We have been to St. John Lateran--the monks in white, the grand ladies followed by footmen, the people confessing, the violet priests chanting. At one of the high altars sits a cardinal administering absolution for the most terrible crimes that can only be forgiven at Easter and Christmas, and people sit round in a row to watch the expression of the criminals' faces. I took the spectators for the criminals, and was rather surprised to see quite young ladies in fashionable bonnets among them.
It's bitter, bitter cold to-day, and yet last night the sun set in such a gorgeous stream that it looked like weeks and years of fine weather. I had forgotten the sunsets. We were down in the Corso when it began and all the crowds of people were lighted up with a curious lurid light like the night of the great fire at Covent Garden. Then we drove up on the Pincio and saw fiery seas and bays.
There go the guns and bells. I don't know what for. I must go out on the balcony to see.
Palazzo Barberini
Rome
[ 1869].
Yesterday was like one of the days one remembers, but the thing is one doesn't remember it!
I meant to get up early to write to you, but I didn't wake till I don't know what o'clock, and there are no noises in these Italian palaces.
When I was dressed, I breakfasted with Mr. Story who railed at philanthropy and observances, and said that as for a sense of duty, it was only an imaginary thing, and duty meant doing as one really liked best. I never know what to think--when I see people like him and Leslie, who speak the truth and work hard and keep faith to their neighbours, talking in this sort of way. . . .
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