FIRST CONTINENTAL TRAVELS—TURIN AND GENOA
It was on the 11th September, 1832, that, in company with my mother, my
sister Caddy, and eldest brother Courtenay, I started for Turin, where
Charles had preceded us. It would be difficult to imagine the delightful
anticipations I had formed of that journey to the South, and yet, like
all earthly pleasures, they had a drawback; for, on that blissful
morning, I shed many tears at parting from my youngest brother
Cavendish, as he stood with a great friend of ours at the door of our
apartments in Hampton Court Palace to wish us God-speed.
Arrangements had been made that we were to be met at Boulogne by a
_voiturier_ with a team of horses, which he would attach to our heavy
berline, and therein convey us to Turin, _via_ the Jura and Switzerland.
We found him a rough and ready individual, with a strong will of his
own, and a great inclination to overrule the opinions of others, but
never forgetting an especial deference _pour cette bonne Miladi_. We was
a worthy man, but headstrong by nature, and the only name we ever knew
him by was Henri Hutin, which I always believe to have been a _nom de
guerre_, or rather _de route_. We had fitted up our carriage very
comfortably with a small table in the middle, forming a cupboard, which
contained materials for tea-making, a luncheon basket, and other
luxuries. We had each of us layers of brown holland packets for our own
especial books, writing, and drawing materials.
The front box, on which we took it by turns to take an airing and see
the country, had also receptacles for different treasures of travel,
while the rumble behind was occupied by the faithful Henry. In this
manner we proceeded leisurely, but comfortably, on our roads, pausing in
the middle of the day to bait our horses and to feed ourselves, and
sleeping at little wayside inns of most unpromising exterior, where we
were always sure, in passing through France at least, of an appetising
supper and snow-white beds. I often wonder if any other girl in the
world ever enjoyed herself so much, or revelled so completely in the
beauty of the scenery, the novelty of every incident of travel or the
delights of the gay and brilliant society with which we mixed in all the
principal Italian towns.
[Sidenote: SOCIETY IN GENOA]
We found Charles happily established in the post of _attaché_ at the
English Legation, with his friends Sir Augustus and Lady Albinia Foster,
who treated him with all the kindness and consideration which they
bestowed on their own sons. After spending what our American friends
call “a good time,” at Turin, we went to Genoa, that proud and beautiful
city, where we remained until the following summer. We became acquainted
with all the leading members of society, the names of most of whom
recall many an interesting page in the annals of Genoese history, such
as Pallavicini, Durazzo, Balbi, Doria, and the like; but the family with
whom we were most intimate, and on whose memory I dwell with most
affection, was that of the Marchesa Brignole, her sister and her two
daughters, with the latter of whom I had constant intercourse. The
eldest was married, and at the house of Madame Ferrai (the late Marchesa
Galliera) we used to spend the most delightful evenings; it was here
also I became acquainted with Lord and Lady Holland,[30] then newly
married, both of whom were most agreeable companions.
Footnote 30:
Henry Edward, fourth Baron Holland; married, 9th May 1833, Lady Mary
Coventry.
Genoa does not afford much scope or variety for those who love riding,
but where there was a horse, and a side-saddle to put on it, my sister
and I could not be kept from mounting, and by degrees most of the
Genoese gentlemen whom we met in society joined our riding parties,
until our cavalcade lengthened out to enormous proportions, and many
were the pleasant gallops we had along the coast. Alas! that most of
those gay cavaliers have long since been numbered with the dead. One in
particular I recall with sincere affection. He was the Chevalier Pietro
de Boyl, brother of the Marchese of the same name. He was a Sardinian by
birth, and at this time a Captain in the Engineers. He was remarkable
for his extreme beauty and high courage, which he proved afterwards by
distinguishing himself greatly as A.D.C. to King Charles Albert in
several battles. He was subsequently Governor of his native island of
Sardinia, but, at the time of which I am speaking, he was merely a young
officer, one of my favourite partners, and a constant visitor at our
house. He sang well to the guitar, and his other charms were enhanced in
my eyes by his devotion to _cara miladi_, as he alway called my dear
mother.
It was during our sojourn at Genoa that King William IV. bestowed on my
father the Guelphic and Hanoverian Order, which his Majesty was very
fond of dispensing. When the news of the decoration reached Genoa, we
received visits of congratulation from all our friends, and at the same
time letters and notes offering sympathy to my mother upon what was
considered a very questionable elevation.
How grieved I was when the time came to leave beautiful Genoa! The
Carnival had been so enjoyable, the fun so “fast and furious,” and the
opera season so delightful. We had been almost every night to the
theatre, having a box placed at our disposal by one or other of our
Genoese friends. Visits were paid from one box to another by all the
gentlemen of our acquaintance, and the society thus enjoyed was on an
easy and agreeable footing. The _prima donna_ at the time I am speaking
of was, strange as it may appear, a German by birth, and Madame Ungher
was, in my opinion, the finest actress I have ever seen, scarcely
excepting Rachel or Ristori. She was not remarkable for beauty, but had
a noble presence, was graceful in her movements, and her singing was
replete with expression, dignity and pathos. In the opera of the
_Pirata_, I shall never forget the scene in which she implores her child
to intercede with his father in her behalf. I was forcibly reminded of
this incident the other day, in witnessing Miss Mary Anderson’s
beautiful impersonation of Hermione in the _Winter’s Tale_, and the
touching dialogue between her and the little Prince, when she showed the
same tenderness, the same winning grace, but enhanced by an extreme
loveliness with which Madame Ungher was not endowed.
[Sidenote: “BALLETS D’ACTION”]
At that period _ballets d’action_ were in great repute. They generally
occurred between the middle acts of the opera and were, as I considered,
an unreasonable interruption, in every sense of the word. Besides, I
wearied of the constant repetition of the same insipid pantomime; and
the invariable story of the “Two Rivals” was commonplace in the highest
degree.
One evening I turned to a gentleman who sat beside me, and expressed my
impatience, finding fault in rather an irritable tone with the _prima
ballerina_ for killing herself, and, “Why does she not rather kill her
rival?” I asked of him.
My companion was a matter-of-fact personage, and after gazing at me for
some time with an expression of disapprobation: “Comment, Mademoiselle,”
he exclaimed, “sous une chevelure ainsi blonde vous cachez des passions
ainsi violentes?” I have often thought that we blondes labour under a
great responsibility, as we are generally supposed (in fiction at least)
to be mild and virtuous, calm and placable.
I can recall most vividly an amusing evening spent at the Veglione. My
eldest brother tried to persuade us to go to the masquerade that night,
but we (my mother, my sister and myself) were very deceitful, complained
of sleepiness and disinclination for the task to which he was looking
forward. In the meantime we had surreptitiously made assignations with
three of our friends to meet us at the door of the theatre and be our
escort for the night. Our hotel was situated on the port, and we had,
therefore, to pass through several of the narrow streets _en route_ for
San Carlo, which could only be traversed by sedan chairs.
During the many years I have passed in Italy, I have never seen above
three instances of drunkenness in the streets, but this evening I was
unfortunate. My chair swayed about from side to side, as if I were in a
steamboat, and at last came to a dead stop, and our faithful servant
Henry, who was walking by my side, lifting up the top and opening the
door, informed me of the reason, while turning to the chairmen he heaped
upon them in his very best Italian a storm of indignant invectives, at
the same time sending back the more sober of the two to the hotel, to
summon another pair of bearers. Issuing from the sedan, in all the
splendour and magnificence of a Turkish Sultana with an entire mask, I
began to add my indignant rebukes to those of Henry, when the
ludicrousness of the position came home so forcibly to me that I stopped
in my harangue. Glittering with gold and silver and false jewels, and of
the commanding stature of five foot nothing, I must have greatly
impressed those guilty men. Remembering, however, that my “paper face,”
as the Italians call an entire mask, was expressive of inane good humour
and the blandest of smiles, I came down from my pinnacle of sublime
virtue, and retreated into my chair until the appearance of my new
bearers. Arrived at the theatre, and joined by our cavaliers, we mixed
in the motley throng on mischief bent.
[Sidenote: A MASQUERADE]
My companion, being one of the leaders of society, who knew all about
everybody and everything in that society, was of the greatest use in
prompting my sallies and in enlightening me when I was at a loss.
“Do you see,” I said, “that officer who is following us, and who looks
at me every now and then in the most threatening manner? I do not know
him, and he evidently takes me for somebody else.”
“Yes,” replied Count Camille, “I think I can explain it? He is very much
attached to a French lady, who is about your size, and I think he has
mistaken you for her. She is a clever little women and writes poetry.”
On this hint, I spake. With a rashness which perhaps I should have
feared to exercise after a longer acquaintance with Italy and the
Italians, I determined to tease my follower. I had resolved from the
beginning to speak only Italian, or very broken English, so as not to be
found out as a foreigner in too many languages, so I began to
expostulate with my officer on his dogging my steps. I made Camille, who
was very tall, bend down earnestly and talk to me in a whisper, about
nothing or anything. I told my pursuer that I had been too busy to think
of him lately, as I had been occupied writing sonnets to the moon, with
other wise speeches of an exasperating quality. I then told him I was
going to valse, and should not be able to do so if he stuck so close to
me. I think I was rather courageous to bear the brunt of the furious
looks he cast upon me. He still followed, and after two rounds I came
back to the place where he was standing, upbraided him for his jealousy,
and raising my mask for a moment, relieved him from all his suspicions
by showing the face of an utter stranger. He was not what would be
called a handsome man, but it required a southern face and a southern
nature to express the delight and relief that he experienced at that
moment. His bad quarter of an hour was over, and he was good-humoured
enough to enter into the fun and mischief of the mask who had deceived
him; his eyes literally beamed with pleasure, and with an arch smile and
a low bow he hoped, in the charming Italian form of speech, that we
should soon meet again.
I next attacked a Marchese of our acquaintance, who was very ill of
Anglomania, and extremely proud of speaking the language, which he did
very well for a Genoese, for they are not remarkable for being good
linguists. To him I spoke in English, and excited as much jealousy in
his breast, though of a different nature, as I had already done in that
of my officer. I was careful to break my English and to translate from
Italian idioms. When asked where I lived and whence I came, I told him
that I resided somewhere between the Acqua Sola (the promenade on the
north side of the city) and the Lantern, meaning the Lanterna or
lighthouse. He then asked me if I had ever been in England, and I told
him that I had spent six months in that country. Beckoning to a member
of the American Legation, he whispered to him that he should engage in
conversation with me, and I had the satisfaction of hearing the referee
inform him that I certainly was no Englishwoman.
[Sidenote: A BUNCH OF VIOLETS]
So far my efforts had been successful at puzzling and misleading, but a
higher triumph was in store for me. I sought out my brother, chaffed him
mercilessly about his flirtations, his favourite partners and the like,
paid especial court to him, flattered him in the way I knew would most
please him, and made a resistless attack on his vanity! I asked him to
take one _tour de valse_ with me, and finally ended by presenting him
with a large bunch of violets. It is always said that the best way to
detect a mask is to examine the hands and feet, but here I was a match
for my brother. With an entire disregard of vanity I had encased my
hands in ill-fitting gloves, and over my usual evening shoes had drawn a
pair of Turkish slippers. I joined my mother and my sister, and we all
three went home to the hotel, and were sound asleep before the return of
my brother. The next morning I went into his room before he was up, and
in the most innocent manner asked him to tell me all about the _bal
masqué_, whether it was amusing, whether he advised us to go next time,
whom he had seen and recognised, etc. Then, turning round and seeing my
violets carefully placed in water by his bedside, I pounced upon them,
saying, “How deliciously sweet! where did you get them?”
“Pray leave my violets alone,” he said in a sharper tone than usual;
“I’ve a particular reason for not wishing to part with them”; and this
was uttered mysteriously, mingled with a certain degree of
self-complacency which made me quite dread the inevitable moment when I
must confess to poor Courtenay that those violets were the gift of his
sister! What a terrible anti-climax to the romantic episode of the
foregoing evening, as he had evidently believed the donor to be one of
the beautiful Genoese ladies who were the brilliant ornaments of that
brilliant society.
There is a proverb connected with the proud city, that “Its sea has no
fish and its fair citizens no souls.” To this I demur, and at all events
there were few towns, even in Italy, where the women of the three
different classes were more beautiful. In Rome, for instance, the
aristocracy, with some splendid exceptions, were not famous for their
personal charms, but the lower orders, especially the Trasteverini (or
the inhabitants from the other side of the Tiber), were for the most
part magnificent specimens of womanhood, tall, fully developed, majestic
in their bearing, with not infrequently a defiant expression. My
sweeping description of the Romans of the lower orders used to be, that
all the women looked as if they would stab you if they could, and all
the men did.
The fashion of veils and chintz head-dresses in Genoa was going out as
early as 1833, but a few years before, the noble ladies were
distinguished by wearing lace veils, similar to the mantilla of the
Spaniards, but chiefly white; the burghers’ wives, white muslin; while
the lower classes, whether country or townswomen, wore on their heads
the chintz covering, which is now almost obsolete, even in Genoa, but
has of late years been copied in the Manchester manufactories, and sold
for bed-quilts in many of our London shops.
[Sidenote: MAZZINI AND CAMILLE DE CAVOUR]
The year of which I am speaking was very eventful, and great political
excitement was felt throughout all Italy, especially in the north.
Mazzini was at work, and had made his influence widely felt, while that
true patriot, Camille de Cavour, preached the doctrines of real reform,
and was preparing the way for better days in the land he loved so well.
Intrigues of all kinds were being carried on, of a complicated
character; frequent arrests were made, and spies were in every house,
reporting the conversations that took place at private dinner-tables. I
believe there is little doubt that our head-waiter, old Pietro, was one
of the most officious of these eavesdroppers. I heard it afterwards with
regret, for he was a favourite of mine, and often joined in an easy and
pleasant manner in our conversation. On one occasion I was quoting a
short poem of Metastasio’s that I admired greatly, and I had got as far
as
“Cosi non torna fido, Quell’ angioletto al nido ...”
and there I stuck fast, when Pietro, stepping lightly forward, came to
my rescue, and, in a sonorous and theatrical voice, exclaimed:
“La pargoletta prole, al cibo a ravvivai.”
Picture to yourself a waiter at a London hotel volunteering to finish
for you the last lines of a sonnet by Milton, or of a speech by
Shakespeare!
The history of that time will be found recorded in the story called
“Lorenzo Benoni,” by Ruffini,[31] the author of that most charming
little book “Doctor Antonio,” a wonderful literary triumph, when you
remember that the two volumes were written in English by an Italian.
Footnote 31:
Giovanni Ruffini, an Anglo-Italian writer of novels and sketches, who
lived from 1807 to 1881.
But now the time came for our departure, and how deeply grieved I was to
bid adieu to Genoa and the Genoese. My brother and sister went to
England to attend their duties at Court, as they were both in the
Household, and my mother and I set out for the baths of Lucca, where we
had been advised to spend the summer. We took up our abode in a nice
little house at the Bagni della Villa, being shortly after rejoined by
my brother Courtenay.
------------------------------------------------------------------------