces by heart, is extremely pretty and attractive, and performs whenever she is asked. I think she has a great career before her, and she has already got the toss-back of her black hair in the most approved pianist manner. "Elle ne manque rien," the great Saint-Saëns said. One can't imagine that she could play better than she does; but she thinks that she is by no means perfect.

Though I said that I had led a _dolce-far-niente_ existence, and had been lazy, I have been dreadfully busy and have been on the go from morning till night: I might call it a _dolce-far-molto_ existence. I spend hours, which ought to be better spent, in shops. I simply revel in them.

You have heard of the famous actress Sarah Bernhardt. Well, she is not only an actress, but she is a sculptress, and is a very good one. She is now playing at the Vaudeville. But I must begin at the beginning, the whole thing was so amusing,

You remember Mrs. Bradley? You used to scold me for calling her "the Omelette." They are living now in Paris; her hair and complexion are just as yellow as they used to be; but her dresses are yellower. Beaumont said that she was "Une étude en jaune."

The other evening she had a box at the theater, and asked me to go to hear Sarah Bernhardt in "Le fils Giboyer." Her son, the immaculate Bostonian, went with us. He is a duplicate of his mother's yellowness. I took Nina, who looked extremely pretty: she was beaming with excitement; her cheeks were flushed, and her curly, golden hair made a halo about her delicate features. Every one stared at her when we entered the box. During the second act I let her take my place in front, and, observe how virtue is rewarded! In the following _entr'acte_ the _ouvreuse_ came in suddenly without knocking (_ouvreuses_ never knock! that is one of their many privileges) and begged to _parler à_ Monsieur. Imagine the chaste George's feelings when he was told that the famous Sarah wished to speak with him, and, moreover, desired him to come behind the scenes to her dressing-room. What a situation! His red hair blushed to the very roots, and his yellow face became n sunset. However, one is or one is not a man. He proved himself to be one who could face danger when the time came.

Trembling at the thought of Boston, the virtuous, hearing of it, he saw in his mind's eye the height the Puritan brows of his most distinguished family would reach when the news would be spread over the town, and a certain biblical scene passed before his mental vision.

He gave his lemon-colored mustache a final fascinating twist, and, humming to himself "Hail, the conquering hero comes!" he buckled on his sword and went--all his colors flying.

We waited breathlessly for his return, which was much sooner than we expected, and the smile he wore was not that of a conquering hero; it was another kind of a smile. Well, what do you think Madame Sarah wanted? Merely to know if the child in the box was his! His! His unmarried hair stood on end; he was so taken aback that he only had breath to mutter, "I am not married, Madame."

Then in her most dramatic tones she demanded, "Who is the child, then?"

He told her.