Richard had always one good story to tell that delighted him. The Consular Chaplain, the Rev. Robert O'Callaghan, and I were very good friends. When I greeted him I told him I hoped he would not mind my not belonging to his Church, and he said it need make no difference in our friendship; and, on the other hand, I took care that the Consul's wife being a Catholic should be no detriment to the Protestant Church, nor the cause of the Protestant community lacking any assistance. After we got intimate Richard declared that with a triumphant wave I said, "I have got a convert from your Church." Now, proselytizing does not enter into my occupations, but the fact is that one day my Italian Capuchin confessor, a most holy man, told me that he had got a Protestant under instruction, and he desired that I should be godmother at his reception into the Church. I said, "Certainly, Father; but I think I should like to have a look at him first." When I did look at him, and he had retired, I said, "I think, Father, it is just possible that he may be a convict on leave." "Oh, daughter," he said, with a very shocked look, "he has a beautiful soul under that very rough exterior!" "Well," I said, "Father, it is your business; you ought to know." Accordingly the unprepossessing young man was "received," and I stood godmother. About a month after he was taken up as being the head of a gang of house-breakers, when of course I jeered at my horrified padre, and Mr. O'Callaghan had a tremendous crow over me. But shortly after Richard and I were invited to be present officially at the reception and baptizing in the Protestant church of two converted Jews, and we attended, and there were great rejoicings, but it was not long before they robbed the till and bolted, so I had the laugh back again. Richard rejoiced very much over our mutual conversions, and used to like to tell the story.
On the 28th of November there was a general return thanks in the churches for the cessation of the cholera.
On the 27th of December Richard and I were summoned to visit her Majesty Maria Theresa, ex-Queen of Spain, widow of old Don Carlos. We were very graciously received. She gave me two books, a holy picture, and the photographs of herself and her late husband.
Early in January, 1874, Maria Theresa Contessa de Montelin, ex-Queen of Spain, again sent for me. She gave me a Prayer-book, and she bequeathed to me all her pious works, begging of me to keep up and to promote certain pious societies which she had either started or wished to start. One was the Apostleship of Prayer, whose members were to take an active Sister of Charity part, doing good works, corporal and spiritual, in the town. I accepted the charge, and she died on the 17th of January. The following day we went to condole with the departed princess's entourage, and to pay our respects to the dead, who lay in state. I may mention, en passant, under my hand, that the members eventually increased to fifteen thousand, inscribed in a book; they made me President, and, with the assistance of my Capuchins, we got it into very good working order, dividing ourselves into bands in various quarters of the City, and did a great deal of good. After my husband died (after my sixteen years' work), there was a formal meeting in their church for me to hand over my Presidency to my successor.
One of our amusements in Trieste was, that whenever a ship came in with a captain we knew, he would invite us to dine, and we used to taste English food and see English people, and invite the captain and officers or any especially nice passengers back again.
Richard writes and foretells in his journal, 1873: "It is noticeable that even in 1873 Fiume will ruin Trieste. This place has not long to live."
In May, 1874, Richard and others made an expedition up the Schneeberg Mountain, which is always covered with snow. He used to amuse himself by buying any amount of clothes and greatcoats, which were hanging up in rows, and he always went out lightly clad to harden himself, so he started off with a little thin coat and thin shoes, and he did the expedition; and when the others were housed and warm, he would do more than anybody else, and sleep out in the snow. We had done that when we were obliged (as, for instance, in Teneriffe), but this was not obligatory; it was a very different climate. When he arrived back home it was a dreadful day, and six o'clock in the morning, and three days afterwards he was taken very ill quite suddenly; inflammation settled in the groin, a tumour formed, and he suffered tortures.
The doctor told me that it was going to be a long illness, so I telegraphed home for good port wine and all sorts of luxuries, and put two beds on rollers, so as to be able easily to change him from one to the other, and a couch for myself, so that I might sleep when he slept. We had seventy-eight days and nights of it. The tumour had to be cut out, and afterwards it was discovered that the surgeon had not gone deep enough, and it had to be done again. The doctor and the surgeon came twice a day, and they taught me to dress the wound. I was afraid his life would ebb away, but I kept up his strength with good port wine, egg-flips with brandy, cream and fresh eggs, Brand's essences, and something every hour. His brain was so strong that the doctors had very hard work to get him under chloroform—it took forty minutes, and two bottles of chloroform; but when he did go off it was perfect, and on coming to, he said, "Well, when is it going to begin?" "It is all over long ago, Captain Burton," said the doctor; but in point of fact I had to keep his attention engaged, as they were just clearing away the blood and all traces of the operation. He was so brave, he smoked a cigar and drank a soda-and-brandy an hour after the operation.