It was very impressive.  It would be impossible to give you an idea of the intense solemnity of this scene, especially for me, as I have no talent for description.  Women wept and waved their wet handkerchiefs; the sterner sex would have done the same, I dare say, if they had not been ashamed to show so much emotion.

March 10, 1888.

The Emperor Wilhelm of Germany died yesterday.  Though he was so very old, the news of his death was unexpected and cast a gloom over Rome.  Of course, all gaieties are ended, and court mourning ordered for three weeks.  King Umberto left directty for Genoa to meet the new Emperor, who started from San Remo on his way to Berlin.  The dinner for King Umberto’s birthday, which was to have been on the 14th, has been decommande.

The Prince of Naples has already left for Berlin to represent the King at the Emperor’s funeral—­his first official act since he has become of age.

May 1, 1888.

My dear Aunt,—­My letters are very uninteresting.  I cannot help it.  There is nothing going on in society.  In fact, many of the Italians have left Rome, and the colleagues are resting on their oars—­those who have any to rest on.  I am resting on my “Pinafore” oars.  How lucky we had it when we did!

Taking advantage of this moment of inactivity, the Roman ladies arranged a charity performance, for which Marquise Del Grillo (Madame Ristori) promised to give her services.  She chose the famous play “Marie Antoinette,” which is supposed to be one of her best.  The tickets were to be procured only from the ladies of the committee (of which I was one), and, though they cost a fabulous price, the theater was crammed to suffocation.

Madame Ristori’s acting was, of course, perfect, her voice musical, her Italian delicious, and her gestures were faultless.  If one might dare criticize such an artist, one could say that her movements might have been a little more queenly, but a queen’s grace and dignity must be very difficult to acquire from sheer imagination.  Also her dress was far from what it ought to have been.  I am sure no French dressmaker had the making of that gown.  In the first act Marie Antoinette, in the apotheose of her glory, wore voluminous skirts and crinoline, according to the famous picture.  Madame Ristori wore a crinoline, to be sure; but her dress was too short in front and showed her low-heeled shoes of white satin, and when she moved about her gown of heavy brocade swayed from side to side like a pendulum.

One recognized the great artist in the scene in the prison, where she bade the king and her children adieu.  This was very touching, and there was not a dry eye in the audience.  I know that I sniffed and wept and blew my nose, and was quite ashamed of showing my feelings so explosively.

I went to see her on her reception-day (the next Friday) and found her in her every-day surroundings, her pretty daughter hovering about with teacups and cakes, everything looking very home-like and prosaic, and Marie Antoinette eating sandwiches with a healthy appetite and talking of the latest gossip.  I could hardly believe that I had shed so many tears over her sad fate a few nights ago.