Mrs. G. Gretton

Excursion to Ventimiglia—The Duomo—Visit to a convent—La Madre Teresa—Convent life—A local archÆologist—Cities of the coast—The presents of a savant—End of a pleasant visit.

The next day an excursion to Ventimiglia, about two miles distant, was proposed; and after some demur from the comtesse, who did not feel equal to the fatigue, and yet hesitated at confiding me to the joint care of the general, Signor Bonaventura, and one of his daughters, whom we were to pick up at her own residence, every difficulty was adjusted, and we departed, the whole establishment being as much excited as if we were going on a journey. They had left their own horses at Nice, but a carriage, the handsomest Signor Bonaventura could procure in Ventimiglia, was in waiting at the road, so exquisitely antique, rickety, and inaccessible, that in itself it was a refreshing departure from the routine of everyday life. Our drive along the coast was as beautiful as any part of the road previously traversed, and soon brought us to the town, built on the side of a hill sloping towards the sea—a wonderful little place to be so near a modern resort like Nice, and yet retaining so much originality. Whether owing to the splendour of our equipage, or the charm of our personal appearance, it becomes me not to determine, but it is undeniable that as our steeds shambled up the steep narrow street every window was garnished with curious faces; and as we passed the apothecary's, where the priests and doctors gossiped, and the caffÈ, where the gentry lounged and smoked, hats were doffed on all sides, and a gratifying effect was evidently created. The general, excessively delighted, twirled his grey moustache, and affably returned the greeting; then, Signor Bonaventura's daughter having joined us, marshalling the party with military precision, he took upon himself the office of cicerone, and led the way to the Duomo, a very ancient structure, built on the site of a temple of Juno. On the piazza before it, until very recently, stood some oak-trees of great antiquity, which popular tradition had pronounced to form part of the wood sacred to the goddess. The ruthless canons of the cathedral, a few years ago, caused the old church to be thoroughly cleaned, and actually had the whole exterior painted over, although it was of stone, of the earliest period of ecclesiastical architecture. In the inside is preserved a marble slab, the sole relic of the ancient temple, containing a dedicatory inscription to the ox-eyed goddess, whereon antiquaries have puzzled and disputed to an edifying extent. A few faded pictures and tawdry ornaments were the only attempts at embellishment; and even these seemed at a very low ebb, for there was a printed notice near one of the confessionals, asking for contributions towards the purchase of a new image of the Madonna—a box, with a slit in the cover being placed beneath it, to receive any offerings for that purpose. Next we went to a convent belonging to the Canonichesse Lateranensi—a visit to which had been the desire of my heart ever since my arrival at Latte, to the amusement of the whole family, who could not understand why such an every-day sight, as this and similar establishments appear to them, should interest me so much. The convent was a large, irregularly-built pile, until the end of the seventeenth century the palace of the Counts of Ventimiglia, who here for a long period maintained a struggling feudal supremacy, waging wars with the neighbouring petty States, or else making common cause with them in resisting the suzerainship of the House of Savoy; which, in the gradual annexation of the territories constituting the present kingdom of Sardinia, had separately to contend with numberless principalities, marquisates, and republics, each jealous of its own independence, and regardless of the claims of the common weal.

Up a broken open staircase to a portico in front of the convent church—where two or three slipshod women were seated al fresco, plaiting each other's hair, or engaged in that animating chase an old Florentine painter has facetiously designated “the Murder of the Innocents”—we passed to a side-door, at which an old woman presented herself, and inquired what we wanted. This individual officiated as portress to the nuns, went to market, executed their commissions, and brought them all the Ventimiglia news. In her appearance there was nothing poetical or impressive; she had not even two great rusty keys at her girdle, but was attired in a print gown, somewhat the worse for wear, with an obvious deficiency of neatness in the tiring of her silvery tresses, and of freshness in her chaussure.

The general gave his name and title, and asked for La Madre Teresa, although, as he owned to me, he had but a dim recollection of her face, all minor associations being lost in the halo cast around a certain beautiful abbess, now no more, a distant connection of his family, whom, many years before, when staying with some relations at Ventimiglia, he had often conversed with at the grating. With great respect we were now ushered into a sort of gallery, lighted by windows, around which the dust and cobwebs of many months had been suffered to gather unmolested. Opposite to these were two large apertures in the wall, defended by a double grating of thick iron bars, just wide enough to admit of passing a hand between their interstices, but placed at such a distance from each other, that the hand thus advanced could only reach far enough to grasp a hand similarly extended from the opposite side; so that even to press a kiss upon some fair nun's taper fingers was out of the question—a contingency, no doubt, had in view in the placing of the grating.

The general said facetiously, that in his visits to the abbess he had adopted the English fashion, and used to shake her heartily by the hand; “and it must be confessed, poor soul,” he added with a sigh, “she did press mine cordially in return.”

And now a rustling of robes was heard, as a door, invisible from where we stood, opened, and La Madre Teresa came forward, having evidently made some slight changes in her toilet, and not a little fluttered by this unexpected summons. She was a small, spare woman, with that waxen complexion which a sedentary, unvarying routine of existence generally produces, peering, light-grey eyes, sharp features, but a kindly expression about the mouth and chin. As she stood behind the grating, courtesying first to one and then to the other, she would have made a very picturesque study in her white woollen robes and black mantle, the light from the window in the corridor falling upon her figure, and detaching it from the gloomy background. Still, the effect was nothing—the general found an opportunity of whispering—nothing to be compared to that produced by his lamented abbess, who used to come sweeping in with the dignity of a queen, every fold and plait of her drapery exquisitely adjusted. But to return to La Madre Teresa. After a few complimentary phrases, she inquired to what she might attribute the honour of this visit, of which the real motive was simply the gratification of my prying curiosity: the ostensible one, I grieve to acknowledge, was of an ignoble nature, although, when communicated by Signor Bonaventura, previously instructed in his part, it did not appear as such to strike the old nun. It regarded the purchase of cakes! With as much good grace as he could assume while talking to a nun—for Signor Bonaventura was of the new school, and violently, intolerantly opposed to all monastic institutions, notwithstanding which, to please his wife, and for the sake of peace, his own daughters had been brought up in a convent—he began to relate “how an English lady of distinction,” pointing to me—La Madre courtesied more deeply than before—“having heard in her own country of the famous cakes made by the nuns of Ventimiglia, was now come in person to test their excellence. Did the sisterhood chance to have any upon sale?”

The old lady was evidently pleased; and begging to be excused for an instant, retired to give her directions to the slatternly out-door attendant apparently; for when the conference broke up, we found her in waiting with some neatly-papered packets of these celebrated comestibles—which, by the by, were really excellent, masterly compounds of almonds, olive-oil, and honey. Returning herself speedily to the grating, she engaged in an animated conversation in the Genoese dialect, which, or something very nearly approaching to it, is spoken at Ventimiglia—the general being evidently her favourite, and the one to whom most of her remarks were addressed. Her local memory was wonderful: she spoke about people he had utterly lost sight of; knew all their histories for thirty years past; their children's ages, marriages, and so forth; combined with a minuteness of detail that nothing but the prolonged concentration of her faculties within a most circumscribed sphere could have enabled her to attain.

“Does Vou Scia”—a corruption of the French Votre seigneurie—“Does Vou Scia remember the Conte L——, who lived in the street just opposite the barber's and had an only daughter, whom he married to the son of the Marchese of A——, who went away with the French to fight, and died of cold in England when the great Napoleon burnt that town?—Ah, dear, I forget the name—stop—yes, yes, it was London. Well, as I was saying, his daughter, grand-daughter to the conte, was placed with us for her education, and then married at sixteen, the day after she left these walls: the spouse was rather gobbo—that is, humpbacked—and fifty years old, but very rich; so it was a good match. Vou Scia has surely not forgotten her: you were a young man then.”

“Oh, I recollect perfectly, perfectly,” groaned the general.

“Well, she was not happy—as indeed who is in marriage?—and her youngest daughter being externally like her father in person, the Madonna gave her grace to see the vanity of the world; so that nearly a year ago her solemn admission amongst us took place. In another month or so she will take the final vows. Oh, it is a peaceful, blessed life to those who are called to enter it! Does Vou Scia imagine that the wicked Government intends shortly to suppress all the religious communities?”

“The question they always ask,” observed Signor Bonaventura in an under-tone.

“Ah! we must hope,” said the general, gravely. “It would be terrible, you have been here so many years.”

“Thirty-seven completed on the Festival of the Assumption.”

“Impossible! You must have entered a mere child.”

“I took the veil at sixteen,” said the Madre Teresa, with a simpering smile, which demonstrated that she, too, was not invulnerable on all women's weak point.

“How strange,” I said, “to think that since then you have never stirred beyond these walls!”

“Never, signora. But we have a large vineyard and orchard from which there is a fine view of the sea and the high-road, and we can see the diligence passing at some distance. It is the finest situation in all Ventimiglia,” she added proudly.

“You do not even go out to attend the sick?”

“No, signora; that is not one of the duties of our order: we are cloistered religiose. We pray and meditate, embroider and make the confectionery you have heard so much praised—I fear beyond our poor deserts.”

“Do you take pupils?”

“In former years, signora, before these unfortunate changes, this decline of religion in the State, we had many educande; at this moment we have but one young lady under our care.” And then, with great volubility, she went on lamenting the degeneracy of the present day, and telling us how changed times were since her youth, when every cell in the convent had its occupant. “We were upwards of seventy then,” she said with a suppressed sigh, “now we only number eighteen.”

“Out of which I have heard that several are infirm and bedridden,” remarked Signor Bonaventura, with an affected air of commiseration.

It made one shudder to think how ghostly the long corridors and fifty-two empty chambers must look, and how dreary in their hearts the poor nuns must feel, dwindling away, till four or five withered, shadowy forms would soon be all that remained to talk over the glories of the days gone by.

The poor nun seemed quite sorry when we broke up the conference, and gazed at us wistfully through the bars, taking in all the peculiarities of our appearance for the benefit of the whole sisterhood, when repeating the details of what would constitute a memorable incident in her life. After quitting the parlatojo, we went into the convent chapel, rather a pretty structure, with some indifferent paintings, and a good deal of gilding. Over the altar there was a latticed gallery, in which the nuns could assist unseen at the celebration of mass, and another behind the organ, for those who formed the choir. Though the sun was shining so brightly outside, an unaccountable chillness and gloom pervaded the building, which Signor Bonaventura contended was like a living tomb, fit to be the receptacle of decrepit nuns. At this remark his daughter, who stood in great awe of her father, and had not opened her lips the whole time, ventured a word in defence of the convent in which she had been educated; but being told that women knew nothing of such matters, relapsed into the silent study of my bonnet and mantle, wherein she had hitherto been happily engrossed. As for the general, he took Signor Bonaventura's pleasantries in such good part, that it was well the comtesse was not present; what with these, and the allusions to the abbess, the poor lady would have been grievously discomposed.

From this we went clambering up narrow streets of steps to the church of San Michele, whilom a temple of Castor and Pollux, afterwards a convent of Benedictines, full of Roman antiquities, with a very old crypt, a number of inscriptions, and a variety of other memorabilia which I was surveying in helpless ignorance, when the general, who had sent Signor Bonaventura away on some mysterious mission, darted forward joyfully at seeing him appear with a young man, whom it turned out he had been despatched to summon.

“Here he is—here he is,” he exclaimed; “our archÆologist, our poet, our historian!” and then, with a malicious twinkle in his eye, presented him to questa Signora Inglese molto dotta—this learned English lady, who was making researches on the classical remains of Ventimiglia, and wished for authentic information concerning them.

The general then seated himself near a confessional, and indulged in a little well-earned repose, while the youth, who was not more than nineteen or twenty, attired in a suit of chessboard-like checks, plunged at once into the duties that had been assigned him. He was a little nervous at first, but had none of the distressing bashfulness which would have overpowered an English lad, a complete bookworm and wholly unused to society; in fact, it is rare to see an Italian thoroughly awkward, or thoroughly timid. Their naked loquacity always stands them in good stead. In this instance, moreover, a certain amount of modest assurance was not wanting. With surprising fluency the young savant favoured us with a dissertation on the temple, the church, the crypt, Roman mile-stones, Etruscan vases, and mediÆval architecture. The effect was remarkable; no orator could have desired a greater testimony in his favour. The lean sacristan, with the keys of the crypt in his hand, stood transfixed with admiration; Signor Bonaventura tried to look very wise; the general, awaking from his nap, made no effort at comprehending the discourse, but kept nodding his approbation; and the eight-and-twenty children, who had accompanied us into the church, ceased begging for centimes, and maintained a respectful silence. As for me, in whose honour this antiquarian lore was displayed, I felt incompetent to proffer more than a yes or no, hazarded at intervals, trembling lest some inappropriate rejoinder should discover my lamentable deficiency, and mortify the poor student, who was evidently so happy in holding forth to one he considered a kindred spirit, that it would have been a pity to dispel the harmless delusion. When at last we got out of the church, he grew more intelligible to my capacity; and leaving the past to itself, bethought himself of the attractions of the present, and conducted us to a bastion, just outside one of the gates of the city, which, small as it now is, with not more than 3000 inhabitants, was really of importance in the time of the Romans, or a still earlier period; from this grassy eminence, he said, one of the loveliest views in the whole Riviera was to be seen; and that he had Ugo Foscolo's authority for the assertion. And, in truth, he was not far wrong. Looking inland, there was a fertile plain, rich in the golden fruits and mellow tints of autumn, through which the river Roja ran its sparkling course, the mountains from whence it took its rise closing gradually on all sides, till a vast amphitheatre of hills formed the majestic background, towering in grandeur, piled one above another, the peaks of the last alpine range capped with snow, and suffused with a rosy light from the reflection of the setting sun. Then, turning to the sea, reposing in the gorgeous beauty of that hour, the close of a cloudless day, we saw the glittering towers and steeples of the cities of the coast—Bordighera, called the Jericho of Italy, from the palm-trees with which its environs are thickly studded; a few miles further on, the venerable walls of San Remo; more distant still, Porto Maurizio; and others, and others yet, each nestling against the guardian promontory which stretched forth for its shelter and protection—each mirrored in the fairy bay, which seemed exclusively its own.

Our young friend was much pleasanter here than in the crypt. He repeated Ugo Foscolo's description with an enthusiasm which made one regret that the talents and love of study he undoubtedly possessed should have taken so useless a direction. His case is an illustration of that of many an Italian man of genius, who has lost himself amid ruins, and given to crumbling remains the time and energies which might have benefited his country and mankind.

On escorting us to the carriage, he presented me with an Inquiry into the Dedicatory Inscription to Juno, and an Essay on the Antiquities of Ventimiglia, his first literary productions; and, finally, composed an ode full of classic, mythologic, and historical allusions in honour of the daughter of Albion, whose studies he fancied were of so edifying a description. It was enclosed the next day in a letter to the general, with a request that he would lay it at the feet of the illustrious stranger. The whole family were charmed; the general scanned the lines critically, and said: “The boy should go to Turin, and get on;” the comtesse copied them out; Signor Bonaventura was pleased that Ventimiglia was not without its representative in Parnassus; while I—delighted to find that at thirty miles from Nice, where I had despaired of seeing anything but English shops and English travellers, three days should have been so fertile in Italian scenes and Italian manners—looked upon this last incident as quite the crowning stroke of my pleasant visit to Latte.