It was on the 11th September, 1832, that, in company with my mother, my sister Caddy, and eldest brother Courtenay, I started for Turin, where Charles had preceded us. It would be difficult to imagine the delightful anticipations I had formed of that journey to the South, and yet, like all earthly pleasures, they had a drawback; for, on that blissful morning, I shed many tears at parting from my youngest brother Cavendish, as he stood with a great friend of ours at the door of our apartments in Hampton Court Palace to wish us God-speed.

Arrangements had been made that we were to be met at Boulogne by a voiturier with a team of horses, which he would attach to our heavy berline, and therein convey us to Turin, via the Jura and Switzerland. We found him a rough and ready individual, with a strong will of his own, and a great inclination to overrule the opinions of others, but never forgetting an especial deference pour cette bonne Miladi. We was a worthy man, but headstrong by nature, and the only name we ever knew him by was Henri Hutin, which I always believe to have been a nom de guerre, or rather de route. We had fitted up our carriage very comfortably with a small table in the middle, forming a cupboard, which contained materials for tea-making, a luncheon basket, and other luxuries. We had each of us layers of brown holland packets for our own especial books, writing, and drawing materials.

The front box, on which we took it by turns to take an airing and see the country, had also receptacles for different treasures of travel, while the rumble behind was occupied by the faithful Henry. In this manner we proceeded leisurely, but comfortably, on our roads, pausing in the middle of the day to bait our horses and to feed ourselves, and sleeping at little wayside inns of most unpromising exterior, where we were always sure, in passing through France at least, of an appetising supper and snow-white beds. I often wonder if any other girl in the world ever enjoyed herself so much, or revelled so completely in the beauty of the scenery, the novelty of every incident of travel or the delights of the gay and brilliant society with which we mixed in all the principal Italian towns.

We found Charles happily established in the post of attachÉ at the English Legation, with his friends Sir Augustus and Lady Albinia Foster, who treated him with all the kindness and consideration which they bestowed on their own sons. After spending what our American friends call “a good time,” at Turin, we went to Genoa, that proud and beautiful city, where we remained until the following summer. We became acquainted with all the leading members of society, the names of most of whom recall many an interesting page in the annals of Genoese history, such as Pallavicini, Durazzo, Balbi, Doria, and the like; but the family with whom we were most intimate, and on whose memory I dwell with most affection, was that of the Marchesa Brignole, her sister and her two daughters, with the latter of whom I had constant intercourse. The eldest was married, and at the house of Madame Ferrai (the late Marchesa Galliera) we used to spend the most delightful evenings; it was here also I became acquainted with Lord and Lady Holland,^[30] then newly married, both of whom were most agreeable companions.

Genoa does not afford much scope or variety for those who love riding, but where there was a horse, and a side-saddle to put on it, my sister and I could not be kept from mounting, and by degrees most of the Genoese gentlemen whom we met in society joined our riding parties, until our cavalcade lengthened out to enormous proportions, and many were the pleasant gallops we had along the coast. Alas! that most of those gay cavaliers have long since been numbered with the dead. One in particular I recall with sincere affection. He was the Chevalier Pietro de Boyl, brother of the Marchese of the same name. He was a Sardinian by birth, and at this time a Captain in the Engineers. He was remarkable for his extreme beauty and high courage, which he proved afterwards by distinguishing himself greatly as A.D.C. to King Charles Albert in several battles. He was subsequently Governor of his native island of Sardinia, but, at the time of which I am speaking, he was merely a young officer, one of my favourite partners, and a constant visitor at our house. He sang well to the guitar, and his other charms were enhanced in my eyes by his devotion to cara miladi, as he alway called my dear mother.

It was during our sojourn at Genoa that King William IV. bestowed on my father the Guelphic and Hanoverian Order, which his Majesty was very fond of dispensing. When the news of the decoration reached Genoa, we received visits of congratulation from all our friends, and at the same time letters and notes offering sympathy to my mother upon what was considered a very questionable elevation.

How grieved I was when the time came to leave beautiful Genoa! The Carnival had been so enjoyable, the fun so “fast and furious,” and the opera season so delightful. We had been almost every night to the theatre, having a box placed at our disposal by one or other of our Genoese friends. Visits were paid from one box to another by all the gentlemen of our acquaintance, and the society thus enjoyed was on an easy and agreeable footing. The prima donna at the time I am speaking of was, strange as it may appear, a German by birth, and Madame Ungher was, in my opinion, the finest actress I have ever seen, scarcely excepting Rachel or Ristori. She was not remarkable for beauty, but had a noble presence, was graceful in her movements, and her singing was replete with expression, dignity and pathos. In the opera of the Pirata, I shall never forget the scene in which she implores her child to intercede with his father in her behalf. I was forcibly reminded of this incident the other day, in witnessing Miss Mary Anderson’s beautiful impersonation of Hermione in the Winter’s Tale, and the touching dialogue between her and the little Prince, when she showed the same tenderness, the same winning grace, but enhanced by an extreme loveliness with which Madame Ungher was not endowed.

At that period ballets d’action were in great repute. They generally occurred between the middle acts of the opera and were, as I considered, an unreasonable interruption, in every sense of the word. Besides, I wearied of the constant repetition of the same insipid pantomime; and the invariable story of the “Two Rivals” was commonplace in the highest degree.

One evening I turned to a gentleman who sat beside me, and expressed my impatience, finding fault in rather an irritable tone with the prima ballerina for killing herself, and, “Why does she not rather kill her rival?” I asked of him.

My companion was a matter-of-fact personage, and after gazing at me for some time with an expression of disapprobation: “Comment, Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, “sous une chevelure ainsi blonde vous cachez des passions ainsi violentes?” I have often thought that we blondes labour under a great responsibility, as we are generally supposed (in fiction at least) to be mild and virtuous, calm and placable.

I can recall most vividly an amusing evening spent at the Veglione. My eldest brother tried to persuade us to go to the masquerade that night, but we (my mother, my sister and myself) were very deceitful, complained of sleepiness and disinclination for the task to which he was looking forward. In the meantime we had surreptitiously made assignations with three of our friends to meet us at the door of the theatre and be our escort for the night. Our hotel was situated on the port, and we had, therefore, to pass through several of the narrow streets en route for San Carlo, which could only be traversed by sedan chairs.

During the many years I have passed in Italy, I have never seen above three instances of drunkenness in the streets, but this evening I was unfortunate. My chair swayed about from side to side, as if I were in a steamboat, and at last came to a dead stop, and our faithful servant Henry, who was walking by my side, lifting up the top and opening the door, informed me of the reason, while turning to the chairmen he heaped upon them in his very best Italian a storm of indignant invectives, at the same time sending back the more sober of the two to the hotel, to summon another pair of bearers. Issuing from the sedan, in all the splendour and magnificence of a Turkish Sultana with an entire mask, I began to add my indignant rebukes to those of Henry, when the ludicrousness of the position came home so forcibly to me that I stopped in my harangue. Glittering with gold and silver and false jewels, and of the commanding stature of five foot nothing, I must have greatly impressed those guilty men. Remembering, however, that my “paper face,” as the Italians call an entire mask, was expressive of inane good humour and the blandest of smiles, I came down from my pinnacle of sublime virtue, and retreated into my chair until the appearance of my new bearers. Arrived at the theatre, and joined by our cavaliers, we mixed in the motley throng on mischief bent.

My companion, being one of the leaders of society, who knew all about everybody and everything in that society, was of the greatest use in prompting my sallies and in enlightening me when I was at a loss.

“Do you see,” I said, “that officer who is following us, and who looks at me every now and then in the most threatening manner? I do not know him, and he evidently takes me for somebody else.”

“Yes,” replied Count Camille, “I think I can explain it? He is very much attached to a French lady, who is about your size, and I think he has mistaken you for her. She is a clever little women and writes poetry.”

On this hint, I spake. With a rashness which perhaps I should have feared to exercise after a longer acquaintance with Italy and the Italians, I determined to tease my follower. I had resolved from the beginning to speak only Italian, or very broken English, so as not to be found out as a foreigner in too many languages, so I began to expostulate with my officer on his dogging my steps. I made Camille, who was very tall, bend down earnestly and talk to me in a whisper, about nothing or anything. I told my pursuer that I had been too busy to think of him lately, as I had been occupied writing sonnets to the moon, with other wise speeches of an exasperating quality. I then told him I was going to valse, and should not be able to do so if he stuck so close to me. I think I was rather courageous to bear the brunt of the furious looks he cast upon me. He still followed, and after two rounds I came back to the place where he was standing, upbraided him for his jealousy, and raising my mask for a moment, relieved him from all his suspicions by showing the face of an utter stranger. He was not what would be called a handsome man, but it required a southern face and a southern nature to express the delight and relief that he experienced at that moment. His bad quarter of an hour was over, and he was good-humoured enough to enter into the fun and mischief of the mask who had deceived him; his eyes literally beamed with pleasure, and with an arch smile and a low bow he hoped, in the charming Italian form of speech, that we should soon meet again.

I next attacked a Marchese of our acquaintance, who was very ill of Anglomania, and extremely proud of speaking the language, which he did very well for a Genoese, for they are not remarkable for being good linguists. To him I spoke in English, and excited as much jealousy in his breast, though of a different nature, as I had already done in that of my officer. I was careful to break my English and to translate from Italian idioms. When asked where I lived and whence I came, I told him that I resided somewhere between the Acqua Sola (the promenade on the north side of the city) and the Lantern, meaning the Lanterna or lighthouse. He then asked me if I had ever been in England, and I told him that I had spent six months in that country. Beckoning to a member of the American Legation, he whispered to him that he should engage in conversation with me, and I had the satisfaction of hearing the referee inform him that I certainly was no Englishwoman.

So far my efforts had been successful at puzzling and misleading, but a higher triumph was in store for me. I sought out my brother, chaffed him mercilessly about his flirtations, his favourite partners and the like, paid especial court to him, flattered him in the way I knew would most please him, and made a resistless attack on his vanity! I asked him to take one tour de valse with me, and finally ended by presenting him with a large bunch of violets. It is always said that the best way to detect a mask is to examine the hands and feet, but here I was a match for my brother. With an entire disregard of vanity I had encased my hands in ill-fitting gloves, and over my usual evening shoes had drawn a pair of Turkish slippers. I joined my mother and my sister, and we all three went home to the hotel, and were sound asleep before the return of my brother. The next morning I went into his room before he was up, and in the most innocent manner asked him to tell me all about the bal masquÉ, whether it was amusing, whether he advised us to go next time, whom he had seen and recognised, etc. Then, turning round and seeing my violets carefully placed in water by his bedside, I pounced upon them, saying, “How deliciously sweet! where did you get them?”

“Pray leave my violets alone,” he said in a sharper tone than usual; “I’ve a particular reason for not wishing to part with them”; and this was uttered mysteriously, mingled with a certain degree of self-complacency which made me quite dread the inevitable moment when I must confess to poor Courtenay that those violets were the gift of his sister! What a terrible anti-climax to the romantic episode of the foregoing evening, as he had evidently believed the donor to be one of the beautiful Genoese ladies who were the brilliant ornaments of that brilliant society.

There is a proverb connected with the proud city, that “Its sea has no fish and its fair citizens no souls.” To this I demur, and at all events there were few towns, even in Italy, where the women of the three different classes were more beautiful. In Rome, for instance, the aristocracy, with some splendid exceptions, were not famous for their personal charms, but the lower orders, especially the Trasteverini (or the inhabitants from the other side of the Tiber), were for the most part magnificent specimens of womanhood, tall, fully developed, majestic in their bearing, with not infrequently a defiant expression. My sweeping description of the Romans of the lower orders used to be, that all the women looked as if they would stab you if they could, and all the men did.

The fashion of veils and chintz head-dresses in Genoa was going out as early as 1833, but a few years before, the noble ladies were distinguished by wearing lace veils, similar to the mantilla of the Spaniards, but chiefly white; the burghers’ wives, white muslin; while the lower classes, whether country or townswomen, wore on their heads the chintz covering, which is now almost obsolete, even in Genoa, but has of late years been copied in the Manchester manufactories, and sold for bed-quilts in many of our London shops.

The year of which I am speaking was very eventful, and great political excitement was felt throughout all Italy, especially in the north. Mazzini was at work, and had made his influence widely felt, while that true patriot, Camille de Cavour, preached the doctrines of real reform, and was preparing the way for better days in the land he loved so well. Intrigues of all kinds were being carried on, of a complicated character; frequent arrests were made, and spies were in every house, reporting the conversations that took place at private dinner-tables. I believe there is little doubt that our head-waiter, old Pietro, was one of the most officious of these eavesdroppers. I heard it afterwards with regret, for he was a favourite of mine, and often joined in an easy and pleasant manner in our conversation. On one occasion I was quoting a short poem of Metastasio’s that I admired greatly, and I had got as far as

and there I stuck fast, when Pietro, stepping lightly forward, came to my rescue, and, in a sonorous and theatrical voice, exclaimed:

Picture to yourself a waiter at a London hotel volunteering to finish for you the last lines of a sonnet by Milton, or of a speech by Shakespeare!

The history of that time will be found recorded in the story called “Lorenzo Benoni,” by Ruffini,^[31] the author of that most charming little book “Doctor Antonio,” a wonderful literary triumph, when you remember that the two volumes were written in English by an Italian.

But now the time came for our departure, and how deeply grieved I was to bid adieu to Genoa and the Genoese. My brother and sister went to England to attend their duties at Court, as they were both in the Household, and my mother and I set out for the baths of Lucca, where we had been advised to spend the summer. We took up our abode in a nice little house at the Bagni della Villa, being shortly after rejoined by my brother Courtenay.