The baths of Lucca, ever since the opening of the continent, have been
graced annually by the presence of from four to five hundred English,
who shew their good taste in selecting this miniature Switzerland for
their residence during the summer months. It is, in truth, a lovely
valley, with its thickly-wooded hills, and shady lanes, and murmuring
river; while the irregularity of the villages, or clusters of houses
where travellers are generally lodged, give variety and interest to
the landscape.
The first of these groups of buildings is the Ponte a Serraglio. Here
are the principal hotels; the post-office; the English reading-room
and club; the Casino; a few small shops dignified by such names as
'Magazine of Novelties,' and 'The Real Bazaar;' and a caffè; where
congregate all the idlers of the community.
About a mile further on, attainable by a pretty road, winding at the
foot of a mountain bordered by acacia trees, and overhanging the river
Serchio, is situated the Villa--another range of tenements, the
inhabitants of which arrogate to themselves greater staidness of
demeanour than their brethren at the Ponte, thinking, perhaps, that
the vicinity of the English chapel--a handsome structure, in the style
of an ancient Venetian palace--may vindicate this assumption of
decorum. There is but one hotel at the Villa--calm, dignified, and
frigid; the remainder of a long rambling street of which the place is
composed, consists entirely of lodging-houses, having gardens attached
to each, where little children may be seen playing at the doors, and
English nurse-maids pursuing their laborious avocations. This
preponderance of small children at the Villa, is as much its
characteristic distinction, as whatever relates to gaiety, or novelty,
or scandal, may be considered the peculiar attribute of the Ponte.
A distinct race inhabit the Bagni alla Villa--a group of houses
inaccessible to carriages, rising on a hill behind the palace
belonging to the ex-duke of Lucca. A fourth division of dwellings is
the Bagni Caldi, the highest point of all, the occupants whereof have
to descend as if from an eyrie, to gain any of the other localities.
They are a set of whom little seems to be known--quaint and unsocial
personages, venturing out at dusk like bats and owls, and looking
grimly on all but their immediate neighbours: the gentlemen, mostly
gouty, or otherwise disabled; the fairer sex, isolated and ancient,
with a marked predilection for close straw-bonnets, large brown
parasols, and blue veils.
Thus much for the first outline of the place and its frequenters. We
must now take a glance at their pursuits and enjoyments.
The general tenor of a day at the baths is easily described. Till
about five in the afternoon but few people venture out, although early
in the morning it is said that some, more active than the rest, sally
forth on their mountain rambles; but this deponent vouches not for
their number or degree, never himself having had ocular demonstration
of their movements. During the heat of the day, the greater part
remain at home, excepting, indeed, the population of the Ponte, who,
exulting in all the advantages their position unites, circulate from
the post-office to the caffè, from the caffè to the club, and condole
with such of the hapless denizens of the Villa and Bagni Caldi as a
thirst for news and devouring ennui have driven to brave a hot summer
walk to their more favoured region.
There is always, even at noon, a buzz of animation in the little
piazza of the Ponte--always a knot of worthies in loose brown holland
coats and straw-hats, talking over every passing occurrence. The
banker's office, too, is situated here, and that is a lounge in
itself--a sort of private committee-room for the discussing of any
fresh piece of gossip, ere it is submitted for dissection to the
public at large. The English banker has now become an important
feature in all continental circles. The unsophisticated beings who,
perchance, imagine his duties simply limited to cashing travellers'
bills, and discounting circular-notes, have now an opportunity of
learning over how wide a field of action his arduous avocations must
be spread. The English banker should be imperturbably good-tempered,
active, and obliging; allowing no difficulties to dismay, no
ungraciousness to offend him. His clients' happiness, interest,
comfort, and amusement are his engrossing thought; and if, after
experiencing an infinity of trouble, rudeness, and vexation, his only
return should be the half-percentage on a L.50 draft, he is expected
to smile, be contented, and with undaunted resolution, pursue the same
train of kindness and civility towards the next new-comer. The
banker's wife has also her line of tactics to pursue. She must call on
all the influential families who bring letters of recommendation to
her husband; listen with interest to all the detailed miseries of
travelling with young children; and be sympathisingly anxious about
little hopeful's eyeteeth. She must be an adept at writing notes, and
be possessed of an immense store of local information to supply the
incessant inquiries with which she is assailed. She must also give
tea-parties and dances, get partners for all the disengaged young
ladies, and stand up herself, if necessary, to complete the quadrille.
Finally, she must be above feeling any affront or mortification, and
learn to consider herself in the light in which she is commonly
regarded--a sort of machine pertaining to the bank: just as much a
part of the establishment, in fact, as the iron money-chest which
stands in the office, and created solely for the advantage and
convenience of her travelling country-people.
When the continental banker happens to have no wife, in his own person
must be united the attributes I have described; and with a beaming
face, and frank shake of the hand, must he advance from his desk to
greet every visitor who breaks in upon his hours of business. Let us
take a peep, for instance, one July morning, into the bank.
Two or three old _habitués_ are reading the newspapers; before them is
a table on which are army and navy lists; notices of the arrivals and
departures of the French and Peninsular Steam-Navigation Company's
packets from Leghorn; itineraries of the baths; cards of professors of
various languages, &c. The banker is writing. Enter a lady; a boy,
with turn-down collar and very red ears; a little girl in a nice hat;
a Swiss _bonne_; and a baby, with a blue sash and feather.
_Banker._ (_Advancing cordially._) Ah, Mrs Worryemwell, how do you do?
(_Pats the boy on the head._) And how are you, my fine fellow? (_Gives
the baby an amicable poke in the ribs, whereat it laughs and crows
uproariously._) Take a seat on the sofa, will you, Mrs Worryemwell;
and now, tell me, when did you leave Florence?
_Mrs Worryemwell._ The day before yesterday. We should have been here
sooner, but we missed the train for Lucca, because one of the trunks
was left behind at the Pisa station, and I would not move till it was
found.
_Banker._ (_Anxiously._) But you recovered it, I trust?
_Mrs W._ Yes; but we are in sad trouble now: a canister of arrow-root
must have remained on the Lucca Railway, and baby will get ill without
it. We had a good many small packages, and this one was overlooked in
the confusion; but--
_Banker._ (_Promptly._) I'll write to the clerk in charge at the
station about it at once.
_Mrs W._ Oh! thank you. I was going to ask you to do so. A brown,
japanned canister, fastened down with some strong twine.
_Banker._ Very good, very good. How do you like your house at the
Villa? I gave orders that the beds should be aired, and charcoal and
oil provided before your arrival, just as you directed.
_Mrs W._ Thank you; pretty well; but, as usual with all Italians, the
owners are most disobliging. I wanted a cot put in for baby, but they
say they have none, and that it was not stipulated for in the
agreement. Now, surely (_impressively_), surely a person of your
experience would never take a house for a lady and young children
without such an indispensable thing as a cot?
_Banker._ You did not mention it in your letter, my good lady, and
having four other friends' lodgings to fix that same day, it has, I
fear, escaped me. (_Good-humouredly._) But we'll try and arrange
matters. I'll come down and talk to the Padrone di Casa--
_Mrs W._ (_Taking a memorandum out of her reticule._) Let me see. Ah,
yes! butter, milk, eggs. Could you favour me with the exact prices of
all these necessaries? for I am certain the people of the house have
cheated in what they have procured for us.
_Banker._ Certainly. One of my clerks shall procure you every
information.
_Mrs W._ Ah, yes! and if you will come this afternoon to the Villa,
you can also insist on their white-washing my English servant's room.
It overlooks the garden, and a scorpion was found on the window this
morning. Now, white-washing the walls is the only safeguard; it would
really annoy me if he were stung.
_Banker._ I will see about that too. Ahem! I must write at once about
the arrow-root, or the post will have left. Can I supply you with any
money?
_Mrs W._ You are very kind. I must think--(_putting her hand to her
head_)--a few more things I wished to ask. Do you remember them,
Freddy dear?
_Boy._ (_Huskily, and blushing._) Club, church, pony.
_Mrs W._ Very right, love. What is the subscription to the club and
reading-room?
_Banker._ Three napoleons for the season.
_Mrs W._ Will you enter my name? They give parties there sometimes, I
believe. Ah, then the church! how much is that?
_Banker._ Three sittings for you and your two children will not amount
to quite so much as the club.
_Mrs W._ Of course not. But even so it is a bad system. The church
ought not to be made a medium of traffic--paying for church-seats
always gives me a headache. I think, do you know, two sittings will be
sufficient; yes, put me down for two. I will take Freddy in the
morning, and his sister in the afternoon. That is all, I believe.
_Boy._ (_In an agitated manner, whispers_) Pony!
_Mrs W._ Ah, true, dear! Can you recommend me where to hire a pony for
my boy?
_Banker._ To be sure I can. (_Giving a card._) Here are the address
and terms of a man who lets them out either by the day or month.
Ahem!--would you like the money in gold or dollars?
_Mrs W._ I am much obliged. On one other subject perhaps you could
assist me. There really seems no one worth knowing here at present,
except a family who always reside at the baths, and often receive, and
have written a book, and are quite celebrated. I should like--
_Banker._ (_Hurriedly._) Really, that I fear I cannot manage for you.
The arrow-root--
_Mrs W._ (_Rising._) Oh, very well. It is late, I am afraid. I need
not trouble you to-day for money, I believe. I brought sufficient from
Florence for the present; we will wait till the exchange is more
favourable.
_Banker._ (_Heartily._) No matter; you can have it whenever you
please. I shall come this afternoon and put all in order for you.
_Mrs W._ Thank you. Good-morning. (_Shakes hands, and exit._)
In this manner, and through similar interruptions, much of the
banker's time is taken up, till near three o'clock, which is the
general dinner-hour at the baths. Many people are supplied with this
renovating meal from the Europa Hotel at the Ponte, which is presided
over by one of the most honest, obliging, indefatigable, and
enterprising landlords in existence. Not only has he the direction of
three hotels at the Ponte, two of them off-shoots from the parent
Europa, but he undertakes the herculean task of daily sending forth
thirty-six dinners to different families; the whole requiring a
combination of artistic resource and fertility of intellect that fully
justifies his right to the appellation bestowed on him by the
ex-duke--that of 'the Napoleon of inn-keepers.' These repasts are
conveyed in large tin boxes, containing warm embers, on which are
placed the various dishes of which the dinner is composed; and they
are carried to their destinations on the heads of divers active,
nimble-footed _marmitons_. As the hour of three approaches, numbers of
these emissaries are seen gliding swiftly along the roads; and I never
yet encountered one without comparing him to the slave who appeared at
the bidding of the Genius of the Lamp, and bore a sumptuous banquet to
the presence of Aladin.
After thus recruiting the inward man, the whole population of the
baths seem suddenly to kindle into activity; and soon after five every
one is astir. Some ride, some drive, some walk. You see every variety
of conveyance, from the last London-built carriage, and livery
servants, to an unpretending one-horse _timonella_; and in the same
manner amongst the equestrians, the most ill-favoured little pony, its
rider equipped in a straw-bonnet, with a shawl pinned across the
saddle, will unblushingly thrust itself into companionship with a
handsome English horse, whose owner is graced by the most
unexceptionable habit and other appliances. Even the very donkeys walk
along with dignified resolution, as if determined to ruffle it with
the best, and not yield an inch of their prerogative. In fact, they
evidently know their own value, and remember that not one of the hills
around--not the giant tree on the heights of Lugliano, nor the
tempting strawberry-gardens on the mountain of Benabbio--could be
attained without their help. A few veteran ponies, it is true, now
claim equal sureness of foot, but the popular feeling still leans
towards the long-eared auxiliaries, who always lead the way on such
excursions, displaying an accuracy of judgment which would not
discredit their far-famed relations in the frightful passes of the
Andes.
Thus the evening wears on; gradually the children and babies disappear
from the scene; then follow the invalids, who had ventured out to sun
themselves in the genial afternoon; and soon parties of riders are
seen returning, their laughter and cheerful voices sounding pleasantly
on the ear, leading one to fancy there may be some happy people after
all! It is amusing, too, to watch some of those on foot, who stop in
their homeward way, and peer wistfully over a range of green
palisades, that border the road in the vicinity of the Villa, and
through a screen of spreading foliage, catch tempting glimpses of a
winding path and veranda-like portico, where there are birds, and
flowers, and vases, and which leads the way to a perfect Tusculum
within. This dwelling is an object of interest to all the visitors at
the baths; and if, like the banker's client, they have been
unsuccessful in their overtures to procure access to its circle, they
sometimes, nevertheless, hover curiously in the neighbourhood, and are
disposed to be indignant at not having an 'open sesame' to its doors.
But as night begins to close, even these dissatisfied pedestrians must
hasten their steps, for it is near tea-time, and almost every one at
the baths has some one else to spend the evening with him. There is
always a vast demolition of cold chickens, and cakes, and preserves,
and then a little music, and a little conversation, and an immense
deal of gossip. The general complaint is, that the place is rather
dull; and, indeed, it must be owned, that formerly there were more
facilities for spending a gay season than at present.
Some years ago, when the ex-duke came with his little court, weekly
balls were given at his residence, as well as at the Casino. But all
these scenes of pleasure have now passed away. The Grand-duke of
Tuscany, the present possessor of Lucca, has at this moment weightier
cares to occupy his attention than the summer amusements of a
watering-place; the Casino, so long the opprobrium of the baths, is
now closed--it is to be hoped for ever; and the English Club, or
Cercle de Réunion, though at present in every respect flourishing, has
had too much experience of the ungracious office of giving evening
parties, to be inclined to resume the attempt.
The diversions of Lucca during the last summer were judicially limited
to rides and quiet tea-parties, and it may be said, that before eleven
o'clock every social réunion breaks up. About ten o'clock, in fact,
the shawling processes commence; and servants are seen escorting home
their _padroni_, holding lanterns carefully near the ground, to guard
against the contingency of their stepping on the toads, which disport
themselves in all the lanes at night, and are of the size of
respectable tortoises.
Then gradually the lights in every window disappear, fewer and fewer
voices are borne upon the breeze, and ere the midnight bell has
tolled, all is darkness and repose.