"Nothing but the infinite pity is sufficient for the infinite
pathos of human life."--JOHN INGLESANT.
"Never here, for ever there,
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear--
For ever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly,--
Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
--LONGFELLOW.
"Dic nobis ... Quid vidisti in via?
... Gloriam vidi Resurgentis."
--_From the Paschal Mass._
"C'est une âme qui se racconte dans ces volumes: '_Autrefois,
aujourd'hui_.' Un abîme les sépare, le tombeau."--VICTOR HUGO.
The autumn of 1868 was indeed filled for me with utter misery and
"weariness of spirit." If it were not that my dear Mother had gone hand
and hand with me through the terrible time of the trial and the weeks
which followed, I could scarcely have survived them. To please her, I
went away for a time, at the end of August, to our old friend Mrs.
Francis Dawkins near Havant, and to Ripley Castle and Flaxton in
Yorkshire; but I had no spirits to enjoy, scarcely to endure these
visits.
It added to the complication of troubles that the poor Aunt Eleanor, for
whose sake alone I had brought all the trouble upon myself, now began to
take some perverted view,--_what_ I have never ascertained. She went to
live with her brother George Paul, who had lately returned from America,
and for ten years I never saw her to speak to.
[Illustration: JOIGNY.[389]]
I was most thankful when we left England for Italy on the 12th of
October, and seemed to breathe freely when we were once more in our old
travelling life, sleeping in the primitive inns at Joigny and Nuits, and
making excursions to Citeaux and Annecy. Carlyle says, "My father had
one virtue which I should try to imitate: _he never spoke of what was
disagreeable and past_," and my Mother was the same; she turned her back
at once upon the last months, which she put away for ever like a sealed
volume. We spent several weeks at Florence in the Via della Scala,
whence, the Mother being well, I went constantly to draw in the gallery
of sketches by Old Masters at the Uffizi. But, in the middle of
November, I felt already so ill, that I began to dread a possibility of
dying where my Mother would not have any one to look after her, and on
the 16th we hurried to Rome, where I had just time to look out lodgings
for my Mother, and establish her and Lea in the Piazza Mignanelli, when
I succumbed to a violent nervous fever. Most terrible are the sufferings
which I recollect at this time, the agonising pains by day, and the
nights of delirium, which were truly full of Coleridge's "pains of
sleep," in which I was frequently haunted by the sardonic smile of the
horrible Mrs. Dunlop, and otherwise by dreams which were, as Carlyle
would say, "a constant plunging and careering through chaos and cosmos."
In the second week of December I rallied slightly, and could sit with
Mother in the sun on the terrace of Villa Negroni. By the 14th I was
able to walk a little, and went, supported on each side, to the quiet
sunny path by the Tiber which then existed opposite Claude's villa. Just
in front of us a carter was walking by the side of his cart, heavily
laden with stones. Suddenly the wheel of the cart went too near the
steeply sloping bank of the Tiber and tipped over; the horse tried in
vain to recover itself, but the weight of the stones was so great that
it was dragged down, and slowly, slowly, screaming as only animals do
scream, disappeared with the cart under the swollen yellow waters; while
the driver stood helplessly upon the bank shrieking and wringing his
hands.
Weak as I was, this terrible scene naturally brought back all my fever,
which now turned to typhoid, and I soon became delirious. By the
following Sunday my life was despaired of. But in the small hotel where
we had stayed at Florence, we had met an American, Dr. Winslow, with
his wife and daughters, to whom my Mother had shown kindness, and who
had been struck with our entire union and devotion to each other. Dr.
Winslow arrived in Rome when I was at the worst, and the first news he
heard was that I was dying. He at once gave up his Roman sight-seeing
and everything else, and devoted himself to me, coming many times a day
and nursing me with such wonderful care, that I eventually recovered,
though it was February before I was at all myself again. It was an
unspeakable blessing that my Mother continued well during my long
illness, and was so kindly looked after by Mrs. Woodward and Miss Wright
that I had no anxiety about her; though in the spring, when we had moved
to the Via Babuino, she had one of her strange illnesses, ending in a
tranquil unbroken sleep which lasted two days and nights. It was about
this time that she was called to bear a loss which in earlier years
would have been utterly crushing, that of her sister-friend Lucy, who
expired peacefully in her quiet home at Abbots-Kerswell, with only her
faithful maid watching over her. In her hermit-life, my Aunt Lucy had
become farther removed from us each year, but two years before my
Mother had found great happiness in visiting her, and her beautiful
letters were a constant enjoyment. Still it is a merciful dispensation
that to those who are themselves on the border-land of heaven,
bereavements fall less bitterly, separations seem so short; and, to my
Mother, the loss of the dearest friend of her early life was only a
quiet grief: she had "only gone from one room into the next." My Aunt
Lucy Hare had never liked me, but I had none of the bitter feeling
towards her which I had towards my Aunt Esther: she truly loved my
Mother, and I could admire, though I could not enter into, the various
graces of her character, which were none the less real because they were
those of a Carmelite nun in Protestant form.
To Roman antiquaries this spring was rendered important from the
discovery of the site of the Porta Capena,--the site of which was long a
vexed question,--by Mr. J. H. Parker, the Oxford publisher, who devoted
much of his fortune to archæological pursuits. Pius IX. granted him
permission to excavate without in the least believing anything would
come of it. But when he came to inspect the discoveries he exclaimed,
"Why, the heretic's right," and complained bitterly that his own
archæologists, whom he paid highly, should have failed to find what had
been discovered by a foreigner. Mr. Parker carefully marked all the
pieces then found of the Servian Wall, and numbered them in red; but the
_guardia_, seeing the red marks, thought they meant something
revolutionary, and destroyed them. When he found them gone, Parker was
furious. "Is it," he said, "due to the absurdities of an effete
religion, or is it perhaps the insolence of some rival archæologist?"
(meaning Rosa).
As we returned through France in the spring of 1869, we diverged to
Autun and Nevers, the last of the pleasant expeditions the dear Mother
and I made together in summer weather. The greater part of our summer
was spent quietly at home, and was chiefly marked for me by the marriage
of my dear friend Charlie Wood to Lady Agnes Courtenay.
_To_ MISS WRIGHT.
"_Holmhurst, July 10, 1869._--Your description made me see a
pleasant mental picture of the cousinhood assembled at your party.
For myself, I cannot but feel that all _social_ pleasures will
henceforward become more and more difficult for me, as the Mother,
though not ill, becomes daily more dependent upon me for all her
little interests and amusements, so that I scarcely ever leave her
even for an hour. It is an odd hermit-like life in the small
circuit of our little Holmhurst, with one or two guests constantly
changing in its chambers, but no other intercourse with the outside
world. At last summer has burst upon us, and looks all the brighter
for the long waiting, and our oak-studded pastures are filled with
gay groups of haymakers, gathering in the immense crop. The garden
is lovely, and my own home-sunflower is expanding in the warmth and
stronger and better than she has been for months past."
[Illustration: PORTE D'ARROUX, AUTUN.[390]]
"_Holmhurst, August 1._--I cannot be away from home at all this
summer, partly because I cannot leave Mother, who (though very
anxious to promote my going away) is really becoming more dependent
upon my constant care and companionship; and partly because I
cannot afford the inevitable small expenses of going anywhere, our
finances having been completely prostrated by the Roman Catholic
robberies last year. Indeed, I have never been poorer than this
year, as I have had _nothing_, and when I put two threepenny bits
into the Communion plate to-day, felt exceedingly like the widow
with the two mites, for it was literally all that I possessed!
However, this is not so very dreadful after all, and I daresay
another year matters will come round."
In September, however, when Charlotte Leycester came to take care of my
Mother, I did go to the North.
_To_ MY MOTHER.
"_Ridley Hall, Sept. 1, 1869._--Though I have got into a great
scrape with Cousin Susan by calling blackberry jelly, 'jam,' and
though I was _terribly_ scolded the other day for saying
'thanks,'--'such new-fangled vulgarity,'--this visit at Ridley has
been very pleasant. First, there never was more perfect ideal
weather, so fresh and bright, so bracing, and the colouring of the
woods and moorlands, and the glorious tumbling amber-coloured
rivers so beautiful. Then I feel much stronger and better than I
have done for two years past, and Cousin Susan, who thought me
most ghastly when I arrived, is quite satisfied with the results of
her grouse, pheasants, and sherry. On Wednesday Lady Blackett came
to spend the day, and, after she was gone, Cousin Susan and I made
a long exploring expedition far beyond the Allen Water, up into the
depths of Staward valley--most romantic little paths through woods
and miniature rocky gorges to a ruined bridge and 'Plankey Mill,'
and then up a steep wood path to the moor of Briarside. Cousin
Susan had never been so far since she lived here, and we were
walking, or rather climbing, for three hours, attended by the white
dogs. These have chairs with cushions on each side the fireplace in
her new sitting-room. One is in bad health, has medical attendance
from Hexham at half-a-guinea a visit, and uninitiated visitors must
be rather amazed when they see 'my poor little sick girl' whom
Cousin Susan is constantly talking of.... On Sundays there is only
service here in the morning: the clergyman giving as his curious
reason for not having it in the afternoon, that 'perhaps it might
annoy the Dissenters.' ... This evening it has thundered. Cousin
Susan, as usual on such occasions, hid herself with her maid under
the staircase (the safest place in case of thunderbolts), and held
a handkerchief over her eyes till it was over; but her nerves have
been quite upset ever since, and we are not to have the carriage
to-morrow for fear the storm should return."
_"Ford Castle, Sept. 8._--It was almost dark as I drove up the
beautiful new road over the high bridge to the renovated castle,
which is now all grand and in keeping. I found the beautiful
mistress of the house in her new library, which is a most
delightful room, with carved chimney-piece and bookcases, and vases
of ferns and flowers in all the corners and in the deep embrasures
of the windows. She is full of the frescoes in her school. 'I want
to paint "Josiah was eight years old when he began to reign." I
think he must be a little boy on a step with other children round
him--a very little boy, and he must have some little regal robes
on, and I think I must put a little crown upon his head.'"
[Illustration: FORD CASTLE, THE LIBRARY.[391]]
"_Sept. 10._--Every day of a visit at Ford always seems to contain
more of charm and instruction than hundreds of visits elsewhere.
The great interest this time has been Lady Canning's drawings--many
hundreds of them, and all so beautiful that you long to look at
each for hours. All yesterday evening Lady Waterford read aloud to
us--old family letters, from old Lady Hardwicke and from Lady Anne
Barnard. 'My great-aunt, Lady Anne Barnard,' she says, 'wrote a
book very like your Family Memoirs, only hers was too imaginative.
She called all her characters by imaginary names, and made them all
quite too charming: still her book is most interesting. She was
very intimate with Mrs. Fitzherbert, and describes all her first
meetings with George IV. and the marriage, and then she went with
her on her famous expedition to Paris. She got possession of all
the real letters of the family and put them into her book, but she
embellished them. She got hold of a letter Uncle Caledon wrote to
my aunt when he proposed to her, but when Uncle Caledon read the
book and found a most beautiful letter, he said, "My dear, I never
wrote all this."--"No, my dear," she answered, "I know you did not,
but then I thought your real letter was not warm enough." Lady Anne
Barnard wrote "Auld Robin Gray," and she used to describe how some
one translated it into French, and how, when she went to Paris, she
saw every one looking at her, she could not imagine why, till she
heard some one say, "Voilà l'auteur du fameux roman de Robin
Gray.'"[392]
"_Sept. 10._--We have all been to luncheon at Carham, sixteen miles
off, and the latter part of the drive very pretty--close to the
wide reaches of the Tweed, with seagulls flitting over it, and
Cuyp-like groups of cattle on the shore, waiting for the ferryboats
to take them across to Coldstream Fair. Carham is one of the
well-known haunted houses: the 'Carham light' is celebrated and is
constantly seen. We asked old Mrs. Compton of eighty-three, who
lives there now, about the supernatural sights of Carham. 'Och,'
she said, 'and have ye niver heard the story of the phantom
carriage? We have just heard it this very morning: when we were
waiting for you, we heard it drive up. We are quite used to it now.
A carriage drives quickly up to the door with great rattling and
noise, and when it stops, the horses seem to paw and tear up the
gravel. Strange servants are terribly frightened by it. One day
when I was at luncheon I heard a carriage drive up quickly to the
door: there was no doubt of it. I told the servant who was in
waiting to go out and see who it was. When he came back I asked who
had come. He was pale as ashes. "Oh," he said, "it's only just the
phantom coach."
"'And then there is the Carham light. That is just beautiful! It is
a large globe of fire in the shape of a full moon: I have seen it
hundreds of times. It moves about in the woods, and sometimes
settles in one place. The first time I saw it I was driving from
Kelso and I saw a great ball of fire. I said to the driver, "What
is that?"--"Oh, it's just the Carham Light," he said. When
Dick[393] came in, he said he did not believe it--he had never seen
it; but that night it came--bright as ever. All the gentlemen went
out into the woods to examine it; but it moved before them. They
all saw it, and they were quite convinced: it has never been
explained.'
"We had tea with the charming old lady. 'I've just had these cakes
made, Lady Waterford,' she said, 'because they were once very weel
likit by some very dear to you; so I thought you would like them.'
"Lady Waterford sends you a riddle:--
'Mon premier est un tyran, mon second une horreur,
Mon tout est le diable lui-même.
Mais si mon premier est bon, mon second ne fait rien,
Et mon tout est le bonheur suprême.'"[394]
"_Foxhow, Ambleside, Sept. 12, 1869._--How lovely the drive into
Foxhow from Windermere; but, after the grand ideas of my childhood,
how small everything seems, even the lake and the mountains! We
drove in at the well-remembered gate by Rotha Cottage, and along
those lovely Swiss pasture-meadows. It was like a dream of the past
as one turned into the garden, all so exactly the same and so well
remembered, not only from our last brief visit, but from that of
twenty-six years ago. Dear Mrs. Arnold is little altered, and is so
tenderly affectionate and charming, that it is delightful to be
with her. She likes to ask all about you and Holmhurst, and says
that her power of producing mind-pictures and dwelling upon them
often brings you before her, so that she sees you as before, only
older, in your home life. It is quite beautiful to see the intense
devotion of her children to their mother and her happiness in them,
in Fan especially. All the absent ones write to her at least three
times a week.
"We have just been in a covered car to Rydal Church: how beautiful
the situation! How well I remembered being sick as a child from the
puggy smell of its hideous interior. It was just as puggy to-day,
but I was not sick. There was a most extraordinary preacher, who
declared that the Woman on the seven mountains was Rome on her
seven hills--'allowed to be so by all authorities, Jewish, and even
Romanist,'--that the dragon was only the serpent in its worshipped
form, and that both were identical with the Beast and represented
the pagan religion; that the Woman flying into the wilderness
before the Beast was Early Christianity flying from pagan
persecution, and that when she came back, to St. John's
astonishment she was seated _on_ the Beast, _i.e._, she had adopted
all the pagan attributes, the cross, the mother and
child--well-known objects of worship at Babylon, and Purgatory--a
tenet of pagan Rome!"
"_Foxhow, Sept. 14._--My Mother will have thought of this pouring
weather as most unpropitious for the Lake Country, but in reality
it has not signified very much, as each day it has cleared for a
few hours, and the lights and shadows have been splendid. On
Sunday afternoon Edward (Arnold) and I went up Loughrigg. All the
little torrents were swollen by the storms, and the colours of the
dying fern and the great purple shadows on Helm Crag and Bow Fell
were most beautiful. It is a most picturesque bit of mountain, and
it all strikes me, as I remember it did in 1859, as more really
beautiful than anything in Switzerland, though so contracted.
"Yesterday afternoon we walked to Grasmere, and I stayed looking at
the interesting group of Wordsworth tombs, whilst Edward paid a
visit. Afterwards the lake looked so tempting, that Edward rowed me
down it, sending the boat back by a boy. We landed at the outlet of
the Rotha on the other side, and had a beautiful walk home by a
high terrace under Loughrigg. If one remained in this country, one
could not help becoming fond of Wordsworth, his descriptions are so
exact. Edward has repeated many of his poems on the sites to which
they apply, and they are quite beautifully pictorial. Mrs. Arnold
is very happy in the general revival of interest in his poetry....
Nothing can be more enjoyable and united than the family life here,
the children and grandchildren coming and going, and so many
interesting visitors. Truly dear Mrs. Arnold's is an ideal old age,
so hedged in by the great love and devotion of her
descendants."[395]
"_Dalton Hall, Lancashire, Sept. 17._--I always enjoy being here
with the Hornbys. Yesterday we drove in the morning to Yealand, a
pretty village so called from the Quakers who colonised it. In the
afternoon we went to Levens. It is a lovely country, just upon the
outskirts of the Lake District, with the same rich green meadows,
clear streams, and lanes fringed with fern and holly. We passed
through Milnthorpe, and how well I remembered your shutting me up
and making me learn a Psalm in the inn there, instead of letting me
go out to draw! The country is very primitive still. An old
clergyman who officiated till lately in the neighbouring church of
Burton Moss had only three sermons, one of which was laid in turn
on the pulpit desk by his housekeeper every Sunday morning. When he
had finished, he used to chuck it down to her out of the pulpit.
One of these sermons was on 'Contentment,' and contained--apropos
of discontent--the story of the Italian nobleman whose tombstone
bore the words, 'I was well, I wished to be better, and now I am
here.'"
It was a great pleasure this autumn to see again in London the New
Zealand Sir George Grey. I remember his saying how he wished some one
would write a poem on Pharaoh pursuing the Israelites to the Red Sea,
from the point of view that in pursuing them he was pursuing
Christianity; that if the Israelites had perished, and not Pharaoh,
there would have been no Redemption.
JOURNAL (The Green Book).
"_Holmhurst, Oct. 13, 1869._--After the storms of last year, this
summer has been peaceful and quiet. My sweet Mother, though often
ailing, has been very gently and quietly happy. She seems older,
but age has with her only its softening effects--casting a brighter
halo around her sweet life, and rendering more lovable still every
precious word and action.... We are more than ever to each other
now in everything."
We left home in 1869 on the 14th of October, intending to cross the
Channel at once, but on arriving at Folkestone, found such a raging sea,
that we retreated to Canterbury to wait for better weather. This enabled
us to pay a charming visit to Archdeacon and Mrs. Harrison, who had been
very familiar to us many years before, when the Stanleys lived at
Canterbury. It was the last visit my Mother ever paid, and she greatly
enjoyed it, as it seemed almost like a going back into her Hurstmonceaux
life, a revival of the ecclesiastical interests which had filled her
former existence. Whenever any subject was alluded to, Archdeacon
Harrison, like Uncle Julius, went to his bookcase, and brought down some
volume to illustrate it. Thus I remember his reading to us in the
powerful sermons of Bishop Horsley. One of the most remarkable was upon
the Syro-Phœnician woman. Another is on the French Nuns, in defence
of their institution in England, saying, with little foresight, how
unlikely they were to increase in number, and how very superior they
were to those women "who strip themselves naked to go out into the
world, who daub their cheeks with paint, and plaster their necks with
litharge."
Apropos of the proverb about Tenterden Steeple and Goodwin Sands,
Archdeacon Harrison described how it was in allusion to two things
totally disconnected. Tenterden Steeple and Goodwin Sands are very far
apart, and of course have no connection whatever: yet perverse persons
used to say that Tenterden Steeple was the cause of Goodwin Sands, as
money which ought to have been used to prevent the accumulation of
Goodwin Sands was diverted to the building of Tenterden Steeple. The
place where you may hear most about it is "Latimer's Sermons." Latimer
is inveighing against the persons who denounced the study of the Bible
as the cause of the misfortunes of the time, and says that they had as
much connection as Tenterden Steeple and Goodwin Sands, and so forth.
_To_ MISS WRIGHT.
"_Munich, Nov. 1, 1869._--We made it four days' journey from Paris
to Strasbourg. First we went to Bar-le-duc. I had longed to see it,
from a novel I read once, and it is well worth while--the old town
rising above the new like the old town of Edinburgh--tall grey
houses pierced with eight or ten rows of windows, a river with a
most picturesque bridge, and in the church 'Le Squelette de Bar,' a
wonderful work of Richier, the famous sculptor of S. Mihiel,
commemorating the Princes of Bar (Henri I., II., III., &c.),
sovereigns of whom I wonder if you ever heard before: I never did.
"We slept next at Toul, where there is a fine huge dull cathedral,
a beautiful creche by Ignace Robert, and a lovely convent cloister
of flamboyant arches. Living at Toul is wonderfully cheap; our
rooms for three were only four francs, and dinner for three four
francs.[396] We wonder people do not emigrate to Lorraine instead
of to Australia; it would be far cheaper, and infinitely more
amusing. If it had been warmer, we should have gone to Domremy and
S. Mihiel, but we feared the cold. We were a day at Nancy: how
stately it is! At Strasbourg we found that the storks had left, and
we thought it the least interesting place on the road, yet most
people stay only there.
[Illustration: BAR-LE-DUC.[397]]
[Illustration: BRIDGE OF BAR-LE-DUC.[398]]
"We had three days at Carlsruhe, and found dear Madame de Bunsen
most bright and well and charming, with much to tell that was worth
hearing, and the fullest sympathy and interest in others.
Generally one feels that conversation weakens the mind; with the
Bunsens it never fails to strengthen it. Madame de Bunsen talked
much of the difficulties which had crowded round her when she
herself was to begin the Memoir of her husband. Bunsen had said to
her, 'You must tell the story of our common life; you are able to
do it, only do not be afraid.' Thus to her the work was a sacred
legacy. First, as material, her son George brought her Bunsen's
letters to his sister Christiana, which she had given to him, and
which he had fortunately never given to his father for fear he
should destroy them. Then she had written to Reck, the early
Göttingen friend and confidant of all Bunsen's early life, and had
been refused all help without any explanation! Then Stockmar,
Brandeis, &c., sent all their letters; thus the work grew. But
there were no journals, she had made no notes, there was only her
recollection to fall back upon. Madame de Bunsen regretted bitterly
the destruction of Uncle Julius's letters by his widow, especially
those written in his early life to his brother Augustus, which
would have been 'the history of the awakening of a new phase of
opinions.' I made quantities of notes from the intensely
interesting reminiscences Madame de Bunsen poured forth of her own
life.[399]
"We were one day at Stuttgart, which I had never seen, and was
delighted with--so handsome, really a beautiful little capital, and
we reached Munich in time to have one day for the International
Exhibition of Paintings, which was well worth seeing--finer, I
thought, than ours. The German artists have surely far more
originality than the artists of other nations. Three pictures
especially remain in my mind--'The Chase after Luck,' a wild
horseman with Death riding behind him in pursuit of Luck, a
beautiful figure scattering gold and pearls whilst floating on a
bladder, full speed across a bridge which ends in a rotten plank
over a fathomless abyss: 'The Cholera in Rome,' the Angel of Death
leading the Cholera--a hideous old woman--down the street under the
Capitol by moonlight, and showing her the door she is to knock at:
'L'Enfant qui dort à l'ombre du lit maternel, et les Anges qui
savent d'avance le sort des humains, et baissent avec larmes ses
petites mains.' It is interesting to see how familiar the German
common people are with their artists: the great names of Kaulbach,
Henneberg, &c., are in every mouth; how few of our common people
would know anything of Landseer or Millais!"
"_Vicenza, Nov. 14._--The descent into Italy by the Brenner was
enchanting--the exchange of the snow and bitter cold of Germany for
vineyards and fruit-gardens, still glorious in their orange and
scarlet autumnal tints. We were greatly delighted with Botzen,
where the delicately wrought cathedral spire against the faint pink
mountains tipped with snow is a lovely subject.
[Illustration: MANTUA.][400]
"At Verona we spent several days, thinking it more captivating than
ever. Mother was able to enjoy the Giusti gardens, and I went one
day to Mantua. It is wonderful. The station is two miles off, and
the drive into the town across an immense bridge over the lake is
most striking[401]--the towers all reflected in the still waters,
and the fishing-boats sailing in close under the houses. Then, in
the town, the intense desolation of one part--courts and corridors
and squares all grass-grown and utterly tenantless--is a striking
contrast to the other part, teeming with life and bustle. The
Palazzo del Té is marvellous--only one story high, gigantic rooms
covered with grand frescoes opening on sunny lawns with picturesque
decaying avenues. I wandered over the vast ducal palace with three
American ladies, who 'guessed' that 'when Mantua was in its prime,
it must have been rather an elegant city.'"
"_Hôtel de Londres, Pisa, Dec. 7._--From Verona we went to Vicenza,
where we stayed nearly a week in the old-fashioned palazzo which is
now turned into the Hôtel de la Ville. We found some old Roman
acquaintances there--Mrs. Kuper and her daughter, great Italian
travellers, famous linguists, and excessively amusing companions.
With them I went many delightful walks in the lovely country near
Vicenza, which is quite the ideal Italy one reads so much of and so
seldom sees--splendid mountain background with snowy peaks; nearer
hills golden with decaying chestnuts and crimson with falling
vine-leaves; old shrines and churches half hidden in clematis and
vine, and a most interesting town with a fine
picture-gallery--Montagna (not Mantegna) being the great master. I
took to the plan of trying to make ever so slight sketches from
pictures, and find them, bad as they are, far more interesting than
photographs. We had permission to walk in the lovely gardens of the
old Marchese Salvi, close to the hotel, a great pleasure to the
Mother.
[Illustration: VICENZA.[402]]
[Illustration: VICENZA FROM MONTE BERICO.[403]]
[Illustration: THE PRATO DELLA VALLE, PADUA.[404]]
[Illustration: SIENA.[405]]
[Illustration: S. GEMIGNANO.[406]]
"The Kupers preceded us to Padua and engaged comfortable rooms for
us there, to which we followed. Here was another kind of interest
in the quaint churches; the Prato della Valle with its stone
population; the University, where we went to hear a lecture and saw
the 3000 students assembled; and the society of some pleasant young
Paduans--M. Fava and Count Battistino Medine, introduced by the
Kupers. But alas! Mother became very unwell indeed during the
latter part of our stay at Padua, and I was made very unhappy by
her constant cough and inability to take food. So I was thankful
when we were able to come on to this comfortable hotel, where Flora
and the faithful Victoire are incessant in their attentions. I am
still anxious about my sweet Mother, who is very ailing and unable
to go out; otherwise I always like staying at Pisa, with its clean
quiet streets and the interest of the Campo Santo, so full of
beautiful relics and memories. Many delightful hours have I spent
there, and what a school of art and history it is! And then the
Spina is always so graceful and striking against the crimson sunset
which turns the muddy Arno into a river of fire.[407] Then, only
think, I have made a new friend, and, strange to say, an American,
with the uninteresting name of Robert Peabody. I do not know when,
if ever, I have seen any one I like so much--so clever, so natural,
so unworldly, so large-minded, so good-looking. The Mother thinks
my sudden friendships most fantastic, but I have no doubt about
this one; and as Mother was much better last week, I went away with
him for four days to Siena and S. Gemignano, and we were entirely
happy together, though it poured cats and dogs the whole time, and
thundered and lightened as if the skies were coming down. I do not
think you have ever been half excited enough about Siena: it seems
to me such a sublime place--the way it rises out of that desolate
earthquake-riven country, the cathedral so grandly solemn, and such
a world of interest circling around all the scenes in S.
Catherine's life. I tried to draw the famous Sodoma, and longed to
stay months, but we only did stay two days, and then away we went
in a _baroccino_ over the hills to S. Gemignano. You must never
come to Italy again without going there: I am beginning now to
fancy that no one has seen Italy who has missed S. Gemignano. It is
a perfect sanctuary of art, the smallest town ever seen, but with
thirteen tall mediæval towers in fullest preservation, crowning the
top of the little hill like a huge group of ninepins, and with
churches covered with frescoes by Filippo and Simone Memmi,
Beccafumi, Ghirlandajo, and all that wonderful school. The great
saint of the place is Santa Fina--a poor girl, who had a spine
complaint, lay for years on a backboard, bore her intense
sufferings with great patience, and finally died a most peaceful
and holy death--perhaps the _one_ Roman Catholic saint whose story
is unspoilt by miracles. I first heard about her from Lady
Waterford, and had always longed to see her native place. The
Ghirlandajo fresco of her death is most touching and real,
portraying the bare cottage room, the hard-featured Tuscan nurse,
the sick girl on her backboard--all like a scene in a Tuscan
cottage now; and, above, the angels floating away with their
newly-gained sister. But the people of S. Gemignano forgot the
picture when they quaintly told us that 'all the little flowers and
shrubs were so enchanted with her exemplary patience, that they
began to sprout around her bed, and by her twenty-eighth year (when
she died) she was lying in quite a garden of beautiful flowers.'"
In recollection I feel grateful for this short absence from my Mother
with Robert Peabody, as it procured for me my last tiny letter from
her--cheerful and tender as all her letters were now. But after the
beginning of December I seldom left her, and the next six weeks were
spent entirely in her room, in watching and cheering her through a time
of great suffering, whilst the rain never ceased to fall in torrents. I
was often able to amuse her with stories of my companions at the
_table-d'hôte_.