"Stern lawgiver, yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face."
--WORDSWORTH, _Ode to Duty_.
"Duties bring blessings with them."
--SOUTHEY, _Roderick_.
"In the acquisition of more or less useless knowledge, soon happily
to be forgotten, boyhood passes away. The schoolhouse fades from
view, and we turn into the world's high-road."--J. K. JEROME.
My new tutor, the Rev. Charles Bradley, was selected by Arthur Stanley,
who had been acquainted with his brother, afterwards Master of
University College at Oxford. I went over from Lime to see him at
Hastings, and at once felt certain that, though he was very eccentric,
his energy and vivacity were just what would be most helpful to me. His
house was an ugly brick villa standing a little way back from the road
in the pretty village of Southgate, about ten miles from London, and he
had so many pupils that going there was like returning to school. The
life at Southgate for the next two years was certainly the reverse of
luxurious, and I did not get on well with my tutor owing to his
extraordinary peculiarities, and probably to my many faults also; but I
feel that mentally I owe everything to Mr. Bradley. "Vita sine proposito
languida et vaga est"[59] was the first principle he inculcated. He was
the only person who ever taught me anything, and that he did not teach
me more than he did was entirely my own fault. He had a natural
enthusiasm for knowledge himself, and imparted it to his pupils; and the
energy and interest of the lessons at Southgate were perfectly
delightful--every hour filled, not a moment wasted, and a constant
excitement about examinations going on. I am sure that the manly vigour
of my surroundings soon began to tell on my character as much as my
mind, and at Southgate I soon learned to acquire more openness in
matters of feeling, and a complete indifference to foolish sneers. Mr.
R. for two years and a half had totally, systematically, and most
cruelly neglected me: Mr. Bradley fully did his duty by me--to a degree
of which I have only in after years learned the full value.
When we had a holiday at Southgate, it was the well-earned reward of
hard work on the part of the pupils, not the result of idleness on the
part of the tutor, and our holidays were intensely enjoyable. As he
found he could trust me, Mr. Bradley let me make long excursions on
these holidays--to Hatfield, St. Albans, Epping Forest, and often to
London, where my happy hunts after old buildings and historic
recollections laid the foundation of a work which I at that time little
looked forward to.[60] Sometimes also I went to the Stanleys', ever
becoming increasingly attracted by the charm, intelligence, and wisdom
of my "Aunt Kitty." She was very alarming with her
"Strong sovereign will, and some desire to chide."[61]
But the acuteness of her observation, the crispness of her conversation,
and the minute and inflexible justice of her daily conduct, ever showed
the most rare union of masculine vigour with feminine delicacy.
My aunt was very intimate with the Miss Berrys, who both died in 1852,
Agnes in January, Mary in November. Their celebrity began with their
great intimacy at Devonshire House and Lansdowne House: the old Duchess
of Devonshire was their great friend. I believe they were not clever in
themselves, but they had a peculiar power of drawing clever people
around them. They had both been engaged, Mary to the O'Hara, Agnes to
the Mr. Ferguson who married Lady Elgin. They were very kind-hearted,
and were, as it were, privileged to say rude things, which nobody
minded, at their parties. Often, when a fresh person arrived towards the
end of the evening, Miss Berry would say before all the other guests,
"You see I've been able to get no one to meet you--no one at all." She
would go out of the room whilst she was pouring out the tea, and call
out over the stairs, "Murrell, no more _women_, no more _women_;" and
Murrell, the butler, understood perfectly, and put out the lamp over the
door. A few very intimate friends would still come in, but, when they
saw the lamp was out, ladies generally drove away. Latterly, the Miss
Berrys tried to draw in a good deal. A sort of _jeu d'esprit_ went round
to their friends, thanking them for past favours, and asking for a
continuance on a smaller scale. It was never quite understood, but was
supposed to mean that they did not wish to see quite so many. The death
of Miss Agnes was like that of the wife. She had always been touching in
that she could never understand how any one could like her better than
her sister. She was the housekeeper, and she did what other housekeepers
seldom do--she had the soup brought up to her every day whilst she was
dressing, and tasted it, and would say, "There must be a little more
sugar," or "There is too much salt," so that it was always perfect and
always the same.
I think it must have been at this time also that I was taken to see the
venerable Lady Louisa Stuart, who died soon afterwards.[62] I am glad
that I can thus always retain a vivid recollection of the daughter of
the famous Lord Bute and grand-daughter of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu as
a very old lady of ninety-four, in a large cap, sitting in an
old-fashioned high-backed chair covered with white stuff, in a room of
extreme bareness.
Great was my excitement, on first going to Southgate. I stayed on the
way with the Stanleys, to see the Exhibition (of 1851) which was then
in full preparation, and the procession at the opening of Parliament.
_To_ MY MOTHER.
"_6 Grosvenor Crescent, Feb. 3, 1851._--The exterior of the Crystal
Palace is disappointing, I had imagined it so much higher, but the
interior is and looks gigantic. The most striking feature is the
great tree: it is wonderful to see its huge branches enclosed quite
to the topmost twigs, and the details of the building are
beautiful."
"_Feb. 4._--I went to the Bunsens' house to see the procession.
There was a crowd of people on the terrace when the great gun
announced that the Queen had left the palace, and already from
distant parts of the avenue cries of 'God save the Queen' and
'Hurrah!' The procession of Lifeguards in their panoply of
glittering helmets and breastplates was beautiful. Then came the
six gorgeous carriages with the household, and lastly the eight
cream-coloured horses drawing the great glass coach. Prince Albert
in his great boots sat on the side nearest to us, opposite the
Duchess of Sutherland in a diamond tiara; and on the other, the
Queen, in a crown and glistening dress of embroidered silver, kept
bowing to the shouts of her subjects--so much indeed that I heard a
poor Irish-woman exclaim--'Och indeed, and mustn't the poor thing
get tired of nodding her head about so.' ... There were forty
people at luncheon with the Bunsens afterwards."
"_Southgate, Feb. 8, 1851._--My own dearest mother, at last I am
writing from my own room at Southgate. I joined the omnibus at a
public-house at the bottom of Snow Hill,[63] and drove here through
the moonlight, arriving at 10 P.M. We stopped at a large gate in a
wall, which was opened by a stable-boy, who led the way across a
grass-plat with trees. Mr. Bradley met me in the hall, and took me
to see Mrs. Bradley, and then to my room, which at first seemed
most dreary, cold, and comfortless."
"_Feb. 9._--I have already seen enough of the life here to know a
good deal about it. Mr. Bradley is an excellent tutor, though I
could never like him as a man. He is much too familiar with his
pupils, pulls their hair or hits them on the toes with the poker
when they make mistakes: he will peer into their rooms, and if he
finds a coat, &c., lying about, will fine them a penny, and there
is a similar fine if you do not put the chair you have sat upon at
dinner close up against the wall when you have done with it. The
tradespeople are allowed to put in their bills, 'Pane of glass
broken by Portman or Brooke,' &c. When I asked him to lend me a
pen, he said, 'Oh, I don't provide my pupils with pens.' When he
wanted to send a parcel to Miss Jason, he told her brother he
should come upon him for the postage. The first thing he said to me
after I entered the house was--pointing to the sideboard--'Mind you
never take either of those two candles; those are Mrs. Bradley's
and mine' (we have sickly-smelling farthing dips in dirty japanned
candlesticks). These are instances to give you an idea of the man.
"If you have three indifferent marks from the mathematical master,
you have either to stay in all the next half-holiday, or to receive
three severe boxes on the ear!--a thing which I imagine would not
be borne at any other private tutor's, but Bradley seems to have
magic power. His inquisitiveness about trifles is boundless. If I
bring down a book--'What is that book? Was it a present? Who from?
Where was it bought? How much did it cost?'
"When I came down to prayers this morning (at eight, being Sunday),
I found all the pupils assembled. I am the smallest but one, and
look up at the gigantic Portman, who is only thirteen. Then we had
breakfast. Cold beef and ham were on the table, a huge loaf, and
two little glasses of butter. Mrs. Bradley poured out the tea,
while Bradley threw to each pupil an immense hunch off the loaf,
saying with mine, that I 'must not leave any, or any fat at dinner,
that was never allowed; and that I must always say first what I
wanted, much or little, fat or not.' After breakfast the pupils all
gathered round the fire and talked. Soon Bradley made us sit down
to work, myself at Greek Testament, till it was time to go to
church, whither we went, not quite in a schoolboy procession, but
very nearly. The church was 'Weld Chapel,' a barn-like building,
with round windows and high galleries. At dinner there was cold
roast and boiled beef, and plum and custard pudding, good and
plain, but with severe regulations. We did not have any time to
ourselves except three-quarters of an hour after afternoon church,
after which we went down to a sort of Scripture examination, with
such questions as, 'How do we know that Salome was the mother of
Zebedee's children?' I wrote what I thought an excellent set of
answers, but they proved sadly deficient, and I am afraid I _am_ a
dunce.... I am writing now after prayers, in forbidden time, and in
danger of having my fire put out for a month! Do not think from my
letter that I dislike being here. Oh, no! work, work, is the one
thing I need, and which I must and will have, and, if I have it,
all petty troubles will be forgotten. Good-night, my own dear
blessed mother."
"_Feb. 10._--Half my first work-day is over, and I have just washed
my hands, sooty with lighting my own fire, to write before dinner.
At half-past nine we all sat down to work at the long table in the
dining-room. I was directed to do Euripides while the 'schemes'
(tables of work) of the others were prepared, and we went on till
half-past twelve, when Bradley said, 'You've done enough.' Then
Campbell asked me to walk with him and Walker to the station....
All my companions seem very old."
"_Feb. 12._--On Wednesday afternoon I went a long walk with
Campbell. The country looks most dreary now, and mostly hidden by
London fog, still I think there are bits which I could draw....
When we came home I ached with cold and my fire was out. Mrs.
Bradley is certainly most good-natured; for happening to pass and
see my plight, she insisted on going down herself to get sticks,
laying it, and lighting it again. When I was going to bed, too, the
servant came up with a little bason of arrowroot, steaming hot, and
some biscuits, which 'Missis thought would do my cold good.'
"Bradley improves greatly on acquaintance, and is very kind to me,
though I am sorry to say he finds me far more backward and stupid
than he expected, especially in grammar. He has a wonderfully
pleasant way of teaching, and instead of only telling us we are
dunces and blockheads, like Mr. R., he helps us not to remain so.
"He was exceedingly indignant yesterday at receiving a letter from
Lord Portman to say that his son had complained of the dreadful
damp of the house, that his shirts put out at night were always wet
before morning. After expatiating for a long time upon the
unkindness and impropriety of Portman's conduct in writing to
complain instead of asking for a fire, he ended good-humouredly by
insisting on his going out into a laurel bush in the garden with
Forbes, to receive advice as to improved conduct for the future!
All this every pupil in the house was called down to witness:
indeed, if any one does wrong, it is Bradley's great delight to
make him a looking-glass to the others. Sometimes he holds up their
actual persons to be looked at. If they are awkward, he makes them
help the others at meals, &c., and all his little penances are made
as public as possible."
"_Feb. 14._--The days go quickly by in a succession of lessons, one
after the other. I am much happier already at Southgate than I
ever was anywhere else, for Bradley's whole aim, the whole thought
of his soul, is to teach us, and he makes his lessons as
interesting as Arthur (Stanley) himself would. I like all my
companions very much, but Walker best; and, though I am the
smallest, thinnest, weakest fellow here, I do not think they like
me the worse for it."
"_Feb. 16._--Yesterday, after work, I went by train to Hatfield
House, provided with a large piece of cake for luncheon by Mrs.
Bradley.... You may imagine my delight, as I expected something
like Penshurst at best, to see tower after tower, and pile after
pile of the most glorious old building, equally splendid in colour
and outline--far the most beautiful house I ever saw. It was a
perfect day, the sun lighting up the glorious building, and making
deep shadows upon it, and glinting through the old oaks in the park
upon the herds of deer.... The train was forty minutes late, and it
was quite dark when I got back, but Mrs. Bradley's good-nature gave
me a welcome and a hot meat tea, whereas with Mrs. R. there would
indeed have been cold behaviour and cold tea--if _any_.
"The only way of getting on with Bradley is the most entire
openness, and answering all his questions as shortly and simply as
possible.... After Cicero he always gives us a composition to
translate into Latin out of his own head, most extraordinary
sometimes, though in the style of what we have been reading. I am
already beginning to find Cicero quite easy, and am beginning at
last even to make some little sense of Euripides."
"_Feb. 21._--At half-past six I hear knocking without intermission
at my door, which it is generally a long time before I am
sufficiently awake to think other than a dream. Presently I jump
up, brush my own clothes, seize my Cicero, and look it over while I
dress, and at half-past seven rush downstairs to the dining-room.
For some minutes the stairs are in a continual clatter. Meantime I
retire into a window in agonies of agitation about my Cicero, till
Bradley comes in rubbing his hands, and sits down in an arm-chair
by the fire: I sit down by him, and Hill on the other side of me,
like a great long giant. I generally do this lesson very ill,
partly from want of presence of mind, partly from inattention, and
partly because I am scarcely awake: however, Bradley makes it not
only instructive but interesting, always giving us funny sentences
out of his own head to construe into the sort of Latin we are
doing. I quite enjoy my lessons with him, only he must think me
_such_ a dunce. After the lesson is construed, I sometimes have to
do it all through by myself, or the others do it and I correct them
(if I can). Sometimes the poker is held over their toes, when,
without exception, they do it worse than before, and down it comes.
Then we parse.
"Then a little bell tinkles. Portman cuts the bread, Bradley the
ham, and I help to set chairs in two rows from the fire, while the
others hang over it, very grim and cold. Two maidens and a
stable-boy come in, we sit in two rows confronting each other, and
Bradley in the oddest possible tone reads a chapter in 'Proverbs'
and a prayer. Then the chairs are put to the table: I sit next but
Hill to Mrs. Bradley, which means I am fourth eldest, Walker on
the other side of me, Forbes and Campbell opposite. At breakfast
every one talks of plans for the day, Forbes and Portman of hounds,
races, and steeplechases, Campbell of church windows; it is very
different from the silent meals at Lyncombe.
"We do not begin regular work again till half-past nine, though I
generally prepare mine, but sometimes Forbes persuades me to come
out and give them a chase, that is, to run away as hard as I can,
with all the others yelping like hounds at my heels; but the scene
of these chases is only a square walled garden and orchard, and
there are no places for concealment. We come in very dirty, and
Buchan is sometimes made to wear his dirty shoes round his neck, or
to have them under his nose all worktime.
"I work in my room till ten, when I come in with Walker for the
second Cicero lesson, which is even pleasanter than the other.
Afterwards we write Latin compositions out of our own heads! Then I
sometimes say Greek grammar, or else work in my own room again till
twelve, when I go down to the young Cambridge wrangler, who is
teaching some one all worktime, but with whom I do nothing except
for this half-hour. He looks very young and delicate and is
childish in manner, and generally gets into a fix over a fraction,
and so do I, but we fumble and whisper together over arithmetic
till half-past twelve. Meanwhile my letters have generally come,
books are clapped together, and I run upstairs to write to you.
"A dinner-bell rings at half-past one, and the others come in from
the drawing-room, whither they adjourn before dinner, with the
penalty of a penny if they lean against the mantelpiece, as they
might injure the ornaments. We have the same places at dinner, an
excellent dinner always--variety of food and abundance of it.
Afterwards I generally read, while the others play at quoits, and
at half-past two I go out walking with Campbell, coming in to begin
work at five. At half-past five Walker and I come in with
Euripides, which is the last repetition: then I work in my own room
till six, when we have tea, with bread and butter and cake. After
tea the drawing-room is open to the public till half-past seven,
when we all begin to prepare work for the next day, and write Latin
exercises till nine, when prayers are read. Afterwards the younger
ones generally go to bed, but some of us sit up talking or playing
chess, &c., till nearly eleven.
"I like the sort of life excessively--the hardly having a moment to
one's self, as the general working 'subject' takes up all leisure
time--the hardly having time even to make acquaintance with one's
companions from the succession of all that has to be done. No one
thinks it odd if you do any amount of work in your own room; of
course they laugh at you as 'a bookworm,' but what does that
signify?
"I have forgotten to tell you that between breakfast and the chase,
Hill and I are examined in three chapters of the Bible which we
prepare beforehand. Bradley asks the most capital questions, which
one would never think of, and we have to know the geography
perfectly. I am astonished to find how indescribably ignorant I
am."
"_Feb. 23._--I daily feel how much happier I am with the Bradleys
than I have ever been before. Compared to Lyncombe, Southgate is
absolute paradise, the meals are so merry and the little
congregations round the fire afterwards, and work is carried on
with such zest and made so interesting.
"Yesterday, after work, I went to Waltham Abbey--a long walk to
Edmonton, and then by rail to Waltham. I was very anxious to see
what a place so long thought of would be like--a tall white tower
rising above trees, a long rambling village street, and then the
moss-grown walls of the church. The inside is glorious, with
twisted Norman pillars, &c., but choked with pews and galleries.
The old man who showed it said he was 'quite tired of hearing of
church reform and restoration, though the pillars certainly did
want whitewashing again sadly.' ... There is an old gothic gateway
on the brink of the river Lea."
"_March 9, Harrow._--Having got through 'the subject'--Cicero and
Greek grammar--yesterday morning, with much trembling but
favourable results, I set off to come here. With a bundle like a
tramp, I passed through Colney Hatch, Finchley, and Hendon, keeping
Harrow steeple and hill well in view, and two miles from Harrow met
Kate in her carriage. This morning we have been to church, and I
have since been to Mrs. Brush, the Pauls' old servant, whom I knew
so well when at school here, and who came out exclaiming, 'O my
dear good little soul, how glad I be to see ye!'"
_"Southgate, March 14._--I must tell my mother of my birthday
yesterday. Mr. and Mrs. Bradley made me order the meals, and do
very much what I liked. The tutor, who can be as savage as a lion
during work, relapses into a sucking-lamb when it is over. My
health was drunk all round at dinner, and 'a truce' given
afterwards, which I employed in going with little Fitzherbert
Brooke to the old church at Chingford, close to Epping Forest--a
picturesque, deserted, ivy-covered building, looking down over the
flat country which I think so infinitely interesting, with the
churches and towers of London in the distance.
"To-day there has been a great fuss, and it will probably have some
dreadful ending. In the middle of work we were all suddenly called
down, and Bradley, with his gravest face, headed a procession into
the garden, where all across one of the flower-beds were seen
footmarks, evidently left by some one in the chases yesterday. The
gardener was called, and said he saw _one of the party_ run across
yesterday, but he was not allowed to say a word more. Then Bradley
said he should allow a day in which the culprit might come forward
and confess, in which case he would be forgiven and no one told his
name, otherwise the shoes of yesterday, which have been locked up,
would be measured with the footprints, and the offender sent away."
"_March 15._--The plan has quite answered. In the evening, Bradley
told me the offender had given himself up. No one knows who it is,
and all goes on as before. Some of the others are given a
tremendous punishment for running through some forbidden laurel
bushes--the whole of 'Southey's Life of Nelson' to get up with the
geography, and not to leave the house till it is done, no second
course, no beer, and ... to take a pill every night."
"_April 2._--The other day I was very careless in my work, and was
asked where my mind was, and as I could not tell, Campbell was sent
upstairs to fetch--my mind! and came down bearing two little pots
of wild anemones, which were moved about with me as my 'mind,' to
the great amusement of the others.... If I should ever _seem_ to
complain of anything here in my letters, mind you never allude to
it to the Bradleys, as there is only one thing which Bradley
_never_ forgives a pupil, and that is having caused him to write a
letter."
"_April 7._--Yesterday I went with Campbell and Edgecombe to
Hatfield, whence we ran all the way to St. Albans, an effort, but
quite worth while, though we had only an hour there."
"(After the Easter vacation), _April 27._--When I opened my eyes
this morning on the wintry wilderness here, what a change it was
from Lime--withered sooty evergreens, leafless trees, trampled
grass, and thick London fog--I think the angels driven out of
Paradise must have felt as I do, only I have a bad headache
besides.... All here is the same as when we left, to the drawling
sermon of Mr. Staunton about faith, grace, and redemption, sighing
and groaning and hugging the pulpit-cushion the while. It is
bitterly cold, but the law of the house allows no more fires....
Even Fausty's white hair, which still clings to my coat, has its
value now."
"_April 29._--Bradley has now taken a notion that I am dreadfully
self-conceited, so I am made to sit on a high chair before him at
lessons like a little school-boy, and yesterday, for mistakes in my
Latin exercise, I was made to wear my coat and waistcoat inside out
till dinner-time."
"_May 11._--Yesterday, I went by train to Broxbourne, and walked
thence by Hoddesdon across the bleak district called the Rye, till
I saw an oasis of poplars and willows by the river Lea, and a red
brick tower with terra-cotta ornaments, twisted chimney,
flag-staff, and a grey arched door below. I had not expected it, so
you may imagine how enchanted I was to find that it was the tower
of the Rye-House. In that road Charles and James were to have been
murdered on their return from Newmarket, and for the plot conceived
in that tower Algernon Sidney and William Lord Russell died!
"Bradley is now alternately very good-natured and very provoking.
He continually asks me if I do not think him the most annoying,
tiresome man I ever met, and I always say, 'Yes, I do think so.' In
return, he says that I am sapping his vitals and wearing him out by
my ingratitude and exaggerations, but he does not think so at
all."
"_May 18._--I have been to Harrow. Mr. Bradley lent me a horse, to
be sent back by the stable-boy after the first six miles, so I
easily got through the rest.... I had many hours with Kate, and
came away immediately after dinner, arriving at exactly ten minutes
to ten--the fatal limit; so Bradley was pleased, and welcomed me,
and I did _not_ go supperless to bed."
"_June 8, 1851._--Yesterday I walked to Dyrham Park near Barnet, to
pay a visit to the Trotters. It is a handsome place.... I wrote
upon my card, 'Will you see an unknown cousin?' and sending it in,
was admitted at once. I found Mrs. Trotter[64] in the garden. She
welcomed me very kindly, and seven of her nine children came
trooping up to see 'the unknown cousin.' Captain Trotter is
peculiar and peculiarly religious. I had not been there a minute
before he gathered some leaves to dilate to me upon 'the beauty of
the creation and the wonderful glory of the Creator,' with his
magnifying-glass. He builds churches, gives the fourth of his
income to the poor, and spends all his time in good works. I stayed
to tea with all the children. The gardens are lovely, and the
children have three houses in the shrubberies--one with a
fireplace, cooking apparatus, and oven, where they can bake;
another, a pretty thatched cottage with Robinson Crusoe's tree near
it, with steps cut in it to the top."
"_June 11._--The first day of our great examination is over, and I
have written seventy-three answers, some of them occupying a whole
sheet."
"_June 12._--To-day has been ten hours and a half of hard writing.
I was not plucked yesterday!"
"_June 15._--I reached Harrow by one, through the hot lanes peopled
with haymakers. I was delayed in returning, yet by tearing along
the lanes arrived at ten exactly by my watch, but by the hall-clock
it was half-past ten. Bradley was frigidly cold in consequence, and
has been ever since. To-day at breakfast he said, 'Forbes may
always be depended upon, but that is not the case with _every
one_.'"
"_June 20._--I have had an interesting day!--examinations all
morning--the finale of Virgil, and then, as a reward, and because
neither of my preceptors could attend to me, Bradley said I might
go where I liked; so I fixed on Hertford, and, having walked to
Ponder's End, took the train thither.... From Hertford, I walked to
Panshanger, Lord Cowper's, which is shown, and in the most
delightful way, as you are taken to the picture-gallery, supplied
with a catalogue, and left to your own devices. The pictures are
glorious and the gardens are quaint, in the old style. At Ware I
saw the great bed, but the owners would not let me draw it on any
account, because they were sure I was going to do it for the
Pantomime. The bed is twelve feet square and is said to have
belonged to Queen Elizabeth.
"In the Bible examination I am second, in spite of having said
that Ishmael married an Egyptian, and having left out 'They drank
of that rock which followed them' in answer to the question 'What
were the miracles ordained to supply the temporal wants of the
Israelites in the wilderness?'"
"_June 25._--I am enchanted--quite enchanted that we are really
going to Normandy.... I feel satisfied, now the end of the quarter
is come, that I never was happier anywhere in my life than I have
been here, and that I have done more, learned more, and thought
more in the few months at Southgate than in all the rest of my life
put together."
While I was away, my mother's life at Hurstmonceaux had flowed on in a
quiet routine between Lime and the Rectory. She had, however, been much
affected by the sudden death of Ralph Leycester, the young head of her
family,[65] and cheerful, genial owner of Toft, her old family home.
Chiefly, however, did she feel this from her share in the terrible
sorrow of Ralph's eldest sister, her sister-like cousin Charlotte
Leycester; and the hope of persuading her to have the change and of
benefiting her by it, proved an incentive to make a short tour in
Normandy--a plan with which I was intensely delighted. To go abroad was
positively enchanting. But _anything_ would have been better than
staying at Hurstmonceaux, so overrun was it with Maurices. I suppose
they sometimes meant well, but what appalling bores they were! "La bonne
intention n'est de rien en fait d'esprit."[66]
We crossed to Boulogne on a sea which was perfectly calm at starting,
but on the way there came on one of the most frightful thunderstorms I
ever remember, and the sea rose immediately as under a hurricane. A lady
who sate by us was dreadfully terrified, and I have no doubt remembers
now the way in which (as the waves swept the deck) my mother repeated to
her the hymn--"Oh, Jesus once rocked on the breast of the billow." I
have often seen in dreams since, our first entrance into a French
harbour, brilliant sunshine after the storm, perfectly still water after
the raging waves, and the fishwomen, in high white caps like towers
(universal then) and huge glittering golden earrings, lining the railing
of the pier.
We saw Amiens and had a rapid glimpse of Paris, where we were all
chiefly impressed by the Chapelle St. Ferdinand and the tomb of the Duke
of Orleans, about whom there was still much enthusiasm. During this
visit I also saw three phases of old Paris which I am especially glad
to remember, and which I should have had no other opportunity of seeing.
I saw houses still standing in the Place du Carrousel between the
Tuileries and the then unfinished Louvre: I saw the Fontaine des
Innocents in the middle of the market, uncovered as it then was: and I
saw the Tour de S. Jacques rising in the midst of a crowd of old houses,
which pressed close against it, and made it look much more picturesque
than it has done since it has been freed from its surroundings. On
leaving Paris, we spent delightful days at Rouen, and visited, at
Darnetal, the parents of M. Waddington, who became well known as
Minister of Foreign Affairs at Paris, and ambassador in England. From
Havre we went by sea to Caen, arriving full of the study of Norman
history and determined to find out, in her native place, all we could
about Gunnora, Duchess of Normandy (grandmother of William the
Conqueror), from whose second marriage both my mother and Charlotte
Leycester were directly descended.
Very delightful were the excursions we made from Caen--to Bayeux with
its grand cathedral and the strange strip of royal needlework known as
"the Bayeux Tapestry:" and to the quaint little church of Thaon and
Château Fontaine Henri, a wonderfully preserved great house of other
days. Ever since I have had a strong sense of the charm of the wide
upland Normandy plains of golden corn, alive with ever-changing cloud
shadows, and of the sudden dips into wooded valleys, fresh with streams,
where some little village of thatched cottages has a noble church with a
great spire, and an area wide enough to contain all the people in the
village and all their houses too. The most beautiful of all the breaks
in the cornland occurs at Falaise, where the great castle of Robert the
Devil rises on a precipice above a wooded rift with river and watermills
and tanners' huts, in one of which Arlette, the mother of the Conqueror,
and daughter of the tanner Verpray, was born.
From Falaise we went to Lisieux, which was then one of the most
beautiful old towns in France, almost entirely of black and white timber
houses. It was only a few miles thence to Val Richer, where we spent the
afternoon with M. Guizot--"grave and austere, but brilliantly
intellectual," as Princess Lieven has described him. His château was
full of relics of Louis Philippe and his court, and the garden set with
stately orange-trees in large tubs like those at the Tuileries. My
mother and cousin returned to England from hence, but I was left for
some weeks at Caen to study French at the house of M. Melun, a
Protestant pasteur, in a quiet side-street close to the great Abbaye aux
Dames, where Matilda of Flanders is buried.
_To_ MY MOTHER.
"_Caen, July 26, 1851._--It was very desolate, my own mother, being
left alone in that square of Lisieux, and the old houses seemed to
lose their beauty, the trees and cathedral to grow colourless,
after you were all gone, so that I was glad when the diligence came
to take me away. It was a long drive, passing through 'Coupe
Gorge,' a ravine where Napoleon, hearing diligences were often
robbed there, made one man settle, saying that others would soon
follow, and now there is quite a village.
"I have a pleasant room here, with a clean wooden floor, and a view
of S. Pierre from the window. Its only drawback is opening into the
sitting-room where Mr. T., my fellow-pensionnaire, smokes his
pipes. He is a heavy young man, very anxious to impress me with the
honour and glory of his proficiency as a shot and cricketer, and of
the Frenchmen he has knocked down and 'rather surprised.' We had
prayers in Madame Melun's bedroom, she being dressed, but 'le
petit' snoring in bed. The whole family, including _les petits_,
have a great meat breakfast with wine, followed by bowls of sour
milk.... Such a touching funeral procession has just passed up the
Rue des Chanoines, a young girl carried on a bier by six of her
companions in white dresses and wreaths."
"_Sunday, July 27_.--Yesterday I went a walk with M. Melun to the
Prairie, where the races are going on. This morning he preached
about them and the evils of the world with the most violent action
I ever saw--stamping, kicking, spreading out his arms like the
wings of a bird, and jumping as if about to descend upon the altar,
which, in the _Temple_, is just under the pulpit. This afternoon I
have been again to the service, but there was no congregation; all
the world was gone to the races, and, M. Melun says, to perdition
also."
"_July 28._--It is such a burning day that I can hardly hold my
head up. Everything seems lifeless with heat, and not a breath of
air. I never missed a green tree so much: if you go out, except to
the Prairie, there is not one to be seen, and even the streets are
cool and refreshing compared with the barren country. Tens of
thousands of people collected in the Prairie this morning, half to
see the races, half the eclipse of the sun, for they both began at
the same moment, and the many coloured dresses and high Norman caps
were most picturesque."
"_July 30._--It is like the deadly motionless heat of 'The Ancient
Mariner;' I suppose the eclipse brings it ... the baking is
absolute pain.... It is tiresome that the whole Melun family think
it necessary to say 'bon jour' and to shake hands every time one
goes in and out of the house, a ceremony which it makes one hotter
to think of."
"_July 31._--The heat is still terrific, but thinking anything
better than the streets, I have been to Thaon--a scorching walk
across the shadeless cornfields. The church and valley were the
same, but seemed to have lost their charm since I last saw them
with my mother. I have my French lesson now in the little
carnation-garden on the other side of the street."
"_August 1._--I have been by the diligence to Notre Dame de la
Deliverande, a strange place, full of legends. In the little square
an image of the Virgin is said to have fallen down from heaven: it
was hidden for many years in the earth, and was at length
discovered by the scratching of a lamb. Placed in the church, the
Virgin every night returned to the place where she was disinterred,
and at last the people were obliged to build her a shrine upon the
spot. It is an old Norman chapel surrounded by booths of relics,
and shouts of 'Achetez donc une Sainte Vierge' resound on all
sides. Latterly, to please the fishermen, the worship of the Virgin
has been combined with that of St. Nicholas, and they appear on the
same medal, &c. When a crew is saved from shipwreck on this coast,
it instantly starts in procession, barefoot, to 'La Deliverande,'
and all the lame who visit the chapel are declared to go away
healed.... In a blaze of gold and silver tinsel, surrounded by the
bouquets of the faithful and the crutches of the healed, is the
image which 'fell down from heaven,'--its mouldering form is
arrayed in a silver robe, and, though very old, it looks unlikely
to last long. I went on with M. Melun to Bernières, where there is
a grand old church, to visit a poor Protestant family, the only one
in this ultra-Catholic neighbourhood. They had begged the minister
to come because one of the sisters was dead, and the whole party
collected while he prayed with them, and they wept bitterly.
Afterwards we asked where we could get some food. 'Chez nous, chez
nous,' they exclaimed, and lighting a fire in their little mud room
with some dried hemp, they boiled us some milk, and one of the
sisters, who was a baker, brought in a long hot roll of sour bread,
for which they persistently refused any payment.... I have had an
English invitation from Madame de Lignerole in these words--'Will
you be so very kind as to allow me to take the liberty of
entreating you to have the kindness to confer the favour upon me of
giving me the happiness of your company on Friday.'"
"_August 2._--We went to-day to see M. Laire, an old antiquary who
has lived all his life upon vegetables. His house is very
attractive; the court, full of flowers mixed with carvings and
Celtic remnants, borders on the willows which fringe the Odon, and
the rooms are crammed with curiosities and pictures relating to
Caen history. The old man himself is charming, and spends his life
in collecting and giving away. He gave me a medallion of
Malesherbes, and many other things."
"_August 2._--I have been to dine with the Consul, Mr. Barrow.
Under his garden is the quarry whence the stone was taken which
built Westminster Abbey. It undermines all the grounds, and once,
when a part fell in, the hot air which came out made it quite hot
in winter. Mr. Barrow has built a conservatory over the spot, which
needs no other heat, and plants flourish amazingly, though only
camellias and smooth-leaved plants will do, as others are too much
affected by the damp."
Want of money was still always the great trouble of my boyhood, as my
dear mother never could be persuaded to see the necessity of my having
any, and after she had made a minute calculation of the necessary
pennies that came into her head, always gave me just that sum and no
more, never allowing anything for the ever-recurring incidents and
exigencies of daily life. When I was sixteen she was persuaded to allow
me £10 a year, but out of this I was expected to buy all the smaller
articles of dress, boots, hats, gloves, &c., so, as may be imagined, my
annual allowance was almost nil; and my excursions at Southgate had been
only possible by starvation, and because the third-class ticket to
London cost only fourpence. When I was left at Caen, just the absolutely
needful sum for my return journey was given me, and no allowance made
for any personal expenses of my stay--for washer-woman, fees to
servants, or payments for the many purchases which my mother wrote to
desire me to make for her. Thus, when the time came for setting out
homewards, with the nine packages which were to be taken to my mother, I
was in the greatest embarrassment, and many were my adventures; yet my
dread of a sea-voyage still made me refuse altogether to go by Havre and
Southampton, and my longing to see a historical spot which I had long
read and heard of made me determine if possible--if I half died for it
on the way--to visit St. Denis, a place I had always had a special
longing after. The journey entailed a singular chapter of accidents.
During the whole of the first long day--twelve hours' diligence
journey--I had nothing whatever to eat but a brioche and some plums; but
at seventeen starvation is not one of the worst things in life, and when
I arrived at Evreux, the fair of St. Taurinus, the patron saint of the
place, was going on, and I was in ecstasies the next morning over the
costumes which it brought into the town, as well as over the old
Bishop's Palace and the beautiful cathedral with its lace-work
architecture.
From Evreux the diligence had to be taken again to Bonnières, where I
joined the railway to Paris, and in the evening reached St. Denis. I
had no money to go to a hotel, but spent the night in a wretched café
which was open for carters under the walls of the cathedral, where I got
some sour bread and eggs, having had no food all day. At five in the
morning the doors of the Abbey were opened, and in my raptures over the
monuments of Dagobert, Francis I., &c., I forgot all my
miseries--especially in the crypt, full then of royal tombs and statues.
At half-past twelve, when I was ready to leave, I found that no more
trains for Boulogne would stop at St. Denis that day, and that I must
return to Paris. I went in the omnibus, but owing to my ignorance of
French, was carried far beyond my point, and had to be dropped, with all
my packages, in a strange street, whence with some difficulty I got a
porter to drag my things to the station, but arrived when the train was
just gone, and no other till half-past seven, and it was then two.
Hungry and forlorn, I made my way, losing it often, on foot, to the
Tuileries gardens, where I felt that the beauty of the flowers repaid me
for the immense walk, though I was disconcerted when I found that
sitting down on a chair cost the two sous I had saved to buy bread with.
In my return walk, ignorance and mistakes brought me to the railway for
Rouen (Gare S. Lazare), instead of that for Boulogne (Gare du Nord).
However, in time I reached the right place.
As we were half-way to the coast in the express, a strong smell of
burning was borne on the wind, and the carriage soon filled with smoke.
Looking out, we saw a line of screaming faces, and the roof of one of
the front carriages in flames. Pieces of burning stuff rushed flaming
past. A young lady in our carriage--"Gabrielle"--fell on her knees and
said her prayers to the Virgin. Suddenly we stopped, and heard the rush
of water above us. The engine-driver, to save the train, had, with
terrible risk to the passengers, pushed on at a frightful speed to the
_pompe d'incendie_ of Pontoise.
At half-past one in the morning we reached Boulogne. I was told that the
steamer for Folkestone would not start for an hour. An official in blue
with silver lace said that he would call for me then. At the time, but
rather late, he came. A cab was ready, and we were only just in time to
catch the steamer. The official, as I was going on board, desired that I
would pay my fare. I supposed it was all right, and gave up almost all
my few remaining shillings. I was assured the packet was the one for
Folkestone, and, though surprised at having no ticket, supposed it was
because most of the passengers had through tickets from Paris to London,
and because my going on was an afterthought.
The steamer started, but, before leaving the harbour, concussed with
another vessel, which broke one of the paddle-boxes and delayed us an
hour. Meantime it began to pour in torrents, the deck swam with water,
and before we got out to sea the wind had risen and the sea was very
rough. The vessel was fearfully crowded with three hundred and fifty
people going to the Hyde Park Exhibition, and more than half of them
were sea-sick.
At last day broke, and with it the English coast came in sight. But it
was very odd; it was not a coast I knew, and Dover Castle seemed to be
on the wrong side. Then a man came for the tickets, and said I must have
had one if I had paid: as I had not one, I could not have paid. It was
in vain that I protested I had paid already. "When I get to Folkestone,"
I said, "I should see some one who could prove my identity," &c. The man
grinned. "It will be a long time before _you_ get to Folkestone," he
said, and he went away. Then I saw Dover Castle fade away, and we still
coasted on, and I saw a little town which looked strangely like the
pictures of Deal. At last a man next to me, recovering from a paroxysm
of sea-sickness, said, "You think you're in the boat for Folkestone, but
you are in the boat for London!" I had been swindled at Boulogne by a
notorious rogue. Some weeks afterwards I saw in the papers that he had
been arrested, after a similar case.
I was in despair, not so much because of the long voyage, as because to
_pay_ for it was impossible. We were not to reach London till four in
the afternoon. I implored the captain to set me down, we were so near
the coast. "No," he said, "go to London you must."
At last, as we passed Margate, he said I might perhaps get out, but it
was rather too much to sacrifice the comfort of three hundred and fifty
passengers to one. However, the three hundred and fifty seemed very glad
of a break in the monotony of their voyage, and as there was another
passenger anxious to land, a boat was hailed and reached the vessel. All
my packages were thrown overboard and I after them, with injunctions to
sit perfectly still and hold fast, as it was so frightfully rough. The
injunctions were unnecessary, since, exhausted as I was, I very soon
became unconscious, as I have so often done since in a rough sea.
It was too rough to land at the pier, so we were landed on a ridge of
rocks at some distance from the shore. Seeing all my packages, the
coastguardsmen naturally took us for smugglers, and were soon on the
spot to seize our goods and carry them to the custom-house. Here I had
to pay away all that remained to me except sixpence.
With that sixpence I reached Ramsgate.
There were four hours to wait for a train, and I spent it in observing
the directions on the luggage of all arriving passengers, to see if
there was any one I could beg of. But no help came; so eventually I told
my story to the station-master, who kindly gave me a railway pass. At
Ashford I had four hours more to wait, and I lay almost unconscious
(from want of food) upon the floor of the waiting-room. Lying thus, I
looked up, and saw the astonished face of my cousin Mary Stanley gazing
in through the window at me. She was leaving in two minutes for France,
but had time to give me a sovereign; with that sovereign, late in the
night, I reached home in a gig from Hastings.
_To_ MY MOTHER (after returning to Southgate).
"_August 27, 1851._--I have just got your dear letter to refresh me
after the first morning's work. It is strange to have to give
oneself to Latin again after having thought of nothing but French
for so long."
"_August 28._--When I hear of all you are doing, I cannot but long
to be with you, and yet I am very happy here in finding it so much
less disagreeable than I expected, the Bradleys perfection, Walker
very nice, and Portman delightful."
"_Sept. 12, 1851._--I have just been to the old chapel in Ely Place
and to the Savoy.... One may study architecture just as well in
London as abroad: I had no idea before what beautiful bits are
there."
"_Oct. 18._--I have had an unfortunate trouble with Bradley lately.
I am sure I have done right, but it is very unfortunate indeed. I
will tell you all about it. In my Latin exercise I put 'quo velis'
for 'go your way,' meaning 'go where you like,' which I thought was
the meaning of that English sentence. Bradley scratched it out, and
I said, 'But "go your way" does mean go where you like.' He thought
I contradicted him and was very angry, and appealed to the opinion
of every one at the table. They said it meant 'go away.' He said I
was very obstinate, and wrote down, '"I have a bad headache, go
your way"--what does that mean?' I wrote, 'Go wherever you like.' I
thought no more was going to happen, but, to my astonishment,
heard him send for Mrs. Bradley, who wisely refused to come. Then,
in a voice in which he never spoke to me before, he ordered me to
go into the drawing-room. I did, and asked Mrs. Bradley her opinion
(not able to believe he could really mind being differed from). He
followed in a moment, very angry, and said, 'Walk up to your room,
if you please, Mr. Hare, this instant.' I prepared to obey, but he
posted himself in the doorway and pushed me back into a chair. He
then asked me again to explain the sentence. I said of course he
was the only judge about the Latin passage, but that in English 'go
your way' might certainly be taken to mean 'go where you like.' He
said, 'If you are going to differ from me in this way, I shall not
attempt to teach you any more.' All that day, morning, afternoon,
and evening, I laboured or twaddled at arithmetic with Mr. Howse.
Late in the evening Bradley took me for a whole hour by myself and
tried to persuade me to say 'go your way' _never_ meant 'go where
you like.' I said if I did, it would not be true, but that I was
very sorry to have differed from him, and had never meant in the
least to contradict him. But it is no use; he quotes from the
Bible--'"The house divided against itself falleth," therefore I
cannot teach you any more.' I went to him again and said 'if I had
seemed the least ill-tempered I begged his pardon.' He said I had
not seemed at all ill-tempered, I had only _differed from him_. You
need not be alarmed, however, for he will never send away for such
a trifle the pupil who loves him best in spite of all his
eccentricities: I have only told you all this in _case_ anything
more should happen. As I called on the B.'s to-day, I asked,
without explanation, what they thought 'go your way' meant. They
said at once, 'Go where you like.'"
"_Oct. 21._--Dearest mother, the dispute with Bradley has now
assumed so much more serious an aspect that I am afraid it cannot
end well. For two days he said nothing more about it, so I did not
volunteer anything: he was only very unpleasant in his manner to
and about me.
"This morning he called me into his dressing-room and talked. He
said that now he must write to you. But now he harps upon my
setting up my opinion, and having said in the first moment, 'I
always have thought so, and always shall think so.' In vain have I
acknowledged that this was a very improper speech, that I only said
such a thing hastily in a moment of annoyance, and in vain have I
begged his pardon repeatedly, and offered to do so, if he wished
it, before all his pupils. He says mine has been a successful
instance of open rebellion. I have in vain tried to convince him
how foolish a thing it will sound if I am sent away or go away
merely because my opinion has differed from his: he now says it
will be because I have 'rebelled against him'--though it would be
strange indeed if I had wished to 'rebel' against the only tutor I
have ever liked, from whom I have received so much kindness and
learnt so much. I did not think it would come to this, and even now
I cannot think I have done wrong, except in one hasty speech, which
I am very sorry for.
"I am so sorry you should be troubled by this, dear mother, and
even now I think Bradley will not be so infatuated--so really
_infatuated_ as to send away the only one of his pupils who likes
him much, or would be really sorry to go."
"_Oct. 22._--Only a few words, my own dear mother, to say we are
all going now very much as if nothing had happened. I thought
yesterday morning I should certainly have to go away, as Bradley
repeatedly declared he would never hear me another word again,
because I had differed from him before all his pupils. But at
Cicero time he called me down and asked, 'Why did you not come down
to your Cicero?' I said, 'Because I was packing up, as you said you
would never hear me another word again.' He said, 'Oh, you may put
whatever qualification on my words you like: _whatever you like_.'
So I came down, and he took no notice, and I have come down ever
since, and he treats me as if nothing had happened. He must have
thought better of it.
"Mrs. Bradley sent me a beautiful myrtle branch from the
nursery-garden, as a sign that all was right, I suppose: and I have
expressed all penitence that can possibly be expressed."
"_Nov. 13._--Yesterday I even let Bradley use his stick over the
Virgil to put him into a good humour, and then asked for leave to
go to the Temple Church ... and afterwards, brimful of the
descriptions in Knight's 'London,' I went to Crosby Hall and to St.
Helen's, Bishopsgate, full of delightful tombs. My coats are in
holes and my shoes have no soles, so will you please give me some
money to mend them?"
"_Nov. 23._--To-day I have seen Smithfield, and St. Bartholomew's,
and the Clerk's Well of Clerkenwell. I wonder if my 'kind good
Mama,' as Mrs. Barrington calls her in writing, will let me go to
see my cousins the Brymers at Wells before Christmas: old Mr.
Liddell has given me some money to take me there."
[Illustration: IN ST. HELEN'S, BISHOPSGATE.]
"_Harrow, Nov. 25, Sunday._--Yesterday I walked here with my
bundle, meeting Kate at the foot of the hill.... To-day we have
been to the Chapel Royal at St. James's, where Dr. Vaughan had to
preach a funeral sermon for the King of Hanover.[67] The old Duke
of Cambridge was there, and startled people by the cordiality of
his loud assent--'By all means!' to the invitation 'Let us pray.' I
must leave early to-morrow morning, as I have promised to be at
Southgate at 9 A.M."
"_Nov. 28._--We are in the depth of examinations. Some of the
fellows are so excited about them, that they do not go to bed at
all, only lie down on the rug at 5 A.M. for a short rest before
dawn. To-morrow is the 'great Napoleon stakes, when all the horses
are to run.' I think we shall have a pretty jumble, as we are to go
to sleep on Napoleon and wake on Charles V.--such a confusion of
campaigns (fifteen of Napoleon's) and places, and the passage and
flow of all the rivers the two heroes ever crossed."
"_Dec. 15._--On Thursday evening all the other fellows rushed up to
my room shouting 'Ichabod! Hare is plucked in Charles V.' They were
enchanted, because they thought it so conceited of me to take up
the additional subject; but their triumph was a short one, for it
was soon discovered that only half the marks had been added up.
"Friday was a very long examination in the Bible. Amongst the
questions were--'Give the size, population, and government of
Nineveh; the route of Jonah to Nineveh from Joppa; the religions of
the sailors; where you suppose Tarshish to be, and the reason of
your supposition; who were Tirshakeh, Adoram, &c.' It was a most
interesting examination to get up. Yesterday was Euclid. It was
much easier than I expected, and finished by twelve, so Bradley
sent me to London on a commission. I had also time to go to the
Bunsens, who were at luncheon, but when I sent in my card, they
sent for me into the dining-room. Several gentlemen were there: I
believe one of them was the Duke of Nassau. Madame Bunsen is always
most kind in her welcome."
My visit to Wells took place, and was most delightful. Mrs. Brymer was
the eldest granddaughter of John Lyon of Hetton, youngest brother of my
great-grandmother Lady Anne Simpson, and she and her husband Archdeacon
Brymer were most kind, genial, benevolent people, who had no children,
but lived very luxuriously in a charming house in "the Liberty" at
Wells. I had made their acquaintance at Bath when I was with Mrs.
Barrington. Though it was bitterly cold weather, I made many drawings of
Wells, which I have always thought the most perfectly beautiful
cathedral town in England, with its clear rushing water, old palace and
gateways, grand cathedral, and luxuriant surrounding orchards. It was a
visit I looked forward to repeating very often, but the kind Archdeacon
and his wife died--almost at the same time--very soon afterwards.
All through the year 1851 the Père La Vigne had been preaching
constantly at Rome at the Church of S. Luigi dei Francesi. "Italima"
had gone to hear him, with many other Protestant ladies. One evening she
said to her faithful Victoire that she wished to be dressed very early
the next morning--in black, with a veil, as if for the Sistine. Victoire
did her bidding, and she went out early, and returned in the course of
the morning, when she called Victoire to her, and said, embracing her,
"A présent nous sommes vraiment sœurs; nous avons été toujours
sœurs; à présent nous le sommes doublement."--"Qu'est que cela veut
dire?" said Victoire to herself.--"Je suis devenue catholique,"
continued Italima; "je l'ai été toujours au fond du cœur, à présent
je le suis en réalité." She then called Félix and took him by the
hand--"Victoire vous expliquera tout," she said. Lady Lothian had been
the "marraine," and, added to the influence of the Père La Vigne, had
been that of Manning, himself a recent convert to the Catholic Church.
That evening Italima said to Victoire, "Nous allons avoir la guerre dans
la maison," and so it was. My sister discovered (at a ball, I believe)
the next day what had happened, and she was quite furious--"en vraie
tigresse." "Il n'y avait pas de reproches qu'elle ne faisait à sa mère"
(records Victoire); "elle disait à sa mère qu'elle ne voulait plus de
elle. Elle se renferma avec sa tante. Cela dura plus que deux ans." To
Victoire herself she never spoke at all for several months.
For two whole years my sister deserted the drawing-room of Palazzo
Parisani, and lived shut up with her aunt in her boudoir. Their chief
occupation was drawing in charcoal, in which singular art they both
attained a great proficiency. Esmeralda never spoke to her mother unless
it was necessary. Italima must have led rather a dreary life at this
time, as other events had already weakened her connection with the
members of her own family and most of her old friends, and her change of
religion widened the breach for ever.
Lord and Lady Feilding[68] had been most active in urging and assisting
Italima's change of religion, and they now turned to my sister, leaving
no means untried by which they might make her dissatisfied with the
Protestant faith. As they left Rome, Lord Feilding put into her hand a
long controversial letter, imploring her to study it. That very spring
his own faith had been strengthened by a supposed miracle in his family.
Lady Feilding had long been ill, and had partly lost the use of her
limbs from sciatica. She had to be carried everywhere. All kinds of
baths and doctors had been tried in vain. The case was almost given up,
when Pope Pius IX. advised him to apply to a family of peasants living
in the mountains above Foligno, who possessed a miraculous gift of
healing. St. Peter, it was said, had passed by that way and had lodged
with them, and, on taking leave, had said that of silver and gold he had
none to give them, but that he left with them his miraculous gift of
healing, to be perpetuated amongst their descendants. A messenger was
despatched to this favoured family, and returned with a venerable old
peasant, respectably dressed, who went up to Lady Feilding, and, after
reciting the Lord's Prayer, Hail Mary, and Apostles' Creed, said, "Per
l'intercessione dei Sti. Apostoli S. Pietro e S. Paolo siete guarita da
tutti i mali come speriamo." He passed his hand rapidly over her limbs,
and making the sign of the cross, said, "In nomine Patris et Filii et
Spiritus Sancti"--and added, "E finito." Then Lady Feilding felt her
limbs suddenly strengthened, and rising, walked upstairs like other
people, which she had not done for many months, and the same afternoon
went to St. Peter's to return thanks, walking all over that enormous
basilica without pain.[69][70] Her illness returned slightly, however,
in the following winter, and in the summer of 1853 she died of
consumption at Naples. Her death was a great grief to Italima.
It was in the Carnival of 1852, immediately after her mother's change of
religion, that my sister, after the then fashion of Roman ladies, was
seated in one of the carriages which in a long line were proceeding
slowly up the Corso, and whose inmates were employed in pelting those of
the carriages which met them with bouquets and bonbons. As she was
eagerly watching for her friends amongst those who passed, my sister
observed in one of the carriages, dressed in deep mourning among the gay
maskers, a lady who clasped her hands and looked at her fixedly. The
expression of the lady was so peculiar, that when her carriage reached
the end of the Corso and turned round at the Ripresa dei Barberi, my
sister watched carefully for her reappearance in the opposite line of
carriages which she was now again to meet. Again she saw the lady, who
again looked at her with an expression of anguish and then burst into
tears. The third time they met, the lady laid upon my sister's lap a
splendid nosegay of azaleas and camellias, &c., quite different from the
common bouquets which are usually thrown about in the Carnival.
When my sister went home, she told her little adventure to her aunt and
mother while they were at dinner, but it did not make any great
impression, as at Rome such little adventures are not uncommon, and do
not create the surprise they would in England.
The next morning at breakfast the family were again speaking of what had
happened, when the door opened, and Félix came in. He said that there
was a lady in the passage, a lady in deep mourning, who gave her name as
the Comtesse de Bolvilliers, who wished to speak to Italima at once on
important business. At that time there were a great many lady
_quêteuses_ going about for the different charities, and most of them
especially anxious to take advantage of the new convert to their Church.
Therefore Italima answered that she was unable to receive Madame de
Bolvilliers, and that she knew no such person. In a minute Félix
returned saying that Madame de Bolvilliers could not leave the house
without seeing Mrs. Hare, for that her errand involved a question of
life and death. She was then admitted.
The lady who came into the room at Palazzo Parisani was not the lady my
sister had seen in the Corso. She said she was come to tell a very sad
story, and besought Italima to have patience with her while she told it,
as she was the one person who had the power of assisting her. She said
that she had a sister-in-law, another Countess de Bolvilliers, who was
then living at the Palazzo Lovati in the Piazza del Popolo: that at the
beginning of the winter her sister-in-law had come to Rome accompanied
by her only daughter, in whom her whole life and love were bound up:
that her daughter was of the exact age and appearance of my sister, and
that she (the aunt) felt this so strongly, that it seemed to her, in
looking upon my sister, as if her own niece was present before her: that
soon after they came to Rome her niece had taken the Roman fever, and
died after a very short illness: that her sister-in-law had been almost
paralysed by grief, and had fallen into a state of mental apathy, from
which nothing seemed able to rouse her. At last fears were entertained
that, if her body recovered, her mind would never be roused again, and,
two days before, the doctors had advised resorting to the expedient of a
violent mental transition, and had urged that as Madame de Bolvilliers
had remained for several months in her room, in silence and darkness,
seeing no one, she should suddenly be taken out into the full blaze of
the Carnival, when the shock of the change might have the effect of
re-awakening her perceptions. At first the experiment had seemed to
succeed; she had taken notice and recovered a certain degree of
animation; but then, in the Carnival, she had seen what she believed to
be her daughter returned from the grave; upon her return home, she had
fallen into the most fearful state of anguish, and they had passed the
most terrible night, the unhappy mother declaring that her lost daughter
had returned to life, but was in the hands of others. The sister-in-law
implored that Italima would allow her daughter to return home with her
to the Palazzo Lovati, in order to prove that she was a living reality,
and not what she was believed to be.
My sister at once put on her bonnet and walked back with the second
Countess de Bolvilliers to the Palazzo Lovati, where the family rented
the small apartment at the back of the courtyard. When they entered her
room, the unhappy mother jumped up, and throwing her arms round my
sister, declared that she was her daughter, her lost daughter, come back
to her from the dead. Gradually, but very gradually, she was induced to
believe in my sister's separate identity. When she became convinced of
this, she declared her conviction that a person who so entirely
resembled her daughter in appearance and manners must resemble her in
character also; that she was herself very rich (her husband had been a
Russian), and that if my sister would only come to live with her and be
a daughter to her in the place of the one she had lost, she would devote
her whole life to making her happy, and leave all her fortune to her
when she died. My sister declared that this was impossible; that she had
a mother of her own, whom she could not leave; that it was impossible
for her to live with Madame de Bolvilliers. The Countess flung herself
upon her knees, and implored and besought that my sister would
reconsider her determination, but Esmeralda was inexorable. The
Countess then said that she was of a very jealous disposition; that it
was quite impossible that she could go on living in the world, and
feeling that her daughter's living representative was the child of
another,--that she should leave the world and go into a convent. My
sister, whose antagonism to Roman Catholicism was just then at its
height, besought her to reconsider this, urged the many opportunities
which were still left to her of being useful in the world, and the folly
of throwing away a life which might be devoted to the highest aims and
purposes. But Madame de Bolvilliers, on her part, was now firm in her
determination. Esmeralda then begged that she might sometimes be allowed
to hear from her, and said that she should be glad to write to her;
that, though she could not live with her and be her daughter, she could
never lose the interest she already felt about her. But Madame de
Bolvilliers said, "No! she could not have half love; she must either
have my sister altogether, or she must never hear from her; that would
try her and tantalise her too much." My sister then begged that she
might at any rate be allowed to hear of her once--of her well-being and
happiness, and, after much entreaty, Madame de Bolvilliers said, "Yes,
after a year has expired, if you inquire at a certain house in the Rue
S. Dominique at Paris, you shall hear of me, but not till then." She
then went into the next room, and she came back with a number of jewels
in her hands. "These," she said, "were the jewels my daughter wore when
she was with me. I must have one last pleasure--one last consolation in
this world, in fastening them upon the person of my daughter's living
representative upon earth." And so saying, she fastened the necklace,
bracelets, &c., upon my sister, who possessed these, the Bolvilliers
jewels, till the day of her death. More than a year elapsed and nothing
whatever was heard of the Countess.
[Illustration: LE TOMBEAU NAPOLEON.]
In 1854, Italima and my sister were passing through Paris. They drove to
see the Tombeau Napoleon, which was then newly erected at the Invalides.
As they returned, and as they were turning a corner, the name "Rue S.
Dominique" caught my sister's eyes. "Oh," she said, "the year has
expired, and this is the place where we were to inquire after the
Countess de Bolvilliers;" and in spite of her mother's assurance that it
was useless to look for her, she insisted upon driving to the number the
Countess had indicated; but the portress declared that she knew of no
such person as Madame de Bolvilliers. Upon this Italima said, "Well, now
you see how it is; I always told you she gave you a false direction,
because she did not wish you to find her out, and you will never
discover her." "But to find her I am perfectly determined," said my
sister, and she insisted on getting out of the carriage and knocking at
every door down the long extent of the Rue S. Dominique to make
inquiries, but without any result. Her mother followed in the carriage,
very angry, but quite vainly urging her to get in. Having done one side
of the street, Esmeralda insisted upon going up the other, and inquiring
at every door in the same way. Her mother stormed to no purpose. She
then insisted upon going back to the first house and inquiring who did
live there. "Oh," said the portress, "it is a convent of the Sacré
Cœur." When my sister heard this, she asked for the Superior, and
said, "Is there any one here whose real name it may generally be thought
better to conceal, but who was once known in the world as the Countess
de Bolvilliers?" And the Superior said, "_You_ then are the lady who was
to come from Rome in a year's time: you are exactly the person who has
been described to me. Yes, Sister Marie Adelaïde was once known in the
world as Madame de Bolvilliers."
When my sister saw the Countess in her nun's dress, she found her
perfectly calm and satisfied. She no longer reproached my sister for not
having consented to live with her. She did not regret the step she had
taken; she was perfectly happy in her convent life with its regular
duties and occupations. She was also pleased that my sister should
frequently go again to see her. My sister went very often, and, while
visiting her, was introduced to the famous controversialist nun Madame
Davidoff, by whose teaching and arguments she was converted to the Roman
Catholic Church.
The last thing Italima wished was that her daughter should become a
Roman Catholic, for my sister was at that time a considerable heiress,
the whole of her aunt's fortune being settled upon her, as well as that
which Italima had derived from Lady Anne Simpson. And Italima knew that
if my sister changed her religion, her aunt, a vehement Protestant,
would at once disinherit her.
My sister said nothing to her mother of what was going on. It was
supposed that Madame de Bolvilliers was the only cause of her visits to
the Sacré Cœur. She also said nothing to her aunt, but her aunt
suspected that all was not right. My sister had abstained from going to
church on one pretext or another, for several Sundays. Easter was now
approaching. "You will go to church with me on Good Friday, won't you,
Esmeralda?" Aunt Eleanor kept saying.
At last Good Friday came. Aunt Eleanor, according to her habit, went in
early to see my sister before she was up. My sister was more
affectionate than usual. As soon as her aunt was gone, she got up and
dressed very quickly and went off with her maid to the Sacré Cœur.
In her room she left three letters--one to her mother, bidding her come
to the church of the convent on a particular day, if she wished to see
her received: one to her aunt, telling her that her determination was
irrevocable, but breaking it to her as gently as she could: and one to
her greatest friend, Marguerite Pole, begging her to go at once to her
aunt to comfort her and be like a daughter in her place. "When Miss Paul
read her letter," said Victoire, "her lips quivered and her face became
pale as ashes. But she said no word to any one: it was quite awful, she
was so terribly calm. She took up her bonnet from the place where it
lay, and she walked straight downstairs and out of the house. We were so
alarmed as to what she might do, that I followed her, but she walked
quite firmly through the streets of Paris, till she reached Sir Peter
Pole's house, and there she went in." Aunt Eleanor went straight up to
Sir Peter Pole, and told him what had happened. Sir Peter was a very
excitable man, and he immediately rang the bell and sent for his
daughter Marguerite. When she came he said, "Esmeralda Hare is about to
become a Roman Catholic; now remember that if you ever follow her
example, I will turn you out of doors then and there with the clothes
you have on, and will never either see you or hear of you again as long
as you live." The result of this was that within a week Marguerite Pole
had become a Roman Catholic. Of what happened at this time my sister has
left some notes:--
"It was Madame Davidoff who led Marguerite Pole across the
courtyard of the Sacré Cœur to the little room at the other side
of it, where the Père de Ravignan was waiting for her. As she
opened the door he looked up in an ecstasy. 'Voilà trois ans,' he
said, 'que je prie pour votre arrivée, et vous voilà enfin.' She
was quite overcome, and told him that for three years she had seen
a figure constantly beckoning her forward, she knew not whither.
The Père de Ravignan answered, 'I believe that you will see that
figure for the last time on the day of your première communion;'
and so it was: the figure stood by her then, and afterwards it
disappeared for ever.
"At the first Sir Peter had said that he would turn Marguerite out
of doors, and his fury knew no bounds. One evening Marguerite sent
her maid privately to me with a note saying, 'To-morrow morning I
shall declare myself: to-morrow my father will turn me out of
doors, and what _am_ I to do?' 'Oh,' I said, 'only have faith and
watch what will happen, for it will all come right.' And sure
enough, so it seemed at the time, for the next morning Sir Peter
sent for his housekeeper and said to her, 'I've changed my mind;
Miss Marguerite shall not go away; and I've changed my mind even so
much that I shall send to Mrs. Hare and ask her to take me with her
when she goes to see her daughter make her première communion.'
"It was quite a great function in the church of the Sacré Cœur.
I was terrified out of my wits when I saw the crowd in the church,
and in the chancel were the Bishop, the Papal Nuncio, and all the
principal clergy of Paris, for it was quite an event. Marguerite
and I were dressed in white, with white veils and wreaths of white
roses. As the Papal Nuncio came forward to place his hands on our
heads, in the very act of confirmation, there was a fearful crash,
and Sir Peter fell forward over the bench just behind us, and was
carried insensible out of the church. Mamma went with him, for she
thought he was dying. When he came to himself his first words
were--'Louisa, Louisa! I have seen Louisa.' He had seen Lady Louisa
Pole.
"When Lady Louisa was dying she said to Marguerite, 'My child,
there is one thing I regret; it is that I have had doubts about the
Roman Catholic Church, and that I have never examined.'"