d 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."

Sgambati, the very best composer and pianist in Rome, gives lessons to
Nina, who he says has "_molto talento_." Sgambati has a wonderful and
sympathetic touch, which is at once velvety and masterful. His gavotte
is a _chef-d'oeuvre_. He calls it a gavotte, but I tell him he ought to
call it "The Procession of the Cavaliers," because it has such a
martial ring to it. It does not in the least resemble a Gavotte Louis
XV. I seem to see in my mind's eye Henry V. trying to rally his
comrades about him and incite them to combat. Sgambati looks like a
_preux chevalier_ himself, with his soft, mild blue eyes and long hair
and serene brow. He brought a song that he composed, he said, "_per la
distinta Eccellenza Hegermann_ ex