She pointed out to me how politic she had had to be over
her art. When she had wished to become a sculptor, everyone in her
native place had been shocked at the un-femininity of it, and people
fabled behind her back about her depraved instincts. She, for her part,
exerted no more strength than just enough to carry her point, let people
talk as much as they liked, took no revenge on those who spread
calumnies about her, showed the greatest kindliness even towards the
evil-disposed, and so, she said, had not an enemy. There was in her a
marvellous commingling of determination to progress rapidly, of self-
restraint and of real good-heartedness.
On October 20th there was a great festival in Rome to celebrate the
first monthly anniversary of the entry of the Italians into the town.
Young men went in the evening with flags and music through the streets.
Everybody rushed to the windows, and the ladies held out lamps and
candles. In the time of the popes this was only done when the Host was
being carried in solemn procession to the dying; it was regarded
therefore as the greatest honour that could be paid. Everyone clapped
hands and uttered shouts of delight at the improvised illumination,
while the many beautiful women looked lovely in the flickering
lamplight. The 23d again was a gala day, being the anniversary of the
death of Enrico Cairoli--one of the celebrated brothers; he fell at
Mentana;--and I had promised Vinnie Ream to go to see the fete with her;
but she as usual having twenty callers just when we ought to have
started, we arrived too late.
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