"Under the arch of Life, where love and death,
Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I saw
Beauty enthroned; and though her gaze struck awe,
I drew it in as simply as my breath."--ROSSETTI.
"A good mental condition includes just as much culture as is
necessary to the development of the faculties, but not any burden
of erudition heavy enough to diminish (as erudition so often does)
the promptitude or elasticity of the mind."--HAMERTON, _French and
English_.
"Who thinks the story is all told at twenty? Let them live on and
try."--_Hitherto._
In June 1857 we left Lime for a long residence abroad. My mother's
doctors had declared that being thoroughly imbued with heat in a warm
climate was the only way in which her health could be permanently
benefited. It was a journey so long prepared for by historical studies,
that I imagine few people have gone to Italy with a more thorough
knowledge of what they would find there than we possessed.
We took our two old servants, Lea and John (Gidman), abroad with us, and
Charlotte Leycester accompanied us to Lucerne, where the family was
established for the hot summer months at the Pension Faller, which
stands at the end of a long green terrace behind the cathedral
cloisters, with a glorious view of Mont Pilate and all the range of
mountains on the other side of the lake. George Sheffield came out to
Lucerne to accompany me thence to Austria; but as he was very young at
the time, and his college examinations were not over, we had to gain his
parents' consent to this project by consenting to his having a tutor,
and chose for this purpose our common acquaintance Robinson Duckworth,
afterwards tutor to Prince Leopold. The arrangement did not answer,
though it must be confessed that we treated Duckworth very ill, and were
always playing him tricks. One night at Linz, for instance, we were
greatly annoyed by finding he would have to sleep in our room, which was
a very large one. He went out to listen to the band in the evening, and
we spent the time of his absence in drawing the third bed into the
middle of the room, and arranging it like a kind of catafalque, with
lighted candles at the four corners. We then went to bed ourselves and
pretended to be deep in slumber. When Duckworth came in, though two
people could just manage to move the heavy bed to its pedestal, it was
quite impossible for him alone to move it back again, and he was obliged
to go to bed upon it--and most absurd he looked in the morning. I do not
think he ever quite forgave us for this trick.
_To_ MY MOTHER.
"_Constance, July 24._--The Falls of Schaffhausen, with the dashing
and roaring emerald water, were quite glorious. We came here from
thence by steamer--the entrance to Constance very lovely, and the
distant Alps lighted with the most delicate pink hues of sunset.
The inn is close to the lake-pier and to the old Council-house. We
have walked to the field at Bruhl where Huss was burnt, and since
then Duckworth has been serenading the nuns of a Franciscan convent
under their windows with airs out of 'Don Giovanni.'"
"_July 26._--We were called at four, and my companions went out
fishing, and returned dragging an immense pike which they had
caught. Meanwhile I had seen the Minster and drawn the Kauf-haus,
and was ready to leave with them at nine. We had a delicious
journey across the still lake, Sheffield and I sitting quite down
in the bow of the boat, where we had nothing before us but the soft
blue lake and distant snows, and where we cut through air and water
at the same time."
"_July 29._--Yesterday we embarked at Donauwörth on the Danube
steamer--crowded, filthy, and ceaselessly vibrating--the river the
colour of pea-soup, with sandbanks on which we stuck every five
minutes. There was no relief to the hideous monotony of the nine
hours' voyage, the blackened swamps only changing into barren
sandhills, on which a few ragged hops were vainly struggling for
existence. But to-day in grand old Ratisbon has made up for
yesterday's sufferings. Sheffield and I had great fun in making an
expedition to the palace of the Prince of Thurm and Taxis. Numbers
of people were out, and we discovered it was to greet the two young
princes, who were to return that day from their travels: so we
represented them, bowed to the right and left all through the
street, and finally being set down at the palace, escaped into the
garden and out the other way: what became of the real princes we
have not heard. After all our audacity and impertinence in pushing
through the Prince's courtyard and intruding upon his garden, we
were rather touched by coming upon a placard inscribed--'The
possessor of this garden, who has nothing nearer his heart than the
promotion of universal pleasure, bids you--_welcome!_'"
"_August 1._--In early morning we were on board the Danube steamer.
Immediately after, three very common-looking men came on board by a
boat, and descended at once to the cabin. Soon a neighbour
whispered that one of them was the Archduke Albrecht, Governor of
Hungary,--and behold, in a few minutes the three strangers emerged,
dressed in gorgeous uniforms and glittering with orders.... All
along the shore were crowds of bowing and curtseying people. At the
hotel at Linz the Archduchess and her two daughters were waiting
for the Archduke on the balcony of the inn; and their presence
brought a splendid band under the window in the evening. This
morning the whole family came on board, amid guns firing and crowds
of people, to whom we thought the Archduchess would have bowed her
head off. The presence of royalties gave us a better steamer, and
before reaching Vienna the scenery of the Danube improved,
especially at the rocks and castle of Dürnstein, where Richard
Cœur-de-Lion was imprisoned."
"_August 4._--Vienna would be delightful if it were not for the
heat, but the grass is all burnt brown, and the trees almost black.
Sheffield and I have driven to the old convent called
Klosterneuburg, and in returning saw at Nussdorf the arrival of the
Archduke Maximilian and his lovely wife,[115] radiant, unaffected,
captivating all who saw her."
"_August 6._--We have been to the country-palace of Laxenburg--a
terrible drive in a sirocco, which made both Sheffield and me as
ill as a sea-voyage. Laxenburg was the palace of Maria Theresa, and
has an English park, only the grounds are full of gothic temples,
&c., and an imitation dungeon fortress, with an imitation prisoner
in it, who lifts his hands beseechingly and rattles his chains as
you approach. Princess Charlotte was to have her first meeting with
all the imperial family in the afternoon, and we waited for the
public appearance of the royalties after dinner. We saw them emerge
from the palace, and then ran down to the lake to see them embark.
The imperial party arrived in carriages at the water's edge, and
were set down under some old plane-trees, where their barges were
ready, with rowers in sailors' dresses. First came the Empress,
looking very lovely and charming, bowing her way to her own boat,
which was distinguished by its blue cloth linings. Then came the
Emperor, _running_ as hard as he could, to be in time to hand her
in: then sweet-looking Princess Charlotte, with a radiantly happy
and not at all a shy expression; the mother of the Empress;
Princess Marguerite; the Queen of Saxony; and the Archduchess
Albrecht. All these entered the imperial boat, which was followed
by another with three old countesses, and then all the court ladies
in other boats. The Emperor and the Archdukes Leopold and Heinrich
rowed themselves. There could hardly be a prettier scene--no crowd,
no staring, and sunset on the water as the little fleet glided in
among the cypress-covered islets. The last I saw of them was one of
the princesses seizing hold of the old countesses' boat, and
rocking it violently to give them a good fright.
"Throughout our travels we have perpetually fallen in with two
solitary ladies. Yesterday one of them said to Duckworth, 'I beg
your pardon, perhaps I ought not to ask, but the melancholy
gentleman (meaning me) must have had a very severe disappointment;
was it recent?--he seems to take on very much. Well, my idea is one
must always be crossed three times before love runs smooth.'
Duckworth asked where they were going. 'Oh, where is it?' said the
younger lady; 'I quite forget the name of the place; something very
long, I know.'--'Oh, Constantinople, my dear, that's the name, and
then we go to a place they call Smyrna, and then to Algeria; for
you see we've been to Rome and Naples, and if you don't mind
travelling, it's just the same thing whether you go to one place or
another.'"
"_Aussee in Styria, August 8._--The last thing Sheffield and I did
together was to go to the Capuchin vault, where all the sovereigns
of the House of Hapsburg lie in gorgeous sarcophagi and coffins:
amongst them Maria Theresa, and the husband by whose grave she came
to pray every Friday in this dark vault. In one corner was the
little Archduchess Sophia, only dead two months, her coffin heaped
still with the white garlands deposited by her father and mother,
who--are out of mourning for her.
"After parting with my companions, I went by train to Modling, and
drove through the Wienerwald to Heiligenkreutz,[116] a gigantic
monastery on the edge of a perfectly desolate moor, but in itself
magnificent, with a quadrangle larger than 'Tom Quad' at Oxford.
Daylight was waning, and I hastened to get the Sacristan to show me
the 'Heilige Partikel,' which is kept in a venerable old leather
case, and set in a huge golden cross covered with jewels. There are
beautiful cloisters, and several chapels of the fourteenth
century, and in one of them a fountain, so large that its sound is
that of a waterfall. From Baden I crossed the Simmering pass to
Bruck-an-der-Mur. Here all the travellers who descended from the
train drew diligence tickets by turns, and as mine was only No. 11,
I came in for the rickety board by the driver! What a road it was,
in which the heavy wheels alternately sank into quagmires of deep
mud, or jolted over the piles of stones which were thrown down to
fill them up. The dank marshy plain was covered with driving white
fog, from which one could only take refuge in the fumes of bad
tobacco around one.
"When at length it was my turn to change, it was into an old car
with leathern curtains, and horses so feeble that the passengers
were obliged to get out and plod through the thick mud at every
incline. I had a German companion, who smoked all night in my face.
"All through the night a succession of these cars was kept up, the
company being turned out every two hours in some filthy village
street, while another wretched old carriage was searched for and
brought out. The taverns at which we stopped were most miserable.
In the only one I entered the old landlady came out in her
nightgown, and seizing my straw hat from my head, placed it on the
top of her own top-knot, exclaiming, 'Schöne Strohhut.' Not till
midday did we arrive here, and then found the inn full and the
hills shrouded in mist--the 'Mountains of the Dead,' as the
surroundings of this lonely lake are called, appalling in their
white winding-sheets."
"_Salzburg, August 14._--During my first days in the Salzkammergut,
I might have been inside a kitchen boiler, so thick and white was
the steam. But the landlord at Ischl said it was not likely to
clear, and, wearied of waiting and longing to see _something_, I
went off to the Traunsee, where, to my surprise, the mist suddenly
gave way, the sun appeared, and in a few minutes the heavy veil
rolled back, and the beautiful blue lake and high forest-clad
mountains were disclosed as if by magic. In a few minutes after
shivering, we were all complaining of heat again, and then
luxuriating in the cool breeze as we steamed slowly under the great
purple Traunstein. At Gmünden[117] we dined at the little inn,
served by ladies in gold helmets, with great silver chains round
their necks. I drove on to the fall in an _Einspanner_. It is a
miniature Schaffhausen, and the colour of the water most beautiful.
On the following day an old Colonel Woodruffe and his wife took me
with them to Hallstadt, where we were rowed by women in crimson
petticoats down the lovely lake to the village. The scenery is
magnificent--jagged mountains melting into beautiful chestnut woods
which reach to the water's edge, and at the end of the lake the
little town, with its picturesque wooden houses and beautiful
gothic chapel. The population consists of nine hundred Roman
Catholics and nine hundred Protestants, who live together most
amicably. No vehicle can enter the town, for the streets are narrow
gullies, with staircases from one house to another.
"My new friends left me at Hallstadt, and early next morning I was
up, and in the forest, to see the Wildbach waterfall, an exquisite
walk, through green glades carpeted with cyclamen and columbines,
with great masses of moss-grown rock tossed about amongst the
trees, and high mountains rising all around. The goats were just
getting up and coming out of their sheds, ringing their little
bells as they skipped about amongst the rocks, and the flowers were
all glistening with dew--no human being moving, except the
goatherds directing their flocks up the mountain paths. I reached
the waterfall, in its wild amphitheatre of rock, before the sun,
and saw the first rolling away of the morning mist, and the clear
mountain torrent foaming forth in its place; while far beyond was
the great snowy Dachstein.
"At nine, a little boat took me to the Gosauswang at the other end
of the lake, and while I was waiting there for an _Einspanner_,
four travellers came up, one of whom--a pleasant-looking
clergyman--introduced himself as Mr. Clements, the Rector of Upton
St. Leonards, and informed me that his companions were his brother,
just returned from Australia, and the two young Akers of Prinknash.
"As soon as they were gone off in their boat, my little carriage
came, and I had a glorious drive, up the banks of the torrent
Gosau, to open mountain pastures, backed by a magnificent range of
bare rocky peaks. There is only a footpath from the 'Schmidt' to
the Vorder See, set in the loveliest of forests, and backed by
noble rugged peaks and snowy glaciers. The colour of the lake was
indescribable, but oftenest like a rainbow seen through a
prism--the purple, green, and clear blue melting into each other,
and the whole transparent as crystal, showing all the bright stones
and pebbles in the immense depths and reflecting all the snow-peaks
beyond. When I returned to the inn, the Clements' party had
arrived, and finding they were going the same way, I engaged to
travel with them to Innsbruck.
"On Friday we all went again to the Vorder See, and then, taking a
woodcutter as guide, scrambled on for two hours through woods and
rocks to the Hinter See,[118] which is like a turquoise set in the
mountains.
"We returned together to Ischl, and left in a carriage next day. At
the end of St. Wolfgang Lake we engaged a boat and crossed to the
curious old gothic church which contains the shrine of St.
Wolfgang, and his rocky bed projecting through the pavement of a
chapel, upon which the peasants throw kreutzers through a grating.
We did not arrive at Salzburg till dark. What a fine old town it
is!--but what most interested me was seeing here an old lady in
black walking to church with a lady behind her. It was the Kaiserin
Caroline, widow of the Emperor Francis I., grand-daughter-in-law of
Maria Theresa, niece of Marie Antoinette, sister-in-law of Marie
Louise!"
"_Reichenhall, August 26._--From Salzburg we visited the mines of
Hallein, into which we descended in full miner's costume--thick
white trousers, smock-frock, cap, and a leathern apron _behind_.
The guide gave us each a light, and marshalled us in single file
through the narrow dark passages. On the summit of the first
descent, we were all made to sit down upon our leathern aprons, to
put our legs round each others' heads, hold a rope, and then slide
off like a train into the dark abyss--alarming at first, and then
very amusing. After three slides, we reached a black lake like the
Styx, with lamps glittering like stars on faraway rocks. Here a
boat moved by invisible hands came soundlessly gliding towards us:
we stepped in, and in death-like silence, without oars or rowers,
floated across the ghastly waters. On the opposite bank a wooden
horse was waiting, on which we were made to sit, each behind the
other, and, when we were mounted, rushed away with the speed of a
whirlwind through the dark unearthly passages. At last, what looked
like a twinkling star appeared in the distance, and it gradually
increased till we emerged in open daylight. It is a most
extraordinary expedition, but as the salt is all black, there is no
beauty. We went on to Berchtesgaden and the Königsee and Obersee,
but the wet weather only cleared enough to show us the beauties of
the myrtle-green water."
It was a most wearisome journey then--two days of twelve hours in a
carriage--to Innsbruck, where I parted with my companions. Hence a
terrible long diligence journey of seventeen hours brought me to Botzen.
The driver beguiled the way by telling me the history of his life--how
when quite young he had given up smoking, and constantly put by all the
money he should have spent on tobacco, in the hope of using it in
revisiting Naples and the Island of Ischia, where he had been in boyhood
as a soldier; but that two years before these designs had been cut
short, because one day, when he returned with his diligence from Verona,
he found his house burnt to the ground, and nothing saved except six
silver spoons which his wife had carried off in her apron.
From Botzen I went to Meran and Trafoi, whence I walked across the
Stelvio to the Baths of Bormio; but this part of the tour was not
enjoyable, as my sufferings were always so great from bad weather, and
hunger owing to want of money. Still less pleasant were the immense
journeys afterwards by Finstermuntz and the Great Arlberg, along
horrible roads and in wretched diligences, which, in these days of
luxurious railway travelling, we should think perfectly unendurable. At
Wesen, on the Lake of Wallenstadt, I had the happiest of meetings with
my dear mother and her old servants, and vividly does the impression
come back to me of the luxurious sense of rest in the first evening, and
of freedom from discomfort, privation, and want.
[Illustration: LA MADONNA DEL SASSO, LOCARNO.[119]]
We crossed the Bernardino to Locarno, where we were joined by mother's
widowed niece, Mrs. Charles Stanley, and by her friend Miss Cole. There
were many circumstances which made me see the whole of North Italy
through jaundiced eyes at this time, so that Milan, Venice, and even
beautiful Verona, became more associated in my mind with mental and
bodily fatigue than with any pleasure. One of the happiest
recollections which comes back to me is an excursion alone with my sweet
mother to the old deserted convent of Chiaravalle near Milan, and the
grave of the enthusiast Wilhelmina. At Venice we had much pleasure in
sight-seeing with Miss Louisa Cole, and her cousins Mr. and Miss Warre,
the latter of whom afterwards married Froude the historian.
At Padua we engaged two _vetturino_ carriages, in one of which our
companions travelled, and in the other my mother and I with our two old
servants. The first day's journey, through the rich plain of the vintage
in October, was very pleasant, meeting the immense wains and waggons
laden with grapes, and the merry peasants, who delighted to give us
large ripe bunches as we passed. But we had a perilous passage of the
swollen Po, on which our carriage was embarked in a large boat, towed
with ropes by numbers of men in smaller boats. In our long journey in
our roomy excellent carriage--our home for about three weeks--we were
provided with a perfect library of books, for my mother was quite of the
opinion of Montaigne when he said, "Je ne voyage sans livres, n'y en
paix, n'y en guerre. C'est la meilleure munition j'aye trouvé à cet
humain voyage." So we studied the whole of Arnold, Gibbon, Ranke, and
Milman at this time. The slower the mode of travel, the greater its
variety. In the middle of the day the _vetturini_ rested often in some
picturesque town, where there were churches, convents, and pictures to
sketch or visit; sometimes in quiet country inns, near which we wandered
in country lanes, and collected the wild-flowers of the district. How
vividly the recollections of these quiet weeks come back to me--of the
charm of our studies and the weekly examination upon them: of the novel
which my mother and I used afterwards to tell each other alternately, in
which the good characters lived at a place called "Holmhurst," but
somehow contrived to have always some link with the scenes through which
we were travelling: of our early luncheon of bread and preserved
apricots: of our arrival in the evenings at rooms which had always a
wholesome barn-like smell, from the fresh straw under the carpets: of
the children, who scampered along by the sides of the carriage calling
out "Tà-tà"--as short for Carità: of my mother screaming at Ferrara as
she ran away from a white spectral figure, with eyes gleaming out of
holes in a peaked hood and rattling a money-box--a figure to which we
became well accustomed afterwards as a _Frate della Misericordia_: of
the great castle of Ferrara, whose picturesque outlines seemed so
strangely familiar till I recollected where I had seen them--at the
bottom of willow-patterned washing-basins.
[Illustration: IN S. APOLLINARE NUOVO, RAVENNA.[120]]
Ravenna was at this time reached by a wearisome journey through marshy
flats overgrown by a dark-berried plant much used in the making of dye:
we afterwards imported it to Hurstmonceaux. The Stanleys, whom we seldom
contradicted, had greatly opposed our going thither, so that our journey
to Ravenna had the charm of eating forbidden fruit; but I was able to
silence their angry reproaches afterwards for having "taken my mother
into so unhealthy a climate" by finding in Gibbon the remark that
Ravenna, though situated in the midst of fœtid marshes, possesses one
of the most salubrious climates in Italy! My mother was even more
enchanted with the wonderful old city than myself, especially with the
peerage of martyrs in the long palm-bearing procession in the mosaics of
S. Apollinare Nuovo, and with the exquisite and ever-varied loveliness
of the Pineta.
Deeply interesting was the historical journey afterwards along the
shores of the Adriatic--the sunset on the Metaurus--the proud ruins of
Roman Rimini, where also we went to see the soft lustrous picture known
as "the winking Virgin," and accidentally met the father of the painter
in the church--the Rubicon and Pesaro; Sinigaglia and Fano; and the
exquisitely beautiful approach to Ancona, with the town climbing up the
steep headland crowned by the cathedral, and the blue sea covered with
shipping. In many ways Ancona has always seemed to me more beautiful
than Naples. I have seen much of all these towns since, but there is
nothing now like the halcyon days of _vetturino_ travelling, with the
abundant time for seeing and digesting everything, and the quiet regular
progression, without fuss or fatigue, or anything to mar mental
impressions.
From Ancona we went to Loreto, a lovely drive then, through ranges of
hills, sweeping one behind another like files of an advancing army, and
crested sometimes by the picturesque roofs, domes, and towers of an old
town; sometimes clothed to their summits with olives and pines,
vineyards and mulberry-gardens. Here and there a decayed villa stood by
the roadside in its overgrown garden, huge aloes and tall cypresses
rising from its tangled grass and periwinkles. Very lovely was the
ascent to Osimo, thronged with the students of the old university town
in their black cloaks, amongst whom was the Cardinal-bishop, going for a
walk in crimson stockings, sash, and gloves, with two footmen in cocked
hats strutting behind him.
[Illustration: LORETO.[121]]
Nothing can be grander than the situation of Loreto, and the views from
it over the surrounding country--the walls overlooking a wide sea-view
as well. A building like a huge castle, with massive semicircular
towers, dominates the town, and is the fortress which guards the holy of
holies--the Santa Casa. We were called at five to go to the church. It
was still pitch dark, but many pilgrims had already arrived, and waited
with us in a corridor till the doors were opened. The scene inside was
most singular--the huge expanse quite dark, except where a blaze of
light under the dome illuminated the marble casing of the Santa Casa, or
where a solitary lamp permitted a picture or an image to loom out of
the chaos. The great mass of pilgrims knelt together before the shrine,
but here and there a desolate figure, with arms outstretched in
agonising prayer, threw a long weird shadow down the pavement of the
nave, while others were crawling on hands and knees round the side walls
of the house, occasionally licking up the sacred dust with their
tongues, which left a bloody trail upon the floor. At either door of the
House, the lamplight flashed upon the drawn sword of a soldier, keeping
guard to prevent too many people pressing in together, as they
ceaselessly passed in single file upon their knees, to gaze for a few
seconds upon the rugged walls of unplastered brick, blackened with soot,
which they believed to be the veritable walls of the cottage at
Nazareth. Here, in strange contrast, the negress statue, attributed to
St. Luke, gleams in a mass of diamonds. At the west end of the House was
the window by which the angel entered! The collection of jewels and
robes in the sacristy was enormous, though the priests lamented bitterly
to us over the ravages of the Revolution, and that now the Virgin had
only wardrobe sufficient to allow of her changing her dress _once_
instead of three times every day of the year.
[Illustration: MACERATA.[122]]
We travelled afterwards through a country seldom visited now--by
hill-set Macerata and Recanati, and picturesque Tolentino with its
relics of S. Nicolas, into the central Apennines, where Sabbatarianism
doomed us to spend a most miserable Sunday at the unspeakably wretched
inn of La Muccia. From Foligno we made an excursion to Assisi, then
filled with troops of stately Franciscan monks--all "_possidenti_;" and
by the Clitumnus temple, Spoleto, and Narni to Terni. At Civita
Castellana the famous robber chief Gesparoni was imprisoned at this
time, this year being the thirty-third of his imprisonment. Miss Cole
and I obtained an order to visit him and his band, tall gaunt forms in a
large room in the castle. The chieftain had a long white beard: we
bought a little knitted cap of his workmanship. There was a ghastly
sensation in being alone for a few minutes with this gang of men, who
had all been murderers, and mostly murderers of many.
Breathlessly interesting was the first approach to Rome--the
characteristic scenery of the Campagna, with its tufa quarries, and its
crumbling towers and tombs rising amidst the withered thistles and
asphodels; its strange herds of buffaloes; then the faint grey dome
rising over the low hills, and the unspoken knowledge about it, which
was almost too much for words; lastly, the miserable suburb and the
great Piazza del Popolo.
I never shall forget the ecstasy of awaking the next morning in the
Hôtel d'Angleterre, and feeling that the longed-for desire of many years
was realised. We engaged apartments in the upper floor of the Palazzo
Lovati in the Piazza del Popolo--cold dreary rooms enough, but from my
mother's bedroom there was a lovely view to St. Peter's across the
meadows of S. Angelo.
[Illustration: CIVITA CASTELLANA.[123]]
Naturally one of my first visits was to Mrs. Hare and my sister, whom I
found established in the first floor of the Palazzo Parisani, which
occupies two sides of the little Piazza S. Claudio, a dismal little
square, but which my sister regarded with idolatry, asserting that there
was no house half so delightful as the Palazzo Parisani, no view which
could be compared in interest to that of the Piazza S. Claudio. Making
acquaintance with my sister at this time was to me like the perpetual
reading of an engrossing romance, for nobody ever was more amusing, no
one ever had more power of throwing an interest into the commonest
things of life. She did not colour her descriptions, but she saw life
through a prism, and imparted its rays to others. Her manner, her dress,
all her surroundings were poetical. If one went to dine with her, the
dinner was much the same as we had at home, but some picturesquely hung
grapes, or a stalk of _finocchio_, or some half-opened pomegranates,
gave the table an _air_ which made it all seem quite different.
"Italima" liked my coming and going, and was very angry if I did not
come, though she never professed any maternal affection for me. I often
found myself in difficulties between my two mothers. My adopted mother
would sometimes take an alarm that I was going too often to Italima, and
would demand my presence just on the particular occasion when "Italima"
had counted upon it; in which case I always gave way to her. And indeed,
as a rule, I always spent _all_ my time with my mother, except about two
evenings in the week, when I went to Italima and the Palazzo Parisani.
On rare occasions, also, I went out "into the world" with Italima and
my sister, to balls at the Palazzo Borghese, and at the Palazzo di
Spagna, where old Queen Christina of Spain was then living, an
interesting historic figure to me as the sister of the Duchesse de Berri
and great-niece of Marie Antoinette. She was very hospitable, and her
parties, approached through an avenue of silver candelabra representing
palm-trees--spoils from the Spanish convents--were exceedingly
magnificent. At her suppers on Fridays, one side of the room was laid
for "_maigre_," the other for "_gras_," and when the doors were opened,
there was a general scrimmage to reach the delicious viands on the
"_maigre_" table. After each of her receptions, it was the rule that
five cards should be left by each guest--for herself, for her husband
the Duc de Rianzares (who had been a common soldier), for her master of
the household, for her equerry, and for her lady-in-waiting. The
principal balls were those given by Princess Borghese, at which many
cardinals were present, but would sit down to whist in a room apart from
the dancers. A great feature of the Borghese parties at this time was
the Princess-mother, who always sat in a conspicuous place in the
anteroom, and to whom all the guests were expected to pay their court.
By birth she was Adèle de la Rochefoucauld, and she was the mother of
three princes--Marc-Antonio Borghese, Aldobrandini, and Salviati. She
was "sage, souple, et avide des biens," as Voltaire says of Mazarin, and
it was she who--probably most unjustly--had then the reputation of
having poisoned the beautiful Princess Guendolina, first wife of
Marc-Antonio, with all her sons, in order that her own son might marry
her niece, Thérèse[124] de la Rochefoucauld, which he afterwards did. A
conspicuous figure was the beautiful young Princess del Drago, one of
the daughters of Queen Christina's second marriage, whose husband had a
most fiendish face. I often saw the blind Duke of Sermoneta, celebrated
for his knowledge of Dante, and his witty canonical brother, Don Filippo
Caiëtani, generally known as "Don Pippo." The then Duchess of Sermoneta
was "Margherita," _née_ Miss Knight, a most ghastly and solemn woman to
outsiders, but much beloved by those who knew her intimately.
The Prince of Piombino, who lived in exile or seclusion after the change
of government in Rome, was then flourishing in his immense palace in the
Corso, and his children, then young married people, were the life of
all the parties. Of these, Rudolfo, Duke of Sora, had married the
saint-like Agnese, only surviving child of Donna Guendolina Borghese,
who was supposed only by absence to have escaped the fate of her mother
and brothers. Of his sisters, Donna Carolina was the clever, brilliant
Princess Pallavicini, and Donna Giulia had married the Duke of Fiano,
who lived in the neighbouring palace, and by marrying her had broken the
heart of Mademoiselle Judith Falconnet.[125]
One of the Romans whom I saw most frequently was the Princess Santa
Croce, living in the old historical palace which has the reputation of
being the only haunted house in Rome, where two statues of cardinals
come down from their pedestals and rattle their marble trains up and
down the long galleries. The Princess was one of the daughters of Mr.
Scully in Ireland. He had three, of whom two were beautiful, clever, and
brilliant, but the third was uninteresting. The two elder Miss Scullys
went out into the world, and were greatly admired and much made of; but
the youngest stayed at home like Cinderella, and was never known at all
except as "the Miss Scullys' younger sister." Many people wished to
marry the elder Miss Scullys; but they said "No, for we have a
presentiment that we are to marry dukes, and therefore we will wait."
But no dukes came forward, and at length old Mr. Scully died, leaving
his daughters three great fortunes; and being Roman Catholics, without
any particular call or claim, they determined to visit Rome before they
settled in life. They took many introductions with them, and on their
arrival the good looks, cleverness, and wealth of the elder sisters
created quite a sensation; but people asked them, Roman-fashion, "what
was their vocation," for in Rome all Catholic ladies are expected to
have decided this. Then they said they had never thought of it, and they
went to spend a week in the convent of the Trinità de' Monti to consider
it. When the day came on which the three Miss Scullys were to declare
their vocation, all Rome was interested, and the "great world" thronged
the parlours of the Trinità de' Monti to hear it; but the expectants
were petrified when the two elder Miss Scullys came out, for they had
found their vocation, and it was a convent! No doubt whatever was felt
about the youngest--"of course she would follow her sisters." But no;
she had found her vocation, and it was marriage! and the youngest Miss
Scully, additionally enriched by half the fortunes of her two elder
sisters, went out into the world, and in three weeks she had accepted
the great Roman Prince of Santa Croce, who claims descent from Valerius
Publicola. I often used to watch with interest the Princess Santa Croce,
who went to confess and pray at the convent of the Villa Lante (which
Roman princesses are wont to frequent), for the two portresses who
opened the doors were her two elder sisters, the proud Miss Scullys: it
was the story of Cinderella in real life. I was at Rome years afterwards
(1864) when the Princess Santa Croce died. All the princesses lie in
state after death, but by old custom, the higher their rank, the lower
they must lie, and the Princess Santa Croce was of such excessively high
rank, that she lay upon the bare boards.
I think that it was towards the middle of our stay in Rome that I
received a summons to a private audience of Pius IX. Italima and my
sister went with me. We went in evening dress to the Vatican in the
middle of the day, and were shown into a gallery where a number of
Monsignori were standing. Amongst them was Monsignore Talbot, who asked
me if I did not feel very much agitated. I said "No," and he answered,
"But every one must be agitated when they are about to stand in the
presence of the Vicar of Christ"--and at that moment he drew aside a
portière, and we found ourselves at one end of a long hall, at the other
end of which a sturdy figure with a beneficent face, in what looked like
a white dressing-gown, was standing leaning his hand upon a table: it
was Pius IX. We had been told beforehand that, as we had asked for a
_private_ audience, we must perform all the genuflections, three at the
doorway, three in the middle of the room, and three at the feet of the
Pope, and the same in returning; and Italima had declared that the
thought of this made her so nervous that we must do all the talking. But
Italima had often been to the Pope before, and she was so active and
agile, that by the time my sister and I got up from the third
genuflection in the doorway, she was already curvetting in the centre of
the hall, and we heard the beautiful voice of the Pope, like a silver
bell, say, "E come sta la figlia mia--e come sta la cara figlia mia,"
and by the time we were in the middle of the apartment she was already
at the feet of the Pope. Eventually my sister and I arrived, and flung
ourselves down, one on each side of Italima, at the feet of the Pope,
who gave us his ring to kiss, and his foot, or rather a great raised
gold cross upon his white slipper. "E questa la figlia?" he said,
pointing to my sister. "Si, Sua Santità," said Italima. "Ed e questo il
figlio?" he said, turning to me. "Si, Sua Santità," said Italima. Then
my sister, who thought it was a golden opportunity which she would never
have again, and which was not to be lost, broke through all the rules of
etiquette, and called out from the other side of the daïs, clasping her
hands, "Ma, Sua Santità, il mio fratello e stato Protestant."
Then the Pope turned to me and spoke of the great privilege and blessing
of being a Catholic, but said that from what he had heard of me he felt
that I did not deserve that privilege, and that therefore he could not
wish that I should enjoy its blessings. He said much more, and then
that, before I left, I should make him a "piccolo piccolino promessino"
(the least little bit of a promise in the world), and that I should
remember all my life that I had made it at the feet of Pius IX. I said
that I should wish to do whatever Sua Santità desired, but that before I
engaged to make a promise I should like to know what the promise was to
be about. "Oh," said the Pope, smiling, "it is nothing so very
difficult; it is only something which a priest in your own Church might
ask: it is that you will say the Lord's Prayer every morning and
evening." "Yes," I replied, "I shall be delighted to make Sua Santità
the promise; but perhaps Sua Santità is not aware that the practice is
not unusual in the Church of England." Then, almost severely for one so
gentle, the Pope said, "You seem to think the promise a light one; I
think it a very serious one; in fact, I think it so serious, that I will
only ask you to promise to use one petition--'Fiat voluntas tua, O Deus,
in terris ut in cœlo,' and remember that you have promised that at
the feet of Pius IX." Then he blended his farewell very touchingly into
a beautiful prayer and blessing; he blessed the things--rosaries,
&c.--which my sister had brought with her; he again gave us his ring and
the cross on his foot to kiss, and while he rang the little bell at his
side, we found our way out backwards--quite a geometrical problem with
nine genuflections to be made on the way.
I was often in the convent of the Trinità when I was at Rome in 1857,
for visitors are allowed there at certain hours, and a great friend of
my sister's, Adèle, Madame Davidoff, was then in the convent, having
been sent to Rome on an especial mission to the Pope on matters
connected with the French convents of the Sacré Cœur. Madame Davidoff
("Madame" only "in religion," as "a spouse of Christ") was daughter of
the Maréchale Sebastiani, the stepmother of the murdered Duchesse de
Praslin, and was grand-daughter of the Duchesse de Grammont, who founded
the Sacré Cœur. Her own life had been very romantic. One winter there
was a very handsome young Count Schouvaloff in Rome, whom my sister knew
very well. She had been one day in the convent, and Madame Davidoff had
accompanied her to the outer door, and was standing engrossed with last
words, leaning against the green baize door leading into the church.
Suddenly a man appeared, coming through the inner door of the convent,
evidently from visiting the Abbess. "Mais c'est le Comte Schouvaloff!"
said Madame Davidoff to my sister, and pushing the baize door behind
her, suddenly disappeared into the church, while Schouvaloff, seeing her
suddenly vanish, rushed forward to my sister exclaiming, "Oh, c'est
elle--c'est elle! Oh, mon Adèle, mon Adèle!" He had been on the eve of
marriage with her, when she had thought herself suddenly seized by a
conventual vocation, had taken the veil, and he had never seen her
since. The next day Count Schouvaloff left Rome. He went into retreat
for some time at the Certosa of Pavia, where total silence is the rule
of daily life. He took orders, and in a few years, having a wonderful
gift for preaching, was sent on a mission to Paris; but the shock of
returning to the scenes of his old life was too much for him, and in a
few days after reaching Paris he died.
When I knew Madame Davidoff, she still possessed an extraordinary charm
of conversation and manner, and the most exuberant eloquence of any
person I have ever seen. Her one object was conversion to the Roman
Catholic faith, and into that she threw all her energies, all her charm
and wit, and even her affections. Her memory was as prodigious as that
of Macaulay, and she knew all the controversial portions of the great
Catholic writers by heart. What was more extraordinary still was, that
having many "cases" going on at the same time (for people used to go to
visit her and sit round her anteroom like patients at a fashionable
dentist's), she never confounded one with another in her mind, never
lost time, and always went on exactly where she left off. But her love
of ruling made Madame Davidoff less popular within the walls of her
convent than with the outside world; and after her return to Paris, the
means which she often took to attain the ends to which she devoted her
life brought such trouble to the convent of the Sacré Cœur, that the
nuns refused to keep her amongst them, and she afterwards lived in the
world, giving frequent anxiety to her sister, the Marquise de Gabriac,
and to Lord Tankerville and Lady Malmesbury, her cousins. During my
first visit at Rome, I saw Madame Davidoff often, and, after a courteous
expression of regret that I was sure to be eternally damned, she would
do her best to convert me. I believe my dear mother underwent great
qualms on my visits to her. But her religious unscrupulousness soon
alienated me, and I had a final rupture with her upon her urging me to
become a Roman Catholic secretly, and to conceal it from my adopted
mother as long as she lived. Other Roman Catholics who made a vehement
effort for my perversion were Monsignor Talbot and Monsignor Howard, the
latter of whom I had known as a very handsome dashing young guardsman a
few years before, but who afterwards became a Cardinal. There was a
most ridiculous scene when they came to the Palazzo Lovati, where
Monsignor Howard made so violent a harangue against Protestantism that
Monsignor Talbot was obliged to apologise for him. Roman Catholics with
whom we were intimate from circumstances were the ex-Jew Mr. Goldsmid
and his wife. Mr. Goldsmid had been converted by the Père Ratisbon,
whose own conversion was attributed partially to the image of the Virgin
in the Church of Andrea delle Fratte, and partly to the prayers of M. de
la Ferronays, which are believed to have endowed the image with speech.
A really excellent Roman Catholic priest of whom I saw much was
Monsignor Pellerin, Bishop in Cochin-China. His conversation was liberal
and beautiful, and he had the simplicity of a mediæval saint. He was at
that time about to return to China, with a great probability of
martyrdom. On his last day in Rome he celebrated mass in the Catacombs
in the Chapel of Santa Cecilia, a most touching sight even to those who
were not of his faith. On taking leave, he gave me a small silver
crucifix, which I treasured for a long time, then it disappeared: I
always thought that Lea made away with it, in the fear that it might
make me a Roman Catholic. I heard of the close of Monsignor Pellerin's
self-sacrificing life in China several years later.
Amongst the English we had many pleasant friends, especially the George
Cavendishes and the Greene Wilkinsons, who had a great fortune left to
them for opening a pew-door to an old gentleman: it used to be said that
they ought to take "Pro Pudor" as their motto.
But no notice of our familiar society at Rome can be complete which does
not speak of "Auntie"--Miss Paul--the sister of "Italima," who lived her
own life apart in two rooms in a corner of the Parisani Palace, where
she saw and observed everything, and was very ready to make her quaint
original remarks upon what she had observed when she joined the rest of
the family, which was only in the evenings. I never saw "Auntie"
otherwise than desperately busy, sometimes with immense rolls of
embroidery, sometimes with charcoal-drawing, often with extraordinary
and most incomprehensible schemes for recovering the very large fortune
she had once possessed, and which she had lost in "the Paul Bankruptcy."
Italima was not at all kind to her, but this did not affect her in the
least: she went her own way, and when she was most soundly abused, it
only seemed to amuse her. My sister she absolutely adored, and then and
afterwards used to think it perfect happiness to sit and watch her for
hours, not being able to hear a word she said on account of her
deafness. I was exceedingly fond of "Auntie," and used to delight to
escape from the ungenial atmosphere of Italima's great drawing-room to
the busy little den in the corner of the palace, where I was always a
welcome visitor, and always found something amusing going on.
When we arrived in Rome, my sister Esmeralda was supposed to be
partially engaged to Don Emilio Rignano, eldest son of the Duke Massimo,
whom she had known well from childhood. Emilio at one time passed every
evening at the Palazzo Parisani; but during this winter Donna Teresa
Doria appeared in the world, and the old Duchess Massimo, who hated
Anglo-Roman alliances, by a clever scheme soon compelled her son to
consent to an engagement with her. Having learnt this, Esmeralda refused
ever to receive Emilio again. On the day before his marriage, however,
he found her in the Church of S. Claudio, and tried to make her marry
him at once by the easy Roman form, "Ecco il mio marito--Ecco la mia
moglie," but she would not listen to him. Then, when she drove to the
Villa Borghese, he pursued the carriage, regardless of the people in the
street. His hat fell off, but he would not stop: he seemed to have lost
his senses.
At a marriage in high life in Rome, the guests are often asked, not to
the actual ceremony, but to St. Peter's afterwards, to see the bridal
pair kiss the foot of the famous statue. When the Duke and Duchess
Rignano entered St. Peter's, they were piteous to see: they would not
look at each other. Old Lady Rolle was there, standing by the statue,
and when they came near she said audibly, "What a wicked scene! what a
sinful marriage!" And Emilio heard her, gave her one look of agony, and
flung himself down on the pavement in front of the statue.
As Duchess Rignano, Teresa Doria was wretched. We saw her afterwards at
Genoa, in the old Doria Palace, with her mother, whose death was
hastened by the sight of her daughter's woe and her own disappointed
ambition. Before long the Duchess Teresa was separated from her husband.
Her tragical fate was a good thing for her sisters: the second sister,
Guendolina, made a happy marriage with the Conte di Somaglia in the
Marchi, and the youngest, Olimpia, was allowed to remain long unmarried.
This last daughter of the house of Doria was described by her mother as
so very small when she was born, that they swathed her in flannel and
laid her in the sun, in the hope that it would make her grow like a
plant. I was one day at the house of Mrs. de Selby, cousin of Princess
Doria, when her servant threw open the door and announced in a
stentorian voice, _allo Romano_--"La sua Eccellenza l'illustrissima
Principessina la Donna Olimpia di Doria,"--and there marched in a
stately little maiden of eight years old!
Cardinal Antonelli obtained an order for my sister and me to visit the
Madre Makrina, the sole survivor of the Polish nuns who were martyred
for their faith in the terrible persecution at Minsk. The nuns were
starved, flogged to death, buried alive, subjected to the most horrible
cruelties. Three escaped and reached Vienna, where two of them
disappeared and never were heard of again. After a series of
unparalleled adventures and escapes, the Abbess, the Madre Makrina,
arrived in Rome. Pope Gregory XVI. received her kindly, but made her
tell her whole story once for all in the presence of sixty witnesses,
who all wrote it down at once to ensure accuracy, and then he shut her
up, for fear she should be turned into a saint and object of pilgrimage.
It was not generally known what had become of the Madre Makrina--it was
a mystery in Rome--but we were able to trace her to the tiny convent of
the Monacche Polacche, which has since been destroyed by the Sardinian
Government, but which then stood near the Arch of Gallienus, nearly
opposite the Church of S. Eusebio. Italima wished to go with us, but we
could only obtain an order for two. When we rang the convent bell and
had shown our permit through the grille, a portress from within drew a
bolt which admitted us to a little room--den rather--barred with iron,
and with an iron cage at one side, behind which the portress, a very fat
old woman, reappearing, asked us many questions about ourselves, the
Pope, the state of Rome generally. At last we got tired and said, "But
shall we not soon see the Madre Makrina?"--"_Io_ sono la Madre Makrina,"
said the old woman, laughing. Then we said, "Oh, do tell us the story of
Minsk."--"No," she replied, "I promised at the feet of Pope Gregory XVI.
that I would never tell that story again: the story is written down,
you can read it, but I cannot break my promise."--"How dreadfully you
must have suffered at Minsk," we said. "Yes," she answered, and, going
backwards, she pulled up her petticoats and showed us her legs, which
were enormously fat, yet, a short distance above the ankles, were quite
eaten away, so that you could see the bones. "This," she said, "was
caused by the chains I wore at Minsk." The Madre Makrina, when we took
leave, said, "I am filled with wonder as to how you got admittance. I
have never seen any one before since I came here, and I do not suppose I
shall ever see any one again, so I will give you a little memorial of
your visit!" and she gave me a tiny crucifix and medal off her chain. I
have it still.
When the Emperor Nicholas came to Rome, he went to pay his respects to
the Pope, who received him very coldly. "You are a great king," said
Pius IX. "You are one of the mightiest monarchs in the world, and I am a
feeble old man, the servant of servants; but I cite you to meet me
again, to meet me before the throne of the Judge of the world, and to
answer _there_ for your treatment of the nuns at Minsk."
But of the gathering up of reminiscences of Roman life there is no end,
and, after all, my normal life was a quiet one with my mother, driving
with her, sketching with her, sitting with her in the studio of the
venerable Canevari,[126] who was doing her portrait, spending afternoons
with her in the Medici gardens, in the beautiful Villa Wolkonski, or in
the quiet valley near the grove and grotto of Egeria.
In the mornings we generally walked on the Pincio, and there often
noticed a family of father, mother, and daughter working on the terrace,
as the custom then was, at rope-making. One day a carriage passed and
re-passed with a solitary gentleman in it, who at last, as if he could
no longer restrain himself, jumped out and rushed towards the group
exclaiming, "C'est elle! c'est elle!" Then he became embarrassed,
retired, and eventually sent his servant to beg that the mother would
bring some of her cord to his house the next morning. She obeyed, and on
entering his apartment was struck at once by a portrait on the wall.
"That is the picture of my daughter," she said. "No," he replied, "that
is the portrait of my dead wife." He then proceeded to say that he must
from that time consider himself affianced to her daughter, for that in
her he seemed to see again his lost wife, and he insisted on
establishing the old woman and her daughter in comfortable lodgings,
and hiring all kinds of masters for the latter, saying that he would go
away and leave her to her studies, and that in a year he should come
back to marry her, which he did. In England this would be a very
extraordinary story, but it was not thought much of at Rome.
[Illustration: VALMONTONE.[127]]
I have always found that the interests of Rome have a more adhesive
power than those of any other place, and that it is more difficult to
detach oneself from them; and even in this first winter, which was the
least pleasant I have spent there--the conflicting requirements of my
two mothers causing no small difficulty--I was greatly distressed when
my mother, in her terror of Madame Davidoff and Co., decided that we
must leave for Naples on the twenty-third of February. What an
unpleasant companion I was as we drove out of the Porta S. Giovanni in
the large carriage of the _vetturino_ Constantino, with--after the
custom of that time--a black Spitz sitting on the luggage behind to
guard it, which he did most efficaciously. I remember with a mental
shiver how piteously the wind howled over the parched Campagna, and how
the ruins looked almost frightful in the drab light of a sunless winter
morning. But though the cold was most intense, for the season really
was too early for such a journey, our spirits were revived by the
extreme picturesqueness of the old towns we passed through. In
Valmontone, where the huge Doria palace is, we met a ghastly funeral, an
old woman carried by the Frati della Misericordia on an open bier, her
withered head nodding to and fro with the motion, and priests--as Lea
said--"gibbering before her." Here, from the broad deserted terrace in
front of the palace, we looked over the mountains, with mists drifting
across them in the wind; all was the essence of picturesqueness,
raggedness, ignorance, and filth. By Frosinone and Ceprano--then the
dreary scene of the Neapolitan custom-house--we reached San Germano,
where the inn was in those days most wretched. In our rooms we were not
only exposed to every wind that blew, but to the invasions of little
Marianina, Joannina, and Nicolina, who darted in every minute to look at
us, and to the hens, who walked about and laid their eggs under the bed
and table. Most intensely, however, did we delight in the beauties of
the glorious ascent to Monte Cassino and in all that we saw there.
How well I remember the extreme wretchedness of our mid-day
halting-places in the after journey to Capua, and wonder how the
pampered Italian travellers of the present day would put up with them;
but in those days we did not mind, and till it was time to go on again,
we drew the line of old crones sitting miserably against the inn-wall,
rocking themselves to and fro in their coloured hoods, and cursing us in
a chorus of--
"Ah, vi pigli un accidente
Voi che non date niente,"
if we did not give them anything.
[Illustration: ROCCA JANULA, ABOVE SAN GERMANO.[128]]
While we were at Naples, every one was full of the terrible earthquake
which in December had been devastating the Basilicata. Whole towns were
destroyed. It was as after a deep snow in England, which covers fields
and hedges alike; you could not tell in the mass of débris whether you
were walking over houses or streets. The inhabitants who escaped were
utterly paralysed, and sat like Indian Brahmins with their elbows on
their knees, staring in vacant despair. Hundreds were buried alive, who
might have been extricated if sufficient energy had been left in the
survivors. Others, buried to the middle, had the upper part of their
bodies burnt off by the fire which spread from the ruined houses, and
from which they were unable to escape. Thousands died afterwards from
the hunger and exposure.
Whilst we were at Naples my mother lost her gold watch. We believed it
to have been stolen as we were entering the Museo Borbonico, and gave
notice to the police. They said they could do nothing unless we went to
the King of the Thieves, who could easily get it back for us: it would
be necessary to make terms with him. So a _ragazaccio_[129] was sent to
guide us through one of the labyrinthian alleys on the hill of St. Elmo
to a house where we were presented to the King of Thieves. He mentioned
his terms, which we agreed to, and he then said, "If the watch has been
stolen anywhere within twelve miles round Naples, you shall have it in
twenty-four hours." Meanwhile the watch was found by one of the custodes
of the Museo at the bottom of that bronze vase in which you are supposed
to hear the roaring of the sea; my mother had been stooping down to
listen, and the watch had fallen in. But the story is worth mentioning,
as the subserviency of the police to the King of the Thieves was
characteristic of public justice under Ferdinand II.
_To_ MY SISTER.
"_Sorrento, March 7, 1858._--Some people say Sorrento is the most
beautiful place in the world, and I believe that even my
town-loving sister, if she could gaze over the golden woods in the
sunset of this evening, and see the crimson smoke float over dark
Vesuvius and then drift far over the blue sea, would allow it to be
more inspiring than the Piazza S. Claudio! Then to-day the mother
and her three companions have been riding on donkeys to the lovely
Vigna Sersale through a fringe of coronilla and myrtle, anemones
and violets.... It is a comfort here to be free from the begging
atmosphere of Naples, for in Sorrento people do not beg; they only
propose 'mangiare maccaroni alla sua salute.'"
"_April 4._--We have had a charming cruise in the 'Centaur'--the
sea like glass, the view clear. Captain Clifford sent his boat to
fetch us, and we sat on deck in arm-chairs, as if on land. In tiny
fishing-boats, lying flat on our backs, we entered the Grotta
Azurra (of Capri), like a magical cavern peopled with phantoms,
each face looking livid as the boats floated over the deep blue
water. Then we scrambled up to the fortress-palace of Tiberius, our
ascent being enlivened by a tremendous battle between the
midshipmen and the donkey-women, who finally drew their stilettos!
"Amalfi is most romantic and lovely. We were there ten days, and
spent the mornings in drawing amongst the purple rocks and sandy
bays, and the afternoons in riding up the mountain staircases to
the Saracenic rock-built castles and desolate towns.
"The mother thinks I have grown dreadfully worldly under your
influence, and that my love for wild-flowers is the only hopeful
sign remaining!"
[Illustration: CAPRI.[130]]
[Illustration: PÆSTUM.[131]]
From Salerno we made a glorious expedition to Pæstum, but on our return
found our servant, John Gidman, alarmingly ill in consequence of a
sunstroke while fallen asleep on the balcony at Amalfi. His sufferings
were dreadful, and he remained between life and death for a long time,
and I believe was only eventually saved by the violent bleedings (so
often inveighed against) of an Italian doctor. This delayed us long at
the dull Salerno, and afterwards at La Cava, where I comforted myself
by much drawing at Salvator Rosa's grotto in the valley below the old
Benedictine convent.
In May our companions returned to England, and having no one but
ourselves to consider, we planned to make our own northern _vetturino_
journey as interesting as possible. I think it was a description in
"Dennis" which made us take the route by Viterbo and Orvieto, but we
went there and saw it with enthusiasm, as afterwards Perugia--to which
we zigzagged back across the Apennines, and Cortona, where the hill was
redolent with great wild yellow roses, and where I drew the tomb of S.
Margherita in the monastery, to the great delight of the monks, who
regaled us with snuff and wine.
Whilst we were at Florence, living in the Casa Iandelli, I made a
delightful excursion to Vallombrosa, driving in a little carriage to
Pelago, and thence riding on a cart-horse up the forest-clothed mountain
by the rough track which emerges on a bright green lawn, then covered
with masses of lilies and columbine, and other spring flowers of every
description. All around the dark forests swept down from the mountains
towards the convent, where the hospitable monks entertained me with a
most excellent dinner, and the abbot showed the manuscripts.
[Illustration: VALLOMBROSA.]
On my return, I found my mother so convulsed with laughter that it was
long before she was able to explain the cause of it. At last she showed
me a letter in her hand, which was a violent declaration of love and
proposal of marriage from one Giorgio
Rovert--"bello--possidente--avocato"--who was even then waiting at
Siena to know if his "fiamme d'amore" was responded to, and if he might
hasten to Florence to throw himself at the feet of the object of his
adoration. For some time we were utterly bewildered, but at length
recollected that at Rome a young man had constantly followed the cousin
who was with us, had lifted the heavy curtains for her at the entrance
of the churches, found her places in a mass-book, &c., and we concluded
that he must have tracked her to the Palazzo Lovati, inquired of the
porter who lived there, and hearing it was "Mrs. Hare," had followed
_us_ to Florence. Lady Anne S. Giorgio coming in soon after to see us,
undertook to answer the letter, and did so most capitally; but Giorgio
Rovert did not break his heart, and within three weeks we heard of him
as proposing to old Lady Dillon!
The Lady Anne S. Giorgio I have mentioned began at this time to fill a
great part in our life. She was a Roman Catholic, and used to say that
she had become so (at sixteen) on account of the poor apology which she
found made for Protestantism in Robertson's "Charles V.," which she had
been reading. After she was a widow, she became a member of a Tertiary
Order which binds its votaries to forsake the vanities of the world, to
wear a cross, and be dressed in black. She used to be very anxious for
my conversion, and have special prayers to that intent on St.
Augustine's Day. She read through Madame de Sévigné every year, and her
library of books excited the astonishment of her poorer neighbours, who
said, "O la Contessa e tanto buona; legge sempre; prega sempre; e tanto
buona," for they cannot understand any one reading anything but
religious books.
Lady Anne was one of the daughters of that beautiful Lady Oxford whose
offspring were named "the Harleian Miscellany." Lady Oxford lived at
Genoa with her daughters, leaving Lord Oxford in England, and during her
Italian life had many strange adventures, and one of a most terrible
kind, the story of which was related to me by Dr. Wellesley, who was
present at the time, but I will omit it. Of the weird stories of the
other sisters I will say nothing, but Lady Anne in her youth was engaged
to a young Italian, who, with the ugly name of Boggi, was yet of a very
good family. However, before they could be married, Boggi died, and the
Harleys returned to England. While there, Lady Anne wished to marry her
music-master, but her family would not hear of it, and by the harshness
of their opposition made her life miserable. Having striven vainly for
some years to win the consent of her family, Lady Anne wrote to Madame
Boggi, the mother of her late betrothed, with whom she had always kept
up a communication, to say that she was in wretched health and spirits,
that she required change terribly, and that she was very unhappy because
her family violently opposed her marriage with a very excellent young
Italian--but she did not say who he was. Madame Boggi replied by saying
that nothing could give her greater happiness than having her dearest
Annie with her, and imploring her to come out to her at once. The Harley
family consented, thinking that the change might cure Lady Anne's
heartache, and she went out to Madame Boggi, who had always said that
she looked upon her as a daughter because she was once engaged to her
dead son.
While Lady Anne was with Madame Boggi, she heard that her Italian lover
had returned to Italy to join his friends, but that he had been stopped
by illness at some place in the north of Italy, and was lying in a very
critical condition. I cannot say how Lady Anne persuaded Madame Boggi,
but she did persuade her to consent to her going off to nurse her lover,
and, unmarried girl as she was, she nursed him through all his illness.
He died, but his brother, who came to him when he was dying, was so
touched by Lady Anne's devotion, that he afterwards proposed to her, and
she married him.
The husband of Lady Anne was only a "cavaliere." They were dreadfully
poor, and lived at a little farm somewhere in the hills above Spezia,
where two boys and a girl were born. But Lady Anne did not mind poverty;
she fattened her chickens and pigs for market, she studied botany and
all the ologies by herself, and she taught her children. After she
became a widow, she heard one day that her father, Lord Oxford, from
whom she had been separated from childhood, was passing through Italy,
and she threw herself in his way upon the staircase in the inn at
Sarzana. When he found who she was, he was delighted both with her and
her children. He said, "I have done nothing for you hitherto, and I can
do nothing for you after my death, for my affairs are arranged and they
cannot be altered; but whatever you ask me to do _now_ shall be
granted." "Then," said Lady Anne, "you have always looked down upon me
and despised me, because my husband was a simple 'cavaliere.' You are
going to Rome: get me created a Countess in my own right, and then you
will despise me no more." And Lord Oxford went to Rome, and, by his
personal influence with the Pope, to whom he had great opportunities of
being useful, his daughter Anne was created a Countess in her own right,
and her sons became titular Counts and her daughter a Countess.
It was in this summer of 1858, while we were at Florence, that Lady Anne
came to "Italima" (for she had known my father intimately in her palmy
days) and said, "You know how I have lived like a hermit in my
'_tenuto_,' and meanwhile here is Carolina grown up, and Carolina must
marry somebody, and that somebody you must find, for you are almost the
only person I know." And, to her surprise, Italima was able to answer,
"It is really very odd, but Mrs. de Selby, the cousin of the Princesses
Doria and Borghese, was here this morning, and she said, 'Here is
Roberto, and I want to find somebody for him to marry. I do not want a
fortune, we have plenty of money, but it must be a girl of good family,
and if she is partly English so much the better.'"
We went to the betrothal dinner of Robert Selby and Carolina di S.
Giorgio, and afterwards we ran about the Torrigiani gardens in the still
summer evening, and made round our straw hats wreaths of the fireflies,
which, when they are once fixed, seldom fly away. Carolina was
afterwards a great friend of ours, and most entertaining and clever. She
could imitate an old priest scolding and taking snuff so exactly, that
if you shut your eyes you thought one must be in the room; and she used
to create for herself little dramas and tragedies, in which she was as
pathetic as she was at other times comic. As a mother she was most
unfortunate. Several of her children were poisoned by eating "fungi" at
a trattoria outside the Porta del Popolo, and she herself nearly died
from the same cause. After Robert Selby's death she married again, and
went to live at Leghorn.
I was very sorry afterwards that during this visit we never saw Mrs.
Browning, who died in 1861, before we were at Florence again. We used to
hear much of her--of her peculiar appearance, with her long curls, and
(from illness) her head always on one side; of the infinite charm of her
conversation; of her interest in spiritualism; how she would endeavour
to assert her belief in it in her little feeble voice, upon which
Browning would descend in his loud tones; but they were perfectly
devoted to each other.
Another person whom we often saw at Florence was the foolish wife of our
dear old Landor, who never ceased to describe with fury his passionate
altercations with her, chiefly caused apparently by jealousy. Landor was
still living at Bath at this time.
In the Cascine at Florence we found the same old flower-woman who had
been there when I was a baby in the Prato, where I was taught to walk.
She used to drive to the Cascine with her flowers in a smart carriage
with a pair of horses, and would smile and kiss her hands to us as we
passed. It was contrary to good Florentine manners not to accept the
flowers which she offered to every one she saw when she arrived where
the carriages were waiting, but they were never paid for at the time;
only a present was sent occasionally, or given by foreigners when they
left Florence, and she came to the station to see them off and present a
farewell bouquet. I merely mention these customs because they are
probably dying out, perhaps are already extinct.
My cousin Lady Normanby was at this time resident in her beautiful
Florentine villa, with its lovely garden of roses and view over
Florence, and she was very kind to us.
We were at Florence this year during the festival of Corpus Domini, and
saw that curious procession, chiefly consisting of little boys in white
dominos, and brown monks and brothers of the Misericordia; but,
following the Archbishop under his canopy, came the Grand Duke on foot,
with all the male members of the Corsini and Guicciardini families, and
the young Archdukes in white satin trains.
We saw also the Foundling Hospital, where all the children were brought
up and nursed by goats, and where, when the children cried, the goats
ran and gave them suck.
About the 10th of June we settled at Lucca baths, in the pleasant little
Casa Bertini, a primitive house more like a farm-house than a villa, on
the steep hillside above the Grand Duke's palace, possessing a charming
little garden of oleanders and apple-trees at the back, with views down
into the gorge of the river, and up into the hilly cornfields, which
were always open to us. Very delightful were the early mornings, when
the mother, with book and camp-stool, wandered up the hill-path,
fringed with flowers, to the Bagni Caldi. Charming too the evenings,
when, after "_merenda_" at four o'clock in the garden, we used to go
forth, with all the little society, in carriages or on horseback, till
the heavy dews fell, and drove us in by the light of the fireflies. A
most pleasant circle surrounded us. Close by, in a large cool villa with
a fountain, was the gentle invalid Mrs. Greville (_née_ Locke), singing
and composing music, with her pleasant companion Miss Rowland. Just
below, in the hotel of the villa, "Auntie" was living with the George
Cavendishes, and in the street by the river the pretty widow, Mrs.
Francis Colegrave, with her children, Howard and Florence, and her
sister Miss Chichester.
An amusing member of the society at the Bagni, living in a cottage full
of curiosities, was Mrs. Stisted, the original of Mrs. Ricketts in "The
Daltons." She had set her heart upon converting the Duke of Parma to
Protestantism, and he often condescended to controversy with her. One
day she thought she had really succeeded, but driving into Lucca town
next day, to her horror she met him walking bare-headed in a procession
with a lighted candle in his hand. Then and there she stopped her
carriage and began to upbraid him. When he returned to the Bagni, he
went to see her and to reprove her. "There cannot," he said, "be two
sovereigns at Lucca; either I must be Duke or you must be Queen," and
ever after she was called the Queen of the Bagni. Colonel Stisted had a
number of curious autographs, the most interesting being the MS. of the
"Lines to an Indian air"--"I rise from dreams of thee"--found in the
pocket of Shelley after he was drowned.
Living beneath us all this summer were the Grand Ducal family, and we
saw them constantly. They were greatly beloved, but the Grand
Duchess-Dowager, who was a Sardinian princess, was more popular than the
reigning Grand Duchess, who was a Neapolitan Bourbon, and ultimately
brought about the ruin of the family by her influence. The Grand
Duchess-Dowager was the step-mother of the Grand Duke, and also his
sister-in-law, having been sister-in-law of his first wife. The
Hereditary Grand Duke was married to her niece, a lovely Saxon princess,
who died soon afterwards: it was said that he treated her very ill, and
that his younger brother protected her. We were at a very pretty ball
which was given on the festa of S. Anna, her patroness. The Grand Ducal
family generally went out at the same hour as ourselves. In the middle
of the day nothing stirred except the scorpions, which were a constant
terror. One was found in my bath in the morning, and all that day we
were in fearful expectation, as the creatures never go about singly; but
in the evening we met the companion coming upstairs. There were also
quantities of serpents, which in the evening used frequently to be seen
crossing the road in a body going down to the river to drink.
[Illustration: PONTE ALLA MADDALENA, LUCCA.][132]
[Illustration: Augustus J. C. Hare.