"_Nov. 7, 1863._--We left Bologna at 5 A.M. In the journey to
Vergato the colouring was beautiful, the amber and ruby tints of
autumn melting into a sapphire distance. At Vergato we engaged the
coupé of the diligence, and had a pleasant passage over the
Apennines, sometimes with four, sometimes with seven horses in the
ascent. The richness of the autumnal glory was beyond
description--a tossing torrent, rocky moss-grown forests of old
oaks and chestnuts, their leaves golden in death: here and there
thickets of holly and box: an old castle on a rock: a lonely old
town (La Porretta) in a misty hollow: and then a grand view from
the top of the pass over purple billowy mountains. The scenery
becomes suddenly Italian--perfectly Italian--in the descent,
cypresses and stone-pines, villas and towers, cutting the sky and
relieved upon the delicate distance: and in the depth Pistoia,
lying like a map, with dome and towers like a miniature Florence."
At the station of Ficulle near Orvieto, where the railway to the south
came to an end altogether at that time, the floods were out all over the
country, and there were no carriages--everything being quite
disorganised. We arrived at a miserable little station, scarcely better
than a small open shed, in torrents of rain, at twelve o'clock in the
day, and had to wait till the same hour of the day following, when
carriages would arrive from Orvieto. After some time my mother was
conveyed to a wretched little inn, but it was necessary for some one to
remain to guard the luggage, and knowing what a fearful hardship it
would be considered by our cross-grained man-servant, John Gidman, I
remained sitting upon it, without any food except a few biscuits, in
pitch darkness at night, and with the swelching rain beating upon my
miserable shed, for twenty-four hours. It was a very unpleasant
experience.
[Illustration: S. FLAVIANO, MONTEFIASCONE.[231]]
When at length we got away, we had to take the road by Montefiascone and
Viterbo, which was then almost untravelled, and the postboys took
advantage of the utter loneliness of the road and disturbed state of the
country to be most insolent in their demands for money. Sometimes they
would stop altogether in a desolate valley and refuse to let their
horses go an inch farther unless we paid a sort of ransom. On such
occasions we always took out our books and employed ourselves till they
went on from sheer weariness. We were never conquered, but it made the
journey very anxious and fatiguing.
It was with real thankfulness that we reached Rome on November 12, and
engaged the upper apartment of 31 Piazza di Spagna, our landlady being
the pleasant daughter of Knebel the artist, who lived in some little
rooms above us, with her brother Tito and her nurse Samuccia.
The first days at Rome this winter were absolute Elysium--the sitting
for hours in the depth of the Forum, then picturesque, flowery, and
"unrestored," watching the sunlight first kiss the edge of the columns
and then bathe them with gold: the wanderings with different friends
over the old mysterious churches on the Aventine and Cœlian, and the
finding out and analysing all their histories from different books at
home in the evenings: the very drives between the high walls, watching
the different effects of light on the broken tufa stones, and the
pellitory and maiden-hair growing between them.
We were also especially fortunate this winter in our friends. At first I
much enjoyed very long walks with a Mr.[232] and Mrs. Kershaw, who lived
beneath us. Taking little carriages to the gates, we wandered forth to
the Aqueducts and Roma Vecchia, where we spent the day in drawing and
picking up marbles, not returning till the cold night-dews were creeping
up from the valleys, and the peasants, as we reached the crowded street
near the Theatre of Marcellus, were eating their fritture and chestnuts
by lamplight, amid a jargon of harsh tongues and gathering of strange
costumes.
We saw much of the handsome young Marchese Annibale Paolucci di Calboli,
in the Guardia Nobile, whose wife was an old friend of early
Hurstmonceaux days, and whose children, especially the second son,
Raniero, have always remained friends of mine. This is the family
mentioned by Dante in "Purgatorio," xiv.--
"Questo è il Rinier; quest' è il pregio e l'onore
Della casa da Calboli."
Old Lady Wenlock[233] came to the Hôtel Europa close beside us, and was
a constant pleasure. My mother drove with her frequently. She scarcely
ever said anything that was not worth observing, and her reminiscences
were of the most various kinds. She it was who, by telling my mother of
her own strong wish and that of other people to possess some of my
sketches, first suggested the idea of selling my drawings. We amused
ourselves one evening by putting prices on the backs of sketches of the
winter--highly imaginative prices, as it seemed to us. Some time
afterwards Lady Wenlock had a party, and asked for the loan of my
portfolio to show to her friends: when they came back there were orders
to the amount of £60.
Other friends of whom we saw much this winter were old Lady Selina
Bridgeman, sister of my mother's dear friend Lady Frances Higginson; and
Lord and Lady Hobart. Lord Hobart was afterwards Governor of Madras, but
at this time he was excessively poor, and they lived in a tiny attic
apartment in the Via Sistina. At many houses we met the long-haired
Franz Liszt, the famous composer, and heard him play. Mr. and Mrs.
Archer Houblon also were people we liked, and we were drawn very near to
them by our common interest in the news which reached us just after our
arrival in Rome of the engagement of Arthur Stanley, just after his
appointment to the Deanery of Westminster, to Lady Augusta Bruce (first
cousin of Mrs. Houblon), the person whom his mother had mentioned as the
one she would most like him to marry.
A little before Christmas--a Christmas of the old kind, with a grand
Papal benediction from the altar of St. Peter's--Henry Alford, Dean of
Canterbury, and his family came to Rome. With them I went many
delightful expeditions into the distant Campagna: to Ostia, with its
then still gorgeous marbles and melancholy tower and pine; to Castel
Fusano, with its palace, like that of the Sleeping Beauty, rising lovely
from its green lawns, with its pine avenue and decaying vases with
golden-flowered aloes, and beyond all the grand old forest with its deep
green recesses and gigantic pines and bays and ilexes, its deep still
pools and its abysses of wood, bounded on one side by the Campagna, and
on the other by the sea; to Collatia, with its woods of violets and
anemones, and its purling brook and broken tower; to Cerbara, with its
colossal caves and violet banks, and laurustinus waving like angels'
wings through the great rifts; to Veii, with its long circuit of ruins,
its tunnelled Ponte Sodo and its mysterious columbarium and tomb.
Another excursion also lives in my mind, which I took with Harry and
Albert Brassey, when we went out very early to Frascati, and climbed in
the gorgeous early morning to Tusculum, where the little crocuses were
just opening upon the dew-laden turf, and then made our way across hedge
and ditch to Grotta Ferrata and its frescoes.
[Illustration: OSTIA.[234]]
I have always found--at Rome especially--that the pleasantest way is to
see very little, and to enjoy that thoroughly. "Je n'avale pas les
plaisirs, je sais les goûter."
[Illustration: THEATRE OF TUSCULUM.[235]]
In the spring our sketchings and excursions were frequently shared by
our cousins, Maria and Mary Shaw-Lefevre, who came to Rome with their
maternal aunt, Miss Wright, whom I then saw for the first time, but who
afterwards became the dearest of my friends--a nominal "Aunt Sophy," far
kinder and far more beloved than any real aunt I have ever known.
But most of all does my remembrance linger upon the many quiet hours
spent alone with the mother during this winter, of an increasing
communion with her upon all subjects, in which she then, being in
perfect health, was able to take an active and energetic interest.
Especially do I look back to each Sunday afternoon passed in the Medici
Gardens, where she would sit on the sheltered sunny seats backed by the
great box hedges--afternoons when her gentle presence, when the very
thought of her loved existence, made all things sweet and beautiful to
me, recalling Cowper's lines--
"When one that holds communion with the skies
Has filled her urn where these pure waters rise,
And once more mingles with us meaner things,
'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings;
Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,
And tells us whence her treasures are supplied."
These afternoons with the mother are my real Roman memories of
1863-64--not the hot rooms, not the evening crowds, not the ceremonies
at St. Peter's!
This year I greatly wished something that was not compatible with the
entire devotion of my time and life to my mother. Therefore I smothered
the wish, and the hope that had grown up with it. Those things do
not--cannot--recur.
One day in the spring, mother and I drove to our favourite spot of the
Acqua Acetosa, and walked in the sun by the muddy Tiber. When we came
back, we found news that Aunt Esther was dead. She had never recovered
a violent cold which she caught when lying for hours, in pouring rain,
upon her husband's grave. Her death was characteristic of her life, for,
with the strongest sense of duty and a determination to carry it out to
the uttermost, no mental constitution can possibly be imagined more
happily constructed for self-torment than hers. My mother grieved for
her loss, and I grieved that my darling had sorrow.... How many years of
heartburnings and privation are buried for ever out of sight in that
grave! _Requiescat in pace._ I believe that I have entirely forgiven all
the years of bitter suffering that she caused me. "He who cannot forgive
others, breaks the bridge over which he must pass himself: for every man
hath need to be forgiven," was a dictum of Lord Herbert of Cherbury. I
believe that I really feel this; still "les morts se prétent aux
réconciliations avec une extrême facilité," as Anatole France says.[236]
We did not go to many of the services. The most impressive processions
we saw were really those of the bare-footed monks who followed the
funerals, many hundreds of them, each with his lighted candle: we used
to hear their howling chant long before they turned the corner of the
Piazza di Spagna.
_To_ MY SISTER.
"_31 Piazza di Spagna, Rome, Feb. 1864._--Manning is indefatigable
in proselytising. I once went to hear him preach at San Carlo:
anything so _dull_, so wholly unimpassioned, I never heard. There
was a great function at the Minerva the other day as a protest
against Renan. Michelangelo's statue of Christ was raised aloft and
illuminated. A Dominican friar preached, and in the midst of his
sermon shouted, 'Adesso, fratelli miei, una viva per Gesù Cristo!'
and all the congregation shouted 'Viva.' And when he finished, he
cried 'Adesso tre volte viva per Gesù Cristo!' and when they were
given, 'E una viva di più,' just as if it were a toast. The Bambino
of Ara Cœli has broken its toe! It was so angry at the church
door being shut when it returned from its drive, that it kicked the
door till one of its toes came off, and the monks are in sad
disgrace.
"The old Palace of the Cæsars, as we have always called it, is
being superseded by immense _scavi_, opened by the French Emperor
in the Orti Farnesiani: these have laid bare such quantities of old
buildings and pavements, that the Orti are now like a little
Pompeii."
We left Rome before Easter, and spent it quietly at Albano, where we had
many delightful days, with first the Hobarts and then the Leghs of
Booths in our hotel, and I made charming excursions up Monte Cavi and
round the lake of Nemi with Alexander Buchanan and the Brasseys. On Good
Friday there was a magnificent procession, the dead and bleeding Christ
carried by night through the streets upon a bier, preceded and attended
by monks and mutes with flaming torches, and followed by a wailing
multitude. In the principal square the procession stopped, the bier was
raised aloft, and while the torchlight flamed upon the livid features of
the dead, a monk called upon the people to bear witness and to account
for his "murder."
At Sorrento we spent a fortnight at the Villa Nardi, with its quiet
orange-grove and little garden edged with ancient busts overlooking the
sea. At Amalfi, the Alfords joined us. We went together to Ravello. I
remember how the Dean insisted on calling the little dog that went with
us from the inn "Orthodog," and another dog, which chose to join our
company, "Heterodog," on the principle of Dr. Johnson, who explained the
distinction by saying, "Madam, orthodoxy is my doxy, and heterodoxy is
any other person's doxy."
[Illustration: AMALFI.[237]]
As we returned through Rome we stayed at the Palazzo Parisani, and much
enjoyed the luxury of the large cool rooms, where we lived chiefly on
riccotta and lettices. One day as we came in, the porter gave us a
black-edged letter. It was the news that poor "Italima" was released
from all her sorrows. For my sister, to whom Madame de Trafford had
written exactly foretelling what was going to happen, one could only
give thanks (though she truly mourned her mother); but it was strangely
solemnising receiving the news in "Italima's" own rooms, where we had
seen her in her utmost prosperity. It was a fortnight before Esmeralda
could send us any details.
"_34 Bryanston Street, May 9, 1864._--Your long-expected letter
came this morning. I had been waiting for it every day, every hour.
The illness was so short, and the sense of desolation so terrible
afterwards, it seems strange to have lived. On the Thursday the
nuns of the Precious Blood came to dinner, and were alarmed by
seeing a change in Mama. She talked cheerfully to them, but when I
left the room, she said to the Superior, 'I am really ill,' but
this was not told me till afterwards. I sent for Dr. Bell. He said
at once, 'It is bronchitis, but there is no danger, nothing to be
feared.' On Friday, Mama was up as early as usual. Father Galway
came to see her, also Lady Lothian. Mama was cheerful, and they saw
no cause for anxiety. Every hour made me more anxious. Mama kept
saying, 'Esmeralda, you cannot keep quiet, what is the matter with
you? I am not ill.' On Saturday I thought Mama worse, and more so
on Sunday, though she got up and came downstairs. Lady Lothian came
at two o'clock, then Father Galway. Mama talked to Father Galway
about her past life, and seemed quite cheerful. She sat up till
nine o'clock. When Mama was in bed, she said, 'I am better, I
think; go to bed, you are so tired, and do not get up again.' I
went to my room and wrote a letter to Father Galway, as I dreaded
that a change might take place in the night, and wished that the
letter might be ready to send. I went to Mama several times.... It
was at two o'clock that she laid her hand upon my head and said,
with a great effort, 'Esmeralda, I am going from you.' ... In a few
minutes she began to say the Gloria. I repeated the Belief, the Our
Father, and the Hail Mary.... Soon after five o'clock Father Galway
was here, and then Lady Lothian came with a nun of the Misericorde
as a nurse. Mama was then better, and seemed surprised to see
Father Galway. I remained praying in the next room with the nun and
Lady Lothian. At seven, I went in to Mama. She did not then believe
she was dying, but said she was ready to make her last confession.
The nuns of the Precious Blood had brought the relic of the True
Cross. At a quarter past eight o'clock Father Galway had heard
Mama's confession; he then said she must be raised before she could
receive the Last Sacraments. We all went into the room. Lady
Lothian made every effort to raise Mama. She _stood_ on the bed,
and tried to raise her; it was no use; we all tried in turn. The
nun of the Misericorde suggested raising Mama on sheets. It must
have been dreadful agony. There were a few deep moans, but at last
the nuns and Lady Lothian did raise Mama. Then she received Extreme
Unction; the nuns, Lady Lothian, and I kneeling around. Father
Galway approached the bed, and said to Mama that she was going to
receive the Body and Blood of our Lord--'Could she swallow still?'
She said 'Yes' audibly. She fixed her eyes on Father Galway; her
face was for the instant lighted up with intensity of love and
faith. There was a pause. Her breathing had in that moment become
more difficult. Father Galway said a second time the same words,
and again, with a great effort, Mama said 'Yes.' She then received
the Holy Viaticum, and in that solemn moment her eyes opened wide,
and a beautiful calm peaceful look came over her countenance,--and
this calm look never left her through all the long hours till
half-past three o'clock, when she breathed her last. When she was
asked anything, she always answered, 'Pray, pray.' Once she opened
her eyes wide, and with a long parting look said, 'Do not
worry,'--she passed her hand over my head: she liked to see me
kneeling by her side.
"Francis did not arrive till Mama had received the Last Sacraments.
I met him on the stairs, and said, 'Francis, you are too late.' He
staggered against the wall, and with a cry of agony exclaimed, 'It
is impossible.' Father Galway was then saying the prayers of the
agonising, the responses being taken up by the nuns and Lady
Lothian. Lady Williamson and Lady Georgina Fullerton had also
arrived, but I do not think Mama knew them. At two o'clock Mama
asked for Lady Lothian, for she always missed her when she left the
room and asked for her back again, asked her to pray, and tried
hard to say something to her about me. I led Francis into the room,
and Lady Lothian said to Mama, 'Francis, you remember Francis,' and
Mama said 'Yes,' and then she blessed him. Francis buried his head
in his hands, his whole frame quivering with sobbing. Mama fixed
her eyes on him with a kind parting look, and then closed them
again. Lady Lothian then said, 'William' (for he and Edith had
come), and Mama said 'Yes,' and she opened her eyes again and
blessed William. Father Galway at intervals took up the prayers for
the dying,--and then, at last, while Francis, William, Auntie, and
Lady Lothian were kneeling at the foot of the bed, and the nuns
supporting Mama, the words were heard--'Go forth.' There was a
slight, hardly audible, rattle in Mama's throat. Father Galway
turned round to me, and said, 'Now you can help her more than you
did before,' and began the prayers for the dead--the five joyful
mysteries of the Rosary. The overpowering awe of that solemn moment
prevented any outburst of grief; a soul had in that instant been
judged. For long I had prayed that Mama might make a good death,
and this prayer was answered. All Father Galway's devotion before
and afterwards to each and all of us,--all Lady Lothian's untiring
kindness, I can never tell you, it was so beautiful. Then came long
days of watching by the body. The nuns of the Precious Blood sent
their large crucifix and their high silver candlesticks; the room
was hung in black and white. Auntie is sadly altered, but always
patient and self-sacrificing. I was with Lady Lothian a week; how
that week went by I cannot tell, and now there are lawyers. I long
for rest. There is such a blank, such a loneliness. I like to be
alone with our Blessed Lord, and to shut out the world."
"_May 18._--Probably I have told you everything up to the time of
the death, three weeks last Monday, and still I can hardly realise
it. Those last hours are so vivid. My thoughts are going back. Was
there anything that could have been done that was not done to save
Mama's life? was there anything she wished for that was not done?
because her breathing was so difficult she could only articulate
the shortest words. There was one sentence she tried to say to Lady
Lothian, and over and over again she began it with such an anxious
look that Lady Lothian should understand it, but it was impossible.
It began with _Es ... da_, and ended with _her_, but the
intermediate words were lost.
"After all was over, Lady Lothian took me by the hand and led me
gently to the sofa in the other room. After some time the nun of
the Miséricorde fetched me into the room of death, and we began to
light torches round the bed, and watch those dear remains, and
there we watched and prayed for the dead for long, long hours. I
ordered a person to watch from eleven at night until the morning,
when the nun of the Miséricorde went in. She had been resting in my
bedroom next door, and we had been taking up alternately, in the
stillness of the night, the prayers for dear Mama. Then began the
watching through the day. The Abbé de Tourzel, Father Galway,
William, Edith, Lady Lothian, and Lady G. Fullerton came in turn to
watch, and so the day passed, and the night, and Tuesday. On
Tuesday evening Francis came up. The whole room had been
transformed. When he entered the door, he stopped and looked
around, then he went round the bed, stooped over Mama, and said,
'Oh sister, Mama does not look _dead_,' then he sat down, buried
his head in his hands, and there he remained for an hour and a half
without moving. And then he left, and others came and joined in
the Rosary and Litany for the dead, and then came the second night,
and on Wednesday there were watchers through the day. On Wednesday
I first felt the great fatigue, but that day also passed praying
and watching. The next day Lady G. Fullerton came and took me to
her house while those dear remains were laid in the coffin. In the
evening the nun who was watching would not let me see Mama again,
but I got up early the following morning and went into the room,
and I cannot tell you what the agony of that moment was:--I became
senseless and was carried out. The coffin was closed and stood in
the middle of the room, which looked like a chapel. The crucifix
stood at the head of the coffin, huge silver candlesticks near and
around,--the room draped in black and white, and a bouquet of fresh
flowers at the head of the coffin. Watchers succeeded each other,
Miss Turville several times, Mrs. Galton, and so through Thursday
and Friday. On Friday evening Lady Lothian took me away.
"The body was carried to the church at Farm Street at half-past
eight on Friday evening, as it was my wish that it should remain
before the Blessed Sacrament throughout the night. Low Masses
commenced at seven o'clock, at which time persons began to
assemble. At ten o'clock were the Requiem and High Mass. The coffin
was placed on a catafalque in front of the high altar, surrounded
by burning tapers. Francis was on the right, William on the left,
the four nuns at the foot, Lady Williamson, Lady Hardwicke, Sir
Hedworth, Lord Normanby, Col. Augustus Liddell, Victor Williamson,
and many others, stood near them. The chapel was full, the wailing
chant very impressive. There was one person, an old man tottering
with grief, whom every one saw, and every one inquired who he was.
At eleven o'clock six bearers came up the centre of the church, and
slowly the coffin was carried out. The family followed. Lady
Lothian came out of one of the seats and implored me not to follow
to the cemetery. The crowd closed in behind the coffin. Lady
Lothian and I remained in the church; after a time we returned to
her house. Everything appeared indistinct from that time. Now
William will tell the rest.
(_Continued by William._)--"The four carriages started along the
road; by the side ran the weather-beaten white-haired gentleman,
and every one still inquired who he was. We reached Kensal Green at
half-past one. The coffin was carried into the chapel, and laid
upon another catafalque, where it was asperged. After a very
impressive oration by Father Galway, the procession left the chapel
headed by the four nuns. Then came the priests, then all the others
following the coffin, and last of all the white-haired unknown. As
the coffin was lowered, the responses were chanted by the nuns, and
at the same time a gleam of sunshine burst forth, being the only
one that appeared, throwing a strong light over everything.
"That day the nuns and Father Galway went to see my sister, who was
terribly exhausted. On Monday morning the white-haired unknown came
to Bryanston Street and asked for Miss Hare. He was sent on to Lady
Lothian. Sister was alone (now she dictates the rest).--The door
opened, and as I looked, I saw a white-haired old man, who seemed
almost as if he had not strength to come forward. I went up to him.
Tears were streaming down his face; he clasped my hands in his, and
exclaimed, 'Ah! Mademoiselle!' and his sobs choked him and
prevented him from saying any more, and I, in my turn, exclaimed,
'Oh! Lamarre, c'est vous!' It was indeed Lamarre, our old cook from
Palazzo Parisani! His was the most touching sorrow I ever saw.
'Celle que j'ai servi, celle que j'ai véneré pendant tant d'années,
j'ai voulu lui rendre ce dernier homage de mon devoir. J'ai
respecté votre douleur dans l'église, et j'ai suivi le cortège à
pied jusqu'au cimetière. J'ai desiré voir la fin.' As Lamarre
leaned over me, he was trembling from head to foot. I made him sit
down by the fireside, and then we talked more calmly. Only when he
spoke of Victoire and her terrible grief, all his sorrow burst out
again, and large tears trickled down his cheeks. It was such a sad
parting when he went. But I was comforted in feeling how Mama had
been loved, how much she had been esteemed in her life, how many
there were who were deeply attached to her, who felt the sorrow as
I felt it. Then came the days of long letters of condolence from
France, from Italy, from Pisa, from Victoire, whose heart seemed
breaking, and where the funeral mass was said with great pomp,
sixty of the Pisan clergy attending, who sent me a list of their
names. At Rome the Duchess Sora will have a funeral mass said at
San Claudio, and all the clergy and friends who knew Mama well will
be present to offer up their prayers."
According to Roman custom, the death was announced to acquaintances by a
deep mourning paper inscribed:--
"_Have pity on me, have pity on me, at least you, my
friends_."--JOB xix. 21.