“Municipality of Catania,“January 11th, 1909.“With pleasure I express to you, Gentlemen of the Committee and all of the Expedition of the American Red Cross, embarked on board the S. S. ‘Bayern,’ the heartiest thanks of the population of Catania, and of the refugees and wounded who have found here a shelter, for your generous offer of medicines, clothes, food, etc.“The relief brought by you will be effective to lessen the sufferings of so many wretched people who have been deprived in a few moments of their relatives, of their beloved native town and of every possession.“With esteemed consideration,“The Mayor,S. Gonsoli.“The Signor Reginald Rowan Belknap.”
“Municipality of Catania,“January 11th, 1909.
“With pleasure I express to you, Gentlemen of the Committee and all of the Expedition of the American Red Cross, embarked on board the S. S. ‘Bayern,’ the heartiest thanks of the population of Catania, and of the refugees and wounded who have found here a shelter, for your generous offer of medicines, clothes, food, etc.
“The relief brought by you will be effective to lessen the sufferings of so many wretched people who have been deprived in a few moments of their relatives, of their beloved native town and of every possession.
“With esteemed consideration,“The Mayor,S. Gonsoli.“The Signor Reginald Rowan Belknap.”
Catania, the rival seaport of Messina, is a thriving city but the drain put upon the citizens, many of whom had suffered great loss of property through the earthquake, and the consequent paralysis to business all over Sicily, was more than they could meet. The relief work was in the hands of a Municipal Committee and aLadies’ Committee; through these well organized committees the medicines, clothes, food and tools that our committee in Rome, and our Consul in Genoa, had worked so hard to collect, were distributed and put into immediate use. Mr. Hooper notes in his diary that “Mr. Gay and Mr. Cutting were sent on shore to investigate hospitals and the general situation.”
Tuesday, the 12th of January, was a busy day; the men in the holds worked from early morning till late night, getting out stores as they were wanted. Here at last was a demand for their wares. In desperate, stricken Messina General Mazza’s policy was to discourage the few survivors from remaining. The military authorities wished to get rid of them as quickly as possible, and they were shipped to all parts of Italy by steamer or train. The entry in Mr. Thompson’s diary for January 12th is briefer than usual, but the quality and color of it brings the whole scene vividly before us.
“January 12th: In Catania harbor all day unloading goods. A long hard day. Crowd of soldiers, sailors, representatives of various hospitals, priests, sisters of charity and others,all standing about, asking for ‘goods’ and getting in the way. Had a party of thirty men from Italian warship to help load the lighters. The hardest day of the expedition, nearly knocked out by night. A beautiful day, especially towards sunset. Admiral Gagliardi from the ‘Garibaldi’ came aboard with officers and the committee from Taormina arrived; Miss Claxton, one of the nurses, left us. German Consul and friends to dinner. Two quite dirty men kissed Gay on each cheek as a slight token of their gratitude.”
The committee from Taormina included Miss Mabel Hill, Fräulein Gasser, Mr. Harry Bowdoin, and Mr. Charles King Wood. They brought with them a letter from the Sindaco of Giardini, a fishing village on the coast, at the foot of the hill on which Taormina stands.
Captain Belknap’s report of the Taormina Committee’s visit says:
“Upon their representations of conditions in their district, work already done and still in hand, and cases of need still unrelieved, about twenty tons of clothing, sheets, blankets, provisions, medical dressings and miscellaneous articles were given into their care for shipmentby rail, and 10,000lireto be spent at the discretion of the committee in their work in these two places. We also sent with this shipment all clean linen remaining on board. The services of a nurse were also wanted at Taormina and Giardini, and Miss Claxton was sent with this party on their return there. A letter since then has been received from Miss Claxton, saying that she is engaged as a district or visiting nurse, and that all the supplies sent have proved very useful. A further sum of money was entrusted to Messrs. Bowdoin and Wood, both members of the American Red Cross, who undertook to arrange for the expenditure for the relief of the small villages outside Giardini and Taormina, between there and Messina.
“In response to an appeal from Acireale, Mr. Gay made a personal visit among the relief workers there, after which some clothing and other supplies and 5,000lirewere delivered to them. To the Little Sisters of the Poor 1,000lirewere given for their immediate assistance. A few bundles of clothing were sent by rail to Messina in care of Mr. Chanler in response to a wireless message from the ‘Yankton.’”
The Little Sisters of the Poor had sufferedheavily at Messina. Their convent and the schools and hospital attached to it had been completely destroyed; many of the sisters had been killed or injured. The devotion and courage of these faithful nuns to the old people and the children under their care made a deep impression on all the company on board the “Bayern.”
“While lying in Catania,” Captain Belknap continues, “knowing that lumber was needed at Reggio, Mr. Flint was sent ashore Wednesday morning, to buy such quantity as we could get on board that day. Lighterage facilities were very scarce, as many steamers were in the harbor discharging; but by the persistent efforts of the German Vice-Consul, Mr. Jacob Peratoner, who very kindly devoted almost his entire day in our behalf, we succeeded in getting on board enough lumber to build 25 houses, 13 by 13 feet, complete with floors.”
Mr. Thompson’s diary for January 13th is of unusual interest. This journal is human and vital. It tells us just what one man saw, did, and understood; it reflects his mood; it has the heat of his life. It gives us a series of snap-shots of the good ship “Bayern” with therosy eupeptic German Captain and the pale slender American Commander, the crew—rather a poor lot of sailors got together at a few hours’ notice—the stewards neat and literal, the cast-iron routine, the prescribed Italian doctor, and all the usual personnel of a North German Lloyd liner, commandeered for unusual service, with the supreme authority vested for the nonce in the American Commander, the quiet man with a will of iron, who never seems to rest, but by his example ceaselessly stimulates, vitalizes, every member of the ship’s company.
Mr. Thompson’s journal:“January 13th: In Catania harbor unloading goods. Emptied after holds before lunch. Afternoon sent away goods for Taormina. Went ashore with Little Sisters of the Poor. Town not interesting. Came back at dusk. Elliott got his nose cut on shore in an automobile smash. A number of refugee children from Messina came on board to be carried to Genoa. They had lost every one belonging to them. Most of them were apparently happy except one older one. Eleven old men, tenold women, six Little Sisters of the Poor, and six children came on board. Busy serving out blankets till near midnight.”
Mr. Thompson’s journal:
“January 13th: In Catania harbor unloading goods. Emptied after holds before lunch. Afternoon sent away goods for Taormina. Went ashore with Little Sisters of the Poor. Town not interesting. Came back at dusk. Elliott got his nose cut on shore in an automobile smash. A number of refugee children from Messina came on board to be carried to Genoa. They had lost every one belonging to them. Most of them were apparently happy except one older one. Eleven old men, tenold women, six Little Sisters of the Poor, and six children came on board. Busy serving out blankets till near midnight.”
These twenty-one old people were between eighty and one hundred years of age. The Sisters had assumed the care and future responsibility for these poor souls.
The stay at Catania was the most important phase of the “Bayern’s” cruise. Here the most significant work of the expedition was accomplished. The Americans were brought into close and cordial relation with the leaders of the relief work in Catania. They visited the refuges and, finding how well they were administered and how grievously in need of succor, they helped with money and all the remaining stores of the “Bayern.”
At Catania the American Committee for the first time was brought into direct touch with the Americans working at Taormina; here was another channel through which the stream of American help could flow directly from the source of supply to its destination, administered from first to last by Americans. The policy of the committee was, as far as possible, toemploy Americans to disburse the American money and the supplies it had purchased. It was more satisfactory to the contributors, and was of great use to the earnest men and women who devoted themselves to the cause. Here the committee came in contact, not only with Mr. Bowdoin and Mr. Wood, those tireless workers from Taormina, but with Miss Katherine Bennett Davis, one of the most significant figures among all those who labored for Italy in her dark hour. They had expected to go to Syracuse, and Mr. Cutting went thither by rail in order to learn the existing conditions of the relief work. He reported that the work in Syracuse was admirably organized, under the leadership of Miss Davis. It was found best, however, not to take the ship to Syracuse, and Mr. Flint was sent there with an American sailor to guard him and the large sum of money he carried for Syracuse. The greater part was given to Miss Davis, the rest was divided between the Sindaco and the Marchesa de Rudini.
The refugees taken on board at Catania added to the interest of life on the “Bayern,” though the men in the hold had little time to noticethem; still they added a certain color and picturesqueness to the daily routine. J. has memories of the little children dancing on the deck of the “Bayern,” romping in and out of the piles of goods as they came up from the hold; and strongest of all, of Sor Michaele, an old opera singer, from the almshouse at Messina, who sat all day long at the piano in the blue brocade saloon, playing and singing the operas of his youth.
In Catania the members of the “Bayern” expedition saw thousands of thesuperstiti. Here they learned what the effects of the earthquake had been upon the survivors.
“They had all been singed by death,” writes J. “They looked like death’s heads with the grin and the terror of the skull in their faces. One woman—I saw her once, I heard of her often—went from hospital to hospital, to the refuges, to all the places where there wereprofughi, asking the same question everywhere: ‘Have you here perchance a baby who has the habit of sucking the two first fingers of his left hand?’ That was the only clue she had to her lost child. I never could hear whether or not she found him. In one of the refuges Isaw a woman who was said to be one of the richest people in Messina. She had lost every member of her family, she had nothing in the world, not a suit of clothes, not a crust, nothing but herself. Dr. Alessandrini, who is studying the nervous effects of the earthquake, says that most of the survivors dream continually of it. We saw one woman who had dreamed of it every night and each time awoke in a convulsion of fright. They were in great doubt if they could save her life. The children, even the quite grown ones of fourteen or fifteen, however, forgot it all immediately. It was like a bad dream to them.”
The automobile accident Thompson referred to, was telegraphed to Rome. At ten o’clock that night I read an exaggerated account of it in a newspaper. “The painter Elliott injured in an automobile accident,” was the heading in the Roman Tribuna. In his letter J. makes light of the accident.
“It was nothing but a collision, the jar of which drove my nose through the plate-glass window of the automobile. Sicily is a bad place for automobiles; the people won’t get out of the way. I heard one fellow say, ‘Am I agoat that I should skip out of the way of this thing?’ They are half Oriental; it would be undignified to run in order to get out of the way of a motor. Mr. Robert Winthrop has brought down a lot of tetanus antitoxin. Captain Belknap has divided it between Messina and Catania.”
Mr. Thompson’s journal:“January 14th, Reggio di Calabria. Left Catania at fourA.M.Went on deck at sunrise. Fine effect on rocky coast and Etna in the background with top covered in cloud. Reached Reggio about eightA.M., but could find no anchorage, so circled about all day. Rough weather. Sent away two life-boats of stores, but could not discharge cargo of lumber taken on at Catania to build shacks at Reggio. Stormy sea and sky with splendid sunset effects. Etna, still with cloud-covered top, against a gold sky and masses of purple cloud. Flint came on board in the evening and heard we were at once to sail for Palermo, to relieve refugees in care of U. S. Consul. Later toward midnight this plan was changed; we are to discharge our stores and lumber here, and start for PalermoFriday night. This day week we left Rome. It seems like a month ago. Reggio on nearer view a sad sight. Lay off Messina for night.“January 15th: Left Messina about 6:30 and came over to Reggio. Stormy early, later cleared and day became splendid. Got well in and anchored near the shore, close to Italian cruiser ‘Napoli.’ The others went ashore and by ferry to Messina, but I had to see all stores brought up. Everything up by 11:30, and we put the lumber over in bundles to be towed ashore by boats and launch. Afternoon uneventful for me. Etna clear against the sky. Got all lumber over the side and had boatload of goods away, and left Reggio at seven P. M. for Messina. Accounts of condition of city from our people very sad. Persons said to have been taken alive from the ruins two days ago. Our people could hear the cries of a buried dog. The U. S. S. ‘Illinois’ had party of three hundred men digging for bodies at Consulate. At last succeeded in finding bodies of Consul and his wife. Five people taken out alive today at Messina. Two had food. Left Messina at 10:55 for Palermo.”
Mr. Thompson’s journal:
“January 14th, Reggio di Calabria. Left Catania at fourA.M.Went on deck at sunrise. Fine effect on rocky coast and Etna in the background with top covered in cloud. Reached Reggio about eightA.M., but could find no anchorage, so circled about all day. Rough weather. Sent away two life-boats of stores, but could not discharge cargo of lumber taken on at Catania to build shacks at Reggio. Stormy sea and sky with splendid sunset effects. Etna, still with cloud-covered top, against a gold sky and masses of purple cloud. Flint came on board in the evening and heard we were at once to sail for Palermo, to relieve refugees in care of U. S. Consul. Later toward midnight this plan was changed; we are to discharge our stores and lumber here, and start for PalermoFriday night. This day week we left Rome. It seems like a month ago. Reggio on nearer view a sad sight. Lay off Messina for night.
“January 15th: Left Messina about 6:30 and came over to Reggio. Stormy early, later cleared and day became splendid. Got well in and anchored near the shore, close to Italian cruiser ‘Napoli.’ The others went ashore and by ferry to Messina, but I had to see all stores brought up. Everything up by 11:30, and we put the lumber over in bundles to be towed ashore by boats and launch. Afternoon uneventful for me. Etna clear against the sky. Got all lumber over the side and had boatload of goods away, and left Reggio at seven P. M. for Messina. Accounts of condition of city from our people very sad. Persons said to have been taken alive from the ruins two days ago. Our people could hear the cries of a buried dog. The U. S. S. ‘Illinois’ had party of three hundred men digging for bodies at Consulate. At last succeeded in finding bodies of Consul and his wife. Five people taken out alive today at Messina. Two had food. Left Messina at 10:55 for Palermo.”
At Reggio the nurses, J., and another member of the expedition were having their lunch on the outskirts of the town close by the station. Near where they sat the railroad carriages, swept off the track and out to sea by the tidal wave, lay half submerged in the water, washing idly to and fro, one of the strangest sights of all that topsy-turvy world. The carriages were doubly lost, first to the railroad company for transporting passengers, second to the poorprofughiwho used the railroad carriages as houses. Happy the family who could find shelter in one of them from rain and cold!
As the party from the “Bayern” were finishing lunch, an orderly from Captain Cagni brought an invitation to come to headquarters and have some hot coffee. The invitation was accepted with glee, and they waited while the coffee was made by one of the soldiers. It was hot, it was black, but, alas, it was salt. The supply of fresh water was so meagre that they used sea water to wash the dishes, and the orderly who made the coffee made the mistake of taking salt water instead of fresh. There were a thousand apologies, and the hospitable host begged the guests to wait till a fresh pot ofcoffee was brewed, but time pressed, and they were due on board the “Bayern.” One of the Americans, adding brandy to his coffee, tried to drink it with painful results. They gave the remains of their luncheon to some children; every crumb of food was precious, even at Reggio where the suffering from hunger was never so great as at Messina. Captain Cagni saw to that! First he commandeered all the cattle in the neighborhood and served them out in rations as beef. When the cattle gave out, the donkeys were gathered in and served out as beef, mind you, always beef. Finally the dogs and cats were served out in the same way. Captain Cagni said it was beef, so beef it was.
Captain Belknap had received several messages from Mr. Bishop, the American Consul at Palermo, asking that the “Bayern” visit that place, where the crowd ofprofughiwas so enormous that the Palermitans could not begin to feed and clothe them. It was decided to visit Palermo on the way from the Straits of Death back to Civitavecchia. The fifteenth of January was the last day of their stay in the ruined districts.
Mr. Thompson’s diary:“January 16th: Gray morning early. Fine coast. Reached Palermo 9:30 and anchored outside breakwater. Some delay in getting permission from port authorities to land. Nurses and some of our party went ashore to buy clothing for the refugees. Then took drive about the city. Visited hurriedly royal palace and most interesting chapel with mosaics, one of the finest things of the kind I have ever seen. The cathedral inside quite uninteresting. Splendid view over the city and harbor and mountains from terrace of palace. Got back to lunch at twoP.M.Visitors after lunch. Helped to make translation of flowery address to Captain. Warship ‘Garibaldi’ went to sea just before sunset, passing very close. We left at sevenP.M.for Civitavecchia and Rome. At dinner our Captain made a speech, saying how well we had all worked under him. Other speeches followed; some of us stayed on deck till elevenP.M.At Palermo gave 30,000 francs and landed 1,200 mattresses and 1,300 kilos of food from ship stores.“January 17th: At sea going to Civitavecchia. Fine day. Blue sea with white capsand more motion than any time since we left on this cruise. Took some snaps of old men and children, refugees, but they and all our Little Sisters of the Poor were seasick. Morning packed and handed over all my papers to Gay and wrote letters. After lunch busy till we landed, helping Flint and Elliott pay bills on ship. Reached Civitavecchia at about 3:30, but did not anchor for an hour. Finally got off in launch, towing two life-boats (the boats Belknap had commandeered before they left Civitavecchia; the third was lost by the clumsy sailors when they landed the goods at Messina the day of the dreadful storm). Ambassador and Mrs. Griscom and others waiting. After some delay we got off and reached Rome about eight. Have come back tired out but well. Very glad I went but glad to get back.”
Mr. Thompson’s diary:
“January 16th: Gray morning early. Fine coast. Reached Palermo 9:30 and anchored outside breakwater. Some delay in getting permission from port authorities to land. Nurses and some of our party went ashore to buy clothing for the refugees. Then took drive about the city. Visited hurriedly royal palace and most interesting chapel with mosaics, one of the finest things of the kind I have ever seen. The cathedral inside quite uninteresting. Splendid view over the city and harbor and mountains from terrace of palace. Got back to lunch at twoP.M.Visitors after lunch. Helped to make translation of flowery address to Captain. Warship ‘Garibaldi’ went to sea just before sunset, passing very close. We left at sevenP.M.for Civitavecchia and Rome. At dinner our Captain made a speech, saying how well we had all worked under him. Other speeches followed; some of us stayed on deck till elevenP.M.At Palermo gave 30,000 francs and landed 1,200 mattresses and 1,300 kilos of food from ship stores.
“January 17th: At sea going to Civitavecchia. Fine day. Blue sea with white capsand more motion than any time since we left on this cruise. Took some snaps of old men and children, refugees, but they and all our Little Sisters of the Poor were seasick. Morning packed and handed over all my papers to Gay and wrote letters. After lunch busy till we landed, helping Flint and Elliott pay bills on ship. Reached Civitavecchia at about 3:30, but did not anchor for an hour. Finally got off in launch, towing two life-boats (the boats Belknap had commandeered before they left Civitavecchia; the third was lost by the clumsy sailors when they landed the goods at Messina the day of the dreadful storm). Ambassador and Mrs. Griscom and others waiting. After some delay we got off and reached Rome about eight. Have come back tired out but well. Very glad I went but glad to get back.”
Truly misery makes strange bedfellows! The misery of Messina had brought together an oddly assorted company of volunteers on board the “Bayern.” There was Mr. Gay, the Secretary of the Committee, a Fellow of Harvard College settled in Rome, who has devoted many years to the preparation of a History of theItalian Risorgimento; his splendid library at the Palazzo Orsini contains a remarkable collection of books and pamphlets on the subject. There was William Hooper of Boston, a man of affairs and a famous Harvard athlete, who had left the ease of his apartment opposite the Palazzo Margherita in Rome to act as treasurer to the expedition. There was Wilfred Thompson, the painter, who had left his studio and his little cat, to act as supercargo; Robert Hale, another painter, who in the list of assistants is set down as an assistant in the forward hold; the Avvocato Giordano, one of the most brilliant of the writers on the Tribuna. There was Weston Flint, the assistant treasurer, four Italian doctors, six nurses, and John Elliott (J.), who had left his studio to act “as interpreter and to assist in after holds and elsewhere.” These were the permanent members of the expedition. Now and then across this constellation of fixed stars flamed the meteor Chanler, a trail of glory behind him, and the indomitable Cutting, our Consul from Milan, who served in a thousand capacities beside inducing the German sailors to carry up the heavy cases to the temporary Consulate. They had some mishapsof course. The first day Mr. Gay fell down and broke a rib; the same day J. tumbled down an iron ladder into the hold and scraped the flesh off his lean shanks. Thompson, who had a cough, was drenched to the skin over and over again—that did not improve his health—and Cutting—alas and alas, that gallant soul who could never think of himself, had many a ducking besides the one Thompson describes, and endured endless discomforts at the “temporary Consulate” where he, Chanler and Major Landis lived during those first ghastly days. The only tie that bound together these men of varying tastes and habits, was the Red Cross each wore on his arm. In all the letters, reports, journals that tell the story of the “Bayern’s” cruise the most striking thing is the way these men speak of each other. Every man saw his comrades in a golden glow of enthusiasm; they were all good men and true in their fellows’ eyes!
As the “Bayern” steamed across the harbor of Civitavecchia J. looked into the blue brocade saloon. Sor Michaele, the old opera singer, sat at the white and gold piano, his stiff fingers surprisingly limbered up, striking the keysbriskly, while his shrunken voice quavered out “Spirito Gentil,” the glorious aria from La Favorita that he had sung in his far off youth, now made familiar the world over by Caruso and the “Victor.” After he had struck the last chords, the old man’s head dropped on his breast and he began to sob.
“Coraggio!” cried J., “what is wrong with you? We’re almost there; your troubles are nearly over.”
“It is all finished,” sobbed the old man. “I have not been so happy for twenty years as I have been on board this ship. At the almshouse there is no piano; who knows if I shall ever see one again?”
Soon after the “Bayern’s” return, the Ambassador despatched a relief expedition under the leadership of Mr. Gay to the Calabrian mountain towns. Mr. Gay was accompanied by Captain Armando Mola of the Italian army, and Mr. W. Earl Dodge, who took with him his large automobile, thereby adding greatly to the effectiveness of the expedition. They had a wonderful trip, visiting forty villages, some of them almost inaccessible mountain hamlets.During the eleven days their trip lasted, they brought help to many a forlorn community that had heretofore received no outside assistance since the disaster. Mr. Gay has written an admirable report of the expedition, so full, so graphic, that it leaves nothing for me to say, save that I am thankful that this chapter of the romance of the American Relief Work has been told so well. The report should be read by all interested in knowing the full scope of the work. Mr. Gay’s letter to the Ambassador written from Palmi, gives a striking picture of what he saw and accomplished.
“Palmi, February 10th, 1909.“American Ambassador,“Rome—Palazzo del Drago.“Tuesday, after an hour and a half in the automobile on very bad roads, and three hours on mules, we arrived in a snowstorm at S. Cristina, with nine mules loaded with clothing, and were received like the Messiah. We bought on the spot, at a low figure, 12,500lireworth of standing timber, securing thus a triple benefit to the sufferers, namely, furnishing shelter to the homeless, saving the transport on the lumber which represents forty per cent. of the cost, and giving work to the unoccupied in cutting the wood. Today we are again visiting villages in the automobile. Tomorrow we shall start at daybreak in the automobile for Cittanova, Gerace, Melito, and Reggio. I am returning 5000lireto the Committee, left over from the letter of credit on Palmi. We should like, if possible, a new letter of credit on Reggio for whatever amount the Committee thinks advisable.“We should also like for General Tarditi, addressed as before, a freight car of miscellaneous supplies as follows: 400 litres of benzine to replace what we have borrowed here; 400 blankets; 200 panes of glass 60 centimetres square; 100 locks, with ordinary keys but all different; together with the following supplies for use in the hospital which will be opened within a week: 50 white varnished chairs, with 6 arm-chairs for the sick, to match; 50 wrappers, 50 pair of slippers, and 50 caps for the sick; 6 wall washstands of white earthen ware; 6 alcohol stoves which can be had from Bianchelli for about 35lireeach; 400 square metres of oil-cloth of a light color, to cover ceilings ofthe hospital wards; 200 square metres of the same of a dark color, to cover the wainscoting; 350 square metres of linoleum of a dark color for floors.“Our telegraphic address tomorrow will be, Telegraph Office, Reggio.“We shall telephone tonight. All well.“Gay.”
“Palmi, February 10th, 1909.
“American Ambassador,“Rome—Palazzo del Drago.
“Tuesday, after an hour and a half in the automobile on very bad roads, and three hours on mules, we arrived in a snowstorm at S. Cristina, with nine mules loaded with clothing, and were received like the Messiah. We bought on the spot, at a low figure, 12,500lireworth of standing timber, securing thus a triple benefit to the sufferers, namely, furnishing shelter to the homeless, saving the transport on the lumber which represents forty per cent. of the cost, and giving work to the unoccupied in cutting the wood. Today we are again visiting villages in the automobile. Tomorrow we shall start at daybreak in the automobile for Cittanova, Gerace, Melito, and Reggio. I am returning 5000lireto the Committee, left over from the letter of credit on Palmi. We should like, if possible, a new letter of credit on Reggio for whatever amount the Committee thinks advisable.
“We should also like for General Tarditi, addressed as before, a freight car of miscellaneous supplies as follows: 400 litres of benzine to replace what we have borrowed here; 400 blankets; 200 panes of glass 60 centimetres square; 100 locks, with ordinary keys but all different; together with the following supplies for use in the hospital which will be opened within a week: 50 white varnished chairs, with 6 arm-chairs for the sick, to match; 50 wrappers, 50 pair of slippers, and 50 caps for the sick; 6 wall washstands of white earthen ware; 6 alcohol stoves which can be had from Bianchelli for about 35lireeach; 400 square metres of oil-cloth of a light color, to cover ceilings ofthe hospital wards; 200 square metres of the same of a dark color, to cover the wainscoting; 350 square metres of linoleum of a dark color for floors.
“Our telegraphic address tomorrow will be, Telegraph Office, Reggio.
“We shall telephone tonight. All well.
“Gay.”
“Nota rose!” Vera scanned the sunny south wall where Ignazio, the gardener, has trained the hardy roses. It has been his boast that we can gather at least one rose every day of the year.
“What do you expect? The earthquake has turned the calendar topsy-turvy. Nena says this is the coldest winter she remembers; she must be nearly a hundred.”
It was the terrace hour; Vera had dropped in to help with the flowers. It was too cold to water them, so we “pottered about,” weeded, and hunted snails.
“That’s a brave flower! See, it has three blossoms; if the sun comes out tomorrow there may be more.” Vera counted the pretty trumpet-shaped blossoms of the freesia, growing in the old terra-cotta cinerary urn.
“This once held the ashes of a soldier of the Pretorian Guard,” said Vera. She had given us the urn. “Do you suppose a pinch of hisdust remains in it? There’s your freesia’s courage accounted for. I wonder what he was called. Herminius, Spurius Lartius? There was neither name nor date when I bought it; they must have been on the missing cover. What noble action!” Vera’s thumb followed, with the sculptor’s gesture, the lines of the Pretorian, modelled in low relief on the urn. He wears a mantle, helmet and greaves; his spear is raised against a crouching barbarian. “He must have been a fine man, our Pretorian, though this isn’t a portrait, only a type. Oh, how civilized those old Romans were! No ugly bones, no grinning skulls. The worn-out body to the clean flame, the handful of ashes to this graceful urn, that two thousand years after the Pretorian’s death serves as a flower pot.”
“I believe his name was Philippus,” I said, “and that he looked like our Philippus. The regiment has returned from Messina without him. I fear something has happened to our handsome soldier.”
“Hush!” cried Vera. “The earthquake was a month ago; it still is the only thing we talk or think about.”
“Some of our friends begin to forget. The mother of a pretty girl was grumbling today because the Queen says there shall be no court balls, no more dancing this season. She does not forget; no one who has seen Messina forgets!”
“Come, let us walk!” There was a touch of tramontana in the air, and we began to pace up and down the terrace, Romulus, Vera’s uncouth puppy, shambling at her heel. The bells of St. Peter’s were ringing the Ave Maria; from the Pincio came little gusts of music,—the band was playing Cavalleria Rusticana. At either end of the terrace we lingered to feast on the beauty of the view; to the east the white road climbs zigzag from the Piazza del Popolo to the Pincio, with its crown of dark cypresses and stone pines, its wonderful clipped ilex walk that leads to the Villa Medici, home of nightingale and rose. To the west we looked down to the yellow Tiber, angry and swollen, hurrying to the sea. The river was higher than I ever saw it; the driftwood, caught by the piers of the Ponte Margherita, reached half-way to the level of the bridge.
“A thousand apologies!” said a voice behindus; “is not this the tortoise of your Excellency? The German maid found it on the terrace of the Princess.”
It was Ignazio, holding between scornful thumb and finger that yellow mottled vagrant, Jeremy Bentham, who clawed the air furiously with his ridiculous short legs and snapped fiercely at Ignazio.
“You are aware the tortoise is ours; you yourself carved that date upon his shell. If you had stopped the hole in the wall this would not have happened.”
“Excellency” (Ignazio’s bill was paid that morning; he will call me “Excellency” till the next is due, then it will be “Signora”), “Excellency, this is the most obstinate of all animals, the slowest, the idlest, the most useless.” Ignazio dipped the tortoise in the fountain, then laid him on the parapet out of reach of Romulus, who was making frantic efforts to get at him.
“You yourself tell me he eats the slugs and snails that destroy our flowers!”
“I repeat it, but he has embarrassed me extremely in regard to the Princess, who becomes ill at the sight of him. This is the third time he has invaded her terrace.”
“How about that boy from Messina you promised to employ?” asked Vera. “He is quite well again; it’s time he went to work. I can’t have him idling about my kitchen any longer.”
Ignazio would not have come up to the terrace had he known Vera was there. He nervously nibbled the yellow fibre he had brought to tie up the passion-flower vine.
“Excellency, no! I said I wouldtryto find him employment. I have done so. Capperi! I have asked an infinite number of persons—always the same answer. In Rome there is not work enough for the Romans, nor bread to spare. The Sicilians must go back to Sicily, or,” he waved his hand vaguely towards Ostia, “over there.” Over there meant to America.
“Where were you born, Ignazio?” I interrupted. “You do not speak like a Romano di Roma.” His glance was a reproach; I had betrayed him.
“It is true, I am from Siena—but there is a difference between an Umbrian and a Sicilian!”
“It is always the same story!” I said. “I have asked every plumber in Rome to employ Francesco Calabresi. They will give money,bread, clothes; to a man they refuse him work.”
“Self preservation! Oh, how worldly-wise the old race is! The man’s right though; there is not work enough to go round; one must consider one’s own interests or we should all go bankrupt. That’s what ‘mind your business’ means! If you don’t look out for yourself, some one else must.”
J. came up on the terrace at that moment; Vera waved her little hand gaily to him.
“What news from Messina?”
“No news; I wish I knew how they are getting on.”
“I have a letter from the Avvocato Bonanno, asking about the family of Count Q.”
“I have just come from there. I will write him. The Count can speak now, but he’s paralyzed, he will never walk again.”
“You’re fretting to get back to Sicily; so am I.”
It was true; since his return from the cruise of the “Bayern,” Rome, even his studio, seemed tame to J. How could he, and Vera too, long to go back to that place of death, when Rome, the Eternal City, wooed with thevoice of her fountains, the perfumed breath of her villas, the beauty of her everlasting hills?
“I have had an inspiration,” Vera made the pretty insistent gesture of her finger that rules us all. “This is the psychological moment to exhibit your Diana. Rome is sick with grief! There’s nothing going on, not a reception, not even a dinner. Any invitation to do anything, besides give money and sew garmentspro Calabria e Sicilia, will be a godsend. That’s the practical side of it; then there’s the other side. We have supped full on horrors; comfort us with a sight of the lovely lady.”
Most of her friends follow Vera’s advice, for her’s is a master spirit; when she takes hold of one’s affairs, somehow they always march.
The next week was a busy one. Vera decided that we must ask “all Rome” to the exhibition. In order to do this we borrowed lists from all sorts of people. A little white and gold book, the Roman social register, contains the names of all the Court people, the diplomats, and those who belong to the “smart set.” Then there were the lists of the San Lucca Academy and the Art Club. From the bankers and hotels we gathered as many names of the transientAmericans as possible; all our friends helped us. When the long list was ready I sent to an employment bureau for some one to direct the envelopes.
She came, bringing her credentials, at five o’clock; as she was an English lady, and evidently very poor, we asked her to stay to tea. She sat in the Savonarola chair (it belonged to Giovanni Costa, the great artist—J. bought it after his death) and took her tea timidly, spilling a little on her poor faded dress, and crumbling thepan-forte di Siena(sent us at Christmas from Milan) over the best Persian rug. That ought to have been a warning to me, but it wasn’t! We sent the envelopes and the lists to her and turned our minds to other things. The exhibition was to open Tuesday, February 2nd. The envelopes were promised for the previous Saturday, so that the cards might be put in, the stamps affixed, the invitations posted Saturday night. They would then be received on Sunday morning, a good leisure time when busy people have time to read their mail. Vera, Athol, and Wilfred Thompson came to dine Saturday to help us with the envelopes. It was our first social meeting since that fatalnight of December 28th; we had all of us need of a little joy; the pain of the last month had left its mark.
Agnese herself bought the stamps; she would trust no other. I had meant to send the cards by hand—it costs no more, and would have given employment to Alessandro, apoveracciowho has attached himself to us.
“Thesebigliettiare important?” asked Agnese when I consulted her about Alessandro.
“Of the greatest importance.”
“Listen to me, Signora. I would not destroy your confidence in Alessandro, no, nor in any other, but the distances are far, the Tiber is near—Alessandro might, by accident, let fall a bunch of these letters as he crosses the bridge. Thepostinois obliged to makehisrounds, thecarabinierikeep an eye on him. No, it is safer to trust the post!”
Agnese’s dinners are not like Attilio’s (Vera’s great Neapolitan chef), but she has a way of cooking truffles in white wine and serving them in a napkin, to be eaten with fresh butter, that seems to please. Checco of the Concordia gets us the truffles from some mysterious unfailing source, when they are not to be had in themarket. Agnese’sfritta dorataof shrimps, cuttlefish and artichokes is fit for the King or the Pope, or Mr. Roosevelt—his sister once ate one of Agnese’s golden frys and liked it. After dinner the table was cleared, two white aprons were borrowed for Vera and me, and the big packages of envelopes were opened and laid out on the table.
“We had better look them over, don’t you think?” said Athol, the wise, taking up an envelope. “She has a good handwriting—but she makes queer work of these foreign titles. His Excellency the Count and the Countess Lutzow,—really now that won’t do!”
We looked at each other in despair; each had found the most egregious and impossible blunders. All the addresses except the English and Americans, it had been agreed, were to be written in French.
“They must all be done over again!” I cried.
“No, no, it’s not so bad as that. The English ones are all right. We must go over the whole lot, though, sort out the bad ones and redirect them.
“Who is going to do it?” I groaned. Thatwas the question. Vera’s handwriting, though distinguished, is cryptic, owing to her having learned to write German and Russian before the Latin script. Athol’s tired hand had held the pen for eight hours that day, and could not be further taxed. J.’s handwriting is a work of art, and art is long; my own is frankly bad. Thompson had thrown himself into the work of putting in the cards and sticking up the envelopes.
“Handwriting is the only thing that does not improve with practice—the more a man writes, the worse he writes,” said Athol. Here the bell rang insistently; a minute later Agnese announced:
“Quella Signora bella ed alta!”
The beautiful and tall lady followed close upon her, Elinor Diederich, daughter of those gods of our youth, William and Louisa Hunt. Despair, dismay, doubt vanished before her; she blew them all away, as the fresh west wind blows vapors and fog and leaves the sun bright in the sky; that is what it is to inherit the temperament of genius.
“Of course,” said Elinor, picking up one of the badly directed envelopes, “I knew thiswould happen. That’s the reason I came. I have had an experience of that poor thing’s work myself. I brought my pen; my handwriting’s the best thing about me.” She was hard at it, directing invitations in a handsome hand, as if that had been her calling.
At ten o’clock the bell rang again; there was a parley in the anticamera; a faint odor of cigarette smoke floated into the room.
“It’s Emilio,” J. exclaimed. “Show the Signorino in!”
Emilio Benlieuri, the Spanish sculptor, one of our familiars, appeared in the doorway, a tall lean melancholy man with the burning eyes and the grave bearing of the Valencian Don.
He bowed low to the whole company. “I kiss your feet, Senora,” he began in Castilian.
“I kiss your hand, Caballero,” I responded.
“It is getting late,” whispered Elinor, “really, this isn’t the time for compliments. Make him put on the stamps—they’ll taste good to a hungry man!”
The Valencian, who speaks no English, understood the large gesture with which Elinor invited him to join the circle, and drew up a chair to the round table.
“One more volunteer to the relief!” murmured Vera. “Per caritàAgnese, a sponge; the situation is saved!”
Silence settled upon the dining room; the only sounds were the scratch-scratch of Elinor’s pen, the snores of Romulus curled up at Vera’s feet, the tinkle of the fountain up on the terrace under the stars near the Pretorian’s cinerary urn, the rustle of the cards going into the envelopes. On the Gothic sideboard which J. made for our Roman home, the pile of invitations, sealed and stamped, rose higher and higher, finally hiding the legend carved in quaint letters at the top:
“Better a dinner of herbs where love is than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.”
How much better we never realized perhaps till that night, when the loyalty and devotion of our friends helped us out of that tight place. Love is the real lifting power when all is said. The love of the whole world was helping Italy in her dark hour; the love of our little circle of heart friends lifted and carried us over that difficult moment, smoothed out the only hitch in the preparations for Vera’s exhibition.
We worked till long after midnight. Thefaithful Valencian was the last to go; he departed in a cab, taking the invitations with him to the Posta Generale. Sunday morning “all Rome” received the card at its breakfast.
Lorenzo, themuratore, one of our oldest friends, arrived early Sunday morning to put the studio in order. Lorenzo was Villegas’s factotum in the days when our dear Maestro lived in his Andalusian villa on the Viale Pariole, before his Mother Spain called him to Madrid to be custodian of her greatest treasure, the Prado Museum. We had not sent for Lorenzo because we knew he had met with an accident. What wireless telegraphy had summoned him just when he was needed?
“What a pleasure to see thee!” Agnese exclaimed as she let Lorenzo in. “And thy foot? Will it allow thee to work? The Signore was bewailing that thou couldst not wax the studio floor. Thou knowest he believes no other is to be trusted.”
“It is true that I am lame. Behold my foot. I can wear no boot, only this slipper of a giant. But as to waxing the floor, I can do it on my knees. The Signore is right, I only can execute that labor with fidelity. As to the injury—well, it was received in the service of the electric company that employs me. They have agreed to pay me a pension till I can go back to work. What matters it if the recovery is retarded? I draw my three francs a day, fresh and fresh. Do you think I would abandon the Signore at such a moment? Thou art new in this house. Who was it that prepared the old studio for the visit of her Majesty the Queen? But that was years ago before thy time!”
From that moment I had no anxiety about the studio. Lorenzo, a Romagnolo, is a tireless worker, one of those Italians who have won for their countrymen the reputation of being the greatest workers in the world.
“I wish I could buy him!” sighed J. when I told him Lorenzo had come.
Monday was a busy day; the old Portuguese leather chair, that the Queen sat in on her last visit, was taken over to the studio, the best rugs, the two Japanese screens, and the Savonarola chair. A table was put near the door with some sheets of paper, pens and ink, in case anybody should want to write. At the last minute Brother Harry, who happened to be passing through Rome, gave a valuable hint:
“Of course you are going to send that portrait of the mother to the studio?”
“Why?” said J., “I never thought of it.”
“Well, think of it now,” said Brother Harry. We thought of it, in the end, thought well of it. The day the exhibition opened the portrait of the old Chieftainess stood on an easel in the studio, ready to “receive” visitors with Diana.
Agnese called me early Tuesday morning.
“Signora, let us go to the studio to arrange the flowers,” she said. “With respect I should prefer it were done before Lorenzo comes. He isprepotente, some things he knows, I do not deny; but the flowers—ah, that is an art by itself!”
At five minutes of ten the last touch had been given to the studio; J. and I stood waiting to receive the guests.
“Suppose nobody comes!”
The answer came quick and sharp; Lorenzo, dressed in his best, wearing one ordinary and one giant boot, his hair shining like the studio floor, threw open the door and announced with a beaming smile:
“Quel Signorino matto!” That mad young man.
“So you thought you would play this hand without me?” said a familiar voice.
“Patsy!”
Where had he come from? We last heard of him at the hacienda of our friend the Argentino, in South America.
“Same old two-and-sixpence, always in at the death! There’s no end of a swell from the Celestial Empire on the stairs!”
“His Excellency the Minister of China,” Lorenzo announced.
The Chinese Minister, followed by his suite, walked into the studio on the stroke of ten, the first minute of the first day of the exhibition.
“Art, you see, is a matter of importance to these people,” Pasty murmured to me. “An invitation to a studio deserves to be treated with respect. When you show that tableau in America I wonder if the mayor, the governor, the sheriff, or even the hog-reeve, will take the trouble to come and see it. The representative of the Chinese Empire comes in person at the first possible moment. That’s my idea of a civilized people!”
The Minister and J. were talking in pantomime, none the less cordially for that. His Excellency wore seraphic clothes, had lovely polished manners; his hand was smooth as aroseleaf, his long nails were miraculous. The party stayed for some time and seemed pleased with their visit. After they had gone, leaving a faint perfume of sandalwood and straw-matting behind them, one of the younger men returned. (He was not of the Legation we heard afterwards). From the first he had seemed deeply impressed with the Diana; he hurried up to J., and pointing to the divine Huntress whispered:
“I beg your pardon, Mister; is that God?”
Our next visitor was a dark energetic Italian, with beautiful manners. He gave no name, none of us had any idea of who he was. He was deeply interested in the painting, looked at it from every point of view, and asked many questions about its final destination. He was not an artist, of that we felt sure, but he was a man with more than a dilettante’s interest in art. At the end of his visit, as he went towards the door, he saw the pens and paper lying on the table.
“Shall I write my name?” he asked politely; then in a bold hand wrote “Luigi Rava.”
“Who is he?” I asked after the dark unknown had driven off in his carriage.
“Only the Minister of Education. Rome seems to be taking your show seriously,” Patsy declared. “That was a good idea, writing his name; mind you make everybody else follow suit. You’re likely to have some interesting autographs before you’re finished.”
None so interesting as the Chinese Minister’s and it was too late for that. We followed Patsy’s advice; after that all the visitors wrote their names. That afternoon the studio was crowded with all sorts and conditions of men and women; artists, tourists, ambassadors, beauties and princes.
“You are the fashion; don’t be too much puffed up by that,” Patsy admonished; “it’s because yours is the only free show open in town!”
The exhibition was to have lasted five days; we had to keep it open a fortnight. As Patsy said, it became the fashion to drop into the studio, a spacious room in the handsome new Studio Corrodi by the Tiber. We never liked it so well as the old studio in the Borgo Sant’ Angelo, but it was more convenient for such a reception. There is a pretty garden with a brand new fountain and brand new flowers atthe Corrodi; it is smart, up to date, belonging to the new order of things in Roma Nuova.
One afternoon Archbishop Ireland and his train of attendant Abbesses came to see us. The Archbishop’s sister and several other Mothers Superior had come from America to visit Rome; they were a picturesque group. The Archbishop’s sister was a cheery delightful soul; another of the Mothers was so lovely J. wanted to paint her as Santa Theresa. We met them first at the studio of Carolus Duran (now Director of the French Academy) in the Villa Medici. The “Chèr Maitre” has brought several of his masterpieces from Paris to Rome, among others a study for a crucifixion, a really noble composition; America ought to have it. The Church is so rich in our country that she could well afford to give him a handsome order for it. The Abbesses in their long veils, taking tea with the great French painter, was one of those impressions of the contrasts of Roman life I shall not forget. They all came to our studio; among the treasured names in the list of autographs are those of Mother Celestine, Mother Seraphine, Mother Agnes Gonzaga.
“They remind me,” said Patsy, after theArchbishop and the ladies took their leave, “of Sir Joseph Porter, K. C. B., his sisters and his cousins and his aunts!”
Patsy was of the greatest use. He was at the studio almost as much as we ourselves. He devoted himself to the humbler guests if there happened to be some great personage to whom J. had to attend.
“It’s a good thing to have friends in every calling,” said Patsy; “you never know just when they may come in handy.” I had reproached him for neglecting lovely Donna Beatrice for old Checco, the proprietor of the Concordia restaurant.
“Checco has given me credit many a time when it would have gone hard with me to get a meal anywhere else!” he said.
On the eighth of February a note came from the Marchese Guiccioli, Queen Margherita’s gentleman-in-waiting. The superscription, Casa della Regina Madre, set the whole house in a flutter. Eugenio, the porter, himself brought the royal messenger up in the lift. Agnese, who took the letter from him, came hurrying to the terrace, where Ignazio and I were talking about the wall flowers.
“See to it,” I was saying, “that this thing does not happen again. You were paid a large price for these flowers, enormous sums were charged forconcime(fertilizer) and they have done badly. Last season they were poor spindly little things, while those that sprang by chance from a crevice in the wall by the water pipe were a glory. Expound to me the reason of this absurdity.”
“Signora, how can I explain the laws of God? It is according to their nature. Those wall flowers that come up by chance without care always seem the fairest, perhaps because they grow beyond our reach. Those you speak of so abusively smelt like honey; you yourself complained that they attracted not only the butterflies but the bees from the priest’s hive.”
“A messenger from the Palazzo Margherita brought this.” Agnese offered the letter on the best silver tray she so rarely is willing to use. It is not well, she argues, that the first-comer should know we have such a valuable thing in the house, and use it so commonly. It might be stolen or, almost as bad, reported so that the tax forrichezza mobilewould be augmented.
“This letter is for the Signore,” I said.
“Without doubt—the Signora has reason—but being of so much importance she will open it?”
“Certainly not.” Agnese and Ignazio were burnt up with curiosity about the letter; they could hardly wait till J.’s return. Lorenzo, who had followed Agnese, is more canny though quite as curious.
“Imbeciles! don’t you know that to break the seal of a letter from the Casa Reale is an offense? I know perfectly well what it contains; as I see you are beside yourselves with curiosity, I will tell you that—you too shall know in good time!”
J. had gone for a walk along the Tiber to the Ponto Milvio; he returned sooner than I expected. Eugenio, panting with suspense, had pursued and brought him back. The letter brought the news that Queen Margherita would come to the studio the next afternoon. As we were already in apple-pie order, there was nothing for Lorenzo to do but put fresh laurel branches in the vases and add a little polish to the “Queen’s Chair.”
Punctually to the minute the royal carriage drew up at the door of the Studio Corrodi.The servants on the box were dressed in dark colors,—the splendid scarlet liveries, alas! are Queen Margherita’s no longer; they are only worn by the servants of the reigning Queen. J. received her Majesty at the carriage door and escorted her up the marble stair to the big new studio. What a contrast to the dear old studio with the ancient courtyard, the murmuring fountain hundreds of years old, the water-worn stones dark with ages, where the maiden-hair fern grows in great feathery tufts! It all came back to me with a sudden rush of memory, as I followed the Queen up the wide white marble stair. I saw the two long flights of hollowed travertina steps that led to the old studio, the uneven brick floor, the window that gave on the court, where the falcon and the white doves from the Vatican lived, the birds of whose wings J. made such endless studies for the Hours in his “Triumph of Time.” How many hours, months, years, had flown by since we three last met!
Queen Margherita walked across the polished floor with the light step of a girl, and quite naturally, without prompting, took her place in the “Queen’s Chair.” The social temperature rose—we felt as children for whom “the party has begun.” How does she do it? That’s her secret, she could not tell us if she would. She is one of those rare beings who bring their own sunshine with them, whose presence warms us to the heart’s core! We hold out our hands towards the kindly glow, as we stretch chilled fingers to a cheerful fire.
“It’s because she’s all there!” Patsy said afterwards, trying to explain what we had all felt. After one quick glance about the studio, the royal visitor fixed her eyes on the big canvas.
“This is your Diana of the Tides for the new museum at Washington?” she said to J. “A fine opportunity; I congratulate you. At what height will it be placed, at what distance will it be seen?”
Her questions about the Diana, and the building it was painted for, were direct and to the point. She showed the closely trained mind of a woman used to dealing with many kinds of affairs, of giving instant and undivided attention to the matter in hand. “She was all there,” as Patsy put it. There was a great lesson in the power of concentration she showed.She is a busy active woman; every hour, each quarter of an hour of every day has its appointed duty. We had a sense that she took them up one by one with the same whole-hearted earnestness that made every word she said worthy to be graven on our memories. After she had looked a long time at the Diana, she walked across the studio to the easel with the portrait of the old Chieftainess. J. told her something of her life and work, and referred to the story that appeared a few days before in the Tribuna. In a recent speech before theCircolo Italianoof Boston, my mother had snapped out this witticism:
“The American Eagle came out of the egg of Columbus.”
Themotso delighted the Italians that it was quoted by the Italian press all over the world.
“What a beautiful old age!” sighed the Queen Mother, as she looked at the portrait of the woman who has been called in Boston’s Little Italy, “La Nonna degl’ Italiani.”
“You have painted a portrait of old age as it ought to be,” Queen Margherita continued; with that smile of hers, a little graver than of old but with the same piercing sweetness.
“Remember that,” murmured Patsy. “Shehits the nail on the head every time; that’s the reason she has done so much for her generation. Come to think of it, they are two of a kind; both have served greatly and been greatly rewarded!” He looked from the face of the portrait on the easel to the face of the royal lady who stood before it.
“Your portrait ofIl Povero Re,” said the Queen Mother to J., “has changed color. I am troubled about it. I fear it may be because I always take it with me from Rome to Gressoni every year. I fear the jarring may have hurt it.”
It was arranged then and there that J. should call upon the Countess Villamarina, the Queen Mother’s companion, and see what was wrong with his portrait of King Umberto. We all went down to the carriage; the Queen Mother shook hands with us all graciously, and promised she would come again to the studio some day.
We watched the landau with the sober liveries drive away. Across the Tiber the regiment of Philippus was returning to the barracks, after rifle practice at the Tor di Quinto. The gay notes of the royal marchsounded joyously; the proud horses of the royal landau arched their beautiful necks—it was as if they recognized the music and tried to keep step to it.
Three days later, on the twelfth of February, we were waked at half past seven in the morning, with the news that the King would be at the studio in an hour. He came in an automobile with two aides, an admiral and a general. They all wore uniform and looked very smart and well turned out. Agnese and I watched them from the terrace (the studio is opposite the palazzo where we live). I was not allowed to go to the studio; Athol and J. decided it would not be suitable, the visit being so early and of so informal a nature; I was, of course, dreadfully disappointed. Lorenzo was there to open the door; he apparently managed to leave it ajar, for he gave me an account of the visit.
“His Majesty speaks every language as if it were his own—they all do, it is a gift like another. It was most unfortunate for me, considering the Signore talks Italian, that they spoke in Ingerlish, which resembles—with respect, Signora—the chatter of monkeys. Something I understood, however, by observingtheir faces. His Majesty pointed to the horses; they interested him; has he not the finest horses in the world? Before his Majesty departed he inquired if he should write his name in the book. The Signore ran to turn over a virgin page; this his Majesty would not allow but wrote his name with all the others, just where it came naturally, when he could have had a whole page to himself. You can see for yourself what a fine big signature he has; he might well be proud of it, but he is not proud—nostro re! He handed the pen to the Signor Ammiraglio, saying—that I could understand for it was in Italian—‘See that you write your name better than I have written mine.’ On the table lay the photographs the Signore made at Messina; when his Majesty saw them he turned back. They studied all those terrible pictures of the ruins together, and they talked again in that language I do not understand.”
They stayed twenty-five minutes by the clock on the Castle Sant’ Angelo,—Agnese kept watch of the time; then they all came down to the street. The King shook hands with J., wrapped his long military cloak about him (theair was keen), and got into the motor. The porter and Lorenzo, standing very straight like soldiers on either side of the door, saluted. The porter’s wife, the little stepson and the new baby all leaned from the window over the door.
“Observe, observe, Signora mia, his Majesty smiles, he is pleased,” whispered Agnese, all in a flutter. “Ah, what a good kind heart!”
The motor flashed past the Palazzo Frankenstein, and Agnese and I came down “to hear all about it.” Coffee for all hands was demanded and furnished forthwith. In the kitchen Lorenzo, Eugenio and Agnese talked for an hour about the King’s visit. All I could get out of J. was the last precious sentence of the interview:
“When I thanked him for the honor of the visit, King Victor said, ‘Not at all, my mother told me to come.’ His English is beautiful, just like Queen Margaret’s.”
“TheSignorina with the bright eyes, who lives in the handsomevillino,” Agnese began, “asks if the Signora can use her carriage today. That fat beast, her coachman, is very avaricious, he will expect amanciaof three francs—still if we employ Napoleone, it will cost more—besides with a private carriagese fa più figura.”
“As to making a good appearance, that’s of no consequence; the Signorina’s carriage, however, has better springs than Napoleone’s, rubber tires as well. What didst thou say?”
“As the Signora was occupied I said yes, withtante grazie, and combined that the ‘milor’ should come at two o’clock. The afternoons are short; as themanciamust be paid, it is better to have one’s money’s worth.” Agnese wears thirty-two flawless pearls in her mouth—as she said these things she showed them all to me with the guileless smile of an infant.
Could it be by chance that Vera’s carriage was offered for this particular day? Impossible! Besides, Agnese knows I never go out till four. I have to believe in miracles, such miraculous things happen. Can it be that Agnese works the oracle?Basta!best not lift the veil from such comfortable mysteries. We were booked to call on the Marchesa Villamarina at half past two o’clock; we had spoken to no living soul of this, and here was a fat coachman, a fine coach and pair coming to take us in state to the palace of the Regina Madre. If our very walls have ears, if our correspondence is tampered with, the result is fortunate—let us accept the “milor” the gods send us!
We drove up sunny Via Veneto, through the Ludovisi quarter, past the smart hotels that have sprung up near the Palazzo Margherita—the Savoy, Regina, Palace, half a dozen more named out of compliment to the Queen Mother. If the sacrifice had to be made, the beautiful Villa Ludovisi cut up into house lots, transformed into the fashionable quarter of Rome, the great winter watering place, it’s a little comfort that the best site now serves for the site of Queen Margherita’s palace.
“Do you remember the violets that used to grow here?
“I can smell them now!”
“It’s hard to forgive that vandalism, even if building lots were necessary.”
Other things are necessary; the cool shade of ancient cedars, their resinous breath at hot noontide, the plashing of water in moss-grown fountains, the rustle of birds at nesting time, the carpet of anemones beneath immemorial trees, the laurel and asphodel that once grew here in the garden that was Sallust’s, that has been sacred ground to poet and artist from Horace’s time to Crawford’s.
Palazzo Margherita faces Via Veneto with its smug hotels; behind the palace lie a few roods of ground, a shrunken splendor, the last vestige of the noble Villa Ludovisi. Here are shadowy walks between gnarled ilex trees, and a few old statues, the last of a great company. A high wall shuts off the Queen’s garden from the Via Sallustiana, on the left; at the back on the Via Boncompagni, the wall is surmounted by a balustrade with antique amphorae etched with a fine network of black and yellow stains. Perhaps they once held the wine thatserved at Sallust’s banquets—it was of the best, Falernian perhaps.
“A pleasant drive to you!” Herr Schmidt, at the door of his hotel, bowed and smiled. A gong clanged behind him; a crowd of porters in green baize apron and pages in buttons rushed from within, as the big hotel omnibus, covered with travelers’ luggage, crowded with tourists, drew up at the entrance.
“Isn’t he a type with his automobile, his big wife wearing the old Orsini diamonds?” I murmured.
The Roman hotel-keeper today is a far more important personage than the poet and artist he has ousted from their garden of delight, the lovely Villa Ludovisi. If he were really a Roman, it wouldn’t matter so much; but nine times out of ten he is a German or a Swiss. Herr Schmidt is a very rich man and much considered, while Enrico, the painter, who used to spend long delicious days sketching in the Villa—Enrico, who loves and paints the Campagna Romana as it has never been painted before—Enrico’s coat is threadbare as Martial’s only toga.
“Are you asleep?”
“No, only dreaming.”
“Wake up, we’re there.”
We were expected; the sentries at the gate allowed the fat coachman to drive the “milor” into the courtyard.
“The last time we were here together was at a dinner of Mrs. Draper’s,” J. reminded me. When General Draper was American ambassador he lived here, as did his predecessor, Mr. Wayne MacVeagh; in those days it was called the Palazzo Piombino. After the death of King Umberto the palace became the Roman residence of the Queen Mother.
A picturesque person in plush breeches, wearing a silver chain of office, received and showed us up the grand staircase. No mean economy of space or height here, or in the long corridor with the marble doorways; our palace builders at home must study Roman interiors as well as Italian gardens.
“Don’t you remember the MacVeaghs’ ball and Queen Margherita walking through this corridor with the Ambassador?” J. asked.
“Of course; she wore a blue brocade dress and her incomparable pearls; it all comes back to me. King Umberto was in uniform; hecarried a helmet with white plume under his arm. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Francis Adams were here. Do you remember the Austrian diplomat’s fascinating court dress? And that Russian military attaché in Cossack uniform with a black patch over one eye?”
“Yes, what a hero you thought him till I told you his poor eye had been knocked out by a careless woman’s umbrella.”
The Marchesa Villamarina received us in the room where Mrs. MacVeagh used to give tea. As we sat talking, we heard a merry little scream of dismay; the Marchesa, excusing herself, hurried to the next room. Then we heard a laugh like a silver chime.
“It’s her voice,” I whispered.
In a moment the Marchesa returned, smiling and merry.
Queen Margherita, her eyes bright with laughter, received us in her library. The Queen’s dress was like the plumage of a silver pheasant; dress is a fine art with her. You never know what she has on, but you always know it is the perfect thing for the hour. The library is an immense apartment, even for Rome, full of color and atmosphere. It suitsher as the background in a Velasquez portrait suits the central figure. The highest point of light was a blaze of yellow azaleas on the mantel. There was no senseless bric-a-brac, but every article of furniture was a gem. One who reads the character of a person from the room he or she lives in, would guess that this was the home of a woman of taste and of action; it was comfortable rather than luxurious; there was nothing of the “dreadful too much.” On the walls hung a few pictures, among them J.’s Dante in Exile. On the writing table stood his portrait of King Umberto. J. saw in a moment what had happened to it. The portrait is a silver-point drawing. When these are first made their color is very like a pencil drawing; with time the silver becomes oxidized, and turns darker, the tone improving every year till it becomes a rich soft tarnished color. While J. was explaining this to Queen Margherita, the Marchesa told me what had been the matter.
“In writing her name upon the photograph her Majesty designed to give you, she had the misfortune to upset the ink.”
“She too? Is she so human?”
“It is because her Majesty is so human,” said the Marchesa, “that one has that adoration for her.”
* * * * * * * * * * *
“I’ve had a letter from Belknap,” said J. a few days after this, “asking me to go back to Messina with him.”
“You’re not going?” I cried.
“Of course he is,” said Vera. She was playing ball with Patsy on the terrace.
“I can’t bear it; besides you must finish your Pan.’
“Your father would have gone.”
There was nothing for me to say to that.
“Take me with you,” said Patsy.
“And me!” cried Vera, all on fire.
“I can’ttakeyou; but there’s nothing to prevent your all making a trip to Sicily. You have always wanted to—” he looked at me. “This is your chance, a little later though—it’s such a cold season.”
“How can he be so keen about getting back to that awful place?” I exclaimed.
“It’s because there is so much more work to do there than there ever was in the worldbefore,” said Vera. “Every one who has been down feels the same way.”
“You have said it!” This from Patsy, the golden butterfly. “A man’s happiest when he’s working to the limit, when there’s not one minute of time left in the day to get a grouch on!”