"_Feb. 10._--My dearest Mother is better and up again, sweet and
smiling. Last week, after poor Mrs. C. had died, Mrs. Ramsay, not
knowing it, sent to inquire after her. 'E andata in Paradiso,' said
her old servant Francesco, quite simply, when he came back."
"_Feb. 25._--On the 16th old Don Francesco Chigi died, a most
well-known figure to be missed out of Roman life. He was buried
with perfectly mediæval pomp the next day at the Popolo. The
procession down the Corso from the Chigi Palace was most gorgeous,
the long line of princely carriages and the running footmen with
their huge torches and splendid liveries, the effect enhanced by
the darkness of the night, for it was at nine o'clock in the
evening.
"Yesterday I rushed with all the world to St. Peter's to stare at
the bridal of Donna Guendalina Doria, who had just been married at
S. Agnese to the Milanese Conte della Somaglia. The Pope gave her
his benediction and a prayer-book bound in solid gold and diamonds.
Thirteen carriages full of relations escorted her to St. Peter's,
but very few had courage to come with her into the church. She
looked well in a long lace veil and white silk cloak striped with
gold.
"My sweet Mother has gained very little ground the last fortnight.
Yesterday for the first time she went out--carried down and
upstairs by Benedetto and Louisa, and drove with Charlotte to the
Villa Doria. But in the evening her breathing was difficult. To-day
I drove with Lady Bloomfield[366] and Jane Adeane to the Campagna,
and when I came back I found that she had been quite ill the whole
time. The dear face looks sadly worn."
"_Feb. 27._--When I went into my darling's room at 3 A.M., both she
and Lea were sleeping quietly, but when I went again at six, the
Mother had been long awake, and oppressed with great difficulty of
breathing. At half-past nine Dr. Grilli came and begged for another
opinion.... How did I bear it when he said that my darling was in
the greatest danger, that if she would desire any spiritual
consolations, they ought to be sent for! Then I lost all hope.
'No,' I said, 'she has long lived more in heaven than on earth.'
'Quello se vede,' said Dr. Grilli.
"I questioned whether she should be told the danger she was in, but
I decided not; for has not my darling been for years standing on
the threshold of the heavenly kingdom? Death could to _her_ only be
the passing quite over that threshold, and to us the last glimpse
of her most sweet presence here.
"2 P.M.--Charlotte Leycester and Emma Simpkinson have been with me
in the room all morning by turns. I cannot but think her slightly
better. The shutter has just been opened that she may see the sun,
which poured into the room. My darling was sitting up then and
smiled to see it.
"5-1/2 P.M.--Waiting for the consultation of doctors. How I dread
it, yet I cannot but think they will find my darling better. I have
a feeling that there must still be hope. At two I went in a
carriage to the Villa Negroni,[367] as the most solitary place I
knew, and there spent an hour on that terraced walk beneath the
house in which I was born, where my two mothers walked up and down
together before my birth, and where I have often been, oh! so happy
in the sunshine of her presence who is life to me.
"Coming back, I went into the Church of the Angeli. A white
Carthusian was kneeling there alone. I knelt too and prayed--not
that God would give my darling back to me unless it were His will,
but oh! so earnestly that there might be no pain in her departure.
"Mrs. Woodward and Miss Finucane want to come and sit up--always
good and kind. Grilli has been this evening with Dr. Bertoldi, and
says everything depends on how she passes the next night: if she
sleeps and the breathing becomes easier, we may hope, but even then
it will be most difficult to regain the ground lost. In this I buoy
myself up that _they_ know nothing of her wonderful power of
rallying.
"When Charlotte went away for the night, she said, 'I shall think
of you, dear, and pray for you very much to-night.'--'Yes, into
the Lord's hands I commend my spirit,' said my darling solemnly.
"_9 A.M. Feb. 28, Friday._--Last night, when I wished her
good-night, she said in her sweetest manner, 'Don't be too anxious;
it is all in His hands.' Lea went to bed and Emma Simpkinson sat
upon the sofa. I went in and out all through the night. Since 4
A.M. she has been less well!
"6 P.M.--I went rapidly to-day in a little carriage to St. Peter's,
and kneeling at the grating of the chapel of the Sacrament by
Sixtus IV.'s tomb, I _implored_ God to take two years out of my
life and to add them to my Mother's. I could not part with her now.
If there is power in prayer, I _must_ have been heard. I was back
within the hour.
"When Charlotte came, she repeated to the Mother the texts about
the saints in white robes, and then said 'Perhaps, dear, you will
be with them soon--perhaps it is as in our favourite hymn, "Just
passing over the brink."'--'Yes,' said my darling, 'it cannot last
long; this is quite wearing me out.' I heard this through the door,
for I could not bear to be in the room. Then Charlotte said, 'The
Lord be with you,' or similar words, and my darling answered 'Yes,
and may He be with those who are left as well as with those who are
taken.' At this moment I came in and kissed my darling. Charlotte,
not knowing I had heard, then repeated what she had said. 'She is
praying that God may be with you and with me,' she said. I could
not bear it, and went back to the next room. Charlotte came in and
kissed me. 'I cannot say what I feel for you,' she said. I begged
her not to say so now, 'as long as there was anything to be done I
must not give way.'"
"_3 P.M. Saturday._--The night was one of terrible suffering. Mrs.
Woodward sat up, but I could not leave the room. In the morning my
darling said, 'I never thought it would have been like this; I
thought it would have been unconscious. The valley of the Shadow of
Death is a dark valley, but there is light at the end.... No more
pain.... The Rock of Ages, that is my rock.' Then I read the three
prayers in the Visitation Service. 'It will be over soon,' she
said; 'I am going to rest.'
"'Will you give me some little word of blessing, darling?' I said.
'The Lord keep you and comfort you, my dear child,' she said.
'Don't fret too much. _He_ will give you comfort.' I had begged
that Mrs. Woodward would call in Lea, who was now kneeling between
us at the bedside. 'And you bless poor Lea too,' I said. 'Yes, dear
Lea; she has been a most good and faithful and dear servant to me.
I pray that God may be with her and John, and keep them, and I hope
that they will be faithful and loving to you, as they have been to
me, as long as you need them.... Be reconciled to all who have been
unkind to you, darling; love them all, this is my great wish,
love--love--love--oh, I have tried to live for love--oh! love one
another, that is the great thing--love, love, love!'
"'The Lord bless and comfort you, dear,' she said to Charlotte. 'Be
a mother to my child.'--'I will,' said Charlotte, and then my
darling's hand took mine and held it.
"'We look for the salvation of the Lord Jesus Christ,' said
Charlotte. 'Yes, and it was here that it first dawned upon me ...
through much tribulation.... He will be with me, and He will be
with those who are left.'
"'We look for the King in His beauty,' said Charlotte. 'Yes, beauty
such as we have never seen,' my darling said. 'Eye hath not seen
nor ear heard the things which God hath prepared for them that love
Him. Oh, I have been able to serve Him very little.'--'Yes,
darling, but you have loved Him much.'
"'I send my love to all my dear ones in England; none are
forgotten, none.' Then, after a pause, 'Tell your sister that we
shall meet where there is no more controversy, and where we shall
know thoroughly as we are known.'
"In the night the terrible pain came on, which lasted many hours
and gave us all such anguish. 'And He bore all this,' she said, and
at one of her worst moments--'He that trusteth in Thee shall never
be put to confusion.' What these trembling words were to us I
cannot say, with her great suffering and the sadly sunken look of
her revered features. Mrs. Woodward cried bitterly.
"'Mine eyes look to the hills, from whence cometh my help,' said
Charlotte when she came in. 'You have loved the Psalms so much,
haven't you, dear?'--'Yes, the Psalms so much.'--'All Thy waves and
storms pass over me,' said Charlotte, 'but the Rock resisteth the
flood.'--'Yes, the _Rock_,' said my darling. 'The floods lift up
their waves, but the Lord is mightier.'--'He is mightier,' she
repeated. 'The Lord is a refuge and a strong tower,' said
Charlotte. 'He is _indeed_,' she answered with emphasis; 'it is a
dark valley, but there is light beyond, for He is the strength of
my heart and my portion for ever.'
"She bade me in the early morning not to leave her, and I sat by
her without moving from 6 A.M. till 1 P.M. 'Oh, you will all be
_so_ tired,' she said once. When she was very ill, Charlotte leant
over her and said, 'I am oppressed, O Lord, undertake for me: may
the everlasting arms be beneath you.'--'Yes,' she said."
"_March 1, Sunday morning._--How long it is! At 6 P.M. she was very
restless and suffering. At last she gave me her hand and lay down
with me supporting the pillows behind. She spoke quite clearly, and
said, 'My blessing and darling, may you be blessed in time and
eternity!' This quiet sleep seemed to soothe and rest her, and
afterwards Lea was able to take my place for an hour. But the night
was terrible. Mrs. Woodward and Miss Finucane both sat up with me.
Once she said, 'Through the grave and the gate of death ... a
glorious resurrection.' At seven, she was speaking again, and
leaning over her I heard, 'How long, how long? when will the
Bridegroom come?'"
"_4 P.M. Monday, March 2._--A rather less suffering night. Dear
Miss Garden sat up with me, saying she felt as if it was her own
mother who was lying there, and Mother rambled gently to her about
'going home.' At 7 A.M. she fell asleep sweetly with her hand
clasped in both of mine. I did not venture to move, and sank from
my knees into a sitting position on the floor; so we remained for
nearly an hour. When she waked, her moan was more definite. 'Oh,
for rest! oh, for rest!' I said, 'Darling, rest is coming
soon.'--'Yes,' she said, 'my health will all come back to me soon;
no infirmities and no pains any more."
"10 A.M.--When Charlotte went at nine, I thought my darling sinking
more rapidly, and Dr. Grilli when he came told us it was all but
impossible she could rally. She looks to me at moments quite
passing away. I would not call my darling back for worlds now: if
God took her, I could only be lost in thankfulness that her pains
were over. Oh, that she may be soon in that perfect health which we
shall not be permitted to see. I scarcely leave her a moment now,
though it is agony to me if she coughs or suffers. Can I afford to
lose one look from those beloved eyes, one passing expression of
those revered features? So I sit beside her through the long hours,
now moistening her lips, now giving her water from a spoon, now and
then a little soup-jelly, which she finds it easier to swallow than
the soup itself, and now and then my darling gently gives me her
hand to hold in mine. 'Rest in bliss,' she said to Mrs. Woodward,
'rest ever in bliss.' Afterwards Charlotte said, 'When thou passest
through the waters, they shall not overflow thee: underneath thee
are ... the everlasting arms."
"12-1/2 P.M.--Charlotte has repeated sentences from the Litany--'By
Thine agony and bloody sweat.' We thought she scarcely understood
at first, then her lips, almost inaudibly, repeated the sentences.
Soon she said, 'It is _so_ long coming!' Then Charlotte read,
'Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they _rest_ from
their labours.' She opened her eyes, looked up at Charlotte, and
said, 'Oh, how well I know you!'
"1 P.M.--After some minutes' quiet she opened her eyes with
surprise and said, 'I thought I was safe home; I thought I was, yet
I can move, so I suppose it will not be yet.'
"2 P.M.--Her face has lost all its troubled look, and though she
still moans, there is a happy appearance of repose stealing over
her features.
"3 P.M.--When C. L. came in she said, 'Oh, Charlotte, I thought it
was all over. I did not hear the noise of the waves any more. Oh,
they were so very tormenting, and then, when I did not hear them, I
thought it was over, and then I heard your voice, and I knew I was
still here.... I have no more pain now.... It was very long, but I
suppose He thought He would knock out all that was bad in me.'
"_Midnight, Monday._--After a terrible afternoon, she had such an
extraordinary rally in the evening that we all began to hope. But
soon after there was another change. Her features altered, her face
sunk, but her expression was of the most transcendent happiness.
Thinking the last moment was come, we knelt around the bed, I alone
on the right; Charlotte, Lea, and Mrs. Woodward on the left; the
nurse, Angela Mayer, at the foot. Charlotte and Mrs. W. prayed
aloud. Then my darling, in broken accents, difficult to understand,
but which I, leaning over her, repeated to the others, began to
speak--'I am going to glory ... I have no pain now ... I see the
light ... Oh, I am _so_ happy ... no more trouble or sorrow or sin
... so extremely happy ... may you all meet me there, not one of
you be wanting.'
"I, leaning over her, said, 'Do you know me still, darling?'--'Yes,
I know and bless you, my dearest son ... peace and love ... glory
everlasting ... all sins and infirmities purged away ... rest ...
love ... glory ... reign for ever ... _see Christ_.
"'Oh, be ready!
"'Mary and Arthur and Kate and Emmie and Mamie, faithful servants
of Christ, to meet me there in His kingdom.
"'Let peace and love remain with you always. This is my great wish,
peace and love ... peace and love.'
"After saying this, my mother solemnly folded her trembling hands
together on her breast, and looking up to heaven, said, 'Oh, Lord
Jesus, come quickly, and may all these meet me again in Thy
kingdom!' As she said this, my darling's eyes seemed fixed upon
another world.
"After this I begged the others to leave me alone with her, and
then my dearest one said to me, 'Yes, darling, our love for one
another on earth is coming to an end now. We have loved one another
very deeply. I don't know how far communion will be still possible,
but I soon _shall_ know; and if it be possible, I shall still be
always near you. I shall so love to see and know all you are doing,
and to watch over you; and when you hear a little breeze go
rustling by, you must think it is the old Mother still near you....
You will do all I wish, darling, I know. I need not write, you
will carry out all my wishes.'--'Yes, dearie,' I said, 'it will be
my only comfort when you are gone to do all you would have wished.
I will always stay at Holmhurst, darling, and I will continue going
to Alton, and I will do everything else I can think of that you
would like.'
"'Yes, and you must try to conquer self ... to serve God here, and
then we may be together again in heaven.... Oh, we _must_ be
together again there.'
"Lea now came in, and my darling stroked her face while she sobbed
convulsively. 'Your long work is done at last,' Mother said; 'I
have been a great trouble to you both, and perhaps it is as well I
should be taken away now, for I am quite worn out. Tell John and
all of them that I am sorry to leave them, but perhaps it was for
the best; for this is not an illness; it is that I am worn out....
You and Augustus will stay together and comfort one another when I
am gone, and you will bear with one another's infirmities and help
one another. The great thing of all is to be able to confess that
one has been in the wrong. Oh, peace and love, peace and love,
these are the great things.'
"'Have I been a good child to you, dearest?' I said. 'Oh, yes,
indeed--dear and good, dear and good; a little wilful perhaps you
used to be, but not lately; you have been all good to me
lately--dear and good.'--('Yes, that he has,' said Lea.)--'Faithful
and good,' my darling repeated, 'both of you faithful and good.'
"Charlotte now came in. 'Here is Charlotte.'--'Dear Charlotte! Oh
yes, I know you. I do not know whether there will be any
communication where I am going, but if there is, I shall be very
near you. I am going to rest ... rest everlasting. Be a mother to
my child. Comfort him when I am gone ... give him good advice....
You know what suggestions I should make.... You will say to him
what I should say ... and if he could have a good wife, that would
be the best thing ... for what would you do, my child, in this
lonely world?... No, a good wife, that is what I wish for you--a
good wife and a family home.
"'And now I should like to speak to kind Mrs. Woodward' (she came
in). 'Thank you so much; you have been very good and kind to me,
dear Mrs. Woodward. I am going fast to my heavenly home. I have
said all I meant to have written all the time I have been ill, and
have never been able ... my mouth has been opened that I might
speak.'"
"7 A.M. _March 3._--'Oh, it is quite beautiful. Good-bye, my own
dearest! I cannot believe that you will look up into the clouds and
think that I am only there ... but you will also see me in the
flowers and in my friends, and in all that I have loved.'
"8 A.M.--With the morning light my dearest Mother has seemed to
become more rapt in holy thoughts and visions, her eyes more
intently fixed on the unseen world. At last, with a look of rapture
she has exclaimed, 'Oh, angels, I see angels!' and since then pain
seems to have left her.
"8-1/2 A.M.--(To Lea.) 'You will take care of him and comfort him,
as you have always taken care of me: you have been a dear servant
to me.'--'Yes,' said Lea, 'I will always stay with him and take
care of him as long as I live. I took care of your dear husband,
and I have taken care of you, and I will take care of him as long
as he wants me.' 'Darling sweet,' I said to her. 'Yes, darling
sweet,' she repeated, with inexpressible tenderness. 'I always hear
the tender words you say to me, dear, even in my dreams.' Then she
said also to Mrs. Woodward, 'You have been very kind to us; you
will comfort Augustus when he is left desolate: you know what
sorrow is, you have gone through the valley.... It seems so much
worse for others than for me.... For then I shall begin really to
live.'
"All this time my darling lay with her eyes upturned and an
expression of rapt beatitude. The nurse says that in her forty
years' nursing she never saw any one like this, so quiet, so happy.
'Nothing ever puts her out or makes her complain: I never saw
anything like it.'[368]
"8-1/2 A.M.--'It is very difficult to _realise_ that when you are
absent from the body you are present with the Lord.'
"10 A.M.--Dr. Grilli says she may live till evening, even possibly
into the night. She has just said, a little wandering, 'You know in
a few days some pretty sweet violets will come up, and that will be
all that will be left to you of the dear Mother.'
"11-1/2 A.M.--She has taken leave of Emma Simpkinson and Miss
Garden. When I came in she took my hand and said, 'And you,
darling, I shall always think of you, and you will think of me. I
shall spring up again like the little violets, and I shall put on
an incorruptible body. I shall be always floating over you and
watching over you somehow: we shall never be separated; and my body
will rest beside that of my dear husband. So strange it should be
here; perhaps, if it had been anywhere else, I might have wished to
get better, but as it was here, the temptation was too great. I am
quite worn out. I thought I could not get better after my last
illness, and I _was_ given back to you for a little while, though I
have always felt very weak, but I shall be quite well now.'
"10 A.M. _March 4._--All night she wandered gently, saying that she
would 'go out and play with the little children; for there can be
nothing bad amongst very little children.' In the morning Charlotte
still thought there was a chance of her rallying, but Emma
Simpkinson and I both think her sinking, and Dr. Grilli says that
'sussulti tendinósi' of the pulses have come on, and that there is
not the slightest hope. It can probably only be two hours, though
it may last till evening. He has formally taken leave, saying that
medicine is useless, and that it is no use for him to return any
more. Since the early morning my darling has been lying with her
hand in mine, leaning her head against mine on the pillow, her eyes
turned upwards, her lips constantly moving in inarticulate prayer.
She has asked, 'What day is it? I think it is my birthday to-day.'
I have not told her it is her father's birthday, as I believe it
will be her own birthday in heaven.
"11 A.M.--She has again appeared to be at the last extremity.
Raising her eyes to heaven and taking my hand, she has prayed
fervently but inaudibly. Then she prayed audibly for blessings for
me and Lea, and, with a grateful look to Emma, added, 'And for dear
Emma too.'
"1 P.M.--She wandered a little, and asked if the battle was over.
'Yes,' said Lea, 'and the victory won.'
"1-1/2 P.M.--'I am all straight now, no more crookedness.... You
must do something, dear, to build yourself up; you must be a good
deal pulled down by all this.... Rest now, but work, work for God
in life.
"'Don't expect too much good upon earth.
"'Don't expect too much perfection in one another.
"'Work for eternity.
"'Only try for love.
"2 P.M.--'Oh, how happy I am! I have everything I want here and
hereafter.'
"2.10.--(With eyes uplifted and hands clasped.) ... 'Living water.
The Lamb, the Lamb is the life.'
"2.15.--C. L. repeated at her request 'Abide with me, fast falls
the eventide.'
"2.30.--The dear Mother herself, with her changed voice, clasped
hands, and uplifted eyes, has repeated the hymn 'Just as I am,
without one plea.'
"3 P.M.--'I am glad I am not going to stay. I could not do you any
more good, and I am _so_ happy.'
"4 P.M.--(With intense fervour.) 'O God, O God! God alone can
save--one and eternal. Amen! Amen!'
"4.15.--'Let us be one in heaven, dear, as we are one on earth.'
"4.30.--'Oh, let me go.... I have said I was ready to go so often,
but you won't give me up.' I said, 'I think you had better try to
sleep a little now, darling.'--'Yes, but let it be the last: I have
had so many, many last sleeps.'--'You are in no pain now, dearie?'
I said. 'Oh no, no pain; there is no pain on the borderland of
heaven.
"'May He who ruleth all, both in heaven and earth, bless you, my
child--bless you and keep you from ill. Love, love, perfect love,
love on earth and then love in heaven.... I can hear words from the
upper world now and none from the nearer. They have taught me
things that were dark to me before.'
"5 P.M.--'Peace be with you, peace and love.
"'Sin below, grace above.
"'We sinners below, Christ above.
"'All love, all truth in Jesus Christ, my Lord and my God.'
"5-1/2 P.M.--'Oh, let it be. It could not be better--no doubt, no
difficulty.... All the good things of this world, what are they?...
soon pass away--pride, vanity, vexation of spirit; but oh! love!
love!' It was after saying these words that my darling's face
became quite radiant, and that she looked upward with an expression
of rapture. 'I see a white dove,' she said, 'oh, such a beautiful
white dove, floating towards me.' Soon after this she exclaimed,
'Oh, Lord Jesus, oh, come quickly'.... When she opened her eyes,
'What a wilful child you are! you will not let your mother depart,
and she is _so_ ready.'--'Is it he who keeps you?' said C. L. 'No,
a better One; but let me go or let me stay, O Lord, I have no will
but Thine.'"[369]
"2 A.M. _March 5._--During the night she has prayed constantly
aloud for various relations and friends by name, and often for me.
Once she said, 'Ever upright, ever just, sometimes irritable, weak
in temperament, that others should love him as I have done ... and
a good wife, that is what I have always thought.'
"8 P.M. _March 5._--Twice to-day there has been a sudden sinking of
nature, life almost extinct, and then, owing to the return of
fever, there has been a rally. She became excited if I left her
even for a moment, so through last night and to-day I have
constantly sat behind her on the bed, supporting her head on a
pillow in my arms.
"10 P.M.--Emma Simpkinson is come for the night, but there is a
strange change. My mother is asleep! quietly asleep--the fever is
reduced after the aconite which I insisted upon, and which the
homœopathic doctor said _must_ end her life in half-an-hour.
"_Friday evening, March 6._--All day there has been a rally, and
she has now power to cough again. Grilli had given the case up, so
at noon to-day I had no scruple in sending for Dr. Topham, writing
full explanation of the strange case. He says it is the most
extraordinary he has ever seen and a most interesting
study--'Before such a miracle of nature, science can only sit
still.' Life still hangs on a thread, but there is certainly an
improvement. She knows none but me."
"_Saturday evening, March 7._--What a quiet day of respite we have
had after all the long tension and anxiety. My darling's face has
resumed a natural expression, and she now lies quite quiet,
sleeping, and only rousing herself to take nourishment."
I have copied these fragments from my journal of two terrible weeks,
written upon my knees by my mother's side, when we felt every hour
_must_ be the last, and that her words, so difficult to recall
afterwards, would be almost our only consolation when the great
desolation had really fallen. But no description can give an idea of the
illness--of the strange luminousness of the sunken features, such as one
reads of in lives of Catholic saints--of the marvellous beauty of her
expression--of the thrilling accents in which many words were spoken,
from which her sensitive retiring nature would have shrunk in health.
Had there been physically any reason for hopefulness, which there was
not--had the doctors given any hope of recovery, which they did not, her
appearance, her words, her almost transfiguration would have assured us
that she was on the threshold of another world. I feel that those who
read must--like those who saw--almost experience a sort of shock at her
being given back to us again. Yet I believe that God heard my prayer in
St. Peter's for the two years more. During that time, and that time
only, she was spared to bless us, and to prepare me better for the final
separation when it really came. She was also spared to be my support in
another great trial of my life, to which we then never looked forward.
But I will return to my journal, with which ordinary events now again
entwine themselves.
"_March 10, 1868._--My darling is gradually but slowly regaining
strength, the doctor saying he can give no medicine, but that he
can only stand still in awe before the marvels of nature, whilst
we, the watchers, are gradually rallying from the great strain and
tension of the last week.
"Yesterday was Santa Francesca Romana's day. I went to her house,
the old Ponziani Palace, now the Ezercizii Pii, hung outside for
the day with battered tapestry and strewn within with box. The
rooms inside are the same as when the Saint lived in them, with
raftered ceilings, and many of them turned into chapels. Downstairs
is the large room which she turned into a hospital, and there is a
bright open courtyard planted with orange-trees, though certainly
nothing of the 'magnificent Ponziani Palace' described by Lady
Georgiana Fullerton in her book.
"Thence to the Tor de' Specchi, where a cardinal, a number of Roman
ladies, and a crowd of others were passing through the bright old
rooms covered with frescoes and tapestry, and looking into the
pleasant courtyards of the convent with their fountains and
orange-trees. Upstairs is a fine chapel, where the skeleton of the
Saint lies under the altar, dressed as an Oblate (with the face
exposed), but in a white veil and white gloves! The living Oblates
flitting about were very interesting picturesque-looking women,
mostly rather old. Several relics of Santa Francesca are preserved.
On a table near the entrance was the large flat vase in which she
made ointment for the poor, filled with flowers.
"On Sunday, when many ladies went to the Pope, he made them a
little sermon about their guardian angels and Sta. Francesca
Romana."
"_March 15._--My sweet Mother is in almost exactly the same
state--a sort of dormouse existence, and so weak that she can
scarcely hold up her head; yet she has been twice wheeled into the
sitting-room.
"I have been with the Fitzmaurices to the Castle of S. Angelo, very
curious, and the prisons of Beatrice Cenci and her stepmother, most
ghastly and horrid. There are between seven and eight hundred men
there now, and many prisoners. Over the prison doors passers-by had
made notes in chalk: one was 'O voi che entrate qui, lasciate ogni
speranza;' another, 'On sait quand on entre, on ne sait pas quand
on sort;' another, 'Hôtel des Martyrs.'
[Illustration: CASTLE OF ESTE.[370]]
"On Friday evening I rushed with all the world to the receptions of
the new cardinals--first to the Spanish Embassy, then to the
Colonna to see Cardinal Bonaparte,[371] who has a most humble
manner and a beautiful refined face like Manning at his best; and
then to the Inquisition, where Cardinal de Monaco was waiting to
receive in rooms which were almost empty."
"_March 30._--The dear Mother makes daily progress. She has the
sofa in her bedroom, and lies there a great deal in the sunny
window.
"I went to Mrs. Lockwood's theatricals, to which, as she said, 'all
the people above the rank of a duchess were asked down to the
letter M.' The play, _L'Aïeule_, was wonderfully well done by
Princess Radziwill, Princess Pallavicini, Princess Scilla, Duca del
Gallo, and others, a most beautiful electric light being let in
when the grandmother steals in to give the poison to the sleeping
girl."
"_May 8._--We leave Rome to-morrow--leave it in a flush of summer
glory, in a wealth unspeakable of foliage and flowers, orange
blossoms scenting our staircase, the sky deep blue.
"All the last fortnight poor Emma Simpkinson[372] has been terribly
ill--a great anxiety to us as to what was best to be done for her,
but we hope now that she may be moved to England, and I must go
with my restored Mother, who is expanding like a flower in the
sunshine.
"This afternoon, at the crowded time, the young Countess Crivelli,
the new Austrian Ambassadress, drove down the Corso. At the Porta
del Popolo she met her husband's horse without a rider. Much
alarmed, she drove on, and a little farther on she found her
husband's dead body lying in the road. She picked it up, and drove
back down the Corso with the dead man by her side."
Amongst the many English who spent this spring in Rome, I do not find
any note, in my diaries, of Lord Houghton, yet his dinners for six in
the Via S. Basilio were delightful. His children were real children
then, and his son, Robin,[373] a boy of wonderful promise. Lord Houghton
was never satisfied with talking well and delightfully himself; his
great charm was his evident desire to draw out all the good there was in
other people.