Chapter XII: English Pleasures and Roman Trials (3)

"_January 15, 1866._--Went, by appointment, with Mrs. Goldsmid to
the Church of SS. Marcellino e Pietro--the church with a roof like
that of a Chinese pagoda, in the little valley beneath St. John
Lateran. Inside it is a large Greek cross, and very handsome, with
marbles, &c. The party collected slowly, Mrs. De Selby and her
daughter, Mrs. Alfred Montgomery, Madame Sainte Aldegonde, the
Bedingfields, a French Abbé, Mrs. Dawkins, and ourselves. Soon a
small window shutter was opened to the left of the altar, and
disclosed a double grille of iron, beyond which was a small room in
the interior of the monastery. In the room, but close to the
grille, and standing sideways, with lighted candles in front of it,
was a very beautiful picture of the Crucifixion. It was much
smaller than life, and seemed to be a copy of Guido's picture in
the Lucina. The figure hung alone on the cross in the midst of a
dark wind-stricken plain, and behind it the black storm clouds were
driving through the sky, and beating the trees towards the ground.
As you looked fixedly at the face, the feeling of its intense
suffering and its touching patience seemed to take possession of
you and fill you. We all knelt in front of it, and I never took my
eyes from it. Very soon Mrs. Goldsmid said, 'I begin to see
something; do you not see the pupils of its eyes dilate?' Mrs.
Montgomery, in an ecstasy, soon after said, 'Oh, I see it: how
wonderful! what a blessing vouchsafed to us! See, it moves! it
moves!' Mrs. De Selby, who is always sternly matter-of-fact, and
who had been looking fixedly at it hitherto, on this turned
contemptuously away and said, 'What nonsense! it is a complete
delusion: you delude yourselves into anything; the picture is
perfectly still.' Mrs. Dawkins now declared that she distinctly saw
the eyes move. Lady Bedingfield would not commit herself to any
opinion. The French Abbé saw nothing.

"Meanwhile Madame Ste. Aldegonde had fallen into a rapture, and
with clasped hands was returning thanks for the privilege
vouchsafed to her. 'Oh mon Dieu! mon Dieu! quelle grâce! quelle
grâce!' Shortly after this the French Abbé saw it also. 'Il n'y a
pas le moindre doute,' he said; 'il bouge les yeux, mais le voilà,
le voilà.' They all now began to distress themselves about Mrs. De
Selby. 'Surely you must see _something_,' they said; 'it is
impossible that you should see _nothing_.' But Mrs. De Selby
continued stubbornly to declare that she saw nothing. While Madame
Ste. Aldegonde was exclaiming, and when the scene was at its
height, I could fancy that I saw something like a scintillation, a
speculation, in one of the eyes of the Crucified One, but I could
not be certain. As we left the church, the other ladies said,
apropos of Mrs. De Selby, 'Well, you know, after all, it is not a
thing we are _obliged_ to believe,' and one of them, turning to
her, added consolingly, 'And you know you _did_ see a miracle at
Vicovaro.'

"Mrs. Goldsmid declared that she was so shocked at my want of
faith, that she should take me immediately to the Sepolti Vivi, to
request the prayers of the abbess there. So we drove thither at
once. The convent is most carefully concealed. Opposite the Church
of S. Maria del Monte, a little recess in the street, which looks
like a _cul de sac_, runs up to one of those large street shrines
with a picture, so common in Naples, but of which there are very
few at Rome. When you get up to the picture, you find the _cul de
sac_ is an illusion. In the left of the shrine a staircase in the
wall leads you up round the walls of the adjoining house to a
platform on the roof. Here you are surrounded by heavy doors, all
strongly barred and bolted. In the wall there projects what looks
like a small green barrel. Mrs. Goldsmid stooped down and rapped
loudly on the barrel. This she continued to do for some time. At
last a faint muffled voice was heard issuing from behind the
barrel, and demanding what was wanted. 'I am Margaret Goldsmid,'
said our companion, 'and I want to speak to the abbess.'--'Speak
again,' said the strange voice, and again Mrs. G. declared that she
was Margaret Goldsmid. Then the invisible nun recognised the voice,
and very slowly, to my great surprise, the green barrel began to
move. Round and round it went, till at last in its innermost
recesses was disclosed a key. Mrs. Goldsmid knew the meaning of
this, and taking the key, led us round to a small postern door,
which she unlocked, and we entered a small courtyard. Beyond this,
other doors opened in a similar manner, till we reached a small
white-washed room. Over the door was an inscription bidding those
who entered that chamber to leave all worldly thoughts behind them.
Round the walls of the room were inscribed: 'Qui non diligit, manet
in morte'--'Militia est vita hominis super terram'--'Alter alterius
onera portate,' and on the side opposite the door--

'Vi esorto a rimirar
La vita del mondo
Nella guisa che il mira
Un moribondo.'

Immediately beneath this inscription was a double grille, and
beyond it what looked at first like pitch darkness, but what was
afterwards shown to be a thick plate of iron, pierced, like the
rose of a watering-pot, with small round holes, through which the
voice might penetrate. Behind this plate of iron the abbess of the
Sepolti Vivi receives her visitors. She is even then veiled from
head to foot, and folds of thick serge fell over her face. Pope
Gregory XVI., who of course could penetrate within the convent,
once wishing to try her faith, said to her, 'Sorella mia, levate il
velo.'--'No, mio Padre,' replied the abbess, 'é vietato dalle
regole del nostro ordine.'

"Mrs. Goldsmid said to the abbess that she had brought with her two
heretics, one in a state of partial grace, the other in a state of
blind and outer darkness, that she might request her prayers and
those of her sisterhood. The heretic in partial grace was Mrs.
Dawkins, the heretic in blind darkness was myself. Then came back
the muffled voice of the abbess, as if from another world, 'Bisogna
essere convertiti, perchè ci si sta poco in questo mondo: bisogna
avere le lampane accese, perchè non si sa l'ora quando il Signore
chiamerà, ma bisogna che le lampane siano accese coll' olio della
vera fede, e se ve ne manca un solo articolo, se ne manca il
tutto.' There was much more that she said, but it was all in the
same strain. When she said, 'Se ve ne manca un solo articolo, se ne
manca il tutto,' Mrs. Goldsmid was very much displeased, because
she had constantly tried to persuade Mrs. Dawkins that it was _not_
necessary to receive _all_, and the abbess had unconsciously
interfered with the whole line of her argument. Afterwards we asked
the abbess about her convent. They were 'Farnesiani,' she said;
'Sepolti Vivi' was only 'un nome popolare;' but she did not know
why they were called Farnesiani, or who founded their order. She
said the nuns did not dig their graves every day, that also was
only a popular story. When they died, she said, 'they only enjoyed
their graves a short time, like the Cappuccini (a year, I think),
and then, if their bodies were whole when they were dug up, they
were preserved; but if their limbs had separated, they were thrown
away. She said the nuns could speak to their 'parenti stretti' four
times a year, but when I asked if they ever _saw_ them, she laughed
in fits at the very idea, 'ma perchè bisogna vederli?' Mrs.
Goldsmid was once inside the convent, but could not get an order
this year, because, when it had been countersigned by all the other
authorities, old Cardinal Patrizi remembered that she had been in
before, and withdrew it.

"I heard afterwards that generally when the crucifixion at S.
Marcellino is shown, a nun of S. Teresa, with her face covered, and
robed from head to foot in a long blue veil, stands by it
immovable, like a pillar, the whole time."

"_January 27._--Gibson the sculptor died this morning. He was first
taken ill while calling on Mrs. Caldwell. She saw that he could not
speak, and, making him lie down, brought water and restoratives. He
grew better and insisted on walking home. She wished to send for a
carriage, but he would not hear of it, and he was able to walk home
perfectly. That evening a paralytic seizure came. Ever since, for
nineteen days and nights, Miss Dowdeswell had nursed him. He will
be a great loss to Miss Hosmer (the sculptress), whom he regarded
as a daughter. They used to dine together with old Mr. Hay every
Saturday. It was an institution. Mr. Gibson was writing his memoirs
then, and he used to take what he had written and read it aloud to
Mr. Hay on the Saturday evenings. Mr. Hay also dictated memoirs of
his own life to Miss Hosmer, and she wrote them down."

"_January 29._--I had a paper last night begging me to be present
at a meeting about Gibson's funeral, but I could not go. The
greater part of his friends wished for a regular funeral procession
on foot through the streets, but this was overruled by Colonel
Caldwell and others. A guard of honour, offered by the French
general, was however accepted. The body lay for some hours in the
little chapel at the cemetery, the cross of the Legion of Honour
fixed upon the coffin. It was brought to the grave with muffled
drums, all the artists following. Many ladies who had known and
loved him were crying bitterly, and there was an immense attendance
of men. The day before he died there was a temporary rally, and
those with him hoped for his life. It was during this time that the
telegraph of inquiry from the Queen came, and Gibson was able to
receive pleasure from it, and held it in his hand for an hour.

"Gibson--'Don Giovanni,' as his friends called him--had a quaint
dry humour which was all his own. He used to tell how a famous
art-critic, whose name must not be mentioned, came to his studio to
visit his newly-born statue of Bacchus. 'Now pray criticise it as
much as you like,' said the great sculptor. 'Well, since you ask me
to find fault,' said the critic, 'I think perhaps there is
something not quite right about the left leg.'--'About the leg!
that is rather a wide expression,' said Gibson; 'but about what
part of the leg?'--'Well, just here, about the bone of the
leg.'--'Well,' said Gibson, 'I am relieved that _that_ is the fault
you have to find, for the bone of the leg is on the other side!'

"Gibson used to relate with great gusto something which happened to
him when he was travelling by diligence before the time of
railways. He had got as far as the Mont Cenis, and, while crossing
it, entered into conversation with his fellow-traveller--an
Englishman, not an American. Gibson asked where he had been, and he
mentioned several places, and then said, 'There was one town I saw
which I thought curious, the name of which I cannot for the life of
me remember, but I know it began with an R.'--'Was it Ronciglione,'
said Gibson, 'or perhaps Radicofani?' thinking of all the
unimportant places beginning with R. 'No, no; it was a much shorter
name--a one-syllable name. I remember we entered it by a gate near
a very big church with lots of pillars in front of it, and there
was a sort of square with two fountains.'--'You cannot possibly
mean Rome?'--'Oh yes, Rome--that _was_ the name of the place.'"

"_February 4._--I spent yesterday evening with the Henry
Feildens.[310] Mrs. Feilden told me that in her girlhood her family
went to the Isle of Wight and rented St. Boniface House, between
Bonchurch and Ventnor. She slept in a room on the first floor with
her sister Ghita: the French governess and her sister Cha slept in
the next room, the English governess above. If they talked in bed
they were always punished by the English governess, who could not
bear them; so they never spoke except in a whisper. One night, when
they were in bed, with the curtains closely drawn, the door was
suddenly burst open with a bang, and something rushed into the room
and began to whisk about in it, making great draught and
disturbance. They were not frightened, but very angry, thinking
some one was playing them a trick. But immediately the curtains
were drawn aside and whisked up over their heads, and one by one
all the bed-clothes were dragged away from them, though when they
stretched out their hands they could feel nothing. First the
counterpane went, then the blankets, then the sheet, then the
pillows, and lastly the lower sheet was drawn away from _under_
them. When it came to this she (Ellinor Hornby) exclaimed, 'I can
bear this no longer,' and she and her sister both jumped out of bed
at the foot, which was the side nearest the door. As they jumped
out, they felt the mattress graze against their legs, as it also
was dragged off the bed. Ghita Hornby rushed into the next room to
call the French governess, while Ellinor screamed for assistance,
holding the door of their room tightly on the outside, fully
believing that somebody would be found in the room. The English
governess and the servants, roused by the noise, now rushed
downstairs, and the door was opened. The room was perfectly still
and there was no one there. It was all tidied. The curtains were
carefully rolled, and tied up above the head of the bed: the sheets
and counterpane were neatly folded up in squares and laid in the
three corners of the room: the mattress was reared against the wall
under the window: the blanket was in the fireplace. Both the
governesses protested that the girls must have done it themselves
in their sleep, but nothing would induce them to return to the
room, and they were surprised the next morning, when they expected
a scolding from their mother, to find that she quietly assented to
the room being shut up. Many years after Mrs. Hornby met the lady
to whom the property belonged, and after questioning her about what
had happened to her family, the lady told her that the same thing
had often happened to others, and that the house was now shut up
and could never be let, because it was haunted. A murder by a lady
of her child was committed in that room, and she occasionally
appeared; but more frequently only the noise and movement of the
furniture occurred, and sometimes that took place in the adjoining
room also. St. Boniface House is mentioned as haunted in the
guide-books of the Isle of Wight."

"_Feb. 12._--Went in the morning with the Feildens to S. Maria in
Monticelli--a small church near the Ghetto. The church is not
generally open, and we had to ring at the door of the priest's
lodgings to get in: he let us into the church by a private passage.
In the right aisle is the famous picture over an altar. It is a
Christ with the eyes almost closed, weighed down by pain and
sorrow. The Feildens knelt before it, and in a very few minutes
they both declared that they saw its eyes open and close again.
From the front of the picture and on the right side of it, though I
looked fixedly at it, I could see nothing, but after I had looked
for a long time from the left side, I seemed to see the eyes
languidly close altogether, as if the figure were sinking
unconsciously into a fast sleep.

"In the case of this picture, Pope Pius IX. has turned Protestant,
and, disapproving of the notice it attracted, after it was first
observed to move its eyes in 1859, he had it privately removed from
the church, and it was kept shut up for some years. Two years ago
it was supposed that people had forgotten all about it, and it was
quietly brought back to the church in the night. It has frequently
been seen to move the eyes since, but it has not been generally
shown. The sacristan said it was a '_regalo_' made to the church at
its foundation, and none knew who the artist was.

"In the afternoon I was in St. Peter's with Miss Buchanan when the
famous Brother Ignatius[311] came in. He led 'the Infant Samuel' by
the hand, and a lay brother followed. He has come to Rome for his
health, and has brought with him a sister (Sister Ambrogia) and the
lay brother to wash and look after the Infant Samuel. He found the
'Infant' as a baby on the altar at Norwich, and vowed him at once
to the service of the Temple, dressed him in a little habit, and
determined that he should never speak to a woman as long as he
lived. The last is extremely hard upon Sister Ambrogia, who does
not go sight-seeing with her companions, and having a very dull
time of it, would be exceedingly glad to play with the little
rosy-cheeked creature. The Infant is now four years old, and is
dressed in a white frock and cowl like a little Carthusian, and
went pattering along the church in the funniest way by the side of
the stately Brother Ignatius. He held the Infant up in his arms to
kiss St. Peter's toe, and then rubbed its forehead against his
foot, and did the same for himself, and then they both prostrated
themselves before the principal shrine, with the lay brother behind
them, and afterwards at the side altars, the Infant of course
exciting great attention and amusement amongst the canons and
priests of the church. A lady acquaintance of ours went to see
Brother Ignatius and begged to talk to the Infant. This was
declared to be impossible, the Infant was never to be allowed to
speak to a woman, but she might be in the same room with the Infant
if she pleased, and Brother Ignatius would then himself put any
questions she wished. She asked who its father and mother were, and
the Infant replied, 'I am the child of Jesus Christ and of the
Blessed Virgin and of the holy St. Benedict.' She then asked if it
liked being at Rome, 'Yes,' it said, 'I like being at Rome, for it
is the city of the holy saints and martyrs and of the blessed
Apostles Peter and Paul.' When we saw the party, they were just
come from the Pope, who told Brother Ignatius to remember that a
habit could not make a monk.

"Miss Dowdeswell has been to see us, and given us a terrible
account of the misapplication of the Roman charities. She says the
people would rather beg, or even really die of want, than go into
most of the institutions--that the so-called soup is little more
than water, and that the inmates are really starved, besides which
the dirt and vermin are quite disgusting. The best hospital is that
of the 'Buon Fratelli,' where the people who obtain entrance are
kindly treated, but it is exceedingly difficult to get admittance,
and the hospital authorities will always say it is full, scarcely
ever taking in more than nine patients, though there is
accommodation for thirty, and each person admitted has to pay ten
scudi. At S. Michele, which is enormously endowed, and which
professes to be free, the patient is not only compelled to have a
complete outfit of bedding and everything else she requires, but
must pay three scudi a month for her maintenance as long as she
remains, yet for this will not have what she could procure for the
same sum elsewhere."

"_Feb. 15._--Went with the Eyres to Benzoni's studio. Amongst many
other statues was a fine group of a venerable old man raising a
little half-naked boy out of a gutter. 'Ecco il mio benefattore,'
said Benzoni. It was the likeness of Conte Luigi Taddini of Crema,
who first recognised the genius of Benzoni when making clay images
in the puddles by the wayside, and sent him to Rome at his own
expense for education. Count Taddini died six years after, but, in
the height of his fame, Benzoni has made this group as a voluntary
thank-offering and presented it to the family of his benefactor in
Crema. He was only twelve years old when adopted by Taddini.

"A curious instance of presentiment happened yesterday. Some
charitable ladies, especially Mrs. McClintock,[312] had been
getting up a raffle for a picture of the poor artist Coleman, whom
they believed to be starving. The tickets cost five scudi apiece,
and were drawn yesterday. Just at the last moment Mrs. Keppel, at
the Pension Anglaise, had a presentiment that 77 would be the lucky
number, and she sent to tell Mrs. McClintock that if she could have
77 she would take it, but if not, she would not take any number at
all. Seventy-seven happened to be Mrs. McClintock's own number.
However, she said that rather than Mrs. Keppel should take none,
she would give it up to her and take another. Mrs. Keppel took 77
and she got the picture."

"_Feb. 24, 1866._--The other day little Nicole Dolgorouki came in
to dinner with a pencil in his hand. The Princess said, 'Little
boys should not sit at dinner with pencils in their hands;' upon
which the child of eight years old coolly replied, 'L'artiste ne
quitte jamais son crayon!'

"When the Mother and Lea were both ill last week, our Italian
servants Clementina and (her daughter) Louisa groaned incessantly;
and when Clementina was taken ill on the following night, Louisa
gave up all hope at once, and sent for her other children to take
leave of her. This depression of spirits has gone on ever since
Christmas, and it turns out now that they think a terrible omen has
come to the house. No omen is worse than an upset of oil, but, if
this occurs on Christmas Eve, it is absolutely fatal, and on
Christmas Eve my mother upset her little table with the great
moderator lamp upon it. The oil was spilt all over her gown and the
lamp broken to pieces on the floor, with great cries of 'O
santissimo diavolo' from the servants. 'Only one thing can save us
now,' says Louisa; 'if Providence would mercifully permit that some
one should break a bottle of wine here by accident, that would
bring back luck to the house, but nothing else can.'

"The Borgheses have had a magnificent fancy ball. Young Bolognetti
Cenci borrowed the armour of Julius II. from the Pope for the
occasion, and young Corsini that of Cardinal de Bourbon. The
Duchess Fiano went in the costume of the first Empire, terribly
improper in these days, and another lady went as a nymph just
emerged from a fountain, and naturally clothed as little as
possible. The Princess Borghese[313] was dreadfully shocked, but
she only said, 'I fear, Madame, that you must be feeling horribly
cold.'

"When the French ambassador sent to the Pope to desire that he
would send away the Court of Naples, the Pope said he must decline
to give up the parental prerogative which had always belonged to
the Popes, of giving shelter to unfortunate princes of other
nations, of whatever degree or nation they might be, and 'of this,'
he added pointedly, 'the Bonapartes are a striking example.' The
French ambassador had the bad taste to go on to the Palazzo
Farnese, and, after condoling with the King of Naples[314] upon
what he had heard of his great poverty, said, 'If your Majesty
would engage at once to leave Rome, I on my part would promise to
do my best endeavours with my Government to obtain the restoration
of at least a part of your Majesty's fortune.' The King coldly
replied, 'Sir, I have heard that in all ages great and good men
have ended their days in obscurity and poverty, and it can be no
source of dread to me that I may be numbered amongst them.'

"The Queen-mother of Naples[315] is still very rich, but is now a
mere nurse to her large family, with some of whom she is to be
seen--'gran' bel' pezzo di donna'--driving every day. When the King
returned from Caieta, she was still at the Quirinal, and went down
to the Piazza Monte Cavallo to receive him; but with him and the
Queen came her own eldest son, and, before noticing her sovereign,
she rushed to embrace her child, saying, 'Adesso, son pagato a
tutto.'

"One sees the Queen of Naples[316] daily walking with her sister
Countess Trani[317] near the Porta Angelica, or threading the
carriages in the Piazza di Spagna, where the coachmen never take
off their hats, and even crack their whips as she passes. She wears
a straw hat, a plain violet linsey-woolsey dress, and generally
leads a large deerhound by a string. She is perfectly lovely.

"The great Mother, Maria de Matthias,[318] has lately come down
from her mountains of Acuto to visit my sister, who has arrived in
Rome, and the confessor of the Venerable Anna Maria Taigi has also
visited her. I have read the life of this saint, and have never
found out any possible excuse for her being canonised, unless that
she married her husband because he was a good man, though he was
'ruvido di maniere e grossolano.'

"At dinner at Mr. Brooke's, I met the quaint and clever Mrs.
Payne, Madame d'Arblay's niece. She said that England had an honest
bad climate and Rome a dishonest good one.

"Count Bolognetti Cenci is marvellously handsome, face and figure
alike perfect. Some people maintain that Don Onorato Caiëtani is
equally handsome. He has the extraordinary plume of white hair
which is hereditary in the Caiëtani family. His father, the Duke of
Sermoneta, said the other day, with some pardonable pride, 'Our
ancestors were reigning sovereigns (in Tuscany) long before the
Pope had any temporal power.'

"We have been to the Villa Doria to pick 'Widowed Iris,' which the
Italians call 'I tre Chiodi del Nostro Signore,'--the three nails
of our Saviour's cross.

"My sister declares that when Madame Barrère, late superior of the
Order of the Sacré Cœur, was in her great old age, a Catholic
lady who was married to a Protestant came to her and implored her
to promise that, as soon as she entered heaven, her first petition
should be for her husband that he might be a Catholic. Soon after
this the Protestant husband was taken alarmingly ill, but gave his
wife no hope that he would change his religion; yet, to her great
surprise, when he was dying he bade her send for a priest. She
considered this at first as a result of delirium, but he insisted
upon the priest coming, and, rallying soon after, was received into
the Roman Catholic Church. In a few days came the news of the death
of Madame Barrère, and on inquiry it was found that the moment of
her death and that of the Protestant sending for the priest exactly
coincided."

"_March 13._--The Roman princes are generally enormously rich.
Tortonia is said to have an income which gives him 7000 scudi
(£1200) a day. He is very charitable, and gives a great many
pensions of a scudo a day to poor individuals of the _mezzoceto_
class. The Chigis used to be immensely rich, but were ruined by old
Princess Chigi, who gambled away everything she could get hold of.
When one of her sons was to be made a Monsignore, a collection was
arranged amongst the friends of the family to pay the expenses, but
they imprudently left the rouleaux of money on the chimney-piece,
where the old Princess spied them, and snapping them up,
_gioccolare_-d them all away. The Massimi are rich, but the old
Prince[319] is very miserly. The other day he told his cook that he
was going to give a supper, but that it must not cost more than
fifteen baiocchi a head, and that he must give minestra. The cook
said it was utterly impossible, but the Prince declared he did not
care in the least about 'possible,' only it must be done. The
supper came off, and the guests had minestra. The next day the
Prince said to his cook, 'Well, now, you see you could do it
perfectly well; what was the use of making such a fuss about it?'
The cook said 'Yes, I _did_ it, but would you like to know where I
got the bones from that made the soup?' The Prince shrugged his
shoulders and said, 'Oh no, I don't want in the least to know about
that; so long as you do your suppers for my price, you may get your
bones wherever you like.' The cook told his friends afterwards that
he got them at the Immondezzajo!"

"_March 25._--Last January my sister wanted to engage a new maid.
The mistress of a famous flower shop at Paris recommended her
present maid, 'Madame Victorine,' who came to the hotel to see
Esmeralda, who was delighted with her, only thinking her too good
for the place. The new maid only made two stipulations: one was
that she should always be called _Madame_ Victorine; the other,
that she should not be expected to have her meals with the other
servants. My sister said that as to the first stipulation, there
would be no difficulty at all; that she had always called her
mother's maid 'Madame Victoire,' and that she could have no
objection to calling her Madame Victorine; but that as to the
second stipulation, though she insisted upon nothing, and though
Madame Victorine would be perfectly free to take her food away and
eat it wherever she pleased, yet she did not advise her to make any
difficulty of this kind, as they were going to Italy, where the
servants have jealous natures, and would be peculiarly liable to
resent anything of the sort. Upon this Madame Victorine waived her
second stipulation.

"Esmeralda was surprised, when Madame Victorine came to her, to
find how well she had been educated and little traces of her having
belonged to a higher position several times appeared by accident,
upon which occasions Madame Victorine would colour deeply and try
to hide what she had said. Thus, once she was betrayed into saying,
'I managed in that way with my servants;' and once in the railway,
'I did so when I was travelling with my son.' My sister observed
not only that all her dresses were of the best silk though
perfectly plain, but that all her cuffs, collars, and handkerchiefs
were of the very best and finest material. But the oddest
circumstance was, that once when Esmeralda was going to seal a
letter, having no seal about her, she asked Madame Victorine if she
had one. Madame Victorine lent her one, and then, colouring
violently, as if she remembered something, tried to snatch it away,
but Esmeralda had already pressed it down, and saw on the
impression a coronet and a cipher. When my sister first told Madame
Victorine that she was too good for the place, she seemed greatly
agitated and exclaimed, 'Oh don't, don't change your mind, do take
me: I will consent to do anything, only do take me.'

"One day since they have been at Palazzo Parisani, Esmeralda was
looking for something amongst her music. 'You will find it in such
an opera,' said Madame Victorine. 'Why, do you play also?' said
Esmeralda, much surprised. 'Yes,' said Madame Victorine, colouring
deeply. 'Then will you play to me?' said my sister. 'Oh no, no,'
said Madame Victorine, trembling all over. 'Then I hope you will
play sometimes when I am out,' said Esmeralda, and this Madame
Victorine said she would do, and it seemed to please her very
much."[320]

"_March 26._--The Santa Croce are perhaps really the oldest family
in Rome. They claim descent from Valerius Publicola, and the
spirit of his life, that which characterised 'the good house that
loved the people well,' still remains in the family. The other day
Donna Vincenza Santa Croce was speaking of the Trinità de'
Monti,[321] and the system of education there, and she said, 'I do
so dislike those nuns: they are so worldly: they do so give in to
rank, for when a girl of one of the great noble houses is there,
they will make all the other girls stand up when she comes into a
room! But this, you know, is not right, for it is only goodness and
talent, not rank, that ought to make people esteemed in the world.'
And was not this the spirit of Valerius Publicola speaking through
his descendant?"

"_March 27._--Last Sunday (Palm Sunday) was the last day of the
'mission' which the Pope had appointed in the hope of warding off
both the cholera and the destruction of his own power. All the week
processions had paraded the streets and monks had preached in the
piazzas, rousing the feelings of the people in behalf of the Holy
Father, and last Sunday it all came to a close. Giacinta, 'the
Saint of St. Peter's,' came to tell my sister about the scene at
Santo Spirito, where she was. A Passionist Father took a real crown
of thorns and pressed it upon his head three times, till the thorns
sank deep into the flesh, and the blood ran in streams down his
face and over his dress. The people cried and sobbed convulsively,
and were excited to frenzy when he afterwards took a 'disciplina'
and began violently to scourge himself before all the congregation.
One man sobbed and screamed so violently that he was dragged out by
the carabinieri. Whilst the feelings of the people were thus
wrought up, the father besought and commanded them to deliver up
all books they possessed which were mentioned in the Index,
tambourines and things used in dancing the saltarella, and all
weapons,--and all through that afternoon they kept pouring in by
hundreds, men bringing their books, and women their tambourines,
and many their knives and pistols, which were piled up into a great
heap in the courtyard of the Santo Spirito and set on fire. It was
a huge bonfire, which burnt quite late into the evening, and whilst
it burnt, more people were perpetually arriving and throwing on
their books and other things, just as in the old days of Florence
under the influence of Savonarola.

"Last Thursday at the Caravità, the doors of the church were
'closed at one hour of the day' (_i.e._, after Ave Maria), only men
being admitted, and when they were fast, scourges were distributed,
the lights all put out, and every one began to scourge both
themselves and their neighbours, any one who had ventured to remain
in the church without using a 'disciplina' being the more
vigorously scourged by the others. At such times all is soon a
scene of the wildest confusion, and shrieks and groans are heard on
all sides. Some poor creatures try to escape by clinging to the
pillars of the galleries, others fly screaming through the church
with their scourgers pursuing them like demons.

"They say that the reason why St. Joseph's day was so much kept
this year is that the Pope is preparing the public mind to receive
a dogma of the Immaculate Conception of St. Joseph--perhaps to be
promulgated next year: St. Anne is to be reserved to another time."

"_April 1, Easter Sunday._--Passion Week has been very odd and
interesting, but not reverent. It was very curious to see how--as
Mrs. Goldsmid says, 'the Church always anticipates,' so that the
Saviour, personified by the Sacrament, is laid in the tomb long
before the hour of His death, and Thursday, not Saturday, is the
day upon which all the faithful go about to visit the
sepulchres.[322] My sister decorated that of S. Claudio with
flowers and her great worked carpet. The Mother recalls John
Bunyan's confession of faith--

'Blest cross, blest sepulchre,--blest rather He,
The Man that there was put to shame for me.'

"We went to the Benediction in the Piazza S. Pietro--a glorious
blue sky and burning sunshine, and the vast crowd making the whole
scene very grand, especially at the moment when the Pope stretched
out his arms, and, hovering over the crimson balcony like a great
white albatross, gave his blessing to all the world. Surely nothing
is finer than that wonderful voice of Pius IX., which, without ever
losing its tone of indescribable solemnity, yet vibrates to the
farthest corners of the immense piazza.

"Afterwards we went to S. Andrea della Valle to see the 'sepolcro;'
but far more worth seeing was a single ray of light streaming in
through a narrow slit in one of the dark blinds, and making a
glistening pool of gold upon the black pavement.

"On Good Friday, after the English service, we went to Santo
Spirito in Borgo, where, after waiting an hour and a half, seeing
nothing but the curiously ragged congregation, we found that the
'Tre Ore' was to be preached in broad Trasteverino, of which we
could not understand a word. We went into St. Peter's, which was in
a state of widowhood, no bells, no clock, no holy water, no
ornaments on any of the altars, no lamps burning at the shrine, and
all because the Sacrament was no longer present. We went again in
the afternoon, when the whole building was thickly crowded from end
to end. I stood upon the ledge of one of the pillars and watched
two graceful ladies and a gentlemanly-looking man in black
buffetted in the crowd below me: they were the King and Queen of
Naples and the Countess Trani. Some zealous Bourbonists kissed
their hands at risk of being trampled on.

"To-day St. Peter's and all the other churches have come to life
again: the Sacrament has been restored: the bells have rung: and
fire and water have been re-blessed for the year to come. All
private Catholic houses too have had their blessings. A priest and
a boy surprised Lea by coming in here and blessing everything, and
she found them asperging the Mother's bed with holy water, all at
the desire of our fellowlodger, Mr. Monteith of Carstairs, whom
Louisa described as dropping gold pieces into their water-vessel.
At Palazzo Parisani, as well as below us, a 'colazione' was set
out, with a great cake, eggs, &c., and after being blessed was
given away.

"Antonelli has just been made a priest, in the vague idea, I
suppose, that it might some day be convenient to raise him to the
papacy.

"Mr. Perry Williams, the artist, thought the old woman who cleans
out his studio looked dreadfully ill the other day, and said, 'You
look very bad, what on earth is the matter with you?'--'Cosa vuole,
Signore, ho avuto una digestione tutta la notte.'"

"_April 3._--This morning poor little Miss Joyce lay in a chapelle
ardente at S. Andrea delle Fratte, and all the English Catholics,
with the Borgheses and Dorias, who were her cousins, attended the
requiem mass. She was only alarmingly ill for thirty-six hours, of
brain fever, caused by a dose of twenty-five grains of quinine
after typhus, which she had brought back from Naples. She had been
the gayest of the gay all the season, and a week ago was acting in
tableaux and singing at Mrs. Cholmondeley's party. It is said that
at least one young lady is killed every year by being taken to
Naples when she is overdone by the balls and excitement here.

"My sister gave a small party yesterday evening. The Duke and
Duchess Sora were there. The Duchess has a wonderfully charming
expression. K., a young Tractarian, was introduced to her. She said
afterwards, 'J'ai pensé longtemps qu'il était catholique, et puis
j'ai tourné, j'ai tourné, j'ai tourné, et voilà qu'il était
protestant!'"

"_April 8._--On Thursday, at the Monteiths', I met Lady Herries,
Mrs. Montgomery, my sister, and many other Catholics. They were all
assembled before dinner to receive Cardinal de Reisach, a very
striking-looking old man, whose white hair and brilliant scarlet
robes made a splendid effect of colour.

"On Friday, at 2 P.M., I joined the Feildens to go to the Palazzo
Farnese. Mrs. F. wore a high grey dress without a bonnet: little
Helen was in black velvet, with all her pretty hair flowing over
her shoulders; Mr. Robartes, Mr. Feilden, and I wore evening dress.
The whole way in the carriage my companions declared they felt more
terrified than if they were going to a dentist, as bad as if they
were going to have their legs taken off. We drove into the
courtyard of the Farnese and to the foot of the staircase. Several
other people were just coming down. We were shown through one long
gallery after another to a small salon furnished with green, where
the Duca della Regina and an old lady received us. Soon the door
was opened at the side, and in very distinct tones the Duke
mentioned our names. Just within the door stood Francis II. He
looked grave and sad, and his forehead seemed to work convulsively
at moments; still I thought him handsome. The Queen sat on a sofa
at the other side of the room. She was in a plain black mourning
dress with some black lace in her hair (for Queen Marie Amelie, her
husband's aunt). The room was a boudoir, hung round with family
portraits. There was a beautiful miniature of the Queen on the
table near which I sat.

"I went up at once to the King and made as if I would kiss his
hand, but he shook mine warmly and made me sit in an arm-chair
between him and the Queen. Mrs. Feilden in the meantime had gone
direct to the Queen, who seated her by her side upon the sofa, and
taking little Helen on her lap, kissed her tenderly, and said she
remembered her, having often seen her before. I said, 'Ce petit
enfant a tant de dévouement pour sa Majesté la Reine, qu'elle va
tous les jours à la Place d'Espagne seulement pour avoir le bonheur
de voir sa Majesté quand elle passe.' The Queen's eyes filled with
tears, and she hid her face in Helen's hair, which she kissed and
stroked, saying, 'Oh mon cher enfant, mon cher petit enfant!'

"The King then said something about the great rains we had
suffered. I mentioned the prophecy if it rained on the 4th April--

'Quattro di brillante,
Quaranta di durante,'

and the King said that in Naples there was a superstition of the
same kind as that of our St. Swithin in England.

"As another set of people came in, we rose to go, kissing the
Queen's hand, except Helen, who kissed her face. The King[323]
shook hands and walked with us to the door, expressing a wish that
we should return to Rome; and replying, when I said how much my
mother benefited by the climate here, that Madame my mother ought
always to make the most of whatever climate suited her health and
remain in it. In the anteroom the Duca della Regina and the old
lady were waiting to see Helen again.

"To-day Mrs. Ramsay asked me the difference between the Italian
words _mezzo-caldo_ and _semi-freddo_. One would think they were
the same, but _mezzo-caldo_ is hot punch and _semi-freddo_ is cold
cream!"

I have put in these extracts from my journal, as they describe a state of things at Rome which seemed then as if it would last for ever, but which is utterly swept away now and rapidly passing into oblivion. The English society was as frivolous then as it is now, but much more primitive. It was the custom in those days, when any one gave a larger party than usual, to ask Mrs. Miller, a respectable old Anglo-German baker who lived in the Via della Croce, to make tea and manage the refreshments, and one knew whether the party that one was invited to was going to be a large or small one by looking to see if there was "To meet Mrs. Miller" in the corner.

]

Our days were for the most part spent in drawing, and many were the delightful hours we passed in the Villa Negroni, which has now entirely disappeared, in spite of its endless historic associations, or in the desolate and beautiful _vigne_ of the Esquiline, which have also been destroyed since the Sardinian occupation of Rome. Indeed, those who visit Rome now that it is a very squalid modern city, can have no idea of the wealth and glory of picturesqueness which adorned its every corner before 1870, or of how romantic were the passing figures--the crimson Cardinals; the venerable generals of religious orders with their flowing white beards; the endless monks and nuns; the pifferari with their pipes; the peasant women from Cori and Arpino and Subiaco, with their great gold earrings, coral necklaces, and snowy head-dresses; the contadini in their sheep-skins and goat-skins; the handsome stalwart Guardia Nobile in splendid tight-fitting uniforms; and above all, the grand figure and beneficent face of Pius IX. so frequently passing, seated in his glass coach, in his snow-white robes, with the stoic self-estimation of the Popes, but with his own kindly smile and his fingers constantly raised in benediction.

]

The heat was very great before we left Rome in April. We went first to Narni, where we stayed several days in a very primitive lodging, with the smallest possible amount of furniture, and nothing to eat except cold goat and rosemary, but in a glorious situation on the terrace which overlooks the deep rift of the Nar, clothed everywhere with ilex, box, and arbutus; and we spent long hours drawing the two grand old bridges--Roman and Mediæval--which stride across the river, even Lea being stimulated by the intense beauty to a trial of her artistic powers, and making a very creditable performance of the two grand cypresses on the slope of the hill, which have disappeared under the Sardinian rule.

]

We spent a happy day at Spoleto, with its splendid ilex woods. Here my friends Kilcoursie[326] and Pearson joined us, and I went with them to spend the morning at the Temple of the Clitumnus, and returned just too late for the train we had intended to leave by. It is very characteristic of the slowness of those early days of Italian railways, that though we did not order our carriage till some time after the train was gone, we reached Perugia by road, in spite of the steep hill to be climbed, before the train which we were to have taken arrived on the railway. This evening's drive (April 23) is one of the Italian journeys I look back upon with greatest pleasure, the going onwards through the rich plain of vines and almonds and olives, and all the blaze of spring tulips and gladioli, and the stopping to buy the splendid oranges from the piles which lay in the little market under the old cathedral of Foligno; then seeing the sky turn opal behind the hills, and deepen in colour through a conflagration of amber, and orange, and crimson, of which the luminousness was never lost, though everything else disappeared into one dense shadow, and the great cypresses on the mountain edges were only dark spires engraven upon the sky. How many such evenings have we spent, ever moving onwards at that stately smooth _vetturino_ pace--and silent, Mother absorbed in her heavenly, I in my earthly contemplations; dear Lea, tired by her long day, often sleeping opposite to us against the hand-bags.

We spent several days in Florence in 1866, when the streets were already placarded with such advertisements as 'I Menzogne di Genese, o l'Impostatura di Mosé'--typical of the change of Government. I paid several visits to the Comtesse d'Usedom (the Olympia Malcolm of my childhood), who was more extraordinary than ever. When I went to luncheon with her in the Villa Capponi, she talked incessantly for three hours, chiefly of spirits.

]

"I believe in them," she said, "of course I do. Why, haven't I
_heard_ them?" (with a perfect yell). "Why, I've seen a child whom
we knew most intimately who was perfectly possessed by
spirits--evil spirits, I mean. There is nothing efficacious
against _that_ kind but prayer and the crucifix. Why, the poor
little thing used to struggle for hours. It used to describe the
devils it saw. They were of different kinds. Sometimes it would
say, 'Oh, it's only one of the innocent blackies,' and then it
would shriek when it thought it saw a red devil come. It was the
red devils that did all the mischief. All the best physicians were
called in, but they all said the case was quite beyond them. The
possession sometimes came on twice in a day. It would end by the
child gasping a great sigh, as if at that moment the evil spirit
went out of it, and then quite calmly it would open its eyes,
wonder where it was, and remember nothing of what had happened. The
doctors urged that the child should not be kept quiet, but taken
abroad and amused, and mama writes me word now that it is quite
well.

"I never saw the ghosts at Rugen," said Madame von Usedom, "but
there is one of Usedom's houses there which I have refused ever to
go to again, for I have heard them there often. The lady in the
room with me saw them too--she saw three white sisters pulling her
husband out of his grave.

"We have an old lady in our family, a relation of Usedom's, who has
that wonderful power of second-sight.... When we left you at
Bamberg (in 1853), we went to Berlin, and there we saw Usedom's
relation, who told me that I was going to have a son. She 'saw it,'
she said. _Saw it!_ why, she saw it as plain as daylight: I was
going to have a son: Usedom's first wife had brought him none, and
I was going to give him one.

"When I left Berlin, we went to Rugen, but I was to return to
Berlin, where my son was to be born. Well, about three weeks before
my confinement was expected, the old lady sent for a relation of
Usedom's, who was in Berlin, and said, 'Have you heard anything of
Olympia?'--'Yes,' he said, 'I heard from Usedom yesterday, and she
is going on as well as possible, and will be here in a few
days.'--'No,' said the old lady, 'she will not, for the child is
dead. Yesterday, as I was sitting here, three angels passed through
my room with a little child in their arms, and the face of the
child was so exactly like Usedom's, that I know that the child is
born and that it is in heaven.' And so it was. I had a bad fall in
Rugen, which we thought nothing of at the time. I had so much
strength and courage that it did not seem to affect me; but a week
after my boy was born--dead--killed by that fall, and the image,
oh! the very image of Usedom."

From Florence we went to Bellagio on the Lago di Como, and spent a week of glorious weather amid beautiful flowers with nightingales singing in the trees all day and night. Many of our Roman friends joined us, and we passed pleasant days together in the garden walks and in short excursions to the neighbouring villas. When we left Bellagio, the two Misses Hawker, often our companions in Rome, accompanied us. We ascended the Splugen from Chiavenna in pitch darkness, till, about 4 A.M., the diligence entered upon the snow cuttings, and we proceeded for some time between walls of snow, often fifteen feet high. At last we stopped altogether, and in a spot where there was no refuge whatever from the ferocious ice-laden wind. Meantime sledges were prepared, being small open carts without wheels, which just held two persons each: my mother and I were in the second, Lea and an Italian in the third, and the Hawkers in the fourth: we had no man with our sledge. The sledges started in procession, the horses stumbling over the ledges in the snow, from which we bounded up and down. At last the path began to wind along the edge of a terrific precipice, where nothing but a slight edging of fresh snow separated one from the abyss. Where this narrow path turned it was truly horrible. Then came a tunnel festooned with long icicles; then a fearful descent down a snow-drift almost perpendicularly over the side of the mountain, the horses sliding on all fours, and the sledges crashing and bounding from one hard piece of snow to another; all this while the wind blew furiously, and the other sledges behind seemed constantly coming upon us. Certainly I never remember anything more appalling.