We went there last Saturday.  The chairs were arranged in rows, superb in their symmetry at first, but after the first petticoats had swept by everything was in a hopeless confusion.  Two ladies sitting on one chair, one lady appropriating two chairs instead of one, and another sitting sideways on three.  The consequence was that there was a conglomeration of empty chairs in the middle of the room, while crowds of weary guests stood in and near the doorway, with the thermometer sky-high!  When one sees the Pope’s singers in evening dress and white cravats the prestige and effect are altogether lost.  This particular evening was unusually brilliant, for the monsignores and cardinals were extra-abundant.  There were printed programs handed to us with the list of the numerous songs that we were going to hear.

The famous Moresca, who sings at the Laterano, is a full-faced soprano of forty winters.  He has a tear in each note and a sigh in each breath.  He sang the jewel song in “Faust,” which seemed horribly out of place.  Especially when he asks (in the hand-glass) if he is really Marguerita, one feels tempted to answer, “Macche,” for him.  Then they sang a chorus of Palestrina, all screaming at the top of their lungs, evidently thinking they were in St. Peter’s.  It never occurred to them to temper their voices to the poor shorn lambs wedged up against the walls.

Afterward followed the duet, “Quis est homo,” of Rossini’s “Stabat Mater,” sung by two gray-haired sopranos.  This was extremely beautiful, but the best of all was the solo sung by a fat, yellow-mustached barytone.  I never heard anything to compare to his exquisite voice.  We shall never hear anything like it in this world, and I doubt in the next.  Maroni is the man who always directs the Pope’s singers.  He makes more noise beating time with his roll of music on the piano than all the cab-drivers below in the Piazza del Popolo.

The supper-room was a sight to behold—­the enormous table fairly creaking under the weight of every variety of food filled half the room, leaving very little space for the guests.  The sopranos got in first, ahead even of the amiable hostess, who stopped the whole procession, trying to go abreast through the door with a portly cardinal and a white diplomat, leaving us, the hungry black and white sheep, still wrestling with the chairs.

You must have heard of Hamilton Aide, the author of The Poet and the Prince and other works.  He comes frequently to see us, and always brings either a new book or a new song—­for he is not only a distinguished author, but a composer as well.  He sings willingly when asked.  He is very fond of one of his songs, called “The Danube River.”  If he had not brought the music and I had not seen the title as I laid it on the piano, I should never have known that it was anything so lively as a river he was singing about.  Though I could occasionally hear the word “river,” I hoped that as the river and singer went on they would have a little more “go” in them; but they continued babbling along regardless of obstacles and time.  I was extremely mortified to see that several of my guests had dozed off.  The river and the singer had had a too-lullaby effect on them.