"_August 30._--A stormy day, but I went by train to Tynehead for
Crichton. Two old ladies of ninety got into the carriage after me.
An old gentleman opposite made a civil speech to one of them, upon
which she tartly replied, 'I don't hear a word, for I thank
Almighty God for all His mercies, and most of all that He has made
me quite deaf, for if I heard I should be obliged to speak to
_you_, and I don't _want_ to speak to you.'
"Crichton is a red ruined castle on a hill, with a distance of
purple moorland, and inside is the courtyard so exactly described
in 'Marmion.' With storm raging round it, it was awfully desolate.
Close by is an old stumpy-towered thoroughly Scotch church."
After a visit to the Dalzels at North Berwick, my mother went south from
Durham. I turned backwards to pay my first visit to Mrs. Davidson--the
"Cousin Susan" with whom I was afterwards most intimate. "The beautiful
Lord Strathmore," my great-grandmother's brother, so often painted by
Angelica Kauffmann, who married "the Unhappy Countess," had two
daughters, Maria and Anna. After Lady Strathmore was released from her
brutal second husband, the one thing she had the greatest horror of for
her daughters was matrimony, and she did all she could to prevent their
seeing any one. But Lady Anna Bowes, while her mother was living in
Fludyer Street, made the acquaintance of a young lawyer who lived on the
other side the way, and performed the extraordinary acrobatic feat of
walking across a plank suspended across the street to his rooms,[169]
where she was married to him. The marriage was an unhappy one, but Mr.
Jessop did not survive long, and left Lady Anna with two young
daughters, of whom one died early: the other was "Cousin Susan." Lady
Anna was given a home (in a house adjoining the park at Gibside) by her
brother, John, Lord Strathmore, and her daughters were brought up in
sister-like intimacy with his (illegitimate) son, John Bowes. Susan
Jessop afterwards married Mr. Davidson of Otterburn, who, being a very
rich man, to please her, bought and endowed her with the old Ridley
property--Ridley Hall on South Tyne.
Cousin Susan was an active, bright little woman, always beautifully
dressed, and with the most perfect figure imaginable. No one except Mr.
Bowes knew how old she was, and he would not tell, but she liked to be
thought very young, and still danced at Newcastle balls. She was a
capital manager of her large estate, entered into all business questions
herself, and would walk for hours about her woods, marking timber,
planning bridges or summer-houses, and contriving walks and staircases
in the most difficult and apparently inaccessible places.
Ridley Hall was the most intense source of pride to Cousin Susan, and
though the house was very ugly, the place was indeed most beautiful. The
house stood on a grassy hill above the South Tyne Railway, with a large
flower-garden on the other side, where, through the whole summer, three
hundred and sixty-five flower-beds were bright with every colour of the
rainbow. I never saw such a use of annuals as at Ridley Hall--there were
perfect sheets of Colinsia, Nemophila, and other common things, from
which, in the seed-time, Cousin Susan would gather what she called her
harvest, which it took her whole evenings to thresh out and arrange. A
tiny inner garden, concealed by trees and rockwork, would have been
quite charming to children, with a miniature thatched cottage, filled
with the smallest furniture that could be put into use, bookcases, and
pictures, &c. Beyond the garden was a lovely view towards the moors,
ever varied by the blue shadows of clouds fleeting across them. Thence
an avenue, high above the river, led to the kitchen-garden, just where
the rushing Allen Water, seen through a succession of green arches, was
hurrying to its junction with the Tyne. Here one entered upon the wood
walks, which wound for five miles up and down hill, through every
exquisite variety of scenery--to Bilberry Hill Moss House, with its
views, across the woods, up the gorge of the Allen to the old tower of
Staward Peel--to the Raven's Crag, the great yellow sandstone cliff
crowned with old yew-trees, which overhangs the river--and across the
delicately swung chain-bridge by the Birkie Brae to a lonely tarn in the
hills, returning by the Swiss Cottage and the Craggy Pass, a steep
staircase under a tremendous overhanging rock.
During my first visits at Ridley Hall, words would fail to express my
enjoyment of the natural beauties of the place, and I passed many
delightful hours reading in the mossy walks, or sketching amongst the
huge rocks in the bed of the shallow river; but at Ridley more than
anywhere else I have learnt how insufficient mere beauty is to fill
one's life; and in later years, when poor Cousin Susan's age and
infirmities increased, I felt terribly the desolation of the place, the
miles and miles of walks kept up for no one else to enjoy them--the
hours, and days, and weeks in which one might wander for ever and never
meet a human being.
During my earlier visits, however, Cousin Susan would fill her house in
the summer, especially in the shooting season. There was nothing
particularly intellectual in the people, but a large party in a
beautiful place generally finds sources of enjoyment: which were always
sought on foot, for there was only one road near Ridley Hall, that along
the Tyne valley, which led to Hexham on the east and Haltwhistle on the
west. Constant guests and great friends of Cousin Susan were the two old
Miss Coulsons--Mary and Arabella--of Blenkinsop, primitive, pleasant old
ladies, and two of the most kind-hearted people I have ever known.
Cousin Susan delighted in her denomination of "the Great Lady of the
Tyne," and, in these earlier years of our intimacy, was adored by her
tenantry and the people of the neighbouring villages, who several times,
when she appeared at a public gathering, insisted on taking out her
horses and drawing her home. With her neighbours of a higher class,
Cousin Susan was always very exacting of attention, and very apt to take
offence.
But no account of Ridley Hall can be complete without alluding to the
dogs, of which there were great numbers, treated quite as human beings
and part of the family. An extra dog was never considered an infliction;
thus, when Cousin Susan engaged a new servant, he or she was always
told that a dog would be especially annexed to them, and considered to
belong to them. When the footman came in to put on the coals, his dog
came in with him; when you met the housemaid in the passage, she was
accompanied by her dog. On the first day of my arrival, Cousin Susan
said at dessert, "John, now bring in the boys," and when I was expecting
the advent of a number of unknown young cousins, the footman threw open
the door, and volleys of little dogs rushed into the room, but all white
Spitzes except the Chowdy-Tow, a most comical Japanese. Church service
at Ridley Hall was held at the Beltingham Chapel, where Cousin Susan was
supreme. The miserable little clergyman, who used to pray for
"Queen-Victori-[=a]," was never allowed to begin till she had entered
the church and taken her place in a sort of tribune on a level with the
altar. Many of the dogs went to church too, with the servants to whom
they were annexed. This was so completely considered a matter of course,
that I never observed it as anything absurd till one day when my
connections the Scotts (daughters of Alethea Stanley) came to the chapel
from Sir Edward Blackett's, and were received into Cousin Susan's pew.
In the Confession, one Miss Scott after another became overwhelmed with
uncontrollable fits of laughter. When I looked up, I saw the black noses
and white ears of a row of little Spitz dogs, one over each of the
prayer-books in the opposite seat. Cousin Susan was furiously angry, and
declared that the Scotts should never come to Ridley Hall again: it was
not because they had laughed in church, but because they had laughed at
the dogs!
Upon leaving Ridley Hall, I paid another visit, which I then thought
scarcely less interesting. My grandmother's first cousin, John, Earl of
Strathmore (who left £10,000 to my grandfather), was a very agreeable
and popular man, but by no means a moral character. Living near his
castle of Streatlam was a beautiful girl named Mary Milner, daughter of
a market-gardener at Staindrop. With this girl he went through a false
ceremony of marriage, after which, in all innocence, she lived with him
as his wife. Their only boy, John Bowes, was sent to Eton as Lord
Glamis. On his deathbed Lord Strathmore confessed to Mary Milner that
their marriage was false and that she was not really his wife. She said,
"I understand that you mean to marry me now, but that will not do: there
must be no more secret marriages!" and, ill as he was, she had every
one within reach summoned to attend the ceremony, and she had him
carried to church and was married to him before all the world. Lord
Strathmore died soon after he re-entered the house, but he left her
Countess of Strathmore. It was too late to legitimatise John Bowes.
Lady Strathmore always behaved well. As soon as she was a widow, she
said to all the people whom she had known as her husband's relations and
friends, that if they liked to keep up her acquaintance, she should be
very grateful to them, and always glad to see them when they came to
her, but that she should never enter any house on a visit again: and she
never did. My grandmother, and, in later years, "Italima," had always
appreciated Lady Strathmore, and so had Mrs. Davidson, and the kindness
they showed her was met with unbounded gratitude. Lady Strathmore
therefore received with the greatest effusion my proposal of a visit to
Gibside. She was a stately woman, still beautiful, and she had educated
herself since her youth, but, from her quiet life (full of
unostentatious charity), she had become very eccentric. One of her
oddities was that her only measurement of time was one thousand years.
"Is it long since you have seen Mrs. Davidson?" I said. "Yes, one
thousand years!"--"Have you had your dog a long time?"--"A thousand
years."--"That must be a very old picture."--"Yes, a thousand years
old."
Seeing no one but Mr. Hutt, the agreeable tutor of her son, Lady
Strathmore had married him, and by her wealth and influence he became
member for Gateshead. He was rather a prim man, but could make himself
very agreeable, and he was vastly civil to me. I think he rather
tyrannised over Lady Strathmore, but he was very well behaved to her in
public. Soon after her death[170] he married again.
[Illustration: GIBSIDE.]
Gibside was a beautiful place. The long many-orielled battlemented house
was reached through exquisite woods feathering down to the Derwent. A
tall column in the park commemorates the victory of George Bowes (the
father of the unhappy 9th Lady Strathmore, who married a Blakiston, the
heiress of Gibside) over Sir Robert Walpole at a Newcastle election.
There was a charming panelled drawing-room, full of old furniture and
pictures. The house had two ghosts, one "in a silk dress," being that
Lady Tyrconnel who died in the house while living there on somewhat too
intimate terms with John, Earl of Strathmore. He gave her a funeral
which almost ruined the estate. Her face was painted like the most
brilliant life. He dressed her head himself! and then, having decked her
out in all her jewels, and covered her with Brussels lace from head to
foot, he sent her up to London, causing her to lie in state at every
town upon the road, and finally to be buried in Westminster Abbey!
At the end of the garden was the chapel, beneath which many of my
Strathmore ancestors are buried--a beautiful building externally, but
hideous within, with the pulpit in the centre. During the service on
Sundays a most extraordinary effect was produced by the clerk not only
giving out the hymns, but singing them entirely through afterwards by
himself, in a harsh nasal twang, without the very slightest help from
any member of the congregation.
* * * * *
After we parted at Paris in the autumn of 1858, Mrs. Hare and my sister,
as usual, spent the winter at Rome, returning northwards by the seat of
the war in Lombardy. Thence Esmeralda wrote:--
"_Turin, May 25, 1859._--Instead of a _dolce far niente_ at
Frascati or Albano, we have been listening to the roaring of
cannon. The Austrians are said to be fourteen miles off, but there
is no apparent excitement in the town. The juggler attracts a crowd
around him as usual in the piazza, the ladies walk about with their
fans and smelling-bottles, the men sing _vivas_. The town is
guarded by the _guardia civile_; all the regular troops have left
for the battlefield. The nobility are either shut up or walk about
in the streets, for all their carriage and riding horses have been
taken from them for the use of the army. Bulletins are published
twice a day, and give a short account of the engagements. The
Piedmontese are confident of ultimate success: fresh French troops
are pouring in every day. The lancers came in this morning with
flying colours, splendidly mounted, and were received with
thundering applause, the people shouting and clapping their hands,
waving their handkerchiefs, and decorating them with bouquets and
wreaths of flowers. I hear the Emperor has been waiting for the
arrival of this regiment to begin war in earnest, and a great
battle is expected on Monday.... We left Genoa at night, and came
on by the ten o'clock train to the seat of war. The French were
mounting guard in Alessandria,--the Zouaves and Turcos in their
African dress lounging at the railway station. The Austrians had
been repulsed the day before in trying to cross the river; the
cannon had been rolling all day, but the officers were chatting as
gaily as if nothing had happened, and were looking into the railway
carriages for amusement. I longed to stop at Alessandria and go to
see the camp, but Mama would not hear of it. There were troops
encamped at distances all along the line.... We have had no
difficulty in coming by land, though people tried to frighten us.
We proceeded by _vetturino_ to Siena: everything was quiet, and we
met troops of volunteers singing 'Viva l'Italia'--so radiant, they
seemed to be starting for a festival. Five hundred volunteers went
with us in the same train, and when we arrived at Pisa, more
volunteers were parading the streets amid the acclamations of the
people. At Genoa, hundreds of French soldiers were walking about
the town, looking in at the shop-windows. Prince Napoleon
Bonaparte was walking about the Via Balbi with his hands in his
pockets, followed by great crowds.
"We packed up everything before leaving Palazzo Parisani, in case
we should not be able to return there next winter. I will not think
of the misery of being kept out of Rome; it would be too great.
Perhaps you will see us in England this year, but it is not at all
probable."
* * * * *
Alas! my sister did not return to Rome that year, or for many years
after. "L'homme s'agite et Dieu le mêne."[171] Parisani was never again
really her home. A terrible cloud of misfortune was gathering over her,
accompanied by a series of adventures the most mysterious and the most
incredible. I should not believe all that happened myself, unless I had
followed it day by day; therefore I cannot expect others to believe it.
As Lucas Malet says, "English people distrust everything that does not
carry ballast in the shape of obvious dulness," and they are not likely,
therefore, to believe what follows. But it is _true_ nevertheless. In
narrating what occurred, I shall confine myself to a simple narrative of
facts: as to the source of the extraordinary powers possessed by the
lady who for some time exercised a great influence upon the fortunes of
our family, I can offer no suggestion.
When Mrs. Hare and my sister arrived at Geneva in June 1859, though
their fortunes had suffered very considerably by the Paul bankruptcy,
they were still in possession of a large income, and of every luxury of
life. To save the trouble of taking a villa, they engaged an excellent
suite of apartments in the Hôtel de la Metropole, where they intended
remaining for the greater part of the summer.
Soon after her arrival, Italima (Mrs. Hare) wrote to her banker for
money, and was much astonished to hear from him that she had overdrawn
her account by £150. Knowing that she ought at that season to have
plenty of money in the bank, she wrote to her attorney, Mr. B. (who had
the whole management of her affairs), to desire that he would pay the
rest of the money due into Coutts', and that he would send her £100
immediately. She had no answer from Mr. B., and she wrote again and
again, without any answer. She was not alarmed, because Mr. B. was
always in the habit of going abroad in the summer, and she supposed that
her letters did not reach him because he was away. Still, as she really
wanted the money, it was very inconvenient.
One day, when she came down to the table-d'hôte, the place next to her
was occupied by an elderly lady, who immediately attempted to enter into
conversation with her. Italima, who always looked coldly upon strangers,
answered shortly, and turned away. "Je vois, Madame," said the lady,
with a most peculiar intonation, "que vous aimez les princesses et les
grandeurs." "Yes," said Italima, who was never otherwise than perfectly
truthful, "you are quite right; I do." And after that--it was so very
singular--a sort of conversation became inevitable. But the lady soon
turned to my sister and said, "_You_ are very much interested about the
war in Italy: _you_ have friends in the Italian army: _you_ are longing
to know how things are going on. I _see_ it all: to-morrow there will be
a great battle, and if you come to my room to-morrow morning, you will
hear of it, for I shall be _there_."--"Yes," said Esmeralda, but she
went away thinking the lady was perfectly mad--quite raving.
The next morning, as my sister was going down the passage of the hotel,
she heard a strange sound in one of the bedrooms. The door was ajar, she
pushed it rather wider open, and there, upon two chairs, lay the lady,
quite rigid, her eyes distended, speaking very rapidly. Esmeralda
fetched her mother, and there they both remained transfixed from 10 A.M.
to 3 P.M. The lady was evidently at a great battle: she described the
movements of the troops: she echoed the commands: she shuddered at the
firing and the slaughter, and she never ceased speaking. At 3 P.M. she
grew calm, her voice ceased, her muscles became flexible, she was soon
quite herself. My sister spoke to her of what had taken place: she
seemed to have scarcely any remembrance of it. At 6 P.M. they went down
to dinner. Suddenly the lady startled the table-d'hôte by dropping her
knife and fork and exclaiming, "Oh, l'Empereur! l'Empereur! il est en
danger." She described a flight, a confusion, clouds of dust arising--in
fact, all the final act of the battle of Solferino. That night the
telegrams of Solferino came to Geneva, and for days afterwards the
details kept arriving. Everything was what the lady described. It was at
the battle of Solferino that she had been.
When my sister questioned the landlord, she learnt that the lady was
known as Madame de Trafford, that she had been _née_ Mademoiselle
Martine Larmignac (de l'Armagnac?), and that she was possessed of what
were supposed to be supernatural powers. Esmeralda herself describes
the next incident in her acquaintance with Madame de Trafford.
* * * * *
"One day when we were sitting in our room at Geneva, a lady came
in, a very pleasing-looking person, perfectly _gracieuse_, even
_distinguée_. She sat down, and then said that the object of her
visit was to ask assistance for a charity; that Madame de Trafford,
who was living below us, had given her sixty francs, and that she
hoped we should not refuse to give her something also. Then she
told us a story of a banker's family at Paris who had been totally
ruined, and who were reduced to the utmost penury, and living in
the greatest destitution at Lausanne. She entered into the details
of the story, dwelling upon the beauty of the children, their
efforts at self-help, and various other details. When she had
ended, Mama said she regretted that she was unable to give her more
than ten francs, but that she should be glad to contribute so much,
and I was quite affected by the story, which was most beautifully
told.
"Meantime, Madame de Trafford, by her secondsight, knew that she
was going to be robbed, yet she would not forego her usual custom
of keeping a large sum of money by her. She wrapped up a parcel of
bank-notes and some napoleons in a piece of newspaper, and threw it
upon the top of a wardrobe in which her dresses were hung. She told
me of this, and said she had hidden the money so well that it was
unlikely that any one could find it.
"In a few days, the lady came again to tell us of the improvement
in the poor family, and she also went to see Madame de Trafford.
She was alone with her, and Madame de Trafford told her about her
money, and showed her the place where she had put it, asking her if
she did not think it well concealed.
"Some days after, when we came up from dinner, we found the same
lady, the _quêteuse_, walking up and down the gallery fanning
herself. She said she had been waiting for Madame de Trafford, but
had found her apartment so hot, she had left it to walk about the
passage. We all went into the public sitting-room together, but
Mama and I stayed to read the papers, whilst the lady passed on
with Madame de Trafford to her room beyond, as she said she wished
to speak to her. Soon she returned alone, and began talking to us,
when ... the door opened, and in came Madame de Trafford,
dreadfully agitated, looking perfectly livid, and exclaiming in a
voice of thunder, 'On m'a volé,' and then, turning to the lady, 'Et
voilà la voleuse.' Then, becoming quite calm, she said coldly,
'Madame, vous étiez seule pendant que nous étions à table; je vous
prie donc de vous ... déshabiller.'--'Mais, Madame, c'est inoui de
me soupçonner,' said the lady, 'mais ... enfin ... Madame....' But
she was compelled to pass before Madame de Trafford into the
bedroom and to undo her dress. In her purse were ten napoleons, but
of these no notice was taken; she might have had them before. Then
Madame de Trafford gave the lady five minutes to drop the notes she
had taken, and came out to us--'Car c'est elle!' she said. In five
minutes the lady came out of the room and passed us, saying,
'Vraiment cette Madame de Trafford c'est une personne très
exaltée,' and went out. Then Madame de Trafford called us. 'Venez,
Madame Hare,' she said. We went into the bedroom, and in the corner
of the floor lay a bundle of bank-notes. 'Elle les a jeté,' said
Madame de Trafford."
* * * * *