HERE at Verona was Italy in her richest dress, her abundant and varied crops filling the landscape, one might say, to overflowing; not a space of soil left untilled, and, all the way along our road to San Bonifacio for Arcole, the snow-capped Alps were shimmering in the blue atmosphere on one hand, and a great teeming plain stretched away to the horizon on the other.
I noticed the fine physique of the peasantry, and their nice ways. Every peasant man we met on the road raised his hat to us as we passed. At San Bonifacio we got out of the carriage and, turning to the right, we walked to Arcole, becoming exclusively Napoleonic on reaching the famous marsh. History says that a soldier saved Napoleon from drowning early in the battle by pulling him out of the water in that marsh, “by the hair!” I pondered this bald statement, and came to the conclusion that the thing must have happened in this wise. Young Bonaparte in those early days wore his hair very long, and gathered up into a queue. Had he been close-cropped, as his later experience in Egypt compelled him to be, the history of the world might have been very different. As I looked into the water from the famous little bridge, I saw the place where the young conqueror slipped and plunged in. The soldier must have caught hold of the pigtail, and with the good grip it afforded him pulled his drowning general out. Between the little bridge and the spot where he sank Napoleon raised the obelisk which we see to-day. Thus do I like to realise interesting events in history.
Our driver on the way back became a dreadful bore, for ever turning on the box to chatter. First he informed us that Arcole was called after Hercules, “a very strong man” (great thumping of biceps to illustrate his meaning), which we knew before. Then, when within sight of the battlefield of Custozza, where our dear Italians got such a “dusting” from the Austrians, he informed us that he had been in the battle, and that the Italians had blasted the enemy. “Li abbiamo fulminati.” “Oh, shut up, do! Basta, caro!”
Our afternoon stroll all over Verona merged into a moonlight one which takes first rank in my Italian chronicles. The effect of a roaring Alpine torrent (for such is the Adige at this season of melting snows) rushing and swirling through the heart of that ancient city, between embankments bordered with domed churches, with towers and palaces, I found quite unique. Mysterious, too, it all felt in the lights and profound shades of the moonlight. Above rose the hills with very striking serrated outlines, crowned with fortresses.
The rest of the summer saw me at home at Delgany. I must say the “Green Isle” for summer, following Egypt for winter, makes a very pleasant combination. My husband had returned to Alexandria on August 23rd, and I and a wee child followed in November. I had half accomplished my next Academy picture at home, and I took it out to finish in Egypt—“Halt on a Forced March: Retreat to Corunna.” A study of an artillery team this time, giving the look of the spent horses, “lean unto war.” It was very well placed at the Academy in the fresh first room, and well received, but it was too sad a subject, perhaps, so I have it still. There were no half-starved horses in all Wicklow, I am happy to say, look where I would for models. I had well-to-do ones to get tone and colour from, but I bided my time. In Egypt I had plenty of choice, and had I not been able to put the finishing touches to my team there, the picture would never have been so strong—an instance of my favourite definition when I am asked, “What is the secret of success?” “Seize opportunities.”
So on December 10th, 1891, I, with the little child I had safely brought out with me, landed once more at Alexandria. The big charger and the grey Syrian pony had now a black donkey alongside for the desert rides, which were the chief pleasure of our life out there.
But the winter grew sad. On January 7th, 1892, the Khedive Tewfik died rather mysteriously, it was said, but his death was announced as the result of that plague we call the “flu,” which reached even to the East. Just eight days later poor Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence, fell a victim to it, and in the same way died Cardinal Manning. Also some of our own friends at Alexandria went down. And yet never was there more brilliant weather, so softly brilliant that one could hardly realise the presence of danger. All the balls and other festivities were stopped, of course. I had ample time to finish my “Halt on a Forced March” in this long interval, so boring and depressing to Alexandrian society. Soon things returned to pleasantly normal conditions, however, and being free from the studio on sending my picture off, I went in whole-heartedly for the amenities of my official position. The Private View at the far-away Royal Academy was in my mind on the occasion of my giving away the prizes at some athletic sports, for I knew it was just then in full blast, April 29th, 1892. I knew my quiet picture could not make anything of a stir, and I chaffed myself by suggesting that the “three cheers and one cheer more” proposed by the English consul at the end of the prize-giving, which rent the sunset air in that dusty plain in my honour, should be all I ought to expect. It would be a little too much to receive applause in two quarters of the globe at the same moment, allowing for difference of time!
I call upon my Diary again: “May 18th.—We joined a picnic in the very palm grove through which the Turks fled from the French pursuit under Bonaparte to find death in the surf of Aboukir Bay. We were shaded by clumps of pomegranate trees in flower as well as by the waving, rustling palms, and a cool wind blew round us most pleasantly, while the white and grey donkeys that brought us rested in groups, their drivers and the villagers squatting about them in those unconsciously graceful attitudes I love to jot down in my sketch book. The moving shadows of the palm branches on the sand always capture my observation; no other tree shadows produce that effect of ever-interlacing forms. Far away in the radiant light lay the region where the terrible naval battle took place later, to our credit. Altogether our party was surrounded by frightful reminiscences, in the midst of which the picnic went its usual picnicky way. We rode back to Alexandria by the light of the stars.
“May 23rd.—A wonderful day, full of colour, movement and interest. Young Abbas II., the new Khedive, was received here on his arrival from Cairo, the whole population, swelled by strange wild Asiatics from distant parts, filling the streets and squares through which he was to pass. Will, of course, had to receive him at the station. The crowd alone was a pleasure to look at. The Khedive seemed a squat young man with a round pink and white painted face. They say he loves not the English. What I enjoyed above all was the drive we took soon after, all the length of the line of reception, to Ras-el-Tin. Oh, those narrow streets of the old quarter, filled with numberless varieties of Oriental costumes. Now and then the crowd was threaded by troops, some on horseback, some perched on camels, and, to give the finishing touch of variety, the native fire brigade went by, wearing the brass helmets of their London confrères, very surprising headgear bonneting their black and brown faces.”
I, with the little child, left for home on June 7th, viâ Genoa, well provided with a good stock of studies of camels and Camel Corps troopers. These were for my 8-foot picture, destined for the next Academy. Many a camel had I stalked about the Ramleh desert to watch its mannerisms in movement. I got quite to revel in camels. Usually that interesting beast is made utterly uninteresting in pictures, whereas if you know him personally he is full of surprises and one never gets to the end of him.