The Cardinal de Bernis gave me two anecdotes of missionary preachers in Languedoc. One of them said to his hearers that they were not ashamed to live in the mud of their sins, but were ashamed to confess them publicly. If it were not so, why did they not hide their heads in the mud in token of repentance? It so happened that they were just then standing in a very muddy place, and in obedience to the preacher they all plunged their heads into the mire, standing with begrimed faces to hear the remainder of his discourse. The other missionary used to carry a death’s head about with him, which he dressed up in the cap and ornaments then in fashion among ladies of rank. This skull he would throw down on the floor of the pulpit, and talk to it, answering himself in a low voice, to imitate that of a woman. “Qui êtes-vous?” “Je suis une marquise.” “Êtes-vous dame de la cour?” “Oui, monsieur, je suis dame de la reine.” “Où êtes-vous?” “Dans l’enfer, monsieur.” “Et pourquoi cela?” To this last question he used to give answers that embodied satirical allusions to the doings of the most celebrated women of fashion.
One of the missionaries, at that time preaching at Santa Maria, in Trastevere, also took a death’s head about with him, which he tossed up and down like a ball. When the Duke de Bracciano opened the box which he had held for the missions, in the garb of a penitent, he found scarcely any money in it, but plenty of bits of wood, buttons, &c. &c. At first he flew into a violent passion, thinking it to be an impertinence levelled at himself personally, but he was soon pacified on discovering that all the other gentlemen employed in the same business had been treated in a similar manner.
The Duke of Parma used frequently to clothe himself in a friar’s robe and live ascetically. One day he remarked to the duchess that her head-dress was not becoming. “Oh!” said she, “è bello e buono per un frate.” For her part she spent much of her time in hunting, and loved to wear man’s attire. The Emperor of Austria told the duchess, his sister, if she would come to Rome while he and the King of Sweden were there, they might have great luck at a game much played at Vienna, in which the best hand consists of two kings and a card called “la matta” (the fool).
The King of Sweden remained in Rome till the middle of April, 1784. The night before he set out for Naples he presented the Cardinal de Bernis with a snuff-box, on which was his portrait, set in brilliants, valued at sixty thousand livres.[[43]] He also gave one to the Chevalier de Bernis, estimated at fifteen thousand livres, and a similar one to the major-domo, besides leaving five hundred sequins for the cardinal’s servants. A few days before his majesty’s departure, he was received at the Arcadia by the name of Anaxander, and verses were composed in his honour, after the fashion known as a Corona, the last line of each piece being the first of the following one. Most of these effusions referred chiefly to Queen Christina, the great patroness of the Arcadia, but some of them also eulogised the king, and alluded to his assumed name as King of Men. I don’t think his Majesty understood these allusions, for he told me in the evening that his name was “Anaxamandre.” He seemed, however, much gratified by the compliments paid to him, but remarked that he did not deserve them. What he had done, he added, might make some figure in history, but not in poetry.
The King of Sweden also presented to the Pope three caskets, containing Swedish medals, ninety of which were of gold and one hundred and fifty of silver. His Holiness made a handsome return by a present of two large mosaics and two pieces of tapestry, besides some prints by Piranesi. One of the mosaics alone was worth more than the whole of the Swedish medals, but the king set down on a piece of paper the cost of his own and the Pope’s presents, and made out that the latter was not worth half as much as the former.
One night, at Monsignor de Bayane’s, an air balloon[[44]] was sent up to gratify his Swedish Majesty, whose arms were painted upon it, with the motto: “Ce n’est pas un conte.” The king amused himself with making all kinds of ridiculous experiments with Naples biscuits, in concert with the Princess Santa Croce.
Being at supper once with the King and Queen of Naples, the latter asked Gustavus a number of questions about his revolution (in 1772), which he answered in monosyllables, with evident reluctance. At last she inquired what the Queen of Sweden was doing all that time. “Why,” said he, “she remained shut up in her own room, awaiting the event. What have women to do with political affairs?” However, he kissed the queen one evening as he was taking leave of her, in the presence of the king, her husband, who exclaimed: “Malora! in faccia mia!”
About this time I made the acquaintance of Lieutenant Koehler, General Elliott’s aide-de-camp during the siege of Gibraltar. He said that the general used to rise every morning at four, but scarcely ever went to bed before twelve or one, and even then was continually awakened to hear the reports from the different batteries of every circumstance that happened in the enemy’s camp. While the floating batteries were burning, he exclaimed: “They will make us pay for them; for they have a hundred thousand witnesses to prove that it was we who set them on fire.” As he walked up and down, watching the conflagration, he caught himself humming one of his favourite airs: “Le matelot brûle au milieu des flots.”
While General Elliott was planning the great sortie that destroyed the Spanish works, he did not speak of it to any one. But when he had arranged and decided upon every part of the manœuvre, he sent for the commanding officers, and explained his intentions to them, appointing each to a particular duty. He then ordered all the suttling-houses to be closed, in order that the men might be quite sober, and even when they were under arms he kept them waiting for four hours, so that if any of them should happen to have been drinking they might have time to recover from the effects. He then said he should accompany them to the gate, but no one knew that he meant to go any further, though his aide-de-camp had observed that his great-coat—which he wore with a belt, and called his “kitchen fire”—stuck out more than was usual over his ordinary small sword. But when he arrived at the gate he threw off his coat, and ordered some one to carry it home, and it was then seen that he had his fighting sword on, slung by a belt over his shoulder. As the path was exceedingly difficult, many of the soldiers offered their arm to steady him, but he told them that they would have enough to do to take care of themselves, and so contented himself with leaning on his aide-de-camp’s shoulder. When they reached the Spanish lines he exclaimed: “We have had a run for it, but it has been the right way.”
After having completely destroyed the enemy’s works, he walked with the slowest pace and most majestic demeanour. If any man happened to be wounded, the general always inquired closely into the circumstances of the case, and severely rebuked any officer who did not take good care of the lives of his men. If any man was killed, he always asked if he had left a wife or family, and made it his business that they should be provided for. Every morning he visited the hospital, to see that it was kept perfectly clean, and the patients properly attended to. The first lemons in his garden were always sent there, and whatever else was likely to contribute to the comfort of the sick and wounded.