THE strangest thing about life in Rome is that one not only does as the Romans do, but ends by thinking as the Romans think, feeling as the Romans feel. The best illustration I know of this is the mental attitude of the foreign residents toward certain superstitions, notably the belief in the evil eye — the malocchio or jettatura, as it is indifferently called. I never knew an Italian who did not hold more or less to this superstition. Americans who have lived long in Rome either reluctantly admit that "there does seem to be something in it," or, if they are Roman-born, quietly accept it as one of those things in heaven and earth of which philosophy fails to take account.

      In certain respects the Italian is markedly free from superstition as compared with the Celt or the Scot: for instance, the fear of ghosts or spirits is so rare that I have never met with it; on the other hand, the belief in the value of dreams as guides to action is deep-rooted and wide-spread. The dream-book in some families is held hardly second in importance to the book of prayer. The Italian's eminently practical nature makes him utilize his dreams in "playing the lotto," as the buying of lottery tickets is called. To dream of certain things indicates that one will be lucky and should play. The choice of the number is the chief preoccupation of the hardened lottery-player. It is decided by the oddest chance — by the number on a bank-note that has been lost and found again, or the number of a cab which has brought one home from delightful festivity. I remember in Venice once calling on a friend who lives in a noble old palace on the Canale Grande. The pali, the dark posts rising out of the green water for the mooring of gondolas, bear the heraldic colors of the owners of the palace, and the doge's cap, showing that the family gave a doge to Venice. Stepping from my gondola to the water-worn marble stair, I was helped by one of the servants, an old man with the suave, sympathetic manners that make the Italians the best servants in the world. I put him down as a majordomo of the old school whom my friends probably had taken over with the palace, the library, and the historic murder that go with it. I had brought some flowers, which he insisted upon carrying. He led the way across a square courtyard to an outer stairway with a wonderful carved marble balustrade, lions rampant at the top and bottom. Suddenly he stopped and whispered to me:

      "Signora, — a thousand excuses for the liberty, — but will you have the inexpressible gentility to tell me your age?"

      The question was so startling that he got the right answer before my inevitable counter-question, "Why do you wish to know?" which he pretended not to hear, drowned in a flood of gratitude.

      "You have conferred an immense benefit on me. The signora is expecting you."

      He had my wrap off and the drawing-room door open in a twinkling. That was not fair play; he had his answer: I would have mine. I put my question to his mistress. She laughed indulgently.

      "Beppino is up to his old tricks. I told him this morning I was expecting a lady he did not know; he was on the lookout for you. When a stranger comes to the house for the first time it is the greatest possible luck to play in the lotto the figures which make up his age."

      Our own servants all played regularly, sometimes winning small sums, always imagining that they would win the quaterno.

      The lottery and the monte di pietà — somehow one associates them together — are now under government control, as formerly they were under the control of the church. It is assumed as a foregone conclusion that men will gamble, that men will pawn their goods; therefore it is expedient that these inevitable concomitants of city life should be administered by the government, in order that the accruing profits should return to the people by helping to pay the expenses of their government.

      The lottery always appears to me like a tax offered to the citizens in the form of a gilded pill. The monte di pietà seems to be a really beneficent institution; it is well administered, the percentage charged being as low as is practicable.

      The evolution of Christian out of pagan Rome is not more interesting than the evolution, still going on, of Rome, the modern capital, out of that picturesque medieval Rome of the "forties" which my mother has described to me so vividly that it is as if I myself had seen it. The first call that came over our telephone put me in communication not only with my friend Mrs. Z——, but with the Rome of Horace and the witch Canidia as well.

      "Can you come to dinner next Monday?" the lady began.

      "With leaps and shrieks of joy."

      "Wait; do not accept till you hear who else is coming. We are giving the dinner in honor of M. de Gooch."

      "So much the better. We like to meet distinguished Frenchmen."

      "You are sure you do not mind meeting the this particular Frenchman?"

      "Why in the name of common sense should we mind?"

      "Well, you know what they say about him?"

      "Yes."

      "And you are not afraid? I am positively grateful to you. We are having the hardest time to fill the eight places at the table."

      "What particular variety of heathen are you inviting?"

      "American."

      That afternoon we had a visit from an American gentleman, a friend of ours and of the Z——s'.

      "Shall we meet next Monday at the Z——s' dinner?" I asked.

      "No; they were good enough to invite me, but I got out of it."

      I stared at him; he is one of the Z——s' greatest friends.

      "Yes; the fact is, I will not go where I have to meet that man."

      "You? You believe that M. de Gooch has the evil eye?"

      "It is all very well for you to look scornful; just wait a little. I used to take your point of view, but so many uncomfortable things happened that I now avoid the man like the plague."

      "What sort of uncomfortable things?"

      "We were once at a hotel in Naples. The first time that person — it is not well to mention his name — came into the dining-room, a waiter stumbled and dropped a tray full of valuable Venetian glass; every piece was smashed. The second time, the big chandelier fell from the ceiling. That evening the proprietor begged the person to leave the hotel; said all the other guests would go if he did not, as it was evident that he had the malocchio. Enough; let us speak of other things."

      After the visitor left I went up to the terrace to feed the goldfish. Pompilia was on her knees, digging about the roots of the big honeysuckle.

      "Pompilia," I said, "do you know any one who has the malocchio?"

      She turned pale, scrambled to her feet, and made the sign against witchcraft, with the first and the fourth finger.

      "Signora mia, what a fright you gave me!" She reflected a moment. You remember the carbonaro who used to bring charcoal every Saturday? I told you he cheated us; you discharged him. It was not true; he gave good measure. I do not wish to harm him, but every time he came into the kitchen some disgrazia happened: the soup was burned, the milk curdled, or the salt got into the ice-cream."

      "Do you believe the carbonaro wished to injure us? Did he desire to bring misfortune?"

      "It is his misfortune to bring misfortune," Pompilia reluctantly explained. "One may even be sorry for him, but one spits as one passes him, and makes the corni (horns) with the hand behind the back to avert the jettatura. Ma, signora mia, for charity's sake, let us talk of other things!"

      The Z——s' was one of the best dinner-parties I have seen in Rome. All the guests seemed on their mettle to make it go off well. It was put through with unlimited champagne and conversational fireworks. De Gooch thawed out as I have never known him to do before; he is usually congealed by the chilly atmosphere which he, poor man, brings with him. I asked Mr. Z—— how he accounted for the evil stories. He said:

      "Some enemy, who spreads the reports, takes this dreadful way to destroy him."

      The dinner was so merry that the coming of the coffee, instead of being a relief, was a surprise. M. de Gooch, after a moment's hesitation, refused the cup offered him.

      "I am rather proud of my coffee; change your mind and try a little," said Mrs. Z——.

      I was sitting on the other side of De Gooch, and heard him say in a low voice:

      "Are you sure of your cook?"

      "Perfectly. He is a Piedmontese; he has been with us ten years; his coffee may be trusted."

      Do you know what that meant? It meant that De Gooch is afraid of being poisoned. That poison is most commonly administered in coffee or chocolate, see the Roman saying, "Ha bevuto una tazza di cioccolata" ("He has drunk a cup of chocolate"). I asked Mr. Z—— if he believed anybody wanted to murder De Gooch. He said:

      "I do not believe him in more danger of poison than of lightning-stroke. It is not wonderful, however, that he thinks he is."

      "Is not the malocchio very like the voodoo?" I asked.

      "It is a horse of the same color. Both come out of darkest Africa, whose shadows fall across the broad earth."

      I take back every word I ever said against missionaries.

      The next time I was at the Vatican I dropped into the Sala Borgia and took a good look at the charming portrait of Lucrezia Borgia by Pinturicchio, filled with a realizing sense that the Rome of the Borgias was not so far away from my Rome as I had formerly supposed.

      It is hard for us to realize the deadly significance to an Italian of the suggestion that one may have the evil eye. I was walking one day with a young American girl to whom I had been unfolding some of the tragedies I have known connected with the superstition. She took it all lightly and joyously, after the manner of her kind; and later, during our walk, when a saucy, tormenting beggar pursued us, she made the sign of the corni as I had described it to her, shaking the hand slightly, with the first and the fourth finger extended. Then the beggar became convulsed with anger and seemed almost beside herself, shrieking out such a torrent of abuse that we were glad to jump into a cab and fly from the wrath to come. The poor creature was not to be blamed: she knew that once the shadow of suspicion falls, it means social excommunication, banishment outside the pale of whatever society one belongs to — a thing, like illness or death, as much to be dreaded by the pauper as by the Pope. Many people, by the way, believed that Pius IX had the evil eye, and made the sign of the corni behind hat or fan as they received his benediction in front of St. Peter's. The Romans generally are not supposed to be as superstitious as the Neapolitans. In Naples most people wear, as a charm, a little hand of gold, coral, or mother-of-pearl, with the fingers in the attitude to avert evil. Even the horses wear horns upon their harnesses! Some of our Roman friends are not without faith in the efficacy of horns. One day, when my painter had occasion to go behind the big canvases in his studio, he found that an artist who had dropped in during his absence had drawn horns with a bit of charcoal all over the backs of his pictures. Later, when the work was finished and the queen came to the studio to see it, the friend claimed some of the credit for the royal visit.

      "You owe all your luck to my horns," he said, half in fun, half in earnest.

ST. JOHN'S EVE! Witches' night! In order that no harm may befall one, it is safest to sit up all night. To sit up all night alone or in the company of one's family is rather cold comfort, so the sociable Romans spend the night in one vast nocturnal picnic.

      We left home at ten o'clock; in the Piazza Scossa Cavalli we found every cab gone except the gobbo's (hunchback's). This was great luck, to be driven by the gobbo, all the more so as it was by chance: if we had engaged him beforehand it would not have counted.

      As soon as we started, J—— sneezed. "Salute, signore" ("Your health, sir," the equivalent of " Bless you"), said the gobbo. This meant more luck. By the time we reached the Via Merulana the gobbo's white horse — a white horse is lucky — dropped into a walk. The crowd of cabs was so great that from there on to the Piazza San Giovanni we were obliged to move at a snail's pace.

      "Vuole spigo, signora?" cried a vender, thrusting a bunch of lavender into the cab.

      "Bisogna pigliarlo, signora," said the gobbo. "You must buy lavender for yourself, for me, even for my poor beast. It is the rule to wear lavender on St. John's eve."

      We bought lavender for the party, the white horse included.

      A little farther on another vender stopped us.

      "How is this?" he said gravely. "You are without red carnations; that is not well."

      "He is right, signora," said the gobbo; "we must wear red carnations as well as lavender."

      We bought enough red carnations for an army.

      "What do the lavender and the carnations signify?"

      "Who knows, signora? It is the custom to wear them. One says it brings buona fortuna, another that it keeps the witches away; it is well to be on the safe side."

      As the cab came to a dead stop for a moment outside a trattoria, a saucy boy sprang on the step and asked for "a soldo to buy a dish of snails."

      "Do not refuse," said the gobbo; "he is a good boy. It is the custom on the eve of San Giovanni to eat snails and polenta, as you may see for yourselves."

      Over the door of the trattoria hung an illuminated transparency: on one side was a picture of a large snail, on the other a witch riding a broomstick.

      "Aglio, aglio [garlic]! Who wishes the aglio? There is nothing so good against the fascino [fascination] as aglio!"

      We bought a pair of long-stemmed garlic-blossoms, in shape not unlike the classic thyrsus.

      "Campanelli, campanelli! Who wants the campanelli? The witches fly away at the sound of these marvelous campanelli."

      Everybody but ourselves had apparently already bought campanelli. All the people in the carriages and on the sidewalk carried these small terra-cotta bells, which they rang violently at one another and at the witches. The bells were of two sizes.

      "Buy a large one for yourself, signore, and a small one for the lady," counseled the gobbo.

      "And one for you and one for the mare?"

      "Naturally. The animal cannot well spare a hand to ring her campanello, so we will tie it about her neck."

      Peacock-feathers were next offered. The gobbo was prejudiced against them and advised us not to buy them. There seems to be a divided feeling about peacock-feathers; some people hold that they bring bad luck, others that they avert it. We left the carriage at the piazza, which was lined with booths, illuminated with flaring. torches. These stalls extend a considerable distance down the Via Appia Nuova, outside the Porta San Giovanni; some displayed the classic bush, from the earliest time the sign of the wine-shop. Outside one of the most important booths hung a large painted head of the wine-god, crowned with leaves, bearing the words, "A Baccho." At some stalls fried pancakes and gnocchi di patate were sold. Gnocchi is one of the delicious Roman dishes. It is made of potatoes and corn-meal, bewitched together into miniature oval croquettes and served with a rich sauce of tomato conserve and Parmesan cheese — truly a dish fit for the gods. Near the gnocchi-booth was a stall hung with evergreens, where a man in white linen clothes and cap stood beside an enormous roasted hog, brandishing a huge knife.

      "Majiale arrosto — ah che bel majiale!" ("Roast pig — oh, what a beautiful pig!")

      At some of the stands toys and dolls were sold. I was kept away from certain of these, as J—— said the toys were indecent. Those I saw were ordinary every-day toys which the elders bought for the children; for when one goes to the festa of San Giovanni one takes the whole family along — grandmothers, grandfathers, babies, and all.

      The noisy people were all gathered together in the piazza and the Via Appia Nuova; the quieter sort were scattered about in groups on the outskirts of the crowd. On the right-hand side, a little distance from the Church of St. John Lateran, there is a hillside with ancient ilex-trees. This dark hillside was dotted with torches and candles, each the center of a knot of people.

      We soon left the turmoil in the neighborhood of the booths and strayed about among the quieter folks. Under a dark gnarled tree a family group had made themselves comfortable. On the trunk above their heads two long garlic-stalks were nailed crosswise to avert evil. Directly below the cross sat a lovely young woman suckling a large baby, certainly eighteen months old. Beside her an aged woman held a four-year-old child in her lap, whose chubby hands were stretched out to touch the nursling; in the shadow behind stood a grave bearded man. The huckster's cart that had brought them was drawn up near by; the donkey could be dimly seen munching a bundle of hay. "Behold Mary and the Child, St. Elizabeth and St. John, with the good St. Joseph taking care of them all," said Vincenzo, who had seen us and followed us up from the piazza. As we stood entranced before this living Holy Family the moon rose full and yellow over the dark hillside. For a moment we saw it behind the head of that young mother like a halo. It was a group worthy the pencil of Raphael.

      "Che belli fanciulli!" ("What beautiful children!") I said to Vincenzo.

      St. Elizabeth, hearing the innocent words, caught the little St. John behind her, scowling and muttering angrily at me.

      "Come away quickly," said Vincenzo, urging me down the hill. "Don't you know that you must never praise a child in that way — of all times on the night of San Giovanni?"

      "It is time to go home," said J——.

      I begged a few minutes' grace, for just at that moment a heavy car hung with laurel garlands, drawn by milk-white oxen with gilded horns, creaked into the piazza. The car was filled with young men in costume, singing to the music of guitar and mandolin. They were all masked. From the rich trappings of the car and their cultivated voices we fancied them to be persons of some distinction. A high tenor voice pierced the babel of sound: "Sei la rosa piu bella che c'è!" ("Thou art the most beautiful rose that is!")

      It was near midnight; the fun was growing fast and furious. J——, who from the first had objected to the expedition, backed up by Vincenzo, now declared that it was impossible for me to stay longer. An unwilling Cinderella, I was torn away on the stroke of twelve.

      "It is not a seemly revel," I was told; "dreadful things happen; respectable people do not stay after midnight."

      To me it was all a wonderful revelation: I was in pagan Rome, where Bacchus and Vesta were worshiped, where Italy's spoiled children, the Roman populace, took their pleasure, as they have done with little change since Rome was, since "step bread" was distributed gratis on the steps of the Capitol, and the costly games of the Colosseum kept them amused and pacific.

      Till broad daylight I heard the people coming home, ringing their little terra-cotta bells, singing snatches of the song of the evening: "Sei la rosa piu bella che c'è!" As I look back at that riot of youth and age, where the faces of faun and satyr leered at nymph and dryad, the whole pagan scene is sweetened and purified by that vision of the Holy Family.