Up at candlelight and off by daybreak, with the cold tramontana for companion, growing so violent by degrees, that I did not feel quite tranquil at its increase as we approached the duke’s guardian wall, and the dense fog came sweeping by and over us. Fanny dislikes wind, and sometimes hesitated to advance, and we went on silent and shivering, with hardly energy to look back on the view, from this place so beautiful, of hills and plains behind, over which rain and mist were disputing empire. As we advanced, the mist thickened and the rain fell, and the waterproofs did not deserve the name they bore, and we passed Pietra Mala, hardly knowing it again in its changed aspect, and seeing nothing but the peaks of the crags rising coldly out of the fog, and ragged herdsmen, with their drenched cattle, and a few of the large birds of prey with grey backs and black wings, peculiar to this region.
As I was riding a few yards before D——, a woman, who saw me pass, came rushing out of a decent cottage, having first caught from its cradle her baby. Not seeing the manœuvre as D—— did, I gave her some silver, thinking her a poor traveller with a crying infant. They are the most clever of all beggars.
At last we arrived at Filigare, and paid four pauls for the horses, and to the satellites of custom-house and passport office buone mani innumerable. The smallest donations are, however, thankfully received; they pocket half pauls. Till within a short distance of Lojano the rain continued to fall mercilessly. The rude wooden crosses, which we had before noticed here and there, hid in wild nooks or on the brow of the precipice, and which, with the sun shining on them, looked like emblems of Quiet and Consolation, seemed now only memorials and warnings. “Pray do those denote the death of any one on the spot where they stand?” I asked an Italian, thinking, as I did so, his face and appearance perfectly suited to a bandit. “Sicuro,” said the man. “And did they die violently? were they murdered?” “Possibile,” said my friend with perfect indifference, as he walked away. The weather cleared just so long, ere we reached our resting-place, as left time for our horses to dry. Drenched ourselves, we gladly took refuge in the clean quiet apartment of the Pellegrino, under which there is, thank heaven! no pump. I had remained up and writing a letter to Paris, when I was roused by a crack and loud exclamation from D——, who had gone to rest, but whose place of repose had sunk suddenly under him, there being not a single screw in the bedstead. While he once more rose and dressed himself, I set forth along corridors, and up one steep stair and down two: for as the new house has been tacked on to the old, the way is sufficiently intricate. At last, guided by a noise like the witches’ sabbath, I arrived at the kitchen door, and, opening it, found myself in a place and company which called to memory the cave in Gil Blas, there being about thirty present,—drinking, screaming, singing, half hid in the fumes of tobacco, with their wild-looking, handsome figures, grouped round the dirty tables or blazing hearth. As I opened the door, the shouts and songs ceased, and, with Italian civility, all got up and closed round to know what I wanted; so, having desired the padrone to follow, I made my retreat as soon as possible, followed by our host, who was, it seemed, aware that his bedstead lacked all apparatus to hold it together, but had imagined it might last till morning.
Oct. 20th.
Left Lojano in a fog, dense and yellow, which concealed all objects ten yards off,—hearing, not seeing, the approach of travellers and waggons, and D—— hailing them for our safety and theirs. Fanny was frightened and vicious; the road melancholy, as oxen and pedestrians, and now and then an English carriage, issued from the mist close at our side, and were swallowed in it the next moment. It was not till we had descended some miles that the fog diminished, and then, after exciting many delusive hopes, showing through it the sun like a paler moon, yielding between its discoloured waves, peeps into the valley, and again floating like smoke before our faces, we fairly left it behind, issuing into blue sky and sunshine, knowing their value from privation of them. The horses knew the pilgrims’ house, but Grizzle made a violent effort to enter the kitchen instead of the stable. Our amiable hostess had chosen her most pleasant apartment, and exerted all her French talent in cookery in the dishes she had noticed to please us before.
A moonlight night at Bologna, such as this, is impressive in its beauty, with the light streaming down its monastic streets, and the deep shadow of its pillared arcades. Miss Adelaide Kemble, who is also lodged at La Pace with her father, sang in her apartments till a crowd, collected beneath her windows, silenced her with its bravas. The Italians will not believe her to be English, and her appearance justifies their opinion, as she has the dark eyes of their country, with features in the style of those of Mrs. Siddons.
21st.
To Modena: a burning day. Arrived there and my dress changed, I requested the landlady’s pretty daughter to be my guide, as it was advisable to strive to obtain some news of our baggage, so long missing, that we begin to be resigned to its loss and to travelling with little beside the linen our horses carry. Having discovered, with some difficulty, the spedizioniere, who is the correspondent of our Commissionnaire de Roulage, I found that our trunks, having followed ourselves across the broken Simplon on mules’ backs, have now been stopped by torrents likely to impede our passage also. Modena is a miniature of a fine city, with a handsome ducal palace and pretty gardens, an Accademmia delle Belle Arti, and other public buildings. The palace is large and handsome; the favourite apartments of the duchess, who is very pious, communicating with the convent, and opening on a private corridor, by which she can reach the adjacent church unobserved. The tribune she occupies is so arranged as almost to conceal her presence, glazed and heavily barred like a convent grate. The duke’s theatre (for he is extremely fond of theatricals) joins another part of the Palazzo, and his splendid stables are opposite and on the garden side. My guide said it was one of the sights of Modena, and as she insisted on entering, and the sentinel made room to let us pass, in we went. It is a fine building, with arched and groined roof, the horses ranged down either side, all of the duke’s own breed, and some of them superb animals. The roan charger of the last duke stands stuffed and under a glass case at the extremity. There stood near us a personage, a head groom I imagine, who, I am sure, will preserve for a day or two a high opinion of my sagacity.
“I suppose you have a hundred horses here,” I said to him. To which he replied, “Cent uno!” with a look of admiring wonder which would better have suited the word Miracolo!
The cathedral is near the inn; we could see from our windows part of its curious façade and its high old tower. The former somewhat resembles that of the cathedral at Placentia, having portico on portico, and strange beasts for supporters. Its interior is more striking: flights of steps lead up to the elevated choir, others conduct to the half subterranean church below, where, among numberless light pillars with strange capitals, is the tomb of St. Geminiano, the patron saint of Modena. The monument of the last duke is on the left hand of the choir, and handsome; and in the body of the church are various altar-pieces of carved wood and marble, covered with saints and madonnas, deserving more attention than I had time to pay.