ROME, 1883.

Dear ——­,—­Next to the Palazzo Tittoni lives a delightful family—­the Count and Countess Gigliucci, with a son and two daughters.  The Countess is the celebrated Clara Novello of oratorio fame.  The three ladies are perfectly charming.  I love to go to see them, and often drop in about tea-hour, when I get an excellent cup of English tea and delicious muffins, and enjoy them in this cozy family circle.

Though they live In a palace and have a showy portier, they do not disdain to do their shopping out of the window by means of a basket, which the servant-girl lets down on a string for the daily marketing.  Even cards and letters are received in this way, as the porter refuses to carry anything up to their third story. “Sortita!” screamed down in a shrill voice is the answer to the visitor waiting below in the courtyard.

When the three ladies are sitting at the tea-table dispensing tea, one of them will suddenly commence the trio from “Elijah”—­“Lift thine eyes”—­the other two joining in (singing without an accompaniment, of course) in the most delicious manner.  Their voices are so alike in timbre and quality that it is almost impossible to distinguish one from the other.  After the trio they go on pouring out tea as if nothing had happened, whereas for me it is an event.  It is such perfection!

Countess Gigliucci comes sometimes and sings with me.  Her voice is still beautiful and clear as a bell.  What must it have been in its prime?  In her letters to me she calls me “my delicious blackbird.”

ROME, March, 1883.

The King of Sweden came to Rome on an official visit to their Majesties.  I suppose it is called official because he is staying as a guest at the Quirinal, therefore he is hardly seen in private.  You remember that I saw a good deal of him when he was in Paris in 1867.  He was then hereditary Prince to the throne of Sweden, and was called Prince Oscar.  He only stayed three days at Rome.  There was a gala dinner to which all the diplomats were invited.  He greeted me very cordially, shook hands in his genial manner, and talked about the past (sixteen years ago) as if it were yesterday.  He said, smilingly: 

“You see, since I have become King I have cut my hair.”

I had no idea what he meant and looked puzzled.

“Don’t you remember,” he said, “you called me ‘the Hair Apparent’ on account of my long locks?”

“Oh, your Majesty,” I said, “how could I have been so rude?”

“It was not rudeness,” he said, kindly.  “You said what you liked in those days.  You were not then a diplomat’s wife.”

The day of his departure from Rome we went to the station.  The King was very gracious, and said to Johan, “I hope you and your wife will come some day to Sweden,” and gave my hand an extra-hearty squeeze.  A hearty squeeze from his hand was something to remember!