i, and many parts of it were
changed. Christina had been in Paris and had seen Louis Fourteenth dance
as Alcibiades in Benserade's ballet, a sight to rejoice the gods of
Olympus, who must certainly have laughed even louder at the bewigged
King's mincing steps than they did at Vulcan's limp; for with many
gifts, the Sun-King possessed no more sense of humour than Don Quixote,
who stood on his head before Sancho as a proof that love was driving him
mad. The ex-Queen was already dreaming of a wonderful pastoral play, in
which Don Alberto Altieri was to appear as Endymion, and she herself,
the elderly and slightly bedraggled virgin queen, would play Diana.
There was Guidi to write the verses, Stradella should compose the music,
and Christina herself would get most of the credit for the work.

In the meantime, though she had nothing so complete to offer, she
invited the Romans to hear such poetry as she could provide, and some
excellent music; and Bernini, who could make anything look like anything
else by means of whitewashed wooden columns, coarse draperies stiffened
and whitened with wet plaster, and caryatides modelled in plaster and
pasteboard, had improvised a Temple of Art for the performance. In the
midst of this sanctuary, amongst laurels and roses, he had placed the
clay model of his bust of Christina herself, in a wig like the French
King's. He afterwards cast it in bronze, and considering that he must
have done his best to make the portrait pleasing, it is appalling to
think what the original must have been.

The little temple stood just outside the portico, facing inward like a
stage, on which the performers appeared in turn, the audience being
gathered under the portico. Beyond it, the beautiful gardens stretched
away in terraces and grades to the high distance. Christina herself sat
on a sort of throne, facing the clay image of herself, while her
courtiers and satellites were grouped behind her. Her intimate friend
Cardinal Azzolino sat on her right, because Cardinal Altieri, who should
have been there, had not come, and half-a-dozen other cardinals in
scarlet occupied the huge gilt arm-chairs on both sides, each having one
or two of his especial parasites behind him in readiness to do his
bidding or to laugh at his jokes, as the case might be. There were not
more than fifty other seats in the portico, and they were all occupied
by the ladies of Rome, who came to applaud the performances of their
countrymen a