SUMMER AT THE BATHS OF LUCCA
We were all delighted with the Baths at Lucca, and the picturesque
environs. The surrounding hills were covered with Spanish chestnut
trees, which retained their fresh spring green during the whole of the
summer, and the cool, refreshing river Lima, which runs through the
valley, tempered and mitigated the heat of those months, that to some of
our compatriots appeared excessive. My brother and I hired ponies, and
in the company of two Englishmen, his friends, we rode every day, making
excursions into all the beautiful little towns which crowned the
neighbouring mountains, a pleasure which was heightened by the fact that
our dear mother was sometimes able to join us in these pilgrimages,
being carried in a chair by the sure-footed peasants of the country, who
made no difficulty in ascending the hill-sides, however steep.
As the spring came on, the wild-flowers were a constant source of
delight to us, although our botany was of no scientific nature. There is
a thistle there which grew by the roadside and in the fields, that I
have never seen elsewhere, though perhaps I prove my ignorance in
thinking it to be a rare specimen; in shape it resembles a small
sunflower, but the centre is violet, and the small and numerous petals
shine like mother-of-pearl or glistening opal. I was very fond of
wearing it in my hair, in those days when it was the fashion to dress
the head with natural flowers, in a country where even men, especially
fishermen, were frequently seen with a rose, a carnation, or some sweet
flower fixed behind one ear.
One day as we were riding along, about five miles from the Baths, my
brother and I were surprised at being accosted by a peasant in very good
English. We slackened our pace and entered into conversation with him,
enquiring how it was that he spoke our language so well. He told us that
he had been many years in England, carrying about a tray of
plaster-casts on his head through the streets. This is a custom which
has become less frequent, but when I was a child, nothing tempted my
scanty store of pocket-money more than one of what I called those “white
images,” and I well remember the delight I felt in the possession of a
young Apollo. When I saw the original in after years I hailed it as an
old acquaintance. The man told us that most of the people in that line
of trade came from the village through which we were at that moment
riding, and that those who were successful in their business usually
returned to end their days, small blame to them, in their beautiful
country.
[Sidenote: THE BODDINGTONS]
We occupied the ground floor in our house at the Villa, while the _primo
piano_ was inhabited by an English family, consisting of a middle-aged
lady, a gentleman, and two daughters. My mother, as a rule, kept aloof
from the companionship of her compatriots while on the continent, unless
they were old friends, and preferred the society of the natives; but I
had a secret hankering after the acquaintance of the English girls above
us. The eldest in particular took my fancy; she was tall and well
formed, with a profusion of dark brown hair, and although her face could
not be called beautiful, it was wonderfully expressive. I had heard of
her proficiency in drawing, and had often passed her as she sat
sketching under her large umbrella, and I knew she was a charming
musician, for I could hear her beautiful touch on the pianoforte, and
her melodious singing in many languages, as clearly as if we had been in
the same room; but time wore on, and we did not become acquainted.
One day I was busy reading in our little sitting-room when I heard the
most piercing shrieks, accompanied with a stamping of feet and other
signs of distress. Without a moment’s hesitation, I flung down my book
and, heedless of _les convenances_, rushed upstairs, and dashed into the
room, where I found the two girls ministering to their mother’s maid,
who for some unreasonable reason or other had gone off into violent
hysterics. That was the strange fashion in which we made the
acquaintance of the excellent Boddingtons, whose companionship and
friendship cheered many years of the lives of both generations. From
that moment the two mothers became inseparable, and both the girls
endeared themselves to my heart, so much so that the elder and I were
subsequently known amongst our friends at Rome and Florence as “Rosalind
and Celia.”
While we were at the baths of Lucca, a ball was given by the couriers
and upper servants of the families passing the summer there, which was
to take place in the little theatre where dramatic performances were
occasionally given. To this ball the “quality” were bidden, and places
assigned to them in the boxes, while the pit and stage were boarded over
for the dancers.
We spent a most amusing evening in watching the arrival of the guests,
who were received at the entrance by the stewards, according to the rank
of their masters and mistresses. Thus the lady’s maid to the Duchess of
Lucca was received with royal honours, everybody curtseying and bowing
as she passed along, and great clapping of hands as she made her way to
the principal seat. I cannot say her temporary Highness looked very
royal, or her toilette very well chosen, but she was determined, as it
appeared to me, to do honour to her high position by putting on a small
portion of every “chiffon” she possessed. Her gown was of as many
colours as Joseph’s coat. Filigree trinkets from Genoa, and, I should
imagine, from several _bijoutiers en faux_ in the Palais Royal adorned
her neck, ears, and hands, while on her head she wore flowers, feathers,
and more false hair than was then consistent with the fashion even of
that day. Her airs and graces were in keeping with her attire, and I
could not help contrasting her whole appearance with that of her Royal
mistress.
[Sidenote: HIGH LIFE BELOW STAIRS]
It was easy to detect the nationality of the different households: the
severe simplicity of the English, the light and airy ball-dresses of the
French, and the different modes of dancing which characterised the
different countries. The little flirtations that passed, the extreme
_galanterie_ of the men, especially the couriers, the awkward “footing
it” of some, and the very graceful dancing of others, were all most
amusing to witness. It was _High Life Below Stairs_ acted on a real
stage by real characters, and far less exaggerated than the famous droll
old farce.
During our sojourn at the Baths we made a delightful excursion to the
town of Lucca, and here we became acquainted with the reigning Duke and
Duchess. They were reckoned the handsomest couple in Europe. The Duchess
was a daughter of the King of Sardinia, and as good as she was
beautiful; the description of her would pass for that of many an Italian
beauty, but I have seldom seen her equal. She was tall and majestic,
with a noble presence and lustrous eyes, but she had the saddest
expression I almost ever beheld, and so I observed to one of her ladies,
who became a great friend of mine, and she told me that it was not
without cause. Almost the same description might be given of the Duke’s
personal appearance, with the exception of the sad expression, for there
was no melancholy in the beaming, smiling countenance of Charles de
Bourbon. He had a sweet voice and a winning tongue, was a graceful
dancer, and the admired of all who saw him; but he was unworthy the love
of so noble a woman, and was vain and inconstant by nature. It was told
of him that one day a friend presumed to ask him how it was possible he
could treat his beautiful wife with so little consideration.
“Tiens, tiens,” he said, “elle est très bonne, elle est très belle, mais
elle ne me contrarie jamais. C’est si fade.”
I mention this circumstance as a warning to wives who are too forgiving
and forbearing.
About this time there took place a great religious festival in Lucca.
According to a legend, one day in far distant times a ship came to—I
forget what part of the coast, or what harbour—bearing a sacred image of
our Lord, which was at once appropriated by the Luccees.[32] As far as I
can remember, it was a rough, ill-modelled effigy, with a black face,
but it was held in high veneration by the citizens, and on one night in
every year it was carried through the town in a long procession,
consisting of the Court, the nobles, the Guilds, and principal burghers
of the place. I can recall the scene as the moonlight streamed down on
the Duke and Duchess and their attendants, the Duke in full uniform, the
Duchess a perfect dream of beauty in soft pale blue, crowned with a
heavy tiara of diamonds, and with diamonds studding her whole dress, and
glittering and sparkling in the moonlight with a softer brilliancy than
can ever be seen in the interior of a room. The ladies and gentlemen of
the retinue alike in full dress, and the priests bearing candles and
chanting as they went, made a sight never to be forgotten.
Footnote 32:
According to the tradition, the Volto Santo was carried by Nicodemus,
who, after the Crucifixion, was bidden by an angel to make an image of
our Lord; but leaving it unfinished, he found the Face had been
miraculously completed. It is said to have found its way to the coast
of Italy in an open boat, and to have been brought to Lucca in 782.
[Sidenote: DUKE AND DUCHESS DE BOURBON]
One morning, after a ball at the ducal palace, the lady in waiting, to
whom I have already referred, told me that the Duchess was suffering
from a violent headache, arising from the weight of the diadem, which
she had not worn for some time. This struck me as a symbol, and the next
morning I wrote the following lines, which I gave to the Marchesa:—
“Once more, oh joy! once more alone,
The pageant’s at an end
And all the crowded train are gone,
The courtier, flatterer, friend.
All, all is hushed and silent now,
I tear the diadem from my brow,
Each glittering fillet rend.
Oh would I thus my heart could free,
And lift its load of misery!
“I am alone, oh joy untold!
My splendid task is o’er,
My heart of griefs I may unfold,
And swell the grievous store.
I need not face the hollow smile,
With a weeping bosom all the while,
My tears may freely pour.
I need not speak of trivial things,
When every word fresh torture brings.
“Oh, well can I recall the day
I left my mother’s care,
When, decked in royal bride array,
Each voice proclaimed me fair.
That morn I drank in hope’s bright dream,
The fount of joy and nectar’s stream,
And breathed a magic air.
The sun, the sky, the earth, the sea,
That day had new-born charms for me.
“A ducal crown was not the thought
That fired my soul with pride,
Sardinia’s daughter might be sought
For many a throne beside.
But rapture’s cup was flowing o’er,
The morn I left Liguria’s shore,
As Charles de Bourbon’s bride.
Sole Empress of his heart of bliss—
What were my sister’s realms to this?
“They call me haughty, proud, and cold,
But little do they know——
Who can through Hecla’s snows behold
The flames that lurk below?
O Charles, my sovereign, husband, guide,
My heart’s best, earliest, dearest pride,
Yet source of all my pain,
Give me the love of bygone years,
To turn the current of my tears
In smiles of hope again.”
The Marchesa read the lines with tears, and said how much she wished she
could show them to her royal mistress; but, alas! in some cases,
sympathy is an insult.
Before taking leave of the Baths of Lucca altogether, I think I may as
well allude here to a second visit which we paid some years later to
this charming spot, when we found the only son of the Duke and Duchess
established at the Royal Villa, and were invited, shortly after our
arrival, to a ball which they gave.
[Sidenote: “FILTHY LUCRE”]
The Prince had married the only sister of the Comte de Chambord. She was
a pretty blonde, fair of complexion, and short of stature, with golden
hair and blue eyes _à fleur de tête_. Her manners were winning and
gracious, and she altogether formed a striking contrast to her husband,
who was vulgar and unrefined. Indeed, in a subsequent visit to England,
he gained for himself the name of “Filthy Lucre.” One of his gentlemen
told me that the greatest ambition of His Highness was to be taken for
an English groom, upon which I retorted that in that case, he must
contrive to have a better seat on horseback. But to return to the ball.
I remember both my mother and myself being extremely scandalised by the
fact of His Highness holding, what some of the gentlemen called, _un
estaminet_, next door to the ball-room, where, during the greater part
of the evening, he and his chosen friends smoked very bad tobacco. This
incident will not surprise the readers of the present day; the only
difference lies in the better quality of the tobacco, for what was then
considered an innovation in the manners and customs of society, is now
sanctioned by the highest authority.
The career of this ill-fated Prince was a miserable one. On the death of
Maria Louisa, the Duchy of Lucca became annexed to that of Tuscany,
while that of Parma fell to the share of Charles de Bourbon, Duke of
Lucca. He disliked the change, retired into private life, and abdicated
in favour of his son, who assumed the title of Charles III.
Now began a reign of misrule and anarchy; the new sovereign was hated by
his subjects, as was his Prime Minister, Baron Ward. This man, who was a
Yorkshire jockey, first entered the Duke’s service as groom, and by
degrees became his political adviser, confidant, and companion. After a
short and disastrous reign, Charles III. was assassinated in the open
street, and as some say, in a common tavern, by the hand of a man of the
lower orders, prompted, it was supposed, by hatred and jealousy.
The incidents connected with this event were kept as secret as possible.
It took place in the year 1854, when the Duchess became regent for her
infant son, and these chronicles belong to the time when Italy was not
united.
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