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miraculous achievement, it was in reality a very simple
and easy case, granted the patient had faith and
the doctor patience. It opened the doors of every
house in the numerous British colony in Rome
and of many Italian houses as well. Next year
I became doctor to the British Embassy and had
more English patients than all the eleven
English-born doctors put together—I leave it to you to
imagine what were their feelings towards me. An
old friend of mine from the École des Beaux
Arts, now a pensionnaire in Villa Medici, brought
me into contact with the French colony. My
lifelong friend Count Giuseppe Primoli sang my
praise in the Roman society, a faint echo from
my luck in Avenue de Villiers did the rest to fill
my consulting-room with patients. Professor
Weir-Mitchell, the leading nerve specialist of
America, with whom I had already had some
dealings in my Paris days continued to send me
his surplus of dilapidated millionaires and their
unstrung wives. Their exuberant daughters who
had invested their vanity in the first available
Roman prince, also began to send for me in their
sombre old palaces to consult me about their
various symptoms of disillusion. The rest of
the vast crowd of Americans followed like a flock
of sheep. The twelve American doctors soon
shared the fate of their English colleagues. The
hundreds of models on the steps of the Trinità dei
Monti under my windows in their picturesque
costumes from the mountains round Montecassino
were all patients of mine. All the flower-sellers
of Piazza di Spagna threw a little bunch of violets
into my carriage as I drove past in exchange for
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