AT MONTREUX.
On the 2nd of January, 1889, we moved ourselves to the Hôtel
des Alpes at Montreux. The journey is only an hour. It was
bitterly cold, but the temperature rose fourteen degrees on the way.
Here we had a delightful time, excursioning to the Château de
Chillon, to Hôtel Biron, to Villeneuve, les Avants, three thousand
feet high, Mont-Fleurie, Glion, etc. But our favourite place seemed
to be St. Maurice, where we had several delightful days in the
valley of the Rhone, but one particularly to be remembered. Abbé
Stercky went with us. He is one of the monks, was Curé of Aigle,
and Richard liked him. The little inn is cosy, with its good Dalmatian
proprietor, who kept a cheerful room, a blazing wood fire, a
capital good breakfast, and a good bottle of Dôle de Valais. We
passed a good deal of time in the monastery.
It is the oldest Augustinian monastery in the world, and having
Abbé Stercky with us, we saw all the treasures--gold, silver, gems,
and onyx treasures from Charlemagne and St. Louis of France;
they, and also manuscripts and old books, were shown to us by a
gentlemanly and polished monk, Père Bourbord, otherwise they are
generally shown by a surly monk, who does not let you see anything.
There were a number of very charming people stopping at the hotel,
which was crowded for the winter. We all fraternized, and we had
extensive afternoon receptions and tea-fights, and in the evenings we
all used to contribute something to the amusements--who could sing,
sang; who could recite, recited; who could tell stories of foreign lands,
did so, and also ghost-stories; and there was music and dancing
and acting galore, also theatricals and a musical drill beautifully
performed. It was a charming hotel, with every accommodation,
plenty of places for smoking, and Richard used to enjoy it thoroughly,
parties of men flocking around him.
On the 22nd, our wedding-day, everybody was so good to us;
there were presents, and flowers, and little speeches. I got quite
choky, and Richard ran away and locked himself up. The next
day we gave a big tea-fight, and enjoyed it very much. Richard
had now a little return of the gout attack, but it passed off in a few
days. The evenings were lovely. I can remember one, nay, many
evenings, with a clear sky, the mountain of snow standing out like a
vision, lit by a lovely crescent moon and large evening star.
At Chillon we saw the room where Miss Sterling, of the Salvation
Army, was imprisoned for talking religion to the children. She had
written on the walls, and we often revisited the chapel where so
many have suffered.
On the 28th (January) Richard got a letter announcing the death of
one of our friends, Mr. Paul Bird; and on the 29th, Carlo Pellegrini.
On the 5th of February came Mr. Lorie, painter, from Egypt.
We were very disappointed to find the Archbishop Mermillod had
left for Cannes, being very ill, as I had known him since 1858.
[Sidenote: _M. Elisée Réclus_.]
Here we had the pleasure of a visit from the famous Elisée
Réclus: _homme de lettres_ and geographer is, perhaps, his right
description, but as an Agnostic he stands out a little far; even the
Sacrament of Matrimony is, they say, prohibited in his family. I
was very anxious to give him a cordial reception, as he interested
Richard and all of us immensely. His opinions coincided with the
following, taken from Mrs. Bennett-Edwards' "Unwritten Law"--
"'Legalized marriage is tyranny--the tyranny of the Law and
of the Church over the privacy of the individual. I will have no
son and no daughter of mine a slave. If the result of a man's or
a woman's life be moral--if it produce good, not evil, to the
society--by what right does any Law or any Church interfere to
regulate it? Wait,' he said to us; 'do nothing hastily that you may
repent later. Wait until your characters and tastes be formed by
your experience; and then, if you find them suitable one with the
other, take up your lives together, that together you may reach the
goal which I have set you--to the bettering, by example, of your
fellow-men. Teach them that love, which means unity, is stronger
to bind man to woman than any law; that a man's or a woman's
honour is stronger to compel faith than any religious superstitions.'"
At the hour appointed the door was thrown open, and an
announcement was made, which I did not hear, but I immediately
left my armchair and my book, and walked over with both hands
extended, saying, "Dear Monsieur Réclus, I am so delighted to
make your acquaintance; such a pleasure to know such a distinguished
man." He received my little speech with profuse bows and
cordial thanks, and then pulling a key out of his pocket, he proceeded
to wind the clocks. I felt a little surprised, but I thought
it was perhaps another of the great man's peculiarities, so I went on
talking to him the while, telling him how glad my husband would be
to talk geography and science over with him, when the door opened,
and a loud voice announced Monsieur Elisée Réclus. I picked
myself up in a minute, and immediately performed the same ceremony
as before. The clock-winder behaved so beautifully; he never
moved a muscle of his face, and when he had finished his work, went
out with a lovely bow. This episode delighted Richard and Dr.
Baker.
On the 31st of January we had the report of poor Prince Rudolf's
death; it threw a gloom over everything. On the 13th arrived Mr.
Gustave Oppenheim, an old friend.
[Sidenote: _Our Swiss Outing_.]
When Richard had had enough of Montreux, we moved on to
Lausanne. All came to see us off, and we wondered how many of
us would meet again. Here we found Colonel Abbadie, Dr. Baker's
mother and sister, Marc Dufour, a celebrated oculist and philanthropist,
and Abbé Deruaz. We drove about immensely, sometimes
to Ouchy, and a very interesting excursion was going to see
Voltaire's house, Mont Morion, occupied by Dr. and Mrs. Niven,
whom we knew at Matharan, in India. We also had the pleasure of
meeting there the Rev. H. B. Chapman, Father Damien's friend.
On the 25th we went off to Berne to see Mr. and Mrs. Scott, our
Minister. It was looking very picturesque and beautiful; the Hôtel
Belle Vue comfortable, with lovely views. It was very cold, covered
with snow, and the air dry and crisp; in fact, everything was a "Snow
Hell." The weather did not hurt Richard; he completely changed.
Since Richard had been ill, he was quite a different man to what he
had been previously in tastes and feelings. Whereas before he was
always cold, and would have fires in the height of summer, now in
the bitterest weather a fire in his room made him sick. He would
now eat sweet things and drink milk, which in his stronger days he
could not look at. He slept, instead of whole nights of insomnia,
though often not as well as one could wish. He liked the world and
company, whereas before he had shunned the general run of society,
and in many other ways was quite different.
At Berne he saw a unique Swiss sword. Swords were looked for
at every place, so we went straight to an antiquarian, who showed
us some iron blades, metal scabbards, and arabesque spear-heads.
Monsieur de Montêt's brother, Emanuel, a banker, called and showed
us the lions. We were now reading the "Service of Man" by
James Carter Morison.
It was now that we returned, 1st of March, 1889, to Lucerne,
which was another "Snow Hell." We went to the Hôtel Nationale,
the only place open, had lovely rooms and good fires, but the rest
of it deserved all Richard said of it a while ago.
On the 4th we rose early, quite well, and made all ready to go, and
having an hour to wait, sat down to enjoy the fire, when all of a
sudden I got an aching in every bone, a bad rash came out, and
faint, cold down the spine, hot and cold, nausea; could do nothing
but rock and groan, and groaned and rocked the whole eight hours
to Milan. I did not know it then, but I know it now, by three subsequent
experiences, that I had a sharp attack of influenza, but we
did not talk so much about this epidemic in 1889. It was a great
mortification that I had to be several days in bed, as one of my
cousins and some others were waiting to do a very nice expedition,
which I should have thoroughly enjoyed, and had to let them go
without me. There was one fortunate thing, that when I was ill,
Richard was well; and if he was down, I was always perfectly well
and able.
On the 10th we went down to Venice, to the Hôtel Victoria,
where we were put in big, damp, dark rooms like catacombs; and
on the 12th arrived at Trieste, where I was very weak for a long
time.
[Sidenote: _Trieste again_.]
On the 30th we accompanied Prince and Princess Victor Von
Hohenlöhe and daughter to the _Ungaria_ for Corfú.
On the 22nd of March, he regrets the death of Lady Arnold, on
March the 15th--"grieved for the poet's sake;" and also Miss
Whately, of Egypt, whom we knew.
We now had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Jokai,
the Hungarian novelist, who came to Miramar to consult the Archduchess
Stephanie about Prince Rudolf's work, which was to come
out in fifteen volumes for the people.
On the 13th of April I wrote a petition for the children of the
Orphanage of St. Joseph (the one that Richard and I were interested
in), and we put down our names for a hundred florins, and promised
them a life-sized statue of their patron saint.
We had, as usual, our servants' party, which they keep very much
as they would in England, only they are very witty when drinking
toasts in improvising verses on names.
On the 10th of April he remarks the death of Father Damien.
Though I little contemplated the great catastrophe and break-up
of my life in 1890, but with a view to leaving Trieste in July,
1891, I began to wish to collect all possible reminiscences of the
home I loved so well. One of the visitors to our Trieste home
wrote me: "I think of you so very often, and your lovely home on
the shores of the Adriatic, with its rich treasures of mind and heart.
It stands out before me like a lighthouse on the sea of life, pointing
onwards, upwards, to a higher, nobler state of existence, to which
I shall try to reach." These words, which have been differently
expressed to me in many different languages, and in this particular
case coming from one "who had almost," she says, "lost faith in
God," inspire me with great gratitude to God, and make me wish to
perpetuate it in oil-painting reminiscences, that it may become part
of our lives in our future more prosaic London home.
I now selected from among other artists Mr. Albert Letchford,
a young painter of great talent, who had studied in Paris and
painted in Egypt, and who began to paint for me, on the 10th of
May, the four views from our windows, nine of our favourite
"interiors" of rooms, including Richard studying in his bedroom.
After that he painted my husband for the Stanley Exhibition, and
one life-size, fencing, which I now exhibit in the Grosvenor Gallery.
[Illustration: THE VIEW FROM THE BURTONS' BEDROOM AND STUDY,
OVER THE SEA, AT TRIESTE.
By Albert Letchford (from an Oil Painting).]
At this time there occurred the strikes in Austrian-Lloyd's which
agitated the country very much, and we expected a revolution, which
did not happen. We had also a visit from Count Téleki, who had
made his splendid African journey, which was most interesting. On
the 12th of May we had a delightful sea-trip to Parenzo with friends
(Baron Marco Morpurgo, the then great banker and Director of
Lloyd's, and his wife, the best friends Richard and I ever had in
Trieste). The object was to visit the old Cathedral of Parenzo, a
complicated mixture of most ancient Byzantine, Roman, Grecian,
and Venetian. It has three depths of old floors quite distinct. We
went over to Duino to stay with the Princess Hohenlöhe and
Princess Taxis, a two hours' drive from Trieste, which was our
favourite visit in the neighbourhood. We had the pleasure of
receiving Count von Würmbrandt, the Governor of Styria, Baron
Spaun, and Admiral Sterneck; this was followed by festivities for the
Archduke Otto and the Archduchess, and Archduke Leopold. On
that occasion Richard was allowed to go out in the evening to the
Morpurgos' _fête_.
Sometimes our drives were varied by delightful little sea-trips.
On the 13th of June, going up to Opçina, our horses enacted the
same scene as that which happened at Sauerbrunn in 1887. On the
29th of June we were very sorry to lose our nicest English neighbours
and friends, Mr. and Mrs. Craig. In June also Richard felt
sadly the death of Professor Chandler.
On the 1st of July, 1889, we went back to Adelsburg, where the
air was cold, and it was delightful to have no mosquitoes. General
Buckle accompanied us on this excursion. On the 2nd we had
frightful storms, the lightning striking seven or eight times just
about the house. The Caves by this time were quite spoiled by
the electric light. We were able to save a poor dog that had
been shot into an abyss by some cruel people, and Richard moralizes
in his journal, "What had that dog done to be saved? It was ten
thousand chances to one, against any one caring for his cries, and
getting him out of that abyss by lowering men with ropes, which
seemed impossible."[1]
We had a delightful drive to Planina. As usual, in spite of all
evidences of a most healthy place, we got very sick, and so we went
on, on the 8th to Graz, a delightful central place in Austria, the
paradise of poor aristocracy, and retired military and naval "swells."
From here we went over to Tobelbad, where we found some very
dear Austrian friends; but Tobelbad is in a hole, and we found it
so unhealthy, that we were glad to get to the top of a hill to breathe,
and drove back to Graz. A Baron von Ponte Reno, one of our
young friends, just about to be married, died a few days later. Here
we had the pleasure of seeing a great deal of Professor Schuhardt;
it was so hot we could not breathe. After a great many excursions
we went on to Mürzüschlag, which is the station at the bottom of the
Semmering, on the Südbahn line in Austria. It was a curious season.
The heat, or reports of cholera, had driven every soul out of the
towns to the mountains, and one could not get a bed for love nor
money, and so the Erzherzog Johann Hotel was what the Austrians,
with their delicacy and kindness, called Sehr Primitif, which meant
"devoid of all the necessaries of life;" but the air was delicious.
We looked everywhere, at Spital two hours away, and up and down
the Semmering, at all the hotels, first the station, then Stephanie
Gast-Haus, then Johann, and Panhaus the highest, then the Südbahn's
Semmering, and two dependencies, one of which we liked the best.
We reposed on a turf full of ants, and got back to the station to
Mürzüschlag.
I immediately took a carriage, and drove up to Lambach Hotel, on
an eminence above the town. It was delightfully situated, only it was
full. Splendid air, beautiful views, only all the rooms were occupied
except one; so I put Richard and Dr. Baker into that, and Lisa and
I went down to a sort of outhouse, where we had a little room
leading out of the carriage stable, which was bounded on one side by
the pigs, another side by the wash-house, and so on; but even these
discomforts, and some of them were very ludicrous, had their compensations.
Baron Kremer (and his wife), one time Finance
Minister at Vienna and _homme de lettres_, and Sir Arthur and
Lady Nicholson were in the hotel. From here we made an excursion
to Reichenau. On the 31st we went to Neuberg, and visited
the old Cistercian Monastery and Cathedral, and the Emperor's shooting-box.
It is a romantic little wayside inn, with a running stream
and a mill-wheel. On the 2nd we had a delightful journey from
Neuberg, past Frein and Fohenwerk, to Maria-Zell, which is the
Lourdes of Austria.
[Sidenote: _Maria-Zell--Austrian Lourdes_.]
Maria-Zell is placed on a mountain-side--not in a valley, as
Murray has it--and the Church and Monastery are on an elevated
plateau in its midst. It is 2900 feet high by the aneroid. The air
is delicious, the climate is dry; there is a feeling of elevation, of
being able to breathe, and of looking on an equality with the mountain-tops
on all sides--where the clouds, storms, and winds would
meet in bad weather. It is an eight hours' drive--and even a difficult
and dangerous drive--from any town. You must not want society;
you must not fret your heart out after your letters, nor expect to
find books or papers; your resources must be within yourself, and
whatever you want you may bring with you. You may even bring
your tub. There are no doctors; but there is an apothecary's shop,
which I suspect must be a gift of the Emperor to the pilgrims, as
it is a miniature copy of the Hof-Apotheke at Vienna. The town
itself is not a town, and not a village; but, if I may say so, a religious
market town. Here we found the sword of Ludwig the Great, first
King of Hungary. This is the Lourdes of Austria, and the Cathedral
and Monastery are _everything_. The shops and the houses and the
forty-six inns of various degrees are to serve _it_.
We lodged in the best, close to the church, the Goldenen Löwen,
kept by a very dear old couple, Mr. and Mrs. Zimmerman, of
seventy and seventy-five years of age, who have known much better
days, and are patronized by the Austro-Hungarian aristocracy, as
they once owned the Erzherzog Karl Hotel in Vienna; but they lost
£40,000 in the _krach_ at the Vienna Exhibition, and came here.
They are most attentive and kind, and treated us with the old
chivalrous politeness of bygone days. Everything was the pink of
cleanliness; she knew so well what one wanted, and how to make
one comfortable. The holy shops run in a horseshoe circle round
the Cathedral, where you buy all kinds of religious _bric-à-brac_, and
get it blessed. The Church is very large, and would take too long
to describe; there is a special inner sanctuary for the celebrated
Madonna and Child, whose history is long. Our great amusement
was watching the processions of pilgrims, which interests you very
much for a time; there were endless streams flowing from every
part of Austria, and many of them would begin at the bottom
step, and go all round the church on their knees--a most exhausting
process.
It is a charming place, and we stayed here a fortnight. It seemed
to be the only place where one could get beds. We had delightful
drives to Erlach, Grimau, and Sigismund's Chapel. At first Richard
was not very well, which made one anxious, but afterwards it
passed off. There is a Calvary to ascend, and a spring for sore eyes.
But I do not describe Maria-Zell at length, because the descriptions
at Lourdes must fully explain it; only that, ours being in the wilds,
the processions and the people were of a far more picturesque
nature, and that of Lourdes is well regulated, everything being cut
and dried for the pilgrims.
[Sidenote: _Semmering_.]
At last we heard there was room on the Semmering, so we left
Maria-Zell at eight a.m. There are no trains; the roads are like
footpaths over rugged mountains, with precipices here and there.
In four hours we reached Frein, where we found food, and Richard
slept for two hours; then we had two hours' more driving, and
reached Neuberg. But our former picturesque little post-hotel was
full, Lady Nicholson and her children occupying a great part of it,
so we got primitive accommodation at a little public-house, where,
however, we were consoled by Lady Nicholson's coming over to
dine with us; and of the beds, the less I say the better. To get at
the promised accommodation at the Semmering, we had to pass two
pleasant hours at Mürzüschlag station, where we had a capital
breakfast, and again met the Baron von Kremer, who accompanied
us to the Semmering on his way to Vienna. We never saw him again.
He died shortly after, and left a desolate wife.
We found this place delightful, a _dépendance_ of the Südbahn Hotel,
Semmering, with glorious views, delicious air, very fair food, and,
above all, quiet; full of Austrians, Hungarians, and Jews. Here we
got a startling letter from the Foreign Office to Richard, wanting to
know why he had had so much leave, although they had told him
to take it. It agitated him, and hurt him. Our delightful drives
here were to Maria-Schütze, another smaller pilgrimage place, like
Maria-Zell, but with only a small village, one shop and one inn.
Snow fell upon the Schneeberg--this was always a signal for
Richard not being very well; but these little attacks of gout came
and passed quickly. He did not get on well here, so we made up
our minds to leave on the twelfth day. The fact is, the Foreign
Office letter had worried him, and made him anxious to get back to
Trieste; so we went up to Vienna.
Sir Augustus and Lady Paget were absent, but the secretaries,
Mr. Phipps, Lord Royston, and Mr. Maude, dined with us, where
we soon had a nice little society round us, and of literary people,
Dr. and Madame de Griez, Mr. Brinsley Richards and his wife,
Mr. Gibbs, Mr. Lavino of the _Daily Telegraph_, and, last but not
least, Major and Mrs. Keith Fraser. We drove to Karlenberg, and
that evening Richard broke out with gout. Dr. Baker telegraphed
to England for some particular medicines, and they arrived by
immediate post; but we were not allowed by law to have them, for
the protection of the native chemist, so we had them sent back to
Trieste. Disheartened, we determined to leave; but first we visited
the tomb of Prince Rudolf. Many were passing down into the
vaulted chamber where the sarcophagus lies. It was very, very
cold and dark, and it made us so melancholy to think what he had
thrown away in one moment.
[Sidenote: _Home again_.]
The next evening we left by the night express, and arrived at
Trieste at ten next morning. How nice it is to arrive at home!
On the 8th of September he deplores the death of Wilkie Collins;
and on Friday, the 13th, the death of George Elliott Ranken, and
Lady Holland, at seventy-eight.
Here Richard got well very quick. Mr. Joyner, C.E., from
Poonah, India, paid us a visit, whom we had not seen for thirteen
years. He was not in the least changed. We had a fearful storm,
of rain, hail, thunder, lightning, and wind, which smashed twelve
of our windows. H.M.S. _Scout_ came in, Captain Conybeare, Lieutenants
Torlesse and Carr; and we had the pleasure of receiving
some of the officers for a few days. It always did Richard so much
good seeing his countrymen from home. He had to have a small
operation performed on the 7th of October, after which we went up
to the mountains for quiet and rest. The _Scout_ steamed out on the
10th, and we waved a flag from the roof, which they could see with
glasses. We all got rheumatism, and went down again shortly. On
the 22nd of October Richard had to be worried with another
second small operation. I told the operator to be as gentle as
he could, as Richard was in a very nervous state, and he would
hardly believe me, he looked so well and strong; but he told me
afterwards that he found out that it was so. Dr. Baker found him
a very clever man, and what he had to do, was done as painlessly
and as quickly as possible; and Richard was well enough to entertain
our dear friend Alexander Thayer, ex-Consul-General of the
United States (who dined with us regularly once a week), on his
seventy-second birthday, which occurred the same evening, a few
hours after the operation. We had several friends, who each had
their day to either breakfast or dine with us. It was a custom always
kept up.
On the 25th of October he got a second curious official letter from
the Foreign Office about not giving his Vice-Consul sufficient money.
(He was giving him £350 a year, and the Embassy would have sent
down anybody for that.) He was very angry, and reduced it in
consequence. A third time the Foreign Office worried Richard
with writing that he had been in England, which he had not, and
was again angry. In fact, there seemed to be a dead set against
him during August and October, 1889.
On the 15th of November we embarked for Brindisi in the Austrian-Lloyd
_Ettore_. Crowds of friends came to see us off, with flowers.
She was a long, narrow ship, powerful screw, and very much lumbered
up; but there was no Austrian-Lloyd's on which we should not have
found ourselves at home. There was a heavy ground swell later on,
and a good wind. A moorhen was blown on board, and I kept her
till the ship was close to the marshes. We landed the next night at
Brindisi, after thirty-one hours' passage, and heavy gales came on,
and we had to stay there several days for our steamer on to Malta.
However, Captain Osborne, mail-agent, and Mr. David Low,
P. and O. agent, kept us alive. We saw everything there was to be
seen all around. At Brindisi we visited Virgil's house, upon which
they are building a new one.
We visited the Churches, the Column, and the Castle. The
Cathedral has a silver altar behind the boards, and dates from earliest
Christianity: the priests say that St. Peter was here, but not St.
Paul. The town reminds us of Tangier--it has something Spanish,
Moorish, and Venetian about it; but with all that it is common.
There are two Calvaries, and there is a little old Basilica of San
Giovanni, the oldest church here, which belonged to the Templars,
and is now a little locked-up museum of antiquities. It contains
antique stones and inscriptions. The marble column near the
Cathedral was set up by one Lupus Propaspata, of the eleventh
century; it is fifty feet high, and the capital decorated with
sea-monsters. The broken one near it seems to have formed part of
a Roman temple.
The Great East India Hotel is like a caravanserai; the harbour is
full of steamers, of which the P. and O.'s are kings, and are always
in-pouring and out-pouring their wonderful and amusing contents
into the hotel, for a few hours. We got off on the 24th in the P.
and O. _Rosetta_, had a beautiful passage, arriving at Malta next day,
after a twenty-nine hours' passage. I was glad to find that Richard
was never the worse for the sea. We were afraid lest the shaking
might affect his head, but providentially the whole of that winter,
unlike the last sea voyage, we were only five hours in heavy weather.
MALTA.
Richard knew Malta well, but neither Dr. Baker nor I had ever
seen it. We went to the Royal Hotel, "Cini's," where we remained
twenty-three days. During this November, we were greatly interested
in, and dreadfully shocked at the conduct of the Brazilians to their
Emperor. We passed here a most enjoyable month, and found a
very charming society, receiving the hospitality of Admiral Sir
Anthony and Lady Hoskins (the Admiral of the station), and
Admiral and Mrs. Buller (Port-Admiral), Lady Dingli, Mrs. Walter
Strickland (whose husband was my cousin), father and mother of
Count Strickland, also another cousin, Father Hornyold, S.J., the
Provincial of the Jesuit College, and no end of friends in the Navy.
We thought both Valetta and Sliema were very romantic. This is not
the place certainly to describe Malta at great length, firstly, because
it would take too much space away from Richard, and secondly,
because most people know it. Mrs. Strickland gave a big lunch
in our honour, to make us acquainted with all the great Maltese
families. We had the honour of a visit from Prince Louis of
Battenberg, and, I think, not the most uninteresting morning was
one that we passed with Mr. Harry of "The Palms," an Englishman
who has been settled there for a long time, and who is a wonderful
collector of curios, and passionately attached to his flowers.
Once, when I made a visit, there was a little hesitation, so I said
to the servant, "Oh, don't go up; I am afraid ---- may be taking
a siesta." "Oh no, my lady!" he said, looking quite shocked, as
if he thought it was something to drink.
Richard was writing his Catullus at this time.
During our twenty-three days we got quite a large acquaintance--General
and Mrs. Wilkie, Acting-Governor (Sir Henry Torrens, the
Governor, died in England at this time), Mr. and Mrs. Worthington,
a very charming Miss Fanny Portelli Carbone, Lieutenant Carr of
the _Scout_, Archdeacon Hardy and his family, Mr. Mandeville-Ellis,
whom we had known before, and no end of officers of the
army and navy, who were also kind and hospitable. Lieutenant
Carr and Lieutenant Savory gave us a charming lunch on board
the _Hibernia_. It is hardly necessary to say that we visited the
Barracca and the Armoury, under Richard's guidance, who knew
Malta so well. Richard went to the Armoury, and longed to
rearrange the whole hall. He inspected all the swords very rigidly,
saw Dragut's blade, battle-axes--said all the swords were mixed,
and were mostly Toledos with no dates to them. He said, "I am
much disgusted by the quantity of 'rot,' and they have very probably
thrown away their best specimens." Dr. Baker kodak'd one hilt for
him. Then we passed a great deal of time in St. John's, the great
Templars' Church.
The most interesting thing of all is Fort St. Elmo, with its chapel,
its views, and its guns. It was in this chapel that the last little
remnant of the starving, emaciated Templars, who knew they could
hold out no longer against the besiegers, assembled to hear Mass
and receive Communion before their last fight. The _ossuario_ is at
the Capucini; there are forty embalmed monks, and one chapel all
of bones and skulls, which was very interesting. The Governor's
palace is also worth seeing. At Citta Vecchia is a very interesting
visit to St. Paul's, and the grotto of St. Paul's, where you see a
statue life-size in the middle of the cave, carved of marble, and for a
moment looking almost real: also a new Roman villa, quite Pompeian,
but with coarser mosaics: the view, and the gateway, where is an old
statue of Juno; last, and not least, a Maltese woman named Farujea,
who makes gaudy mule-cloths, and, if you give her a large enough
order, will make them at seven shillings a pair, three yards long, for
which you give a much larger price in Malta. At a church called
Santa Maria di Gesù, in Valetta, there is a crucifix, which has a
legend that the poor man who made it did not know how to carve
the face, and that an angel carved it for him; but I think the work
was too bad to have been the angel's. There are any amount of
churches. There is Vittoria, a very old Templar church, and the
Canonesses of St. Ursula, which is evidently a sister house of our
Canonesses of the Holy Sepulchre, New Hall, Chelmsford, Essex.
There is the Jesuit College with about six hundred boys. Father
Hornyold shows you what good little Englishmen they are training.
There is the big 110-gun at Sliema.
On one drive Richard descended to Marsa; found women fishing
and rowing, and men mending nets. There he found one Phœnician
tank, and one Phœnician temple.
Though everything here, between the walls, looks like rock and
ivory, on a slight coating of fertile soil grow fruit and flowers, and
world-wide-famed potatoes. The streets are lively; the vehicles are
very small, very high up, very uncomfortable, on four wheels, and
are called _carrozzellas_. They are covered with an ornamented
tarpaulin, and curtains for need. Their drivers look ruffians. The
horses are small and strong, and though their lives appear to be of
the hardest, they look mostly fat and well-kept. Many come seven
miles into town with a lot of peasants, work all day, and go back
with their load at night. The streets are all the steepest possible,
up and down hill; they have no break, and if you stop at a house,
the horse has to keep the full carriage back with his body. They
ought to wear out very soon. The horse gets dry clover in the morning,
a midday meal of bread, which the driver pulls out from under the
seat and cuts up for him, and at night beans. The only real cruelty
I saw was, that as they dare not flog or maltreat, they have sharp-pointed
things concealed in their hands, and when no one is looking
they drive them into tender places, chiefly to the beasts of burden
and under the harness, and the loads look large.
Our hotel, Michael Cini, Royal Hotel, had good clean rooms,
baths, good food and wine, reasonable prices, very attentive, and
the best situation. I thought all the other hotels horrid. The
women of the higher class wear a black silk dress, and a black silk
mantle called _faldetta_, stiffened round the head, caught up at one
side in pleats like a fan or shell; they look very pretty in it, and
like coquettish nuns. The lower orders go barefoot, with their
shabby dress short in front, and a train sweeping the street behind,
and a shabby _faldetta_. Valetta is the centre, but Malta is divided
into several suburbs with other towns, or dependencies--Floriana,
Vittoriosa, and Senglea across the harbour, Sliema and Citta
Vecchia; four smaller ones are Crendi, Macluba, Hagiar-Khem,
Mniadra; and Gozo, a separate but smaller island. The most
impressive thing that I saw to my mind in Malta was a military
funeral--the reversed arms; the "Dead March" by the band; the
slow swaying march of the soldiers; the respectful salute of every
soldier as it passed the ramparts crowded with red-coats; the body
on a gun-carriage, covered with the Union Jack, so solemn, so
respectful as it should be, so different to Continental funerals.
We had been intending to go on Thursday, the 12th of December,
and I here got a slight return of the sickness that I had in Lucerne
last year, but nothing like so heavy, and Richard also had a little
gout. There was only a ship once a week to take us to Tunis, so
Richard was anxious to go all weathers, the sailing-time eleven
o'clock. That morning the gales were dreadful, the sea mountains
high; he called out to me, "It is fine enough to go." "Very well,"
I said, with an eternal quake, feeling so ill. Presently a message
was sent up from the office to say that the weather was as bad as
could be. There was a little hesitation on his part; still preparations
went on. About an hour later came a second message from the agents,
"The steamer had broken her moorings and had gone aground; no
passengers were going, the hurricane was bad; should we mind
transferring our tickets?" Richard looked out, and saw the sea
was mountains high, wind howling, the rain like buckets. I shall
never forget the joy with which I bolted into bed to nurse my
sickness.
On Friday, the 13th of December, he deplores the death of Robert
Browning.
Having taken leave of all our kind friends, we embarked on the 19th of
December on the good ship _St. Augustine_, a French trans-atlantique.
The going out was exceedingly interesting, and very rough. Malta
seems to collect round it a regular swirl of bad weather, wind, rain,
mist, steam, fog-clouds, and heavy swell round her like a mantle, but
you have to stand out to sea to perceive it. Richard and I planted
ourselves against a mast, to get the last view of Malta, but our feet
were so frequently up in the air, and the stern of the boat hiding
all view, that after a while we had to give it up. It gives you the
impression of a huge sand-coloured rock rising out of the sea, and
being covered with houses of the same colour. It might be a huge ivory
toy carved for a museum. You are impressed by the immense ramparts,
bastions, and guns everywhere; by the deep moats--one 950 yards long,
55 deep, and 30 wide--and its drawbridges. You feel its immense
strength, its English solidity, the difficulty an enemy would have to
take it. If you are an exile, your heart is cheered by the sight of the
dozen men-of-war in harbour, and the five or six regiments, and the
heights covered with the red-coats of our own nation. The natives have
a superstition that Malta is like a large mushroom in the sea, and the
waves perpetually beating against the stem will one day break it, and
Malta will sink. We had a nineteen hours' run to Tunis, and the sea
slowed down after five or six hours.
[Sidenote: _Tunis_.]
We had a merry dinner with the French officers, and a quiet night.
The cabins were unendurable as to size--beds four feet nothing
and very hard, no sitting or lounging places. If we had had very
bad weather, I am afraid we should have suffered very much.
The next day we were also fortunate, for, arriving at Tunis--landing
at Tunis is not a delight--ships lie out half a mile distant,
and in heavy weather I should think it would be very difficult; a
steam-launch comes off and takes you and your little traps and puts
you down in a shed, then goes off once or twice more for big
baggage and goods; then you go to the custom-house to be examined.
Here we hire two carriages and put all our baggage, great and
small, in it, and tell them to drive it into Tunis. Then proceed
ourselves to the little station, and wait one hour for a train, and
a half-hour does the eight miles into Tunis station; then you
go in a 'bus to the Grand Hôtel. Never go to the Grand Hôtel,
only fit for commercial travellers, but go to the Grand Hôtel de
Paris--nice rooms, quiet, civil people, reasonable prices. Thus it
took five hours from the time of casting anchor to getting housed.
I think we enjoyed Tunis the most of all, as it was decidedly the most
Oriental.
On December 27th Richard deplores the death of our friend Baron
Von Kremer, one of Austria's best Oriental scholars, which reached
him on the 1st of January.
[Illustration: ARAB TENTS (TUNIS).]
Richard got another slight attack of gout, and was a little shaky
about the legs, but it soon passed. As soon as Richard improved,
we saw everything that was to be seen, made excursions, and passed
much time in the bazars. We did not think, however, that Tunis
was either as grand or as wild as Damascus, although the French
having possessed it for so short a time, it is not quite spoiled as is
Algiers.
There are some little Sisters of the Poor, who have a large house a
mile out of town over dreadful roads. They are of all nations; there
was one American and one English nun. There is the best view
of the town and surrounding country, which pleased Richard very
much. They keep sixty-five old men and women, mostly incurables.
We often went there.
One of our most favourite excursions was to Marsa, to our
Consul-General and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Drummond-Hay, son of old Sir
John Hay of Marocco. You drive through Napoleonic endless straight
roads, through brackish swamps for miles and miles, till you come to
the aqueduct and ruins of old Carthage. Large masonry works are still
standing; the stones and mortar are very poor. The villa where they
live was Sir Richard Wood's; it is semi-Moorish, semi-European, and
stands just beyond the ruins. They were just beginning it, and have now
made it perfectly beautiful. They are charming people; he quiet and
reserved, she affectionate, clever, and lively.
We found here some genial people--Commandant Coyne, a
French Arabist; Mr. Seton-Karr, author and traveller; Mr. and Mrs.
Pitner, the Austrian Consul-General; and Count Bathyani. We had
delightful drives, and Dr. Baker photographed Bedawi in their tents.
We often went to Dar el Bey; and the Kasbah, the former palace, has
beautiful Moorish rooms, but they are dark and melancholy. The
bazars are very nice, but, excepting one or two shops, are not a
patch upon Damascus. Our favourite drives were generally round
the Arab and the Jewish quarters. We had drives also to Belvedere,
where is the military hospital, Ariana, Bardo, and Mamlíf.
Here we were reading "Salammbó," and Mr. Broadley's two
excellent volumes on "Tunis and its Conquest."
The most interesting thing was to pass through the Jewish and
Mohammedan quarters, so narrow, such types, such smells and
sights. Lisa and I used to go to the harems and learn to make
Arab dishes. We were also cheered by the arrival of Mr. Terence
Bourke, brother of Lord Mayo, who has a delightful Moorish
house in the Mohammedan quarter, where he gave us much hospitality.
We had charming Arab breakfasts with him. Poor Lisa got
the influenza. Influenza was not so much known then--it was only
talked of at a distance.
CARTHAGE.
Carthage must be divided into two parts--1. Commercial; 2.
Military. The cisterns are Roman, not Punic. There are two
roads from Marsa to Carthage. The upper, which we went, a mere
track and dangerous, leads to Sidi bin Sa'id, an old church excavated,
and the chapel of St. Louis; the lower road is the highway
to Goletta. On a bit of ascent to the left, on the Goletta coast, is
the palace of Cardinal Lavigérie. Cardinal Lavigérie was trying to
make a small Rome at old Carthage; his new Cathedral was of Maltese
build--another al Melláhah, surrounded by gardens, with inscriptions
on the walls: some five hundred are not yet published. Statues
and fragments and everything were plastered on or about the walls,
the columns below; a large building underground, temple of Ashman,
has very fine masonry. The chapel of St. Louis is small and circular,
stands alone, and has one high altar. It contains the tomb
of Count de Lesseps, Baron Ferdinand de Lesseps' father, with a
big inscription. In the great hall, where you are received, there
are numbers of modern pictures; there is a splendid view of the
sea, and Cape Bon and Tunis.
The flat below is a mine of antiquities. Old Carthage port, now the
quarantine, is much like a natural dock, the entrance silted up.
Indeed, it is a beautiful panorama. The museum begins with Italian
art, with Bible subjects on one side. On the opposite wall--Pagan
subjects--there is a fine collection. Three skeletons are disposed
as if in the tomb, and six or seven pots at the head--_fatuæ_ on the
right side--and pots at feet sometimes. There are Pagan and Christian
mosaics. All the land belongs to the Cardinal, who was the Pope of
Carthage. No foreigner could excavate anywhere. There is a huge
convent. The monks are all in white, with a big rosary and fez, and are
called "Les Pères blancs de la Mission Africaine." There is a convent
of Carmelite nuns close by. Carthage runs all along Tania, where
mosaics are found. The old sea-walls of the port are behind the present
Goletta.
The Fathers were delightful, and showed us everything. The
Cardinal, who we were dying to see, was absent. The Cathedral
will be very nice when it has toned down; it was at present too
gaudy.
There is a big stone near Tunis, very long and slanting; ladies who
wish to be pregnant slide down it, so it is worn quite smooth. We made
as many excursions into the interior as it was possible, considering
the state of Richard's health, but the most difficult thing was how to
get from Tunis to Algiers, which, considering the accommodation, was a
frightful dilemma. The little coast-steamers are wretched; the weather
was very cold, the sea was exceedingly rough, and the possibility of
landing, when you do arrive at a port, is always extremely uncertain,
on account of the heavy rollers. Hence, should the heavy sea have
affected Richard's head by the shaking, we should have had no redress.
There was no possible stopping-place for any one by train, who from
health motives ought not to rough it. There is, indeed, Souk el Arba,
after six hours' train, where there is a tramps' hut (but nothing to
eat), at about half-past ten in the day--twenty-four hours to wait for
next day's train. There is Ghardimau at 11.45 (the frontier where they
visit baggage). There is Souk-Ahras at 2.13, where the country becomes
wild and bold. People in health _may_ stop here for the next day's
train, but we determined that none of this would do, especially as the
carriages are made for hardy Arabs, and not for luxury.
Now, through the immense kindness of the railway director, M. Kœly,
I was fortunate enough to secure a saloon, with two benches mattressed
and cushioned, where, with railway rugs, four could lie feet to feet,
a small but clean toilette, and a curtained terrace, where we put all
our little baggage, and Africano, our good dragoman. We left our
hotel, and conveyed Richard to the train at 8.30 p.m. overnight,
and established ourselves on board our train, because it started at
5.15 in the morning (and a cold January morning), and our hot
coffee was brought to us inside by the kindness of the same director.
We had all our meals in the train, as we were provided with an
ample basket of food, drink, smoke, and books. Richard enjoyed
the terrace and watching the country; the air was most exhilarating,
and he felt quite well. We should not perhaps have thought so
much of the scenery in Austria, but still it was very beautiful. Then
it must be remembered that Tunis has only had the advantage, or
disadvantage, of eight years of civilization. The difficulties of
engineering must have been great, but the train was very well
driven, prudently on bad places, and always true to time.
[Sidenote: _Constantine_.]
At Duvivier we were shunted from the Bona to the Kroubs
train. It began to get dark. We dined on board, and had a
bottle of champagne we had brought with us, and got fearfully
tired about eight o'clock in the evening, and lay down. At 8.20
we were shifted from the Kroubs train to the Constantine train,
where we arrived at 12.15 in the night, having been out twenty-eight
hours and running nineteen; but Richard was the strongest
of us all, and none the worse. We drove to the Hôtel du Louvre,
and were glad to tumble into bed. We would willingly have
stayed here a long time; the hotel was not so bad as its entrance
makes you think. It was the healthiest and the most interesting
town we had seen. We had to celebrate here our twenty-ninth,
and, alas! our last, wedding-day. We passed it in inspecting
our surroundings. It is of a peculiar gorgy character, and must
have been impregnable in old days. The Devil's Bridge and hot
springs are most picturesque. The Arab tents are made of straw,
thatch, and dirty rags, and look as if all the rubbish of the world
were heaped upon them. The Arabs in this part of the world are
big, magnificent-looking men, who make everybody else look small,
with white burnous, and have beautiful white teeth. The French
very sensibly swagger about, and the troops make a great fanfare of
trumpets. The people here are cruel to their donkeys, who seem
born to carry loads of stone upon their backs.
[Sidenote: _Sétif_.]
The difficulty now was how to get on from Constantine, which was
only halfway to Algiers; for though I did all my best, there were races
going on at Biskrah. There was but one saloon, and it was taking the
directors down; so as we could only go by the common train, we knew
that Richard could not bear anything but a short journey, which
would be at first about an eight hours' run to Sétif. The country was
a large continuous undulation, and although quite flat _in appearance_,
we rose gradually from 2000 to 3500 feet above sea-level, with distant
mountains. There were plenty of Bedawi tents and flocks, and two
or three buildings shortly after leaving Constantine that looked like
a palace in a plain, on a little eminence bare of trees or garden, and
two square, large, ugly houses. The Spahis are very picturesque
with their many-coloured garments and red cloaks, and have, as well
as the Kabyles, beautiful teeth. At Sétif we found the Hôtel de la
France comfortable, with fair food. The town is not much to look at,
the usual undulating country with good soil, and we passed an agreeable
day, chiefly in the market, which was full of picturesque Berbers,
who had also some curious things to buy.
[Sidenote: _Bouira_.]
The next day (after forty-eight hours' rest) we did another six
hours to Bouira, which is a very picturesque part of the country,
especially going through the Gates or Gorges. The little Hôtel de la
Poste is no better than a small public-house, but the food was fit for
Paris; we always said that that cook must have committed some
crime, to go and hide himself in such an awful hole as that. The
next day we had a very pleasant journey of eight hours to Algiers.
The entry at night reminded us so much of Trieste. From the
station to the Hôtel St. George's, Mustafa Supérieure, was an immense
long way, but delightful when one got there.
[Sidenote: _Algiers_.]
Algiers is an ideal place to look at; at first Richard was delighted
with it, and thought he would end his days there, but in about three
weeks he began to change his mind, and said nothing would induce
him to have "our cottage" there. For myself, I thought it was the
dampest, most neuralgic place I ever was in; but it is very beautiful,
superior to Trieste in beauty, the town more elevated, and looking
like ivory, as Eastern towns do, but yet like Trieste; and the country
green, and picturesque with palms. Here we found delightful
society--Sir Lambert and Lady Playfair, Count Bathyani, Mrs. Campbell
Praed, the Marquise de Beaufort, Lady Clementina and Mr.
Mitford, Lord Carbery, Mrs. and Miss Newton, the Rev. Colin
Campbell, Colonel Preston, and a very nice and clever Miss Florence
Shakespeare Owens, and many other charming people. Here for
the second time a huge glass chandelier fell, nearly cutting the table
in two just as we had left our places.
Richard was now invited to the Stanley Exhibition.
_Daily Chronicle_, February 20th.
"SIR RICHARD BURTON AND MR. STANLEY.
"Sir Edward Lee, hon. secretary of the Stanley and African
Exhibition to be opened at the Victoria Gallery, has received the
following letter from Captain Sir Richard F. Burton, the African
Explorer, and her Majesty's Consul at Trieste:--
"Hammam R'irha, February 17th, 1890.
"DEAR SIR EDWARD LEE,
"Your kind invitation to be present at the general
meeting for the Stanley and African Exhibition has only just reached
me, and the direction will explain the cause of delay. I cannot say
how great is my regret at being absent on such an occasion. I
should have wished at this and at every other opportunity to express
my hearty admiration of all that Stanley has dared and done. He
is to me, and always will be, the prince of African travellers.
"I am, dear Sir Edward Lee,
"Yours faithfully,
"RICHARD F BURTON."
[Sidenote: _Hammám R'irha_.]
On the 16th of February we started for one of the greatest humbugs
in the world, the baths at Hammám R'irha, passing Blidah,
where there is a wonderful gorge, and archæological remains. There
is a wretched little station called Bou Medfa, where a tumbledown
little 'bus, only good enough for luggage, awaits passengers; but
fortunately we got a _calèche_, two good horses, and a pleasant Jehu,
and we had a long drive through cold, raw, snowy air (in February).
At first we had a glorious day, splendid weather, and a beautiful
view for distance. We stayed here a week, during which it did
nothing afterwards but pour with rain, and a walk put you almost
knee-deep in thick red clay. We visited the _gurbi_ or hut of Suleiman,
the Arab guardian of the hotel, and sat with his wife. We
should not call him an Arab or a Bedawin at Damascus, but in all
these kind of places they generally have these protectors, even at
Alexandria, but not in Syria. It would have puzzled any one to live
in that _gurbi_, except people used to living in very small tents.
Richard got gouty here, and we were glad to return to Algiers at
the end of the week; but we did not go back to the same sort of
life, of which there are two. One life is to live up at Mustafa
Supérieure and take care of your health, and the other is to live in
town and see something of native life. You cannot do both, because
getting up and down from Mustafa to town occupies all day; so we
now went to the Hotel de la Régence, where we stayed a fortnight
in order to see something of Algiers. Here we read "Mosállam,"
by Laurence Oliphant, which explains so much of his life.
We went all over the City, seeing the most interesting things--the
Cardinal's Moorish Palace, the Cardinal's Cathedral, the
Museum, where is shown poor Geronimo's body. He lived in 1540,
was taken prisoner and baptized, but his relations caught him again,
and kept him as a Mohammedan till he was twenty-five; then
he returned to Oran, where he renewed his Christianity, but he was
caught again by a Moorish corsair and brought to Algiers, where he
was ordered again to become a Mohammedan; and as he would not,
he was sentenced to be thrown alive into a mould, with his feet and
hands tied with cords, and the block of concrete containing his
body was built into an angle of the fort. In 1853 it was destroyed,
and on the 27th of December the skeleton was found enclosed in
the block. The bones were carefully removed, and interred with
great pomp in the Cathedral, built on the site of the Mosque of
Hassan. Liquid plaster of Paris was run into the mould left by his
body; they thus obtained a perfect model, even of his features, the
cords which bound him, and the texture of his clothing, and this
you see in the museum. We wandered about the Mosques and
about the bazars to buy curios, and although Algiers is now only a
French town on Arab foundations, the Arab part of the town, that
remains untouched, was as interesting as anything we had ever seen.
Take, for instance, the Mosque or Zaouia of Sidi Abd er Rahman
Eth-Thalebi, which contains his tomb and its surroundings; there are
numbers of tombs around him, and the usual drapery, lamps, banners,
and ostrich eggs. Take the Arab town with its close, dark, steep
streets, and its dark holes and shops, the ways of which are like
climbing a wall of steps. One is ascended by 497 steps; they are
mostly alleys just wide enough to pass through, and is a labyrinth
in which you might easily lose yourself. The _Kasbah_, or Citadel, is
also well worth a visit. We made as many excursions as was possible
in the interior, considering the state of Richard's health, and when
he was not well enough for a walk or a drive, he received African
Professors. Some of our party went to see one of the fanatical
religious meetings of the Assaouwiyeh, the religious confraternity of
Sidi Mohammed bin Aissa, which take place sometimes in the native
quarter. I have seen many of these sort of things, but never carried
to the extent that I am told they are carried here, where they
mutilate themselves, and sometimes a sheep is thrown amongst them
which they devour alive. I could not sleep that night for knowing
it was going on, but our party comforted me by telling me next
day that nothing of the sort had taken place.
We now took our departure from Algiers.
Richard said that one of his great pleasures in leaving North
Africa, and especially Algiers, was the intense cruelty to animals.
It was no pleasure to walk or drive, and some people felt it so much,
that they walked by back ways, and only looked forward to giving
up their villas altogether, since there was no one to stop it. The
Rev. Colin Campbell and I did what we could all the time we were
there.
At last the day came for leaving. The day before the sea had
been frightful, and, though it was fine this day, we had the heavy
swell of yesterday's storm. It was a capital boat, the only good
steamer on this coast, all new appliances, electric light, corky in the
water like our Irish boats (the _Duc de Braganza_). Mrs. Campbell
Praed, who had been with us all along, accompanied us to Marseilles,
and it was delightful to have her society.
[Sidenote: _Things one would rather have left unsaid_.]
We enjoyed our passage exceedingly on the 7th of March, the only
fine day amongst a series of gales. In the evening Richard and Dr.
Baker went into the smoking-cabin, and there a young man, a travelled
passenger, was holding forth to the others with regard to African
travellers, and Richard Burton in particular, having no idea that the
said Richard Burton was part of his audience. It became exceedingly
amusing when he began to relate the tale of "how Richard Burton had
murdered two men on his Meccan journey, because they had suspected him
of being a Frank and a Christian." Richard then said quietly to him,
"What traveller did you say did this deed?" "Oh, Burton, the famous
Mecca-man!" "Have you seen him?" "Oh yes, of course I have." "Well,
then," said Richard, "I am that man, and I assure you that I never did
this deed; that I had no cause to, for I never was suspected. I have
been told that such a tale was rife about me, but I thought it was a
joke, and it has never come face to face with me as a serious thing
till to-night. There _were_ two Englishmen travelling about the desert
at this time; they were put into a great difficulty, and I believe they
had to do it in self-defence, and in consequence of this misfortune,
their travels never appeared before the public; but it did not happen
to me." This reminds me of dining out one night long before; it was
a very large dinner-party, in London, and the gentleman opposite to
me bent forward and said, "I heard you talking a great deal about the
East; did you ever chance to meet Burton the traveller?" I saw his
agitated neighbour nudging him, so I laughed, and said, "Rather! I
have the honour of being his wife." On another occasion--it was at the
British Association for Science in 1878--we were stopping with Lord
Talbot of Malahide; it was a show place, and the Association came over
in the afternoon, and were being lionized about. Richard had given a
lecture the day before in Dublin, and a little crowd were collected
around us. Suddenly a middle-aged lady, not knowing who I was, walked
up to me, by way of saying something pleasant, and said, "I did not
think much of the lecture of Burton the traveller, did you?" Richard
and I were ready to split, but I was so sorry for her, that I said
cheerfully, "Oh yes! I liked it very much indeed; but, you know, it
was a very abstruse subject, and one which people in general are not
likely to understand." (It was on the Ogham-Runes, the tree-language
of ancient Ireland, as compared with El Mushajjar, the tree-language
of ancient Arabs.) Meantime her friends, who had been tugging at her
mantle in agonies, had got her off, and then we had a good laugh.
[Sidenote: _Marseilles--Hyères--Nice--Home_.]
The following day it darkened, and looked rainy and cloudy, and
the sea inkier as we approached the Gulf of Lyons. The approach
by sea to Château d'If and the Isle d'Hyères, with their little rocky
islands, the solitary lighthouse, and Notre Dame de la Garde towering
the town on a white rocky eminence, was exceedingly pretty and
effective. You cannot have a prettier drive than going by La Plage,
and the lovely Corniche road to Notre Dame de la Garde, and
returning by the Prado. The City is magnificent; it lies in a basin
surrounded by hills, and fringed with pine-woods of every family of
the race, stunted and tall, blown into weird shapes by the wind, dotted
with country villas and fine buildings, and all this is ring-fenced by
immense bare limestone rock.
The _digue_, or breakwater, is built in a triangular shape so as to
throw off the canalization. You enter a series of new docks, the old
port running to the bottom of the finest street, perhaps the finest in
the world--Rue Cannébière and Noailles.
After staying here one day, we went on to Toulon, and on to the
Hôtel Continental at Hyères, which we thought delightful. We had
a delicious drive to Carquerain, and down to the sea. Between
this and Nice we met Admiral Seymour of the _Iris_, and travelled in
the same train, and went on to the Isles Britanniques at Nice. The
French Squadron was in; their manœuvres were very pretty, and
they looked "fit." The _Bataille des Fleurs_ was going on. Sir Richard
Wood and Mrs. Campbell Praed came to breakfast, and he took us
to see all the fun. He was looking very well and fresh. We were
exceedingly pleased to meet him, as he was the one Consul held in
honour before Richard Burton at Damascus. After one whole day
there, we took the train for Genoa, and we had rather an unpleasant
journey, as Richard was a little ailing, and could not enjoy the motions
of the Italian train curving round the coast. One must admit that
the district of the Riviera is beautiful, the English type (after you
pass Monte Carlo, Mentone, Bordighera, and San Remo) changing
to poor picturesque Italy, when it becomes defiled by its vulgar,
petty officialdom. We hated Genoa from our sad remembrance in
1887, so, instead of going to our old hotel, we went to the Hôtel de
la Ville on the Port, and disliked it very much, and felt that we had
left civilization. We wandered about, and went to the beautiful
Campo Santo and bought things; and next day went on to Milan,
where we also changed our hotel, and went to the Cavour, which we
liked exceedingly. Next day we got on to Venice, to the Grand
Hôtel, but we only stayed one day, as Richard was suffering from
hotel food, and so we reached home on his birthday, the 19th of
March (his last birthday, sixty-ninth), having been out rather more
than four months.
HOME AGAIN, 19TH MARCH, 1890.
On the 20th he notices with regret the death of General Sir
Thomas Steele.
From this time I got very ill with peritonitis, and was laid up for
some little time, and Richard and Dr. Baker took care of me.
We had two earthquakes, which shook the walls.
On the 7th of April he notices the death of Miss Mary Boyle.
I went out for the first time on the 9th of April, and the day
before that we recommenced our evening writing together, which continued
during the remaining seven months of his life; and we made
rough notes of most of the things which are in this biography, though
perhaps in different words. We had a visit from an old friend, Miss
Maria Gordon-Duff, and a friend of hers, Miss Jean Grieve, which
we enjoyed very much.
On the 19th of April the Bishop consecrated the little Church
which we had helped to start less than a year ago. He said Mass,
with the Chief Authorities and many of the Benefactors present, and
the life-size statue that Richard and I had promised them, which
was quite a work of art, from Messrs. Mayer of Munich, was the
centre-piece of the altar. Colonel and Mrs. Adams arrived, who
were interested about the animals like myself, and I took her all
over my public stables and other arrangements, with which she was
much pleased.
On the 21st of April our friend Mr. Frank James, African traveller,
was killed by a wounded elephant in the Gaboon country.
On the 9th of May, Mr. Letchford's picture of Richard was
finished and sent to the Stanley Exhibition. Our old friend Mr.
Arbuthnot arrived on the 11th, and stayed several days with us,
which cheered Richard up immensely.
Captain Melfort Campbell, of Gibraltar, died on May 12th, and
with him the Vigo Bay scheme.
On the 17th I had another attack of peritonitis, and Lisa was ill
in bed with erysipelas; and Richard expressed a wish to leave Trieste
for good, which I heartily coincided in, thinking it would save him
much illness, but he afterwards changed his mind.
On the 11th of June we had storms of thunder and lightning like
a bombardment for twelve hours. It was very fatiguing to the
nerves.
On the 13th we had a large tea-party from Duino--Princess
Taxis, Prince Hohenlöhe, Prince Eric, and the Duchess della
Grazia.
We now had a great annoyance in receiving the following paragraph:--
"ILLNESS OF SIR RICHARD BURTON.
"While all England, says the London correspondent of the
_Liverpool Mercury_, is continuing to _fêté_ Mr. Stanley, it is not
pleasant to reflect that his great predecessor in African exploration,
Sir Richard Burton, is lying very dangerously ill, neglected and
alone, in London lodgings. Yet in his time and in his own way the
elder traveller accomplished even more remarkable feats than the
hero of the hour. His romantic pilgrimage to Mecca and El-Medinah
in the disguise of a Moslem devotee, his journey through
Berbera to the Sacred City of Harar, where no other infidel foot has
ever trodden, were but preliminaries to the great achievement of his
life, the discovery of Lake Tanganyika--the credit for which had
been claimed for Captain Speke. This discovery paved the way for
all that has since been done in Central Africa."
This hurt me very much, and it annoyed my husband as much as
it did me, and I returned the following answer:--
"SIR RICHARD BURTON.
"To the Editor of the _Morning Post_.
"Sir,--My relations have startled me with a cutting from a
'London Correspondent' saying that 'Sir Richard Burton is lying
very dangerously ill, neglected and alone, in a London lodging,
whilst Stanley is being fêtéd.' If the love and devotion of a wife
may count for anything, Sir Richard will never be neglected nor
alone whilst I am alive. I have been married to him for nearly
thirty years, besides a five years' engagement, and during all those
thirty-five years I have never been absent from him one day that
I was allowed to be with him--in other words, I have never been
absent except to execute his orders. For the last seven years we
have hardly been a day apart, and for the last three and a half years
that he has been ailing, never one hour away out of the twenty-four.
During these three and a half years we have, in consequence of the
weakness of his health, sacrificed everything to have a resident
English doctor (who was looking for such a berth) living and travelling
with us. And instead of a London lodging, we have a beautiful
and romantic home (with every comfort for him that our means
allow) at the very head of the Adriatic. Next year his term of
service expires (forty-nine years' actual service), and then we shall
both be, if alive, 'in a London lodging, neglected and alone.' But
to state that now is what the Americans would call 'a little previous.'
On the other hand, I am very grateful to the correspondent
for the truth of his statement about my husband's career, showing
that in the midst of this fêting and rejoicings for the great traveller
Stanley, the pioneer who opened up the way without money or help
or applause, enduring the severest hardships and perils, and cold
receptions on his return, is not forgotten at home, and that they
know that it is to him first that they owe the fact that many of these
desolate regions have now trade and schools and missions, and the
beginning of civilization. I feel confident that God will make up to
him more than he has missed of this world's honours.
"Yours, etc.,
"ISABEL BURTON.
"Trieste, June 15."
We had at this time six days of continuous violent storms, which
made his health less good. We had one more charming outing;
to Duino, to attend the Gypsy fair, where, as usual, we were after
Romany and Gypsy lore. I tried to buy up some of their skeleton
horses, but they wanted £5 a piece. We had a very delightful
and memorable evening there on the 24th of June (all the family
of Duino dining with us at the inn).
On the 30th we were honoured by a visit from Archduke Ludwig
Salvator.
OUR LAST TRIP.
On the 1st of July we went for our summer trip, as July and
August in Trieste are almost insupportable. We went first to
Gorizia before described. The next day we made the usual interesting
pilgrimage of Monte-Santo on a peak, which is a small Maria-Zell,
the _local_ Lourdes, which occupies about six hours to go and see
everything and return. We dined out of doors in the evening at
Gorizia, and next morning went on to Tarvis. It was a long day,
and Richard was very tired. Tarvis is very beautiful, but we could
not enjoy it, because we were none of us well; so we only stopped
for a day or two, and then we went on to Villach and to Lienz,
where we had always been longing to stay.
The Post Hotel is a charming, comfortable, old-fashioned inn.
There we used to sit out under the eaves, feed the pigeons, make the
boys scramble for pennies, and buy things from passing pedlars, and
Richard decided, that though it is an old village, it is _not_ "dry rot,"
and that the mountain air was beautiful. We had an uncomfortable train
to Franzensfeste, but there we got a delightful _aussichts-wagen_ to run
over the Brenner, which, though it was our fourth time, we enjoyed
immensely. The Tyrol Hof in Innsbrück where we stopped was
good, but very dear. There we met Mrs. Crawford, the widow of
the M.P. who had been kind to us years ago. We were just in time
to catch our old friends the Von Puthons, who were transferred to
Linz. There was a delightful zither-player in the evening. No one
knows what sounds, what soft passionate music, can be got out of
those instruments till one hears them in their native land. Here
people should buy rough but picturesque parures of black garnets,
which is a specialty.
From Innsbrück we made a four hours' run to Feldkirch over
the Arlberg, which was really dangerous, as Richard had before
foretold. There had been landslips, and some places were planked
over so that you could see the precipices under the carriage,
the train going very slow. There were several bad places, and one
unpleasant bridge. The next train to ours could not come over.
I heard a gentleman, who I was told was one of the engineers
of the line, say in German to some other gentlemen, "We
thought it would last for ever when we put it up, but now I would
not let my own family cross in spring after the rains." We stopped
to see my nephew Bertie Pigott, who was in college here. The
Jesuits have a large college, which is the principal thing in the
town, very much on the same principle as that of Sliema Malta,
and have their playground, athletic exercises, museum, library,
good church, etc. In the Cathedral there is an Holbein's altar
to see.
[Sidenote: _Switzerland_.]
We left after two days, and arrived at Zurich in time for the great
Schiefs-Stätte _fête_, or Federal Rifle Association, which takes
place every other year. It dates from the sixteenth century, assumed
its present rifle form in 1830, and consequently was the first known
to Europe. It used to be the great political event that drew all the
Cantons together. It is the focus which cements that simplicity,
equality, and independence which go to make up the sturdy Swiss
character, and is the secret of the union which makes their strength.
It always takes place in a different town, and numbers 220,000 members
out of two millions and a quarter--more than the regular army. This
year it was at Frauenfeld, and the great people assembled at the Hôtel
Baur au Lac where we were staying. One hundred and fifty Minnesingers
were singing their national songs on the lawn, some hidden in boats on
the canal by the side. There was a sort of illumination, and fireworks,
not only on shore, but on the lake, which you might have mistaken for
Venice.
The next day we were all away to Frauenfeld. Seven thousand pounds
are given in prizes. The number of people on the ground, besides
shooters, was 40,000. There was a huge wooden marquee for dining 6000
people, and 3000 sat down at a time. Every Swiss is ambitious to be a
good marksman, and it is thought to be a disgrace to be a bad shot.
The Roman Catholic priest gave us hospitality. He had passed the last
sixteen years of his life in making an exquisite collection of enamels
on copper, silver, and gold--religious subjects, selected with great
care and judgment. Two-thirds are early seventeenth century, and he
wanted to sell them.
Mr. Angst, the English Consul, is a very great man, and it was
a fine thing to be a friend of his in Switzerland. He and his wife
showed us a great deal of hospitality, and we passed many pleasant
days enjoying his collection of curios, swords, and china, which
are all Swiss, for he is a patriot. A delightful excursion is by
boat to Rapperswyl, calling at fifteen or sixteen stations down the
lake on the left. There is a little hotel Der See, one of eight
fronting the little quay. We had a delightful breakfast, after which
we re-embarked and came up on the other bank. Next day there
was a great Consular dinner, which lasted from twelve to six, at which
Richard and Dr. Baker attended. Here we met a very nice Mr.
and Mrs. Chippendale. We had a charming excursion to Uetliberg,
and another to Einsiedeln up in the mountains; it is the Swiss
Lourdes. The scenery was lovely, the air beautiful. We had a
good dinner of blue mountain trout at the Pfau. We went all over
the Cathedral, and the circle of pious shops, and drank from the
fountain of fourteen spouts. We bought pious things, and the
monks came in at three o'clock and sang the "Ave Maria." Our
return was on a beautiful summer evening; the lake glowed in
colours, there was a gentle mist and a full moon, but we arrived
very, very tired.
During this Swiss trip, Richard always brought Catullus to
_table d'hôte_, and whenever he was bored he used to pull it out and
write his notes upon his Latin copy.
I did all I could to persuade him to go from Zurich to Bâle, from
Bâle to England, to leave the Service and to stay in England till he
was thoroughly rested and well; then we would go back and pick up our
things, or let them be sent after us; but he would not hear of it. I
tried this twice during this Swiss journey when we were halfway, for I
saw that the frequent attacks of indigestion and nervousness and gases
round the heart were on the increase, and it did not seem that _any_
climate, or _any_ staying still, nor yet travelling, improved them.
Still he persevered in saying that he would keep on till next March,
when he would be free, and be home the following September.
During the last six months of his life (to show how tired he was
getting of everything), he used frequently to say to me, "Do you
know, I am in a very bad way; I have got to hate everybody except
you and myself, and it frightens me, because I know perfectly well
that next year I shall get to hate you, and the year after that I shall
get to hate myself, and then I don't know what will become of me.
We are always wandering, and the places that delight _you_ I say to
myself, 'Dry rot,' and the next place I say, 'Dry rotter,' and the
third place I say, 'Dry rottest,' and then _da capo_."
[Sidenote: _Davos-Platz--Ragatz_.]
About the 20th of July Richard had a small attack of gout which
passed away, and again slightly at Davos.
We went on to Ragatz, Mr. Angst accompanying us. The Quellenhof
Hotel is as big as a village, but it was too full to be comfortable.
Lady Taunton and Lady Elizabeth Grey were there, and we
met them in several places--two interesting sisters with lovely silver
hair. Here you drive to the waterfall and Meienfeld, and to Pfäfersbad,
where there is a quelle and gorge like that of Trient, the same
swirling river under you, darkness, weirdness, the same tiny planks
to walk along next to the rocky wall, and the mountains meeting
overhead. Another drive is to Wartenstein, and Pfäfers village,
where an old Convent is turned into a large Lunatic Asylum.
Wartenstein is a châlet-restaurant which holds about thirty visitors,
and there is a lovely view. We left Ragatz when we had seen everything,
and went on a new line of railway only opened a fortnight before,
up to Davos-Platz, six thousand feet high. The scenery is always
nice and sometimes grand. We were lodged in a fine large hotel,
the Belvedere, which was not finished. The centre of the scene is a
plateau swamp in the middle. The roots of the surrounding hills are
covered with hotels, villas, and pines, and above them again are high
mountains with snowy peaks and fine air. In winter it is dry and
covered with snow; it is the great consumption focus, and people say
it is full of germs. Here we met five people we knew, amongst them
Father Graham, a priest from London. We had come here on purpose
to make acquaintance with Mr. John Addington Symonds, but
he was gone away, and he only came back on the evening before our
departure, and we saw him for about an hour, which was better than
nothing.
We had a delightful drive from Davos to Maloja, with a comfortable
landau, two good steady grey horses, and a nice coachman; it
was a truly delicious day, which I shall always remember amongst
my mental treasures. We ascended the Fluela Pass through
gorgeous scenery, starting at ten o'clock. In an hour and a half we
stopped to give bread to the horses, and then in another hour and a
half we came to the highest point, 6700 feet, where we were in deep
snow; a lake was covered with ice, and two Mount St. Bernard dogs
greeted us. Here we baited the horses with bread and wine, and
lunched from our basket. The Schwarzhorn, 13,000 feet high, was
to our right; there were glaciers and chamois, gorges and grand
ravines. When we started again we descended to Süs, a large
village, where we rested, had tea, and baited our horses for a couple
of hours, and then we drove on two hours more to Quoz. I think
Quoz one of the prettiest places I ever saw, and should like to have
stayed there longer. It is a beautiful, romantic, Romansch village;
the scenery is lovely, the hotel is civilized. We put up there for the
night, starting at ten o'clock the next morning, and arrived at
Samäden, where we were very badly treated by the landlord, who
made us pay sixty-six francs for three-quarters of an hour's
entertainment.
[Sidenote: _St Moritz--Maloja_.]
Three-quarters of an hour further we arrived at St. Moritz-Kulm,
stopped our carriage, got out for a moment, and in opening
the door ran up against Canon Wenham, of Mortlake, who is our
spiritual pastor where I now live, and whom I had known for at
least thirty-five years. He was very glad to see Richard, and we
frequently met during our stay in Switzerland. Canon Wenham has
since told me that when he first saw Richard at St. Moritz, that he
kept saying to himself, "I wonder whether you or I will be the first to
go?" Richard died two months after that, and ten months later he
performed his funeral service at Mortlake. The baths and the village
are below in the valley. We soon started again for Maloja, but
did not get in till 4.30, owing to an accident. For the _third_ time
our horses suddenly behaved queerly; they were steady, plodding
brutes, but one sprang over a low stone wall, leaving the carriage on
the other side, and the other stood trembling, sweating, and sobbing
as if it was going to have a fit. It was a narrow road with a sharp
precipice into the lake, and very little would have sent us rolling
into it. We were some time extricating ourselves. We all got out,
and the horses were unharnessed and taken into a neighbouring
field, where they recovered themselves. I was dreadfully frightened,
but Richard was quite cool. On all these three occasions the coachman
and Lisa and I thought that the horses saw something we did
not see, but Richard and the doctor opined that there was some
natural cause, such as a snake crossing the path. The gypsies
passed, and stopped and helped us.
Maloja hotel is a luxurious palace at the head of the lake, looking
down the lake on one side, and on the other down into Italy. It is
the last of the Engadine plateaux, has glorious scenery and air, snow
mountains, and blue sky and lake. We found here Mr. and Mrs.
Stanley, accompanied by their faithful Captain Jephson, and Mr.
Stanley's black boy Saleh, Dean Carington, Mr. Oscar Browning, and
Mr. Welldon (Headmaster of Harrow), Sir John and Lady Hawkins,
the Duchess of Leinster, Lady Mabel Fitzgerald, and Lord Elcho,
Mrs. Main (lately Mrs. Fred Burnaby), Miss Emily Blair Oliphant,
Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft and son, Lord Dunraven, and other pleasant
people.
There were all sorts of amusements--a large ball-room, beautiful
band, theatricals, concerts, alpining, fishing, and kodaking, picnics,
glee-singing by a chorus of workmen, who sang at the church in the
morning--everything that could be desired, but our chief amusement
was driving. We used to go over to St. Moritz Kulm, where we met
Mr. Strickland, who edited the St. Moritz news, and Father Wenham.
At Maloja Richard talked to me a great deal about the possibilities
of what might happen in case of his death--"Not," he said, "that
I am thinking of dying;" and I told him that I thought he should
leave literary executors. I mentioned four people who I thought
would expect to have a "finger in the pie," so to speak, in case of
his death, but he absolutely declined to let _anybody_ but myself search
into his papers, and desired me to see to it if any necessity arose.
He said, "No one has helped me but you during thirty--I may say
thirty-five--years; who is likely to know so well now? Besides,
I know that you will do everything for me, body and soul--that
you would wish done for yourself." A little while after this he
called me into his room and said, "I may very likely live for years,
but I should like to leave three papers, which I am now going to
sign in your presence." The first concerned religion, the second his
private papers and manuscripts, and the third his money and mining
affairs, and I have carried them all out to the very letter from the
day he died till now.
The lake was very grand in a storm, black, green, and yellow,
with lowering black clouds, enveloping mountain and lake, lit up by
dark red lightning. We had great fun in being photographed by the
Rev. Mr. Stewart, who was here with two charming sisters, Mr.
and Mrs. Stanley, Richard and myself, and Saleh the black boy, and
Mrs. Bancroft placed us. Mrs. Bancroft made us all laugh just as
we were going to be taken, by seizing up a long broom-handle and
poising it as a lance, saying, "Won't you have _me_ as Tippoo Tib?"
Mrs. Stanley did a very amusing thing; she got a piece of paper, and
turning part of it down, said to my husband, "Will you give me your
autograph, Sir Richard?" which he readily did, in English and
Arabic. She then turned up the back of the paper, on which she had
written, "I promise to put aside all other literature, and as soon as
I return to Trieste, to write my own autobiography." So we all signed
underneath him, and since I have had it framed.
On the 31st of August he deplores the death of his friend, General
Studholm Hodgson.
[Sidenote: _We descend into Italy homewards_.]
The two or three last days of August the snow was so dreadful
that we only longed to get down into Italy, and on the 1st of September,
wishing good-bye to our friends, we started at two o'clock,
and had a delightful drive of three hours and a quarter through the
snow down the mountains. The snow was so bad that it was
doubtful whether we could manage it, but we did without accident.
We passed several picturesque places, amongst others Castasegna,
where I got out of the carriage, while they were refreshing the horses,
to look at the tombs in the little church, and walking up to one, I
saw on it "Richard Vaughan Simpson, died in 1834, aged 23." I
said a prayer for him--perhaps I was the first countrywoman that
had passed and done so. As we passed the frontier we were lightly
examined, and we got into Italian picturesqueness, passing one or
two fine waterfalls. Chiavenna looked most picturesque in the
distance, as we descended to the good little Hôtel Conradi. There
was a blue shade over the snow mountains as the sun was setting.
The next day we left Conradi's to get to Como. The train was
an hour late; we had to go in the third-class with forty-eight people,
and the boat was late too. The lake was looking lovely, with its
villages, especially Gravedona, Varenna, and Bellagio, which reminded
us of Madeira. We were about seven hours doing twenty miles.
We had delightful drives through the trees above the Villa Lervelloni
to the ruined castle which overlooks Como with all its three arms of
the lake, and listened to the bees and the birds, smelled the forest,
and were glad we were alive. We also went to Como itself. In
the evening we met Sir Frederick Napier Broome, late Governor of
Western Australia. We were now reading Sinnett's "Kârma." We
left Bellagio early, a couple of days later, and went down the other
side of the lake (Lago di Lecco) on a very pleasant morning.
You take a branch railway, and join the main line (Milan to Venice)
at Rovato for Venice. We went to the Grand Hôtel, but soon left,
as the gondola music used to drive Richard wild. There is one man,
if he still exists, who sings as if he would burst, like the cicala.
On the 7th of September we left for Trieste, sauntering down the
Gran Canale in gondola the last thing. We had a comfortable journey,
and were glad to get home that evening after ten weeks out, which
we had thoroughly enjoyed, except on the occasions when Richard
was suffering. But how sorrowful it would have been, could we
but have foreseen that it was the last journey we should ever take
together in this life! If we could but look forward, we should not
be able to bear it.
HOME FOR THE LAST FEW WEEKS.
The few following weeks at Trieste we continued to write together
in the evening, he being engaged all day with his "Scented Garden,"
his "Catullus," "Ausonius," "Apuleius, or the Golden Ass," and
other things, as he had been since his last Supplementals came out
(November 13th, 1888); and in early morning we used to take a
list of all the manuscripts published and unpublished, their destinations
when packed for England, and sorting the correspondence into
years; and Dr. Baker took a great many photographs, as he had
done all this year in the garden, of us and the views and friends,
which I am having formed into two lamp-shades on gelatine.
These last few weeks Richard kept saying to me, "When the
swallows form a dado round the house, when they are crowding on
the windows, in thousands, preparatory to flight, call me;" and he
would watch them long and sadly. Strange to say, after his death
seven of them took up their abode at his window, and only departed
in December. They are building again at "our cottage" at Mortlake.
It seems as if he were watching.
On the 11th of September he deplores in his journal the death of
Sir William Hardman, of the _Morning Post_.
On the 20th of September, a month before he died, in his diary
he writes, "I feel too well," and another paragraph, "The house
covered with swallows;" and then he says that night, "Sat on
balcony--perfect evening, perfect day." He was then taking papaine
for his gout.
On the 27th we had gentle earthquakes late at night, but which
were prolonged till dawn.
In October he complains of liver and biliousness in his journal,
but remarks that his cure was working well.
On the 15th of October we paid together our official visit to the
Governor and his wife, and we had friends to breakfast at the Hôtel
de la Ville, where he was very gay. He was not very well in the
evening, but nothing particular, and a glass of hot brandy and water
seemed to set him quite right. I had begun partly to dismantle the
house, and to put away things to make it easier for packing on
return, in order to hurry matters when we came back, previous to
leaving for good. We were going to start on the 15th of November
for Greece and Constantinople, and we were already sorting out
what we would take, having our saddlery looked to, and writing
letters to the Ministers of these countries to ask their advice on
certain points, and getting letters of introduction.
On the 18th of October, Dr. Baker photographed us in the garden.
Richard was always better when he first got home, and then got
tired of it after. When he first arrived, 8th of September, he only
weighed 70 kilos, but by the 2nd of October he had increased to
72.5 kilos.
On the 18th of October he was a little inclined to gout, and complained
that he had no pleasure in walking.
On the 19th (the day before he died) he complains of a little
lumbago.
[1] In the same way, a house near us had a large monkey in a little
room with bars just above ground, and the boys used to poke at him with
sticks, and shy pebbles at him. I would go over to him with fruit and
cake, and Richard used to say to him, "What crime did you commit in
some other world, Jocko, that you are caged for now, and tormented,
and going through your purgatory?" And he would walk off muttering, "I
wonder what he did--I wonder what he did?"