Chapter VIII: Foreign Life (1)

"Under the arch of Life, where love and death,
Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I saw
Beauty enthroned; and though her gaze struck awe,
I drew it in as simply as my breath."--ROSSETTI.

"A good mental condition includes just as much culture as is
necessary to the development of the faculties, but not any burden
of erudition heavy enough to diminish (as erudition so often does)
the promptitude or elasticity of the mind."--HAMERTON, _French and
English_.

"Who thinks the story is all told at twenty? Let them live on and
try."--_Hitherto._

In June 1857 we left Lime for a long residence abroad. My mother's doctors had declared that being thoroughly imbued with heat in a warm climate was the only way in which her health could be permanently benefited. It was a journey so long prepared for by historical studies, that I imagine few people have gone to Italy with a more thorough knowledge of what they would find there than we possessed.

We took our two old servants, Lea and John (Gidman), abroad with us, and Charlotte Leycester accompanied us to Lucerne, where the family was established for the hot summer months at the Pension Faller, which stands at the end of a long green terrace behind the cathedral cloisters, with a glorious view of Mont Pilate and all the range of mountains on the other side of the lake. George Sheffield came out to Lucerne to accompany me thence to Austria; but as he was very young at the time, and his college examinations were not over, we had to gain his parents' consent to this project by consenting to his having a tutor, and chose for this purpose our common acquaintance Robinson Duckworth, afterwards tutor to Prince Leopold. The arrangement did not answer, though it must be confessed that we treated Duckworth very ill, and were always playing him tricks. One night at Linz, for instance, we were greatly annoyed by finding he would have to sleep in our room, which was a very large one. He went out to listen to the band in the evening, and we spent the time of his absence in drawing the third bed into the middle of the room, and arranging it like a kind of catafalque, with lighted candles at the four corners. We then went to bed ourselves and pretended to be deep in slumber. When Duckworth came in, though two people could just manage to move the heavy bed to its pedestal, it was quite impossible for him alone to move it back again, and he was obliged to go to bed upon it--and most absurd he looked in the morning. I do not think he ever quite forgave us for this trick.

_To_ MY MOTHER.

"_Constance, July 24._--The Falls of Schaffhausen, with the dashing
and roaring emerald water, were quite glorious. We came here from
thence by steamer--the entrance to Constance very lovely, and the
distant Alps lighted with the most delicate pink hues of sunset.
The inn is close to the lake-pier and to the old Council-house. We
have walked to the field at Bruhl where Huss was burnt, and since
then Duckworth has been serenading the nuns of a Franciscan convent
under their windows with airs out of 'Don Giovanni.'"

"_July 26._--We were called at four, and my companions went out
fishing, and returned dragging an immense pike which they had
caught. Meanwhile I had seen the Minster and drawn the Kauf-haus,
and was ready to leave with them at nine. We had a delicious
journey across the still lake, Sheffield and I sitting quite down
in the bow of the boat, where we had nothing before us but the soft
blue lake and distant snows, and where we cut through air and water
at the same time."

"_July 29._--Yesterday we embarked at Donauwörth on the Danube
steamer--crowded, filthy, and ceaselessly vibrating--the river the
colour of pea-soup, with sandbanks on which we stuck every five
minutes. There was no relief to the hideous monotony of the nine
hours' voyage, the blackened swamps only changing into barren
sandhills, on which a few ragged hops were vainly struggling for
existence. But to-day in grand old Ratisbon has made up for
yesterday's sufferings. Sheffield and I had great fun in making an
expedition to the palace of the Prince of Thurm and Taxis. Numbers
of people were out, and we discovered it was to greet the two young
princes, who were to return that day from their travels: so we
represented them, bowed to the right and left all through the
street, and finally being set down at the palace, escaped into the
garden and out the other way: what became of the real princes we
have not heard. After all our audacity and impertinence in pushing
through the Prince's courtyard and intruding upon his garden, we
were rather touched by coming upon a placard inscribed--'The
possessor of this garden, who has nothing nearer his heart than the
promotion of universal pleasure, bids you--_welcome!_'"

"_August 1._--In early morning we were on board the Danube steamer.
Immediately after, three very common-looking men came on board by a
boat, and descended at once to the cabin. Soon a neighbour
whispered that one of them was the Archduke Albrecht, Governor of
Hungary,--and behold, in a few minutes the three strangers emerged,
dressed in gorgeous uniforms and glittering with orders.... All
along the shore were crowds of bowing and curtseying people. At the
hotel at Linz the Archduchess and her two daughters were waiting
for the Archduke on the balcony of the inn; and their presence
brought a splendid band under the window in the evening. This
morning the whole family came on board, amid guns firing and crowds
of people, to whom we thought the Archduchess would have bowed her
head off. The presence of royalties gave us a better steamer, and
before reaching Vienna the scenery of the Danube improved,
especially at the rocks and castle of Dürnstein, where Richard
Cœur-de-Lion was imprisoned."

"_August 4._--Vienna would be delightful if it were not for the
heat, but the grass is all burnt brown, and the trees almost black.
Sheffield and I have driven to the old convent called
Klosterneuburg, and in returning saw at Nussdorf the arrival of the
Archduke Maximilian and his lovely wife,[115] radiant, unaffected,
captivating all who saw her."

"_August 6._--We have been to the country-palace of Laxenburg--a
terrible drive in a sirocco, which made both Sheffield and me as
ill as a sea-voyage. Laxenburg was the palace of Maria Theresa, and
has an English park, only the grounds are full of gothic temples,
&c., and an imitation dungeon fortress, with an imitation prisoner
in it, who lifts his hands beseechingly and rattles his chains as
you approach. Princess Charlotte was to have her first meeting with
all the imperial family in the afternoon, and we waited for the
public appearance of the royalties after dinner. We saw them emerge
from the palace, and then ran down to the lake to see them embark.
The imperial party arrived in carriages at the water's edge, and
were set down under some old plane-trees, where their barges were
ready, with rowers in sailors' dresses. First came the Empress,
looking very lovely and charming, bowing her way to her own boat,
which was distinguished by its blue cloth linings. Then came the
Emperor, _running_ as hard as he could, to be in time to hand her
in: then sweet-looking Princess Charlotte, with a radiantly happy
and not at all a shy expression; the mother of the Empress;
Princess Marguerite; the Queen of Saxony; and the Archduchess
Albrecht. All these entered the imperial boat, which was followed
by another with three old countesses, and then all the court ladies
in other boats. The Emperor and the Archdukes Leopold and Heinrich
rowed themselves. There could hardly be a prettier scene--no crowd,
no staring, and sunset on the water as the little fleet glided in
among the cypress-covered islets. The last I saw of them was one of
the princesses seizing hold of the old countesses' boat, and
rocking it violently to give them a good fright.

"Throughout our travels we have perpetually fallen in with two
solitary ladies. Yesterday one of them said to Duckworth, 'I beg
your pardon, perhaps I ought not to ask, but the melancholy
gentleman (meaning me) must have had a very severe disappointment;
was it recent?--he seems to take on very much. Well, my idea is one
must always be crossed three times before love runs smooth.'
Duckworth asked where they were going. 'Oh, where is it?' said the
younger lady; 'I quite forget the name of the place; something very
long, I know.'--'Oh, Constantinople, my dear, that's the name, and
then we go to a place they call Smyrna, and then to Algeria; for
you see we've been to Rome and Naples, and if you don't mind
travelling, it's just the same thing whether you go to one place or
another.'"

"_Aussee in Styria, August 8._--The last thing Sheffield and I did
together was to go to the Capuchin vault, where all the sovereigns
of the House of Hapsburg lie in gorgeous sarcophagi and coffins:
amongst them Maria Theresa, and the husband by whose grave she came
to pray every Friday in this dark vault. In one corner was the
little Archduchess Sophia, only dead two months, her coffin heaped
still with the white garlands deposited by her father and mother,
who--are out of mourning for her.

"After parting with my companions, I went by train to Modling, and
drove through the Wienerwald to Heiligenkreutz,[116] a gigantic
monastery on the edge of a perfectly desolate moor, but in itself
magnificent, with a quadrangle larger than 'Tom Quad' at Oxford.
Daylight was waning, and I hastened to get the Sacristan to show me
the 'Heilige Partikel,' which is kept in a venerable old leather
case, and set in a huge golden cross covered with jewels. There are
beautiful cloisters, and several chapels of the fourteenth
century, and in one of them a fountain, so large that its sound is
that of a waterfall. From Baden I crossed the Simmering pass to
Bruck-an-der-Mur. Here all the travellers who descended from the
train drew diligence tickets by turns, and as mine was only No. 11,
I came in for the rickety board by the driver! What a road it was,
in which the heavy wheels alternately sank into quagmires of deep
mud, or jolted over the piles of stones which were thrown down to
fill them up. The dank marshy plain was covered with driving white
fog, from which one could only take refuge in the fumes of bad
tobacco around one.

"When at length it was my turn to change, it was into an old car
with leathern curtains, and horses so feeble that the passengers
were obliged to get out and plod through the thick mud at every
incline. I had a German companion, who smoked all night in my face.

"All through the night a succession of these cars was kept up, the
company being turned out every two hours in some filthy village
street, while another wretched old carriage was searched for and
brought out. The taverns at which we stopped were most miserable.
In the only one I entered the old landlady came out in her
nightgown, and seizing my straw hat from my head, placed it on the
top of her own top-knot, exclaiming, 'Schöne Strohhut.' Not till
midday did we arrive here, and then found the inn full and the
hills shrouded in mist--the 'Mountains of the Dead,' as the
surroundings of this lonely lake are called, appalling in their
white winding-sheets."

"_Salzburg, August 14._--During my first days in the Salzkammergut,
I might have been inside a kitchen boiler, so thick and white was
the steam. But the landlord at Ischl said it was not likely to
clear, and, wearied of waiting and longing to see _something_, I
went off to the Traunsee, where, to my surprise, the mist suddenly
gave way, the sun appeared, and in a few minutes the heavy veil
rolled back, and the beautiful blue lake and high forest-clad
mountains were disclosed as if by magic. In a few minutes after
shivering, we were all complaining of heat again, and then
luxuriating in the cool breeze as we steamed slowly under the great
purple Traunstein. At Gmünden[117] we dined at the little inn,
served by ladies in gold helmets, with great silver chains round
their necks. I drove on to the fall in an _Einspanner_. It is a
miniature Schaffhausen, and the colour of the water most beautiful.
On the following day an old Colonel Woodruffe and his wife took me
with them to Hallstadt, where we were rowed by women in crimson
petticoats down the lovely lake to the village. The scenery is
magnificent--jagged mountains melting into beautiful chestnut woods
which reach to the water's edge, and at the end of the lake the
little town, with its picturesque wooden houses and beautiful
gothic chapel. The population consists of nine hundred Roman
Catholics and nine hundred Protestants, who live together most
amicably. No vehicle can enter the town, for the streets are narrow
gullies, with staircases from one house to another.

"My new friends left me at Hallstadt, and early next morning I was
up, and in the forest, to see the Wildbach waterfall, an exquisite
walk, through green glades carpeted with cyclamen and columbines,
with great masses of moss-grown rock tossed about amongst the
trees, and high mountains rising all around. The goats were just
getting up and coming out of their sheds, ringing their little
bells as they skipped about amongst the rocks, and the flowers were
all glistening with dew--no human being moving, except the
goatherds directing their flocks up the mountain paths. I reached
the waterfall, in its wild amphitheatre of rock, before the sun,
and saw the first rolling away of the morning mist, and the clear
mountain torrent foaming forth in its place; while far beyond was
the great snowy Dachstein.

"At nine, a little boat took me to the Gosauswang at the other end
of the lake, and while I was waiting there for an _Einspanner_,
four travellers came up, one of whom--a pleasant-looking
clergyman--introduced himself as Mr. Clements, the Rector of Upton
St. Leonards, and informed me that his companions were his brother,
just returned from Australia, and the two young Akers of Prinknash.

"As soon as they were gone off in their boat, my little carriage
came, and I had a glorious drive, up the banks of the torrent
Gosau, to open mountain pastures, backed by a magnificent range of
bare rocky peaks. There is only a footpath from the 'Schmidt' to
the Vorder See, set in the loveliest of forests, and backed by
noble rugged peaks and snowy glaciers. The colour of the lake was
indescribable, but oftenest like a rainbow seen through a
prism--the purple, green, and clear blue melting into each other,
and the whole transparent as crystal, showing all the bright stones
and pebbles in the immense depths and reflecting all the snow-peaks
beyond. When I returned to the inn, the Clements' party had
arrived, and finding they were going the same way, I engaged to
travel with them to Innsbruck.

"On Friday we all went again to the Vorder See, and then, taking a
woodcutter as guide, scrambled on for two hours through woods and
rocks to the Hinter See,[118] which is like a turquoise set in the
mountains.

"We returned together to Ischl, and left in a carriage next day. At
the end of St. Wolfgang Lake we engaged a boat and crossed to the
curious old gothic church which contains the shrine of St.
Wolfgang, and his rocky bed projecting through the pavement of a
chapel, upon which the peasants throw kreutzers through a grating.
We did not arrive at Salzburg till dark. What a fine old town it
is!--but what most interested me was seeing here an old lady in
black walking to church with a lady behind her. It was the Kaiserin
Caroline, widow of the Emperor Francis I., grand-daughter-in-law of
Maria Theresa, niece of Marie Antoinette, sister-in-law of Marie
Louise!"

"_Reichenhall, August 26._--From Salzburg we visited the mines of
Hallein, into which we descended in full miner's costume--thick
white trousers, smock-frock, cap, and a leathern apron _behind_.
The guide gave us each a light, and marshalled us in single file
through the narrow dark passages. On the summit of the first
descent, we were all made to sit down upon our leathern aprons, to
put our legs round each others' heads, hold a rope, and then slide
off like a train into the dark abyss--alarming at first, and then
very amusing. After three slides, we reached a black lake like the
Styx, with lamps glittering like stars on faraway rocks. Here a
boat moved by invisible hands came soundlessly gliding towards us:
we stepped in, and in death-like silence, without oars or rowers,
floated across the ghastly waters. On the opposite bank a wooden
horse was waiting, on which we were made to sit, each behind the
other, and, when we were mounted, rushed away with the speed of a
whirlwind through the dark unearthly passages. At last, what looked
like a twinkling star appeared in the distance, and it gradually
increased till we emerged in open daylight. It is a most
extraordinary expedition, but as the salt is all black, there is no
beauty. We went on to Berchtesgaden and the Königsee and Obersee,
but the wet weather only cleared enough to show us the beauties of
the myrtle-green water."

It was a most wearisome journey then--two days of twelve hours in a carriage--to Innsbruck, where I parted with my companions. Hence a terrible long diligence journey of seventeen hours brought me to Botzen. The driver beguiled the way by telling me the history of his life--how when quite young he had given up smoking, and constantly put by all the money he should have spent on tobacco, in the hope of using it in revisiting Naples and the Island of Ischia, where he had been in boyhood as a soldier; but that two years before these designs had been cut short, because one day, when he returned with his diligence from Verona, he found his house burnt to the ground, and nothing saved except six silver spoons which his wife had carried off in her apron.

From Botzen I went to Meran and Trafoi, whence I walked across the Stelvio to the Baths of Bormio; but this part of the tour was not enjoyable, as my sufferings were always so great from bad weather, and hunger owing to want of money. Still less pleasant were the immense journeys afterwards by Finstermuntz and the Great Arlberg, along horrible roads and in wretched diligences, which, in these days of luxurious railway travelling, we should think perfectly unendurable. At Wesen, on the Lake of Wallenstadt, I had the happiest of meetings with my dear mother and her old servants, and vividly does the impression come back to me of the luxurious sense of rest in the first evening, and of freedom from discomfort, privation, and want.

]

We crossed the Bernardino to Locarno, where we were joined by mother's widowed niece, Mrs. Charles Stanley, and by her friend Miss Cole. There were many circumstances which made me see the whole of North Italy through jaundiced eyes at this time, so that Milan, Venice, and even beautiful Verona, became more associated in my mind with mental and bodily fatigue than with any pleasure. One of the happiest recollections which comes back to me is an excursion alone with my sweet mother to the old deserted convent of Chiaravalle near Milan, and the grave of the enthusiast Wilhelmina. At Venice we had much pleasure in sight-seeing with Miss Louisa Cole, and her cousins Mr. and Miss Warre, the latter of whom afterwards married Froude the historian.

At Padua we engaged two _vetturino_ carriages, in one of which our companions travelled, and in the other my mother and I with our two old servants. The first day's journey, through the rich plain of the vintage in October, was very pleasant, meeting the immense wains and waggons laden with grapes, and the merry peasants, who delighted to give us large ripe bunches as we passed. But we had a perilous passage of the swollen Po, on which our carriage was embarked in a large boat, towed with ropes by numbers of men in smaller boats. In our long journey in our roomy excellent carriage--our home for about three weeks--we were provided with a perfect library of books, for my mother was quite of the opinion of Montaigne when he said, "Je ne voyage sans livres, n'y en paix, n'y en guerre. C'est la meilleure munition j'aye trouvé à cet humain voyage." So we studied the whole of Arnold, Gibbon, Ranke, and Milman at this time. The slower the mode of travel, the greater its variety. In the middle of the day the _vetturini_ rested often in some picturesque town, where there were churches, convents, and pictures to sketch or visit; sometimes in quiet country inns, near which we wandered in country lanes, and collected the wild-flowers of the district. How vividly the recollections of these quiet weeks come back to me--of the charm of our studies and the weekly examination upon them: of the novel which my mother and I used afterwards to tell each other alternately, in which the good characters lived at a place called "Holmhurst," but somehow contrived to have always some link with the scenes through which we were travelling: of our early luncheon of bread and preserved apricots: of our arrival in the evenings at rooms which had always a wholesome barn-like smell, from the fresh straw under the carpets: of the children, who scampered along by the sides of the carriage calling out "Tà-tà"--as short for Carità: of my mother screaming at Ferrara as she ran away from a white spectral figure, with eyes gleaming out of holes in a peaked hood and rattling a money-box--a figure to which we became well accustomed afterwards as a _Frate della Misericordia_: of the great castle of Ferrara, whose picturesque outlines seemed so strangely familiar till I recollected where I had seen them--at the bottom of willow-patterned washing-basins.

]

Ravenna was at this time reached by a wearisome journey through marshy flats overgrown by a dark-berried plant much used in the making of dye: we afterwards imported it to Hurstmonceaux. The Stanleys, whom we seldom contradicted, had greatly opposed our going thither, so that our journey to Ravenna had the charm of eating forbidden fruit; but I was able to silence their angry reproaches afterwards for having "taken my mother into so unhealthy a climate" by finding in Gibbon the remark that Ravenna, though situated in the midst of fœtid marshes, possesses one of the most salubrious climates in Italy! My mother was even more enchanted with the wonderful old city than myself, especially with the peerage of martyrs in the long palm-bearing procession in the mosaics of S. Apollinare Nuovo, and with the exquisite and ever-varied loveliness of the Pineta.

Deeply interesting was the historical journey afterwards along the shores of the Adriatic--the sunset on the Metaurus--the proud ruins of Roman Rimini, where also we went to see the soft lustrous picture known as "the winking Virgin," and accidentally met the father of the painter in the church--the Rubicon and Pesaro; Sinigaglia and Fano; and the exquisitely beautiful approach to Ancona, with the town climbing up the steep headland crowned by the cathedral, and the blue sea covered with shipping. In many ways Ancona has always seemed to me more beautiful than Naples. I have seen much of all these towns since, but there is nothing now like the halcyon days of _vetturino_ travelling, with the abundant time for seeing and digesting everything, and the quiet regular progression, without fuss or fatigue, or anything to mar mental impressions.

From Ancona we went to Loreto, a lovely drive then, through ranges of hills, sweeping one behind another like files of an advancing army, and crested sometimes by the picturesque roofs, domes, and towers of an old town; sometimes clothed to their summits with olives and pines, vineyards and mulberry-gardens. Here and there a decayed villa stood by the roadside in its overgrown garden, huge aloes and tall cypresses rising from its tangled grass and periwinkles. Very lovely was the ascent to Osimo, thronged with the students of the old university town in their black cloaks, amongst whom was the Cardinal-bishop, going for a walk in crimson stockings, sash, and gloves, with two footmen in cocked hats strutting behind him.

]

Nothing can be grander than the situation of Loreto, and the views from it over the surrounding country--the walls overlooking a wide sea-view as well. A building like a huge castle, with massive semicircular towers, dominates the town, and is the fortress which guards the holy of holies--the Santa Casa. We were called at five to go to the church. It was still pitch dark, but many pilgrims had already arrived, and waited with us in a corridor till the doors were opened. The scene inside was most singular--the huge expanse quite dark, except where a blaze of light under the dome illuminated the marble casing of the Santa Casa, or where a solitary lamp permitted a picture or an image to loom out of the chaos. The great mass of pilgrims knelt together before the shrine, but here and there a desolate figure, with arms outstretched in agonising prayer, threw a long weird shadow down the pavement of the nave, while others were crawling on hands and knees round the side walls of the house, occasionally licking up the sacred dust with their tongues, which left a bloody trail upon the floor. At either door of the House, the lamplight flashed upon the drawn sword of a soldier, keeping guard to prevent too many people pressing in together, as they ceaselessly passed in single file upon their knees, to gaze for a few seconds upon the rugged walls of unplastered brick, blackened with soot, which they believed to be the veritable walls of the cottage at Nazareth. Here, in strange contrast, the negress statue, attributed to St. Luke, gleams in a mass of diamonds. At the west end of the House was the window by which the angel entered! The collection of jewels and robes in the sacristy was enormous, though the priests lamented bitterly to us over the ravages of the Revolution, and that now the Virgin had only wardrobe sufficient to allow of her changing her dress _once_ instead of three times every day of the year.

]

We travelled afterwards through a country seldom visited now--by hill-set Macerata and Recanati, and picturesque Tolentino with its relics of S. Nicolas, into the central Apennines, where Sabbatarianism doomed us to spend a most miserable Sunday at the unspeakably wretched inn of La Muccia. From Foligno we made an excursion to Assisi, then filled with troops of stately Franciscan monks--all "_possidenti_;" and by the Clitumnus temple, Spoleto, and Narni to Terni. At Civita Castellana the famous robber chief Gesparoni was imprisoned at this time, this year being the thirty-third of his imprisonment. Miss Cole and I obtained an order to visit him and his band, tall gaunt forms in a large room in the castle. The chieftain had a long white beard: we bought a little knitted cap of his workmanship. There was a ghastly sensation in being alone for a few minutes with this gang of men, who had all been murderers, and mostly murderers of many.

Breathlessly interesting was the first approach to Rome--the characteristic scenery of the Campagna, with its tufa quarries, and its crumbling towers and tombs rising amidst the withered thistles and asphodels; its strange herds of buffaloes; then the faint grey dome rising over the low hills, and the unspoken knowledge about it, which was almost too much for words; lastly, the miserable suburb and the great Piazza del Popolo.

I never shall forget the ecstasy of awaking the next morning in the Hôtel d'Angleterre, and feeling that the longed-for desire of many years was realised. We engaged apartments in the upper floor of the Palazzo Lovati in the Piazza del Popolo--cold dreary rooms enough, but from my mother's bedroom there was a lovely view to St. Peter's across the meadows of S. Angelo.

]

Naturally one of my first visits was to Mrs. Hare and my sister, whom I found established in the first floor of the Palazzo Parisani, which occupies two sides of the little Piazza S. Claudio, a dismal little square, but which my sister regarded with idolatry, asserting that there was no house half so delightful as the Palazzo Parisani, no view which could be compared in interest to that of the Piazza S. Claudio. Making acquaintance with my sister at this time was to me like the perpetual reading of an engrossing romance, for nobody ever was more amusing, no one ever had more power of throwing an interest into the commonest things of life. She did not colour her descriptions, but she saw life through a prism, and imparted its rays to others. Her manner, her dress, all her surroundings were poetical. If one went to dine with her, the dinner was much the same as we had at home, but some picturesquely hung grapes, or a stalk of _finocchio_, or some half-opened pomegranates, gave the table an _air_ which made it all seem quite different.

"Italima" liked my coming and going, and was very angry if I did not come, though she never professed any maternal affection for me. I often found myself in difficulties between my two mothers. My adopted mother would sometimes take an alarm that I was going too often to Italima, and would demand my presence just on the particular occasion when "Italima" had counted upon it; in which case I always gave way to her. And indeed, as a rule, I always spent _all_ my time with my mother, except about two evenings in the week, when I went to Italima and the Palazzo Parisani. On rare occasions, also, I went out "into the world" with Italima and my sister, to balls at the Palazzo Borghese, and at the Palazzo di Spagna, where old Queen Christina of Spain was then living, an interesting historic figure to me as the sister of the Duchesse de Berri and great-niece of Marie Antoinette. She was very hospitable, and her parties, approached through an avenue of silver candelabra representing palm-trees--spoils from the Spanish convents--were exceedingly magnificent. At her suppers on Fridays, one side of the room was laid for "_maigre_," the other for "_gras_," and when the doors were opened, there was a general scrimmage to reach the delicious viands on the "_maigre_" table. After each of her receptions, it was the rule that five cards should be left by each guest--for herself, for her husband the Duc de Rianzares (who had been a common soldier), for her master of the household, for her equerry, and for her lady-in-waiting. The principal balls were those given by Princess Borghese, at which many cardinals were present, but would sit down to whist in a room apart from the dancers. A great feature of the Borghese parties at this time was the Princess-mother, who always sat in a conspicuous place in the anteroom, and to whom all the guests were expected to pay their court. By birth she was Adèle de la Rochefoucauld, and she was the mother of three princes--Marc-Antonio Borghese, Aldobrandini, and Salviati. She was "sage, souple, et avide des biens," as Voltaire says of Mazarin, and it was she who--probably most unjustly--had then the reputation of having poisoned the beautiful Princess Guendolina, first wife of Marc-Antonio, with all her sons, in order that her own son might marry her niece, Thérèse[124] de la Rochefoucauld, which he afterwards did. A conspicuous figure was the beautiful young Princess del Drago, one of the daughters of Queen Christina's second marriage, whose husband had a most fiendish face. I often saw the blind Duke of Sermoneta, celebrated for his knowledge of Dante, and his witty canonical brother, Don Filippo Caiëtani, generally known as "Don Pippo." The then Duchess of Sermoneta was "Margherita," _née_ Miss Knight, a most ghastly and solemn woman to outsiders, but much beloved by those who knew her intimately.

The Prince of Piombino, who lived in exile or seclusion after the change of government in Rome, was then flourishing in his immense palace in the Corso, and his children, then young married people, were the life of all the parties. Of these, Rudolfo, Duke of Sora, had married the saint-like Agnese, only surviving child of Donna Guendolina Borghese, who was supposed only by absence to have escaped the fate of her mother and brothers. Of his sisters, Donna Carolina was the clever, brilliant Princess Pallavicini, and Donna Giulia had married the Duke of Fiano, who lived in the neighbouring palace, and by marrying her had broken the heart of Mademoiselle Judith Falconnet.[125]

One of the Romans whom I saw most frequently was the Princess Santa Croce, living in the old historical palace which has the reputation of being the only haunted house in Rome, where two statues of cardinals come down from their pedestals and rattle their marble trains up and down the long galleries. The Princess was one of the daughters of Mr. Scully in Ireland. He had three, of whom two were beautiful, clever, and brilliant, but the third was uninteresting. The two elder Miss Scullys went out into the world, and were greatly admired and much made of; but the youngest stayed at home like Cinderella, and was never known at all except as "the Miss Scullys' younger sister." Many people wished to marry the elder Miss Scullys; but they said "No, for we have a presentiment that we are to marry dukes, and therefore we will wait." But no dukes came forward, and at length old Mr. Scully died, leaving his daughters three great fortunes; and being Roman Catholics, without any particular call or claim, they determined to visit Rome before they settled in life. They took many introductions with them, and on their arrival the good looks, cleverness, and wealth of the elder sisters created quite a sensation; but people asked them, Roman-fashion, "what was their vocation," for in Rome all Catholic ladies are expected to have decided this. Then they said they had never thought of it, and they went to spend a week in the convent of the Trinità de' Monti to consider it. When the day came on which the three Miss Scullys were to declare their vocation, all Rome was interested, and the "great world" thronged the parlours of the Trinità de' Monti to hear it; but the expectants were petrified when the two elder Miss Scullys came out, for they had found their vocation, and it was a convent! No doubt whatever was felt about the youngest--"of course she would follow her sisters." But no; she had found her vocation, and it was marriage! and the youngest Miss Scully, additionally enriched by half the fortunes of her two elder sisters, went out into the world, and in three weeks she had accepted the great Roman Prince of Santa Croce, who claims descent from Valerius Publicola. I often used to watch with interest the Princess Santa Croce, who went to confess and pray at the convent of the Villa Lante (which Roman princesses are wont to frequent), for the two portresses who opened the doors were her two elder sisters, the proud Miss Scullys: it was the story of Cinderella in real life. I was at Rome years afterwards (1864) when the Princess Santa Croce died. All the princesses lie in state after death, but by old custom, the higher their rank, the lower they must lie, and the Princess Santa Croce was of such excessively high rank, that she lay upon the bare boards.

I think that it was towards the middle of our stay in Rome that I received a summons to a private audience of Pius IX. Italima and my sister went with me. We went in evening dress to the Vatican in the middle of the day, and were shown into a gallery where a number of Monsignori were standing. Amongst them was Monsignore Talbot, who asked me if I did not feel very much agitated. I said "No," and he answered, "But every one must be agitated when they are about to stand in the presence of the Vicar of Christ"--and at that moment he drew aside a portière, and we found ourselves at one end of a long hall, at the other end of which a sturdy figure with a beneficent face, in what looked like a white dressing-gown, was standing leaning his hand upon a table: it was Pius IX. We had been told beforehand that, as we had asked for a _private_ audience, we must perform all the genuflections, three at the doorway, three in the middle of the room, and three at the feet of the Pope, and the same in returning; and Italima had declared that the thought of this made her so nervous that we must do all the talking. But Italima had often been to the Pope before, and she was so active and agile, that by the time my sister and I got up from the third genuflection in the doorway, she was already curvetting in the centre of the hall, and we heard the beautiful voice of the Pope, like a silver bell, say, "E come sta la figlia mia--e come sta la cara figlia mia," and by the time we were in the middle of the apartment she was already at the feet of the Pope. Eventually my sister and I arrived, and flung ourselves down, one on each side of Italima, at the feet of the Pope, who gave us his ring to kiss, and his foot, or rather a great raised gold cross upon his white slipper. "E questa la figlia?" he said, pointing to my sister. "Si, Sua Santità," said Italima. "Ed e questo il figlio?" he said, turning to me. "Si, Sua Santità," said Italima. Then my sister, who thought it was a golden opportunity which she would never have again, and which was not to be lost, broke through all the rules of etiquette, and called out from the other side of the daïs, clasping her hands, "Ma, Sua Santità, il mio fratello e stato Protestant."

Then the Pope turned to me and spoke of the great privilege and blessing of being a Catholic, but said that from what he had heard of me he felt that I did not deserve that privilege, and that therefore he could not wish that I should enjoy its blessings. He said much more, and then that, before I left, I should make him a "piccolo piccolino promessino" (the least little bit of a promise in the world), and that I should remember all my life that I had made it at the feet of Pius IX. I said that I should wish to do whatever Sua Santità desired, but that before I engaged to make a promise I should like to know what the promise was to be about. "Oh," said the Pope, smiling, "it is nothing so very difficult; it is only something which a priest in your own Church might ask: it is that you will say the Lord's Prayer every morning and evening." "Yes," I replied, "I shall be delighted to make Sua Santità the promise; but perhaps Sua Santità is not aware that the practice is not unusual in the Church of England." Then, almost severely for one so gentle, the Pope said, "You seem to think the promise a light one; I think it a very serious one; in fact, I think it so serious, that I will only ask you to promise to use one petition--'Fiat voluntas tua, O Deus, in terris ut in cœlo,' and remember that you have promised that at the feet of Pius IX." Then he blended his farewell very touchingly into a beautiful prayer and blessing; he blessed the things--rosaries, &c.--which my sister had brought with her; he again gave us his ring and the cross on his foot to kiss, and while he rang the little bell at his side, we found our way out backwards--quite a geometrical problem with nine genuflections to be made on the way.

I was often in the convent of the Trinità when I was at Rome in 1857, for visitors are allowed there at certain hours, and a great friend of my sister's, Adèle, Madame Davidoff, was then in the convent, having been sent to Rome on an especial mission to the Pope on matters connected with the French convents of the Sacré Cœur. Madame Davidoff ("Madame" only "in religion," as "a spouse of Christ") was daughter of the Maréchale Sebastiani, the stepmother of the murdered Duchesse de Praslin, and was grand-daughter of the Duchesse de Grammont, who founded the Sacré Cœur. Her own life had been very romantic. One winter there was a very handsome young Count Schouvaloff in Rome, whom my sister knew very well. She had been one day in the convent, and Madame Davidoff had accompanied her to the outer door, and was standing engrossed with last words, leaning against the green baize door leading into the church. Suddenly a man appeared, coming through the inner door of the convent, evidently from visiting the Abbess. "Mais c'est le Comte Schouvaloff!" said Madame Davidoff to my sister, and pushing the baize door behind her, suddenly disappeared into the church, while Schouvaloff, seeing her suddenly vanish, rushed forward to my sister exclaiming, "Oh, c'est elle--c'est elle! Oh, mon Adèle, mon Adèle!" He had been on the eve of marriage with her, when she had thought herself suddenly seized by a conventual vocation, had taken the veil, and he had never seen her since. The next day Count Schouvaloff left Rome. He went into retreat for some time at the Certosa of Pavia, where total silence is the rule of daily life. He took orders, and in a few years, having a wonderful gift for preaching, was sent on a mission to Paris; but the shock of returning to the scenes of his old life was too much for him, and in a few days after reaching Paris he died.

When I knew Madame Davidoff, she still possessed an extraordinary charm of conversation and manner, and the most exuberant eloquence of any person I have ever seen. Her one object was conversion to the Roman Catholic faith, and into that she threw all her energies, all her charm and wit, and even her affections. Her memory was as prodigious as that of Macaulay, and she knew all the controversial portions of the great Catholic writers by heart. What was more extraordinary still was, that having many "cases" going on at the same time (for people used to go to visit her and sit round her anteroom like patients at a fashionable dentist's), she never confounded one with another in her mind, never lost time, and always went on exactly where she left off. But her love of ruling made Madame Davidoff less popular within the walls of her convent than with the outside world; and after her return to Paris, the means which she often took to attain the ends to which she devoted her life brought such trouble to the convent of the Sacré Cœur, that the nuns refused to keep her amongst them, and she afterwards lived in the world, giving frequent anxiety to her sister, the Marquise de Gabriac, and to Lord Tankerville and Lady Malmesbury, her cousins. During my first visit at Rome, I saw Madame Davidoff often, and, after a courteous expression of regret that I was sure to be eternally damned, she would do her best to convert me. I believe my dear mother underwent great qualms on my visits to her. But her religious unscrupulousness soon alienated me, and I had a final rupture with her upon her urging me to become a Roman Catholic secretly, and to conceal it from my adopted mother as long as she lived. Other Roman Catholics who made a vehement effort for my perversion were Monsignor Talbot and Monsignor Howard, the latter of whom I had known as a very handsome dashing young guardsman a few years before, but who afterwards became a Cardinal. There was a most ridiculous scene when they came to the Palazzo Lovati, where Monsignor Howard made so violent a harangue against Protestantism that Monsignor Talbot was obliged to apologise for him. Roman Catholics with whom we were intimate from circumstances were the ex-Jew Mr. Goldsmid and his wife. Mr. Goldsmid had been converted by the Père Ratisbon, whose own conversion was attributed partially to the image of the Virgin in the Church of Andrea delle Fratte, and partly to the prayers of M. de la Ferronays, which are believed to have endowed the image with speech.

A really excellent Roman Catholic priest of whom I saw much was Monsignor Pellerin, Bishop in Cochin-China. His conversation was liberal and beautiful, and he had the simplicity of a mediæval saint. He was at that time about to return to China, with a great probability of martyrdom. On his last day in Rome he celebrated mass in the Catacombs in the Chapel of Santa Cecilia, a most touching sight even to those who were not of his faith. On taking leave, he gave me a small silver crucifix, which I treasured for a long time, then it disappeared: I always thought that Lea made away with it, in the fear that it might make me a Roman Catholic. I heard of the close of Monsignor Pellerin's self-sacrificing life in China several years later.

Amongst the English we had many pleasant friends, especially the George Cavendishes and the Greene Wilkinsons, who had a great fortune left to them for opening a pew-door to an old gentleman: it used to be said that they ought to take "Pro Pudor" as their motto.

But no notice of our familiar society at Rome can be complete which does not speak of "Auntie"--Miss Paul--the sister of "Italima," who lived her own life apart in two rooms in a corner of the Parisani Palace, where she saw and observed everything, and was very ready to make her quaint original remarks upon what she had observed when she joined the rest of the family, which was only in the evenings. I never saw "Auntie" otherwise than desperately busy, sometimes with immense rolls of embroidery, sometimes with charcoal-drawing, often with extraordinary and most incomprehensible schemes for recovering the very large fortune she had once possessed, and which she had lost in "the Paul Bankruptcy." Italima was not at all kind to her, but this did not affect her in the least: she went her own way, and when she was most soundly abused, it only seemed to amuse her. My sister she absolutely adored, and then and afterwards used to think it perfect happiness to sit and watch her for hours, not being able to hear a word she said on account of her deafness. I was exceedingly fond of "Auntie," and used to delight to escape from the ungenial atmosphere of Italima's great drawing-room to the busy little den in the corner of the palace, where I was always a welcome visitor, and always found something amusing going on.

When we arrived in Rome, my sister Esmeralda was supposed to be partially engaged to Don Emilio Rignano, eldest son of the Duke Massimo, whom she had known well from childhood. Emilio at one time passed every evening at the Palazzo Parisani; but during this winter Donna Teresa Doria appeared in the world, and the old Duchess Massimo, who hated Anglo-Roman alliances, by a clever scheme soon compelled her son to consent to an engagement with her. Having learnt this, Esmeralda refused ever to receive Emilio again. On the day before his marriage, however, he found her in the Church of S. Claudio, and tried to make her marry him at once by the easy Roman form, "Ecco il mio marito--Ecco la mia moglie," but she would not listen to him. Then, when she drove to the Villa Borghese, he pursued the carriage, regardless of the people in the street. His hat fell off, but he would not stop: he seemed to have lost his senses.

At a marriage in high life in Rome, the guests are often asked, not to the actual ceremony, but to St. Peter's afterwards, to see the bridal pair kiss the foot of the famous statue. When the Duke and Duchess Rignano entered St. Peter's, they were piteous to see: they would not look at each other. Old Lady Rolle was there, standing by the statue, and when they came near she said audibly, "What a wicked scene! what a sinful marriage!" And Emilio heard her, gave her one look of agony, and flung himself down on the pavement in front of the statue.

As Duchess Rignano, Teresa Doria was wretched. We saw her afterwards at Genoa, in the old Doria Palace, with her mother, whose death was hastened by the sight of her daughter's woe and her own disappointed ambition. Before long the Duchess Teresa was separated from her husband. Her tragical fate was a good thing for her sisters: the second sister, Guendolina, made a happy marriage with the Conte di Somaglia in the Marchi, and the youngest, Olimpia, was allowed to remain long unmarried. This last daughter of the house of Doria was described by her mother as so very small when she was born, that they swathed her in flannel and laid her in the sun, in the hope that it would make her grow like a plant. I was one day at the house of Mrs. de Selby, cousin of Princess Doria, when her servant threw open the door and announced in a stentorian voice, _allo Romano_--"La sua Eccellenza l'illustrissima Principessina la Donna Olimpia di Doria,"--and there marched in a stately little maiden of eight years old!

Cardinal Antonelli obtained an order for my sister and me to visit the Madre Makrina, the sole survivor of the Polish nuns who were martyred for their faith in the terrible persecution at Minsk. The nuns were starved, flogged to death, buried alive, subjected to the most horrible cruelties. Three escaped and reached Vienna, where two of them disappeared and never were heard of again. After a series of unparalleled adventures and escapes, the Abbess, the Madre Makrina, arrived in Rome. Pope Gregory XVI. received her kindly, but made her tell her whole story once for all in the presence of sixty witnesses, who all wrote it down at once to ensure accuracy, and then he shut her up, for fear she should be turned into a saint and object of pilgrimage. It was not generally known what had become of the Madre Makrina--it was a mystery in Rome--but we were able to trace her to the tiny convent of the Monacche Polacche, which has since been destroyed by the Sardinian Government, but which then stood near the Arch of Gallienus, nearly opposite the Church of S. Eusebio. Italima wished to go with us, but we could only obtain an order for two. When we rang the convent bell and had shown our permit through the grille, a portress from within drew a bolt which admitted us to a little room--den rather--barred with iron, and with an iron cage at one side, behind which the portress, a very fat old woman, reappearing, asked us many questions about ourselves, the Pope, the state of Rome generally. At last we got tired and said, "But shall we not soon see the Madre Makrina?"--"_Io_ sono la Madre Makrina," said the old woman, laughing. Then we said, "Oh, do tell us the story of Minsk."--"No," she replied, "I promised at the feet of Pope Gregory XVI. that I would never tell that story again: the story is written down, you can read it, but I cannot break my promise."--"How dreadfully you must have suffered at Minsk," we said. "Yes," she answered, and, going backwards, she pulled up her petticoats and showed us her legs, which were enormously fat, yet, a short distance above the ankles, were quite eaten away, so that you could see the bones. "This," she said, "was caused by the chains I wore at Minsk." The Madre Makrina, when we took leave, said, "I am filled with wonder as to how you got admittance. I have never seen any one before since I came here, and I do not suppose I shall ever see any one again, so I will give you a little memorial of your visit!" and she gave me a tiny crucifix and medal off her chain. I have it still.