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The Queen has asked me to sing with her, and I go regularly twice a week to the Quirinal at two o’clock.  We sing all kinds of duets, classical and the ultra-modern.  The Queen’s singing-master, Signor Vera, and sometimes the composer, Signor Marchetti, accompany us—­they bring new music which has appeared, which we dechiffrons under their critical eyes.  It is the greatest delight I have to be able to be with her Majesty in such an informal way.  She is so enchanting, so natural, so gay, and so fascinating.  No one can resist her.  Am I not a greatly privileged person?  I presented Nina to her last week—­her Majesty told me to bring her with me on one of our singing-lesson days at half past one—­so we had a half-hour of conversation before the singing-master came.  The Queen said, after Nina had gone:  “What a beauty she is!  She will set the world on fire.”

May, 1883.

The visit of the newly married couple, Prince Tomaso, brother of the Queen, and Princess Isabella of Bavaria, has been the occasion of many festivities.

Yesterday there was a garden party in the Quirinal gardens.  It was a perfect day, and the beautiful toilets of the ladies made the lawn look like a parterre of living flowers.  The grounds are so large that there were several entertainments going on at the same time without interfering with one another.

A band of gipsies in their brilliant dresses were singing in one place, and in a bosquet a troupe of Neapolitans were dancing the tarantella in their white-stockinged feet.  There were booths where you could have your photograph taken and your fortune told.  Everywhere you were given souvenirs of some kind.  One played at the tombola and always got a prize.  Buffets, of course, at every turn.  We went from one surprise to another.  The Prince of Naples was omnipresent and seemed to enjoy himself immensely.  Whoever arranged this fete ought to have received a decoration.  Twilight and the obligation of having to dress for the evening concert put a stop to this delightful afternoon.  In the evening there was a gala concert which was very entertaining.  It commenced by a piece written by the Baron Renzie and very well performed by amateurs, and some mandolinists, who played several things more or less acceptably, and then came a long and tedious symphony which was too classical for the majority of the audience.  The Queen and the Duchess of Genoa seemed to enjoy it.  I did, too, but the King looked bored to death, and the bridegroom went fast to sleep.  The Queen, who was sitting next to him, gave him a vigorous pinch to wake him up.  The pinch had the intended effect, but the groan he gave was almost too audible.  In the interlude when ices were passed the Princess talked with the wives of the diplomats who were brought up to her.  The Queen, still laughing at her brother’s discomfiture, passed about among the other guests.