"_May 3, 1870._--Walked with Miss J. Pole Carew and her governess
from the Villa Albani to Sant' Agnese to look for the blood-red
lily, seven feet high, which smells so terribly that no one is able
to pick it. The governess (Miss Nicholson) said how the twisted
palms carried in the Roman Catholic ceremonies seemed to her like a
type of their faith. So much would be beautiful and impressive in
the lives of the martyrs and the memories of the early Church, if,
like the palms, so beautiful when they are first brought to Rome,
they were not twisted and overladen, to the hiding and destruction
of their original character."
_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.
"_May 8._--Last Sunday we drove to the Villa Borghese, which is now
in its fullest most luxuriant summer green. When we came back, the
Tombola was taking place in the Piazza del Popolo, so that gate was
closed, and we had to go round by Porta Salara. The slight
additional distance was too much for Mother, so that she has been
unable to be up even in her chair for several days. This will show
you how weak she is: how terrible the return journey is to look
forward to.
"She certainly never seems to realise her helplessness, or to find
out that she can no longer knit or do the many things she is
accustomed to.... She likes hearing Job read, because of the
analogy of sufferings, but she does not _at all_ admire Job as a
model of patience! Hymns are her delight, and indeed her chief
occupation. She has great pleasure in the lovely flowers with
which our poorer friends constantly supply us, especially in the
beautiful roses and carnations of the faithful Maria de Bonis (the
old photograph woman), who is as devoted as ever."
"_May 15._--The weather has been perfect. In all our foreign or
home experience I do not recollect such weeks of hot sunshine, yet
never oppressive; such a delicious bracing air always. The flowers
are quite glorious, and our poor people--grateful as only Italians
are--keep the sick-room constantly supplied with them.
"But, alas! it has been a very sad week nevertheless, and if I once
allowed myself to think of it, my heart would sink within me. My
dearest Mother has been so very, _very_ suffering; in fact, there
have been very few hours free from acute pain, and, in spite of her
sweet patience and her natural leaning towards only thanksgiving,
her groans and wails have been most sad and the flesh indeed a
burden.... You will easily imagine what it is to me to see this
state of intense discomfort, and to be able to do nothing to
relieve it; for I am quite convinced that nothing can be done, that
medicine must be avoided as much as possible in her worn-out
system, and that we must trust entirely to the effect of climate
and to a returning power of taking nourishment. Dr. Grigor told her
that it was a case of most suffering paralysis, usually producing
such dreadful impatience that he wondered at her powers of
self-control. But from my sweetest Mother, we never hear one word
which is not of perfect patience and faith and thanksgiving,
though her prayers aloud for patience are sometimes too touching
for us to bear. She has not been out for ten days, as she has
really had no strength to bear the lifting up and down stairs, and
she has seen nobody except our dear Mrs. Woodward and Mary
Stanley."
_To_ MISS WRIGHT.
"_Rome, May 22, 1870._--The Mother can recover no power in her lost
limbs, in which she has, nevertheless, acute pain. Yet, deprived of
every employment and never free from suffering, life is to her one
prolonged thanksgiving, and in the sunshine of her blessed state of
outpouring gratitude for the silver linings of her clouds, it is
not for her nurses to repine. In her case daily more true become
the lines of Waller--
'The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.'
But when even her short excursions to the Pincio or Villa Borghese
produce the most intense exhaustion, no stranger can imagine how we
can dream of attempting the immense homeward journey. Still,
knowing her wonderful power of will and what it _has_ accomplished,
I never think anything impossible, and all minor details of
difficulty become easier when one has a fixed point of what must
be. We shall at any rate try to reach Florence, and then, if she
suffers seriously and further progress is quite impossible, we
shall be on the way to Lucca or Siena. If we ever do reach
Holmhurst, of course it will be for _life_, which makes the leaving
this more than second home very sad to me.
[Illustration: BRACCIANO.[417]]
"I have had many pleasant friends here this winter, especially the
Pole Carews, who are a most charming family. Latterly also I have
seen much of Mrs. Terry, who is a very interesting and delightful
person. Since the world has drifted northwards, I have seen more of
the few friends who remain, and with the Terrys have even
accomplished a very old desire of going to Bracciano. It is a
beautiful drive across the Campagna, and then comes the ascent into
the steep old town, and under the many gates and fortalices of the
castle, to a courtyard with painted loggias. Armed with an order
from Princess Odescalchi, we went all over the rooms with their
curious ugly old pictures and carving, and sat in the balconies
looking down upon the beautiful transparent Bracciano lake, twenty
miles in circumference, all the mountains reflected as in a mirror.
Mrs. Terry is charming: after we had talked of sad subjects she
said--'But we have spoken enough of these things; now let us talk
of butterflies and flowers.' In spite of all other work, I have
sold £75 worth of sketches this winter, chiefly old ones, so am
nearly able to pay our rent."
_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.
"_Rome, May 26, 1870._--The Mother is better for the great heat,
thermometer standing at 85°, but Rome always has such a fresh air
that heat is never overpowering, and in our delightful apartments
we never suffer, as we can have so much variety, and if Mother does
not go out, she is moved to the balcony overhanging the little
garden at the back, where she sits and has her tea under a
vine-covered pergola. If we are permitted to reach Holmhurst, I
fear _all_ will not be benefit. I much dread the difficulty there
will be in keeping Lea from being wholly engrossed again by
household affairs, and I cannot see how Mother _could_ do without
her almost constant attendance, which she has now. Also, we shall
greatly miss the large bedroom opening into a sitting-room, where I
can pursue my avocations, able to be with her at the faintest call,
and yet not quite close to the groans.... But all this is long,
long looking forward: there seems such a gulf between us and
England.... Yet we think of attempting the move next week, and on
Friday sent off six large boxes with the accumulations of many
years, retaining also a list of what must be sent back if we never
reach England.
"The Signorina and Samuccia, Clementina and Louisa, Rosina and
Madame da Monaca, have all been to say good-bye, and all kiss
Mother with tears on taking leave, overcome by her helpless state
and sweet look of patience."
[Illustration: GRAVE OF AUGUSTUS W. HARE, ROME.]
"_May_ 29.--Emmie Penrhyn's letter was an especial pleasure to the
Mother, and what she said of the centurion's servant, grievously
'tormented.' Certainly _she_ is grievously tormented. The pain
really never ceases, and the individual motion of the helpless arm
is terrible.... I think with misery of the disappointment the
return to Holmhurst will be to her. She cannot realise that it will
not be, as it has always been, the home of her _well_ months, talks
of how she shall 'frolic out into the garden,' &c. I feel if we
ever reach it, it is going, not to England, but to Holmhurst for
_life_.... We have been to the cemetery under Caius Cestius, and
the sentinel allowed her little carriage to pass across the turf,
so that she was able to look once more upon the well-known grave,
embosomed in its roses and aloes. Yesterday we went to take leave
of the old Miss Haigs at their beautiful villa. The three old
ladies embraced Mother, and presented her, like three good fairies,
one with roses, another with geraniums, and the third with two ripe
strawberries."
"_Florence, June 1._--Monday was a terribly fatiguing day, but
Mother remained in bed, and was very composed, only anxious that
nothing should occur to prevent our departure, and to prove to us
that she was well enough. At five Mrs. Woodward came and sat by her
whilst Lea and I were occupied with last preparations. At 7 P.M.
Mother was carried down and went off in a little low carriage with
Mrs. Woodward and Lea, and I followed in a large carriage with Miss
Finucane and the luggage. There was quite a collection of our
poorer friends to see Mother off and kiss hands. At the railway the
faithful Maria de Bonis was waiting, and she and Mrs. Woodward
stayed with Mother and saw her carried straight through to the
railway _coupé_ which was secured for us. We felt deeply taking
leave of the kindest of friends, who has been such a comfort and
blessing to us, certainly, next to you, the chief support of
Mother's later years. 'Oh, _how_ beautiful it will be when the
gates which are now ajar are quite open!' were her last words to
Mother.
[Illustration: FROM THE LOGGIA DEI LANZI.[418]]
"The carriage was most comfortable.... Mother slept a little, and
though she wailed occasionally, was certainly no worse than on
ordinary nights. The dawn was lovely over the rich Tuscan valleys,
so bright with corn and vines, tall cypresses, and high villa
roofs. She was carried straight through to a carriage, and soon
reached the succursale of the Alleanza, where the people know us
and are most kind. In the afternoon she slept, and I drove up to
Fiesole, where I had not been for twelve years, with Mr. and Mrs.
Cummings, American friends."
"_Bologna, June 5._--I fear, after my last, you will be grievously
disappointed to hear of us as no farther on our way. We can,
however, only tell from hour to hour how soon we may be able to get
on, and I find it entirely useless to make plans of any kind, as we
are sure not to be able to keep them. On Tuesday a great
thunderstorm prevented our leaving Florence, and on Wednesday and
Thursday Mother was in such terrible suffering that it was
impossible to think of it. On Friday evening there was a rally, and
we came on at once, Mrs. Dallas helping us through the difficulties
of the Florence Station, and Mr. and Mrs. Cummings following us
here. I think I mentioned that Dr. Grigor said travelling at night,
when there was no sun, was the only chance of her reaching England
alive. Mother begs I will tell Charlotte that 'No words can
describe her sufferings or my anxieties, but that she has been
brought through wonderfully hitherto, and that she still hopes to
reach England--_in time_.'"