“Chere madame,” he said, “you write very well, but you do not know the art of punctuating.  You write as the water runs, as the arrow flies; therefore, in reading what you have written I have no time to breathe.  I cannot separate the different ideas.  A comma means a point d’arret, a moment of repose.  Every period should be an instant in which to digest a thought.”

I felt crushed by this, but tried to defend myself by saying that I had only written it for one indulgent eye, and ended lamely by promising that the next time I wrote anything I would be more careful.  “I will do as Mark Twain did—­put the punctuations at the end, and one can take one’s choice.”

We had some music again this evening.  The Duke played some solos on his violoncello.  He has a beautiful instrument.  If Amati made cellos (perhaps he did), he must have made this one.

At dinner I sat next to him.

He said, “I was very much interested in what you wrote about Hamlet.”

“In spite of the lack of commas?” I asked.

“Yes, in spite of the lack of commas.  But I wonder if all you wrote was true?”

“How can we ever find out?”

“I hate to think of him as a myth.”

“Please don’t think of him as a myth.  Think of him as you always have; otherwise you will owe me a grudge.”

Looking across the table to Signor Bonghi, he said:  “He is a wonderful man.  I like his name, too—­Ruggiero Bonghi, tout court.”

“It sounds,” I said, “so full of strength and power and straight to the point, with no accessories, doesn’t it?”

“You say that to me, who have twenty-four names.”

“Twenty-four!  Dear me!  Do you know them all?”

“I must confess that I do not, but I will look them up in the Gotha and write them out for you.”

“Twenty-four,” I repeated.  “How out of breath the priest who baptized you must have been!”

“Oh,” cried the Prince, “he did not mind; he got a louis [twenty-franc piece] for each name.”

ROME, PALAZZO SFORZA-CESARINI, January, 1887.

My dear Aunt,—­After the reception of the Diplomats on the 1st of
January we moved from Palazzo Tittoni to this, our new home.

We have in the largest salon an enormous and gorgeously sculptured chimneypiece which has a tiny fire-place that, when crammed full of wood, and after we have puffed our lungs out blowing on it and prodded it with tongs, etc., consents to smile and warm the chair nearest to it, but nothing else.

The ceiling (a work of art of some old master) is way up in the clouds; I am almost obliged to use an opera-glass to see which are angels’ or cherubs’ legs up there in the blue.

The figures in the corners, I suppose, represent Faith, Hope, and Charity; the fourth must be the Goddess of Plenty.  She is emptying an enormous cornucopia over our heads of the most tempting fruit, which makes my mouth water and makes me wish she would drop some of it in my lap.