At nine we were summoned to supper; after which we sat for some time on the beach, enjoying the beauty of the moonlight and the softness of the air, though, as far as the majority of the party were concerned, it was, more properly speaking, the physical comfort, the sensation of repose, which caused their satisfaction; for, as respects the enthusiasm which almost every English person feels, or at any rate expresses, beneath the influence of beautiful scenery, Italians, generally considered, are provokingly deficient.
The next morning we had visitors. Signor Bonaventura's two daughters, damsels of eighteen, or thereabouts, came by appointment to spend the day, and arrived soon after the breakfast of café au lait and chocolate had been served; this, with dinner at two, and supper in the evening, is the old-fashioned Piedmontese and Nizzardo system of refection. The sisters were fair specimens of Italian girls of the mezzo cetto, convent-educated, with ideas that never ranged beyond an excursion to Nice, or reading more extensive than the Missal or the Almanac. Immeasurably beneath country-bred English girls of a corresponding class in all intellectual points, they were undeniably superior in ease of manner, and the good taste and simplicity of their dress. As they stood upon the beach, watching the general bathing his large dog, looking so fresh and girl-like in their pretty, well-fitting light-blue muslins and large round hats, they made me wish my young countrywomen would take a lesson in harmony and gracefulness of costume from continental maidens. They evidently looked upon the comtesse with profound awe, and upon me with great curiosity, as some rare animal escaped from a menagerie. It being impossible to carry on any conversation with them beyond monosyllables, I proposed we should walk out; and, accordingly, we passed most of the day, both before and after dinner, in exploring the neighbourhood, to their infinite delight, as I discovered that they rarely left the house except on Sundays; Italians of that class considering daily exercise for their womankind a superfluity, tending to form idle habits. Signor Bonaventura accompanied us, and towards me was very affable and communicative, although with regard to his daughters he evidently entertained very Oriental notions of their mental inferiority, and treated them as if they were incapable of receiving information, or as if it was not worth while to impart it to them.
In the course of our rambles, I was struck with the singular appearance of some of the dwellings of the peasantry near the shore—high narrow towers, only accessible by a steep flight of steps, detached from the main building, with which they were connected by a wooden bridge. He told me these were vestiges of the times when the coasts of the Mediterranean were so often ravaged by the Algerine corsairs, that no hamlet was safe from their dreaded inroads. To secure the inhabitants as far as possible, these towers were constructed, to which, on the first alarm, they might fly for refuge, and raising the drawbridge, be at least secure from being carried off into slavery, though forced to be passive witnesses of the seizure of their cattle and the pillaging of their stores. In case of an attack, they defended themselves by hurling stones through spaces in the battlements upon their assailants, a few of a more modern description having loopholes in the walls for musketry. Happily, in these more peaceful days, the peasants have almost forgotten for what such fortresses were originally intended, and, fixing their habitations in what have survived the inroads of time, can look down complacently upon their olives and fig-trees, without trembling at every sail that rises upon the clear horizon.
As we passed through woods of olives, Signor Bonaventura descanted con amore upon their value and utility; and classing them above my favourite lemon-trees, which can be cultivated only in sheltered situations, assured me that they were the great staple of the Riviera, although a good crop is only realized every second year—the produce of the intervening one being very inconsiderable. In the good years, the yield of each tree is estimated, according to its size, at from five to eleven francs clear profit. The trees are carefully numbered on each estate, and from 1000 to 1200 constitute a very fair proprietà. When the olives turn black and begin to fall, sheets are laid beneath the branches, which are gently shaken to detach the fruit; whatever is thus obtained, is carefully spread on the floor of some rooms set apart for the purpose, and day by day, as the remaining olives successively ripen, they are shaken down and added to the store, until sufficient is collected to be sent to the mill, where it is pressed, and the oil flows out clear and sparkling. After this first process of pressing the fruit, there is a second one of crushing or grinding it, by which oil of an inferior quality, requiring some time to settle, is obtained; lastly, water is poured on the mass of stones and pulp, and the oil that rises to the surface is carefully skimmed, being the perquisite of the proprietor of the mill, who receives no other remuneration for his share in the transaction. The produce of the fig-trees is another, though less lucrative, source of revenue; great quantities are dried in the sun, and afterwards sold, not only for the supply of the country itself, but for the French market, where the figs of Ventimiglia, Signor Bonaventura declared, were as much prized as those of Smyrna. He showed me large supplies in course of preparation, laid on long frameworks of reed lightly interwoven, which as soon as the sun rose were carried out, and remained all day exposed on the low parapet which divided the jardin potager from the beach. No guard was ever kept over them, and no fear seemed to be entertained of their being stolen. Indeed, the honesty of the peasantry and fishermen is marvellous, for in this same kitchen-garden—a strip of sandy soil stolen from the sea-shore—green peas, tomatos, cucumbers, melons, and a variety of vegetables, were grown in profusion; and nevertheless, unprotected as it was, being without the precincts of the iron gate at the back of the house, which was closed for form's sake every night, nothing was ever missed—not a single fruit or vegetable misappropriated.
Our walk after dinner was so prolonged, that darkness overtook us on our way back, as we were scrambling through the dry bed of a torrent; but the kind comtesse had foreseen this, and a peasant, despatched by her to meet us, soon made his appearance with a blazing branch of pine-wood, which diffused a grateful fragrance. Some remarks on the picturesque appearance of this torch, and the properties of the pine, led to my hearing about the popular mode of fishing, alla fucina, which I was promised I should see the first cloudy night, moonlight being a bar to this pastime—a promise, by the by, that still remains to be fulfilled, thanks to the unbroken serenity of the weather during my stay at Latte. However, they showed me the implements, which are simple enough. Projecting from the stern of the boat, and elevated above the heads of those engaged in the sport, is the fucina, an iron grating, piled with flaming pine-fagots, which cast a brilliant light upon the waters, illuminating their recesses with extraordinary clearness. The boat glides into all the little bays and rocky inlets, and the fish, scared, yet attracted, by the unwonted glare, are seen shooting rapidly along in all directions; while the fishermen, each provided with an instrument somewhat resembling a harpoon, with a staff twelve or fourteen feet long, spear them with great dexterity as they dart through the illuminated space. Fish of considerable size are thus taken frequently, and the enthusiasm attendant on the enterprise being extreme, a stormy night and a tempestuous sea prove only additional inducements to the adventurous fishermen.
CHAPTER XXXII.
Excursion to Ventimiglia—The Duomo—Visit to a convent—La Madre Teresa—Convent life—A local archæologist—Cities of the coast—The presents of a savant—End of a pleasant visit.
The next day an excursion to Ventimiglia, about two miles distant, was proposed; and after some demur from the comtesse, who did not feel equal to the fatigue, and yet hesitated at confiding me to the joint care of the general, Signor Bonaventura, and one of his daughters, whom we were to pick up at her own residence, every difficulty was adjusted, and we departed, the whole establishment being as much excited as if we were going on a journey. They had left their own horses at Nice, but a carriage, the handsomest Signor Bonaventura could procure in Ventimiglia, was in waiting at the road, so exquisitely antique, rickety, and inaccessible, that in itself it was a refreshing departure from the routine of everyday life. Our drive along the coast was as beautiful as any part of the road previously traversed, and soon brought us to the town, built on the side of a hill sloping towards the sea—a wonderful little place to be so near a modern resort like Nice, and yet retaining so much originality. Whether owing to the splendour of our equipage, or the charm of our personal appearance, it becomes me not to determine, but it is undeniable that as our steeds shambled up the steep narrow street every window was garnished with curious faces; and as we passed the apothecary's, where the priests and doctors gossiped, and the caffè, where the gentry lounged and smoked, hats were doffed on all sides, and a gratifying effect was evidently created. The general, excessively delighted, twirled his grey moustache, and affably returned the greeting; then, Signor Bonaventura's daughter having joined us, marshalling the party with military precision, he took upon himself the office of cicerone, and led the way to the Duomo, a very ancient structure, built on the site of a temple of Juno. On the piazza before it, until very recently, stood some oak-trees of great antiquity, which popular tradition had pronounced to form part of the wood sacred to the goddess. The ruthless canons of the cathedral, a few years ago, caused the old church to be thoroughly cleaned, and actually had the whole exterior painted over, although it was of stone, of the earliest period of ecclesiastical architecture. In the inside is preserved a marble slab, the sole relic of the ancient temple, containing a dedicatory inscription to the ox-eyed goddess, whereon antiquaries have puzzled and disputed to an edifying extent. A few faded pictures and tawdry ornaments were the only attempts at embellishment; and even these seemed at a very low ebb, for there was a printed notice near one of the confessionals, asking for contributions towards the purchase of a new image of the Madonna—a box, with a slit in the cover being placed beneath it, to receive any offerings for that purpose. Next we went to a convent belonging to the Canonichesse Lateranensi—a visit to which had been the desire of my heart ever since my arrival at Latte, to the amusement of the whole family, who could not understand why such an every-day sight, as this and similar establishments appear to them, should interest me so much. The convent was a large, irregularly-built pile, until the end of the seventeenth century the palace of the Counts of Ventimiglia, who here for a long period maintained a struggling feudal supremacy, waging wars with the neighbouring petty States, or else making common cause with them in resisting the suzerainship of the House of Savoy; which, in the gradual annexation of the territories constituting the present kingdom of Sardinia, had separately to contend with numberless principalities, marquisates, and republics, each jealous of its own independence, and regardless of the claims of the common weal.
Up a broken open staircase to a portico in front of the convent church—where two or three slipshod women were seated al fresco, plaiting each other's hair, or engaged in that animating chase an old Florentine painter has facetiously designated “the Murder of the Innocents”—we passed to a side-door, at which an old woman presented herself, and inquired what we wanted. This individual officiated as portress to the nuns, went to market, executed their commissions, and brought them all the Ventimiglia news. In her appearance there was nothing poetical or impressive; she had not even two great rusty keys at her girdle, but was attired in a print gown, somewhat the worse for wear, with an obvious deficiency of neatness in the tiring of her silvery tresses, and of freshness in her chaussure.
The general gave his name and title, and asked for La Madre Teresa, although, as he owned to me, he had but a dim recollection of her face, all minor associations being lost in the halo cast around a certain beautiful abbess, now no more, a distant connection of his family, whom, many years before, when staying with some relations at Ventimiglia, he had often conversed with at the grating. With great respect we were now ushered into a sort of gallery, lighted by windows, around which the dust and cobwebs of many months had been suffered to gather unmolested. Opposite to these were two large apertures in the wall, defended by a double grating of thick iron bars, just wide enough to admit of passing a hand between their interstices, but placed at such a distance from each other, that the hand thus advanced could only reach far enough to grasp a hand similarly extended from the opposite side; so that even to press a kiss upon some fair nun's taper fingers was out of the question—a contingency, no doubt, had in view in the placing of the grating.