"In the middle of luncheon Lady Tankerville drove up, came to fetch
me, and bringing Lady Bagot[286] and Lady Blanche Egerton[287] to
see the castle. So at five I came away with them, and took leave of
the cottage and its delightful inmates.... It was a cold
dreary day, and gusts of wind and rain blew from the Cheviots
during our fourteen miles. Lady Tankerville drove."
"_Chillingham, August 29._--Yesterday we all drove through pouring
rain to Hulne Abbey in Alnwick Park, where we were glad of the
shelter of the one unruined tower for our luncheon. Afterwards we
drove through the park to the castle, which I had not seen since
the reign of Algernon the Great and Eleanor the Good. Now we were
the guests of Lady Percy, a kind pleasant person, and Lady Louisa.
The rooms are grandly uncomfortable (except the library, which is
an attractive room), but the decorations cost £350,000!"
"_August 30._--Yesterday, as the family here are impervious to
damp, we picknicked in the forest. Lady Tankerville made the fire
and boiled the kettle; Lady Blanche laid the cloth and cut bread
and butter; a young Grey and I made the toast, and the little boys
and girls caught fresh trout out of the burn close by. In the
evening Lord Tankerville told us this story:--
"'My father had a beautiful villa at Walton, which we have given up
now. It was in the old days when we had to ride across Putney Heath
to reach it. My father used to think it very odd that when he went
into the stables to see his horses in the morning, they were all in
a foam and perfectly exhausted, as if they were worn out with hard
riding. One day he was coming home across Putney Heath, and he was
bringing Lord Derby back with him. When they came near the heath,
he had said, "Well, now, we had better have our pistols ready,
because highwaymen are often to be met with here." So they loaded
their pistols, and it was not a bit too soon, for directly after a
highwayman rode up to the carriage-window and demanded their money
or their lives. As he spoke he recognised them, and saw also that
my father recognised his own groom upon one of his own horses. In
the moment's hesitation he drew back, and in that moment my father
and Lord Derby fired. Several shots were exchanged on both sides,
but at last came a moment's pause, during which Lord Derby cried
out of the window to the postillion to ride forward, and he dashed
on at full gallop. The highwayman fired into the back of the
carriage, and Lord Derby and my father returned his fire by leaning
out of the windows. At last the back of the carriage was quite
riddled with shot, and the ammunition of those inside was quite
exhausted, and then Lord Derby held out a white handkerchief as a
flag of truce out of the window, and the highwayman rode up and
they delivered up all their valuables to him. Of course my father
never saw his groom again, and his horses were in much better
condition ever afterwards--at least those which were left, for the
highwayman rode away upon the best horse in the stables.'"
"_Howick, Sept. 1, 1865._--Yesterday I was able to stop the express
at the private station (for Howick), whither Lord Grey sent for me.
It was a drive of about a mile and a half, chiefly through
shrubberies of hollies and rhododendrons, to this large square
house with wings. It is most comfortable inside, with a beautiful
library opening into a great conservatory. Lady Grey[288] is one of
the severest-looking and one of the kindest-meaning persons I have
ever seen. Lord Grey is little and lame, but gets about with a
stick very actively. He is quite grey, but the very image of Lady
Mary Wood. The rest of the party had put off coming for a day from
different reasons, but I was not sorry to make acquaintance alone
first with my host and hostess, and they were most pleasant, so
that it was a very agreeable evening."
"_Sept. 2._--Yesterday morning a great bell on the top of the house
summoned all in it to prayers, which were read by Lord Grey in the
breakfast-room opening on to very pretty terraces of flowers, with
perfect shrubberies of sweet verbena, for the climate here is very
mild. After breakfast I went down through the wood to the sea, not
a mile distant, and a very fine bit of coast, with rich colour in
the rocks and water, and Dunstanborough Castle on its crag as the
great feature. The place reminds me a little of Penrhôs. When I
returned from driving with Lady Grey to Alnwick, the Belhavens
arrived, and before dinner the Bishop of London and Mrs. Tait, and
the Durhams."
"_Sept. 4._--My dearest mother will like to know how intensely I
have enjoyed being at Howick. The Greys make their house so
pleasant and the life here is so easy. Then Lady Belhaven[289] is
always celebrated as a talker, and it has been delightful to sit
on the outskirts of interesting conversations between my host and
Sir George Grey or the Bishop.
"On Saturday afternoon I drove with the Durhams and Lady Belhaven
to Dunstanborough. The sea was of a deep Mediterranean blue under
the great cliffs and overhanging towers of the ruined castle. Lord
Durham[290] and I walked back three miles along the cliffs--a high
field-walk like the old one at Eastbourne.
"On Sunday the Bishop preached at the little church in the grounds.
It has been rebuilt and decorated with carvings by Lady Grey and
her sisters-in-law. In the chancel is the fine tomb of the Prime
Minister Lord Grey. I went with Durham afterwards all over the
gardens, which are charming, with resplendent borders of
old-fashioned flowers; and after afternoon church, we all went down
through the dene to the sea, where there is a bathing-house, with a
delightful room fitted up with sofas, books, &c., just above the
waves. All the French herring-fleet was out, such a pretty sight.
The Bishop read prayers in the evening to the great household of
forty-eight persons. He is a very pleasant, amiable Bishop.
"I enjoyed seeing so much of Durham; no one could help very much
liking one who is very stiff with people in general, and most
exceedingly nice to oneself. But Lady Durham[291] is always
charming, so perfectly naïve, natural, and beautiful. She is
devoted to her husband and he to her. Some one spoke of people in
general not loving all their children. She said: 'Then that is
because they do not love their husbands. Some women think no more
of marriage than of dancing a quadrille; but when women love their
husbands, they love all their children equally. Every woman must
love her first child: the degree in which they love the others
depends upon the degree in which they love their husbands.'
"Sitting by her at dinner, I asked if she had ever read 'Les
Misérables'? 'No. When I was confirmed, the clergyman who was
teaching me saw a French novel on the table, and said, "My dear
child, you don't read these things, do you?" I said "No," which was
quite true, for it belonged to my French governess, and he then
said, "Well, I wish you never would. Don't make any actual promise,
for fear you should not keep it, but don't do it unless you are
obliged;" and I never have.'
"I spoke to her of the inconsistency involved by the confirmation
ceremony, by which young ladies renounced the pomps and vanities of
the world, being generally the immediate predecessor of their
formal entrance upon them.
"'Yes; I never thought of that. But certainly my pomps and vanities
were of very short duration. I went to three balls, two
tea-parties, and one dinner, and that was all I ever saw of the
world; for then I was married. One year I was in the school-room in
subjection to every one, ordered about here and there, and the next
I was free and my own mistress and married.'
"'And did not you find it rather formidable?' I said. 'Formidable
to be my own mistress! oh no. One thing I found rather formidable
certainly. It was when a great deputation came to Lambton to
congratulate George upon his marriage, and I had to sit at the end
of the table with a great round of beef before me. I wanted them
not to think I was young and inexperienced. I wanted to appear
thirty at least; so I _would_ carve: and then only think of their
saying afterwards in the newspaper paragraphs, "We are glad to
learn that the youthful Countess is not only amiable but
intelligent." I was glad that they should think I was amiable, but
when they said I was intelligent, I was perfectly furious, as if
George's wife could possibly have been anything else.
"'I was brought up a Tory, but as long as I can remember I have
felt myself a Radical. I cannot bear to think of the division
between the classes, and there is so much good in a working-man. I
love working-men: they are my friends: they are so much better than
we are.
"'When my little George of four years old--such a little duck he
is!--was with me at Weymouth, I told him he might take off his
shoes and stockings and paddle in the water, and he went in up to
his chest; and then the little monster said, "Now, mama, if you
want to get me again, you may come in and fetch me, for I shan't
come out." I was in despair, when a working-man passed by and said,
"Do you want that little boy, ma'am?" and I said "Yes," and he
tucked up his trousers and went in and fetched George out for me;
but if the _man's_ little boy had been in the water, I am afraid I
should not have offered to fetch him out for him.
"'And when I was going to church at Mr. Cumming's in Covent Garden
(I daresay you think I'm very wrong for going there, but I can't
help that), it began to pour with rain, and a cabman on a stand
close by called out, "Don't you want a cab, ma'am?" I said, "Yes,
very much, but I've got no money." And the cabman said, "Oh, never
mind, jump in; you'll only spoil your clothes in the rain, and I'll
take you for nothing." When we got to the church door, I said, "If
you will come to my house you shall be paid," but he would not hear
of it, and I have liked cabmen ever since. Oh, there is so much
good in the working-men; they are so much better than we are.'"
"_Winton Castle, N.B., Sept. 5, 1865._--My sweetest mother will
like to think of me here with the dear old Lady Ruthven.[292] I
left Howick at mid-day yesterday, with the Bishop and Mrs. Tait and
their son Crauford, an Eton school-boy. It had been a very pleasant
visit to the last, and I shall hope to repeat it another year, and
also to go to the Durhams. We had an agreeable journey along the
cliffs. I had become quite intimate with the Taits in the three
days I was with them, and liked the Bishop very much better than
Mrs. Tait, though I am sure she is a very good and useful
woman.[293] At Tranent Lady Ruthven's carriage was waiting for me.
I found her in a sadly nervous state, dreadfully deaf, and
constantly talking, the burden of her refrain being--
'Mummitie mum, mummitie mum,
Mummitie, mummitie, mummitie mum.'
But in the evening she grew much better, and was like other people,
only that she would constantly walk in and out of the dark
ante-chambers playing on a concertina, which, as she wore a tiara
of pearls and turquoises, had a very odd effect in the half light;
and then at eleven o'clock at night she would put on her bonnet and
cloak and go off for a walk by herself in the woods. Charming Miss
Minnie Fletcher of Saltoun is here. She told me that--
"Sir David Brewster and his daughter went to stay with the
Stirlings of Kippenross. In the night Miss Brewster was amazed by
being awakened by her father coming into her room and saying, 'My
dear, don't be alarmed, but I really cannot stay in my room. It may
be very foolish and nervous, but there are such odd noises, such
extraordinary groanings and moanings, that I positively cannot bear
it any longer, and you must let me stay here. Don't disturb
yourself; I shall easily sleep on the sofa.'
"Miss Brewster thought her father very silly, but there he stayed
till morning, when he slipped away to his own room to dress, so as
not to be found when the servant came to call his daughter. When
the maid came she said, 'Pray, ma'am, how long are you going to
stay in this house?' Miss Brewster was surprised, and said she did
not know. 'Because, ma'am, if you are going to stay, I am sorry to
say I must leave you. I like you very much, ma'am, and I shall be
sorry to go, but I would do anything rather than again go through
all I suffered last night; such awful groanings and moanings and
such fearful noises I can never endure again.' Miss Brewster was
very much annoyed and laughed at the maid, who nevertheless
continued firm in her decision.
"In the afternoon Miss Brewster had a headache, and at length it
became so bad that she was obliged to leave the dinner-table and go
up to her room. At the head of the stairs she saw a woman--a large
woman in a chintz gown, leaning against the banisters. She took her
for the housekeeper, and said, 'I am going to my room: will you be
so kind as to send my maid to me?' The woman did not answer, but
bowed her head three times and then pointed to a door in the
passage and went downstairs. Miss Brewster went to her room, and
after waiting an hour in vain for her maid, she undressed and went
to bed. When the maid came up, she asked why she had not come
before, and said she had sent the housekeeper for her. 'How very
odd,' said the maid, 'because I have been sitting with the
housekeeper the whole time.' Miss Brewster then described the
person she had seen, upon which the maid gave a shriek and said,
'Oh, then you have seen the ghost.' The maid was in such a state of
terror, that when Mrs. Stirling came up to inquire after her
headache, Miss Brewster asked her about the woman she had seen,
when, to her surprise, Mrs. Stirling looked quite agonised, and
said, 'Oh, then there is more misery in store for me. You do not
know what that ghost has been to me all through my married life.'
She then made Miss Brewster promise not to tell the persons who
slept in the room pointed at, that theirs was the room. It was a
Major and Mrs. Wedderburn who slept there. Mrs. Stirling and Miss
Brewster then both wrote out accounts of what had happened and
signed and sealed them. Before the year was out, they heard that
the Wedderburns were both killed in the Indian Mutiny."
"_Winton Castle, Sept. 8._--My visit here has been very pleasant
indeed. The Speaker and Lady Charlotte Denison came on Tuesday
afternoon with the Belhavens. He is a fine-looking elderly man,
with a wonderful fund of agreeable small-talk. Lady Charlotte[294]
is very refined, quite unaffected, and very pretty still: they are
both most kind to me. Miss Fletcher has been here all the time to
help Lady Ruthven, for whom it is well that she has such a kind,
pleasant greatniece only a mile off, to come and help her to amuse
all her guests, as she has had fifty-six parties of people
_staying_ in the house in the last year. We saw a large party of
the great-great nephews and nieces of Lady Ruthven and Lady
Belhaven on Wednesday, when we went to spend the afternoon at Lord
Elcho's. It is a fine place, Amisfield--a huge red stone house in a
large park close to the town of Haddington, where there is a
beautiful old cathedral, but in ruins, like all the best Scotch
churches. Lady Elcho[295] has the stately refinement of a beautiful
Greek statue. Her children are legion, the two eldest boys very
handsome and pleasant. We went over the house, with old tapestry,
&c., to be seen, and the gardens with fine cedars, and then all
Lord Wemyss's twenty-four race horses were brought out in turn to
be exercised round the courtyard and admired: after which we had
Scotch tea--scones, cakes, apricot-jam, &c.
"I have made rather friends with John Gordon,[296] a younger
brother of Lord Aberdeen, who has been staying here. He is a second
Charlie Wood in character, though only eighteen, and I have seldom
seen any one I liked as well on short acquaintance. His family are
all supposed to be dreadfully shy, but he seems to be an exception.
"Yesterday Lady Belhaven and Lady Ruthven went to Edinburgh, and I
stayed with Miss Fletcher, and walked with her in the afternoon to
Saltoun, where we had tea with Lady Charlotte and saw the
curiosities. Lady Charlotte Fletcher[297] said:--
"'The French royal family were often here at Saltoun when they were
at Holyrood--Charles X. and the Duchesse d'Angoulême, and the
Duchesse de Berri and her daughter, the Duc and Duchesse de Guise
and the Duc de Polignac.... The Duchesse d'Angoulême and the Duc de
Polignac used to go down to the bridge in the glen and stay there
for hours: they said it reminded them so much of France, the trees
and the water. The Duc de Polignac said our picture of the
leave-taking of Louis XVI. and his family contained figures more
like than any he had seen elsewhere. We turned it to the wall and
locked the door when they came, for fear the Duchesse d'Angoulême
should see it, but the little Mademoiselle de Berri was playing
hide-and-seek through the rooms, and she got in by the outer door,
and it was the first thing she observed, and she insisted on seeing
it.... She did me a little drawing, and left it behind her.
"'The family were very fond of coming here, because my father, Lord
Wemyss, had been kind to them when they were here during the first
Revolution. On the Duchesse de Berri's birthday, she was asked what
she would like to do in honour of it, and she chose a day at
Saltoun. It was very inconvenient their all coming with the
children at a few hours' notice, such a large party, but she wrote
a pretty note, saying what a pleasure it would be to see her old
friends again, and another afterwards, saying what a delight it had
been, so that we were quite compensated.'
"On Sunday, when it was church-time, Lady Ruthven said, 'We'll just
gang awa to the kirk and see what sort of a discoorse the minister
makes; and if he behaves himself, well--we'll ask him up to
dinner!' She sat in kirk, with her two dogs beside her, in a kind
of chair of state just under the pulpit, where she might have been
mistaken for the clerk. She is as demonstrative in church as
elsewhere, and once when Miss Fletcher came unexpectedly into the
gallery after she had been some time without seeing her, she called
out, 'Eh, there ye are, Minnie, my darling,' before the whole
congregation, and began kissing her hands to her. When a child
screamed in kirk, and its mother was taking it out, the minister
interrupted his discourse with, 'Na, bide a wee: I'm no that
fashed wi' the bairn.'--'Na, na,' said the mother, 'I'll no bide:
it's the bairn that's fashed wi' ye.' Talking afterwards of the
change of feeling with which church-services were usually regarded
now-a-days, Lady Charlotte Fletcher said:--
"'Old Lady Hereford, my aunt, was quite one of the old school. She
had a large glass pew in church, and the service was never allowed
to begin till she had arrived, settled herself, and opened the
windows of her pew. If she did not like the discourse, she slammed
down her windows. After the service was over, her steward used to
stand by the pew door to receive her orders as to which of the
congregation were to be invited to dine in her hall that day.'
"While the party were talking of the change of manners, Lord
Belhaven said:--
"'I just remember the old drinking days:[298] they were just dying
out when I entered the army. Scarcely any gentlemen used to drink
less than two bottles of claret after dinner. They used to chew
tobacco, which was handed round, and drink their wine through it,
wine and tobacco-juice at the same time. A spittoon was placed
between every two gentlemen. It was universal to chew tobacco in
country-houses: they chewed it till they went in to dinner, and
they began again directly the ladies left the room, when tobacco
and spittoons were handed round.
"'There were usually the bottles called "Jeroboams" on the table,
which held six bottles of port. The old Duke of Cleveland[299]
always had his wine-glasses made without a foot, so that they would
not stand, and you were obliged to drink off the whole glass when
you dined with him.
"'I remember once dining at a house from which I was going away the
next morning. I got to bed myself at twelve. When I came down to go
off at eight, I asked when the other gentlemen had left the
diningroom. "Oh," said the servant, "they are there still." I went
in, and there, sure enough, they all were. When they saw me, they
made a great shout, and said, "Come, now, you must drink off a
bumper," and filled a tumbler with what they thought was spirits,
but to my great relief I saw it was water. So I said, "Very well,
gentlemen, I shall be glad to drink to your health, and of course
you will drink to mine,"--so I drank the water, and they drank the
spirits.'"
"_Castlecraig, Noblehouse, Sept. 9._--I came out this morning by
the railway to Broomlee, a pretty line, leading into wild moorland,
and at the station a dogcart met me, and brought me six miles
farther, quite into the heart of the Pentlands. The ascent to this
house is beautiful, through woods of magnificent alpine-looking
firs. Addie Hay[300] was waiting for me. You would scarcely believe
him to be as ill as he is, and he is most cheerful and pleasant,
making no difficulties about anything. He is often here with my
present host, Sir William Carmichael."
"_Winton Castle, Sept. 10._--Yesterday I saw the beautiful grounds
of Castlecraig--green glades in the hills with splendid pines,
junipers, &c., and part of the garden consecrated as a
burial-ground, with mossgrown sculptured tombs of the family
ancestors on the green lawn.
"At Eskbank Lady Ruthven met me, and I came on with her to
Newbattle. It is an old house, once an abbey, lying low in a large
wooded park on the banks of the Esk--a fine hall and staircase hung
with old portraits, and a beautiful library with long windows,
carved ceiling, old books, illuminated missals, and stands of
Australian plants. Lady Lothian is very young and pretty,[301] Lord
Lothian a hopeless invalid from paralysis. She showed me the
picture gallery and then we went to the garden--most lovely, close
to the rushing Esk, and of mediæval aspect in its splendid flowers
backed by yew hedges and its stone sundials. After seeing Lady
Lothian's room and pictures, we had tea in the garden. The long
drive back to Winton was trying, as, with the thermometer at 70°,
Lady Ruthven would have a large bottle of boiling water at the
bottom of the close carriage.
"Lady Ruthven is most kind, but oh! the life with her is so odd.
One day a gentleman coming down in the morning looked greatly
agitated, which was discovered to be owing to his having looked out
of his window in the middle of the night, and believing that he had
seen a ghost flitting up and down the terrace in a most ghastly
clinging white dress. It was the lady of the castle in her white
dressing-gown and night-gown!"
"_Wishaw, Sept. 14._--I came here (to the Belhavens) after a two
days' visit to Mrs. Stirling of Glenbervie, whence I saw Falkirk
Tryste--the great cattle fair of Scotland. It was a curious sight,
an immense plain covered with cattle of every description,
especially picturesque little Highland beasts attended by drovers
in kilts and plumes. When I saw the troops of horses kicking and
prancing, I said how like it all was to Rosa Bonheur's 'Horse
Fair,' and then heard she had been there to study for her picture.
"We dined yesterday at Dalzel, Lady Emily Hamilton's,[302] a
beautiful old Scotch house, well restored by Billings. To-day is
tremendously hot, but though I am exhausted by the sun, I am much
more so by all the various hungers I have gone through, as we had
breakfast at half-past ten and luncheon at half-past five, and in
the interval went to Bothwell--Lord Home's,--beautiful shaven lawns
above a deep wooded ravine of the Clyde, and on the edge of the
slope a fine old red sandstone castle."
"_Lagaray, Gareloch, Sept. 17._--How I longed for my mother on
Friday in the drive from Helensburgh along a terrace on the edge of
the Gareloch, shaded by beautiful trees, and with exquisite views
of distant grey mountains and white-sailed boats coming down the
loch! I was most warmly welcomed by Robert Shaw Stewart[303] and
his wife.... Yesterday we went an immense excursion of forty-five
miles, seeing the three lakes--Lomond, Long, and Gareloch."
"_Carstairs House, Lanarkshire, Sept. 18._--Nothing could exceed
the kindness of the Shaw Stewarts, and I was very sorry to leave
them. The Gareloch is quite lovely, such fine blue mountains
closing the lake, with its margin of orange-coloured seaweeds....
The Monteith family were at luncheon when I arrived at this large
luxurious house--the guests including two Italians, one a handsome
specimen of the Guardia Nobile--Count Bolognetti Cenci, a nephew by
many greats of the famous Beatrice. After luncheon we were sent to
the Falls of the Clyde--Cora Linn--a grand mass of water foaming
and dashing, which the Italians called 'carina'!"
Before returning home, I went again to Chesters in Northumberland, to
meet Dr. Bruce, the famous authority on "The Roman Wall" of
Northumberland, on which he has written a large volume. It was curious
to find how a person who had allowed his mind to dwell exclusively on
one hobby could see no importance in anything else. He said, "Rome was
now chiefly interesting as illustrating the Roman Wall in
Northumberland, and as for Pompeii, it was not to be compared to the
English station of Housesteads."
At the end of September I returned home, and had a quiet month with the
dear mother, who was now quite well. I insert a fragment of a letter
from a niece who had been with her in my absence, as giving a picture of
her peaceful, happy state at this time:--
"Auntie and I have spent our evenings in reading old letters and
journals, which have made the past seem nearer than the present.
Hers is such a sweet peaceful evening of life. There have been many
storms and sorrows, but her faith has stood firm, and she is now
calmly waiting her summons home. Oh! I pray that she may be spared
to us yet awhile, now so doubly dear to us, the one link left with
the loved and lost."
We left Holmhurst at the beginning of November, and went to Italy by the
Mont Cenis, with Emma Simpkinson, the gentle youngest sister of my
Harrow tutor, as our companion. Fourteen horses dragged us over the
mountain through the snow in a bright moonlight night, during the
greater part of which I crouched upon the floor of the carriage, so as
to keep my mother's feet warm inside my waistcoat, so great was my
terror of her having any injury from the cold.
MY MOTHER _to_ MISS LEYCESTER.
"_Spezia, Nov. 11, 1865._--The day was most lovely on which we left
Genoa, and so was the drive along the coast, reminding us of
Mentone in its beauty--the hills covered with olive-woods and
orange-groves, the mountains and rocky bays washed by the bluest of
blue waves. We dined at Ruta, a very pretty place in the mountain,
and slept at Chiavari. Saturday was no less beautiful, the
_tramontana_ keen when we met it, like a March day in England, but
the sun so burning, it quite acted as a restorative as we wound up
the Pass of Bracco after Sestri--lovely Sestri. We had the carriage
open, and so could enjoy the views around and beneath us, though
the precipices were tremendous. However, the road was good, and
occasionally in some of the worst places there was a bit of wall to
break the line at the edge. Nothing could be more grand than the
views of the billowy mountains with the Mediterranean below. At
Borghetto was our halting-place, and then we had a rapid descent
all the way here, where we arrived at half-past six."
"_Pisa, Nov. 14._--To continue my history. Sunday was again a
splendid day, and the Carrara mountains most lovely, especially at
sunset. On Monday we drove to Porto Venere, and spent the morning
in drawing at the ruined marble church. We dined, and at half-past
five set out, reaching Pisa at half-past seven. And here was a
merciful preservation given to me, where, to use the words of my
favourite travelling Psalm (xci.), though my feet 'were moved,' the
angels had surely 'charge over me.' Augustus had just helped me
down from the train and turned to take the bags out of the
carriage. When he _re_-turned to look after me, I lay flat on the
ground in the deep cutting of the side railway, into which, the
platform being narrow, unfinished, and badly lighted, I had fallen
in the dark. I believe both Augustus and Lea thought I was dead at
first, so frightful was the fall, yet, after a little, I was able
to walk to the carriage, though of course much shaken. Three falls
have I had this year--in the waves of the Atlantic, in Westminster
Abbey, and at Pisa--and yet, thanks be to God, no bones have been
broken."
[Illustration: THE PASS OF BRACCO.[304]]
At Pisa we stayed at the excellent Albergo di Londra, which was kept by
Flora Limosin, the youngest daughter of Victoire[305] and foster-sister
of Esmeralda. Victoire herself was living close by, in her own little
house, filled with relics of the past. I had not seen her since
Italima's death, and she had many questions to ask me, besides having
much to tell of the extraordinary intercourse she had immediately after
our family misfortunes with Madame de Trafford--the facts of which she
thus dictated to me:--
[Illustration: AT PORTO VENERE.[306]]
Félix and Victoire followed Italima from Geneva to Paris. Victoire
says--"We rejoined Madame Hare at the house of Madame de Trafford.
I went with her and Mademoiselle to the station in the evening.
Madame Hare did all she could to console me. It was arranged that
Constance should accompany them, because she was Miss Paul's maid.
I had no presentiment then that I should never see Madame Hare
again. After they were gone, we remained at the house of Balze, our
son-in-law, at the end of the Faubourg S. Germain, but every day I
went, by her desire, to see Madame de Trafford, at the other end of
the Champs Elysées. She was all kindness to me. She did all she
could to console me. When she had letters from Madame Hare, she
read them to me: when I had them, I read them to Madame de
Trafford. Matters went from bad to worse. One day Madame de
Trafford had a letter which destroyed all hope. It was three days
before she ventured to read it to me. I have still the impression
of the hour in which she told me what was in it. She made me sit by
her in an armchair, and she said, 'Il ne faut pas vous illusionner,
Victoire: Madame Hare ne reviendra _jamais_; elle est absolument
ruinée.' I remained for several hours unconscious: I knew there was
no hope then. I was only sensible that Madame de Trafford gave me
some strong essence, which restored me in a certain degree. Then
she did all she could to console me. It was the most wonderful
heart-goodness possible. She took me back that day to my
son-in-law's house. I was thinking how I could break it to Félix: I
did not venture to tell him for a long time. At last he saw it for
himself; he said, 'Il y'a quelque chose de pire à apprendre, ou
vous me cachez quelque chose, Victoire,' and then I told him. The
next day Madame de Trafford said that she could not endure our
sufferings. 'Après trente ans de service, après tant de dévouement,
elle ne pouvait pas souffrir que nous irions à la mendicité. Vous
n'avez rien,' she said, 'je le sais plus que vous.' I did not like
her saying this. 'Yes, we have something,' I said, 'we are not so
badly off as that.'--'Tais-toi, Victoire, vous n'avez rien,' she
repeated, and she was right, it was her second-sight which told
her. She bade me seek in the environs of Paris for a small house,
any one I liked, in any situation, and she would buy it for me. If
there was a large house near it, so much the better--that she would
buy for herself. She said she knew I could not live there upon
nothing, but that she should give me an annuity, and that Félix 'à
cause de son rhumatisme,' must have a little carriage. I was quite
overwhelmed. 'Mais, Madame, nous ne méritons pas cela,' I said.
'Oui, Victoire, je sais que vous le méritez bien, et _je le veux_.'
I said it was impossible I could accept such favours at her hands.
She only repeated with her peculiar manner and intonation--'_je le
veux_.' The next day we both went to her. Her table was already
covered with the notices of all the houses to let in the
neighbourhood of Paris. 'Nous allons visiter tout cela,' she said,
'nous allons choisir.' Both Félix and I said it was impossible we
could accept such kindness, when we could do nothing for her in
return. 'Est que je veux _acheter_ votre amitié?' she said. She
repeatedly said that she wished nothing but to come and see us
sometimes, and that perhaps she should come every day. Thus we went
on for fifteen days, but both Félix and I felt it was impossible we
could accept so much from her; besides, Félix suffered so much from
his rheumatism, and he felt that the climate of Pisa might do him
good; besides which, our hearts always turned to Pisa, for it
seemed as if Providence had willed that we should go there, in
disposing that Madame Jacquet, who had a claim to our house for
her life, should die just at that time. We made a pretext of the
health of Félix to Madame de Trafford, but it was fifteen days
before she would accept our decision. 'Eh bien, vous voulez
toujours aller à votre masure la bas à Pise,' said Madame de
Trafford. She called our house a 'masure.' 'Eh bien, j'irai avec
vous, je veux aussi aller à Pise, moi.' She wrote to M. Trafford,
who came over to take leave of her, as he always does when she
leaves Paris, and she arranged her apartment.... 'Oh, comme c'est
une femme d'ordre, et comme son appartement est beau, le plus beau
que j'ai jamais vue, même à la cour.' Then she left Paris with us.
"Voilà sa prévenance--the going to Pisa was in order that she might
undertake all the expenses of our journey. Quand elle est chez
elle, elle est très économe, mais quand elle voyage, elle voyage
grandement. Where another person would give two francs, Madame de
Trafford gives ten. She is always guided by her _seconde vue_: she
reads the character in the face. She wished us to travel
first-class, and she insisted on taking first-class tickets for us
all, but Félix absolutely refused to go in anything but a
second-class carriage. I travelled with Madame de Trafford. We went
first to Turin. Thence, 'pour donner distraction à Félix, étant
ancien militaire,' Madame de Trafford insisted on taking us to the
battle-fields of Solferino and Magenta. Elle nous a fait visiter
tout cela, et vraiment grandement. At last we reached Pisa. It was
then that Madame de Trafford first revealed to us that she intended
to rent our house. She insisted upon paying for it, not the usual
rent, but the same that she paid for her beautiful apartments in
the Hôtel de la Metropole, and nothing could turn her from this;
she was quite determined upon it. Every day she ordered a large
dinner; although she only ate a morsel of chicken herself,
everything was served and then removed. Félix served her. It was in
order that we might have food. It was the same with wine: she
always had a bottle of wine, Madeira or whatever it might be: a new
bottle was to be uncorked every day; she only drank half a glass
herself, but the same bottle was never allowed to appear twice.
"Up to that time I had never entirely believed in her second-sight.
It was just after we arrived in Pisa that I became quite convinced
of it. I was astonished, on her first going into our house, to see
her walk up to one of the beds and feel at the mattresses, and then
she turned to me and said, 'On vous a volé, Victoire; vous avez mis
ici de la bonne laine, et on a mis la malsaine et vieille laine.' I
did not believe her at the time. I had sent money to Pisa to pay
for the re-stuffing of those very mattresses: afterwards I unripped
the mattresses, and found it was just as she said. From time to
time in England we had bought a little linen, because the house was
let without linen. M. Hare had left a thousand francs to Félix and
me. This was paid to us in London; therefore we had spent it in
carpets and linen. The carpets we sent at once to Pisa. The linen
was also sent, but it was left packed up in boxes under the care of
the woman who looked after the house. Soon after we arrived, Madame
de Trafford asked if I had any linen. I said 'Yes,' and going to
the boxes, unlocked them, and brought the sheets and towels which
she required. She felt at them, and then she said, 'On vous a volé
encore ici, Madame Victoire; vous avez mis de telles et telles
choses dans une telle et telle boîte.'--'Oui, c'est ainsi,' I
replied. 'Eh bien, on vous a volé telles et telles choses dans une
telle et telle boîte.' I rushed to look over the boxes, and it was
just as she said. The third time was when we went to Florence, for
she would take me to spend some days with her at Florence. She
bought me a beautiful black silk dress to wear when I went with
her, and it was one of her _prévenances_ that we should not go to
any hotel I had been in the habit of going to, for she wished me to
be entirely with her _sans aucune remarque_. When we went to
Florence, the two large boxes Madame de Trafford had brought with
her were left in the salon at Pisa. When we came back she said,
with her peculiar intonation, 'Je vous prie, Victoire, de compter
mes mouchoirs: savez-vous combien j'ai?'--'Mais oui, Madame; vous
en avez cinque paquets avec des douzaines en chaque.'--'Eh bien,
comptez-les: on m'a volé trois dans un paquet, deux dans un autre,'
&c. _Effectivement_ it was just as Madame de Trafford had said: it
must have been the same person who had taken my linen before.
"It was always the custom at the convent of S. Antonio, which is
close to our house, that any poor people who chose to come to the
door on a Saturday should receive something. Madame de Trafford,
from her window, saw the people waiting, and asked me what it
meant. When I told her, she desired me to go to the convent and
find out exactly what it was they received. Madame de Trafford will
never be contradicted, so I went at once. When I came back I told
her that it was one kreutz or seven centimes. She thought this much
too little, and bade me give each of the people a paul. I sent the
money down to them. The result was that next time, instead of ten,
two or three hundred poor people came. They all received money. It
made quite a sensation in the quarter. The house used to be quite
surrounded and the streets blocked up by the immense crowds at that
time. It became necessary to fix a day. Thursday was appointed,
that was the day on which Madame de Trafford gave her alms. One day
from the window she saw a poor woman with a child in her arms.
'Voilà une qui est bien malheureuse,' she said; 'descendez, je vous
prie, et donnez lui de l'argent sans compter.' One cannot disobey
Madame de Trafford. I went down directly, and gave a handful of
silver to the woman, shutting the door upon her thanks and leaving
her petrified with astonishment.
"One day we went to Leghorn by the eleven-o'clock train (for she
always made me go with her). We descended at the hotel, and then
she desired me to order a carriage--'le plus bel équipage qu'on
pourrait avoir.' Soon afterwards the carriage came to the door: it
was a very poor carriage indeed, and the coachman wore a ragged
coat and a wide-awake hat. She seemed surprised, and asked me if I
could not have done better for her than that, and, knowing her
character, I was quite angry with the master of the hotel for
ordering such a carriage; but in reality there was no other, all
the others were engaged. So at length we got in, but when we had
gone some distance she began to fix her eyes upon the driver, and
said, 'Mais est-ce qu'on peut aller avec un cocher qui a un trou
comme ça dans son habit?' and she desired him to drive back to the
hotel. As we went back she said to me, 'Ce pauvre jeune homme doit
être bien malheureux, dites lui de venir à l'hôtel.' When we got
back to the inn, she desired me to procure everything that was
necessary to dress the young man, everything complete, and of the
best. But I could not undertake myself to dress the young man, so I
asked the master of the hotel to do it for me. At Leghorn this is
not so difficult, because there are so many ready-made shops. So
the landlord procured a complete set of clothes, coat, trousers,
waistcoat, boots, hat, everything, and Madame de Trafford gave
orders that he should be shaved and washed and sent in to her. When
he came in, the change was most extraordinary; he was such a
handsome young man that I should not have known him. But Madame de
Trafford only turned to me and said, 'Mais je vous ai ordonné de
lui procurer un habillement complet, et est-ce que vous pensez que
avec un habit comme ça, il peut porter cette vilaine vieille
chemise?' for she perceived directly that they had not changed his
shirt, which I had never thought of. The shirt was procured, but
there was always something wanting in the eyes of Madame de
Trafford. 'Mais que fera ce jeune homme,' she said, 's'il est
enrhumé, quand il n'a pas de mouchoirs de poche,' and then I was
obliged to get other shirts and socks, and cravats and
handkerchiefs--in short, a complete trousseau. And then a commoner
dress was wanted for the morning: and then the tailor was ordered
to come again with greatcoats. Of these he had two; one cost much
more than the other, but Madame de Trafford chose that which cost
the most.
"Le jeune homme regardait tout ça comme un rêve. Il ne le croyait
pas, lui, et il disait rien du tout: il laissa faire. Il disait
après à Félix qu'il pensait que c'était des mystifications, et il
ne croyait pas à ce qu'il voyait.
"At last, when all was completed and paid for in his presence, four
o'clock came, and he mounted on his box and drove us to the
station. All the little boys in the street, who had known him in
his old dress, ran along by the side of the carriage to stare at
him. At last, when we reached the station and were actually going
off, he began to believe, and flung himself on his knees before all
the people in his gratitude to Madame de Trafford. 'Je me suis
soulagée d'un poids en laissant ce jeune homme ainsi,' said Madame
de Trafford to me.
[Illustration: LA SPINA, PISA.[307]]
"After this," continued Victoire, "came the great floods in the
marshes near Pisa. When Madame de Trafford heard of the sufferings
which they caused, she bade me order a carriage and drive out there
with her. We drove as far as we could, and then we left the
carriage and walked along a little embankment between the waters to
where there were some cottages quite flooded, from which some poor
women crept out along some planks to the bank on which we were.
Before we left the hotel, Madame de Trafford had said, 'Mettez vos
grandes poches' (because she had made me have some very large
pockets made, very wide and deep, to wear under my dress and hold
her valuables when we travelled), and then she had said that I was
to fill them up to the brim with large piastres, without counting
what I took. I had shovelled piastres into my pockets by handfuls
till I was quite weighed down. I did not like doing it, but I was
obliged to do as she bade me. Then she said, 'Have you taken as
much as your pockets will hold? I wish them to be filled to the
brim.' When we arrived and saw the poor women, she said,
'Donnez-leur des piastres, mais donnez-les par poignets, et surtout
ne comptez pas, ne comptez jamais.' So I took a large heap of
piastres, and put them into the hands of Madame de Trafford that
she might give them to the women. Then she began to be angry--'Je
vous ai dit de les donner, je ne les veux pas.' So I began to give
a handful of piastres to one woman and another, all without
counting; even to the children Madame de Trafford desired me to
give also. At first they were all quite mute with amazement, then
the women began to call aloud to me, 'E chi é questa principessa
benedetta, caduta dal cielo? dite chi é che possiamo
ringraziarla.'--'Qu'est-ce qu'ils disent donc,' said Madame de
Trafford. 'Mais, Madame, ils demandent quelle princesse vous êtes
qu'ils puissent vous remercier.'--'Dites les que je ne suis pas
princesse,' said Madame de Trafford, 'que je ne suis qu'une pauvre
femme faite en chair et os comme eux.'
"Then Madame de Trafford asked them if there were no more poor
people there, and they went and fetched other poor women and
children, till there was quite a crowd. To them also she ordered me
to give piastres--'toujours sans compter'--till at last, through
much giving, my pockets were empty. Then Madame de Trafford was
really angry--'Je vous ai dit, Madame Victoire, de porter autant
que vous pouviez, et vous ne l'avez pas fait.'--'Mais, Madame, vous
ne m'avez pas dit de mettre quatre poches, vous m'avez dit de
mettre deux poches: ces deux poches étaient remplis, à present les
voilà vides.'
"When we were turning to go away, all the people, who had not till
that moment believed in their good fortune, fell on their knees,
and cried, 'Oh, Signore, noi ti ringraziamo d'avere mandato questa
anima benedetta, e preghiamo per ella.'--'Mais retournez bien vite
à la voiture, mais montez donc bien vite, Madame Victoire,' said
Madame de Trafford, and we hurried back to the carriage; and the
coachman, concerning whom she had taken care that he should not see
what had happened, was amazed to see us coming with all this crowd
of poor women and children following us. When we were driving away,
Madame de Trafford said, 'Quel jour heureux pour nous, Madame
Victoire, d'avoir soulagé tant de misère; quel bonheur de pouvoir
faire tant de félicité avec un peu d'argent.'"
After remaining many weeks at Pisa with Victoire, Madame de Trafford had
accompanied her to Rome, whither she went in December 1859 to arrange
the affairs of Italima at the Palazzo Parisani, and thence, having
fulfilled her mission, and seen Victoire comfortably established in her
Pisan home, Madame de Trafford had returned to Paris.
In 1865 the journey from Pisa to Rome was still tiresome and difficult.
We went by rail to Nunziatella, and there a cavalcade was formed (for
mutual protection from the brigands), of six diligences with five horses
apiece, with patrols on each carriage, and mounted guards riding by the
side. The cholera had been raging, so at Montalto, one of the highest
points of the dreary Maremma, we were stopped, and those who were
"unclean"--_i.e._, had omitted to provide themselves with clean bills of
health at Leghorn--were detained for eight days' quarantine. We had
obtained "clean" bills, from the Spanish Consul, grounded upon the
hotel bills of the different places we had slept at since crossing the
Alps, and, with others of our kind, were taken into a small white-washed
room filled with fumes of lime and camphor, where we were shut up for
ten minutes, without other hurt than that any purple articles of dress
worn by the ladies came out yellow. Most dreary was the long
after-journey through a deserted region, without a house or tree or sign
of habitation, till at 10 p.m. we came in sight of the revolving light
of Civita Vecchia, beautifully reflected in the sea. Then I had to watch
all the luggage being fumigated for three midnight hours. However,
November 18 found us established in Rome, in the high apartment of the
Tempietto (Claude Lorraine's house), at the junction of the Via Sistina
and Via Gregoriana, with the most glorious view from its windows over
all the Eternal City, and a pleasant Englishwoman, Madame de Monaca, as
our landlady. Hurried travellers to Rome now can hardly imagine the
intense comfort and repose which we felt in old days in unpacking and
establishing ourselves in our Roman apartment, which it was worth while
to make really pretty and comfortable, as we were sure to be settled
there for at least four or five months, with usually far more freedom
from interruptions, and power of following our own occupations, than
would have attended us in our own home, even had health not been in
question. Most delightful was it, after the fatigues and (on my mother's
account) the intense anxieties of the journey, to wake upon the splendid
view, with its succession of aërial distances, and to know how many
glorious sunsets we had to enjoy behind the mighty dome which rose on
the other side of the brown-grey city. And then came the slow walk to
church along the sunny Pincio terrace, with the deepest of unimaginable
blue skies seen through branches of ilex and bay, and garden beds,
beneath the terraced wall, always showing some flowers, but in spring
quite ablaze with pansies and marigolds.
The first time we went out to draw was to the gardens of S. Onofrio,
where, when we were last here, we used to be very much troubled by a
furious dog. We rang the bell, and the woman answered; she recognised
us, and, without any preliminary greetings, by an association of ideas,
exclaimed at once, "Il cane e morto." It was very Italian.
So many people beset me during this winter with notes or verbal
petitions that I would go out drawing with them, that at last I wrote
on a sheet of paper a list of the days (three times a week) on which I
should go out sketching, and a list of the places I should go to, and
desiring that any one who wished to go with me would find themselves on
the steps of the Trinità de' Monti at 10 A.M., and sent it round to my
artistic acquaintance. To my astonishment, on the first day mentioned,
when I expected to meet one or two persons at most, I found the steps
covered by forty ladies, in many cases attended by footmen, carrying
their luncheon-baskets, camp-stools, &c. I introduced four ladies to
each other that they might drive out together to the Campagna, and I
generally tried to persuade those who had carriages of their own to
offer seats to their poorer companions. For a time all went radiantly,
but, in a few weeks, two-thirds of the ladies were "_en delicatesse_"
and, at the end of two months, they were all "_en froid_," so that the
parties had to be given up. Of the male sex there was scarcely ever any
one on these sketching excursions, except myself and my cousin Frederick
Fisher,[308] who was staying at Rome as tutor to the young Russian
Prince, Nicole Dolgorouki. He was constantly with us during the winter,
and was a great pleasure from his real affection for my mother, who was
very fond of him.
In the spring Esmeralda came to Rome, and I used often to go to see her
in the rooms at Palazzo Parisani. She was very fragile then, and used to
lie almost all day upon an old velvet sofa, looking, except for the
heavy masses of raven hair which were still uncovered, almost like an
uncloistered nun, with her pale face and long black dress, unrelieved at
the throat, and with a heavy rosary of large black beads and cross at
her waist.
_From my_ JOURNAL.
"_Rome, Dec. 21, 1865._--Cardinal Cecchi died last week, and lay in
state all yesterday in his palace, on a high bier, with his face
painted and rouged, wearing his robes, and with his scarlet hat on
his head. Cardinals always lie in state on a high catafalque,
contrary to the general rule, which prescribes that the higher the
rank the lower the person should lie. Princess Piombino lay in
state upon the floor itself, so very high was her rank.
"The Cardinal was carried to church last night with a grand
torchlight procession, which is always considered necessary for
persons of his rank; but it is expensive, as everything in Rome
costs double after the Ave Maria. The fee for a frate to walk at a
funeral is four baiocchi in the daytime, but after the Ave it is
eight baiocchi. When the Marchesa Ponziani was taken to church the
other day, all the confraternities in Rome attended with
torches.[309]
"To-day at 10 A.M. the Cardinal was buried in the church at the
back of the Catinari. According to old custom, when he was put into
the grave, his head-cook walked up to it and said, 'At what time
will your Eminence dine?' For a minute there was no response, and
then the major-domo replied, 'His Eminence will not want dinner any
more (_non vuol altro_).' Then the head-footman came in and asked,
'At what time will your Eminence want the carriage?' and the
major-domo replied, 'His Eminence will not want the carriage any
more.' Upon which the footman went out to the door of the church,
where the fat coachman sat on the box of the Cardinal's state
carriage, who said, 'At what time will his Eminence be ready for
the carriage?' and when the footman replied, 'La sua Eminenza non
vuol altro,' he broke his whip, and throwing down the two pieces on
either side the carriage, flung up his hands with a gesture of
despair, and drove off.
"The other day Mrs. Goldsmid was in a church waiting for her
confessor, who was not ready to come out of the sacristy. While she
was waiting, two men came in carrying something between them, which
she soon saw was a dead frate. His robe was too short, and his
little white legs protruded below. They put him on a raised couch
with a steep incline and left him, and her agony was that he would
slip down and fall off, and then that the priests would think she
had done it. She became so nervous, that, as she kept her eyes
fixed on the body, it seemed to her to slip, slip, slip, till at
last she made sure the little man was coming down altogether, and
going to the sacristy door, she rang the bell violently, and
entreated to be let out of the church.
"Mrs. Goldsmid says that the Pope, Pius IX., cannot stop spitting
even when he is in the act of celebrating mass.... Being very
jocose himself, he likes others to be familiar enough to amuse him.
The other day a friend asked Monsignor de Merode why the Pope was
so fond of him: he said it was because, when he saw the Pope in a
fit of melancholy, he always cut a joke and made him laugh, instead
of condoling with him.
"The Pope is always thoroughly entertained at the stories which are
circulated as to his 'evil eye' and its effects, as well as those
about the 'evil eye' of the excellent and strikingly handsome
Monsignor Prosperi. When the fire occurred in the Bocca di Leone,
and the Pope was told of it, he said, 'How very extraordinary, for
Monsignor Prosperi was out of Rome, and I was not there.'
"When the Pope, who does not speak good French, was talking of
Pusey, he said, 'Je le compare à une cloche, qui sonne, sonne, pour
appeler les fidèles à l'église, mais qui n'entre jamais.'
"I think there can scarcely be any set of men whose individuality
is more marked than the present Cardinals.... Antonelli's manner
in carrying the chalice in St Peter's is reverent in the extreme.
Cardinal Ugolini, who is almost always with the Pope, never fails
to ruffle up his hair in walking down St. Peter's or the Sistine."
"_Christmas Day._--The Pope heard of the death of his sister, an
abbess, this morning, just as he was going to be carried into St.
Peter's, but the procession and the chair were waiting, and he was
obliged to go. The poor old man looked deadly white as he was
carried down the nave, and no wonder."
"_January 15, 1866._--Went, by appointment, with Mrs. Goldsmid to
the Church of SS. Marcellino e Pietro--the church with a roof like
that of a Chinese pagoda, in the little valley beneath St. John
Lateran. Inside it is a large Greek cross, and very handsome, with
marbles, &c. The party collected slowly, Mrs. De Selby and her
daughter, Mrs. Alfred Montgomery, Madame Sainte Aldegonde, the
Bedingfields, a French Abbé, Mrs. Dawkins, and ourselves. Soon a
small window shutter was opened to the left of the altar, and
disclosed a double grille of iron, beyond which was a small room in
the interior of the monastery. In the room, but close to the
grille, and standing sideways, with lighted candles in front of it,
was a very beautiful picture of the Crucifixion. It was much
smaller than life, and seemed to be a copy of Guido's picture in
the Lucina. The figure hung alone on the cross in the midst of a
dark wind-stricken plain, and behind it the black storm clouds were
driving through the sky, and beating the trees towards the ground.
As you looked fixedly at the face, the feeling of its intense
suffering and its touching patience seemed to take possession of
you and fill you. We all knelt in front of it, and I never took my
eyes from it. Very soon Mrs. Goldsmid said, 'I begin to see
something; do you not see the pupils of its eyes dilate?' Mrs.
Montgomery, in an ecstasy, soon after said, 'Oh, I see it: how
wonderful! what a blessing vouchsafed to us! See, it moves! it
moves!' Mrs. De Selby, who is always sternly matter-of-fact, and
who had been looking fixedly at it hitherto, on this turned
contemptuously away and said, 'What nonsense! it is a complete
delusion: you delude yourselves into anything; the picture is
perfectly still.' Mrs. Dawkins now declared that she distinctly saw
the eyes move. Lady Bedingfield would not commit herself to any
opinion. The French Abbé saw nothing.
"Meanwhile Madame Ste. Aldegonde had fallen into a rapture, and
with clasped hands was returning thanks for the privilege
vouchsafed to her. 'Oh mon Dieu! mon Dieu! quelle grâce! quelle
grâce!' Shortly after this the French Abbé saw it also. 'Il n'y a
pas le moindre doute,' he said; 'il bouge les yeux, mais le voilà,
le voilà.' They all now began to distress themselves about Mrs. De
Selby. 'Surely you must see _something_,' they said; 'it is
impossible that you should see _nothing_.' But Mrs. De Selby
continued stubbornly to declare that she saw nothing. While Madame
Ste. Aldegonde was exclaiming, and when the scene was at its
height, I could fancy that I saw something like a scintillation, a
speculation, in one of the eyes of the Crucified One, but I could
not be certain. As we left the church, the other ladies said,
apropos of Mrs. De Selby, 'Well, you know, after all, it is not a
thing we are _obliged_ to believe,' and one of them, turning to
her, added consolingly, 'And you know you _did_ see a miracle at
Vicovaro.'
"Mrs. Goldsmid declared that she was so shocked at my want of
faith, that she should take me immediately to the Sepolti Vivi, to
request the prayers of the abbess there. So we drove thither at
once. The convent is most carefully concealed. Opposite the Church
of S. Maria del Monte, a little recess in the street, which looks
like a _cul de sac_, runs up to one of those large street shrines
with a picture, so common in Naples, but of which there are very
few at Rome. When you get up to the picture, you find the _cul de
sac_ is an illusion. In the left of the shrine a staircase in the
wall leads you up round the walls of the adjoining house to a
platform on the roof. Here you are surrounded by heavy doors, all
strongly barred and bolted. In the wall there projects what looks
like a small green barrel. Mrs. Goldsmid stooped down and rapped
loudly on the barrel. This she continued to do for some time. At
last a faint muffled voice was heard issuing from behind the
barrel, and demanding what was wanted. 'I am Margaret Goldsmid,'
said our companion, 'and I want to speak to the abbess.'--'Speak
again,' said the strange voice, and again Mrs. G. declared that she
was Margaret Goldsmid. Then the invisible nun recognised the voice,
and very slowly, to my great surprise, the green barrel began to
move. Round and round it went, till at last in its innermost
recesses was disclosed a key. Mrs. Goldsmid knew the meaning of
this, and taking the key, led us round to a small postern door,
which she unlocked, and we entered a small courtyard. Beyond this,
other doors opened in a similar manner, till we reached a small
white-washed room. Over the door was an inscription bidding those
who entered that chamber to leave all worldly thoughts behind them.
Round the walls of the room were inscribed: 'Qui non diligit, manet
in morte'--'Militia est vita hominis super terram'--'Alter alterius
onera portate,' and on the side opposite the door--
'Vi esorto a rimirar
La vita del mondo
Nella guisa che il mira
Un moribondo.'
Immediately beneath this inscription was a double grille, and
beyond it what looked at first like pitch darkness, but what was
afterwards shown to be a thick plate of iron, pierced, like the
rose of a watering-pot, with small round holes, through which the
voice might penetrate. Behind this plate of iron the abbess of the
Sepolti Vivi receives her visitors. She is even then veiled from
head to foot, and folds of thick serge fell over her face. Pope
Gregory XVI., who of course could penetrate within the convent,
once wishing to try her faith, said to her, 'Sorella mia, levate il
velo.'--'No, mio Padre,' replied the abbess, 'é vietato dalle
regole del nostro ordine.'
"Mrs. Goldsmid said to the abbess that she had brought with her two
heretics, one in a state of partial grace, the other in a state of
blind and outer darkness, that she might request her prayers and
those of her sisterhood. The heretic in partial grace was Mrs.
Dawkins, the heretic in blind darkness was myself. Then came back
the muffled voice of the abbess, as if from another world, 'Bisogna
essere convertiti, perchè ci si sta poco in questo mondo: bisogna
avere le lampane accese, perchè non si sa l'ora quando il Signore
chiamerà, ma bisogna che le lampane siano accese coll' olio della
vera fede, e se ve ne manca un solo articolo, se ne manca il
tutto.' There was much more that she said, but it was all in the
same strain. When she said, 'Se ve ne manca un solo articolo, se ne
manca il tutto,' Mrs. Goldsmid was very much displeased, because
she had constantly tried to persuade Mrs. Dawkins that it was _not_
necessary to receive _all_, and the abbess had unconsciously
interfered with the whole line of her argument. Afterwards we asked
the abbess about her convent. They were 'Farnesiani,' she said;
'Sepolti Vivi' was only 'un nome popolare;' but she did not know
why they were called Farnesiani, or who founded their order. She
said the nuns did not dig their graves every day, that also was
only a popular story. When they died, she said, 'they only enjoyed
their graves a short time, like the Cappuccini (a year, I think),
and then, if their bodies were whole when they were dug up, they
were preserved; but if their limbs had separated, they were thrown
away. She said the nuns could speak to their 'parenti stretti' four
times a year, but when I asked if they ever _saw_ them, she laughed
in fits at the very idea, 'ma perchè bisogna vederli?' Mrs.
Goldsmid was once inside the convent, but could not get an order
this year, because, when it had been countersigned by all the other
authorities, old Cardinal Patrizi remembered that she had been in
before, and withdrew it.
"I heard afterwards that generally when the crucifixion at S.
Marcellino is shown, a nun of S. Teresa, with her face covered, and
robed from head to foot in a long blue veil, stands by it
immovable, like a pillar, the whole time."
"_January 27._--Gibson the sculptor died this morning. He was first
taken ill while calling on Mrs. Caldwell. She saw that he could not
speak, and, making him lie down, brought water and restoratives. He
grew better and insisted on walking home. She wished to send for a
carriage, but he would not hear of it, and he was able to walk home
perfectly. That evening a paralytic seizure came. Ever since, for
nineteen days and nights, Miss Dowdeswell had nursed him. He will
be a great loss to Miss Hosmer (the sculptress), whom he regarded
as a daughter. They used to dine together with old Mr. Hay every
Saturday. It was an institution. Mr. Gibson was writing his memoirs
then, and he used to take what he had written and read it aloud to
Mr. Hay on the Saturday evenings. Mr. Hay also dictated memoirs of
his own life to Miss Hosmer, and she wrote them down."
"_January 29._--I had a paper last night begging me to be present
at a meeting about Gibson's funeral, but I could not go. The
greater part of his friends wished for a regular funeral procession
on foot through the streets, but this was overruled by Colonel
Caldwell and others. A guard of honour, offered by the French
general, was however accepted. The body lay for some hours in the
little chapel at the cemetery, the cross of the Legion of Honour
fixed upon the coffin. It was brought to the grave with muffled
drums, all the artists following. Many ladies who had known and
loved him were crying bitterly, and there was an immense attendance
of men. The day before he died there was a temporary rally, and
those with him hoped for his life. It was during this time that the
telegraph of inquiry from the Queen came, and Gibson was able to
receive pleasure from it, and held it in his hand for an hour.
"Gibson--'Don Giovanni,' as his friends called him--had a quaint
dry humour which was all his own. He used to tell how a famous
art-critic, whose name must not be mentioned, came to his studio to
visit his newly-born statue of Bacchus. 'Now pray criticise it as
much as you like,' said the great sculptor. 'Well, since you ask me
to find fault,' said the critic, 'I think perhaps there is
something not quite right about the left leg.'--'About the leg!
that is rather a wide expression,' said Gibson; 'but about what
part of the leg?'--'Well, just here, about the bone of the
leg.'--'Well,' said Gibson, 'I am relieved that _that_ is the fault
you have to find, for the bone of the leg is on the other side!'
"Gibson used to relate with great gusto something which happened to
him when he was travelling by diligence before the time of
railways. He had got as far as the Mont Cenis, and, while crossing
it, entered into conversation with his fellow-traveller--an
Englishman, not an American. Gibson asked where he had been, and he
mentioned several places, and then said, 'There was one town I saw
which I thought curious, the name of which I cannot for the life of
me remember, but I know it began with an R.'--'Was it Ronciglione,'
said Gibson, 'or perhaps Radicofani?' thinking of all the
unimportant places beginning with R. 'No, no; it was a much shorter
name--a one-syllable name. I remember we entered it by a gate near
a very big church with lots of pillars in front of it, and there
was a sort of square with two fountains.'--'You cannot possibly
mean Rome?'--'Oh yes, Rome--that _was_ the name of the place.'"