The two women, illustrious by rank rather than character, lived much in each other’s society. They dined together, sang together, together listened to the discussions of the philosophers whom they assembled around them, and when together they attended a fancy dress ball one at least astonished the other—the Princess surprising the ex-Empress by appearing in what was called the costume of Venus, and waltzing with a lack of grace that might have won laughter from the goddess of whom the waltzer was the over-fat representative.
Maria Louisa was not the only unhusbanded wife whom the wandering Princess encountered in Switzerland. The divorced wife of the Grand Duke Constantine was of this illustrious society. This lady was the Juliana of Saxe-Coburg who, on marrying the Russian Prince, took for her new appellation the name of Anna Feodorowna, and who was so rejoiced to lay that name down again after she had escaped from the brutalities of her husband. The Countess of Cornwall looked upon her with more than ordinary interest, for she was the sister of that Prince Leopold who ultimately married the Princess Charlotte, and whose aspiring hopes were known to, and sanctioned by, the wandering ‘Countess’ herself. The presence in one spot of three princesses, all separated from their then living husbands, had something as singular in it as the meeting of Voltaire’s unsceptred kings at the table-d’hôte at Venice. The ex-Empress was separated from her husband because she did not care to share his fallen fortunes; the Grand Duchess was living alone because the Grand Duke did not care for his wife; and the other lady and her husband had the ocean between them because they heartily hated each other—three sufficient reasons to unite the triad of wanderers within the territories of the Swiss republic.
In October, the Countess of Cornwall, or Princess of Wales, as it will be more convenient to call her, had passed into the imperial city of Milan. Her passage had something of a triumphant aspect; she reviewed the troops drawn up in honour of her visit, smiled at the shouts of welcome, mingled with cries for the liberty of Italy, which greeted her, and endured the noisy homage uttered by a dozen bouches à feu. She had now but one English lady in her suite, Lady Charlotte Lindsey having resigned her office when in Germany.
It was at Milan that her suite first began to assume a foreign aspect. The Princess was about to enter on a wide course of travel, and it was said that she needed the services of those who had had experience in that way. The first and most celebrated official engaged to help her with his service was a Bartholomew Bergami, a handsome man, of an impoverished family, who had served in the army as private courier to General Count Pino (bearer of his despatches, it is to be presumed), had received the decoration of some ‘order,’ and—whether by right of an acre or two of land belonging to his family, or because of his merits—bore the high-sounding name, but not very exalted dignity, of ‘Il Signor Barone.’ He had three sisters, all of whom were respectably married; the eldest and best known was a Countess Oldi, a true Italian lady, who loved and hated with equal intensity.
At Milan, as at Geneva, the Princess, undoubtedly, failed to leave a favourable impression of her character. At the latter place the sight of herself and the great Sismondi, both stout, and the former attired as the Queen of Love, waltzing together, was a spectacle quite sufficient to make the beholders what, it is said, the Princess herself would have called, ‘all over shock.’ Then she insisted on undue homage from her attendants, and made such confusion in the geographical programme of her travels ‘that it was enough,’ as she herself used to say on other occasions, ‘to die for laugh.’
On the progress of the Princess through Italy her English attendants fell off, one by one, till she was finally left without a single member of her suite with whom she had originally set out. They probably ventured to give her some good advice, for she complained of their tyranny. They certainly counselled her to return and live quietly in England; but this counsel was always under consideration, yet never followed by the result desired. She was rendered peevish, too, by receiving no letters from her daughter, of whom she had taken but brief and hurried leave previous to her departure from England.
Meanwhile, she traversed Italy from Milan to Naples, and was everywhere received with great distinction. In the little states the minor potentates did their poor but hearty best to exhibit their sympathy. The crownless sovereigns, like those of Spain and Etruria, condoled with her. At Rome the very head of the faithful stooped to imprint a kiss or whisper a word of welcome to the wandering lady. After a week of lionising at Rome she proceeded to Naples, where Murat received her with the splendour and ostentation which marked all his acts. He had a guest who was quite as demonstrative as her host. Court and visitor seemed to vie with each other in extravagance of display. Fêtes and festivals succeeded each other with confusing rapidity, and never had Parthenope seen a lady so given to gaiety, or so closely surrounded by spies, so narrowly watched, and so abundantly reported, as this indiscreet Princess. It was at Naples that she appeared at a masked ball attired as the Genius of History, and accompanied, it is said, by Bergami. She changed her dress as often as Mr. Ducrow in one of his ‘daring acts;’ and, finally, she enacted a sort of pose plastique, and crowned the bust of Joachim Murat with laurel.
It seemed as if she wished to bury memory of the past and to destroy the hopes of the future in the dissipation of the present. To say the least of her conduct, her imprudence and indiscretion were great and gross enough to have destroyed any reputation; and yet she herself described her course of life as sedentary, when she often retired to bed ‘dead beat’ with fatigue from sight-seeing by day and vigorous dancing by night. It was here that she made the longest sojourn, and enjoyed herself, as she understood enjoyment, the most. The purchase of the villa on the Lake of Como was also now effected; and Bergami was soon after raised to the dignity of chamberlain, and to the privilege of a seat at her own table. She claimed a right to bestow honours, and to distinguish those on whom she bestowed them; but her want of judgment in both regards amounted to almost a want of intellect, or a want of respect for herself, or for the opinions of those whose good opinion was worth having.
At one of her festivals at Como she indulged in some freedoms with a guest whom she strongly suspected of being a spy upon her. Her conversation was of a light and thoughtless nature, well calculated to give him abundance of matter to be conveyed to the ears of his employers. A friend present suggested to her that caution, on her part, was not unnecessary, as within a fortnight everything she said or did was known at Carlton House. ‘I know it,’ was her reply, ‘and therefore do I speak and act as you hear and see. The wasp leaves his sting in the wound, and so do I. The Regent will hear it? I hope he will; I love to mortify him.’ And to satisfy this peevish love she courted infamy; for even if she did not practise it, her self-imposed conduct made it appear as if she and infamy were exceedingly familiar.
Still errant, she wandered from Como to Palermo, visiting the court there, and receiving a welcome which could not have been more hearty had she been really of as indifferent character as she seemed to be. At this court she presented Bergami, on his appointment of chamberlain, and shortly after she proceeded to Genoa, where she intended to sojourn for a considerable time. She was conveyed thither in the ‘Clorinde’ frigate, the captain of which spoke to those around him in no measured terms of her conduct and course of life, particularly at Naples. She was well-lodged at Genoa. The scene, and she who figured on it so strangely, are thus described by the writer of a letter in the ‘Diary’—‘The Princess of Wales’s palace is composed of red and white marble. Two large gardens, in the dressed formal style, extend some way on either side of the wings of the building, and conduct to the principal entrance by a rising terrace of grass, ill-kept, indeed, but which in careful hands would be beautiful. The hall and staircase are of fine dimensions, although there is no beauty in the architecture, which is plain even to heaviness; but a look of lavish magnificence dazzles the eyes. The large apartments, decorated with gilding, painted ceilings, and fine, though somewhat faded, furniture, have a very royal appearance. The doors and windows open to a beautiful view of the bay, and the balmy air they admit combines with the scene around to captivate the senses. I should think this palace, the climate, and the customs must suit the Princess, if anything can suit her. Poor woman! she is ill at peace with herself; and when that is the case what can please?’... Referring more directly to the Princess, the writer says: ‘The Princess received me in one of the drawing-rooms opening on the hanging terraces, covered with flowers in full bloom. Her Royal Highness received Lady Charlotte Campbell (who came in soon after me) with open arms and evident pleasure, and without any flurry. She had no rouge on, wore tidy shoes, was grown rather thinner, and looked altogether uncommonly well. The first person who opened the door to me was the one whom it was impossible to mistake, hearing what is reported—six feet high, a magnificent head of black hair, pale complexion, mustachios which reach from here to London. Such is the stork. But, of course, I only appeared to take him for an under-servant. The Princess immediately took me aside and told me all that was true, and a great deal that was not.... Her Royal Highness said that Gell and Craven had behaved very ill to her, and I am tempted to believe that they did not behave well; but then how did she behave towards them?... It made me tremble to think what anger would induce a woman to do, when she abused three of her best friends for their cavalier manner of treating her.... “Well, when I left Naples, you see, my dear,” continued the Princess, “those gentlemen refused to go with me, unless I returned immediately to England. They supposed I should be so miserable without them that I would do anything they desired me, and when they found I was too glad to get rid of ’em (as she called it) they wrote the most humble letters, and thought I would take them back again, whereas they were very much mistaken. I had got rid of them, and I would remain so.”’