Excursion to Ventimiglia—The Duomo—Visit to a convent—La
Madre Teresa—Convent life—A local archæologist—Cities of the
coast—The presents of a savant—End of a pleasant visit.
The next day an excursion to Ventimiglia, about two miles distant,
was proposed; and after some demur from the comtesse, who did not feel
equal to the fatigue, and yet hesitated at confiding me to the joint
care of the general, Signor Bonaventura, and one of his daughters,
whom we were to pick up at her own residence, every difficulty was
adjusted, and we departed, the whole establishment being as much
excited as if we were going on a journey. They had left their own
horses at Nice, but a carriage, the handsomest Signor Bonaventura could
procure in Ventimiglia, was in waiting at the road, so exquisitely
antique, rickety, and inaccessible, that in itself it was a refreshing
departure from the routine of everyday life. Our drive along the coast
was as beautiful as any part of the road previously traversed, and soon
brought us to the town, built on the side of a hill sloping towards the
sea—a wonderful little place to be so near a modern resort like Nice,
and yet retaining so much originality. Whether owing to the splendour
of our equipage, or the charm of our personal appearance, it becomes
me not to determine, but it is undeniable that as our steeds shambled
up the steep narrow street every window was garnished with curious
faces; and as we passed the apothecary's, where the priests and doctors
gossiped, and the caffè, where the gentry lounged and smoked, hats were
doffed on all sides, and a gratifying effect was evidently created.
The general, excessively delighted, twirled his grey moustache, and
affably returned the greeting; then, Signor Bonaventura's daughter
having joined us, marshalling the party with military precision, he
took upon himself the office of cicerone, and led the way to the Duomo,
a very ancient structure, built on the site of a temple of Juno. On
the piazza before it, until very recently, stood some oak-trees of
great antiquity, which popular tradition had pronounced to form part of
the wood sacred to the goddess. The ruthless canons of the cathedral,
a few years ago, caused the old church to be thoroughly cleaned,
and actually had the whole exterior painted over, although it was
of stone, of the earliest period of ecclesiastical architecture. In
the inside is preserved a marble slab, the sole relic of the ancient
temple, containing a dedicatory inscription to the ox-eyed goddess,
whereon antiquaries have puzzled and disputed to an edifying extent.
A few faded pictures and tawdry ornaments were the only attempts at
embellishment; and even these seemed at a very low ebb, for there was a
printed notice near one of the confessionals, asking for contributions
towards the purchase of a new image of the Madonna—a box, with a slit
in the cover being placed beneath it, to receive any offerings for
that purpose. Next we went to a convent belonging to the Canonichesse
Lateranensi—a visit to which had been the desire of my heart ever
since my arrival at Latte, to the amusement of the whole family, who
could not understand why such an every-day sight, as this and similar
establishments appear to them, should interest me so much. The convent
was a large, irregularly-built pile, until the end of the seventeenth
century the palace of the Counts of Ventimiglia, who here for a long
period maintained a struggling feudal supremacy, waging wars with
the neighbouring petty States, or else making common cause with them
in resisting the suzerainship of the House of Savoy; which, in the
gradual annexation of the territories constituting the present kingdom
of Sardinia, had separately to contend with numberless principalities,
marquisates, and republics, each jealous of its own independence, and
regardless of the claims of the common weal.
Up a broken open staircase to a portico in front of the convent
church—where two or three slipshod women were seated _al fresco_,
plaiting each other's hair, or engaged in that animating chase an
old Florentine painter has facetiously designated “the Murder of the
Innocents”—we passed to a side-door, at which an old woman presented
herself, and inquired what we wanted. This individual officiated as
portress to the nuns, went to market, executed their commissions, and
brought them all the Ventimiglia news. In her appearance there was
nothing poetical or impressive; she had not even two great rusty keys
at her girdle, but was attired in a print gown, somewhat the worse
for wear, with an obvious deficiency of neatness in the tiring of her
silvery tresses, and of freshness in her _chaussure_.
The general gave his name and title, and asked for La Madre Teresa,
although, as he owned to me, he had but a dim recollection of her
face, all minor associations being lost in the halo cast around a
certain beautiful abbess, now no more, a distant connection of his
family, whom, many years before, when staying with some relations at
Ventimiglia, he had often conversed with at the grating. With great
respect we were now ushered into a sort of gallery, lighted by windows,
around which the dust and cobwebs of many months had been suffered to
gather unmolested. Opposite to these were two large apertures in the
wall, defended by a double grating of thick iron bars, just wide enough
to admit of passing a hand between their interstices, but placed at
such a distance from each other, that the hand thus advanced could only
reach far enough to grasp a hand similarly extended from the opposite
side; so that even to press a kiss upon some fair nun's taper fingers
was out of the question—a contingency, no doubt, had in view in the
placing of the grating.
The general said facetiously, that in his visits to the abbess he had
adopted the English fashion, and used to shake her heartily by the
hand; “and it must be confessed, poor soul,” he added with a sigh, “she
did press mine cordially in return.”
And now a rustling of robes was heard, as a door, invisible from where
we stood, opened, and La Madre Teresa came forward, having evidently
made some slight changes in her toilet, and not a little fluttered
by this unexpected summons. She was a small, spare woman, with that
waxen complexion which a sedentary, unvarying routine of existence
generally produces, peering, light-grey eyes, sharp features, but a
kindly expression about the mouth and chin. As she stood behind the
grating, courtesying first to one and then to the other, she would have
made a very picturesque study in her white woollen robes and black
mantle, the light from the window in the corridor falling upon her
figure, and detaching it from the gloomy background. Still, the effect
was nothing—the general found an opportunity of whispering—nothing to
be compared to that produced by his lamented abbess, who used to come
sweeping in with the dignity of a queen, every fold and plait of her
drapery exquisitely adjusted. But to return to La Madre Teresa. After
a few complimentary phrases, she inquired to what she might attribute
the honour of this visit, of which the real motive was simply the
gratification of my prying curiosity: the ostensible one, I grieve
to acknowledge, was of an ignoble nature, although, when communicated
by Signor Bonaventura, previously instructed in his part, it did not
appear as such to strike the old nun. It regarded the purchase of
cakes! With as much good grace as he could assume while talking to
a nun—for Signor Bonaventura was of the new school, and violently,
intolerantly opposed to all monastic institutions, notwithstanding
which, to please his wife, and for the sake of peace, his own daughters
had been brought up in a convent—he began to relate “how an English
lady of distinction,” pointing to me—La Madre courtesied more deeply
than before—“having heard in her own country of the famous cakes
made by the nuns of Ventimiglia, was now come in person to test their
excellence. Did the sisterhood chance to have any upon sale?”
The old lady was evidently pleased; and begging to be excused for an
instant, retired to give her directions to the slatternly out-door
attendant apparently; for when the conference broke up, we found
her in waiting with some neatly-papered packets of these celebrated
comestibles—which, by the by, were really excellent, masterly compounds
of almonds, olive-oil, and honey. Returning herself speedily to
the grating, she engaged in an animated conversation in the Genoese
dialect, which, or something very nearly approaching to it, is spoken
at Ventimiglia—the general being evidently her favourite, and the
one to whom most of her remarks were addressed. Her local memory was
wonderful: she spoke about people he had utterly lost sight of; knew
all their histories for thirty years past; their children's ages,
marriages, and so forth; combined with a minuteness of detail that
nothing but the prolonged concentration of her faculties within a most
circumscribed sphere could have enabled her to attain.
“Does Vou Scia”—a corruption of the French _Votre seigneurie_—“Does
Vou Scia remember the Conte L——, who lived in the street just opposite
the barber's and had an only daughter, whom he married to the son of
the Marchese of A——, who went away with the French to fight, and died
of cold in England when the great Napoleon burnt that town?—Ah, dear,
I forget the name—stop—yes, yes, it was London. Well, as I was saying,
his daughter, grand-daughter to the conte, was placed with us for her
education, and then married at sixteen, the day after she left these
walls: the spouse was rather _gobbo_—that is, humpbacked—and fifty
years old, but very rich; so it was a good match. Vou Scia has surely
not forgotten her: you were a young man then.”
“Oh, I recollect perfectly, perfectly,” groaned the general.
“Well, she was not happy—as indeed who is in marriage?—and her youngest
daughter being externally like her father in person, the Madonna gave
her grace to see the vanity of the world; so that nearly a year ago
her solemn admission amongst us took place. In another month or so
she will take the final vows. Oh, it is a peaceful, blessed life to
those who are called to enter it! Does Vou Scia imagine that the wicked
Government intends shortly to suppress all the religious communities?”
“The question they always ask,” observed Signor Bonaventura in an
under-tone.
“Ah! we must hope,” said the general, gravely. “It would be terrible,
you have been here so many years.”
“Thirty-seven completed on the Festival of the Assumption.”
“Impossible! You must have entered a mere child.”
“I took the veil at sixteen,” said the Madre Teresa, with a simpering
smile, which demonstrated that she, too, was not invulnerable on all
women's weak point.
“How strange,” I said, “to think that since then you have never stirred
beyond these walls!”
“Never, signora. But we have a large vineyard and orchard from which
there is a fine view of the sea and the high-road, and we can see the
diligence passing at some distance. It is the finest situation in all
Ventimiglia,” she added proudly.
“You do not even go out to attend the sick?”
“No, signora; that is not one of the duties of our order: we are
cloistered _religiose_. We pray and meditate, embroider and make the
confectionery you have heard so much praised—I fear beyond our poor
deserts.”
“Do you take pupils?”
“In former years, signora, before these unfortunate changes, this
decline of religion in the State, we had many _educande_; at this
moment we have but one young lady under our care.” And then, with great
volubility, she went on lamenting the degeneracy of the present day,
and telling us how changed times were since her youth, when every cell
in the convent had its occupant. “We were upwards of seventy then,” she
said with a suppressed sigh, “now we only number eighteen.”
“Out of which I have heard that several are infirm and bedridden,”
remarked Signor Bonaventura, with an affected air of commiseration.
It made one shudder to think how ghostly the long corridors and
fifty-two empty chambers must look, and how dreary in their hearts
the poor nuns must feel, dwindling away, till four or five withered,
shadowy forms would soon be all that remained to talk over the glories
of the days gone by.
The poor nun seemed quite sorry when we broke up the conference, and
gazed at us wistfully through the bars, taking in all the peculiarities
of our appearance for the benefit of the whole sisterhood, when
repeating the details of what would constitute a memorable incident
in her life. After quitting the _parlatojo_, we went into the convent
chapel, rather a pretty structure, with some indifferent paintings, and
a good deal of gilding. Over the altar there was a latticed gallery,
in which the nuns could assist unseen at the celebration of mass, and
another behind the organ, for those who formed the choir. Though the
sun was shining so brightly outside, an unaccountable chillness and
gloom pervaded the building, which Signor Bonaventura contended was
like a living tomb, fit to be the receptacle of decrepit nuns. At this
remark his daughter, who stood in great awe of her father, and had
not opened her lips the whole time, ventured a word in defence of the
convent in which she had been educated; but being told that women knew
nothing of such matters, relapsed into the silent study of my bonnet
and mantle, wherein she had hitherto been happily engrossed. As for the
general, he took Signor Bonaventura's pleasantries in such good part,
that it was well the comtesse was not present; what with these, and
the allusions to the abbess, the poor lady would have been grievously
discomposed.
From this we went clambering up narrow streets of steps to the church
of San Michele, whilom a temple of Castor and Pollux, afterwards a
convent of Benedictines, full of Roman antiquities, with a very old
crypt, a number of inscriptions, and a variety of other memorabilia
which I was surveying in helpless ignorance, when the general, who had
sent Signor Bonaventura away on some mysterious mission, darted forward
joyfully at seeing him appear with a young man, whom it turned out he
had been despatched to summon.
“Here he is—here he is,” he exclaimed; “our archæologist, our poet, our
historian!” and then, with a malicious twinkle in his eye, presented
him to _questa Signora Inglese molto dotta_—this learned English lady,
who was making researches on the classical remains of Ventimiglia, and
wished for authentic information concerning them.
The general then seated himself near a confessional, and indulged in
a little well-earned repose, while the youth, who was not more than
nineteen or twenty, attired in a suit of chessboard-like checks,
plunged at once into the duties that had been assigned him. He was a
little nervous at first, but had none of the distressing bashfulness
which would have overpowered an English lad, a complete bookworm
and wholly unused to society; in fact, it is rare to see an Italian
thoroughly awkward, or thoroughly timid. Their naked loquacity always
stands them in good stead. In this instance, moreover, a certain amount
of modest assurance was not wanting. With surprising fluency the young
savant favoured us with a dissertation on the temple, the church, the
crypt, Roman mile-stones, Etruscan vases, and mediæval architecture.
The effect was remarkable; no orator could have desired a greater
testimony in his favour. The lean sacristan, with the keys of the crypt
in his hand, stood transfixed with admiration; Signor Bonaventura tried
to look very wise; the general, awaking from his nap, made no effort
at comprehending the discourse, but kept nodding his approbation; and
the eight-and-twenty children, who had accompanied us into the church,
ceased begging for centimes, and maintained a respectful silence. As
for me, in whose honour this antiquarian lore was displayed, I felt
incompetent to proffer more than a yes or no, hazarded at intervals,
trembling lest some inappropriate rejoinder should discover my
lamentable deficiency, and mortify the poor student, who was evidently
so happy in holding forth to one he considered a kindred spirit, that
it would have been a pity to dispel the harmless delusion. When at last
we got out of the church, he grew more intelligible to my capacity;
and leaving the past to itself, bethought himself of the attractions
of the present, and conducted us to a bastion, just outside one of
the gates of the city, which, small as it now is, with not more than
3000 inhabitants, was really of importance in the time of the Romans,
or a still earlier period; from this grassy eminence, he said, one
of the loveliest views in the whole Riviera was to be seen; and that
he had Ugo Foscolo's authority for the assertion. And, in truth, he
was not far wrong. Looking inland, there was a fertile plain, rich
in the golden fruits and mellow tints of autumn, through which the
river Roja ran its sparkling course, the mountains from whence it took
its rise closing gradually on all sides, till a vast amphitheatre of
hills formed the majestic background, towering in grandeur, piled one
above another, the peaks of the last alpine range capped with snow,
and suffused with a rosy light from the reflection of the setting sun.
Then, turning to the sea, reposing in the gorgeous beauty of that hour,
the close of a cloudless day, we saw the glittering towers and steeples
of the cities of the coast—Bordighera, called the Jericho of Italy,
from the palm-trees with which its environs are thickly studded; a few
miles further on, the venerable walls of San Remo; more distant still,
Porto Maurizio; and others, and others yet, each nestling against
the guardian promontory which stretched forth for its shelter and
protection—each mirrored in the fairy bay, which seemed exclusively its
own.
Our young friend was much pleasanter here than in the crypt. He
repeated Ugo Foscolo's description with an enthusiasm which made one
regret that the talents and love of study he undoubtedly possessed
should have taken so useless a direction. His case is an illustration
of that of many an Italian man of genius, who has lost himself amid
ruins, and given to crumbling remains the time and energies which might
have benefited his country and mankind.
On escorting us to the carriage, he presented me with an Inquiry into
the Dedicatory Inscription to Juno, and an Essay on the Antiquities of
Ventimiglia, his first literary productions; and, finally, composed an
ode full of classic, mythologic, and historical allusions in honour of
the daughter of Albion, whose studies he fancied were of so edifying a
description. It was enclosed the next day in a letter to the general,
with a request that he would lay it at the feet of the illustrious
stranger. The whole family were charmed; the general scanned the
lines critically, and said: “The boy should go to Turin, and get
on;” the comtesse copied them out; Signor Bonaventura was pleased
that Ventimiglia was not without its representative in Parnassus;
while I—delighted to find that at thirty miles from Nice, where I had
despaired of seeing anything but English shops and English travellers,
three days should have been so fertile in Italian scenes and Italian
manners—looked upon this last incident as quite the crowning stroke of
my pleasant visit to Latte.