"_Pisa, Nov. 27._--The chief interest here has been from travellers
in the hotel--a Mr. and Mrs. D., kind, vulgar people, who have
seldom been out of London, except to Paris, and who do not speak a
word of any foreign language; at least Mr. D. does speak certain
words, and uses them all together to all the foreigners he meets,
without any regard to their meaning--'Lait pain thé bongjour
toodyswee;'--a haughty pretty Polish girl and her governess, and a
clever pretty Polish Comtesse de M. with her young husband. The
last lady keeps the whole table alive with her stories, told with
the utmost naïveté, and in the prettiest manner.
"'I will tell you about my going to Ferrara. When I arrived I was
gasping with hunger. We drove up to the hotel. "Could we have any
dinner?"--"J'en suis désolé, Madame, but the cook is out." We drove
to another. "Could we have any dinner?"--"J'en suis au désespoir,
Madame, mais il n'y a pas de feu." We drove on. Another hotel. We
ordered our dinner, and when it was put on the table, it was so
dreadful, I gave one look and ran out of the room. And then the
sights of Ferrara! We went to the castle. It was horrible--a
ghastly dungeon with bare walls and chains and one glimmering ray
of light. "_This_," said the guide, "was the dungeon of Ugo and
Parisina; here they suffered and here they died." Oh, mon Dieu,
quel horreur! I wished to go somewhere else. They took me to a
convent--again a ghastly room, a fearful prison. "_This_, Madame,
was the prison of Tasso"--encore des horreurs! Oh, then I would
have a carriage. I asked the driver where he would take me. "Ma,
Signora, allo Campo Santo." Ah! quelle triste ville la ville de
Ferrare! But when we got to Bologna, and I asked where we should
go, c'était toujours la même chose--toujours au Campo Santo, and at
Pisa here, it is encore au Campo Santo!
"'At Ferrara, in the prison of Tasso, they show on the wall an ode
written by Lord Byron. The rest of the wall is white, but the place
where the ode is written is brown. "Why," I asked, "is that part of
the wall brown?"--"Ah!" said the custode, "that is the sweat of the
English. All the English will touch the writing of their
compatriot, and then they perspire from their hot fingers, and thus
it is brown." In the same room is a great hole; the wall has
crumbled away: it is gone: the room will fall. "And what is that?"
I asked. "Ah! that is made by the English, who all insist upon
taking away a morsel of the prison of Tasso." And thus it was at
Verona; when I saw Juliet's tomb, they told me it was only an
imitation; for as for the real one, the English ladies had chopped
it all up and were wearing it in bracelets. Oh, comme c'est
ennuyant de voyager, il faut tourner la tête pour regarder les
tableaux, et on casse le cou par ici: il faut regarder par la
fênetre pour voir la vue, et on casse le cou par là: il faut
regarder au plafond pour voir les fresques, et on casse le cou de
tous les côtés à la fois. And then the journey to Switzerland!
Mais aller en Suisse, jamais! What do you want to see mountains
for? to admire their height? Ah! then how stupid to go up! Why, of
course they become shorter every step you go. No, you should go
into the depths to see the mountains. Les plaines pour moi!...
Jusqu'à mon mariage je ne suis jamais sortie à pied, mais depuis
mon mariage je suis devenue ... raisonable.'
"I asked the Polish ladies if the language they spoke was Russian.
It was like throwing a bomb into the camp. They detest the
Russians, and would not speak to a pleasant Countess Boranoff,
_née_ Wasilikoff, who has been staying here.... But of all my Pisan
acquaintance there is none like Robert Peabody! He has been at an
atelier in Paris for two years studying as an architect, and had a
charming life there with his fellow-students, making walking tours
in France, &c. When he first went to Paris, he did not know a word
of French, and made out his washing bills by drawing little
pictures, socks, shirts, drawers, &c., and the washerwoman put the
prices opposite them."
On December 10 occurred the terrible floods of the Arno.
_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.
"_Pisa, Dec. 11, 1869._--How little you will be able to imagine all
we have been going through in the last twenty-four hours! We have
had a number of adventures in our different travels, but this is by
far the worst that has ever befallen us. Now I must tell you our
story consecutively.
"For the last three days the Mother has been very ill. On Thursday
she had an attack of fainting, and seemed likely to fall into one
of her long many days' sleep.... The rain continued day and night
in torrents. Yesterday made it three weeks since we arrived, and in
that time there had been only two days in which the rain had not
been ceaseless. The Arno was much swollen: I saw it on Thursday,
very curious, up to the top of the arches of the bridges.
"Yesterday, Friday, Madame Victoire came to dine with Lea.
Afterwards she came up to see us as usual, and then Flora's
children came to be shown pictures. I think it must have been
half-past three when they took leave of us. Lea went with them down
the passage. Soon she came back saying that little Anna said there
was 'such an odd water coming down the street, would I come and
see,' and from the passage window I saw a volume of muddy water
slowly pouring down the street, not from the Arno, but from towards
the railway station, the part of the street towards Lung' Arno (our
street ends at the Spina Chapel) remaining quite dry. The children
were delighted and clapped their hands. I meant to go and see the
water nearer, but before I could reach the main entrance, in half a
minute the great heavy waves of the yellow flood were pouring into
the courtyard and stealing into the entrance hall.[408]
"It was as suddenly as that it came upon us.
[Illustration: THE HÔTEL DE LONDRES DURING THE FLOOD.]
"The scene for the next half-hour baffles all description. Flora
and her mother stood on the principal staircase crying and wringing
their hands: the servants rushed about in distraction: Lea, pale as
ashes, thought and cried that our last moment was come; and all the
time the heavy yellow waters rose and rose, covering first the
wheels of the omnibus, the vases, the statues in the garden, then
up high into the trees. Inside, the carpets were rising and swaying
on the water, and in five minutes the large pieces of furniture
were beginning to crash against each other. I had rushed at the
first alarm to the _garde meuble_, and (how I did it I cannot
imagine) dragged our great box to the stairs: it was the only piece
of luggage saved from the ground-floor. Then I rushed to the
_salle-à-manger_, and shouting to Flora to save the money in her
bureau, swept all the silver laid out for dinner into a tablecloth,
and got it safe off. From that moment it was a _sauve qui peut_. I
handed down rows of teapots, jugs, sugar-basins, &c., to the maids,
who carried them away in lapfuls: in this way also we saved all the
glass, but before we could begin upon the china, the water was up
to our waists and we were obliged to retreat, carrying off the
tea-urns as a last spoil. The whole family, with Amabile and all
the old servants, were now down in the water, but a great deal of
time was wasted in the belief that a poor half-witted Russian lady
was locked into her room and drowning, and in breaking open the
door; but when at last a panel of the door was dashed in, the room
was found full of water and all its contents swimming about, but
the lady was ... gone out for a walk!
"As I was coming in from the lower rooms to the staircase with a
load of looking-glasses, a boat crashed in at the principal
entrance, bringing home the poor lady and two other English, who
had been caught by the flood at the end of the street, and had been
for some time in the greatest peril: the boatmen having declined to
bring them the few necessary steps until they had been paid twenty
francs, and then having refused altogether to bring a poor Italian
who had no money to give them. At this moment Madame Victoire
insisted on taking the opportunity of the boat to return to her
own house. It was a dreadful scene, all the women in the house
crying and imploring her to stay, but she insisted on embarking.
She did not arrive without hairbreadth escapes. When she reached
her own house, the current was so strong, and the boat was dashed
so violently against the walls, that it was impossible for her to
be landed; but the flood was less violent beneath her larger house
which is let to the Marchese Guadagna, from which sheets were let
down from the upper windows, and she was fastened to them and
raised: but when she reached the grille of the first-floor windows,
and was hanging half-way, the current carried away the boat, and at
the same moment the great wall opposite S. Antonio fell with an
awful crash. However, the Guadagna family held tight to the sheets,
and Madame Victoire was landed at last, though she fell insensible
on the floor when she entered the window.
"The walls were now falling in every direction with a dull roar
into the yellow waters. The noise was dreadful--the cries of the
drowning animals, the shrieks of the women, especially of a mother
whose children were in the country, wringing her hands at the
window of an opposite house. The water in our house was rising so
rapidly that it was impossible to remain longer on the side towards
the principal staircase, and we fled to the other end, where
Pilotte, a poor boy in the service, lay dangerously ill, but was
obliged to get up from his bed, and, though quite blind from
ophthalmia, was far more useful than any one else. Since her mother
left, Flora had been far too distracted to think of anything; still
we saved an immense number of things, and I was able to cut down
pictures, &c., floating on a sofa as if it were a boat. The great
difficulty in reaching the things was always from the carpet
rising, and making it almost impossible to get out of the room
again. The last thing I carried off was the 'Travellers' Book!' It
was about half-past 5 P.M. when we were obliged to come out of the
water, which was then terribly cold and above the waist.
"Meantime the scene in the street was terrible. The missing
children of the woman opposite were brought back in a boat and
drawn up in sheets; and the street, now a deep river, was crowded
with boats, torches flashing on the water, and lights gleaming in
every window. All the thirty poor hens in the hen-house at the end
of the balcony were making a terrible noise as they were slowly
drowned, the ducks and pigeons were drowned too, I suppose, being
too frightened to escape, and many floated dead past the window.
The garden was covered with cushions, chairs, tables, and ladies'
dresses, which had been washed out of the lower windows. There was
great fear that the omnibus horse and driver were drowned, and the
Limosins were crying dreadfully about it; but the man was drawn up
late at night from a boat, whose crew had discovered him on the top
of a wall, and at present the horse exists also, having taken
refuge on the terrace you will remember at the end of the garden,
where it is partially above water. The street was covered with
furniture, great carved wardrobes being whirled down to the Arno
like straws. The cries of the drowning animals were quite human.
"All this time my poor sweet Mother had been lying perfectly still
and patient, but about 6 P.M., as the water had reached the highest
step of the lower staircase and was still mounting, we had our
luggage carried up to the attics, secured a few valuables in case
of sudden flight (as no boat would have taken luggage), and began
to get Mother dressed. There was no immediate danger, but if
another embankment broke, there might be at any moment, and it was
well to be prepared. Night closed in terribly--pouring rain again,
a perfectly black sky, and waters swelling round the house: every
now and then the dull thud of some falling building, and, from
beneath, the perpetual crash of the furniture and floors breaking
up in the lower rooms. Mother lay down dressed, most of the
visitors and I walked the passages and watched the danger-marks
made above water on the staircase, and tried to comfort the unhappy
family, in what, I fear, is their total ruin. It seemed as if
daylight would never come, but at 6 A.M. the water was certainly an
inch lower.
"It was strange to return to daylight in our besieged fortress.
There had been no time to save food, but there was one loaf and a
little cheese, which were dealt out in equal rations, and we
captured the drowned hens as the aviary broke up, and are going to
boil one of them down in a tiny saucepan, the only cooking utensil
saved. Every one has to economise the water in their jugs (no
chance of any other), and most of all their candles.... How we are
ever to be delivered I cannot imagine. The railways to Leghorn,
Spezia, and Florence must all be under water."
"_Dec. 14._--It seems so long now since the inundation began and we
were cut off from every one: it is impossible to think of it as
only three days.
"Nothing can be more dreadful than the utter neglect of the new
Government and of the municipality here. They were fully warned as
to what would result if Pisa was not protected from the Arno, but
they took no heed, and ever since the dikes broke they have given
no help, never even consenting to have the main drains opened,
which keeps us still flooded, refusing to publish lists of the
drowned, and giving the large sums sent for distribution in charity
into the hands of the students, who follow one another, giving
indiscriminately to the same persons, whilst others are starving.
On Saturday night there ceased to be any immediate alarm: the fear
was that the Arno might break through at the Spina, which still
stands, and which, being so much nearer, would be far more serious
to us. The old bridge is destroyed. All through that night the
Vicomte de Vauriol and the men of the house were obliged to watch
on the balconies with loaded pistols, to defend their property
floating in the garden from the large bands of robbers who came in
boats to plunder, looking sufficiently alarming by the light of
their great torches. The whole trousseau of the Vicomtesse is lost,
and her maid has 4000 francs in her box, which can still be seen
floating _open_.... But the waters are slowly going down. Many
bodies have been found, but there are still many more beneath the
mud. In the lower rooms of this house the mud is a yard deep, and
most horrid in quality, and the smell of course dreadful. I spend
much of my time at the window in hooking up various objects with a
long iron bed-rod--bits of silver, teacups, even books--in a state
of pulp."
[Illustration: S. ANTONIO, PISA, DURING THE FLOOD.]
"_Dec. 19._--My bulletin is rather a melancholy one, for my poor
Mother has been constantly in bed since the inundation, and cannot
now turn or move her left side at all.... I have also been very ill
myself, with no sleep for many days, and agonies of neuralgia from
long exposure in the water.... However, I get on tolerably, and
have plenty to take off my thoughts from my own pain in attending
to Mother and doing what I can for the poor Limosins.... In the
quarter near this seventy bodies have been found in the mud, and as
the Government suppresses the number and buries them all
immediately, there are probably many more. Our friends at Rome have
been greatly alarmed about us."
"_Dec. 27._--Mother has been up in a chair for a few hours daily,
but cannot yet be dressed. The weather is horrible, torrents of
rain night and day--quite ceaseless, and mingled with snow,
thunder, and lightning. It is so dark even at midday, that Mother
can see to do nothing, and I very little. The mud and smell would
prevent our going out if it were otherwise possible. It has indeed
been a dismal three months, which we have all three passed entirely
in the sick-room, except the four days I was away.... Still the
dear Mother says 'we shall have time to recount our miseries in
heaven when they are over; let us only recount our mercies now.'"
_To_ MISS WRIGHT.
"_33 Via Gregoriana, Rome, Jan. 19, 1870._--You will have heard
from others of our misfortunes at Pisa, of Mother's terrible
illness, and my wearing pains, and in the midst of all this our
awful floods, the Arno bursting its banks and overwhelming the
unhappy town with its mud-laden waves. I cannot describe to you the
utter horror of those three days and nights--the rushing water
(waves like the sea) lifting the carpets and dashing the large
pieces of furniture into bits like so many chips,--the anxious
night-watchings of the water stealthily advancing up step after
step of the staircase,--the view from the upper corridor windows of
the street with its rushing _tourbillon_ of waters, carrying
drowning animals, beds, cabinets, gates, &c., along in a hideous
confusion;--from our windows of the garden one maze of waters
afloat with chairs, tables, open boxes, china, and drowned
creatures;--the sound of the falling walls heavily gliding into the
water, and the cries of the drowning and their relations. And then,
in the hotel, the life was so strange, the limited rations of food
and of water from the washing jugs, and the necessity for rousing
oneself to constant action, and far more than mere cheerfulness, in
order to prevent the poor people of the hotel from sinking into
absolute despair.
"When the real danger to life once subsided and the poor drowned
people had been carried away to their graves, and the water had
changed into mud, it was a strange existence, and we had still six
weeks in the chilled house with its wet walls, and an impossibility
of going out or having change. However, there is a bright side to
everything, and the utter isolation was not unpleasant to me. I got
through no end of writing work, having plenty also to do in
attending on my poor Mother; and you know how I can never
sufficiently drink in the blessedness of her sweet companionship,
and how entirely the very fact of her existence makes sunshine in
my life, wherever it is.
"All the time of our incarceration I have employed in writing from
the notes of our many Roman winters, which were saved in our
luggage, and which have been our only material of employment. It
seems as if 'Walks in Rome' would some day grow into a book. Mother
thinks it presumptuous, but I assure her that though of course it
will be full of faults, no book would ever be printed if perfection
were waited for. And I really do know much more about the subject
than most people, though of course not half as much as I ought to
know.
"One day I was away at Florence, where I saw Lady Anne S. Giorgio
and many other friends in a very short time. How bright and busy it
looked after Pisa.
"Last week Pisa devoted itself, or rather its priests, to intense
Madonna-worship, because, owing to her image, carved by St. Luke,
the flood was no worse. Her seven petticoats, unremoved for years,
were taken off one by one and exchanged for new, and this delicious
event was celebrated by firing of cannon, processions, and
illuminations all over the town. In the midst, the Arno displayed
its disapproval by rising again violently and suddenly; the utmost
consternation ensued; the population sat up, doors were walled up,
the doll-worshippers were driven out of the cathedral (which lies
very low) at the point of the bayonet by the Bersaglieri under
General Bixio. To _us_, the great result of the fresh fright was,
that the Mother suddenly rose from her bed, and declaring that she
could not stay to endure another inundation, dressed, and we all
set off last Wednesday morning, and arrived at midnight after a
prosperous journey, though the floods were certainly frightful up
to the very walls of Rome.
"Oh, how glad we were to get here--to feel that after all the
troubles of the last few months we were safe in the beloved, the
home-like city. It is now only that I realise what a time of
tension our stay at Pisa has been. We breathe quietly. Even the
calm placid Mother feels the relief of not having to start up at
every sound and wonder whether 'L'Arno é sbordato.'
"I always feel as if a special Providence watched over us in
respect of lodgings. It has certainly been so this time, as we
could never have hoped, arriving so late, to obtain this charming
apartment, with full sun, glorious view, and all else we can wish.
You can fancy us, with all our own pictures and books, the mother
in her chair, the son at his drawing-table, and Lea coming in and
out.
"But on Friday we had a terrible catastrophe. In the evening at the
hotel the poor Mother fell violently upon her head on the hard
stone floor and was dreadfully hurt. You will imagine my terror,
having gone out at 8 P.M., to find every one in confusion on my
return, that Dr. Winslow had been sent for, and that I had been
searched for everywhere. For some hours the Mother was quite
unconscious, and she can still see nothing, and I am afraid it will
be some days before any sight is restored; but all is going on
well, and I am most thankful to have been able to move her to her
own house.
"Do you know, I am going to renounce the pomps and vanities of the
world this winter and not 'go out' at all. I have often found that
it has rather fatigued Mother even to _hear_ of my going out, and
it is far easier to give a thing up altogether than partially. In
the daytime I can see people. My American friend Robert Peabody is
here, and the most delightful companion, and there are endless
young men artists, quite a colony, and of the pleasantest
description.
"The weather is very fine, but very cold. I went to-day to St.
Peter's (Il Giorno della Scatola), and the procession was certainly
magnificent. The Bishop who attracts most attention is Monsignor
Dupanloup of Orleans, who at first displayed great courage in
opposing the Infallibility doctrine, but is allowing his opposition
to be swamped. Many of the Bishops are most extraordinary--such a
variety of forms and colours in costume, blue and violet veils,
green robes and hats, and black caps with gold knobs like the
little Shems and Hams in Noah's Ark. But the central figure of Pius
IX. looks more than ever solemn and impressive, the _man_ so lost
in his intense feeling of the _office_, that it is impossible to
associate him, mentally, with the Council and its blasphemies. Of
the Council itself we hear nothing, and there is little general
interest about it. Lord Houghton asked Manning what had been going
on: he answered, 'Well, we meet, and we look at one another, and
then we talk a little, but when we want to know what we have been
doing, we read the _Times_.'"
_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.
"_Jan. 31._--We have had another anxious week, though once more all
is going on well. On Monday the Mother was well enough to see
visitors, but that night was in terrible suffering, and the next
day had a slight paralytic seizure ... followed by long
unconsciousness; but it was all accounted for the next morning when
we found the roof white with snow. She continued in great suffering
till Friday, when the weather suddenly changed to _scirocco_, and
she at once rallied. That day I was able to have my lecture on the
Quirinal and Viminal--all new ground. There was a large gathering
in spite of weather, so many people had asked to come. I have
yielded to the general wish of the party in arranging weekly
meetings at 10 A.M., but it makes me feel terribly ignorant,
and--in the intervals of tending Mother--I am at work all the week
instructing myself upon the subject of my lecture."
[Illustration: VIEW FROM THE VIA GREGORIANA.]
"_Feb. 19._--The Mother is still sadly weak, and always in an
invalid state, yet she has not the serious symptoms of the winter
you were here. She is seldom able to be dressed before twelve, and
can do very, very little--to read a few verses or do a row of her
crotchet is the outside. I scarcely ever leave her, except for my
lectures. I had one on the Island yesterday. The weather is
splendid and our view an indescribable enjoyment, the town so
picturesque in its blue morning indistinctness, and St. Peter's so
grand against the golden sunsets. As usual, the Roman society is
like the great net which was let down into the deep and brought up
fish of every kind.... The Mother is quite happy and bright in
spite of all her misfortunes, but we have had to feed her like a
bird in her blindness. I wonder if you know the lines of Thomas
Dekker (1601)--
'Patience! why, 'tis the soul of peace;
Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven;
It makes men look like gods. The best of men
That e'er wore earth about Him was a sufferer,
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit;
The first true gentleman that ever breathed."
_To_ MISS WRIGHT.
"_Rome, Feb. 27._--My life this winter has been one of constant
watching and nursing; the Mother has been so very powerless and
requires such constant care: but she is, oh! so sweet and patient
_always_. You need not pity me for not going out; after the day's
anxiety I find the luxury of the evening's rest so very great.
"My Friday lectures now take place regularly, and I hope they give
pleasure, as they are certainly crowded. I am amused to see many
ultra-Catholics come time after time, in spite of my Protestant
anecdotes. How I wish the kind Aunt Sophy were here to share these
excursions."
On the 12th of March I spent a delightful afternoon with a young artist
friend, Henry Florence, in the garden of SS. Giovanni e Paolo, drawing
the gloriously rich vegetation and the old cypresses there. My Mother
was tolerably well, and the air, the sunshine, and the beauty around
were unspeakably enchanting. "I never saw _any one_ enjoy things as you
do," said Florence, and I spoke of my thankfulness for having the power
of putting away anxieties when they were not pressing, and of making the
utmost of any present enjoyment, even though it be to "borrow joy at
usury of pain."[409] "Perhaps it may be the last day," I said. It _was_.
There is an old proverb which says, "The holidays of joy are the vigils
of sorrow." That night my dearest Mother had the terrible paralytic
seizure which deprived her of the use of her left arm and side, and from
which she never recovered.
_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.
"_Rome, March. 16, 1870._--My darling Mother is to-day in a happy
peaceful state, no longer one of suffering, which is--oh! such rest
to us. She is now able to articulate, so that I always, and others
often, understand her.... I sleep close by upon the floor and never
leave her. On Monday night we were pleasantly surprised by the
arrival of Amabile, the maid from Pisa, who is quite a tower of
strength to us--so kind, gentle, and strong. Mrs. Woodward comes
and goes all day. Every one is kind and sympathising."
"_March 23._--Mother talks constantly of Albano and her great wish
to be there amongst the flowers, but for many weeks, perhaps
months, this must be impossible."
"_March 28._--It has been the same kind of week, alternately
saddened by the strange phases of illness, or cheered by slight
amendments; but Mother has had many sad nights, always worse than
her days, without rest even for a minute. Her mind is only _too_
clear. She will translate hymns, 'Abide with me,' &c., into
Italian; the great difficulty is to keep it all in check. From 4 to
10 P.M. the nervous spasms in the paralysed arm are uncontrollable,
and she can only endure them by holding tight to my arm or Lea's.
All yesterday, however, I was away from her, tending poor young
Sutherland, who has been dreadfully ill at the Hôtel de Londres of
typhoid fever, and who is quite alone and helpless."
"_April 3._--The Mother goes on very slowly, but I hope has not had
an unpleasant week. She never seems to find the time long, and
always looks equally placid and happy. Physically she is certainly
more comfortable now she is entirely in bed. Her chief trouble is
from the returning vitality of the poor arm; the muscles knot all
round it, and move on slowly by a quarter of an inch at a time, as
the life advances: passing the shoulder was agony, and I dread the
passing the elbow. Meantime, the rest of the arm is an independent
being, acting by its independent muscular action, and is obliged to
be constantly watched, as it will sometimes lay its heavy weight
upon her chest, once clutched her by the throat and nearly
strangled her, at others annoys her by stealing her
pocket-handkerchiefs! She has been able to hear a psalm and some
prayers read aloud every evening, and occupies herself with her own
inexhaustible stores of mental hymns and verses incessantly. Mrs.
Woodward's daily visit is one of her little pleasures, and she has
also seen Mrs. Hall several times.
"My young cousin Edward Liddell[410] returned lately from Naples,
and on Monday became very ill of fever, pronounced typhoid, and
likely to become typhus and very infectious, so, as he had no one
else to look after him, I have been nursing him ever since. It was
so fortunate for me that Mother was really better at this time, or
I do not know what we could have done, as though he had one good
nurse, she was quite worn out, and there was no other to be
procured. So now we take it in turns, four hours at a time, and I
chiefly at night, when she goes home to her children. I am writing
in the darkened room, where Edward lies powerless, with all his
hair cut off and his head soaked in wet towels, almost unable to
move, and unable to feed himself. I am sorry not to be able to go
out while Marcus Hare is here, and he is much disappointed. He
arrived suddenly from Naples and embraced me as if we were still
children."
"_April 10._--My dear Mother is much the same. It has been a
peaceful week with her, though there is no improvement.... The
paralysed arm is quite useless, and has a separate and ungovernable
individuality. This is why she can never be left alone. Its weight
is like a log of lead, and sometimes it will throw itself upon her,
when no efforts of her own can release her. Odd as it sounds, her
only safe moments are when the obstreperous member is tied up by a
long scarf to the post of Lea's bed opposite and cannot injure her.
Mentally, she is always quiet and happy, and I believe that she
never feels her altered life a burden. She repeats constantly her
hymns and verses, for which her memory is wonderful, but she has no
longer any power of attention to reading and no consecutive ideas.
All names of places and people she remembers perfectly. As Dr.
Winslow says, some of the organs of the brain are clearer than
ever, others are quite lost.
"As the fear of infection caused him to be left alone, I have been
constantly nursing Edward Liddell. All last week his fever
constantly increased, and he was so weak that he could only swallow
drops of strong soup or milk, perpetually dropped into his mouth
from a spoon. Had this been ever relinquished, the feeble flame of
life must have become extinct. Last Monday morning I had gone home
to rest, when the doctor hastily summoned me back, and I found new
symptoms which indicated the most immediate danger; so then, on my
own responsibility, I telegraphed for Colonel and Mrs. Augustus
Liddell (his father and mother), and soon had the comfort of
hearing that they were _en route_. That evening the alarming
symptoms returned with such frightful vehemence that both nurse and
doctor thought it impossible that he could survive the night. Then
and for three nights after I never left Edward for a moment,
bathing his head, feeding him, holding him, and expecting him every
instant to die in my arms, and in the day only I returned to pay
Mother visits. Anything like his sweetness, gentleness,
thankfulness, I never saw in any one, and his perfect readiness for
heaven made us feel that it was the less likely that his life would
be given back to us; and you may imagine, though I had scarcely
known him before, how very close a cousinly tie has been drawn in
these hours of anguish. He received the Sacrament on Thursday. On
Friday there was a very slight improvement, but more delirium. For
four days and nights he lay under a vast poultice of snow, which
had to be replenished as often as it melted, and _making_ snow with
a machine has been perhaps the most laborious part of my duties.
Each night I have watched for the faint streak of dawn, wondering
if he _could_ live till morning, and feeling as if I were wrestling
for his life. Yesterday morning, when I knew his parents were
coming, it was quite an agony of suspense; but they arrived safe,
and I was able to give him up _living_ to his mother's care. I have
had every day to write to Mrs. Fraser Tytler, to whose daughter
Christina he had not been engaged a month, and of whom he has
thought touchingly and incessantly.
"I am not much knocked up, but thankful even for myself that Mrs.
Augustus Liddell is come, as my cough is so much increased by
having to be so often out on the balcony at night, up to my elbows
in the snow manufacturing. I do not think I could have held out
much longer, and then I do not know what would have become of
Edward."
[Illustration: NEMI.[411]]
"_April 17._--Last Sunday I had so much more cough, and was so much
knocked up with my week's nursing, that kind Lady Marian Alford
insisted on taking me early on Monday in her own carriage to Albano
for change. It was like travelling with the Queen, everything so
luxurious, charming rooms, and perfect devotion everywhere to 'la
gran donna da bene,' her personal charm affecting all classes
equally.
"Lady Marian had a very pleasant party at Albano, Lord and Lady
Bagot and their daughter, Mr. Story,[412] Miss Boyle,[413] Miss
Hattie Hosmer,[414] and Mr.[415] and Lady Emily Russell. The first
afternoon we drove along the lake to Lariccia, where we went all
over the wonderful old Chigi palace, and then on to the Cesarini
garden at Genzano, overhanging the lake of Nemi. The next morning
we went to the Parco di Colonna and Marino, and then in a
tremendous thunderstorm to Frascati, where we dined in the old
Campana Palace, returning to Rome in the evening. I like Mr. Odo
Russell and his simple massive goodness extremely. I hear that Pius
IX. says of him, 'Non é un buono cattolico, ma é un cattivissimo
protestante.' Miss Hosmer had said to him, 'You're growing too fat:
you ought to come out riding; it will do you no end of good;' to
which he replied in his slow way, 'No, I cannot come out
riding.'--'And why not?' said Miss Hosmer. 'Don't you know,' he
said, 'that I am very anxious to be made an ambassador as soon as
possible, and, since that is the case, I must stay working at
home.'
"'I like midges, for they love Venice, and they love humanity,'
said Miss Mary Boyle.
"On Wednesday, finding both my patients better, I acceded to
Marcus's entreaties and went with him and some friends of his to
Tivoli for the day. Most gloriously lovely was it looking! My
companions scrambled round the waterfalls, whilst I sat and what
Robert Peabody calls 'water-coloured' opposite the Cascatelle. In
the evening we went to the Villa d'Este and saw the sun set upon
the grand old palace through its dark frame of cypresses.
"This morning I went for the first time to see the bishops of the
Council; rather a disappointing sight, though they are a fine set
of old men. Some of the American costumes are magnificent.
"Monday is the end of Edward's twenty-one days' fever, and I am
still very anxious for the result. As he says, I feel rather, since
the arrival of his parents, like a hen who has nursed a duckling
which has escaped: but I go every day to look at him."
"_April 30._--It is no use worrying oneself about the journey yet.
It must always be painful and anxious. On returning to America, Dr.
Winslow's last words to me were, 'Remember, if she has _any_
fright, _any_ accident, _any_ anxiety, there will be another
seizure,' and in so long a journey this can scarcely be evaded. She
must have more strength before we can think of it. Her own earnest
wish is to go to Albano first, but I dread those twelve miles
extra. We always had this house till May 15, and hitherto there
has been no heat.
[Illustration: TIVOLI.[416]]
"On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, Mother was carried down by two
women in her dressing-gown, wrapped round with shawls, to a little
carriage at the door. They were perfectly still sunny days, no
bronchitis to be caught. The first day we only went round the
Pincio, the second to the Parco di San Gregorio, the third to the
Lateran and Santa Croce: she chose her own two favourite drives.