Chapter XXI Queen Margherita at Our Studio
The twentieth century dawned for us in Rome, where we were now in our sixth year of residence. The opening of the new cycle was marked by the magnificent pageants of the Pope’s jubilee. The pilgrimages that season exceeded all others in splendor. Pilgrims from all Christian lands, of every class from prince to peasant, poured into the Eternal City, past our windows to St. Peter’s and the Vatican. Looking back, this time seems one long carnival, when the streets were crowded by picturesque figures from every corner of the earth, clad in strange and striking costumes. The Russian Catholics wore rich Cossack dress; one huge fellow had a belt studded with turquoises a queen might have envied. The Easter church services were gorgeous and attracted crowds of tourists from England and America; the Anglo-American colony were hard put to it to meet the demands for hospitality that each day brought. For the English this was a grave time, as the tragedy of the Boer War cast its shadow wherever they assembled. I remember the excitement at a large dinner when the news of a Boer victory was whispered. I sat between two young diplomats representing a country much out of sympathy with Great Britain. I shall never forget the malicious expression of one of these attachés as he exclaimed:
“Elle est fini!” or his surprise at my sharp rejoinder:
“England finished? That’s something you will never live to see, young man!”
Among other distinguished visitors was the old Duke of Cambridge (cousin of Queen Victoria) who served in 1854 at Alma and Inkerman and for fifty years was Commander-in-chief of the British army. He was born in 1819, the year of my mother’s birth, and showed the same uncommon vitality at his advanced age that I have noticed in others of the exceptionally large number of famous people born that year. I had a tender spot in my heart for the Duke on account of his romantic marriage to the woman he loved in defiance of the commands of the Queen. With his sons, Colonel and Admiral Fitz-George, the old soldier came to pass some weeks at the Grand Hotel. It was the duty of the military attaché of the British Embassy to plan the Roman days of these exalted personages. As the Duke was not interested in antiquities, the attaché was sometimes hard pressed to fill up the time. Some one suggested that he bring the Duke to my husband’s studio, to see the Boston Public Library ceiling, now nearing completion. I was not present at the visit but well remember J.’s description of it.
The visitors were interested in the portraits J. had lately made of three heroes of the Boer War, Lord Ava, the handsome young son of Lord Dufferin, the Marquis of Winchester and General Wauchope. These portraits were J.’s contribution to Lady Lansdowne’s fund for the families of officers killed in the Boer War. He asked the Duke if he would pose for his portrait for the same charity.
“Why not, why not?” was the cheery answer. The sittings were full of interest, the Duke proving a genial sitter. He occasionally fell into a doze from which his son would gently rouse him, whereupon, to show how wide awake he was, he burst into song with snatches from grand opera in a voice that showed traces of a musical training. My husband was fortunate in making an excellent likeness. With the help of Lady Kenmare and Hamilton Aïdé the four portraits were taken to London and became the nucleus of the exhibition and sale of pictures held at the house of the Duke of Sutherland for the war fund. The portrait of the Duke of Cambridge, I believe, found its way into the War Office; the other three were purchased by the families of the fallen heroes.
Among the imperishable memories of this year is the long-drawn-out agony of Ladysmith, where for four months General White kept the enemy at bay. In this siege my young cousin Hugh Frazer was wounded. He recovered and lived to lay down his life in the World War, eighteen years later.
We seemed to be living more in South Africa than in Italy, so closely did we follow every move of that dreadful war. One night at the Grand Hotel I sat at dinner very near to Cecil Rhodes. He was the center of interest in a crowd of celebrities gathered together to commemorate some important event. Though I have forgotten what the occasion was, I can see the face of the great Dictator of South Africa as if I had seen it yesterday. He looked the empire builder he was, but most of all he looked like an American. He spoke as one having authority, and compelled, apparently without in the least wishing to do so, the attention of every person in the large company.
A year or two later I was fortunate in meeting Hunter Weston, the hero of the Boer War and the Gallipoli campaign. He held at this time the rank of Colonel, and was on his way home from the Transvaal, invalided. We met several times at Villa Florida, the home of Major Davis in Naples, and later he came to our house in Rome. What impressed one most about him was an amazing virility, together with a charm of speech and a grace of manner that made him a marked man in any gathering. He was a preux chevalier among the sons of Mars.
Lest I forget, let me anticipate my story to note that we were in London at the close of the Boer War. The day peace was declared, May first, 1902, we took a cab and drove about the city. London was beside itself with joy. The streets were filled with people singing, dancing, cheering; the traditional English calm was swept away by a storm of rejoicing. J., who had lived out of his country since his boyhood, could not believe his eyes.
“I don’t know my own people,” he kept saying; “this is not my London.” A few nights later Colonel Hunter Weston dined with us. Talking of the demonstration, he agreed with what J. had said, adding, “Perhaps you do not realize how much cause there is for rejoicing!”
[To my Mother.]
Rome, April 10, 1900. This will be, I believe, my last Eastertide in Rome. It is a restless time, floods and floods of people from home. Other kinds of floods too; the rainy season has been unspeakable. Great fear for the crops. The Tiber is higher than I ever saw it. J. says if it were not for the embankment, people would be rowing about in the Piazza del Popolo as he once saw them when the Tiber overflowed. Life is full and interesting, with more delightful strangers in town than we can do justice to. The Thomas Bailey Aldriches are here. I had one good talk with him; he is as enchanting as ever, though not looking very strong. Mrs. Aldrich came to my reception, bringing one of the twins with her. I met the Vernon Harcourts at lunch on Sunday at the Embassy. His talk about the political situation was illuminating. She asked about you and wished to be remembered.
May 30, 1900. J. sent off the drawings of General Wauchope, Marquis of Winchester and Duke of Cambridge in the British Embassy bag to Mrs. Hope. Villegas and the Signora called to take farewell. They are off for Seville day after to-morrow. Only two months more of our Roman palace; we begin to feel the tug of parting. The Easter lilies are all in bloom. Miss Kemp buys plants from the terrace for four hundred and twenty-one francs. This, with one hundred and fifty from Mr. Bagot, for the roses, is quite a sum to pull off our terrace.
May 31, 1900. J. wrote careful explanatory letters to Mrs. Hope (Lady Lansdowne’s secretary) and to Hamilton Aïdé about the drawings. A long visit to Miss Leigh Smith, who showed me a London paper with a report of your having spoken at some public meeting for the English. Miss L. S. pleased you should have come out strong for her people, I more pleased to learn you were stirring about and making speeches on your eighty-first birthday.
June 2, 1900. The plants sold Miss Kemp have been taken downstairs. It has been a dreadful day to me. The lovely things were ruthlessly torn from their home and carried down the long stairs—it has made me almost ill. Six tall spirea in full bloom, four boxes of pink ivy geranium, two large azaleas, two giant honeysuckles (one J. dug up at the Villa Madama in the face of an angry bull), four wistaria, thirty-six chrysanthemums, two rhododendrons, nine coral geraniums.
June 4, 1900. Saw Miss Kemp and our lovely plants in their new home. Terrace pulled together but much reduced; half its front teeth are missing. To see de Musset’s “Lorenzacchio”, with Zacconi. A slow dragging drama in five acts with great poetic quality but crudely put together. Only a first-rate actor could have made it “go” at all. Visit to the studio from Miss Wauchope, the sister of the General, and her friend Miss Tesiger, daughter of the Lord Chancellor. Miss Wauchope spoke in the warmest way of J.’s portrait of her brother. Said it was inspired and far the best thing ever made of him. Mr. Leech thought he might like to buy the remaining honeysuckles, but found them too big. Decide to give Miss Kemp the seventeen ivies, as they are hardly saleable in pots, but will do finely in the ground, and their future will be assured in a good garden. Have combined with Ignazio, our gardener, to take care of Miss K.’s garden for thirty francs a month. Quite a comfort; the dear plants will be well cared for by him, who more than any one else helped J. create our paradise. Sent to the auction room much roba,—better to sell it for a few francs than to pay for packing and shipping.
June 5, 1900. The de Stirums want plants from the terrace for thirty-four francs, Jessie Cochrane for one hundred; this brings up the plant sales to six hundred and seventy francs. The gardenias are astonishing, finer than ever before. J. has given the two big honeysuckles and the passion flower to Boni to set out in the Roman Forum. This is consoling.
June 9, 1900. Last evening at eight o’clock came a messenger from the Marchese Guiccioli, chamberlain of the Queen, with the news that the royal lady would come to the studio the next day at six in the afternoon. Great excitement in casa Elliott. Early in the morning we raided the Villegas villa for flowers and borrowed Lorenzo, their handy man, to come help put the studio to rights. I dreamed of a crimson carpet hired for the event and palms to redeem the grim entrance in the rear of the old Palazzo Giraud-Torlonia, but J. said:
“No. She is quite accustomed to going to artists’ studios and finding them as they are.”
Perhaps he was right, but I hankered for the crimson carpet. The little outer studio was made neat and a corner of the great barn itself looked brave with our big rug, the gold screens, a few good chairs and the Portuguese leather armchair you always sat in. J. asked Lord Currie to come and help do the honors. He was there promptly at half-past five. We were all three in waiting at the shabby old green door when the royal carriage with the scarlet liveries drew up. Lord Currie handed out the Queen, saying,
“It gives me great pleasure to present my compatriot to your Majesty.”
The Queen took the long flights of stairs easily, her lady-in-waiting, the Duchess Massimo, panting behind. The Queen was delighted with the work and looked at it from every point of view. She asked for the sketches, studied them and asked many questions about the building, the light, etc. She looked at every little drawing in the studio, laughing heartily at the portrait of the Duke of Cambridge, exclaiming:
“It is the old man to the very life.”
The visit lasted half an hour and was as friendly and easy as heart could desire. The visitors departed in a blaze of scarlet and gold lace, with congratulations and farewells. Lord Currie said that the Queen had been really interested in the work. She certainly said things to me that were pleasant to hear.
Queen Margherita has always been the friend and patron of artists and musicians and is greatly beloved by them. She finds a certain relief from the formalities of court life in the world of art, wherein as an excellent musician, she finds herself more at home than some royalties. She is herself a collector; on the occasion of my parting visit to her, some years later, it was a source of great pleasure to find in her private apartments two pictures by my husband.
July 4, 1900. Left Naples where we have been having a little outing and returned to Rome, arriving at two o’clock. I tried to find some Americans to foregather with, but there was no reception anywhere. Left cards at the Iddings, out of town for the day at Frascati. If I had not been away from Rome, I should myself have given a Glorious Fourth tea. Saw the dear flag over Iddings’ door and had a little drive with Mr. Richard Greenough.
The Chinese horror (the Boxer Rebellion) hangs heavy on us all. I doubt if a single European escapes from Pekin, or indeed from China. Their doom is sealed,—the opium traders seem to be responsible for it all.
July 6, 1900. The Chinese horror confirmed. Last night came news that all the Legations and the men, women and children had been destroyed, the Empress Dowager and the Emperor forced to take poison. There are said to be one hundred thousand Christian converts. If true, I look with intense interest to see if Christianity retains its leaven. Strange if our religion should spread and conquer this stubborn old race. It will certainly count for something in the coming struggle.—Mr. and Mrs. Iddings and Mimo (Mrs. Hugh Fraser) to dine. She is very fascinating. She told us much of Pekin. She has lived at the Embassy and knew many of the people butchered there. I can think of little else.
July 13, 1900. Yesterday came Miss Mason of the Castle School at Tarry town with six or seven jolly American girls from Texas, Missouri, etc. They spent an hour at the studio. Miss Mason told me that she had heard Bishop Potter describe J.’s “Triumph of Time” in a sermon and that she could not leave Rome without seeing the picture.
July 14, 1900. While we sat at dinner a messenger from the Casa Reale was announced. We had a guest dining with us. J. went out and stayed for some time. He came back with a letter in his hand from the Marchesa Villamarina, who wrote “in the name of her august Majesty” asking him to accept the accompanying jewel for his wife in memory of her visit to the studio. He handed me a box wrapped in soft white paper, saying, “I fancy this is for you.”
I opened it and found a medallion of blue enamel with M, the Queen’s initial, set in diamonds on one side, on the reverse the royal coat of arms, the whole encircled with diamonds and set swinging from a bar pin of platinum and brilliants. A very beautiful jewel.
July 27, 1900. A vast American pilgrimage is now in possession of the city. The pilgrims brought a great sum of money as their present to the Pope. They drive about the city all day in cabs and landaus, four and five inside and a female on the box beside the coachman. The Romans stare; such a sight as a woman on the box they never saw. Seeing the American Roman Catholics in such large numbers one recognizes a composite type, very unlike the typical clean-cut New Englander.
On the 29th of July the King of Italy was assassinated by an anarchist at Monza.
Rome, August 2, 1900. The King is dead, long live the King! The little new King, Victor Emmanuel III, has made so far a favorable impression by the deep feeling he has shown. He got the news of his father’s murder on his yacht, cruising with his young wife, the Montenegrin Princess, in southern waters below Brindisi, and hurried directly to Monza in Piedmont. Both the young people are reported as having cried themselves sick. The King refused to see all officials and ministers and rushed through Naples and Rome on his special train. At Naples, when he heard that Crispi was waiting in the station, he sent for him. The old man, very feeble, was brought into the carriage and the two sobbed together. A letter was handed him from the Queen directed simply “A mio figlio”; I suppose she could not so soon give him his new title. She sent word to the lady to whom poor Umberto had been attached for many years that she might come and see the body at Monza. The bearing and behavior of the Romans is admirable. I had looked for excess and hysteria. The contrary has prevailed. The people are deeply moved; there is a sombre hush everywhere, a decent, reserved mourning, more what one would expect in England than Italy. Great indignation is felt about the impunity with which two Italian newspapers, published in Paterson, New Jersey, where the murderer had lived, have advocated the murder of all rulers, especially the King of Italy. Surely such sheets should not be allowed and the authorities should have knowledge of what is printed in the papers, whether in Italian, Yiddish or English. Nothing yet announced of the funeral ceremonies or for the installation of the new king. I shall see all I can of these events. Strange, I saw the great Victor Emmanuel alive, I saw him dead and lying in state in the capella ardente, at the Quirinal; I saw Umberto when the troops took the oath of allegiance twenty-two years ago, and now I shall probably see him dead and his son take the oath to support the Constitution. The anarchist programme does seem to be having a measure of success. It looks as if the plan to make the thrones of Europe so hot that no royalty will sit upon them was succeeding.
Both the Prefect of Monza and his own court entourage had objected to Umberto’s going to the festa at Monza, where he was killed, as there was a general sense of uneasiness, but he was one of those mortals who seem to be absolutely without fear, as brave a man as ever lived. Courage, honesty, simplicity were his chief characteristics. Whenever there was a serious fire, a bad accident, a public disaster of any sort, he was sure to be on the spot among the first. The Chief of Police told me that once,
when there was a terrible fire, he found the King among the vigiles (firemen), giving orders and helping generally in a most dangerous place, where a wall was on the point of crumbling that might have fallen and crushed him. The Capo remonstrated with the King and begged him to go away. The King refused; he liked the active stir and rush and being able to do something besides planning and thinking, which were not in his line. Then the Capo said:
“Majesty, perhaps you have a right to risk your life, but have you the right to risk ruining me?” The King saw the justice of the plea and sadly retired to his palace. He has looked old and worried lately and above all puzzled. He wanted so much to do the right thing, but did not seem to know how to do it. I believe now he has gone that account will be taken of the giant strides Italy has made during his reign and that he will be found to have been a more significant figure than his critics have realized.
August 5, 1900. It was lumbago. How did you hear about it? Who do you suppose cured me? Henry James. He came to lunch one day early in July. I managed to struggle into an armchair and sit at table. Before he left he told me he had suffered much from this devil and that he had found the only cure for it “perspiration!” only he didn’t use that vulgar word of course; this is what he did say:
“Believe me, dear lady, there is but one cure for lumbago,—transpiration, transpiration. Only transpire freely enough, and it disappears, but alas! it is a malady that returns.”
After he had left with J. I managed to crawl up to the terrace at four o’clock of a broiling July afternoon, found an old broom, and while the heat was positively grilling, swept the terrace from end to end. I got into a perfect bath of “transpiration”, rolled into bed where I gradually cooled off, slept like a top and awoke next day cured.
August 6, 1900. Grave news. The two big canvases have been taken off the stretchers and rolled up. The engineer of the palace forbade J. remaining longer in his studio. The cracks in the walls have been growing wider and wider. The engineer said, and Boni bore him out, that there was danger the roof might fall in any day and destroy both artist and pictures.
August 14, 1900. The packers come to-morrow at nine for the big pictures. They will be shipped August 21st on the Anchor Line steamer Bolivia and will be three weeks reaching Boston. To dine with the Dutch Secretary, de Stirum, who has taken John Loudon’s place. Met the Danish minister who told me that there really are grounds for hoping the Legations (at Pekin) are safe. If this is true, the newspaper correspondents who sent the despatches with the horrid details of the supposed murders ought to have some of the tortures they invented practiced on themselves. Mme. de Lucca (she was Miss Kennedy of New Orleans) the mother of one of the Italian secretaries at Pekin, met me in the street the other day. I suppose my face showed the sympathy I felt for her, as the morning papers stated that all the people at the Legations had been killed.
“Why do you look at me like that?” she asked. “Don’t you suppose I should know if my son were dead? He is perfectly well and safe!”
August 20, 1900. J. decides he wants to go to Oberammergau for the Passion Play. We got right to work at closing up, and shall work like Indians till the last minute. The real hot weather began about mid-July and has kept up steadily. No terrible days like those in Seville where the mercury this month goes up to 110, but a dead level of 85, rising to 90. Nights always cool with a sea breeze coming up about ten o’clock. We dine on the terrace; at night the loss of the flowers does not trouble us. There is always a jug of iced lemonade for callers; as our terrace is voted the coolest place in Rome, we are popular and keep late hours, making up for it next day by the inevitable siesta from one to three. In the shadow of St. Peter’s Dome we watch the constellations march across the sky and think of you at home, looking at the same old Cassiopeia from the piazza at Oak Glen.
For many years I kept up a desultory correspondence with Henry James; we wrote not more than a few times a year and only when we had something particular to say. I ought to have kept his letters with greater care, but in my wandering existence all papers became anathema maranatha. From the few that have survived I chose the following, written after receiving some rather poor photographs of J.’s “Triumph of Time”, which he had watched with such keen interest as it slowly grew into a reality in the Roman studio. It was now in its place on the ceiling of the Children’s Room in the Boston Public Library.
Lamb House,
Rye.
August 2d, 1901.
My dear Maud Elliott.
Your beautiful Newport (if Newport I may call it) letter greatly touches and interests me, and the effect of it is enhanced or confirmed by the arrival almost at the same moment of the pale photographic reminder and pale, though not wholly ineffectual, of the monumental composition. All thanks for everything, and most of all for the friendly remembrance that has dictated them. It is a great pleasure, a great pride, for me to possess the dim shadows of the picture, and, shadows though they be, I shall suspend the most substantial on one of my little room-walls, where it will keep constantly in memory for me those too few weeks in Rome, more than two years ago, when I assisted a little at the glorious but difficult birth and since I am afraid I shall never see the great canvas itself in place. And your letter is full of other echoes too and of a further-away past and a prior state, almost, of being; so extremely does your description of your soft grey day in that unforgotten Clime bring the whole place and air and feeling back to me, and transport me to my long-vanished youth, or put it again before me. I am delighted you have so mildly-melancholy a refuge from the rather screwed-up American summer. We read awful things of heat-waves over here, but I hope you successfully oppose them with the waves of the sea, since you suggest that you lead more or less an amphibious life. We have moreover our own heat-waves here, overwhelming enough (the globe surely is being resolved again into its primal ball-of-fire condition), and without any sea-change for me, whom salt-water afflicts and distance (the shining sands are 3 miles off) discourages. I greatly regret to hear of your mother’s failure of health; it must be a comfort for you—as such comforts go—to be able to be with her. She must indeed be grand, and above all strongly fortified. May she long, may she subtly, and not too painfully, resist! I venture to send her the benediction of my sincerity. Your best news is that of your possible appearance here at no distant date. Of course Elliott must go back to Rome and of course the chance will come and the situation reconstitute itself. Tell him, please, with my kind regards, that I put up for you both that friendliest prayer. And don’t wait too long; I want to see you there again; and my sands are running low. But I want to see you here too, and I should warmly welcome you.4 Keep up your heart, dear Maud Elliott, and believe in the extreme constancy of your affectionate old friend
Henry James.