PONY ON THE STAGE
Standishes of all ages and both sexes took part in this brilliant spectacle, while the part of “Selim,”,the rescuer of the lovely Fatima, was acted by the young Marquis Talleyrand de Perigord, eldest son of the Duc de Dinon, who had lately become a resident in Florence. We were very glad to secure the services of the young Marquis, who was handsome, accomplished and agreeable, and who, moreover, was not likely to be unwilling to enact the part of rescuer to the fair Fatima, seeing he appeared in no way insensible to the charms of our prima ballerina. I was the originator of the noble idea of introducing an equestrian element into the ballet, and mounting the gallant soldier on young Standish’s favourite pony. The effect was thrilling. The clattering of the hoofs on the stage recalled visions of international circuses. The final tableau, with the equine element in the back-ground, could not be surpassed for grandeur or originality; but—alas for the vanity of earthly ambition!—no power on earth could induce the pony to leave the stage—him to whom the slightest wish of his master was usually law. Threats, blows, caresses, all were in vain—he stood perfectly still—stock still, though, as grooms say, a little “handy with his heels.” Here was a contretemps. I had to answer for the proposition, everybody was cross, supper waiting—that delightful banquet which we had honestly gained. I felt my honour was at stake. I entreated to be left alone with the rebellious charger, and my patience was put to no small test. I bandaged Hotspur’s eyes, I led him round and round, and backwards and forwards, patting and coaxing him all the time, till my efforts were crowned with success, and I backed him off the stage. The horse had evidently had an attack of stage fright, as severe as that of the hussar. A long discussion ensued between all the members of the company, as to the advisability of repeating the experiment on the next evening, when the public were to be admitted; but I pleaded so hard, taking for my text, “nothing hazard, nothing have,” that the pony made “his first appearance on any stage,” and despite the thunders of applause which rewarded his efforts, walked off when required to do so, as quietly as a lamb!
Ah! those were merry days at Casa Standish, and the boys and girls of that bygone time are still affectionately remembered by me, and that dear mother, Lady Lucy Standish, who presided over all our revels. I trust that any members of the family who may chance to read these lines, will not be displeased by this slight allusion to those happy days.
It was about this time, at Florence, that I first made the acquaintance and formed the friendship of the celebrated novelist of the day, G. P. R. James, whose historical romances were then in the highest favour with the reading public. I was one of his great admirers, and was delighted to be made known to him, but it was reserved for me in future days to fathom the depths of that high and generous nature, and that warm and noble heart. He had hired a beautiful villa in the environs of the city, which afterwards became the property of the Countess of Crawford, Villa Palmieri, and which has been occupied by our beloved Queen Victoria. It was on one of Florence’s golden afternoons that my mother and I drove out to dine with Mr and Mrs James, and I pressed for the first time those hands which were ever afterwards stretched out to me in kindness and hospitality.
CAROLINE BONAPARTE
Amongst the residents at this season in Tuscany’s fair capital was Caroline Bonaparte, the widow of Joachim Murat, the favourite sister of the Emperor Napoleon I., whom he described as having the head of a great man on the shoulders of a pretty woman. Ex-Queen of Naples, she was living at that time on the Lung’arno, under the anagrammatic title of Countess Lipona (Napoli), and supposed, with little doubt, to be the wife of Marshal Macdonald. I think the epithet “captivating” might well be applied to her; she was small and fair, and, although advanced in years, bore the traces of great comeliness. I found in her a strange resemblance to our dear Princess Mary of England, Duchess of Gloucester, and she was in no wise displeased when I told her so.
Countess Lipona was much beloved and respected at Florence, and had a great liking and admiration for Félicie de Fauveau, in spite of their political antagonism, and it was owing to the last-mentioned friend that I had the privilege and delight of making her acquaintance. I always approached her as a royal personage, remembering what she had been, and made what I considered a conscientious compromise by using the title of altesse. On one occasion, at a masquerade, where I personated a “Marchande de Cœurs,” and carried a basket full of hearts, dramatic, poetical, diplomatic, and the like, I constructed a gigantic golden heart inscribed “Cœur de Caroline,” on which I paid an honest tribute to the extraordinary courage and equanimity with which she had borne the vicissitudes of a cruel destiny. This golden heart had no price; it was to be given up to the august Caroline for the value of a single smile, and kneeling at the feet of the Princess I so much admired, I presented her there and then with the greatest treasure in my basket. I can remember her appearance well; she was dressed in a domino of light green silk, trimmed with costly lace, green and white, the colours of the Legitimist party, and she laughingly called on Félicie de Fauveau to account for her selection of that combination. Now, Félicie was a genuine woman, and was never at a loss for an answer, and this was her gracious and loyal reply:
“Madame,” she said, “c’est pour nous les faire aimer de toutes les manières.”
How well I recall that night. Some of the English and Scotch guests arranged to dance a reel, and I had the good fortune to perform my part immediately before the spot where Countess Lipona was sitting. At the termination of the dance, she beckoned to me, and, with a kind kiss, presented me with her fan, “as a reward,” she said, “for the manner in which I had danced the écossaise.”
It may well be imagined how dearly I cherish this relic of bygone days, and even more so the small bracelet of hair which she sent me the ensuing year by my cousin, Lady Clinton, who was travelling in Italy shortly after her second marriage with Sir Horace Seymour. By the way, the coupling of these two names, I was assured, caused some animadversions among the society of a city where you would not have expected the inhabitants to be extra strait-laced. But our peculiar English custom of widows retaining the rank of the first husband, if superior to that of the second, is very perplexing to the mind of a foreigner, as in other European countries the wife is naturally expected to bear the name of the suitor whom she accepts.