At five o’clock we stood on the balcony to watch the race of the wild horses.  These are brought straight in from the country, quite wild and untamed.  They are covered with all sorts of dangling pointed tin things and fire-crackers, which not only frighten them dreadfully, but hurt them.  They started at the Piazza del Popolo and were hooted and goaded on by the excited screams of the populace all the way down the narrow Corso, which is a mile long.  It is a wonder that the poor creatures in their fright did not dart into the howling crowd, but they did not.  They kept straight on their way, stung to desperation by the fireworks on their backs.  At the Piazza di Venezia the street narrows into a very small passage, which divides the palazzo from its neighbor opposite.  Here sheets (or, rather, sails) were hung across this narrow place, into which the horses, blinded with terror, puzzled and confused, ran headlong, and were easily caught.  The one who gets there first gets the prize, and is led back through the streets, tired and meek, wearing his number on a card around his neck.  It is a cruel sport, but the Italians enjoy it, believing, as they do, that animals have no souls, and therefore can support any amount of torture.

Nothing is done on Friday.  The following Tuesday—­Mardi-gras—­was the last day.  Then folly reigned supreme.  After the horses had run their race and twilight had descended on the scene, the moccoletti began.  This is such a childish sport that it really seems impossible that grown-up men and women could find any amusement in taking part in it.  Lighting your own small tallow candle and trying to put out your neighbor’s—­that is what it amounts to.  Does it not sound silly?  Yet all this vast crowd is as intent on it as if their lives and welfare were at stake.  At eight o’clock, however, this came to an end, the last flickering light was put out, and we went home—­one would think to play with our dolls.

ROME, 1881.

Dear ——­,—­Since we are bereft of balls and soirees we devote our time to improving our Italian.  Johan and I take lessons of a monsignore who appears precisely at ten every morning.  We struggle through some verbs, and then he dives into Dante, the most difficult thing to comprehend in the Italian language.  Then he tries to explain it in Italian to us, which is more difficult still.  He makes us read aloud to him, during which he folds his hands over his fat stomach and audibly goes to sleep.  He will awake with a start and excuse himself, saying that he gets up at five o’clock in the morning for matines, and that naturally at eleven he is sleepy; but I think he only pretends to sleep and takes refuge behind his eyelids, in order to ponder over the Italian language as “she is spoke.”