We were all delighted with the Baths at Lucca, and the picturesque environs. The surrounding hills were covered with Spanish chestnut trees, which retained their fresh spring green during the whole of the summer, and the cool, refreshing river Lima, which runs through the valley, tempered and mitigated the heat of those months, that to some of our compatriots appeared excessive. My brother and I hired ponies, and in the company of two Englishmen, his friends, we rode every day, making excursions into all the beautiful little towns which crowned the neighbouring mountains, a pleasure which was heightened by the fact that our dear mother was sometimes able to join us in these pilgrimages, being carried in a chair by the sure-footed peasants of the country, who made no difficulty in ascending the hill-sides, however steep.

As the spring came on, the wild-flowers were a constant source of delight to us, although our botany was of no scientific nature. There is a thistle there which grew by the roadside and in the fields, that I have never seen elsewhere, though perhaps I prove my ignorance in thinking it to be a rare specimen; in shape it resembles a small sunflower, but the centre is violet, and the small and numerous petals shine like mother-of-pearl or glistening opal. I was very fond of wearing it in my hair, in those days when it was the fashion to dress the head with natural flowers, in a country where even men, especially fishermen, were frequently seen with a rose, a carnation, or some sweet flower fixed behind one ear.

One day as we were riding along, about five miles from the Baths, my brother and I were surprised at being accosted by a peasant in very good English. We slackened our pace and entered into conversation with him, enquiring how it was that he spoke our language so well. He told us that he had been many years in England, carrying about a tray of plaster-casts on his head through the streets. This is a custom which has become less frequent, but when I was a child, nothing tempted my scanty store of pocket-money more than one of what I called those “white images,” and I well remember the delight I felt in the possession of a young Apollo. When I saw the original in after years I hailed it as an old acquaintance. The man told us that most of the people in that line of trade came from the village through which we were at that moment riding, and that those who were successful in their business usually returned to end their days, small blame to them, in their beautiful country.

We occupied the ground floor in our house at the Villa, while the primo piano was inhabited by an English family, consisting of a middle-aged lady, a gentleman, and two daughters. My mother, as a rule, kept aloof from the companionship of her compatriots while on the continent, unless they were old friends, and preferred the society of the natives; but I had a secret hankering after the acquaintance of the English girls above us. The eldest in particular took my fancy; she was tall and well formed, with a profusion of dark brown hair, and although her face could not be called beautiful, it was wonderfully expressive. I had heard of her proficiency in drawing, and had often passed her as she sat sketching under her large umbrella, and I knew she was a charming musician, for I could hear her beautiful touch on the pianoforte, and her melodious singing in many languages, as clearly as if we had been in the same room; but time wore on, and we did not become acquainted.

One day I was busy reading in our little sitting-room when I heard the most piercing shrieks, accompanied with a stamping of feet and other signs of distress. Without a moment’s hesitation, I flung down my book and, heedless of les convenances, rushed upstairs, and dashed into the room, where I found the two girls ministering to their mother’s maid, who for some unreasonable reason or other had gone off into violent hysterics. That was the strange fashion in which we made the acquaintance of the excellent Boddingtons, whose companionship and friendship cheered many years of the lives of both generations. From that moment the two mothers became inseparable, and both the girls endeared themselves to my heart, so much so that the elder and I were subsequently known amongst our friends at Rome and Florence as “Rosalind and Celia.”

While we were at the baths of Lucca, a ball was given by the couriers and upper servants of the families passing the summer there, which was to take place in the little theatre where dramatic performances were occasionally given. To this ball the “quality” were bidden, and places assigned to them in the boxes, while the pit and stage were boarded over for the dancers.

We spent a most amusing evening in watching the arrival of the guests, who were received at the entrance by the stewards, according to the rank of their masters and mistresses. Thus the lady’s maid to the Duchess of Lucca was received with royal honours, everybody curtseying and bowing as she passed along, and great clapping of hands as she made her way to the principal seat. I cannot say her temporary Highness looked very royal, or her toilette very well chosen, but she was determined, as it appeared to me, to do honour to her high position by putting on a small portion of every “chiffon” she possessed. Her gown was of as many colours as Joseph’s coat. Filigree trinkets from Genoa, and, I should imagine, from several bijoutiers en faux in the Palais Royal adorned her neck, ears, and hands, while on her head she wore flowers, feathers, and more false hair than was then consistent with the fashion even of that day. Her airs and graces were in keeping with her attire, and I could not help contrasting her whole appearance with that of her Royal mistress.

It was easy to detect the nationality of the different households: the severe simplicity of the English, the light and airy ball-dresses of the French, and the different modes of dancing which characterised the different countries. The little flirtations that passed, the extreme galanterie of the men, especially the couriers, the awkward “footing it” of some, and the very graceful dancing of others, were all most amusing to witness. It was High Life Below Stairs acted on a real stage by real characters, and far less exaggerated than the famous droll old farce.

During our sojourn at the Baths we made a delightful excursion to the town of Lucca, and here we became acquainted with the reigning Duke and Duchess. They were reckoned the handsomest couple in Europe. The Duchess was a daughter of the King of Sardinia, and as good as she was beautiful; the description of her would pass for that of many an Italian beauty, but I have seldom seen her equal. She was tall and majestic, with a noble presence and lustrous eyes, but she had the saddest expression I almost ever beheld, and so I observed to one of her ladies, who became a great friend of mine, and she told me that it was not without cause. Almost the same description might be given of the Duke’s personal appearance, with the exception of the sad expression, for there was no melancholy in the beaming, smiling countenance of Charles de Bourbon. He had a sweet voice and a winning tongue, was a graceful dancer, and the admired of all who saw him; but he was unworthy the love of so noble a woman, and was vain and inconstant by nature. It was told of him that one day a friend presumed to ask him how it was possible he could treat his beautiful wife with so little consideration.

“Tiens, tiens,” he said, “elle est trÈs bonne, elle est trÈs belle, mais elle ne me contrarie jamais. C’est si fade.”

I mention this circumstance as a warning to wives who are too forgiving and forbearing.

About this time there took place a great religious festival in Lucca. According to a legend, one day in far distant times a ship came to—I forget what part of the coast, or what harbour—bearing a sacred image of our Lord, which was at once appropriated by the Luccees.^[32] As far as I can remember, it was a rough, ill-modelled effigy, with a black face, but it was held in high veneration by the citizens, and on one night in every year it was carried through the town in a long procession, consisting of the Court, the nobles, the Guilds, and principal burghers of the place. I can recall the scene as the moonlight streamed down on the Duke and Duchess and their attendants, the Duke in full uniform, the Duchess a perfect dream of beauty in soft pale blue, crowned with a heavy tiara of diamonds, and with diamonds studding her whole dress, and glittering and sparkling in the moonlight with a softer brilliancy than can ever be seen in the interior of a room. The ladies and gentlemen of the retinue alike in full dress, and the priests bearing candles and chanting as they went, made a sight never to be forgotten.

One morning, after a ball at the ducal palace, the lady in waiting, to whom I have already referred, told me that the Duchess was suffering from a violent headache, arising from the weight of the diadem, which she had not worn for some time. This struck me as a symbol, and the next morning I wrote the following lines, which I gave to the Marchesa:—

The Marchesa read the lines with tears, and said how much she wished she could show them to her royal mistress; but, alas! in some cases, sympathy is an insult.

Before taking leave of the Baths of Lucca altogether, I think I may as well allude here to a second visit which we paid some years later to this charming spot, when we found the only son of the Duke and Duchess established at the Royal Villa, and were invited, shortly after our arrival, to a ball which they gave.

The Prince had married the only sister of the Comte de Chambord. She was a pretty blonde, fair of complexion, and short of stature, with golden hair and blue eyes À fleur de tÊte. Her manners were winning and gracious, and she altogether formed a striking contrast to her husband, who was vulgar and unrefined. Indeed, in a subsequent visit to England, he gained for himself the name of “Filthy Lucre.” One of his gentlemen told me that the greatest ambition of His Highness was to be taken for an English groom, upon which I retorted that in that case, he must contrive to have a better seat on horseback. But to return to the ball.

I remember both my mother and myself being extremely scandalised by the fact of His Highness holding, what some of the gentlemen called, un estaminet, next door to the ball-room, where, during the greater part of the evening, he and his chosen friends smoked very bad tobacco. This incident will not surprise the readers of the present day; the only difference lies in the better quality of the tobacco, for what was then considered an innovation in the manners and customs of society, is now sanctioned by the highest authority.

The career of this ill-fated Prince was a miserable one. On the death of Maria Louisa, the Duchy of Lucca became annexed to that of Tuscany, while that of Parma fell to the share of Charles de Bourbon, Duke of Lucca. He disliked the change, retired into private life, and abdicated in favour of his son, who assumed the title of Charles III.

Now began a reign of misrule and anarchy; the new sovereign was hated by his subjects, as was his Prime Minister, Baron Ward. This man, who was a Yorkshire jockey, first entered the Duke’s service as groom, and by degrees became his political adviser, confidant, and companion. After a short and disastrous reign, Charles III. was assassinated in the open street, and as some say, in a common tavern, by the hand of a man of the lower orders, prompted, it was supposed, by hatred and jealousy.

The incidents connected with this event were kept as secret as possible. It took place in the year 1854, when the Duchess became regent for her infant son, and these chronicles belong to the time when Italy was not united.