La Steccata—The Teatro Farnese—Its magnificence—Its ruin—Would
contain 9000—St. Jeronimo—Sir Thomas Lawrence—Alti Relievi—The
overflowed Po—The infant saved—Placentia again—Misery of
Piedmontese—Voghera—Tortona—Plains of Marengo—The wrong
road—The Tanaro overflowed—Asti—The Angelo and its
reception—Moncaglieri—The vow, and the Virgin, who resembled a
Duchess—The old Italian gentleman—Victor Amedée’s abdication—The
old man’s arrest—His death at Moncaglieri—Susa—Its
waterspouts—A chimney on fire—Mont Cenis—Fog and snow-storm—A
postilion’s wonder—Danger of tourmente—Lanslebourg—A thick smoke
and ill scent—Modane—Lesseillon—St. Michel.
Oct. 23rd.
Our morning perambulations commenced inauspiciously, for the
spedizioniere, to whom here also it was necessary to apply, to order
back our luggage, was in bed, and we went thence to La Steccata. Its
choir is now under repair. Curtained from curious eyes, there are here
paintings from the hand of Correggio and Carracci; the frescoes of the
fine dome so faded as to renew a regret for the wasting of genius on an
art so perishable. I noticed two vessels for holy water, remarkable for
their execution; in the centre of each stands a small and beautiful
figure, like the Bénitier itself, in white marble; one being that of
the Redeemer, the other, I think, of John the Baptist.
A priest conducted us to the subterranean chapel below, which contains
the tombs of the Farnese. He raised his torch to show that on the most
ancient of these (I think that of Alessandro) lay, harmless and
rusting, the sword which had been grasped by the mouldering hand below.
We went thence to visit the ancient Teatro Farnese, which joins the
Accademmia delle Belli Arti, and entered it, having ascended two
flights of the wide stair. In the time of Alessandro Farnese, it was an
armoury, and by him, or by Ranuccio, his son, on the occasion of a
daughter’s marriage, transformed into a theatre, of which it is the
very beau idéal. The centre, lined with lead, which the French, when
they came hither, took up for shot, was changed at will to a lake, the
pit, which in amphitheatre surrounds it, and the boxes above, would
contain nine thousand spectators: the stage, to which steps ascend,
being far smaller in its opening than the width of the building, the
whole audience could see perfectly. On either side of the proscenium,
placed high on their chargers, are the statues of the two Farnese,
originally only plaster, covering a wooden framework, and now crumbling
away. The front of each box being a high open arch, shut in by a gilded
chain only, the effect must have been brilliant when they were crowded
with gorgeously dressed courtiers and ladies. Some of these chains are
still suspended from arch to arch, dark and rusty. The ceiling was
painted wood, representing historical subjects, and of this but a
portion remains here and there, hanging ominously over the heads of the
curious. Napoleon, when at Parma, unfortunately did not see this
theatre, (so said our guide,) and it was left to decay during eighteen
years—a fault which, as it was built wholly of wood, could not
afterwards be repaired.
There are doors on either side of that opening into this theatre; on
the right conducting to the ducal library, on the left to the picture
gallery, which was a theatre likewise, and transformed to a museum by
the Arch-duchess Maria Louisa, whose splendid bust by Canova occupies
the further end, which a visitor, with but an hour to spare, should
seek at once; for there, on the right hand, is the St. Jeronimo,
Correggio’s masterpiece, of which Sir Thomas Lawrence said, it might be
studied, never copied. Three times, during the day he spent at Parma,
he returned to the contemplation of this picture; and truly painting
never produced its superior, scarcely its rival. The Holy Child sits in
his mother’s lap, with an angel beside him, who smiles as he exhibits
to the Magdalen the page on which her sins were inscribed, now white as
snow, and the Magdalen kisses the Saviour’s foot, and looks still
repentant but consoled. St. Jeronimo occupies the foreground, a noble
old figure, the limbs in such relief that he seems to stand forth from
the canvass, yet still with the softness of flesh, and the “modesty of
nature.”
The picture opposite this, of the Madonna alla Scodella, is a
beautiful, though less perfect, picture, by Correggio also, as is the
Descent from the Cross by its side, which was painted when he was but
nineteen. The face of the Saviour appears small, and wants expression,
as the attitude lacks dignity; but the Virgin, fainting from her excess
of agony, is perfect. There are other good paintings by various
masters, though all inferior to the St. Jeronimo. You will notice also
two alti relievi of the thirteenth century, found in a convent some
miles off. They are in pure white marble, the small figures exquisitely
carved. The subject of the last and most remarkable is the Birth of
Christ. He sits below on his mother’s knee, surrounded by figures in
adoration, their heads off, alas! for the French were lodged one night
in the convent. Above this group, and supposed to be between earth and
heaven, is a cluster of flying angels, who mark the middle region. In
heaven sits the Almighty, receiving from a kneeling female the infant
she offers; and up to him are riding by a zigzag road, which commences
at the bottom of the composition, the happy souls of the elect, on
horseback, and in the costume of the thirteenth century!
We rode on, the short stage to Borgo, where the hostess and one-eyed
waiter came running to meet us, wondering at the prompt return, which
we so little expected when we passed. They tell us the Po has done
awful damage, having swept away during the night the crazy bridge of
boats, over which, as I told you, we rode doubtfully, sweeping from the
meadows it rushed over, cottages, men, and cattle, of whom it is
unknown how many perished. The bodies of a young soldier and old priest
were picked up not far from the city; and floating on the surface of
the wild water was discovered, the morning after the disaster, one of
the wooden cradles of the country, and, being taken up by a boatman,
there was found within an infant of a month old, asleep. Where might be
its parents—or what was its name—there was none to tell; it was
conjectured that it belonged to one of those wretched dwellings, or
rather inhabited recesses serving for such, which we noticed when we
passed the bridge, and that the same torrent which burst its father’s
door, and stifled its mother’s cry, floated it forth in its tiny ark
unharmed. They tell me the rain has fallen ever since we quitted Borgo,
and it falls now with a violence which I trust may cease ere morning.
24th.
Left Borgo early. The rain had become mist, and the mist cleared by
degrees, and we have sun and flies, though the air is not stifling as
heretofore. The passport receiver at the gate remembered our riding
through before, and asked many questions as to our movements, in a fit
of curiosity which I gratified; and he wished me good-bye, saying, “A
rivederla, signora, fra qualche anno.” Again at St. Marco.
25th.
Started late from Piacenza, taking our host’s word for the stage’s
being a short one. We crossed, at no great distance from the city,
Maria Louisa’s splendid bridge of twenty-two arches over the Trebbia,
which at this moment is a narrow stream in the midst of a wide stony
desert. The receiver of the twenty-four centesimi said we had but
thirty miles to ride, but this is little consolation in a country where
to teach the meaning of distance seems impossible; each person we met
giving a different account thereof, and after the first hour increasing
instead of diminishing the number.
At a most dirty country inn we stopped to feed the horses. No oats were
to be had, and we paid for bran as if it had been some scarce known
rarity. We gave the hostler the sum demanded, desiring him to pay his
master the fair price, and take the remainder for buona mano; an order
to which he grinned assent, and I had the satisfaction to see the
dispute commenced as we rode away. A large building at which we arrived
soon after, was the Sardinian douane, and the frontier passed, the
country grows interesting, and is backed by wooded hills, an
improvement on Maria Louisa’s treeless plains; but the roads and broken
pavement of the wretched villages through which we passed are a
disgrace to his majesty. The latter, with their mud cabins, and
casements not glazed but papered, and their inhabitants squalid and
half clothed, reminded us of their prototypes in Ireland. Though the
morning had been cold and foggy, the sunshine, which succeeded, was
painfully burning, as in August. We had lingered on the way, believing
the distance inconsiderable, but the sun set in a heavy bank of clouds,
predicting bad weather for to-morrow, and the twilight yielded to
darkness, so total, and unrelieved even by a star, that D——
dismounted and led his horse before Fanny, as the road was bad beyond
description, and we were glad to keep to the path by its side. I do not
like riding in the dark in Italy. The character of the country is, in
the first place, hardly so good as to render it desirable, and its
waggoners all travel without light, and straggling from one side to the
other of roads which have a ditch on each. With all our precautions we
had nearly made unpleasant blunders, for not far from our destination,
a new portion of road, lately made to improve the approach to the town,
but not yet completed, is closed by a high bank of loose stones on
which we had almost ridden. Saved from this mistake, we failed to see
the Po till arrived on the very edge of the high bank which hangs over
its water; and the horses, rather than our eyesight, guided us to the
long, narrow and crooked bridge which crosses it, and on which we
fortunately met neither cart nor traveller. This passed, Fanny
quickened her step, for we saw the lights of Voghera through the trees,
and soon arrived at its entrance, but rode the whole length of the
nasty town to arrive at the Moro. The horses found a quiet stable after
their forty mile journey, for the mile of Piedmont reckons as two of
Italy. We ourselves were weary, and glad to see our dinner served in
the enormous hall, which, but for the frescoes daubed on its walls,
resembled a barn in dirt and desolation, and to lie down in the
sleeping chamber which was, they said, the only one remaining
unoccupied, and in which the iron bedsteads, a deal table, and wicker
chair, were the sole articles of furniture.
26th.
Pouring rain all this day—one of the longest I have passed, for we
staid at the Moro to rest the horses.
27th.
Left early. The morning cold as December, but the sun, when it appeared
at last, burning once more. To the left and behind us, the broad plains
were bounded by the distant Appennines; and away on the right, beyond
nearer and picturesque hills, we could distinguish a snow mountain once
more. A peasant said it was Mont Cenis; it was at least one of the
range, and we were glad to see it on our horizon.
The road skirts Tortona, having passed a half dried river, a shrunken
stream creeping along the centre of its wide winter bed. A high crag
commands the town, having on its summit the ruins of the fortress
constructed by Amedée the Third, and which the French blew up in
1796—the eminence, like the plain it stands on, bare of wood, and
devoid of beauty. An idler, as we rode by, told us we might, without
much increasing the distance, traverse the “città,” and seemed
surprised that we should choose to avoid its broken pavement and bad
air. Arrived on the plain of St. Giuliano, the village of Marengo was
on our right, interesting from its situation as well as its history,
for, excepting the two or three houses built by the road side, the
habitations straggle back over the rich meadows where they stand
picturesquely grouped with green trees and a grey tower, between and
above which rises a wooded hill, with a white church shining on it. To
the left stretched the plain; before us were a few fine sycomores and a
bridge, traversing a brighter and narrower river which winds between
fringed shores. From one of these houses is hung for sign a
cannon-ball, reminding us of Desaix, the gallant young general who
returned hither from Egypt to die, having first, with his four thousand
infantry, altered the fate of the battle almost lost by Lannes and
Victor, and after his fall destined to become desperate once more, and
be wondrously won by Kellerman’s charge with five hundred horse; for
this handful of men was during an entire hour master of the field of
battle, the infantry of both armies being scattered and flying, and the
French not rallied till the expiration of that time. Alessandria is
close to Marengo, its trees and fortifications looking to advantage as
they rise from the perfect flat of the plain. Went to the Albergo
d’Italia, a really good inn, with a most civil master.
28th October.
Up by candlelight to start with dawn, which shines not till seven: for,
though the mornings have become painfully cold, the mid-day sun is
scarcely bearable. Leaving the hotel and asking the way of several
people, who all said “Straight on,” we proceeded straight, as desired,
and issued from the town on a high road, which we found in the dreadful
state of all which traverse Piedmont; but having proceeded some way, we
thought proper (the direction being wholly different from that we have
lately followed) to ask whither it led, and were answered “Savona;” so
turned back, the equanimity of our tempers disturbed. Perhaps from this
cause I thought more brutal than he was in reality, a driver of calves,
who was before me with his charge on the side of the road which I had
chosen as least heavy for Fanny, the mud in the centre being three feet
thick, and who desired me to proceed thither and get out of his way,
swearing in no gentle guise. Approving of the order neither in matter
nor manner, we passed by, scattering his herd, and left him uttering
still direr oaths, and floundering about in the deep pools to collect
the stragglers. Travelling back over bad pavement and through the town,
we had lost an hour ere we arrived at the fine citadel, round which the
road winds, crossing an ancient covered bridge, through whose open
arches the wind blew almost strongly enough to lift me from my saddle.
A company of convicts, chained together, were busy sweeping; they
looked hardened and wretched. An hour after we met a fresh detachment,
tied with cords in carts, and strongly guarded. We had a cold fog for
comrade, and the Tanaro has overflowed the country, saddening its whole
face, ruining crops and meadows. Near Asti it improves, as it swells in
hillocks and sinks in dells: the former covered by the vine which
produces the famed Asti wine, but not trained, as in Lombardy, over
tall trees; and wearing a wintry aspect ere winter has come, from the
custom of plucking its leaves to feed the cattle. Met Capt. K—— with
his family; the pretty white Arab led behind the carriage. They crossed
the mountain a few days since in beautiful weather, and this good news
hurried us onward. The people of the Albergo Reale had treated them
ill; yet outside it makes fairer show than the Leon d’Oro, whither, at
their recommendation, we went. Here, as at Alessandria, the doors and
windows of our apartments open on the cold gallery which runs round the
inner court: bad dinner and bad attendance, and an unpleasant landlord.
This morning, when we wished to leave early, the stableman had lost
Grizzle’s bridle, and two hours were wasted in its search, the fairest
of the day: for, when we had ridden down the avenue just outside the
town, the drizzling mist changed to torrents, which continued to fall
without cessation till we arrived. We were to stop at the Angelo, but
had forgotten the name of the bourg he protected, twelve Piedmontese
miles (about four-and-twenty English) from Asti; and the questions we
made remained almost always unanswered, the Piedmontese dialect solely
being spoken by the peasantry. At last, in the pouring rain, up came a
waggoner, and told us Poirino and the Angelo were about three miles
farther. We would willingly have hastened our horses, but it was
impossible: for the roads are either two feet deep in mud or newly
repaired with beds of loose stones, into which they sank to the
fetlock. Here and there the path by their side was in better order, and
we adopted it; and D—— justly observed, that but for his Sardinian
majesty’s footpaths, horse-travelling in his dominions would be
impossible. When it seemed the three weary miles must have been long
passed over, and still nothing was to be seen in the most desolate
plain, save the broad wet road stretching before, and behind us, a few
trees and a spire, we again accosted a peasant and inquired for
Poirino. “It is a good bit farther,” said the man, “and the inn is not
in the town, which you must traverse, and turn first to the right and
next to the left, and then ride straight on, as it stands in the
country.” I presume this intelligence, which at the time made us
despair, was given in a mischievous spirit, though the weather and our
plight should have excited compassion: for we shortly arrived at
Poirino, and inquiring for the Angelo, some replying “Straight on,” and
some not at all, we made our way through the filthy town to the
filthier yard. Our poor horses under cover, D——, who followed them
into the warm stable, was better off than I. I made my way to the
kitchen door, which I found full of vetturini, this being their dinner
hour, and the place where they dine. Received with more curiosity than
civility, I called to mine hostess, who was busy cooking, and desired
she would conduct me to a room. Without turning her head, she begged me
to walk up stairs, which I did, and found myself in the
before-mentioned open gallery, and, from the voices which proceeded
from the various chambers, knew they were all occupied. Having stood
there some minutes, dripping and shivering, looking down into the yard
at the rain plashing on the stones and the half-dozen vetturini
carriages, of whose departure there seemed to be no chance, my gift of
patience was not so strong as to lead to further contemplation, and I
descended once more, not this time to the door, but to the kitchen
fire, where I disturbed the lady’s culinary pursuits, by telling her I
was going to the inn I had noticed next to hers, as I found my presence
was an inconvenience. This appeal softened her heart: for she put down
her fryingpan and took up a key and marched before me to open what was,
in reality, her only room unoccupied. It had a broken window and no
fireplace; but she brought me a half cold chauffrette, and begged I
would be patient, as I should be _benissimo_ when the carriages went
on, which they would do in a quarter of an hour; so that on my side I
called up the patience required, changed my wet clothes, and sat (not
the quarter) but a whole hour in such shivering misery as makes one
expect an inflammation of the chest next morning. The vetturini were
then in motion, and I made my way to a fireplace just as D—— appeared
from the stables where he had seen our poor companions provided for.
After all we were served less ill than I expected, and the dinner and
beds were good. Our hostess demanded prices which lacked justice and
modesty; but, remonstrance made, grew reasonable. All night the rain
poured, but they told us it had done so for a month, so that to wait
might serve us nothing—the road little better than hitherto, and the
country uninteresting till near Moncaglieri, to which place rain
accompanied us less heavily than yesterday, but without pause.
The high hill on which it is built formed a commanding object long
before we reached it; the route sweeps round its foot between it and
the broad Po, whose shores are here wooded and beautiful. A person of
whom we asked the way to Turin sent us through Moncaglieri up the paved
hill and across the town, doubling the fatigue to our horses. We were
recompensed by passing before the old castle where Victor Amedée, the
abdicated king, was arrested, and where he died; and also by the fine
view we obtained as we rode down the avenue and steep hill on the other
side of the valley and the river. Heavy clouds hid the Alps, and the
snow, lying on the hills close to us, looked an ominous presage of what
was to succeed on the mountain.
Notwithstanding the unfavourable atmosphere through which we saw it, I
prefer Turin as a town to any I have seen in Italy. Its situation is
finer than the vaunted one of Florence, with a broader river and more
beautiful valley, and hills more wooded surrounding it. One of these
the Superga crowns, built in consequence of the vow made by Victor
Amedée the Second (when the troops of Louis the Fourteenth besieged his
capital) to consecrate a temple to Our Lady, should her aid enable him
to force their troops to raise the siege. It was whispered that the
duchess of Burgundy, whose influence was all-powerful at the French
court, had used it for her father’s protection, and to lengthen the
operations of the French General, Duc de la Feuillade. Prince Eugene
having had time to come up, and Turin being relieved on the day of the
nativity of the Virgin, the king accomplished his vow. The principal
basso relievo of the high altar represents the deliverance of Turin by
the intercession of the Virgin; it was observed of this Madonna that
she bare a strange resemblance to the duchess of Burgundy. A fine
bridge led us across the river to the Piazza del Pò. The arcaded
streets are broad, and the houses handsome, but mostly unfinished, to
that degree that the holes made in their walls, for the placing of
scaffoldings, remain unfilled.
We went to the hotel Fœder, kept, like all good inns in Italy, by
French masters. Its cleanliness and comfort were to us, for some time
unused to them, a very luxury.
Though it continued to rain, as I had purchases to make and a letter to
put in the post for Paris, I changed my dress and we went out for the
purpose, crossing in our wanderings the Piazza, on whose centre stands
the old palace, built by Amedée the Eighth in 1416, flanked by its four
massive towers, but in my opinion injured by the addition of an
ornamented façade of 1720. Its interior was decorated, and its splendid
staircase built, by command of Christina, daughter of France and
duchess of Savoy. Before her time it was said of this palace that it
was a house without a staircase, as now that it is a staircase without
a house, the former being far too grand for the apartments to which it
leads.
The stables for our horses are less delightful than the inn for
ourselves, being dark, ill-kept, and crowded. D—— bribed away a horse
of kicking reputation, whose vice Fanny the more excited by running at
him open-mouthed, there seeming to be in her small body no room for
fear. In his visits to see them fed he nearly stumbled over a poor
fellow who lay in one of the stalls. His wife now and then brought him
drink; he was very ill of fever his fellow hostlers said unconcernedly,
and to lie with clothes on and with damp litter for bed seemed a
strange remedy.
Next me at the table d’hôte sat an old man with long white hair, who I
found on inquiry to be the Conte F——. We entered into conversation:
he was just arrived from Chambéry, and had crossed Mont Cenis in snow
and mist, and exclaimed when I told my intention of doing so on
horseback to-morrow. The kind old gentleman offered me his carriage,
and when I pertinaciously refused, implored me to accept additional
cloaks; and was affectionate and anxious as if he had been my father.
We certainly start in the morning: for that snows, having once fallen,
will diminish this season, there is little chance. The journey to Susa
would be too long a one, and we are told we may be decently lodged at
Sant’Ambrogio.
Though it be a long story, yet from the interest it casts on Turin, I
will, for your sake, insert here that of the abdication of Victor
Amedée the Second; the same king who erected the Superga, and lies
buried within its walls. About a month previous to his renunciation of
his crown, he espoused secretly the widow of the count of St.
Sebastian, the object of his early love, then fifty years of age.
Victor declared to his son his intention of abdicating; and as he had
proposed to himself for model the Emperor Charles the Fifth, he chose
that a like ceremonial should be observed, and his court and ministers
were summoned to the castle of Rivoli, which lies on the road to Susa
and near Turin: of the cause which assembled them none were informed
except the prince of Piedmont and the Marquis del Borgo. In the
presence of all, the latter read the act of abdication, the king
preserving throughout the proud and solemn demeanour which was natural
to him. He led, when it was ended, the countess of St. Sebastian to the
princess, become queen. “My daughter,” he said, “I present to you a
lady who is about to sacrifice herself for me; I pray you show respect
to her and her family.”
Reserving to himself no more than a nobleman’s fortune, with the
countess, now marchioness of Spino, he retired to Chambéry. For a time
indeed, but of brief duration, the new monarch asked his father’s
counsel in all affairs of moment, and sent his ministers to seek it
across the mountains; but he grew weary of divided power, as did Victor
Amedée of the idleness he had chosen, and the marchioness of Spino
urged him to resume the reins he had dropped unadvisedly. He arrived at
Rivoli suddenly; but Charles Emmanuel, who had been absent also,
informed of his movements, at the same time re-entered the capital, and
the old king heard with extreme annoyance the cannon which pealed to
welcome him. The two monarchs had an interview, embarrassed on both
sides. The father spoke of the air of Savoy as injurious to his health,
and the son commanded that the castle of Moncaglieri should be prepared
for his reception, whither (also by his command) the court went,
apparently to do him homage; but in reality to watch and report his
actions. It was noticed that the manners of the marchioness had
altered; that when she visited the queen she occupied an arm-chair,
similar to hers; and at last, the moment for action come, Victor Amedée
demanded of the Marquis del Borgo the act of his abdication, desiring
him to make known his intention of wearing again the crown he had laid
aside. The minister hesitated to reply; the old king insisted on his
obedience within twelve hours, and this, fearing to excite Victor’s
fury, he promised and departed. The king remained in agitation of mind,
half repenting his confidence in del Borgo; till, when the clocks had
tolled midnight, taking a sudden resolution, he mounted his horse and
followed but by one servant, sought the citadel and summoned the
governor to open the gates to him. He was refused, and returned in
disappointment to Moncaglieri. Meanwhile the council assembled on the
information of the minister, and the arrest of the father was signed by
the son, whose hand, it is said, shook so violently, that the secretary
of state was obliged to support it. The marquis of Ormea, preceded by a
company of grenadiers, arrived at Moncaglieri, whose walls other troops
had already surrounded, conducted thither without knowing whither they
were going or wherefore. The king slept profoundly in the chamber with
the marchioness, and the noise made as they ascended the grand
staircase, seizing on the person of an attendant, who lay in the
ante-chamber, and bursting open the doors, did not wake him. The
marchioness, startled from her slumbers, sprang from her bed and
towards a private door, hoping to escape. She was arrested and placed
in a carriage, which, escorted by fifty dragoons, took at a gallop the
road to the fortress of Ceva in Piedmont. Not even her cries, as she
was forced away, could wake the king, who was of apoplectic habit, and
whose sleep was like a lethargy. One seized his sword which lay on the
table, and the Comte de la Perouse, drawing his curtains back, at last
roused him, and showed the order of which he was “bearer from the
king.” “What mean you by _the king_?” exclaimed Victor; “dare you to
recognise another than me, who am your sovereign and your master?”
“You were so, sire,” replied La Perouse, “till yourself commanded that
our obedience should be transferred to King Charles; we, therefore,
pray you to give us the example of obedience now.”
The old man, furious, refused to rise, and gave a blow to the chevalier
of Salace, who approached too near his bed. He was lifted perforce from
it, and, partly dressed and enveloped in blankets, carried rather than
led to the carriage, which waited in the court. As he crossed the
ante-chamber he seemed surprised to see there his grenadiers; and the
men and their officers, astonished in turn, murmured, “It is the king;
why should he be a prisoner? what has our old master done?”
The Count of La Perouse, fearing mutiny, exclaimed, “In the king’s name
and on pain of death, silence!” and hurried the old monarch on.
In the court-yard stood ranged a regiment of dragoons, which had
distinguished itself under his own eye, and which he had always
favoured. Their presence affected him, and he stepped forward to speak;
but a sign was made to the drummers, who covered his voice, and those
who stood round forced him to enter the carriage. On leaving
Moncaglieri he had made three demands—for his wife, his papers, and
his snuff-box; but only the last was granted. The day after his arrival
at Rivoli, iron bars and double frames were placed to the windows of
his apartments.
“What are you doing?” he asked the glazier.
“I am putting up double window-frames,” said the man, “lest you should
be cold this winter.”
“Why, how now, fellow,” said the king, “do you think I shall be here
this winter?”
“Ay, indeed,” rejoined the glazier; “this one and many more.”
After this he was, however, transferred to the castle of La Venerie,
three leagues from Turin. The fits of fury to which he had at first
yielded, and in which it was feared he might commit suicide, had
gradually subsided into sadness. He was, at his own demand, reconducted
to Moncaglieri, whither the marchioness was allowed to come. He was
permitted to have books; but neither newspapers nor anything which
might satisfy his curiosity as to events passing in the world. He never
saw his son more. He died in 1732, and his widow sought a retreat for
life in a convent at Carignano.
31st October.
We were up at light this morning, for the weather had a more favourable
aspect; crossed the Piazza with its old palace, and issued from the
town on the noble avenue which makes so fine an approach to Turin. From
the plain it crosses, the view of the Alps, covered with snow,
appearing and disappearing through masses of clouds, was beautiful
beyond most prospects. For some time favoured with sunshine and blue
sky, we might have reached San Ambrogio free of rain, but that Grizzle
broke a fore-shoe, and we were obliged to get another put on at the Tre
Ré at Rivoli, looking on in almost as much fear as when Fanny dropped
one at Montecarelli, on her way to Florence. The palace which received
Victor Amedée is on the height commanding the town. Grizzle being shod,
we thought it better to feed both, and thus lost time; for we were not
long suffered to enjoy the country, which grows very beautiful after
Rivoli, as rain and hail, which we had hoped were left behind, came
down in full fury on horse and rider. The Dora, whose course we
followed, had overflowed its banks, and desolation was here also.
The valley has the character of that of Domo d’Ossola, but it is more
confined, and has less grandeur. The rain ceased as we drew near St.
Ambrogio, and the vapours were floating up the high cliff which hangs
over it, and on whose very pinnacle stands a ruined church, or castle,
or both, a high slight tower, which formed a most striking object as
the mist floated upwards, hiding and revealing it by turns. As we
approached the Tre Corone, its broken windows and yard choked with
manure looked so hopelessly wretched, that, being wet through, we
preferred riding on in the expectation of getting dry, as the weather
favoured us once more. Crossing a bridge, the straight road follows the
other bank of the river now on the left, and through a defile of
surpassing beauty. On a hill of its own, of which it seems to be the
monarch, rising from the flat before the mountains, and beside the
river, stands a remarkable ruin. We had passed many proud remains of
baronial castles, but this the noblest, with its turreted walls and
hollow watch-towers standing and defying. The rain returned more
violently than ever, almost hiding Susa, which is beautifully situated,
and I fain would have seen in sunshine, and have paid a visit to its
antiquities. Woe unto its waterspouts; they advanced over our heads
from either side of the narrow street, irregular in their lengths, so
that to strive to avoid their contents was vain; and drowned like
mountain torrents washing what little the rain had spared. We crossed
the bridge over the wild river, and found the Posta on the Place. I can
say little in praise of its comfort; there remained but three rooms
vacant, certainly, but I suspect those already occupied were no better
than our own. The window shut badly, and the door, on the open
corridor, not at all, admitting the rush of the wind and the roar of
the torrent; so that the fire scorched our faces, while the back of our
heads grew rheumatic. The waiter was determined to do his best, for he
piled the logs till they set the chimney on fire. He was gone when I
discovered it, and looked for a bell, but as none was there, and I was
little inclined to receive another shower by issuing forth on the open
gallery in search of him, I watched it till it burned itself out, which
it did very safely before D—— had come up from our travellers.
Nov. 1st.
Up at light. A sweet mild morning, and no rain, and our horses fresh as
after a ride in the Bois de Boulogne; and we decided on going the whole
way to Lanslebourg, abandoning our first intention of sleeping on the
mountain, as the inn is ill provided, and to get straw impossible.
The Roman arch raised in honour of Tiberius is still to be seen in the
governor’s garden, built of white marble, and the Corinthian order, and
rising among broken remnants of columns and capitals, which probably
belonged to edifices by which it was once surrounded. In the days of
Charlemagne, the famous Roland, from whom the first Marquises of Susa
boast their descent, defended the town, signalizing himself by most
marvellous exploits; in proof whereof there was shown some years ago a
rock, which a stroke of his sword cleft in twain!
The early part of our journey was delightful, for the day was balmy
though not bright, and the mist shrouded the snows of the summits
before us without approaching ourselves; and the vine, cultivated at
the foot of the mountain, stretched up its sides to the roots of the
chestnut trees, on whose green leaves there rested but just so much
snow as bowed their branches slightly and gracefully. As the road wound
upwards we looked back to the Piedmontese valleys, bounded by the
mountains, with their dark blue base and white coronets; and this
beauty increased as we ascended higher and could distinguish the hill
with its ruins, and the high crag far away above St. Ambrogio. So far
the thaw had been rapid, for no snow lay in the road here, nor till we
had passed the little inn of Mont Cenis. At Molaret, where the church
bells were tinkling sweetly in the quiet air, the route, turning
suddenly, no longer hangs over Piedmont, but looks on a home view,
which has its charm likewise, and the village built in the glen
directly below, among the trees of the rich meadow. The first refuge is
a little further, and by the time we had arrived there the half-melted
snow began to ball in our horses’ feet so as to impede our progress;
and D—— having several times dismounted to pick them, with the loss
of a quarter of an hour at each operation, we ascertained that in this
manner we should not arrive ere dark, and began to think haste might be
necessary, as the mists, which had hitherto held aloof, seemed
thickening gradually. To prevent an accumulation of snow, our only
resource was to trot our horses, and the mountain being henceforth
steep, it was an unkind antidote; but Fanny shook her head, and
breasted the hill gallantly, and the grey followed wheresoever she led.
We had pursued this plan about half an hour, when the snow suddenly
fell, and its friend the fog so closed round us that we could see
nothing but the road, and I feared that would be invisible ere long, as
I strained my eyes to discover the precipices which might be there, and
the track which the last travellers had left, and which the flakes
effaced as they fell. From this spot the aspect of Mont Cenis is
unknown to me, almost as if I had not traversed it; only as we crossed
the Plain of St. Nicholas, over which, but for the hooftrack of a horse
which immediately preceded us we should have failed to find the way,
appeared for a moment the palisades of the ascending route, seeming
built on the cloud, and a waterfall which sprang forth from the mist to
be swallowed in it again a few yards lower. From the cliffs which skirt
the road (here rising abruptly from the level) hung icicles from fifty
to a hundred feet long, which the mist just opened to show. I almost
thought we might be left on the mountain as a reinforcement, for I
certainly never before knew the entire meaning of the word cold.
We went on, however, patiently, and rapidly as we could with mercy to
the poor horses, who seemed anxious to advance as ourselves. The wind
had risen, and the broad flakes of snow in this higher region changed
to small particles of ice which drifted in our faces cold and cutting.
We passed the barrier of Piedmont, whereon was written that a toll was
to be paid there; but we, having called and nobody answered, went on
till we reached the Grande Croix, before whose humble inn stood several
waggons, and one waggoner who lifted his hands in amazement, and said,
“Povera, poverina,” with an accent of pity not at that moment
misplaced, for the ice adhered to our hats and cloaks, making them look
like an old wall from which hangs half detached plaster; even D——’s
weather whisker was an iceberg, as were the horses’ manes and tails.
Grizzle had rubbed hers last night, and the icicled hairs stuck forth
ludicrously like “quills from the fretful porcupine.”
To stop to complain would certainly have been to be frozen to death,
and we rode fast over the plain of Mont Cenis, stopping to breathe our
comrades before each refuge, as places where we could find aid, should
aid become necessary. The lake was invisible through the mist, and we
could distinguish only the mountain rivulet which for some way
accompanied us, flowing along like a black line through the dull white
of the snow. As we approached the Hospice, opposite which is Napoleon’s
fortification, the dark lake became visible through the sleet, but only
like a heavier cloud lying on the edge of the plain and recognized by
its more defined outline. Half the Hospice is occupied by monks, whose
voices reached us through the roar of the wind, singing psalms, the
other half by the rcarabinieri, one of whom opened the door just
sufficiently to take the passport, while a second peeped at us through
a closed and barred window. I thought, considering their situation and
ours, they kept it a merciless time, during which we walked our horses
backwards and forwards, receiving the blast on all sides. From this
level, the road ascends again, its highest point, being I believe at
the refuge No. 20. The cantonnier, who was at work there spade in hand,
desired us to be careful and proceed at a foot’s pace, as we had a bad
portion of road before us; and we found he was right, our horses
floundering about in deep snow a moment after. Met here a carriage (the
first); the postilion expressed his astonishment by an oath loud and
deep. The snow-drift passed, the ground became worse still, for it
changed to smooth ice, the wind, which every moment increased, sweeping
the loose snow from its surface. Grizzle, who could not keep her
footing, slipped and groaned, which meant, “Get off and lead me!” a
prayer which D—— granted, but Fanny fortunately did not make to me,
as, having felt the pain produced by cold, the numbness now stiffened
me to my saddle, and had I been lifted from it, I should certainly have
found walking impossible. At No. 17 is the Savoy barrier, which having
passed we were called back. The good-natured Savoyard detained us as
short a time as possible, called me “pauvre femme!” not thinking we
were travelling for pleasure; and having written down as Heaven pleased
the English names we told him, bade us speed on our way, which we did
slowly and painfully.
The wind increased and threatened tourmente. The cantonnier had said
that, notwithstanding the quantity of snow lately fallen, there was too
little to occasion a dread of avalanches which sometimes fall between
the refuges Nos. 23 and 24. A man walking down the mountain four days
since was frozen to death at this spot; and at the sharp turns of the
zigzags, the blasts sweeping down the gorge and crossing the road were
so strong, that Grizzle swayed to them, and Fanny planted her fore-feet
firmly and put down her head to resist.
Though we forbore to say so, we neither were quite tranquil, as these
gusts of wind roared down the hollow, threatening to carry us over the
road side on the snow-drifts below, certainly deep enough to swallow
far larger masses than ourselves and our quadrupeds.
At last came a happy change from snow to rain and from ice to mud, and
we saw Lanslebourg among fir-trees beneath, with its pretty bridge
flung over the Arc, and the inn on the opposite side, built by Napoleon
for his staff. It was three o’clock when we arrived, and we had left
Susa at eight, and Fanny, not waiting for orders, trotted into the
stable-yard. With some trouble from the numbness which paralyzed me, I
arrived in the kitchen, where the landlady, intent on household affairs
and also on scolding a child, having given me a seat, and desired her
servant to make me a fire above, departed to her labours, and this was
a signal for persecution, for the spirit of curiosity was stronger than
the spirit of obedience, and she touched my hat, and felt my habit, and
walked round me, asking questions till I was weary, and told her that
if she would first light a fire and allow me to change my wet clothes,
I would be at her service the rest of the day.
It required a great deal of smoke to drive me from the hearth, but when
she had kindled the wood and departed, the wind which rushed down the
chimney drove the very fire into the centre of the floor; and my eyes
so streamed from the columns which filled the room, that I had some
difficulty in finding the way out to summon her back. She only
remarked, that it was always the case with that chimney when it rained;
and we proceeded to another chamber on the opposite side of the
corridor, the Abigail with her flaming pine-logs first. When installed
therein, I found the air abominable: she said, “it was always so when
it blew,” so that I have passed the afternoon burning vinegar.
The snow, hail and wind have as yet known no intermission; the bad air
arrives under the door and the icy wind in at the window. On account of
the horses, whom eight posts like those we have travelled to-day must
necessarily have fatigued, we shall remain to-morrow. Were the weather
fair the situation of the inn would be lovely; but when the torrents of
rain dash as now against windows which will not close, and the wind
waves the thin muslin to and fro, and the cold of these lantern-like
rooms resists even such fires as I have made, the inn at Lanslebourg is
the very perfection of wretchedness.
2nd November.
Still rain and wind, but with glimpses of pale sunshine which predict
finer weather. The bad air prevented sleep, and the blast which sung
round my head, whirling away the flimsy curtains, bestowed a cold on my
chest, which shall not however detain me. The horses have passed the
day in the luxury of rolling, and enjoyment of the mountain hay, of
which the pastures near this produce the sweetest in the world.
3rd November.
Left early, for the clouds, though they threatened, dropped no rain,
and took the road to Modane, the descent as far as Formignone being
rapid, skirting the Arc and its pine-forests, the cold head of Mont
Cenis towering behind. The weather grew milder and the scenery more
lovely; larch and other trees not evergreen appearing beneath the
masses of dark fir, and red and yellow with the tints of autumn, have a
richness in their hues I never saw equalled elsewhere.
Verney, where Walpole’s dog perished, is a beautifully situated
village. The pine-forests, which the wolves inhabited of yore, have
retreated since that time, and now clothe only the mountain on the
left, before which the little church whose bell was tolling for mass,
and whither the country people were hastening in their holiday clothes,
stands on its green mound alone.
Ere arriving at Modane, we passed the superb fort of Lesseillon, which
tier above tier crowns crag above crag, with its batteries ready to
sweep road and valley. The range of cliffs to the right among which it
rises are wild and bare. In the depths of the gorge under it, the Arc,
narrowed to a streamlet, cuts its passage between walls of rock; the
stone arch of the Pont du Diable spanning the chasm, and nearer the
fort a frailer wooden bridge flung with yet more hardihood. The
mountain to the left, at whose base was our road, hanging over the
savage defile, was clothed with a forest, and dashing down, or
trickling to our feet, cascade and torrent wound among the roots of fir
and larch, or bounded over their branches. The only neighbour of the
fortress is a wretched village; it must be a melancholy garrison: for
some time it made a fine object in the background with the snows of
Mont Cenis and his companions.
As we continued to descend, the clear green stream of the Arc,
sometimes wild and angry, foams and roars among her masses of black
stone, sometimes flows mildly and brightly, retreating from the road in
coquettish curves, half hiding itself in a fringe of birch and larch
and fir, and issuing again to smile at her admirers and receive their
homage. Nothing can surpass in loveliness the valley of the Maurienne.
Modane is a wretched hole, beautifully placed, a blot in Paradise; the
noble road takes alternately both sides of the narrow valley. At a spot
which most claimed admiration, we met a post carriage, its inmate this
warm day ensconced in great coat and cap, fast asleep. We have once
more the hardy peasantry, a contrast to that of Italy, the women with
their fresh faces and thick ankles, ascending the mountain paths
followed by their cows and goats tinkling their gay bells; and we have
also the pretty country churches with their spires of grey stone
peeping over rocks and through pines instead of the staring dome and
unfinished Roman front of those of Italian hamlets, which wanted money
as well as modesty. Avalanches of earth have hereabouts injured the
road, not yet wholly repaired, and farther on the valley narrowed and
became bare and less beautiful, and the rain fell heavily. At the next
turn, however, we saw St. Michel close by, beneath and upon his noble
crag, and galloped towards the shelter the horses, who went lightly on
as if they had not been ridden three and thirty miles.
The landlord, who is an approved rogue, asked prices which made us
threaten him with going to the other inn. He excused himself by saying
all his provisions were brought over the mountain from Turin, so, as
you may be curious to hear what St. Michel imports from Italy, our
dinner consisted of two weary-looking larks, a chicken who seemed
pinched with the cold of the snow-storm, a hard hearted old
cauliflower, one fish and three apples.