the literary world by becoming bankrupt. They had been personally
pleasant to deal with; I had never doubted their solvency; and I was on
terms of friendly intercourse with Mr. Isbister. In April 1878 he wrote
to me saying that he knew I applied the interest of money derived from
my books to charitable purposes, and that he would much rather bestow
the large interest he was prepared to give for such purpose than any
other, and he asked me to lend him £1500. I had not the sum at the time
he asked for it, but, about a week later, being advised to sell out that
sum from some American securities, I lent it to him. Then, within a
month, the firm declared itself bankrupt, owing me in all nearly £3000,
and the £1500 and much more was apparently lost for ever.[326] In
accepting contracts for my different books, I had always fully
understood, and been given to understand, that I never parted with the
copyright. I believe that most publishers would have informed an
ignorant author that the very unusual forms of agreement they prepared
involved the copyright, but I was allowed to suppose that I retained it
in my own hands. I first discovered my mistake after their bankruptcy,
when, besides owing me nearly £3000, Messrs. Daldy and Isbister demanded
a bonus of £1500 (which I refused, offering £850 in vain) for giving me
the permission to go on circulating my own books through another
publisher.
As it was impossible to come to terms, my unfortunate books lapsed. In
the autumn of 1879 Messrs. Daldy and Isbister offered to submit to an
arbitrator the question of the amount to be paid to my so-great debtors
for the liberty of continuing to publish my books. Three eminent
publishing firms chose an arbitrator, but when he sent in his estimate
they would not agree to it.
These circumstances made such a discouragement for any real work, that
for two years I did nothing of a literary character beyond collecting
the reminiscences contained in these volumes. The first year was chiefly
occupied by my duties towards the Crown Prince of Sweden and Norway. In
the second year I had a comparative holiday. It is therefore that I call
it “A Halt in Life.”
* * * * *
In November 1879 an event occurred which would at one time have affected
me very deeply--the death of the Mary Stanley who for many years ruled
my adopted family by the force of her strong will, and who, after my
dearest Mother was taken away from me, remorselessly used that power to
expel me from the hearts and homes of those over whom she had any
influence, in her fury at the publication of the “Memorials of a Quiet
Life.” Yet, when her restless spirit was quieted by Death, I could only
remember the kind “Cousin Mary” of my childhood, when my greatest
delight was to go to her room at Norwich, and so many of my little
pleasures came from her.
“Where thou hast touched, O wondrous Death!
Where thou hast come between,
Lo, there for ever perisheth
The common and the mean.
No little flaw or trivial speck
Doth any more appear,
And cannot, from this time, to fleck
Love’s perfect image clear.”[327]
Hard to those in her own class, and with them ever occupied in asserting
and insisting upon her own little imaginary dignities, Mary Stanley did
more unselfish work for the poor than almost any one, and hundreds of
whom nothing is known in the society in which she lived miss and mourn
her. Probably only the poor knew the best, the really beautiful side of
Mary Stanley’s life, which was _most_ beautiful.
I often wish, as regards her, I could have profited more by words of
Mrs. Kemble which I read too late to apply them--“Do you not know that
to misunderstand and be misunderstood is one of the inevitable
conclusions, and I think one of the especial purposes, of our existence?
The principal use of the affection of human beings for each other is to
supply the want of perfect comprehension, which is impossible. All the
faith and love which we possess are barely sufficient to bridge over the
abyss of individualism which separates one human being from another; and
they would not, or could not, exist, if we really understood each
other.”
[Illustration: FROM S. GREGORIO, MESSINA.][328]
In December I went abroad to join the two Miss Hollands--my Norwegian
companions--at Ancona, and go on with them to Sicily, a journey through
deep snow and agonising cold. After I met the Hollands and their friend
Miss Lily Howard, we went rapidly south, with Sir George Baker, his wife
and daughter, semi-annexed to our party, and at Reggio we found
summer--palms, bananas, blue skies and sunshine.
[Illustration: TAORMINA.][329]
Our wretched journey made the first morning at Messina quite enchanting,
as we climbed the heights, looking down upon the straits and to the
purple peaks of Italy, their tips glistening with snow. Nespoli,
daturas, and camellias grew as trees in full bloom; the gardens were a
mass of salvias, trumpet-flower, and roses; heliotrope in full blossom
hung over the high walls, and quantities of scarlet geraniums grew wild
upon the beach.
More lovely still was Taormina, hanging like an eagle’s nest on the
ledge of the mountain, and looking down into the blue sea, which breaks
into emerald near the snowy line of breakers. On one side is Etna, quite
gigantic, with pathless fields of snow even upon the lower heights; on
the other are the grand ruins of the Theatre, from which, above the
broken arches and pillars, the queen of fire and snow looms unspeakably
sublime. Our pleasant primitive inn was in a quiet street, where all the
daily incidents were lovely--the goats coming in the early morning to be
milked: the peasants riding in upon their asses: the convent bells
jangling: the women returning from the fountain with vases of old Greek
forms upon their heads, burnished yellow, green, or red: the singing at
Ave Maria and Benediction. We spent several days at Taormina, drawing
quietly in the mornings amongst the rocky beds of pinks, and snapdragon,
and silene: reading aloud in the evenings--Thucydides, Gregorovius, and
then a novel for relaxation: the four ladies and their maid
occasionally singing in parts as in Norway.
[Illustration: ROMAN AMPHITHEATRE, SYRACUSE.][330]
We were sorry to go on to Syracuse, for though many had told us of its
intense interest and curiosity, no one had spoken of its extreme
loveliness. Of its five towns, only the island-town of Ortygia remains.
Acradina, Neapolis, Tycho, and Epipolae are desolate hillsides covered
with pink-grey limestone, overgrown with wild figs, olives, prickly
pears, and ten thousand lovely flowers; and from their sunny slopes you
look to the blue mountains of Hybla and the rose-coloured rocks of
Megara. Here and there, in the most exquisite situations, are Roman, and
still more beautiful Greek ruins, which seem to have grown into the
scenery and become part of it, gilded by lichen, fringed with flowers.
[Illustration: FROM THE WALLS OF EPIPOLAE.][331]
[Illustration: ON THE RIVER CYANE.][332]
Each morning at Syracuse we engaged little carriages (costing one
shilling the hour) for the day, and took with us a well-filled luncheon
basket for ourselves and our charming young drivers, and we wandered,
and studied, and drew for hours. We spent a whole day on the grand
heights of Epipolae, looking on one side across a luxuriant plain to
snowy Etna, and on the other across the vast ruined city to the blue
sea, with Ortygia gleaming upon it like a jewel. Another whole day was
given to ascending the rivers Anapus and Pisma to the mystic blue
fountain of Cyane: the most romantic of boating excursions, the boatmen
every now and then being obliged to jump into the water and push the
boat over the shallows or through the thick water-plants: the papyrus
with its exquisite feathery crests almost meeting overhead, or grouped
into the most glorious masses on the islets in midstream: enchanting
little views opening every now and then to palms and cypresses and blue
rifts in the roseate rocks of Megara; now a foreground of oleanders,
then of splendid castor-oil plants. In returning, we walked up a hill to
the Temple of Jupiter Olympus, through a perfect blaze of dwarf blue
iris, the loveliest flowers I ever saw.
[Illustration: ACI CASTELLO.][333]
We spent the four first days of the New Year at Catania, a dull town,
though backed by the glorious snow-fields of Etna, and we made thence
two excursions--to Aci Castello, a beautiful old castle on lava rocks,
and to Aci Reale, with the spring into which Acis, the lover of Galatea,
is supposed to have been changed.
[Illustration: TEMPLE OF CONCORD, GIRGENTI.][334]
At Girgenti we found an excellent hotel, with rooms opening to
delightful balconies, overhanging--at a great height--one of the
noblest views in the world, billow upon billow of purple hill, crested
with hoary olives, and with masses of oranges and caroubas in all the
sheltered nooks, a vast expanse of glistening sea, and a range of Greek
temples in desolate loveliness. The landlord, Don Gaetano de Angelis,
was a stately old Sicilian, who treated us far more like honoured guests
than customers, and fed us so luxuriously and magnificently that we
wondered how it was possible he could repay himself. He had lately
married for the second time, a pretty merry child-wife in huge gold
earrings, who paid us frequent visits, and was delighted with us and
our drawings, and to sit for her portrait. They quite enjoyed the
preparation of the luncheon basket, with which we always set off at 9
A.M., not returning till the sunset had turned the sea rose-colour and
set the mountains aflame. Each day we picnicked amongst the asphodels
and lilies in the shadow of one of the Greek temples, and were glad to
find a shelter from the burning sun, which blazed in a sky that only
turned from turquoise to opal. Some of the temples are nearly perfect,
some mere masses of ruin, or one or two pillars with a beautiful bit of
yellow architrave set in the most exquisite landscape--delicate pink
mountain distances, and foregrounds of grand old olive-trees or almonds
flushing into richest bloom, above a ground enamelled with flowers of
every hue. We all agreed in thinking Girgenti more beautiful than any
other place, and its people even more charming than the scenery, so full
of kindly simplicity, from the Syndic to Pasqualuccio, the little
goatherd, with coins in his earrings after the old Greek fashion, who
gives each of his goats a _colazione_ of acanthus leaves, set out like
plates on a dinner-table, on the fallen columns in the Temple of Juno.
[Illustration: IN THE TEMPLE OF JUNO LACINIA.]
[Illustration: IN THE TEMPLE OF HERCULES.][335]
[Illustration: TEMPLE OF CASTOR AND POLLUX, GIRGENTI.][336]
The second day after our arrival, as we were returning home up the hill
in the still warm evening light, we turned aside to the old deserted
convent of S. Niccola. A merry crowd of gentlemen and ladies and little
boys and girls were shouting and singing on the terrace, and dancing the
tarantella to the music of three peasants on a bagpipe, tambourine, and
triangle. Like a Bacchanalian rout of old times they came rushing down
to meet us, twenty-six in number, chained together with garlands, and
the girls all wreathed with wild scarlet geranium. They escorted us all
over the garden, gathering flowers and fruits for us, the crowd of
little children gambolling and dancing in front. Then they begged us to
go back with them to the terrace, and began dancing again, and were
delighted when Miss Howard and Miss G. Holland danced with them.
Afterwards, standing on the terrace, our three ladies sang one of their
beautiful part songs, tumultuously applauded with _prosit_ and _evviva_.
The result was showers of visiting-cards from all the notables in
Girgenti, especially from a family who rejoice in the singular name of
the _Indelicati_. Then came invitations to a party and ball at Casa
Gibilaro, the sons of the house, Cesare and Salvatore, coming to escort
us up the steep street. Italian ladies sang, and so did our party, and
all danced, and we taught the Girgentines Sir Roger de Coverley, which
greatly enchanted them. The family of twenty-six--grandmother, uncles,
aunts, cousins, were all there, living in the happiest union and
affection, no daughter of the house ever marrying out of the place, and
all meeting constantly. Carmela and Pasqualina Gibilaro were so
enchanted with our two younger ladies, that they scarcely ever let go of
their hands, and expressed their delight over them in the most naïve
manner, and I became great friends with Salvatore and Antonio. One day,
Salvatore and Pasqualina dined with us, and we afterwards went again to
their house, where there was another dance, at which all the professors
of the university (on delightful terms of merriment with their pupils)
assisted, the Professor of Theology frisking about in the tarantella,
and the Professor of Philosophy leading the cotillon. We wished this
time to leave early, but our hosts insisted on our waiting till the
arrival of ices, an unwonted luxury with them, but ordered in our
honour. We had dined before, and since coming to the dance had been
obliged to eat quantities of _pasticcie_, so were aghast when we found
that we were each expected to eat an ice larger than an ordinary
tea-cake. We managed as well as we could, but it was dreadful. I
deposited more than half mine under a table. Miss Holland thought she
was getting on pretty well with hers, when a Contessa Indelicato, on the
opposite side of the room, seeing her flagging, filled a large spoon
with her own ice, and rushing across, popped it into her mouth. With
great promptitude Miss Howard instantly popped a spoonful of _her_ ice
into the mouth of a Contessina Indelicato! Great were the lamentations
and embraces from this amiable family when we left Girgenti, dear little
Antonio Gibilaro going with us to the station.
I spent the last morning at Girgenti in drawing the sea glistening
through the pink almond-trees, and the rocky road with its troops of
goats and donkeys, and in the afternoon of January 11 we went on to
Palermo.
Under the later Bourbon kings Sicily was perfectly safe and brigandage
utterly unknown, for the principal officials in each village and parish
were made responsible for its security; but the annihilation of the
rural police under the Sardinian Government taking place at the same
time with the abolition of capital punishment, had introduced
brigandage; and though it had become rare since the formation of
railroads, it was not considered safe for us to go far from Palermo
without an escort, and we were obliged to give up Segeste. When we were
at Palermo, murders for _vendetta_ were of constant occurrence, and only
cost three hundred francs, as the punishment was so slight,--generally
two years’ imprisonment without labour, and with a life of much greater
comfort than the culprit could have enjoyed at home. Besides, the
murderers are scarcely ever given up, as the _vendetta_ would then fall
upon those who betrayed them. Some of our party went to visit
Calatafimi, the brigand who carried off a gentleman from Cefalu, and,
when he got only half the ransom required, laboriously snipped with
scissors till his head came off, in a cave on Monte Pellegrino. He was
found very merry, in most comfortable quarters, with quantities of
fruit, newspapers, &c. When he was tired of being there, his family
would bribe the gaoler, and he would get out.
[Illustration: PALERMO, FROM S. MARIA DI GESU.]
The glorious weather we enjoyed in the south of the island turned to
torrents of rain at Palermo, but it is said that there are only
forty-two days in the year without rain there. On the rare occasions
when it clears, Palermo is most lovely, backed by such grand mountains,
the nearer ones rugged purple rocks, over which the snow-peaks peep out.
The cathedral also is very beautiful, with a great courtyard in front of
it planted with palm-trees and geraniums; but there are none of the
glorious flowers of Girgenti; the climate is a constant damp chill, like
that of Pau and Pisa, and I shall always associate the place with the
ceaseless melancholy roar of the sea, the drip and splash of the rain,
which fell day and night, and the monotony of the mouldy deserted walks.
In the Lazaretto cemetery--a lovely little spot hedged with Barbary
aloes--it was touching to see the tomb of my almost unknown father. He
also hated the place and was deeply depressed there.
Our one really fine day was delightful. We drove along the shore to
Bagaria, where all the old nobility have their country palaces, enormous
and stately in form, with huge courts and immense armorial shields over
their gates, but the windows generally half choked up or glassless, the
courts overgrown with weeds, and the roofs tumbling in. Sad indeed
would be the shock to an English girl who married a Sicilian prince for
his title and his “palace,” upon her arrival at one of these old
barracks, where she would be lucky if she could find one weathertight
chamber.
[Illustration: SOLUNTO.]
Beyond Bagaria, Capo Zafferano strides into the sea--a grand mountain,
covered with cactus almost to the top; and here, high on the rocks, are
the ruins of Solunto, a Carthaginian city--broad streets edged by
diminutive houses and temples in the style of Pompeii. We picnicked at
Solunto in the cactus shade, and drew all day the glorious view across
the bay to the purple crags and fantastic forms of Monte Griffone.
Another day we went to Monreale, the grand semi-Saracenic cathedral,
covered with mosaics, on the heights behind Palermo. It reminds me of a
story the late Lord Clanwilliam used to tell, which I will insert
here:--
* * * * *
“A Knight of Malta, who, by the rules of his Order, was both a soldier
and a priest, was once travelling in Sicily. Being at Palermo, he
strolled up to Monreale; it was a lovely evening, and in the great
cathedral, where the shade was so welcome after the heat of the way, the
effect was exquisitely beautiful, as the sunset streamed through the
long windows upon the mosaic walls. Being an artist, the knight took out
his sketch-book and began to draw, first one lovely arch and then
another, till the waning light warned him that night was approaching.
Then he made his way to the western door, but it was closed. He turned
to the side doors, to the sacristy; they were closed also. It was
evident that he was locked into the cathedral, and though he shouted and
kicked at the door, he could make no one hear. Spending the night alone
in a church had no terrors for him: it was only on account of the
discomfort that he objected to it; so he found his way to a confessional
far up the church, and made himself as comfortable there as he could
with all the cushions he could collect.
[Illustration: CLOISTERS, MONREALE.][337]
“Most wondrously beautiful is the cathedral of Monreale when the moon
casts its magic halo over the ancient mosaics, and so it was on this
night, when the artist-soldier-priest sat entranced with its unspeakable
loveliness. The whole building was bathed in softest light, each avenue
of arches at once a poem and a picture, when the clock struck twelve.
Then from the west door a figure seemed to be approaching, a cowled
figure in monastic robes, and the stranger felt with satisfaction that
he had been missed and that one of the monks of the adjoining monastery
was come to seek him. But, as he watched the figure, he observed its
peculiar movement, rather floating than walking up the nave, enveloped
in its sweeping draperies, and as it passed he heard a low musical voice
like a wiffling wind which said, ‘Is there no good Christian who will
say a mass for my poor soul?’ and the figure passed on swiftly, on
behind the altar, and did not return.
“Through an hour the Knight of Malta sat watching and expecting, and
then, as the clock struck one, the figure again floated up the nave, and
again the same sad low voice murmured, ‘Is there no good Christian will
say a mass for my poor soul?’ Then the Knight came out of the
confessional and pursued the vanishing figure, pursued it to a
particular spot behind the altar, where it disappeared altogether.
“When the clock struck two, the figure appeared again, and when it again
uttered the words, ‘Will no good Christian say a mass for my poor soul?’
the priest-soldier answered, ‘I will; but you must serve the mass,’ for
there can be no mass without a server. The holy vessels were upon the
altar, and the soldier-priest began the mass. Then the monk threw back
his cowl and displayed a skull, but he served the mass, which the priest
courageously went through to the end: then he fell down unconscious in
front of the altar.
“In the morning, when the monks came into the church, the stranger was
found still unconscious upon the altar steps. He was taken into the
convent, and, when he came to himself, he told what had happened. Great
search was made in the archives of the monastery, though nothing was
found to account for it. But long after, when some repairs were being
made in the cathedral, the body of a monk in his robe and cowl was
found walled up, evidently for some crime, near the altar, just at the
spot where the Knight had seen him vanish.”[338]
* * * * *
A railway took us from Palermo to Caldane, almost on the opposite coast,
and there we were transferred to a wretched tumble-down diligence, which
went swinging and jolting over the deep pools in the rocky road. Though
there were no regular brigands on this road, the peasants, who were too
idle to work, constantly formed themselves into great bands and attacked
the diligences; so the Sardinian Government, too feeble to attempt
managing the people themselves, sent a guard to defend us from them. Two
soldiers with guns sat on the luggage, and loaded pistols peeped
ominously from under the cloaks of the Sicilians within, one of whom was
an _impiégato per la caccia dei briganti_. However, late at night we
reached Caltanisetta, a great poverty-stricken city, with white houses,
white rocks, and no vegetation, high in the sulphur district.
[Illustration: GATE OF MOLA.][339]
[Illustration: TARANTO.][340]
On going to the station the next morning, we heard that the railway near
Messina was washed away, and that the last train had narrowly escaped a
Tay Bridge disaster by the breaking of the high bridge at Ali. So we
telegraphed to Taormina to send a carriage to meet us at Giardini, the
place nearest the scene of the disaster. We did not reach Giardini till
it was pitch-dark; the sea was raging close to the railway, and the rain
had been falling all day in torrents. It was such a night as one
scarcely ever sees, so tempestuous, so utterly black! There was no
carriage for us, and no one to meet us; the telegraph had been swept
away in the storm. Blankly and grimly did the officials see the large
party deposited at the desolate station surrounded by waters, and great
was the consternation of my four female companions when they found that
it was just going to be closed and abandoned. We got a man to wade
through the marsh to Giardini to try to get a carriage to come to us:
the carriage tried, but an intercepting torrent was so swollen, it was
impossible for it to cross without being swept out to sea. The man came
back along the railway parapet, and told us that we must give up all
hope of getting away. The officials refused to send any one with us; no
one would face the furies of the night; nor could they lend us a
lanthorn; they wanted it themselves. Happily I had made friends with a
young man of Taormina--_capo della musica_--who happened to be at the
station. He had a lanthorn, and kindly waited for us, till at last my
companions consented to kilt up their dresses and venture out into the
blackness. It was four miles by the road, about a mile and half by the
precipices; we chose the latter. But the path through the precipices,
which we had toiled up before in burning sunshine, was now a roaring
torrent. However, there was nothing for it but to plunge in absolute
blackness from stone to stone of the steep ascent, holding on to the
broom and asphodels. At the most dangerous points the _capo della
musica_, who made the little joke of “Io _solo_ sono sole,” kindly
waited with his lanthorn till each of the party of eight was safely
round the corner. Fortunately the rain almost ceased during the ascent,
and at last, by scrambling, jumping, or grovelling, we found ourselves
in the street of Taormina. The people of the inn were gone to bed, but
soon the great event of a large party with ladies arriving on such a
terrific night caused many windows to open in the friendly primitive
street, and heads and candles to appear: the hotel was roused, and we
were warmly welcomed.
[Illustration: CASTEL DEL MONTE.][341]
[Illustration: TOMB OF BOHEMUND, CANOSA.][342]