Among the very great number of men and women whom I have known during
my life in Italy--some merely acquaintances, and many whom I knew
to be, and a few, alas! a very few, whom I still know to be trusty
friends--there were many of whom the world has heard, and some perhaps
of whom it would not unwillingly hear something more. But time and
space are limited, and I must select as best I may.
I have a very pleasant recollection of "Garibaldi's Englishman,"
Colonel Peard. Peard had many more qualities and capabilities than
such as are essential to a soldier of fortune. The phrase, however, is
perhaps not exactly that which should be used to characterise him. He
had qualities which the true soldier of fortune should not possess.
His partisanship was with him in the highest degree a matter of
conviction and conscientious opinion, and _nothing_ would have tempted
him to change his colours or draw his sword on the other side. I am
not sure either, whether a larger amount of native brain power, and
(in a much greater degree) a higher quality of culture, than that of
the general under whom it may be his fortune to serve, is a good part
of the equipment of a soldier of fortune. And Peard's relation to
Garibaldi very notably exemplified this.
He was a native of Devonshire, as was my first wife; we saw a good
deal of him in Florence, and I have before me a letter written to her
by him from Naples on the 28th of January, 1861, which is interesting
in more respects than one. Peard was a man who _would_ have all that
depended on him ship-shape. And this fact, taken in conjunction with
the surroundings amid which he had to do his work, is abundantly
sufficient to justify the growl he indulges in.
* * * * *
"My dear Mrs. Trollope," he writes, "I am ashamed to think either of
you or of other friends at Florence; it is such an age since I have
written to any of you. But I have been daily, from morning to night,
hard at work for weeks. The _honour_ of having a command is all very
well, but the trouble and worry are unspeakable. Besides, I had such
a set under me that it was enough to rile the sweetest tempered man.
Volunteers may be very well in their way. I doubt not their efficiency
in repelling an attack in their own country. But defend me from ever
again commanding a brigade of English volunteers in a foreign country.
As to the officers, many were most mutinous, and some something worse.
Thank goodness the brigade is at an end. All I now wait for is the
settlement of the accounts. If I can get away by the second week in
February, I at present think of taking a run as far as Cairo, then
crossing to Jerusalem, and back by Jaffa, Beyrout, Smyrna, and Athens
to Italy, when I shall hope once more to see you and yours.
"Politics do not look well in Southern Italy, I fear. The Mazzinists
have been most active, and have got up a rather strong feeling against
Cavour and what they think the peace party. Now Italy must have a
little rest for organisation, civil as well as military. They do not
give the Government time to do or even propose good measures for
the improvement of the country. No sooner are one set of ministers
installed than intrigues are on foot to upset them. I firmly believe
that the only hope for Southern Italy and Sicily is in a strong
military Government. These districts must be treated as _conquered
provinces_, and the people educated and taught habits of industry,
whether they like it or not. The country is at present in a state
of barbarism, and must be saved from that. All that those who are
_supposed to be educated_ seem to think about is how they can get a
few dollars out of Government." [I fear the honest Englishman would
find that those supposed to be educated in those provinces are as much
in a state of barbarism in the matters that offended him as ever.] "I
never saw such a set of harpies in my life. One had the assurance to
come to me a few days since, asking if I could not take him on the
strength of the brigade, so as to enable him to get six months pay out
of the Government. As to peculation, read _Gil Blas_, and that will
give you a faint sketch of the customs and habits of all _impiegati_
[civil servants] in this part of Italy. I do not believe that the
Southern Italians, taken as a body, know what honesty is." [All that
he says is true to the present day. But the distinction which he makes
between the Southern Italians and those of the other provinces is most
just, and must be remembered.] "But that is the fault of the horrid
system of tyranny under which they have so long lived. I do not say
that the old system must be reformed, it must be totally changed.
Solomon might make laws, but so corrupt are all the _impiegati_, that
I doubt if he could get them carried out. Poor Garibaldi is made a
tool of by a set of designing intriguers, who will sacrifice him
at any moment. He is too honest to see or believe of dishonesty in
others. He has no judgment of character. He has been surrounded by
a set of blacklegs and swindlers, many among them, I regret to say,
English. How I look forward to seeing you all again! Till we meet,
believe me
"Most truly yours,
"GIO. [_sic_] PEARD."
The last portion of this letter is highly interesting and historically
well worth preserving. It is entirely and accurately true. And there
was no man in existence more fitted by native integrity and hatred of
dishonesty on the one hand, and close intimacy with the subject of
his remarks on the other, to speak authoritatively on the matter than
"Garibaldi's Englishman."
The following letter, written, as will be seen, on the eve of
his departure for the celebrated expedition to Sicily, is also
interesting. It is dated Genoa.
* * * * *
"DEAR MRS. TROLLOPE,--I have been thinking over your observations
about _terno_. I don't give up my translation; but would it not be
literal enough to translate it, 'the bravest three colours'?
[This refers to the rendering of the lottery phrase _terno_ in a
translation by my wife of the _stornello_ of Dall' Ongaro previously
mentioned. In the Italian lottery, ninety numbers, 1-90, are always
put into the wheel. Five only of these are drawn out. The player
bets that a number named by him shall be one of these (_semplice
estratto_); or that it shall be the first drawn (_estratto
determinato_); or that two numbers named by him shall be two of the
five drawn (_ambo_); or that three so named shall be drawn (_terno_).
It will be seen, therefore, that the winner of an _estratto
determinato_, ought, if the play were quite even, to receive ninety
times his stake. But, in fact, such a player would receive only
seventy-five times his stake, the profit of the Government consisting
of this pull of fifteen per ninety against the player. Of course, what
he ought to receive in any of the other cases is easily (not by me,
but by experts) calculable. It will be admitted that the difficulty
of translating the phrase in Dall' Ongaro's little poem, so as to be
intelligible to English readers, was considerable. The letter then
proceeds]:
"I did not start, you will see, direct from Livorno [Leghorn], for
Medici wrote me to join him here. Moreover, the steamer by which I
expected to have gone, did not make the trip, but was sent back to
this city. I will worry you with a letter when anything stirring
occurs. We sail to-night. Part went off last evening--1,500. We go in
three steamers, and shall overtake the others.
"With kind regards to all friends, believe me,
"Yours very faithfully,
"JOHN PEARD."
* * * * *
The remarks contained in the former of the two letters here
transcribed seem to make this a proper place for recording "what I
remember" of Garibaldi.
My first acquaintance with him was through my very old, and very
highly valued, loved, and esteemed friend, Jessie White Mario. The
Garibaldi _culte_ has been with her truly and literally the object
(apart from her devoted love for her husband, an equally ardent
worshipper at the same shrine) for which she has lived, and for which
she has again and again affronted death. For she accompanied him in
all his Italian campaigns as a hospital nurse, and on many occasions
rendered her inestimable services in that capacity under fire. If
Peard has been called "Garibaldi's Englishman," truly Jessie White
Mario deserves yet more emphatically the title of "Garibaldi's
Englishwoman." She has published a large life of Garibaldi, which is
far and away the best and most trustworthy account of the man and
his wonderful works. She is not blind to the spots on the sun of her
adoration, nor does she seek to conceal the fact that there were such
spots, but she is a true and loyal worshipper all the same.
Her husband was--alas! that I should write so; for no Indian wife's
life was ever more ended by her suttee than Jessie Mario's life has
practically been ended by her husband's untimely death!--Alberto Mario
was among the, I fear, few exceptions to Peard's remarks on the men
who were around Garibaldi. He was not only a man of large literary
culture, a brave soldier, an acute politician, a formidable political
adversary, and a man of perfect and incorruptible integrity, but he
would have been considered in any country and in any society in Europe
a very perfect gentleman. He was in political opinion a consistent and
fearlessly outspoken Republican. He and I therefore differed _toto
coelo_. But our differences never diminished our, I trust, mutual
esteem, nor our friendly intercourse. But he was a born _frondeur_. He
edited during his latter years a newspaper at Rome, which was a thorn
in the side of the authorities. I remember his being prosecuted and
condemned for persistently speaking of the Pope in his paper as
"Signor Pecci." He was sentenced to imprisonment. But all the
Government wanted was his condemnation; and he was never incarcerated.
But he used to go daily to the prison and demand the execution of
his sentence. The gaoler used to shut the door in his face, and he
narrated the result of his visit in the next day's paper!
It was as Jessie Mario's friend then, that I first knew Garibaldi.
One morning at the villa I then possessed, at Ricorboli, close to
Florence, a maid-servant came flying into the room, where I was
still in bed at six o'clock in the morning, crying out in the utmost
excitement, "_C'è il Generale! c'è il Generale; e chiede di lei,
signore!_"--"Here's the General! here's the General! And he is asking
for you, sir!" She spoke as if there was but one general in all the
world. But there was hardly any room in Florence at that time where
her words would not have been understood as well as I understood them.
I jumped out of bed, got into a dressing-gown, and ran out to where
the "General" was on the lawn before the door, just as I was, and
hardly more than half awake. There he was, all alone. But if there had
been a dozen other men around him, I should have had no difficulty in
recognising him. There was the figure as well known to every Italian
from Turin to Syracuse as that of his own father--the light grey
trousers, the little foraging cap, the red shirt, the bandana
handkerchief loosely thrown over his shoulders and round his neck.
Prints, photographs, portraits of all kinds, have made the English
public scarcely less familiar than the Italian, with the physiognomy
of Giuseppe Garibaldi. But no photograph, of course, and no painting
which I have ever seen, gives certain peculiarities of that striking
head and face, as I first saw it, somewhere about twenty years ago.
The pose of the head, and the general arrangement and colour of the
tawny hair (at that time but slightly grizzled) justified the epithet
"leonine" so often applied to him. His beard and moustache were of the
same hue, and his skin was probably fair by nature, but it had been
tanned by wind and weather. The clear blue eyes were surrounded by a
network of fine lines. This had no trace or suggestion of _cunning_,
as is often the case with wrinkles round the setting of the eyes, but
was obviously the result of habitual contraction of the muscles in
gazing at very distant objects. In short, Garibaldi's eyes, both in
this respect and in respect of a certain, steadfast, far-away look in
them, were the eyes of a sailor. Seamanship, as is generally known,
was his first profession. Another physical peculiarity of his which
I do not remember to have seen noticed in print was a remarkably
beautiful voice. It was fine in quality and of great range; sweet, yet
manly, and with a suggestion of stored-up power which harmonised with
the man. It seemed to belong, too, to the benevolence, which was the
habitual expression of his face when in repose.
"Jessie [pronounced Jèssee] told me I should find you up; but you are
not so early as I am!" was his salutation. I said he had _dans le
temps_ been beforehand with others as well as with me! At which he
laughed, not, I thought, ill-pleased. And then we talked--about Italy
of course. One subject of his talk I specially remember, because it
gave rise to a little discussion, and in a great degree gave me the
measure of the man.
"As for the priests," said he, "they ought all to be put to death,
without exception and without delay!"
"Rather a strong measure!" I ventured to say.
"Not a bit too strong! not a bit!" he rejoined warmly. "Do we not put
assassins to death? And is not the man who murders your soul worse
than the man who only kills your body?"
I attempted to say that the difference of the two cases lay in the
fact, that as to the killing of the body there was no doubt about the
matter, whereas mankind differed very widely as to the killing of the
soul; and that as long as it remained a moot point whether priests did
so or not, it would hardly be practicable or even politic to adopt the
measure he suggested.
But he would not listen to me--only repeated with increasing
excitement that no good could come to humanity till all priests were
destroyed.
Then we talked about the Marries, of both of whom he spoke with the
greatest affection; and of the prospects of "going to Rome," which of
course he considered the simplest and easiest thing possible.
I saw Garibaldi on many subsequent occasions, but never again
_tête-à-tête_, or _a Quattro Oct_, as the Italians more significantly
phrase it. The last time I ever saw him was under melancholy
circumstances enough, though the occasion professed to be one of
rejoicing. It was at the great gathering at Palermo for celebrating
the anniversary of the Sicilian Vespers. Of course such a celebration
would have brought Garibaldi to partake in it, wherever he might have
been, short of in his grave. And truly he was then very near that. It
was a melancholy business. He was brought from the steamer to his bed
in the hotel on a litter through the streets lined by the thousands
who had gathered to see him, but who had been warned that his
condition was such, that the excitement occasioned by any shouting
would be perilous to him. Amid dead silence his litter passed through
the crowds who were longing to welcome him to the scene of his old
triumphs! Truly it was more like a funeral procession than one of
rejoicing.
It was very shortly before his death, which many people thought had
been accelerated by that last effort to make his boundless popularity
available for the propagation of Radicalism.
Peard's words reveal with exactitude the deficiency which lay at the
root of all the blunders, follies, and imprudence which rendered his
career less largely beneficent for Italy than it might have been.
"He had no judgment of character," and was too honest to believe in
knavery. It must be added that he was too little intelligent to detect
it, or to estimate the consequences of it. Of any large views of
social life, or of the means by which, and the objects for which, men
should be governed, he was as innocent as a baby. In a word, he was
not an intellectual man. All the high qualities which placed him on
the pinnacle he occupied were qualities of the heart and not of the
head. They availed with admirable success to fit him for exercising a
supreme influence over men, especially young men, in the field, and
for all the duties of a guerilla leader. They would not have sufficed
to make him a great commander of armies; and did still less fit him
for becoming a political leader.
Whom next shall I present to the reader from the portrait gallery of
my reminiscences?
Come forward, Franz Pulszky, most genial, most large-hearted of
philosophers and friends!--I can't say "guides," for though he was
both the first, he was not the last, differing widely as we did
upon--perhaps not most, but at all events--many large subjects.
I had known the lady whom Pulszky married in Vienna many years
previously, and long before he knew her. She was the daughter of that
highly cultivated Jewish family of whom I have spoken before. When I
first knew her she was as pretty and charming a young girl as could be
imagined. She was possessed then of all the accomplishments that can
adorn a girl at that period of life. Later on she showed that she
was gifted with sense, knowledge, energy, firmness, courage and
_caractère_ in a degree very uncommon. Since leaving Vienna I had
neither seen nor heard more of her, till she came to live with
her husband and family of children in Florence. But our old
acquaintanceship was readily and naturally renewed, and his villa near
the city became one of the houses I best loved to frequent. She had at
that time, and even well-nigh I take it in those old days at Vienna,
abandoned all seeming of conformity to the practices of the faith she
was born in.
I used to say of Pulszky that he was like a barrel full to the bung
with generous liquor, which flowed in a full stream, stick the spigot
in where you would. He was--is, I am happy to say is the proper tense
In his case--a most many-sided man. His talk on artistic subjects,
mainly historical and biographical, was abundant and most amusing.
His antiquarian knowledge was large. His ethnographical learning,
theories, and speculations were always interesting and often most
suggestive. Years had, I think, put some water in the wine of his
political ideas, but not enough to prevent differences between us on
such subjects. He was withal--there again I mean "is," for I am sure
that years and the air of his beloved Pesth cannot have put any water
in _that_ generous and genial wine--a fellow of infinite jest, and
full of humour; in a word, one of the fullest and most delightful
companions I have ever known. He talked English with no further accent
than served to add a raciness to the flavour of his conversation;
and every morning of one fixed day in the week he used to come to
Ricorboli for what he called a tobacco parliament.
I used frequently to spend the evening at his villa, where one met a
somewhat extraordinary cosmopolitan gathering. Generally we had some
good music; for Madame Pulszky was--unhappily in her case the past
tense is needed--a very perfect musician. Among other people more
or less off the world's beaten track, I used to meet there a very
extraordinary Russian, who had accomplished the rare feat of escaping
from Siberia. He was a Nihilist of the most uncompromising type; a
huge, shaggy man, with an unkempt head and chest like those of a bear;
and by his side--more or less--there was a pretty, _petite_, dainty
little young wife--beauty and the beast, if ever that storied couple
were seen in the flesh!
Many years afterwards when I and my wife saw Pulszky at Pesth, and
were talking of old times, he reminded me of this person; and on
my doubting that any man in his senses could believe in the
practicability of the extreme Nihilist theories, he instanced our old
acquaintance, saying, "Yes, there is a man, who in his very inmost
conscience believes that no good of any sort can be achieved for
humanity till the sponge shall have been passed over _all_ that
men have instituted and done, and a perfect _tabula rasa_ has been
substituted for it!"
I have many letters from Pulszky, written most of them after his
return to Pesth, and for the most part too much occupied with the
persons and politics of that recent day to be fit for publication.
Here is one, written before he left Florence, which may be given:
* * * * *
"VILLA PETROVICH.
"MY DEAR TROLLOPE,--I am just returned from a long excursion with
Boxall to Arezzo, Cortona, Borgo San Sepolcro, Città di Castello,
Perugia, and Assisi. We were there for a week, and enjoyed it
amazingly. I am sorry to say that I am not now able to join your party
to Camaldoli, since I must see Garibaldi, and do not know as yet
what I shall do when the war begins, which might happen during your
excursion. I hope you will drink a glass of water to my remembrance at
La Vernia from the miraculous well, called from the rocks by my patron
saint, St. Francis of Assisi. I shall come to you on Sunday, and will
tell you more about him. I studied him at Assisi.
"Yours sincerely,
"FR. PULSZKY."
* * * * *
The following passages may be given from a long letter, written from
Pesth on the 27th of March, 1869. It is for the most part filled with
remarks on the party politics of the hour, and persons, many of them
still on the scene:--
* * * * *
"MY DEAR MRS. AND MR. TROLLOPE,--You don't believe how glad I was to
get a token of remembrance from you. It seems to me quite an age since
I left Florence, and your letter was like a voice from a past period.
I live here as a stranger; you would not recognise me. I talk nothing
but politics and business. There is not a man with whom I could speak
in the way that we did on Sundays at your villa. I am of course much
with old Deak. I often dine with him. I know all his anecdotes and
jokes by heart. He likes it, if I visit him; but our conversation
remains within the narrow limits of party politics and the topics of
the day. Sometimes I spend an evening with Baron Eotvös, the Minister
of Public Instruction, my old friend; and there only we get both
warm in remembering the days of our youth, and building _châteaux
en Espagne_ for the future of the country. Eotvös has appointed me
Director of the National Museum, which contains a library of 180,000
volumes, mostly Hungarian; a very indifferent picture gallery, with
a few good pictures and plenty of rubbish; a poor collection of
antiquities; splendid mediaeval goldsmith work; arms, coins, and some
miserable statues; a good collection of stuffed birds; an excellent
one of butterflies; a celebrated one of beetles, and good specimens
for geology and mineralogy. But all this collection is badly, if at
all, catalogued; badly arranged; and until now we have in a great
palace an appropriation of only 1,200_l._ a year. I shall have much to
do there--as much as any minister in his office, if politics leave me
the necessary time for it.
[Then follows a quantity of details about the party politics of the
day. And then he continues:--]
"Such a contested election with us costs about 2,000_l._ to 3,000_l._
I must say I never spent money with more regret than this; but I had
to maintain the party interest and my family influence in my electoral
district. I have there a fine old castle and a splendid park, but I
rarely go to the country, since I have jumped, as you know, once more
into the whirlpool of politics, and can't get out again. An agrarian
communistic agitation has been initiated, I do not know whether with
or without the sanction of S----, but certainly it has spread rapidly
over a great portion of the country, and I doubt whether Government
has the energy for putting that agitation down. It is a very serious
question, especially as it finds us engaged in many other questions of
the highest interest.
[Then he gives an outline of the position of Hungary in relation to
other States, and then he continues:--]
"We remain still in opposition with the Wallachians, or, as they now
like to call themselves, Rumanes, and we try to maintain the peace
with Prussia. And now when we should concentrate all our forces to
meet the changes which threaten us, a stupid and wicked Opposition
divides the nation into two hostile camps [how very singular and
unexampled!]. We fight one another to the great pleasure of Russia
and Prussia, who enjoy our fratricidal feuds as the Romans in the
amphitheatre enjoyed the fights of the barbarians in the arena.
"I must beg your pardon, dear Mrs. Trollope, that I grow so pathetic!
You know it is not my custom when I am with ladies. But you must know
likewise that I live now outside of female society. I do not exactly
know whether it is my fault or that of the ladies of Pesth; so much is
certain that only at Vienna, where I go from time to time, I call upon
ladies. As to my children, Augustus, whom you scarcely know, is a
volunteer in the army according to our law of universal conscription.
Charles you may have seen at Florence. I sent him thither to visit his
grandmother." [Madame Walter, the mother of Madame Pulszky; the lady
who had received us with such pleasant hospitality at Vienna, and who
had come to reside at Florence, where she lived to a great age much
liked and respected.] "Polixena gets handsome and clever; little
Garibaldi is to go to school in September next. I grow old,
discontented, insupportable;" [we found him at Pesth many years
afterwards no one of the three!]; "a journey to Greece and Italy would
certainly do me immense good; but I fear I must give up that plan for
the present year, since after a contested election it is a serious
thing to spend money for amusement. In June I shall leave my present
lodging and go to the Museum, which stands in a handsome square
opposite to the House of Parliament. Excuse me for my long, long talk;
and do not forget your faithful friend, _in partibus infidelium_,
"FR. PULSZKY."
* * * * *
On the 26th of March, 1870, he writes a letter which was brought to
us by his son, the Augustus mentioned in the letter I have just
transcribed.
* * * * *
"MY DEAR MRS. AND MR. TROLLOPE,--Detained by Parliamentary duties and
the management of my own affairs, I am still unable to make a trip
to Italy to visit my friends, who made the time of my exile more
agreeable to me than my own country. But I send in my stead a second
edition of the old Pulszky, revised and corrected _ad usum Delphini_,
though I do not doubt that you prefer the old book, to which you were
accustomed. My son Augustus has now finished his studies, and is
D.E.L.--in a few days Lieutenant in the reserve, and Secretary at
the Ministry of Finance. Few young men begin their career in a more
promising way. As to myself, Augustus will tell you more than I could
write. I have remained too long in foreign countries to feel entirely
at home at Pesth, where people know how to make use of everybody. I am
M.P., belong to the Finance Committee, am Chairman of the Committee of
Foreign Affairs in the Delegation, Director of the Museum, Chairman of
the Philological Section in the Academy of Sciences, Chairman of the
Society of Fine Arts, Vice-President of three Insurance Offices,
and Member of the Council of two railroads. This long list proves
sufficiently that my time is taken up from early morning to night. But
my health is good, despite of the continuous wear and tear.
"During the summer vacations I wish to go to England. For ten years
I have not been there; and I long to see again a highly civilised
people; else I become myself a barbarian. Still I am proud of my
Hungarians, who really struggle hard, and not without success, to be
more than they are now--the first of the barbarians.
"I have for a long time not heard of you. Of course, in our
correspondence your letter was the last, not mine. It is my own fault.
But you must excuse me still for one year. Then I hope I can put
myself in a more comfortable position. For the present I am unable
even to read anything but Hungarian papers, bills, reports, and
business letters. I envy you in your elegant villa, where you enjoy
life! I hope you are both well, and do not forget your old friend,
"FR. PULSZKY.
"P.S.--Augustus will give you a good photograph of me."
* * * * *
Here is one other letter of the 13th June, 1872:--
* * * * *
"MY DEAR TROLLOPE,--What a pity that my time does not allow me to
visit Italy at any other season than just in summer. We are in the
midst of our canvass for the general elections. My son Augustus is to
be returned for my old place Szecseny without opposition on the 21st.
On the following day we go to the poll at Gyöngyös, a borough which is
to send me to Parliament. It is a contested election, therefore rather
troublesome and expensive, though not too expensive. Parliament meets
with us on the first of September. Thus my holidays are in July and
August. Shall we never have the pleasure to see you and Mrs. Trollope,
to whom I beg you to give my best regards, here at Pesth? Next year
is the great exhibition at Vienna. Might it not induce you to visit
Vienna, whence by an afternoon trip you come to Pesth, where I know
you would amuse yourselves to your hearts' content.
"My children are quite well. Charles is at the University at Vienna.
He despises politics, and wants to become Professor at the University
of Pesth in ten or twelve years.
"As to me I am well, very busy; much attacked by the Opposition since
I am a dreaded party man. Besides I have to re-organise the National
Museum, from the library, which has no catalogue, to the great
collections of mineralogy and plants. We bought the splendid picture
gallery of Prince Esterhazy. This too is under my direction, with a
most important collection of prints and drawings. You see, therefore,
that my time is fully occupied.
"Yours always,
"FR. PULSZKY."
* * * * *
My wife and I did subsequently visit our old friend at Pesth, and much
enjoyed our brief stay there and our chat of old times. But the work
of re-organising the Museum was not yet completed. I do sincerely hope
that the task has been brought to an end by this time, and that I may
either in England or at Pesth once again see Franz Pulszky in the
flesh!