~~~ Project Gutenberg Australia ~~~
~~~ Project Gutenberg Australia ~~~
Title: Patriotic Lady Author: Marjorie Bowen * A Project Gutenberg Australia eBook * eBook No.: 0800711h.html Language: English Date first posted: July 2008 Date most recently updated: July 2008 Project Gutenberg Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html
GO TO Project Gutenberg Australia HOME PAGE
It has been impossible to write this study of Emma, Lady Hamilton, without touching upon subjects which are extremely controversial. It is not within the scope of this book, however, to attempt to revive disputes and arguments which have long since been worn threadbare, and which concern not so much matters of fact as matters of opinion. Many writers who have dealt with the career of Emma, Lady Hamilton, have set themselves the task, not of discovering the truth, but of making out a case according to personal prejudice. The works given in the bibliography at the end of this volume cover the whole range of opinions held, and judgments given, by Italian, French, Austrian and English writers on the end of the Revolution in Naples in 1799. Any reader who doubts the accuracy or fairness of the present writer's version of this event is referred to the works of these authorities, all of which are easily procurable.
It must be added, however, that these writers differ considerably in their points of view and their knowledge, are often confused by passion, or are deliberately inaccurate through prejudice; therefore all, or nearly all, the evidence must be read, if an impartial judgment is to be formed on matters that have caused such bitter emotions and such fierce differences of opinion.
It is useless, for instance, to read Nelson and the Neapolitan Jacobins by H. C. Gutheridge, without reading Lady Hamilton et la Révolution de Naples by Joseph Turquan and Jules d'Auriac, in which the English author's points are carefully dealt with, and his arguments often refuted. Further, it is impossible to understand the situation and sentiments of the Patriots of Naples and the Italian point of view without being acquainted with the Jacobins' own statements and the opinions of Italian historians, which may be found embodied in the writings of Vincenzo Cuoco, Francesco Lomanaco, Carlo Botta, P. Colletta, and G. M. Arrighi, and in those of two modern Italian scholars of the first rank, who have made impartial and patient researches into the history of the Novantanove; Benedetto Croce and Pasquale Villari. The latter, in his Nelson, Caracciolo, la Rivoluzione di Napoli, published in Discussioni critiche Discorsi, gives a masterly summing up of the whole controversy and of the works of all the writers who have discussed the questions raised by the part played by the English in the Bourbon reaction.
Another cool and detached account of the affair is given by Professor Huefer in his article La fin de la Republique Napolitaine, published in Nos. 83-84 of La Revue Historique de Paris, and a useful book is that published under the same title as Professor Villari's essay, by F. Lemmi, Florence, 1898.
Mr. David Hannay, in his edition of Southey's Life of Nelson, is conspicuous for his fairness in dealing with the Neapolitan episode, while the chapter on Caracciolo, in J. Cordy Jeafferson's Lady Hamilton and Lord Nelson, may be cited as an example of the kind of writing that has too often misled the English reader as to the characters and events of Naples in 1799.
In conclusion, some words of personal explanation may be added. As very little is known of Emma Hamilton before 1782, this account of her life begins in that year, and references to her early youth are given as rumours or gossip only. It is most likely that there was much truth in these tales--some such life as they indicate Amy Lyon must have led--but the evidence for this part of her career is flimsy and contradictory and many of the well-known anecdotes of her early life rest on very doubtful authority.
For the same reason several often-repeated stories relating to Lady Hamilton have been omitted from the later part of the book, but there is sufficient authentic material available from which to construct a portrait of this woman, remarkable in herself and extraordinary in her life and adventures.
M. BOWEN.
16, QUEEN ANNE'S GATE, LONDON, S.W.
July, 1935.
CONTENTS: FOREWORD I - HERO'S REWARD 1. THE MAKING OF A BEAUTY 2. THE MAKING OF A GREAT LADY II - RULE BRITANNIA 1. THE VICTORS 2. THE PATRIOTS III - HERO'S LEGACY 1. THE SAILOR'S RETURN 2. MORALIZING STARS AND PREACHING TOMBS BIBLIOGRAPHY INDEX [Not included in this ebook]
It has been said that Cupid writes his epistles on the leaves of a ledger; at any rate this quarrel was about money.
The great difference between the lovers was that, whereas Sir Harry could pay for at least some of his pleasures, Amy was penniless. So, when the final quarrel came, the girl, who had only her personal charms, was utterly defeated by the young man who had birth, a title, relations, friends and property.
The easy-going rake, who knew the ways of his world, certainly expected to have to pay in cash for five months of amorous felicity with t he pretty creature who had such a lively tongue and such gay romping ways. But the bills were too high and came in far too frequently. Five guineas for coach hire! This was a piece of insolence not to be endured; and there were the milliners, dressmakers, haberdashers, all clamorous for their dues, and the house-keeping had reached t hose crazy figures which are only possible when a fashionable young bachelor entertains boon companions and ladies of the town.
Sir Harry protested sharply that he was ruined and that the fault lay with his wild, giddy mistress. She retorted insolently with t he assurance of the petted toy whose impertinent follies had always been applauded.
But Sir Harry was in no mood to laugh at her flounces and grimaces; with the revulsion following infatuation he felt that the girl was not worth what she was costing him; even if he could afford so extravagant a companion, would it be worth while to empty his purse to pay the expenses of a creature whose favours he must share with all his friends?
In his opinion Amy had behaved exactly like the flower of the gutter she was, and to the gutter she might return.
He was, besides, tired of her, sick of the long debauch of which Up Park had been the scene during the autumn and winter, jaded with the drink, the gambling, the din of the disorderly women, the tipsy men, the confusion arising from bad service, the nagging visits from duns, the insolence of unpaid servants.
Amy played into his hands by losing her temper, by tossing her head and answering him in the rustic Welsh accent of which he was tired; he replied brutally, and they shouted, one at the other, amid the litter of the fashionable room in the smart mansion which occupied a hollow of the South Downs.
Bottles, decanters and glasses cumbered the sideboards, packs of fingered cards piled the small tables, wheezing lap-dogs sat on soiled lace caps and kerchiefs, flung over satin chairs; dirty clay pipes, tobacco-pouches, snuff-boxes, crowded the coquettish ornaments on the mantel shelf; there were fowling-pieces in one corner, whips in another, a basket of pups under the desk, a gross dog, smelling of the stable, before the log fire--and everywhere a confusion of unpaid bills--un odor di femina.
Amy, in stiff silks overtrimmed and gaudy, with stale powder dotted in her heavy hair, holes in her stockings and kicked-out shoes, with unpaid-for lace across her bosom, and a black velvet patch to show off a complexion not well cared for, held her own with coarse words, with violent gestures, maintaining her right as a young, seductive female, to spend what she pleased, to do as she pleased.
"Not at my expense," was the burden of Sir Harry's reply, as he lounged sulkily beneath pictures discreetly curtained even in that establishment, against the case of books the indecencies of which had long been staled by thumbings over.
The baronet's polished exterior had once seemed very attractive to Amy; he had all the easy airs of his class and could be elegant when with ladies, but he took a gentleman's privilege and was crude enough with females who lived--as the term went--under his protection. When Amy, in a passion at his refusal to submit to her tantrums, screamed out that she would fling out of his house--he said that she not only might, but must, go.
She could be packed off more easily than could a maidservant as she was without the written law. The right of appeal to the unwritten law she had, in her lover's opinion, forfeited, when, in return for her keep and her amusements, she had not given even a brief fidelity.
With such a mood on either side the scene could have but one ending; the pretty young girl tossed out of the dishevelled mansion which had been, for nearly half a year, a slut's paradise, and her whilom lover warned her not to return. In the brutal phrase of the time, she was turned out of keeping.
Sir Harry Featherstonehaugh saw her departure with relief. She was noisy, she was common, she was expensive, she was losing her figure and he was weary of her bright, pretty face, her cheerful ignorance, and the quick insolence with which she picked up the vices and the airs that belonged properly to gentlefolk.
Amy's temper soon cooled when she found herself shut out of Up Park; she was good-humoured and had meant no harm by the outburst of rage that had cost her so dear. Once the gates of that dishevelled mansion were closed on her, she realized that she had forfeited an existence perfectly agreeable to her tastes.
What could have been pleasanter than that slipshod life where dozens of wax-candles guttered over the baize cloth, where guineas glittered and cards were piled in the evening, where satin curtains kept out the daylight in the morning while a lazy girl lay cosy in cambric and down! A life where there were gentlemen to kiss, to jest with, to banter and flatter; raised pies and spiced jellies to eat, champagne and fine red wine to drink! A life where, at the cost of a few tears, a few caresses, a pout, a jest, a girl might have shawls, gauzes, feathers and frocks. Yes, a poor girl who knew all about poverty and hard work, who had been a servant on a Welsh farm, who had toiled in a London basement, might, at Up Park, enjoy all that ever gilded a kitchen-maid's dreams, just in return for being pleasant to the gentlemen. Amy began to see that she had been very wrong; she was quite ashamed of herself as she trudged to the turn in the bleak road where she must meet and stop the London coach.
It was the dead time of year, when English scenery is veiled and forbidding, when English towns are grey and chill, when a poor girl wants to be cherished indoors, in a warm bed, close to a roaring fire, with good food, glasses of wine, songs and games in the evenings and milliners' boxes in the mornings.
No doubt there were other gallants besides Sir Harry, who would offer consolation to Amy Lyon, but there was a good reason why she should not engage in active adventure; for a few months at least she needed shelter and a quiet life.
She possessed only the clothes she stood up in and a few pounds, won at cards the night before, in her pocket; she thought of her mother, the comfortable widow, discreet and obliging, who was always able to earn her keep, if not much beside, with her excellent cooking; but Amy did not want to appeal to Mrs. Lyon, who had only a servant's wages to dispose of and could do nothing; besides had not the good mother given her some hints on how to handle gentlemen? How disappointed she would be to hear of her daughter's mistake! Amy was very fond of her mother and did not want her to know the failure she had made of her splendid chance at Up Park. One other resource remained to the distracted damsel, the old grandmother who, in her mud-and-wattle cottage set in the dull street of the Flintshire village, had once before proved a friend to a girl in distress.
Amy was already, at nineteen years of age, used to ups and downs, and had developed the simple philosophy of enjoying the former to the full and making the best of the latter. So she paid out her remaining stock of money for coach fare to Hawarden, where Dame Kidd looked after a dark little girl whose origin was a matter for gossip among the neighbours.
Amy knew and detested that Welsh village; she had been born at Neston in Cheshire and when she was three years old her mother, widow of Henry Lyon, blacksmith, had come to Hawarden to share the poverty of Dame Kidd's white-washed cottage, where the continuous mists from the gaunt moorlands soaked the thatch and stained the plaster, and the frequent rains spluttered on the one fire and slashed at the dirty panes of the windows shadowed by the eaves.
To this miserable refuge the downcast girl returned because there was nowhere else to go and her grandmother knew it; they kissed and cried together; there was no need to ask for explanations, the case was obvious. Amy Lyon sat down in her draggled silks and wondered what she should do, while the dark-eyed toddling child in the red shawls eyed her curiously.
Dame Kidd regretted the fallen fortunes of her pretty grandchild who did not seem to know how to make the most of her opportunities, but she uttered no reproaches; the three women had lived together good-humouredly in the lazy squalor of a Welsh peasant's life until Mrs. Lyon had gone to London to better herself, and Amy had followed soon after, seeking the fabled glories of the capital with the high heart of ignorant youth.
And here she was, returned for the second time without a penny in her soiled pockets and with tears in her handsome eyes. What was to be done?
The old woman and the girl faced one another in some dismay in the flicker of the scanty, cherished fire.
Amy could not be considered to have made a wise investment of her charms; on her previous visit to Flintshire she had borne the swarthy child who now clung to her silk skirts and clutched at her fingers. She was evasive about the father of this uninteresting infant. Dame Kidd understood that he had been a sailor on a pressgang ship at the Tower Wharf in London, the captain, Amy had hinted--but what did it matter? He had sailed away without leaving Amy a farthing and was quite outside the present calculations, which centred round the fact that in two months' time Amy would again be the mother of an unwanted child; nor was the delicate question of the paternity of the coming infant likely to be settled to the satisfaction of Amy, who, with tears, regrets, and a few outbursts against her ill luck, confessed to Dame Kidd that she had been so very wild and giddy at Up Park, had so romped and gambolled, been so anxious to please all the gentlemen that it was useless to expect any one of them to assume the responsibility for her trouble.
The poor cottage, the long, narrow, village street, with the squalid inn, the forge, the tiny post office, the wide moors beyond, the scattered farms, the straggling flocks of fat-tailed, silly-faced sheep, all blurred and sodden in the wet grey winter weather, depressed Amy's spirits to a melancholy most unusual to her cheerful temperament; she felt as desperate as if she had been thrown into a lazar-house or Cold Bath Fields Prison. She wept for all she had so suddenly left, the warmth, the food, the drink, the games and caresses, the lazy ease of hours spent before a mirror, lolling on a sofa or flinging cards on the table where the rouleaux of guineas were piled.
Dame Kidd had no consolation to offer; she knew that Amy's plight was a common case. In the better farms hung series of cheap prints that told a story with a moral. One of these might have been Amy's story--at least in the first stages. There was a harsh title to these pictures, the first of which showed the fresh, smiling country-girl descending from the coach that had arrived in London from the provinces, looking about her on the bustle of London, all agog for fun and soft living and a fine young man to praise her and pay her bills. Even so had Amy at sixteen years of age tripped for the first time through the dubious London streets, nosing after pleasure.
Very quickly, both in Amy's case, and in that of the pictured belle, was the rich protector found--such fresh charms are easily marketed. There, in the print, she might be seen behaving as Amy had behaved at Up Park, fashionably dressed, pampered, petulant, kicking over the tea-table in a tantrum under her lover's nose.
If Amy were not very careful, she might fulfil the destiny so graphically depicted in the first episodes of this savage warning to jolly country-girls eager for town delights, she too might come to beat hemp in Bridewell, to lie in a pauper's coffin with "anno vicesimo tertio aetatis suae" on the cheap lid.
The way of virtue was not only closed to her but exceedingly distasteful; she knew what it was to be a nursemaid in a Welsh farm, in the house of a fashionable London doctor, in decent establishments, where mistresses were careful of their maids' reputation; it would be quite impossible for her to return to so odious an existence--a scrubbing-brush would be no more incongruous in the hands of a nymph of Paphos than a serving-wench's cap on the well-set head of Amy Lyon.
Nor did it seem as if she would be welcomed back to the path of discretion and peace; Dame Kidd's neighbours looked askance at the returned prodigal; the girls who in homespun shawls had once herded sheep with her on the moors, sneered at the town finery that had so soon become soiled, that looked so foolish in the wattled cottage; married women who kept their own daughters respectable, wanted to know who was the teasing baby who ran after Dame Kidd and who was sometimes kissed and sometimes slapped by the despondent Amy.
Only one thing seemed possible in such a plight, an appeal to the late protector, who might surely be won round from his ill-humour by cajolery, by entreaties, as he had been won before.
Amy had learned, when in London, to read a little, to spell a little, and she sat down in despair and wrote to Sir Harry Featherstonehaugh seven letters, one after another; the gossips lounging at the village post office grinned when they read the superscription and sniggered as the days went by without a reply. In the seven unanswered letters was all her story.
Amy Lyon had learned some other things besides how to misspell a love-letter; she had gathered a miscellaneous knowledge of the ways of the world from the city streets, and at Up Park she had found she had a good seat in the saddle, a quick hand with the cards, a ready tongue to answer impudent gentlemen in their cups and the insolence to order servants about as she had once been ordered. There she had learned to like champagne, dainty food, silk next to her skin and luxurious beds, to replace the slang of the kitchen by the slang of the aristocrat, the jargon of the tavern by the jargon of the stable, and the gambling-room; she had learned the intimate details of the private lives of English gentlemen taking their ease. There, too, she had learned that these same gentlemen, however spendthrift and gay they might be, however reckless with their bets, their stakes, however extravagant in self-indulgence, yet objected strangely when the bills came in and were not prepared to ruin their fortunes for the sake even of the prettiest and most harming dears.
Amy, in the gloom of the Hawarden cottage, where a farthing dip was the only light in the winter evenings, and a child and an old woman her sole company, bitterly repented of her mistake. The seven letters were full of humility, of pleas for pardon, of promises for the future; never, oh! never, would she be wild and giddy again, never do anything so outrageous as run up a bill of five guineas for carriage hire. But the letters remained unanswered and Amy thought of one of the other gentlemen who had shared those pleasant parties at Up Park--one a little stiff and proud--who had never been really jolly nor roaring drunk, nor had joined in the most reckless amusements, but who had, nevertheless, shown himself susceptible to her enticements, her whims and ways.
She considered him more than a little formidable with his cold face and precise air and his hint of a sneer at the coarse frivolity of his friends, but for these very reasons she respected him--besides she knew that he had his yielding moments--if only he would deign to remember now how she had sometimes, when Sir Harry's luck was turned, known how to please him when he was a guest at Up Park. He had given her a franked envelope addressed to himself; there was hope in that. In her distress, struggling with poor scholarship, she wrote a letter, put it in the envelope addressed to the Hon. Charles Greville at Portman Square, London. It was answered with non-committal kindness and Amy wrote again in the last days of the year. She signed this frantic appeal with the romantic version of Amy which she had picked up in her adventures--Emily, the favourite name of circulating-library heroines, and Hart, a tender allusion to the warm emotions she felt and aroused.
This letter was undated, but endorsed with:
"Recd. Jan. 10, '82."
"My Dear Grevell,
"Yesterday did I receive your kind letter. It put me in some spirits; for, believe me, I am allmost distrackted. I have never hard from Sir H., and he is not at...now, I am sure. What shall I dow? Good God! What shall I dow? I have wrote 7 letters, and no answer. I can't come to town caus I (am) out of money. I have not a farthing to bless my self with, and I think my friends looks cooly on me. I think so. O Grevell, what shall I dow? what shall I dow? O how your letter affected me, when you wished me happiness. O G, that I was in your posesion as I was in Sr H--what a happy girl would I have been!--girl indeed! what else am I but a girl in distres--in reall distres? For God's sake, (Grevell) write the minet you get this, and only tell me what I am to dow...I am allmos mad. O, for God's sake, tell me what is to become on me. O dear Grevell, write to me. Grevell adue, and believe (me) yours for ever--Emly Hart.
"Don't tell my mother what distress I am in, and dow aford me some comfort."
Mr. Charles Greville was gratified to receive this letter; he had not forgotten Emily Hart; he had often congratulated himself on the knowledge and cleverness that had, on so many occasions, enabled him to secure a treasure cheaply. He was used to bargaining for his pleasures, for he was a poor man of elegant tastes, a collector of objets d'art, a Maecaenas with a flat purse.
It had amused him to notice Sir Harry's blunder about Amy Lyon; the stupid young baronet had picked her up and turned her off, just as if she had been a mere good-for-nothing off the streets, and Mr. Greville knew that she was a great deal more than that. Sir Harry and the crew at Up Park had thought Amy merely pretty--like any other girl who could be had for the asking. And so perhaps she was in the silly finery that she did not know how to wear, with her hair stuck with pomade, rouge and white on her face, her rustic accent and loud voice; but Mr. Greville was an expert, he could detect a masterpiece even under a smear of thick disfiguring varnish, he could recognize the gem even before it was cut and polished.
He laughed in his sleeve at Sir Harry and answered the letter of the girl in distress, not, however, impetuously, nor with the least touch of impudence, nor with any disloyalty to his sex or his class. Amy had behaved badly, even though he had received some benefit from her naughtiness, and must be scolded. Sir Harry had been injured in a way he could not be expected to overlook--infidelity and extravagance, insolence and ingratitude! Amy had much to learn and Mr. Greville was quite willing to teach her; he believed she would be docile; he smiled over the sentence: "O. G. that I was in your posesion as I was in Sr. H. what a happy girl would I have been."
Well, he was willing to see what he could make of Amy Lyon, but there must be reform, a proper bargain; he loathed establishments like those of Up Park and liked every penny of his income accounted for; he wrote to Amy in a tone of gentle reprimand; nothing must be expected from Sir Harry, least of all an acknowledgment of the unlucky child--but, if she were patient, penitent and promised good behaviour for the future, he, Charles Greville, would generously assist a naughty girl in distress.
Amy accepted the gracious offer with passionate gratitude--she would have accepted something much less inviting in order to escape from the monotony, the poverty, the hostility of Hawarden; her spirits soared at the prospect of London again; she was ready to promise anything.
Two months after her hasty retreat to Dame Kidd's cottage, Amy's second child was born without drawing breath; no one had wanted it to live, least of all the mother who found her little girl a sufficiently difficult problem; but Greville was equal to that difficulty--let the child remain with Dame Kidd, who should receive a small allowance for her keep.
Charles Greville was the second son of the Earl of Warwick; his party being in power, a small post had been found for him in the Foreign Office. It was not quite good enough for a second son of an earl, who was always on the look out for a plump sinecure--since it was a mere £500 a year; but better things might be looked for; if Mr. Greville's Government friends were not able to find him something more worthy of his merits, he had two pleasant prospects; his uncle Sir William Hamilton, a rich and childless widower, had taken him under his wing and had half promised to make him his heir. Then, whenever he chose, Mr. Greville, elegant, personable, well connected, could follow this same uncle's example and marry a woman with a comfortable income.
In the meanwhile he arranged his life with fastidious selfishness, so as to obtain the utmost satisfaction for himself out of his means and opportunities. He had remarked Amy Lyon among the disorders of Up Park and had had the curiosity to acquaint himself with her circumstances, but he did not know much of how she had spent the time since she had come to London; rumour credited her with many adventures and Mr. Greville was surprised that she could have found time for such varied experiences; she seemed so young. He wrote to her for a copy of the entry of the record of her birth, and received that of her baptism.
"Amy, daughter of Henry Lyon, blacksmith, of Neston, by Mary his wife, May 12th, 1765."
There were two crosses, one for the father, one for the mother. Flow old had Amy been when she was baptized? Mr. Greville did not pursue his enquiries further--it was sufficient that Amy was very young--say, nineteen years old.
Nor was he much interested in learning of her adventures; she had been a nursemaid with a Mrs. Thomas in Hawarden, a servant in the employ of the fashionable and successful Dr. Budd, of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, in the well-kept establishment his wife ran in Blackfriars--what then?
Employment in a tavern, in a shop, a brief sojourn with a lady of the half-world, adorning a shoddy salon, an even briefer episode as the companion of a sailor on leave, a mother at seventeen or less, an exhibit in the Temple of Hymen run by Dr. Graham in the Adelphi and Holborn.
Mr. Greville was not sure if the lovely Vestina, standing in a glass case feeding a serpent from a cup, had really been Amy Lyon; was she the fair female who had advertised the properties of the beautifying mudbath, by sitting in it up to her shoulders, her smiling face surrounded by a structure of powdered curls, braids of false pearls, rose feathers and velvet flowers?
Had the Welsh servant-girl played Hebe Vestina in this dubious temple where the virtues of the Electrical Throne and the Celestial Bed were demonstrated--in the words of the charlatan's advertisement--to the "Amateurs des délices exquises de Venus"? If she had assisted at these catch-penny shows where quackery and science were impudently mingled, it was odd that she had not secured a more useful admirer than the commonplace Sussex baronet from the crowd of leering spectators.
Mr. Greville did not trouble to investigate further his charmer's past--it was her future that was to be his concern. With a delibration that was almost solemn Amy Lyon was installed in Edgeware Row, there to live under the protection of the Hon. Charles Greville--upon terms which he sternly dictated and she humbly accepted.
There was to be no more wildness and giddiness, no more tempers and whims, above all, no extravagance. Amy must forget her common ways, her coarse language, she must lower her voice, restrain her gestures, drop any vulgar acquaintances who might claim her from the past, she must be very careful, very quiet, faithful and docile.
Amy promised everything; she was anxious to put herself in the hands of this kind master; she arrived from Hawarden rosy with retrieved health and brilliant with good resolutions.
The austere country life, the pure moorland air had renewed the charms that had been slightly tarnished in the close atmosphere of Up Park; far from modish shops Amy had not been able to purchase tinsel or patches, gewgaws or pomade; the finery for which Sir Harry had paid, had been shorn of tattered trimmings and turned about into a neat, plain garment; Mr. Greville was pleased with his blooming prize when she stood modestly before him in the neat house off Paddington Green.
This was no little bounding rustic agape for crude adventure, but rather a tender dryad fresh from the woodlands; she had an air of candour that Mr. Greville found as gratifying as astonishing--with a little more training she might be made to appear positively virginal. Mr. Greville, most suave of dilettantes, looked Amy up and down through his quizzing glass.
The expert was pleased with his purchase, lucky as he was, never had he made such a good bargain.
It was decided that Amy Lyon should be forgotten and that Emma Hart should take her place--a new name for a new part and a blotting out of a past that it might not be convenient to recall. Emma, then, to Mr. Greville, and Miss Hart to whatever world there might be for the mistress of an aristocratic civil servant to move in.
Alexander Pope wrote--"out of a handmaiden we must make a Helen" and Charles Greville set himself zealously to make a Beauty out of a pretty Welsh peasant somewhat blown upon by town airs.
First, he set his house in order; he could not afford a mistress and a housekeeper, and Amy was impossible for the latter role, so, by a stroke of careful art, Mr. Greville added Mary Lyon to the establishment, a trained manager of genteel households, an excellent cook, a duenna whose personal interest would be in guarding her charge, a factotum who would be economical and grateful.
She came eagerly, humble and thankful, dropping her curtsey, promising obedience to Mr. Greville, a strict watch over Amy, a stern eye to the pence; since there must be no connection with any little errors that might be associated with the name of Lyon, Amy's facile parent was re-named Mrs. Cadogan; two maidservants were engaged, one at nine pounds, and one at eight pounds a year, and the elegant faux ménage was complete.
Mr. Greville moved from Portman Square and rented a modest brick house, which stood in Paddington near the spot where the rich outlines of the baroque church showed attractively incongruous on the prim sweep of the village-green; it had a neat secluded garden, looked on trees back and front; the neighbours were quiet, genteel, and not too close, the tradesmen conveniently at hand and obsequious, as befitted those who served an Earl's son who paid cash--at least for his smaller needs.
The interior of the house was well kept and contained some treasures, the result of Mr. Greville's fine taste and careful buying. The panelled walls were dark and the furniture had a masculine severity, walnut and mahogany without cushions or fripperies, but in the parlour was a Correggio where the tones of the hyacinth and the violet, the May rose and the Italian skies melted on the canvas in voluptuous harmony. This was balanced by a modern masterpiece that Mr. Greville had obtained cheaply, a work by Sir Joshua Reynolds, the President of the Royal Academy, of which a story was told to set the gossips sniggering.
Emily Bertie had engaged the fashionable artist, whose prices had lately risen, to paint her portrait, had paid half the fee--seventy-eight guineas--in advance and given Sir Joshua several sittings when some crisis in her domestic affairs caused the lady to change her plans abruptly, and her portrait remained unfinished in the studio. Such was too often the end of the paintings of frail beauties, who lost their protectors before their features could be completely transferred to canvas. Sir Joshua, irritated by the unfinished bargain, and by hearing that Miss Bertie was sitting for George Romney, had completed the picture and sent it to the Royal Academy under the unkind title of Thais Setting Light to the Temple of Chastity at Persepolis. This direct allusion to Miss Bertie's profession amused the critics, but was considered a piece of unnecessary spite on the part of a rich man towards a fine girl who had paid him nearly a hundred guineas for which she had had no return.
Mr. Greville had enjoyed the scandal, admired the picture, asked Sir Joshua to retouch it here and there, according to his own ideals of beauty and had bought it cheaply.
Besides the Correggio and the Reynolds there were other treasures for Emma to admire, a cabinet of coins and medals, where the flattened, polished profiles of Kings, Queens, Popes and worthies gleamed in gold and silver from their padded drawers, a case of sparkling mineral specimens, that Mr. Greville valued very highly, some spoils from the vineyards of Tuscany in the shape of urns and vases, some curios from the sulphurous earth of Sicily and the lava of Vesuvius. Emma was not impressed when Mr. Greville tried to refine and widen her mind by showing her the lovely curve of an Etruscan vase, the delicate modelling of a royal medallion, or the manner in which Sir Joshua had handled his flesh tints, but when he told her that she herself might become a work of art, she began to be extremely interested, her vanity, hitherto that of any pretty wench, took a higher turn, and she saw herself, through Mr. Greville's eyes, as a potential beauty.
With gratifying intelligence she grasped the ideal he set before her, and what she must do to achieve it; her behaviour became exemplary, she watched Charles Greville with the pathetic keenness of the dancing-dog balancing on a pole and eyeing the master who has the sugar and the stick. All that Mr. Greville said was law to Emma; her quick docility gave him much pleasure and he was patient at his task, though he did not forgo long lectures, which Emma only half understood, on propriety, decorum, genteel behaviour, good taste, what was and what was not done in polished circles and by the mistresses of well-bred men.
Emma was taught to disdain finery; no tawdry ornaments, cheap showy dresses, no fard, patches, curls stretched over pads or frames, no beads nor posies; Mr. Greville chose her dresses himself, found her a dressmaker and did not allow her a single flower for her bosom or hair. He engaged masters to teach her singing, playing on the harpsichord, deportment and dancing; he encouraged her to read refined and moral books, he taught her how a gentlewoman entered a room, how she poured out tea, how she listened to the conversation of gentlemen. There were no more rich dishes nor glasses of champagne, Emma might have one half-pint of beer daily, and that was all; she must take frequent exercise, go to bed early, rise early, she must, above all, learn to consider money with respect, to lay out every farthing to the best advantage. Mrs. Cadogan helped her there with the anxiety of a woman who knew that her livelihood depended on her zeal, neither mother nor daughter ever forgot that they might be turned off at a moment's notice; Mrs. Cadogan had only to think of the kitchen basements from which she had been rescued, and Emma of that odious cottage at Hawarden, for them to redouble their efforts to please kind Mr. Greville.
No marriage could have been quite so dull in its setting; Emma saw no one outside the house beyond the tradespeople, the milliner and the dressmaker; when she went for her dutiful walks, either her mother or her lover accompanied her, when she was at home she must read an improving book or study her music, or listen to Charles Greville's discourses on manners and refinement, or admire the treasures of virtu that she did not understand.
Further, she had to keep her accounts very carefully indeed; she had an allowance of £20 a year, for her mother and herself and every item of expenditure had to be noted down; she did this dutifully, "a mangle 5d., poor man ½d., cotton and needles 9d., apples 2d."
This was all a vast change from life at Up Park, from anything that life had meant to her before; but she was not dull; she had two objects with which to fill her days, Charles Greville, the god of her little secluded universe, and the pursuit of beauty.
Her mirror assured her that she had improved under her lover's handling; her teachers assured her that she might be not only a beauty, but an accomplished beauty; she had a strong voice, sweet and powerful, she sang with an emotional stress on moods and melody that disguised the deficiency of her ear, her fingers learned to trip over the keys as quickly as they learned to move among the tea equipage of egg-shell china, beaten silver and lacquered caddy. She could strike an attitude with rather more than the usual zest and grace of the servant girl portraying a romantic heroine in a cracked mirror. Mr. Greville noticed her poses and quietly encouraged her; he bought her a plain robe, made her knot up her hair and asked her to stand in the position of one of the figurines on the orange-ochre antique vases. He was astonished at the ease and elegance with which she assumed the classic pose; he began to think that Emma Hart was even a greater bargain than he had at first supposed; surely no man had ever achieved material comfort and ecstatic delight, gratification of body and mind, at a cheaper rate. Mrs. Cadogan's exquisite little dinners were as perfect in their way as Emma's caresses--and the whole establishment including the fees of the teachers of accomplishments, cost no more than £300 a year.
Emma was touchingly happy in the charming little house, she was fonder of Charles Greville than she had been of Sir Harry, he was so much kinder, such a superior being to the sporting baronet with his low tastes; she believed her master to be vastly superior to herself, and she thought all his priggish airs and cold moralizings proofs of his wisdom and goodness. She learned from him to talk of Virtue--she did not know quite what this wonderful quality was, but she was sure that Charles Greville had it in abundance.
She had neither opportunity nor temptation to be unfaithful to her lover, but she did not wish to be; he was young, personable, flattered while he taught, caressed while he admonished, and raised her self-esteem. He had, also, with his aristocratic good looks, his charming manners, his fastidious habits captured her senses, she was as much in love with him as her nature would permit, more in love with him than his nature could understand.
By midsummer Mr. Greville had given his Emma, rescued from the scrap-heap, at least a superficial polish, and he wished to have his good taste and his labour applauded; he was in every thing a man of his world and he followed the fashionable course of taking his mistress to the studio of a popular painter in order that her charms might be immortalized in some modish guise.
So Emma, one blowing blue day, tripped along gaily to No. 32, Cavendish Square, where the formidable-looking mansions surrounded the plot of grass and gravel where coaches and link men waited and loungers gossiped by the pavement posts; Mr. Greville accompanied her and preceded her up the wide stair to the studio that had for long been the scene of the successful career of Francis Cotes, the charming portraitist and had for eight years been the workshop of George Romney.
Emma was carefully dressed, according to Mr. Greville's direction, in a long plain gown of white cambric, fastened under the bosom with a wide blue ribbon, with a low bodice and short sleeves; the line of the shoulders and bust was broken only by a light scarf, the girl's hair hung in ringlets round her neck and a wide Leghorn straw-hat, with a low crown shaded her face.
The painter was instantly and for ever enthralled by what nature and Charles Greville had made of Amy Lyon, who, under the pretty name of Emma Hart stood meekly in the large studio at Cavendish Square.
George Romney was a melancholy man gnawed by the bitter dissatisfaction of the artist who had given up everything for art and did not find it sufficient to fill his life. When Emma was brought into his presence by her complacent protector, the painter was forty-eight years of age, dark, stooping, with blunt features, and a manner shy to uncouthness.
His birth was little higher than that of the blacksmith's daughter; both were close to the English peasantry; they came, on the male side, from the same part of the country; George Romney's father had been a small statesman of Walton-in-Furness, Lancashire, who worked at cabinet-making and knew something of architecture; the painter's childhood had been passed in the North, his youth in severe study of his chosen art. He felt keenly that his lack of education, his limited social opportunities had handicapped him as both man and artist; he had married early in life a faithful woman who had borne him two children, and whom he had left behind in the North when he started out to seek his fortune in the city; that had been twenty years ago and it was fifteen years since he had revisited Mary Romney, who remained silent, with an odd patience, in the Cumberland farm that seemed so far from London.
George Romney had been successful; even when working in competition with the fashionable, genial and magnificent Sir Joshua Reynolds, he had earned enough by his portraits to enable him to travel in Italy, where he had studied his art with exhausting concentration.
The patronage of the Duke of Richmond and of Charles Greville's brother, the Earl of Warwick, had enabled him, on his return to London, to set up in the studio of Francis Cotes, and to become, with great rapidity, one of the most sought-after portraitists of the day. His life remained gloomy; apart from a few friends such as William Hayley, who flattered, pestered and bored him, and Richard Cumberland, who admired and encouraged him, he had no intimates, and he avoided acquaintances, diversions and distractions with a nervous dislike of his fellow-men and a gloomy mistrust of himself that were fast developing into hypochondria. He had toiled for years at the development of his art with a passionate, impatient industry that had brought about the achievement of a perfect, if limited technique.
Enraptured by the genius of Raphael and Titian, he remained for ever dissatisfied with his own efforts, and the studio, where Emma entered like a goddess, was littered by portfolios bulging with unfinished sketches, jottings for pictures never begun, while the walls were encumbered with incomplete canvases; some laid aside because a sitter had failed or a model not been procurable, some abandoned in mere impatience while the painter made another effort with equally short-lived enthusiasm.
He made more than a handsome income by his portraits, but the money brought him little pleasure; he was open-handed and had generously supported a talented wastrel of a brother until death had relieved him of that burden, and it concerned him little whether his portraits were paid for promptly or indeed paid for at all; and his prices never rose to more than half the fees demanded by Sir Joshua Reynolds, President of the Royal Academy, from which George Romney stood nervously aloof.
When Charles Greville took Emma to the studio in Cavendish Square, he brought much happiness to the painter and conferred a very great benefit on posterity. The Grevilles had always admired and patronized Romney who, in his Italian travels, had carried about with him a letter of introduction to Sir William Hamilton, the British Minister at Naples, written by Charles Greville but never presented by the painter, who did not go so far south; the frigid dilettante had a genuine liking for the uncouth artist with his gipsy blood, his gloomy face and his incomparable talent for depicting the robust beauty of English women and children.
Greville, who always closely supervised Emma's wardrobe, had taught her to dress in the style in which Romney painted his sitters, so that everything about his patron's mistress enchanted the artist--the girl herself and the taste with which she was set off.
George Romney fell in love with Emma, with all that Emma symbolized; he had painted many fair and charming women, but so strong was his sense of an ideal beauty that he had, perhaps, unconsciously, made these sitters look much the same when he put them on canvas.
In the case of Emma there was no need of this infidelity to nature that was fidelity to an inner vision, the girl was what all painters long to find, the ideal woman in human flesh and blood.
When Emma stepped on the model's block and under the careful directions of Charles Greville assumed her classic poses, Romney knew that he had met the creature necessary for the fullest expression of his art; she excited him as had Titian's canvases which he had seen in Venice, the Raphael masterpiece he had copied in Rome; she was at once a stimulus, an inspiration, a seal of his achievement--she would take his art as far as it could go. And Emma, reading the plain, sad man's honest rapturous delight in her charms as she posed in the becoming studio light, found herself exalted, lifted out of herself, never more to be a pretty girl, a naughty girl, a girl in distress, but for ever--a beauty.
Mr. Greville was well pleased with the success of his experiment; the enthusiasm of George Romney confirmed his own judgment, rewarded his labour, his expense; he was gratified to find himself the possessor of a Thais in the flesh who far outshone the pictured charmer whom he had been so proud to have on his walls.
Emma was more beautiful than Emily Bertie, more beautiful than any woman in town. Romney proclaimed this truth in canvas after canvas, in hundreds of sketches and drawings.
For the first time in his sombre, lop-sided life the painter was happy, for the first time in a vagrant existence the model felt self-justification, self-respect; they combined to produce works of art that were, within definite limits, flawless.
Emma embodied Romney's faults as well as his merits; she was well within his powers of achievement; she had no charm that it was not within his perception to seize on and within his skill to reproduce. He was lucky to find a model that not only inspired but flattered his art, and she was lucky to find a painter who could celebrate her beauty with complete acquiescence in its perfection.
Emma Hart, as set out by Charles Greville and painted by George Romney, was, perhaps, as completely beautiful as any woman who has ever filled a painter's imagination, and it was a beauty for every eye. She was not the woodland lily visited by moonlight loveliness of Simonetta Vespucci, celebrated by Sandro Botticelli, that some people might have found fantastic and wan, nor the high-bred grace of the Lombard ladies with the smile of the Grecian Hermes that soothed, if it did not satisfy, the yearnings of Leonardo da Vinci.
Emma's charms neither raised nor solved any problem; she was neither wistful, tormented, nor aspiring, her fine features did not hint at any world of the spirit or at any whimsy of dreams. There was nothing of an enigma in her smooth contours, no question in her eyes, no puzzle on her lips, no subtlety in anything she did or was. Therefore she was completely within the range of George Romney, who had his yearnings after poetry and fancy, after "subject" pictures and illustrations of Shakespeare and Milton, but who never was completely successful save when dealing with the obvious graces of wholesome human nature.
Emma was the type to which he had already made some of his sitters conform; an oval face, small features in exact proportion, large dark eyes under sweeping brows, a fully curved mouth, a warm complexion richly flushed with rose, a profusion of red-brown hair, falling in heavy tresses. To these rare beauties Emma added a tall, finely shaped figure with a generously rounded bust and shoulders and swift, lovely movements.
Her defects were slight; extremely young as she was, she had more the solidity of a statue than the fragility of a flower; she was large-boned and her feet were clumsy; the face was slightly too broad, the neck slightly too long.
George Romney presented her under many names but with the fewest possible accessories, a classic robe, a muslin frock, or chemise, a sash, a Leghorn hat, a scrap of cambric to embroider, a spinning-wheel by which to sit; he painted her direct from life, taking three or four sittings of an hour or so each and finishing robes, hands and details from a professional model. He never allowed his work to be touched by pupils, and worked with great rapidity, often leaving one portrait unfinished, in his haste to begin the next. In these beloved studies his painfully acquired technique was never pushed beyond its limits; in painting Emma he was always well within the bounds of what he could do, not only easily, but almost unconsciously.
Mr. Greville was highly pleased that his mistress should be painted by so admirable and fashionable an artist, and disdained any jealousy of George Romney's open infatuation for the Emma who was partly his own creation. Her lover often accompanied her to Cavendish Square, and helped to swathe the gauze round her face, to dispose the ribbons round her waist, to tilt the broad-brimmed hat over her face; often he advised this pose or that, until Emma, under his guidance and that of the painter, could herself take a pose to admiration, simulating by the position of her limbs, the turn of her head, characters she never understood, emotions she was never to experience. When Mr. Greville was occupied with his affairs or wished for the company of his social equals, Mrs. Cadogan played the duenna and accompanied her daughter, who had suddenly become so important and so precious, from Paddington to Cavendish Square; it was all very decorous, the neat civil servant liked his Thais to have the outward gloss of an English gentlewoman; there was no touch of Sal Brazen or Moll Tawdry about Emma now.
Yet, for all that, the gossips had their say; the painter was obviously in love, the profession of the model was to be pleased with those whom she pleased--by this alone she lived, and the mother who was the servant in the establishment where her daughter was the kept woman could not be supposed to be a very vigilant guardian of female fidelity or honour.
Romney, too, passed for a morose queer fellow, with a forsaken wife, whom no one had seen, who led a secretive life, who was not a gentleman nor bound by any social conventions, and who, well out of all ordinary restrictions or obligations, might do as he pleased.
Nor need Mr. Greville, who was a gentleman and had his own code, trouble himself if Emma's old giddy wildness flared up in the presence of this new admirer, a man of her own class, of something of her own experience, yet rich and famous. Think what you will, this is what the town thought, and with no peculiar cynicism--that when Emma went from Mr. Greville's house to that of George Romney, she went from one lover to another.
Why should she be more faithful to Mr. Greville than to any of her former lovers, and why should George Romney resist the charms that had never been resisted before? There might be reasons but they were not on the surface and the question was one of little matter; what was important was that a beauty had been created and endowed with as much immortality as ever falls to the lot of mortals.
While Emma, who continued to behave herself to her master's liking, to study music and water-colour drawing, to keep her accounts, and to lead a very modest life in Edgeware Row, Romney painted her in at least thirty completed canvases. To these he gave haphazard titles; classicism was the fashion, and Emma's features were superbly classic, so Romney, with a little smattering of knowledge, named the poses Cassandra, Bacchante, Diana, Euphrosyne, Alope or Ariadne. She was Sensibility; she was painted as the Spinstress and The Seamstress, and knew how to imitate the modesty she had never known and the industry she detested. She was painted as a Wood-nymph, as Saint Cecilia, as The Comic Muse, as Nature, with a dog, with a goat, with a gazelle, in the Welsh hat of her mother's country-women, and simply as Emma. This last is the just title of all her portraits; the fancy labels make little difference, it was always Emma, in one of her poses, whom Romney painted.
Much was made of Emma's marvellous change of expression, which her admirers so extolled, but neither Romney nor any other painter ever put on canvas Emma's features distorted or transfigured by real emotion; portrait after portrait shows the same smooth regular face undisturbed by any feeling, the eyes sometimes open wide, sometimes cast down, the lips sometimes parted, sometimes closed, now a look of gravity, now a smile, but never anything but the most superficial change on the flawless unlined countenance, which never showed either the dreadful grandeur of a Cassandra, or the lofty exaltation of a Joan of Arc, but a certain mildness, shallow loveliness that might pass for virginal candour.
Romney's technique was devoid of tricks; he made no dangerous experiments, as did Sir Joshua, his downright style was suited to the obvious beauty of his model, with clear steady sweeps of his facile brush, with an expert curve of a limited palette, he placed on his canvas the madders and umbers, the crimson lakes and siennas of his home-ground paints and reproduced with them the firm, rosy flesh tints, the lustrous blue-brown eyes, the auburn locks of Emma.
This method suited his talent, his highly finished work was inclined to be hard, lacking in atmosphere and rather like a painting on porcelain; but in these rapid studies there was breadth and freedom, and they satisfy the eye even when they are unfinished.
In common with the portraitists of his day Romney painted his sitters in a steady studio light that cast only a pale shadow on the face and with imaginary backgrounds, like drop-cloths, that had no relation to the subjects of the picture, but which were hastily roughed in to throw up the figures to advantage. In his ardent studies of Emma, Romney kept to the Titian-like colourings of which he was fond, solid, rich, a golden cream, a rosy white in the carnation, fresh crimson lips, and hair varying according to the scheme of the picture, but always warm in tone, even too hot in the shadows.
Sometimes the Emma pictures were clumsy in finish, the face appearing like a mask, the arms and hands boneless, the figure without structure, the drapery wooden, but this body of work represented a definite achievement in art, which must be credited to both painter and model.
Possibly the most beautiful of all these portraits of Emma is the Ariadne, an exquisite, tender painting where the simple, downcast girl in her plain English attire is as delicate as a rose-petal blown on the canvas. Romney admired what he considered a natural beauty; he disliked the great ladies of Francois Boucher, product of the dressmaker and the dancing master, the grisettes and villagers of Greuze, product of the theatre and the circulating-library novel, and he painted his Emma without frippery or adornment.
Her loveliness was indeed natural, that of the moorland, not the Court, the dairy, not the drawing-room, and even those who found it lacking in breeding, subtlety or refinement had to admit that it owed nothing to the cosmetic box, the hairdresser, the jeweller, or the costumier; Emma's beauty shone most triumphantly in a gown cut like that of a servant-maid with a yard of gauze for a scarf or a milkmaid's straw for a hat.
Romney, himself a peasant, saw no defect that needed softening in the robust and lustrous Emma, when during four years she made his life happy by posing to him, but it is possible that Charles Greville, looking at her with the critical eye of familiarity, and the detached appraisal of the expert, began to perceive the coarseness of the country-girl beneath the glow of the Hebe, the vulgarity of the servant beneath the rich outlines of the goddess; certain it is that after two years' possession of this treasure, he began to scheme how he might be rid of her with full advantage to himself.
Yet Mr. Greville believed that his Emma loved him; she had so dutifully kept the promises she had made when he had rescued her from the squalor of Hawarden; she had never even asked for anything more than the one or two "creditable companions" he had been induced to allow her; she had worked so hard at her music, her poses, her pencil, she had jotted down so anxiously all her little items of expense. When she had had a little rash on her elbows he had sent her to the seaside with her mother, directing that her child was to accompany her; he thought that maternal emotion might give another turn to her charms; if the child was pretty what a subject for Romney! Emma and her offspring as Motherhood or Venus and Cupid!
Emma went dutifully and reluctantly from Paddington to Park-gate, trying to amuse herself with little Emma as the child was named, but all the while yearning to be home again with an impatience very gratifying to her lover.
The distant coast was dull indeed after the cosy life in London; and the contrast was the sharper as a new and delightful companion had lately enlivened the neat establishment at Edgeware Row; one who amused and flattered Emma and admired her with open, if respectful, rapture. Mr. Greville's wealthy and famous uncle, Sir William Hamilton, was on leave from his post at Naples and a frequent visitor at Paddington, he had been very flattering to "the fair tea-maker" as Mr. Greville named his mistress and she had found him delightfully kind and entertaining.
Sir William Hamilton's sister had been the late Countess of Warwick, Mr. Greville's mother; Sir William was descended from two branches of the noble and ancient family whose name he bore, but had not inherited any great wealth. Pursuing fortune on the field of glory, he had served in the Foot Guards under Prince Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, until delayed promotion caused him to resign his commission in disgust. At the age of twenty-eight, it seemed prudent to him to marry an heiress, though this was, in his own words, "something against his inclination." A Miss Barlow with a Welsh estate worth £5,000 a year was secured, and in 1782 this lady put her husband under a further obligation by dying and leaving him completely free; the only child of the marriage was dead and Sir William at fifty-five (but looking, as he hoped, only forty) had nothing to consider but his own pleasure, if indeed he had ever considered anything else.
Mr. Greville, who had for some years been tacitly regarded as his uncle's heir, was disturbed by the persistent rumours that Sir William, with his tidy little fortune, his elegant sinecure at Naples, his fine manners and well-preserved charms, would soon contract a second marriage.
This growing anxiety was hidden under the cold serenity of the young man, when he sent Emma off to cure the rash on her elbows in her native air and doubtless absorbed him so much that he was not able to answer her loving letters with the promptitude their devotion deserved, though the post was something to blame for the delays that distracted Emma.
The truth was, that, despite his removal to Paddington from Portman Square, despite Emma's care with the pence and Mrs. Cadogan's kitchen economies, Mr. Charles Greville was in money difficulties. What was £500 a year to a collector of brie-à-brae, a man of fine taste, however careful? And there was no sign that the long-promised Government sinecure was coming his way. Marriage with an heiress was the obvious solution to this difficulty, but nothing less than a fortune of £20,000 to £30,000 would do, and this was not so easily to be found.
Mr. Greville accompanied his uncle on visits to the great houses where these gentlemen were welcome guests and confided to him his situation--his inevitable debts, the inevitable crisis ahead--a state of affairs by no means his own fault since he had lived so prudently, indulging even his antiquarian tastes very cheaply.
With these same tastes Sir William had every sympathy; he was himself a most distinguished virtuoso with a taste for the more sensational aspects of science; he had ascended Vesuvius twenty-four times, visited Etna and written a book on volcanoes and in 1767 he had presented to the British Museum a collection of volcanic earths and minerals. Foster-brother of George III and an intimate of the Royal Family, Sir William Hamilton had used his influence with the Prince of Wales to obtain a pension of £100 a year for a certain Father Antonio Piaggi; this he had increased by the same amount from his own pocket and had employed the learned monk to work on the Herculaneum papyri. Taking advantage of his comfortable income, his fine taste, his position as British Minister at Naples, Sir William had enriched his country with the Porticinari collection of Greek vases, which he had purchased in 1766, added to, and sold at a handsome profit for over £8,000 to the British Museum. He was at present engaged in forming another collection of vases found in Sicilian tombs, which he hoped to dispose of for a handsome sum to the King of Prussia.
Sir William possessed, not merely an eye for a bargain, but an eye for beauty, grace and fitness, and he had added to his enthusiasm a careful knowledge; his high position among the cognoscenti of his day had been recognized by an appreciative Government; the Star and Ribbon of the Order of the Bath had brought him his title and the most fastidious of learned English societies had been honoured to receive him as a member; he was a Fellow of the Royal Society, of the Society of Antiquaries, and a member of the Dilettante; a man of the world, well-bred, tactful, amiable and used to making himself acceptable to the frivolous and the ignorant. Sir William was nothing of a pedant, and had indeed trained his monkey to quizz through a glass at a statue or a coin in mockery of the dry antiquaries who wearied with their inelegant jargon.
Beauty was Sir William's idol, that beauty which, as Leonardo da Vinci wrote, passes nature and becomes art; he received the most exquisite pleasure from painting, sculpture, music, fine scenery, poetry and all objects of virtu; in particular he was enamoured of the rich grace and vivid colourings of the mural designs being brought to light as the once gay city of Pompeii was excavated from the lava of centuries, and of the voluptuous shapes and precise features of the statues being discovered in distracting profusion on the sites of ancient cities and patrician villas in Italy.
Sir William, who had already resided twenty years at Naples, was Italianate to the core, and his antiquarian researches had produced in him the same kind of renaissance as the discovery of classic treasures had created in the refined minds of the fifteenth century; everything with him, in order to be tolerated, must be antique, and he was as much at home with the dancing-girls and nymphs of the Pompeian frescoes as with the tight-laced, powdered ladies of his own world.
For the rest, he was a Sybarite, with no strong feelings, who had never experienced a powerful emotion, bon viveur, an expert in fastidious pleasures, alive to all the tricks and tones of an idle aristocratic society, inoffensive, never meaning any harm, loyal to a gentleman's indefinable code of honour, and perfectly satisfied with the golden sinecure his embassy represented.
His modest ambitions had all been fulfilled; he was not vexed that he had been passed over when important posts were being assigned to likely diplomats, nor stung by the fact that, had his talents been brighter, or his zeal more striking, he would not have been left so long at a Court which was off the political map.
Indeed, the elegant Scotsman was only too happy to be left in his brilliant backwater; he was credited with the saying: "My country is anywhere that I am comfortable," and he had made himself comfortable, in the highest sense of the word, at Naples.
In appearance he was tall, well made, with features like those of his nephew, Charles Greville, neat and ordinary, but set off by powder, curls, ribbons and smiles, to appear quite distinguished. His manners were lively, racy with the gentlemen, arch with the ladies, and flattering to everyone. He did not deceive himself when he glanced in his mirror and thought that he appeared no more than in the prime of life. He had always tried to balance self-indulgence with prudence whenever prudence was not too galling; in his military youth, his elegant debauchery had gone with a healthy devotion to athletics; he was a good horseman, a graceful dancer, and when in Naples obtained exercise by slaughtering animals in the great battues in the royal parks.
In brief, Sir William Hamilton put up a very fine appearance indeed, was a vast credit to his class, his country, his family, fulfilled strictly all the obligations the world required of a fine gentleman, and was everywhere admired.
But the brilliancy, both of appearance and of attainments, was only superficial; behind that smooth façade of wit and taste, there was fast setting in a rapid decay of a feeble character; behind that air of vigour were many symptoms of encroaching ill-health. Sir William, who appeared so jocund, so youthful at fifty-five, was in reality fast approaching premature senility.
Emma had enraptured her lover's uncle; he had rather enviously congratulated Mr. Greville on the possession of a real treasure; Charles simpering a little over his good taste had declared: "She is as good as anything in nature."
But Sir William's praise went higher--"She is better than anything in nature, she is as good as anything to be found in antique art."
He gazed enthralled as this Pompeian nymph in flesh and blood posed for him in the attitudes which Mr. Greville and George Romney had taught her--a shawl, a tambourine, a tossing of a fleece of rich curls, a downward or an upward glance, and the enraptured connoisseur gazed at one of his favourite statues come to life, with as much enthusiasm as ever Pygmalion watched his Galatea throb from alabaster into flesh.
In the studio in Cavendish Square he admired the brilliant canvases on which the gloomy painter had cast the radiance of glowing young womanhood. The ageing gentleman was in every way pleased, in his artistic taste, in his classical knowledge, in his old man's relish for a bouncing merry wench; why this was Ariadne, Cassandra, Diana, Alope, the Comic Muse!
As blind as Romney in his infatuation, he did not see that this was Emma, always and nothing but Emma, and that the famous expressions that fleeted across her smooth face disturbed it no more than a breath ruffles a placid lake.
Then her singing!
Sir William was amazed at her full ringing notes, at the drama she put into her songs, at the bravura with which she shook out her reckless trills. If her ear was slightly defective, that was hardly noticeable and might soon be remedied--she was worthy of the most careful training--in the opera house she would be an object of public admiration!
Emma responded gratefully to all this sincere flattery, and put Sir William second only in her affection to Mr. Greville, he was so kind--he was rich, too, and influential, he might be so useful; her lover had told her what a very important person Sir William was, and as she tried to pass the dull time at Parkgate, she thought of the wealthy uncle almost as much as she thought of the beloved nephew.
Sir William was so very civil, he never scolded or admonished as Mr. Greville did, no, he treated her just as if she were a great lady, he was courteous and respectful, as if he were always at her feet. He did not know what a romp she had been, nor anything of her past life, nor of the existence of little Emma, of the nasty plight from which Mr. Greville had so generously rescued her, nor of the squalid little cottage in Hawarden.
When she was with Sir William she was always careful to remember all that Mr. Greville had taught her--the moods and gestures she must not use, the references she must not make; a little gaminerie suited her style of beauty, a touch of Flintshire accent was not displeasing, but Mr. Greville had always been as strict about vulgarity as he had about economy.
The manner that Sir Harry Featherstonehaugh had approved had to be left behind with the cards and wine-glasses, the oaths and indecencies of Up Park. Emma, dutifully curing her marred knees and elbows with medicine and sea bathing, was pleased to think how well she had behaved to Sir William, what a good impression she had made on him with her demure tea-table ways and her filial kisses when her fresh mouth--unique, Sir William had declared, in its classic curve--had touched so lovingly the powdered yellowing cheek of the old virtuoso.
Despite his careful dressing, Emma had taken Sir William for an old gentleman when she had first seen him, but Mr. Greville had, with unusual emotion, corrected her opinion, and Emma, always quick to take a hint, never again referred to age and Sir William in the same breath; indeed, when she came to know him better, she declared he was "the most juvenile gentleman she had ever met," so coy, so arch, so lively, with such spritely ways!
He had told her to call him Pliny the elder, who was, he said, a philosopher, and also not unknown to the slopes of Vesuvius, though he had never, like the industrious Sir William, written a book about the volcano. Emma, to whom one name was as good as another, dutifully called the brilliant gentleman Pliny, while Charles Greville was Pliny the younger; so an air of classicism was cast over Paddington Green. If the wit ran a little thin, Emma did not perceive it. As she moped in her hired lodging, bored with the teasing child, loathing the seaside, missing the poses, the visits to Cavendish Square, the music lessons, the flatteries of Sir William, the company of her lover, she poured out her anxieties on paper.
She was worried about money; Mr. Greville had told her to be careful, and Pliny had hinted in his kind fatherly way, that dear Charles was really in rather a tight corner from which it would take a good deal of skill to extricate him; then there was the anxiety as to where Mr. Greville was and what he was doing; supposing that, in that great world to which she had no entry, he met someone who would induce him to forget poor Emma?
In a torment she rushed her feelings on to paper; she wrote better now than when she had penned her seven unanswered epistles to Sir Harry, she had picked up too, from reading fashionable fiction, from listening to fashionable talk, some of the jargon of the moment, the language of melting sensibility that disguised grossness, the high-flown phrases that were such a specious form of hypocrisy. Emma's profession was to flatter gentlemen; she knew Mr. Greville's weakness for being thought a Mentor, the wise man who had made a good girl out of poor, wild, giddy Amy Lyon. She paid him this homage readily and not entirely out of self-interest; the man was attractive and her lover. It was not an unskilful letter that Emma wrote from the boredom of Parkgate.
"Parkgate, June the 15th, 1784
"My Dear Greville,
"You see by the date where I am gott and likely to be; and yett it is not through any neglect of seeking after other places. As to Abbergely it is 40 miles, and so dear that I could not with my mother and me and the child have been there under 2 guines and a half a-week. It is grown such a fashionable place. And High Lake as 3 houses in it, and not one of them as is fit for a Christian. The best is a publick-house for the sailers of such ships as is oblidged to put in there, so you see there is no possibility of going to either of those places. Has to where I am, I find it very comfortable, considering I am from you. I am in the house of a Laidy, whoes husband is at sea. She and her grammother live to-gether, and we board with her at present, till I hear from you. The price is high, but they don't lodge anybody without boarding; and as it is comfortable, decent, and quiet, I thought it would not ruin us, till I could have your oppionon, which I hope to have freely and without restraint, as, believe me, you will give it to one, who will allways be happy to follow it, lett it be what it will. As I am sure you would not lead me wrong, and though my little temper may have been sometimes high, believe me, I have allways thought you in the right in the end, when I have come to reason. I bathe, and find the water very soult. Here is a great many ladys bathing, but I have no society with them, as it is best not. So pray, my dearest Greville, write soon and tell me what to do, as I will do just what you think proper; and tell me what to do with the child. For she is a great romp, and I can hardly master her. I don't think she is ugly, but I think her greatly improved. She is tall (has) good eyes and brows, and as to lashes she will be passible; but she has over-grown all her cloaths. I am makeing and mending all as I can for her. Pray, my dear Greville, do lett me come home as soon as you can; for I am all most broken-hearted being from you. Indeed I have no pleasure nor happiness. I wish I could not think of you; but, if I was the greatest laidy in the world, I should not be happy from you. So don't lett me stay long. Tell Sir William everything you can, and tell him I am sorry our situation prevented (me) from giving him a kiss, but my heart was ready to break. But I will give it him, and entreat if he will axcept it. Ask him how I looked, and lett him say something kind to me when you write. Indeed, my dear Greville, you don't know how much I love you. And your behaviour to me, wen we parted, was so kind, Greville, I don't know what to do; but I will make you a mends by my kind behaviour to you. For I have grattitude, and I will show it you all I can. So don't think of my faults, Greville. Think of all my good, and blot out all my bad: for it is all gone and berried, never to come again. So, good-by, dear Greville. Think of nobody but me, for I have not a thought but of you. God bless you and believe me,
"Your Truly and Affectionately
"Emma H--t."
"P.S.--Poor Emma gives her duty to you. I bathe her. The people is very civil to ous. I give a guinea and half a-week for ous all together, but you will tell me what to do. God bless you, my dear Greville. I long to see you, for endead I am not happy from you, tho' will stay if you like till a week before you go home, but I must go first. I hav had no letter from you, and you promised to write to me before I left home. It made me unhappy, but I thought you might (have no) time. God bless you once more, dear Greville. Direct for me at Mrs. Darnwood's, Parkgate near Chest-ter, and write directly."
In seven days she had not heard from Mr. Greville, the monotony of the bland June season became unsupportable; she wrote again and on a more emphatic note, giving Charles Greville just the stuff she thought he would like; if the incense was rather thick and luscious, well Emma knew that gentlemen liked it so, especially gentlemen like Mr. Greville who had no sense of fun and were such superior beings. She began the long epistle in the hope of having one to answer before it was finished, but no! And so the letter was lengthened from the Wednesday to the Sunday morning when at last Dame Kidd forwarded a letter that had wasted a fortnight in Hawarden.
"Parkgate: June the 22nd, 1784.
"My Ever Dear Greville,
"How tedious does the time pass awhay tell I hear from you. I think it ages since I saw you--years since I heard from you. Endead I should be miserable, if I did not recollect in what happy terms we parted--parted but to meet again with tenfould happiness. Oh, Greville, when I think on your goodness, your tender kindness, my heart is so full of grattitude, that I want words to express it. But I have one happiness in vew, which I am determined to practice, and that is eveness of temper and steadiness of mind. For endead, I have thought so much of your amiable goodness, when you have been tried to the utmost, that I will, endead I will, manage myself, and try to be like Greville. Endead, I can never be like him. But I will do all I can towards it, and I am sure you will not desire more. I think, if the time would come over again, I would be different. But it does not matter. There is nothing like buying experience. I may be happier for it hereafter, and I will think of the time coming and not the time past, except to make comparrasone, to show you what alterations there is for the best. So, my dearest Greville, don't think on my past follies; think on my good--little as it has been. And I will make you amends by my kind behaviour; you shall never repent your partiality. If you had not behaved with such angel-like goodness to me at parting, it would not have had such effect on me. I have done nothing but think of you since. And, oh, Greville, did you but know, when I so think, what thoughts--what tender thoughts (I have), you would say 'Good God!' and can Emma have such feeling sensibility? No, I never could think it. But now I may hope to bring her to conviction, and she may prove a valluable and amiable whoman! True, Greville! and you shall not be disapointed. I will be everything you can wish. But mind you, Greville, your own great goodness has brought this about. You don't know what I am. Would you think it, Greville?--Emmathe wild unthinking Emma is a grave thoughtful phylosopher. Tis true, Greville, and I will convince you I am, when I see you. But how I am running on. I say nothing about this giddy wild girl of mine. What shall we do with her, Greville? She is as wild and as thoughtless as somebody, when she was a little girl; so you may gess how that is. Whether she will like it or no, there is no telling. But one comfort is (that she is) a little afraid on me. Would you believe, on Satturday whe had a little quarel. I mean Emma and me; and I did slap her on her hands, and when she came to kiss me and make it up, I took her on my lap and cried. Now do you blame me or not? Pray tell me. Oh, Greville, you don't know how I love her. Endead I do. When she comes and looks in my face and calls me 'mother,' endead I then truly am a mother; for all the mother's feelings rise at once, and tells (me) I am and ought to be a mother. For she has a wright to my protection, and she shall have it as long as I can, and I will do all I can to prevent her falling into the error her poor once miserable mother fell into.
"But why do I say miserable? Am I not happy abbove any of my sex, at least in my situation? Does not Greville love me, or at least like me? Does not he protect me? Does not he provide for me? Is not he a father to my child? Why do I call myself miserable? No, it whas a mistake, and I will be happy, chearful and kind, and do all my poor abbility will lett me, to return the fatherly goodness and prottection he has shewn (me). Again, my dear Greville, the recollection of past scenes brings tears in my eyes. But they are tears of happiness. To think of your goodness is too much. But, once for all, Greville, I will be good to you.
"It is near bathing time, and I must lay down my pen. I wont finish till I see when the post comes, whether there is a letter. He comes in abbout one a clock. I hope to have a letter so to-day.
"I must not forgett to tell you my knees is well, as I may say. There is hardly a mark, and my elbows is much better. I eat my vittuels very well, and I am quite strong and feel hearty, and I am in hopes I shall be very well. You can't think how soult the watter is. And there is a many laidys bathing here. But, Greville, I am oblidged to give a shilling a day for the bathing horse and whoman, and twopence a day for the dress. It is a great expense, and it fretts me now I think of it. But when I think how well I am, and my elbows likely to gett well, it makes me quite happy. For at any rate it is better than paying the doctor. But wright your oppinion truly and tell me what to do. Emma is crying because I wont come and bathe. So, Greville, adue tell after I have dipt. May God bless you, my dearest Greville, and believe me faithfully, affectionately and truly yours only--Emma H.
"Thursday Morning.
"And no letter from my dear Greville. Why, my dearest Greville, what is the reason you don't wright? If you knew my uneasyness, you would. You promised to write before I left Howeden, and I was much disapointed you did not, but thought you might have a opportunity being at Wandower (? Wendover) Hill. I have sent 2 letters to Haverford West, and has never had no answer to them, and it is now 3 weeks since I saw you. Pray, my dearest Greville, wright to me and make me happy; for I am not so att present, though my arm is quite well.
"I think if I could but hear from you, I should be happy. So make (me) happy, do, pray. Give my dear kind love and compliments to Pliney, and tell him I put you under his care, and he must be answerable for you to me, when I see him. I hope he has (not) fell in love with any rawboned Scotchwoman, whose fortune would make up for the want of beauty, and then he may soon through her (die) in a decline--Mum! For he is fond of portraits in that whay, and then he must be fond of orriginals, and it will answer every purpose. But don't put him in mind of it, for fear--But offer and say everything you can to him for me, and tell him I shall allways think on him with gratitude and remember him with pleasure, and allways regret laeving is (leaving his) good company. Tell him I wish him every happiness this world can afford him, that I will pray for him, and bless him as long as I live. I am wrighting, 'tis true, but I don't know when you will ever gett it. For I can't send itt, till I hear from you, and the Post wont be in tell to morro. Pray, my dear Greville, lett me go home soon. I have been 3 weeks, and if I stay a fortnight longer, that will be 5 weeks, you know; and then the expense is above 2 guineas a week, with washing and bathing whoman and everything; and I think a fortnight or three weeks longer I shall not have a spot."
"Friday morning: 12 o'clock (25th June).
"With impatienc do I sett down to wright tell I see the postman. But sure I shall have a letter to-day. Can you, my dear Greville--no, you can't--have forgot your poor Emma allready. Tho' I am but for a few weeks absent from you, my heart will not one moment leave you. I am allways thinking of you, and could almost fancy I hear you, see you; and think, Greville, what a disapointment when I find myself deceived, and ever nor never heard from you. But my heart wont lett me scold you. Endead, it thinks on you with too much tenderness. So do wright, my dear Greville. Don't you remember how you promised? Don't you recollect what you said at parting?--how you should be happy to see me again? O Greville, think on me with kindness! Think how many happy days weeks and years--I hope--we may yet pass. And think out of some that is past, there (h)as been some little pleasure as well as pain; and endead, did you but know how much I love you, you would freily forgive me any passed quarels. For I now suffer for them, and one line from you would make me happy. So pray do wright, and tell me when you will be returning, as I shall be happy to see you again. For whilst Emma lives, she must be gratefully and ever affectionately.
"Your Emma Hart."
"P.S.--This shall not go tell I have a letter from you, which I hope to have in half an hour. Adue, my dear kind Greville."
"Sunday Morning (27th June).
"My Dear Greville, I had a letter on Friday from my Gran-mother, and she sent me one from you, that had been there a fortnight. I am much oblidged to you for all the kind things you say to me, and tell Sir William I am much oblidged to him for saying I looked well. I hope he will always think so; for I am proud of (his) good word, and I hope I shall never forfeit it. I will at least study to deserve it. I am in hopes (to) have a letter from you, for it is a great comfort to me to hear from you. My dear Greville, it is now going on for a month since I saw you. But I think how happy I shall be to see you again, to thank you for your kindness to my poor Emma and me. She shall thank you, Greville, she shall be gratefull, she shall be good, and make you amends for all the trouble her mother has caused you. But how am I to make you amends? God knows. I shall never have it in my power. But, Greville, you shall have no cause to complain. I will try. I will do my utmost--and I can only regrett that fortune will not put it in my power to make a return for all the kindness and goodness you have showed me. Good-by. My dearest Greville...Emma is much oblidged to you for remembering her, and she hopes you will give her a oppertunity of thanking you personally for your goodness to her. I think you wont be disapointed in her; though mothers (Lord bless me, what a word for the gay wild Emma to say!) should not commend, but leave that for other people to do."
There was one more letter written from Parkgate on July 3rd; it was on the same note. Mr. Greville had suggested that little Emma should be brought to London and sent to school, and the young mother was submissively grateful--and wrote all the conventional things, hopes that Emma would become good, mild and attentive--that she would not turn out as her mother had--but then, if poor Emma the first had had the luck to have such a fine early start--"what a woman she would have been!"
Here Emma wrote not from her feelings, but from her situation; every Magdalen embarrassed by chance maternity has voiced these correct sentiments.
Leaving the subject of the child, Emma again flattered her lover; how she was longing to see him, to give him a thousand kisses--"My happiness now is Greville."
She wrote truly; she had not much in the world besides her dear Charles; but there was the rich, amiable uncle to please also. "Dear Sir William. Give my kind love to him. Tell him (that) next to you I love him above any body and that I wish I was with him to give him a kiss...My mother gives her compts. to you and Sir W. Say everything that is kind and well render me dear to him."
When Emma read over this letter she was not satisfied that she had expressed all that she felt and she added a pretty postscript.
"P.S.--Good by, my dear Greville. I hope we shall meet soon, happy and well. Adue! I bathe Emma and she is very well and grows. Her hair will grow very well on her forhead, and I don't think her nose will be very snub. Her eye is blue and pretty. She don't speak through her nose but she speaks countrified. We squabble sometimes; still she is fond of me, and indead I love her. For she is sensible. So much for Beauty. I long to see you."
By August the impatient girl was back in Paddington, though Mr. Greville and his uncle were still visiting in Scotland; a slight attack of measles sent her to bed, but she soon recovered and was writing eagerly to her lover.
"Edgware Row, Tuesday, August 10th, 1784.
"I must now inform you abbout my illness. My dear Greville, I had arash out all over me and a fevour, and I should have been worse, if I had not had the rash out. But I think I am better for it now; for I look fair and seem better in health than I was before. I dare say I should have been very dangerously ill, iff it had not come out. Pray, my dearest Greville, do come to see me, as soon as ever you come to town, for I do so long to see you. You don't know how it will make me to be happy--I mean if you should come before diner. Do come (to dinner), because I know you will come at night. I have a deal to say to you when I see you. Oh, Greville, to think it is nine weeks since I saw you. I think I shall die with the pleasure of seeing you. Indeed, my dearest Greville, if you knew how much I think of you, you would love (me) for it, for I am all ways thinking on you, of your goodness. In short, Greville, I truly love you, and the thought of your coming home so soon makes me so happy, I don't know what to do.
"Good-by, my ever dearest Greville. May God preserve you and bless you, for ever prays your ever affectionately and sincerely...Emma.
"My kind love to Sr William; and tell him if he will come soon, I will give him a thousand kisses. For I do love him a little."
While Emma, secured from mischief by the presence of her mother and her child, was living in such respectable fidelity at Parkgate, Sir William and his nephew were, in the intervals of their social duties, talking business.
The Knight had never been overreached in a bargain yet and Mr. Greville was shrewd and careful, so it was in an atmosphere of even-tempered prudence that they discussed their affairs, in which the uncle's appetite and the nephew's pocket were concerned, but not the heart or the sentiments of either.
The Hon. Charles civilly urged his uncle to take Emma off his hands with the same ease as an Emir might have urged a neighbouring potentate to accept a favourite odalisque.
She was, as Sir William could judge for himself, a gem of the purest lustre; her beauty, her singing, her attitudes!
To increase her value, Mr. Greville vouched for other good qualities possessed by Emma; she was nice-mannered, faithful, truthful, quick at learning, obedient and docile; she was economical, always good-humoured and lively. Then there was her mother, maid, duenna, cook in one, cheap and efficient. How much better for Sir William to match his pleasant leisure with a lovely, well-trained girl like Emma, than hamper himself with a wife.
All the members of the family advised such an arrangement, the Rev. Frederick Hamilton, Sir William's sole surviving brother, declared that "to buy love ready made" was the best thing the gay widower could do.
As for himself, Mr. Greville simply could not afford such a luxury as the keeping of the rare treasure he was passing on to his dear uncle.
Was it fair to keep Emma pinching and scraping in Edgeware Row when she was fitted to adorn a Court? He could not afford the expensive tutors her talents deserved, the carriage and pair she ought to have, the fine clothes that were her right.
Besides, he had himself to think of; the Romney pictures had made Emma quite famous, and everyone knew who her protector was. It was useless for him to offer himself to an heiress until his charmer was dismissed; he had thought of Lord Middleton's daughter, who had £20,000, but how could he come forward as a suitor for the chaste Henrietta with Emma on his hands? Another point, he wanted to see Emma well established; she deserved a fair settlement, say a £100 a year from Sir William, which he, Charles Greville, would try to add to by selling a few pictures, even sacrificing the Correggio or the Thais for so laudable an end.
All this seemed very reasonable to Sir William; the complete absence of romance or sentimentality pleased him; Charles Greville had always been a man after his own heart,--but there were objections to the tempting offer. "Naples is like a village for gossip, the thing can't be hidden. Besides I don't want to be the wittol of every young rake being bear-led through Italy."
Mr. Greville was sure that Sir William's tact would be able to deal with the Neapolitan gossips--Emma would be studying music, and the mother would surely confuse, if not silence, the prudish. As for Emma's flirting with the tourists the Minister had to entertain, Mr. Greville could answer for her good behaviour--why the difficulty was that she was too faithful; Mr. Greville showed the Parkgate letters: "The girl's in love with me, and won't be got rid of so easily!" And he mentioned that she had received several fine offers from wealthy men that she had indignantly refused--nay, Emma might even have married quite respectably had she not been so tenaciously fond of her Greville.
All this clinging fidelity might be transferred, the Hon. Charles was sure, with time and tact to Sir William, who had the leisure, the person, the means to lay siege even to the most difficult female heart.
How far from difficult of assault was Emma's heart, Mr. Greville did not mention; he glossed over the girl's past with which Sir William, a stranger to London, was not familiar and he said nothing of little Emma now comfortably boarded out with a Mrs. Blackburn and her husband at £60 a year; in short, he did the best that he could both for himself and for the poor girl in distress, to whom he had been so kind.
Sir William accepted the offer; he was to have Emma as soon as a decorous occasion for the transfer presented itself; both the girl and society had to be considered, she could not jump from one man's arms into those of another without some little delay and tact; but that she should as soon as possible pass into Sir William's possession was agreed between the two gentlemen before the Minister departed for Naples.
Something else had been agreed to also; of course, Mr. Greville could not sell his mistress, no such thing was to be thought of, but it just happened, while the delicate Emma-negotiations were going on, that Sir William was able to let his nephew know that he would be able to help him pay his debts and to assist him in obtaining a wealthy wife.
Mr. Greville owed about £6,000, not much more than a year's revenue from the Welsh estates of the late Lady Hamilton, and Sir William was so obliging as to enter into a bond whereby the creditors were satisfied by money raised on the estate to which Mr. Greville was made heir in tail. Not only by assisting him in keeping his creditors quiet did the uncle oblige the nephew, he gave him a letter written so as to be shown to a third party, wherein he declared dear Charles to be his heir--it was hoped that this epistle would help Mr. Greville in securing an heiress.
The will, leaving to Charles Greville not only the Barlow, but other estates, was duly drawn up and Charles himself left sole executor. Sir William promised to use his considerable influence at Westminster to secure his nephew some honourable and lucrative sinecure.
Of course, all these benefits were conferred on Mr. Greville out of the pure goodness of Sir William's heart and had nothing whatever to do with the secret understanding that Emma should come out to Naples as soon as possible.
All these arrangements having been carefully made, His Britannic Majesty's Minister returned to his post at the Court of Naples, and Emma took up again her modest life at Paddington, going to and from Cavendish Square to console the moody gloom of George Romney with her bright looks, amusing Mr. Greville with her poses, her songs and her lively chatter.
By the end of 1785 there came a letter from Pliny, written within sight of Vesuvius, begging the fair Emma to come to Naples as his guest, there to perfect herself in music and painting.
As dear Charles was busily setting his affairs in order, and thought of taking a course of chemistry under Professor Black in Edinburgh, he would not be able to accompany her, but in six months' time, or sooner, he would go out to Italy and bring her home--meantime comfort and decorum would be assured by the presence of Mrs. Cadogan. Emma was a little bewildered, a little saddened; she did not want the Paddington idyll to end, she did not want to leave the lover of whom she had grown so fond--the painter who worshipped her charms.
But Mr. Greville was firm, even stern; he had a great deal of business on hand, Emma would only be in the way; it was her plain duty to go to Naples, there to learn to finish her music and painting--and also by her pretty, graceful ways to keep the wealthy, useful uncle in a good humour towards the absent Charles.
Emma consented; if she wept at the prospect of leaving Mr. Greville, there was comfort in the thought of seeing foreign lands, perhaps a foreign Court, of being admired and flattered once more by kind old Pliny.
On March 4th, 1786, Emma and Mrs. Cadogan were entrusted to the escort of Gavin Hamilton, one of Sir William's artist friends, and started for Naples, where they arrived nearly six weeks later in the full flush of the South Italian spring.
Emma, then twenty-three years old, was also in the full flush of her ripening charms. Mr. Hamilton had admitted that he "had never seen anything quite like her"--she fitted into the opulent landscape as a picture into a frame and took possession of her apartments in the Palazzo Sessa, the British Embassy in Naples, with the air of Venus returning to Paphos.
Mr. Greville remained alone, but not forlorn, in Paddington; he certainly did not intend to think of Emma again, to see her, or write to her, unless absolutely forced to do so. He had seen the last of her without regret, and proceeded to put his affairs methodically in order, selling a few treasures, paying some debts, compounding others, closing the Paddington establishment, at least for the present, while he freed himself of business annoyances and kept his shrewd eyes wide open for a rich wife.
He regarded himself as Emma's benefactor, and the harmless deception whereby he had passed her on to his uncle under the false promise of rejoining her later did not trouble him at all. There was no managing women by any other means than such tricks as these, and one day Emma, cosily installed as Sir William's belle amie, would be very grateful to dear Charles for so thoughtfully providing for her future.
Emma did indeed owe Mr. Greville a heavy debt; he had rescued her from squalid misery, restored her self-respect, taught her many things useful for an adventuress to know, changed her from a pert, bouncing wench into a rare beauty, brought out her talents for music, for poses, instilled into her the wisdom of keeping her temper and her accounts, and pointed out the advantages of Mrs. Cadogan's attendance. He had given her some flavour of the great world, some inkling of taste and beauty--above all, he had introduced her to Sir William Hamilton and to George Romney.
But for himself he had obtained a fair and amorous mistress very cheaply, and he had entangled his uncle in a connection likely to prevent that second marriage that he, the heir-at-law, so dreaded.
So, twice over, Emma had repaid her obligations to her friend, who had never pretended to love her, and who had certainly kept his promise to help a girl in distress.
Emma felt a little forlorn, frightened and homesick, when she first arrived at Naples, and she wrote by the first post to Mr. Greville, urging him to redeem his promise and come out to her as soon as possible. It was all very splendid in the Palazzo Sessa--but what could compare with the delights of love--"not fine horses, nor a fine coach, nor a pack of servants."
Sir William was much more than kind--"he loves me, Greville...but he can never be my lover."
She related to the absent Charles in much detail all the attentions shown her by one whom she wished to regard merely as a kind sincere friend, she ran over all the novelties of her position, she expressed herself with an emphasis learned from the theatrical attitudes, the dramatic singing, the false tone of the time, but which was touched by a sincere emotion; it was not agreeable for the healthy young woman to have exchanged the attentions of the young beau for those of the old rake. Death, poverty, hunger, would Emma face to return to her dear Charles, she would walk "bare foot to Scotland" where perhaps he was listening to Professor Black's lectures on chemistry--"if my fatal ruin depends on seeing you and I will and must (see you) in the end of the summer."
Then she scribbled on about Sir William's infatuation, his gifts, his love for dear Charles to whom he had left everything in his will, the success of her English gowns--"but the blue hat, Greville, pleases most."
Did Greville need money, well, Sir William might send some, "the tears came into his eyes and he loves us boath dearly." But her hope, her happiness was all with Greville and, after she had poured out her rigmarole, she added the postscript:
"Pray, for God's sake, wright to me and come to me, for Sir William shall not be anything to me but your friend."
This letter despatched and a few tears shed for the amorous joys of Edgeware Row, Emma began to look about her on the novel scene.
Naples was as different from Paddington as one place could be from another; Emma was lodged in a palace, waited on by servants, while His Britannic Majesty's Minister hardly disguised a boundless infatuation, within the radiance of a Court, almost in touch with a King and a Queen, with Princes and great ladies. In a flash Emma had achieved the wildest day-dreams of every poor girl who had taken her charms to market. She had pleased a rich man, a powerful man, a man who could give her everything a woman like herself admired and envied. Why, she really had to pinch herself to make sure she was awake; her mother's approving smile hinted at her luck; Sir William's adoration had that touch of senility that promised everything.
He raved, he cut capers, she could not move a limb but he loudly praised it; she was used to being admired to her face, Mr. Greville had often pointed out her charms to his friends, but with a detached enthusiasm. Mr. Romney had been deeply moved by her graces, but his homage had been awkward, shy, until it was expressed on canvas. But Sir William revealed himself in a rhapsody that would have seemed tiresome and foolish to a well-bred woman, but which Emma enjoyed very much; amusing the old fellow with good-humoured pleasantries, she kept him off while she waited for Mr. Greville and looked about her on the strange city.
The Kingdom of Naples spread over half the map of Italy, reaching to the frontier of the Papal States, the very gates of Rome, it also comprised the rich, fantastic Island of Sicily.
For long a Spanish province under a Viceroy, Naples had been given a King in the person of Ferdinand IV, third son of Carlos III of Spain. Ferdinand, when a child eight years old, had been installed in Naples under the tutelage of a Tuscan Minister, Bernardo Tanucci, who worked wholly under the directions of the Spanish Cabinet.
This state of affairs came to an end with the King's marriage to a daughter of Maria Theresa and Francis of Lorraine, who speedily broke off connections with her father-in-law and gathered all the business of the Kingdom into her own nervous hands; by a clause of her marriage contract she was to have a seat in the Cabinet on the birth of a Prince, and the heir had duly appeared.
To assist her in this responsibility Queen Maria Carolina had introduced a foreign favourite into her Council, an Englishman of good birth, one John Acton, who had been employed at her brother's Tuscan capital, and who fitted very cleverly into the part of adviser of the passionate Queen who ruled the foolish King. Acton had no idea in his handsome head save that of personal aggrandisement and it mattered little to him how the Kingdom was run, as long as he had money and power and Maria Carolina was pleased.
Under these three, the lazy ignorant King, touched with hereditary imbecility, the ambitious, superstitious, violent Queen and the incapable, greedy, unscrupulous favourite, Naples was as badly governed as a country could be. A system already out-of-date was eaten into by every manner of corruption and abuse; the King regarded his position as a vulgar joke, the Queen hers as a chance to enrich and advance her brood of sickly children, Acton his as a piece of luck to be exploited to the utmost.
To anyone of sense, who looked beneath the surface, it would have been obvious that South Italy was in the state of the seething pot that so nearly boils over, that bubbles already gather at the brim.
But this surface was very brilliant, and no one about the Court did look beneath it. What did obsolete laws, a crazy system of finance, an impoverished country, the discontent of the intellectuals matter, as long as the sun shone and there was money for games and festivals, for hunts and concerts?
Sir William had never looked below the glittering crust on which he had sported so long and so gaily. While he had been going into raptures over the discoveries at Pompeii he had never concerned himself with the conditions of the country where he had resided for twenty years; while he had been quizzing at his vases, or prying into the volcanic earths of Vesuvius, he had not noticed other fires as dangerous as those of the great mountain smouldering beneath the sparkling life of Naples.
The upper- and middle-class Neapolitans were proud, patriotic, intelligent and cultured; in their ranks were many brilliant men and women, philosophers, scholars, poets, writers, scientists, medical men, highly educated, lofty-minded gentlewomen, ardent, brave, ambitious youths. These people loathed the reckless, heartless tyranny under which they lived, detested the alien Bourbon rule, the meddling Austrian Queen, the sly, stupid English adventurer, and in their clubs, societies, academies, drawing-rooms and cabinets, they absorbed and discussed the highest culture of the day and ventured to dream of plans for the reform of a country beloved and oppressed.
What did Sir William Hamilton know of this? Even if he knew, why should he care? What did it matter to Emma, who had never minded anything but her own affairs; she had lived in London through the war with the American Colonies, the war with France, the trial of Warren Hastings, the rise of Pitt, but if she had been stirred to a cheer at the victories of Hood and Rodney, that was as far as her concern in the fortunes of her country had gone. All she was ever to know of Italy she knew at once; the superficial glance was always enough for Emma.
The celebrated beauty of the city of Naples lies in its situation and colouring; on a closer view, the narrow streets, the huddled houses, the featureless architecture are not of any peculiar distinction, but viewed from the magnificent bay the design is splendid, a fitting setting for a baroque fairy-tale. The flat facades of peach and cream-coloured plaster rising in terraces, the stately bulk of the royal palace to the left, the sweep out to the lighthouse on the mole to the right, the Castel dell'Ovo supposed to have been built on a magic egg provided by the wizard Vergil, to the left jutting out darkly into the bay, the majestic lines of the Castel Nuovo in the centre of the city, while on the heights behind rises the massive fort, the Castel Sant' Elmo, flanked by the long lines of the Certosa di San Martino.
And over all, when Emma first stepped into her luxurious apartments, the steady wash of sunshine, the azure sky reflected in the azure-violet waters of the huge bay, bright light gilding the crowded shipping in the harbour, flashing amid the stiff-leaved palm-trees, the black cypress-boughs, the grey twisted olives on the slopes above the town; in the drowsy gardens the dark green leaves and thick white stars of the myrtle, the vivid purity of orange blossoms, the profusion of the fragrant petals of roses, syringa and oleander, flowers Emma had never seen even in dreams.
On gilded balconies stood pots of fringed pinks, of plumy basil, of scented rosemary, while from behind the slats of green shutters came the tinkle of mandolines and guitars, the lilt of amorous voices; in the evening when the breeze blew cool from the purple sea, smart carriages with liveried lackeys rattled to the flamboyant Opera House, to luxurious balls, to concerts, or departed for delicious drives along the coast, ending in suppers beneath the soft lamps that glowed amid the tamarisk groves and citron glades of Caserta or Posilippo.
Over all the varied splendour of the surface-scene, consistent as the sunshine, as brilliant as universal, were the menace and pomp of a powerful religion sunk into gross superstitions that were shared alike by Queen and beggars, pervading every corner of life, processions and parades of monks, nuns, priests, banners, filth and ignorance. The "religious" swarmed as thick as the flies in Naples, and the focus of their gorgeous mummery was the grandiose Duomo, where, amid scenes of frantic excitement, the Archbishop showed to the hysterical mob the phial in which the blood of the patron saint of Naples, San Gennaro, changed from a solidified drop into fresh-flowing crimson liquid.
On the surface the life of Naples was not only smooth but sparkling, at once elegant and informal; society had become both gay and cultured under the influence of the Austrian Queen, who, ignorant herself, liked to be a patroness of the arts, of learning and philosophy.
The fashions of Paris and Vienna enlivened the vast city; the melodies of Mozart and Haydn mingled with those of Gluck and Piccini, the nobles swung along the streets in coaches as brilliant as those which filled the court of honour at Versailles. Velvets from Genoa, laces from Venice, silks from Lyons crushed gowns from the Palais Royal, and hats designed by Marie Antoinette's milliners crowned fantastic, powdered locks that framed vivacious southern faces. Young patricians black-eyed, with dark curls heavily pomaded and coats sewn with tinsel and sequins rode their blood horses along the winding, dusty roads above the city, while their lackeys struck out of their way with canes the cringing, grinning peasants. Before smooth palaces of dusty stone hung ornate coats of arms, heavy amid the masks and wreaths cut between balconies and latticed windows. Through the gilt trellis of high gates could be glimpsed court-yards where fountains flashed in marble basins and marble Tritons blew conchs of glittering metal. In the shade of arcades pots of camellias, red white and striped, stood beside statues of ancient gods, lately raised from the rich soil, or smooth blocks of lava of the surrounding campagna. In cool, tiled salons philosophy was discussed, and songs sung to harp, guitar or spinet; in the evening the fireflies danced over the moonbeam walls that shaded strolling lovers, and the lanterns of pleasure-boats glittered beyond the shipping in the bay.
Nature, too, kept up this show, this holiday, with glitter of steady sunshine for weeks together, with lavish flowers and fruit, from the first clusters of large, scentless violets to the last golden orange, the last basket of dusky grapes, with the changing waters of the bay, jade green, azure, purple, and lilac, melting to an horizon where sea and sky were one radiance blurring the island. Nature provided a luxurious background, the sloping hills where the convents and forts blazed white beneath their belfries and flags, where the pines were black in the luminous air, and beyond the vineyards and cornfields the sombre splendour of Vesuvius rising from fields of lava and ashes to cones that cast up fire and vapours.
Along the crowded quays the fisher-folk lounged, gossiped, and chaffered over their wares; their striped trousers and short jackets, their red caps and earrings were declared to be by all foreigners--"picturesque"; it was quite fashionable to leave a wax-lit Salon where an Italian melody had been sung by a trained singer, to loiter down to the fisher-folk's quarters to hear their nasal voices raised in "Santa Lucia" or "Stella Maris." Fireworks were a popular diversion; from the gardens, from the royal palace at Caserta, from the terraces of the noble villas at Posilippo, at Castellamare often rose the mock fires of human artifice that fell in fountains of fiery blooms before the brilliant stars, then disappeared into the purple darkness of the bay where the sea-foam curled along the indented rocks.
Naples indeed provided every device that could render life exciting and agreeable; here was for sale every possible pleasure, from the grossest to the most refined, and here, for ten months of the year, were a climate and a scene that might be likened to those of a fabled paradise. Moreover, to a casual eye the city seemed as happy as it was splendid, as gay as it was luxurious. Priests, monks, nuns, beggars alike, appeared light-hearted and indulgent towards their fellow-men and towards the saints whose worship was so easy and whose benefits were so lavish; the nobles seemed carefree with nothing to do but to spend their handsome fortunes on amusements, and the middle classes disclosed to none what was in their minds.
The British Embassy was housed in two floors of the Palazzo Sessa, which Sir William Hamilton rented in Naples; these magnificent and sumptuously handsome apartments looked out upon the glitter of the bay.
A suite of four fine rooms was given to Emma and her mother; the rooms had been newly decorated by the British Minister for his dazzling treasure; he had exhausted his taste, if not his purse, in preparing a background worthy of so beautiful an occupant; couches of Pompeian shape with gilt claw-legs and curved backs had their classic rigidity broken by tasselled' cushions of brocade. The walls, exquisitely painted with light arabesques, were kept to those melting hues of cream, amber and ivory which best set off the vivid hues of Emma's carnation and the glint of her opulent tresses. Here and there was a sculptured vase that would in time come to be priceless, here and there a picture which represented the climax of some master's art. Sir William searched through the garnered hoard of a lifetime to find out the choicest pieces for the adornment of Emma's sun-bathed chambers.
She had little appreciation of all this, but she could delight in the soft canopied bed with the pale silk curtains, the carved wardrobe full of handsome clothes, the toilet-tables lavishly plenished, the rich draperies which kept off the heat, the dainty food, and the obsequious service.
She had done her best to please Charles Greville by being economical and prudent, when she had lived in Edgeware Row, but it was a relief no longer to have to count the pence, to content herself with one glass of beer, and to sigh for frocks which she could not afford. Compared to the maids at a few pounds a year who had been her sole servants at Paddington, the troop of Neapolitan attendants were as amiable and skilful as a host of genii.
Emma, like the princess in an Eastern tale, could have her every wish anticipated; she might have fine wines to drink, rich food to eat. Sir William never scolded, nor lectured, nor asked her to consider the cost. Every kind of pleasure that it was possible for her to imagine was offered her with humble delight in her acceptance. It was not possible for Emma to do otherwise than bloom with an even brighter lustre than she had worn at Paddington or in Romney's studio, to glow and smile and give out a delicious radiancy of youth and joy.
The peasant girl who had passed her childhood on the misty moors of Flintshire seemed to belong easily, as if by right, to this gorgeous background; Sir William became every day more and more infatuated, more and more excited over his good luck.
"Who was she?" Naples asked, between a smile and a shrug; and he, a man of easy tact, had his answer ready--a young protégée who had come to Italy to learn music and was resting awhile under his roof with her good mother.
Meanwhile, with that bad taste which infatuation will produce, even in people of high breeding, he presented Emma with some of his wife's clothes and toilet articles, a satin gown with Indian paintings on it, for which he had given twenty-five guineas, and for the hot weather loose muslin dresses something like those she had worn when sitting for Romney, with sleeves tied back with ribbons and plain knotted sashes. He told Emma that she might command anything, and she was grateful and wrote again to Charles Greville in the last week of July: why should not the fairy prince come to add the last touch of enchantment to this fairyland?
Why must she, when everything else was perfect, be content with an old lover? When she took up her pen she began to write in a facile, sentimental, emotional style, which was not wholly hypocritical:
"For God's sake send me one letter, if it be only a farewell. Think, Greville, of our former connection, and don't despise me."
If he did not come to her, she must go to him; she would be in London at Christmas at the latest, life was insupportable without him and her heart was entirely broken. What were the language masters, the singing masters, the music masters, without Greville? Why, nothing. She would return to live with him if he would allow her but one guinea a week for everything. Then she went on with an account of all that was happening to her, full of pride and pleasure in her triumph, informing her beloved Greville that she had no more eruptions on elbows or knees, and was become so fair that the Italians declared she must use rouge and white. She had been to Pompeii and the islands and there had been a dreadful storm of thunder and lightning; she ran on with this and all the other chatter that came into her mind. She was progressing with her Italian--she would write to him in that language soon. "But Grevell, of fleas and lice, there is millions." Then at the end a flourish of good-humoured tenderness: "Pray, write to yours ever. With the truest and dearest affection. God bless you. Write me, my dear, dear Greville. Emma."
Swift and dreadful storms, alternating with hot tempests marred that resplendent summer. The heat was suffocating, and streams of lava began to pour slowly from the fearful cone of Vesuvius, while plumes of smoke hung stagnant in the heavy sky; there were rumblings of earthquake and showers of ashes. All this to Emma was but an added excitement. It was scarcely possible for her to grasp anything beside the fact of the great success of her beauty.
When she went abroad, the cheerful, insolent lazzaroni and the idle, jolly, picturesque crew of beggars, fishermen, small tradespeople, and loungers, who formed such a large part of the population of Naples, followed her with cries of pleasure, delighting in her noble beauty, which to them was of so uncommon a type; they praised the mass of rich chestnut hair, her simple white gowns in the English or Turkish fashion, the plain straw or the famous blue hat which Greville had sent from London, and which cast such exquisite shadows over the entrancing face.
The Neapolitan aristocracy viewed, perhaps with a touch of irony, the old man's darling who had so suddenly and so dramatically appeared to take his dead wife's place in the Palazzo Sessa, but neither Sir William nor Emma perceived the hint of subtle mockery in the homage the easy Southerners paid to this fresh and uncommon charmer. The Queen was no prude; she has been described by one who knew her, as a woman "whose manners were so loose that it was possible to suspect her of every excess," and it was commonly believed that she had countered the incessant infidelity of the King with more than a few amours of her own, and that the handsome and elegant John Acton had been for years more to her than a friend. Whether the Queen was maligned or not, at least she showed herself generous towards the girl who appeared in such an equivocal position in the British Minister's house. Her Majesty did not herself receive Emma, but she made no objection to her courtiers' doing so.
The Italian gentlemen, in their tinsel and pomade, their pearls and their diamonds, sauntered laughing after Emma, when Sir William proudly paraded her in the trim walks of the gardens of the Villa Reale. A sparkling Viennese Prince was there; Emma could not spell his name, but he could speak her language and they got on very well together. He entitled himself her "cavaliere servente"; though the expression was new to her she soon grew to understand what it meant. The elegant admirer often dined at the Palazzo Sessa, and demanded a picture of the exquisite Emma while he smiled at her over the wine-glass; she was delighted to hear that he was a friend of the Queen:
"And he does nothing but entertain her with my beauty, accounts of it, etc."
Emma also discovered that the King had a heart and that she had made an impression on it. When, in the delicious summer evenings, after the storms had passed over, Sir William took Emma out in his boat on the waters off Posilippo, where he had a little casino or summer pleasure-house, His Majesty made a point of being there also, and put out in his own barge, which was filled with Court musicians.
Sailing close to the British Minister's party, Ferdinand gazed his fill of the English Miss, la Signora Hart, and ordered his musicians to play her a serenade on the French horns, sitting the while with his hat in his hand. When the concert was over His Majesty made a remark, which was translated to Emma as meaning that he regretted he could not speak English; after that he took occasion to be as often as possible in her train of admirers, when she walked in the grounds of the royal villa or when she took her seat with Sir William in the box at the Opera House, where her radiance was displayed to the lorgnettes of the boxes and the stares of the pit.
It was a curious experience for Emma. She had never seen a king before. When she had been in London, King George had been as far away from her sphere of life as an Archbishop from the village church in Cheshire where she had been baptized. The Spanish Bourbon monarch was by no means inaccessible nor fastidious; almost totally uneducated and delighting in the company of his inferiors, he was as much beloved by the lowest population of Naples as he was despised by the professional classes and the aristocracy.
When Emma caught his easily pleased eye, His Majesty was about thirty-five years old, heavily made with a rolling profile and an enormous nose, which earned him the nickname of Il Re Nasone; an athletic figure, he was careless in his dress, wearing for choice a Neapolitan fisherman's cap on his blond hair and delighting in the rough jacket, striped shirt and loose trousers of the Neapolitans who lounged on the sea-front or sauntered round the quays. For preference, he spoke the Neapolitan dialect, and indeed expressed himself with difficulty in any other language. He was good-humoured, if not thwarted, and cared nothing for what happened to anyone else as long as he was left undisturbed to those enjoyments of his appetites and that indulgence in his pleasures which were to him the beginning and end of his existence.
Ferdinand IV liked to catch fish in the bay and sell it in the marketplace of Naples, haggling shrewdly over the price with the amused fishermen; he enjoyed the native dishes and especially macaroni, which he liked to eat with his fingers, and which he had been known to throw by the handful from his box in the Opera on to the crowd below.
The big, brutal man was afraid of his Queen, who could on occasions prove a screaming fury, and in order to escape from her passionate hysterics and her scathing tongue he had handed over to her every department of State, and was not in the least galled that Acton was virtually King of Naples and that everyone knew it.
Such as he was, Ferdinand Bourbon was the King, and Emma had him in her train. She had, for the first time in her life, a carriage and horses, and servants in livery, not the livery of Sir William--discretion forbade that--but still livery, and the outfit had the air of a great lady's equipage.
She threw herself with zeal into her lessons; she improved vastly in her singing; her teachers agreed that she had a superb voice. How could they do otherwise when the pupil was so beautiful and the paymaster so rich? She improved, too, with her sketching, which she found as "easy as A.B.C." In the light of Sir William's approving smile, she jotted down on paper the outline of the great mountain, which was expected to erupt at any moment. Vesuvius, dark in the brilliant light, sending forth gusts of black smoke, rising gaunt and bare from fields of lava and opulent harvests of grain and vines, was an odd subject for the fair amateur's uncertain pencil; but everything she did pleased.
Every available artist painted her portrait; a favourite pose was that of a Bacchante, and Italian admirers declared that she was exactly like those classic nymphs, attendant on the god of Wine, whose laughing faces, after the oblivion of hundreds of years, had been discovered beneath the roots of vines in the fields around the city; she was also compared to the famous Ariadne, with the firm outline, with the perfect features so voluptuously curved; a different Ariadne from that painted by George Romney.
Every Sunday Sir William took his charmer to Caserta, where among the fragrancies of orange and melon, of rose and lily, amid the sounds of mandolines and guitars, Emma was ogled and quizzed, flattered and praised; there she listened to the elegancies of the Austrian Prince who assured her that she was "a diamond of the first water and the finest creature on earth," and who, in the correct manner of a cicisbeo attended her to her concerts, to her bath, to her promenade.
All this excitement she wrote about in her letter of August 1st to Charles Greville. But with the cries of triumph were mingled cries of heartbreak. He had written to her at last, and not kindly, but rather with the impatience of a man bored with sentimentality and romance. He had told her bluntly that never could she be his again and that she must "oblige Sir William" and think herself fortunate for the opportunity of doing so. Emma replied in the tone of a Clarissa Harlowe.
Nothing could express her rage; she was all madness; he, who used to envy her smile, to advise her with cool indifference, to give herself to another man! It was too much; she suggested dreadful alternatives--if she were with him, she would murder him and slay herself; she would not have a farthing from either of the gentlemen, she would return to London and kill herself with excess of vice; her fate was a warning to young women who tried to be "good."
Greville had taught her the ways of virtue, and then cast her off again on to the path of vice. A girl that a King was sighing for to be so lightly dismissed! But she would not complain--it was enough she had the paper he had written on, the wafer that he had licked: "How I envy thee! To take the place of Emma's lips"--she would give worlds if she had had that kiss. But she could not rage long; she had a cold which made her feel very ill; besides, there was her brilliant success to write about, there was a charming present to acknowledge: "I am glad you have sent me a blue hat and gloves. My hat is universally admired through Naples."
Then a sigh of good-humoured resignation. The young love was gone--why, she must sell herself to the old man, but perhaps on her own terms. She ended her letter with the sentence: "If you affront me, I will make him marry me. God bless you for ever."
That was Emma's eighth letter and her last written to Charles Greville before she resigned herself to become the mistress of Sir William Hamilton. Her position in the society of Naples was quickly established, and she was soon acknowledged as one of the wonders of the city; Naples was always full of tourists and sightseers, and all of these must get to see the fascinating Emma. Even discreet English ladies, careful of their reputation, contrived to gloss the thing over, when they saw they could not be received at the British Embassy on any other terms.
Useful rumours of a secret marriage were spread abroad and the Duchess of Argyle, twice a British peeress and one of the famous Misses Gunning, gave Emma her countenance when she visited Naples. Lady Elcho, too, was kind to her, and though the salons of many of the Neapolitan aristocracy remained closed to her, her life was as free from every social annoyance as the life of one in her odd position possibly could be. Her "attitudes" became one of the attractions of the brilliant capital.
In March 1787, a handsome young German poet, Goethe, visited Naples, and noted in the inevitable journal that every traveller to Italy felt obliged to keep: "The knight, Hamilton, who is still living here as British Ambassador, after all his dabbling in art, after all his lengthy studies in nature, has found the pinnacle of that art that nature can afford. She lives in his house, an English girl of twenty years; she is very beautiful and well-modelled. He has had a Greek robe made for her, and it suits her excellently well. When she dons it she lets down her hair, takes up a couple of shawls, and so changes her attitude, her postures and her countenance, that a man at last comes to think he is dreaming. He looks on what so many thousand artists have thought to depict in the very flesh, moving before him through many poses. She stands, she sits, she lies down, she kneels before you, now she is serious, now she is sad, now she becomes most enticing, then she withdraws, allures, approves, then gradually becomes shy. She knows how to drape the folds of her shawl to suit each pose, and how to change them again accordingly, and she makes a hundred different kinds of headgear out of the same cloth. The old knight holds the light up to her, he gives himself over heart and soul to this."
Sir William soon possessed a whole gallery of paintings of his charmer, painted by Raphael Mengs, the fashionable Neapolitan painter, by Angelica Kauffmann, by the fashionable French painter, Madame le Brun, who painted her in her favourite attitude of a Bacchante, and found her very beautiful indeed. Her face was cut on cameos and carved in stone; in every possible way her features were immortalized and her singing was almost as much admired as her beauty, and her attitudes. Sir William also gave her lessons in deportment; he tried to finish the education Charles Greville had begun; he told her how to move, how to speak, and even a little how to spell. She picked up French and Italian very quickly, and in these languages her Flintshire accent was not apparent; her youth, her vivacity, her joy in herself covered up everything that might have offended in one less lovely, or less self-assured.
It was true that the antics of the old man were a little ridiculous--Pantaleone in the flesh! The fine Italians laughed behind Sir William's back, the ladies smiled behind their glittering fans, the wits had their usual epigrams. The duenna, too, was most amusing; Mrs. Cadogan, to the fastidious, might rather unpleasantly foreshadow what Emma might become, but she was, at present, a piquant contrast to Emma's rare charms.
The whole affair, to the jaded taste of Neapolitan Court society, had a delicious air of novelty. Emma's peasant manners seemed to these over-refined aristocrats to be deliciously "natural." Her simple vanity, her joyous abandon to the pleasures of the moment, her free movements, the dramatic swiftness of her poses, seemed to them to have the classic nobility associated with the antiquity then so fashionable.
To the gentlefolk, a goddess from Olympus, to the common people Emma was a saint, a madonna, an angel--to all, a wonder and a curiosity.
Emma soon reconciled herself to the loss of Greville; with a good-humoured sigh for romance she settled down to a life of compensation for lost illusion. She had not been in Naples a year, before she was addressing Sir William in the same tone that she had used towards her former lover. When he left her to go for a few days' hunting with the King in the park at Caserta, she wrote to him at once in the arch style she had learnt during her early adventures:
"Indeed, my dear Sir William, I am sorry. I told you one line would satisfy me. When I have no other comfort than your letters you should not so cruelly disappoint me, for I am unhappy and I don't feel right without hearing from you, and I won't forgive you--no, that I won't."
The winter was exceptionally severe for the South of Italy; snow lay in the narrow streets of Naples and frost glittered on the flat roofs of the peach-coloured houses. It was quite a different cold from the clouded damp that Emma had known in Flintshire or London, and it helped to set up her spirits, and to give a sparkle to her eyes. She went richly in satin and furs, and though those ladies of fashion who chanced to see her whispered to one another that she showed an innate vulgarity when dressed in fine clothes, and put aside her beauty with her classic robes and poses, she continued to please the gentlemen very well. Madame de Boigne and Madame le Brun might find fault with Emma, but they were in a minority.
Her theme was still herself. With unctuous delight she wrote to her protector of all her successes. She had been out to dine at one of the houses which received her and where he allowed her to go, and where there was such a profusion of food that it was impossible to describe; there were compliments, songs and sighing, and the suave Italians had brought out conventional similes of "diamond eyes" and "pearl teeth."
Purblind as he was, one there present, a certain abbé, had praised her--"Oh, you can't think just as if he could see me and just as if I was the most perfect beauty in the world."
Emma was pleased to tell her master also that she was praised for her "perfectly beautiful and elegantly behaved manners and conversation." She was becoming more careful too; she gave herself the air of dedicating her beauty and herself entirely to Sir William. Modestly she objected that a painting he was having done of her on a snuff-box lid was "too naked." She had her copybook phrases trippingly on the pen:
"Those beauties that only you can see shall not be exposed to the common eyes of all."
From the first few weeks of her stay in Naples she had noted his obsession, she had observed that her hold over him was very different from the hold she had had over her other lovers; she would have been a very stupid girl, if she had not remembered, and Mrs. Cadogan would have been a very remiss mother, if she had not reminded her, how very easily she had been twice left by gentlemen whom she had seemed at one time to please very much--she must not let fortune slip a third time through her fingers.
The man was old, older than he appeared under his trim exterior, and she made a grimace over that; but the defect had its advantage too; she perceived with good humour, for she was at this time without malice, that Sir William was of that age when well-bred, fastidious, and brilliant gentlemen, do very foolish things.
Indeed, she understood that she held him by the last surge of the passions, by that half-senile adoration which caused his friends to sigh, and the indifferent to snigger, and soon perceived that she might play for marriage.
The sentence over which Charles Greville had shrugged his shoulders in disdain: "If you affront me, I will make him marry me," was meant seriously.
Within a year she had become part of his life, and it was obvious to both of them that they would never separate. Even in Naples, easy as it was, she could not continue to live permanently as his mistress; already there had been some difficulties.
A Mrs. Dickinson, who had shown herself prudish on the subject of Emma, had to be, as the merry girl put it, "choked off," and even Sir William's endless tact and adroit accomplishments in all manner of petty intrigues, could not for ever maintain his false position.
Seeing Emma so admired, so successful, hearing that even the
Queen was prepared to look upon her with a favourable eye, knowing very little more of her past than the easy Neapolitans knew, it did not seem to Sir William so outrageous a thing that he should marry his treasure.
Already it had been convenient to spread abroad the rumour of a secret marriage, so that the aristocratic English ladies he often had to entertain at the Embassy might feel their delicacy satisfied. Then, this success of Emma's was not the success of the ordinary kept woman who could sparkle only in doubtful circles--it was the success of a great beauty who could grace every occasion she attended; Emma did not have to play very carefully so willing a fish.
That same bitter winter when it seemed to Emma colder than it had ever been in England, she went in her favourite plain white dress with the blue sash and Leghorn hat, under, however, a pelisse of sables, to visit the Convent of Santa Romica, where the fashionable nuns led a gay and charming life, and where they received Emma, as if she had indeed been an angel from heaven, or rather an angel who had stepped from the canvas of a Correggio or Raphael. For her part Emma thought she had never seen anything quite so entrancing as the Mother Superior of this fashionable convent, who was a charming lady of twenty-nine years of age, named Beatrice Acquaviva, merry and arch. Brilliants flashed on her white hands when she drew them from the depths of her fashionable muff and presented Emma with an embroidered satin pocket-book, declaring that never had she loved anyone so much; while Emma, who had seldom been so flattered by one of her own sex before, thought her "the most good and amiable woman" she had seen since she had come to Naples. Donna Beatrice was indeed very flowery in her compliments, for she not only declared that Emma looked like an angel, but she said she was a charming, kind creature, good to the poor, and noble and generous--for such a one it would be worth while to live.
To Emma's relief there was not one word of religion, but there was plenty of good things to eat: "I promise you," she wrote, "they don't starve themselves." Then with extremely bad taste, which did not however offend, she gave Sir William the nuns' opinion of his late wife, who had also visited the convent. "They did not like the looks of her--she was little, short, pinch-faced, and received coldly." How different, said the flattering nuns, from Emma, who was so tall and exactly like the marble statues they had seen when they were in the world. It was all very intoxicating and enough to turn anyone's head, and Emma found no difficulty in expressing her gratitude to "good, kind, dearest Sir William." and in writing to him as she had written to Charles Greville: "Ah, what a happy creature is your Emma. She that had no friend, no protector, nobody that I can trust [sic], and now to be the friend, the Emma of Sir William Hamilton. Oh, if I could express myself, if I have words to thank you, that I may not thus be choked with feelings for which I can find no utterance."
She was learning to play and sing Handel, and her master, of course, was delighted and declared it was the most extraordinary thing he ever knew, especially "her holding on to the notes and going from the high to the low notes so very neat," while Galucci, the musician who played the obbligato to her solos, seemed as if he would have gone mad with admiration. He declared that Emma would turn the heads of everyone.
Her vanity increased under this adulation, until it filled her entire world. She thought of nothing but the compliments she received and repeated them, either to Greville, with whom she renewed her correspondence, or to Sir William. She related how enchanted everybody was, not only by her beauty, but her politeness, her dramatic and musical talents--everyone who came to the Palazzo Sessa had compliments for her accomplishments, her kindness, her good Italian.
When Emma had been eighteen months in Naples, Sir William ventured to take her on a tour to some of the great country-houses, where the owners would be gracious enough to receive her. In a gorgeous villa at Sorrento Emma sang her songs and struck her attitudes to the admiration of a glittering crowd of Italian nobility. There was sea-bathing every morning and breakfast in a delicious little gazebo which, on a jutting rock, commanded a superb panorama of the Bay of Naples. Vesuvius was in action, its smoke darkened half the azure of the sky, and again Emma's facile pencil ran over the outlines of the rich landscape.
There was now a professor of music as well as a teacher of Latin in her train, and every evening there were singing lessons in the great painted salon which was lit by wax tapers and opened on to the purple night, the scene of every concert, where Emma with her heap of auburn hair, her classic robe, her rich bravura, sang to Sir William Hamilton's orchestra, arias from operas, buffos, some of the folk-songs of Naples; she, dressed in character, with tambourine and coloured scarf.
By then Mr. Greville had been forgiven, and she was pleased to jot down for his benefit all these triumphs, adding perhaps a little touch of exaggeration, for she wrote: "In short, I left the people of Sorrento with their heads turned, I left some dying, some crying and some in despair. Mind you, these were all nobility and proud as the Devil, but we humbled them."
The trip was in every way a success. At Ischia, an obliging Countess covered her with kisses and admired the muslin chemise with the blue sash which the English beauty had made famous. There was also a priest, who lost his wits for love of Emma, and had to be comforted with her portrait on a snuff-box. Emma, mounted on a donkey, also went some way up Vesuvius, and viewed with the complacency of one entirely self-absorbed the red-hot lava pouring down the sides of the mountain, licking up pine-trees into sheets of fire and destroying, against all precedent, a hermit's grotto in which hung several precious relics.
That same summer, while the volcano was providing an exciting background to the frivolous pleasure-makers of Naples, Emma was taken to Sir William's villa at Caserta, where he had at great expense redecorated apartments for her and provided her with a music room. Her triumphs continued and the eruption of the volcano seemed but a detail compared to the importance of Emma and Emma's beauty. She was then entertained on board a Dutch man-of-war, which came into the bay. She was given a salute of twenty cannon and a banquet, and took the seat of honour at the board, where Mrs. Cadogan also found a place; the Dutchmen were overwhelmed by this vision of English beauty--the famous white muslin gown, blue sash, straw hat and auburn curls, which Emma, a little over-excited on this occasion, described "as curling round her heels" when she wrote an account of the triumph to Greville.
She had hoped to attend the Opera that night at San Carlo, when the King and Queen were to be present, but there had been so many compliments paid, so many healths drunk, and so many salvos let off that when she at last landed on the quay and got into the State coach which was to take her and the Dutch officers to Sir William's box, she found there was no time to put on the elaborate gown she had provided.
This had lately come from Paris and was a white and purple satin with spangles, and a turban with a cluster of white feathers such as the Queen of France wore. In it, Emma would have lost all distinction and looked rather like a servant-girl in her mistress's finery.
Arriving late at the Opera in the muslin and the blue sash with the flowing curls, she made, of course, a sensation.
There were other excitements to relate to Greville; "I must tell you I had great offers to be first woman in the Italian Opera at Madrid, where I was to have £6,000 for three years, but though I have not been persuaded to make a written engagement, I certainly shall sing at the Pantheon and Hanover Square except something particular happens. Sir William says he will give me leave to sing at Hanover Square. It's the most extraordinary thing that my voice is totally altered, it is the finest soprano you ever heard, and what is most extraordinary is that my shake or trill, what you call it, is so very good in every note my master says that, if he did not feel that I was a woman he would think I was an angel. Sir William is enraptured with me. He spares neither expense nor pains nor anything." It is only right, Emma added seriously, that after all this work with her singing and languages and drawing, she should have exercise, so she went out for two hours a day in Sir William's carriage.
Signora Banti, first soprano at San Carlo, had come to one of Emma's concerts and thrown herself into appropriate raptures. "Just God! What a voice! I would give a good deal for your voice!"
"In short," said Emma frankly, "I met with such applause that it almost turned my head. Banti sung after me and I assure you everyone said I sung in a finer style than her. Poor Sir William was so enraptured with me."
She had forgotten the idyll of Paddington; she was quite on good-natured terms with Charles Greville to whom, after all, she owed the introduction to Sir William. He sent her, too, charming presents, which he put down to Sir William's account. He purchased shawls, hats and gloves, for her attitudes and posing; she ended her letters with gay postscripts. "I send to you a kiss on my name. It is more than you deserve. Tell your brothers to take care of their hearts when I come back. As for you, you will be utterly undone, for Sir William already is distractedly in love, and indeed I love him tenderly. He deserves it. God bless you."
Mr. Greville was not much moved by these epistles which probably were exactly as he thought they would be. He was still, in a leisurely and patient fashion, settling his affairs. The portrait of Emma as she sat for him still stood in George Romney's studio; another connoisseur had made an offer for it; Romney asked Greville if he would care to buy it, but the Honourable Charles regretted that his purse would not run to this luxury. Circumstances, he remarked sententiously, alter and control feelings, "though it gave me some pain to part from the original of the Seamstress, I do not feel myself in a position to buy her picture."
But with unabated zest Emma continued to write to her former lover of the delicious life she was leading under the care of her new protector. In letters full of gusto and bad grammar she told him again and again of all her triumphs. When Sir William was out hunting she did the honours at the Embassy--"and they are all enchanted with me." She emphasized the point that "Sir William is really in love with me, more and more. He says he cannot live without me. In short, I am universally beloved." She sang tender arias that made everybody cry, the first tenor of the Opera accompanied her in melting, romantic duets, but when she was crossed Emma quickly reverted to the mood of Up Park. A certain Mrs. Stratford wished to come and stay at the Embassy, but Emma soon stopped that, and inspired Sir William to write that, if the lady wished to come to Naples, she might stay at an inn; then, Emma quickly made herself mistress of a letter which proved Mrs. Stratford to be by no means discreet, at which Emma was not slow in at once giving the lady a coarse name which might very well have been applied to herself by the ill-natured or the prudish.
Her self-assurance became overwhelming. "Sir William tells me I am necessary to his happiness and I am the handsomest, loveliest, cleverest, best creature in the world and no person shall come to disturb me."
In the spring of 1789 Emma accompanied the British Minister on a long excursion into Calabria, where Emma played at being a good, obliging girl, who did not mind a little hardship, and quickly acquired a reputation for good-humour by not grumbling at the mean accommodation of the Italian inns. These poor chambers were, no doubt, at least as comfortable as had been those in the cottage at Hawarden.
On her return Sir William did up her apartment for her at the cost of £4,000. He was beginning to spend money very freely. Emma cost him a good deal more than she had cost Mr. Greville; large sums went in portraits and statues to commemorate her exuberant charms; Madame Le Brun received £100 for painting Emma with a wine-cup and an enormous quantity of chestnut hair which completely covered her.
Emma's own allowance was not large, no more than £200 a year for herself and her mother, but then, everything was paid for her, and hardly a day passed but that she received presents. Much as she valued these there was one splendour for which she was constantly sighing. She often coaxed and pleaded with Sir William to give her diamonds, and in 1790 he gratified her longing by an offering of these precious stones, which he had bought at a bargain price of £500 and which made Emma supremely happy for quite a long while.
The old man was now completely in her toils--he could no more escape from his Emma than the fly can escape from the jar of honey into which it falls. After nearly five years as his mistress, Emma was living as his wife and doing the honours of the Embassy, presiding at concerts, balls and entertainments; the lucky young woman had the sense to try to behave herself: "I wish to be an example of good conduct, to show the world that a pretty woman is not always a fool," she wrote to Greville. In the same letter she apprised him of an approaching visit she and Sir William were paying to London; Greville need not be afraid of her behaviour in England. She was used, she said, to fine society: "On Monday last we gave a concert and ball at our house. I had near four hundred persons, all the foreign ministers and their wives, all the first ladies of fashion, foreigners and Neapolitans. Sir William dressed me in white satin, no colour about me, but my hair and cheeks; I was without powder. As it was the first great assembly we had given publicly, all the ladies strove to outdo one another in dress and jewels. Sir William said I was the finest jewel among them." The letter ended complacently. "We shall be with you in the spring and return here in November, and the next year you may pay us a visit. We shall be glad to see you. I shall always esteem you for your relationship to Sir William, and as having been the means of me knowing him. As for Sir William, I confess to you I dote on him, nor can I ever love any person but him."
Greville was not impressed by this letter with its rather impertinent air of patronage, and its complete change of front. Since the day she had written: "All must be as God and Greville pleases," he had not understood what lay behind her excitement, what serious purpose was concealed by these flourishes of pretty vanity.
In June 1791, Sir William and Emma were back in London. Greville was shocked to see them openly living together; he thought this an outrage on propriety, which might have been possible in Naples, but which would not be tolerated in London. Emma laughed and Sir William smiled.
On September 6th, 1791, they were married at Marylebone Church with the Marquis of Abercorn and a Mr. Dutens as witnesses. Emma signed the register "Amy Lyon," writing the name for the last time; in the Gazette announcing the marriage she was described as Miss Hart.
Charles Greville was greatly vexed--he felt he had been fooled; there had been no talk of marriage in his bond, and his relations with his wealthy uncle became as cold and stiff as he dared make them. The letters exchanged were somewhat frigid in tone, but what did Emma care? There were others in London who were delighted to welcome her with tears of lively gratitude. George Romney received her as if indeed she had been a vision from that brighter world which was fast being clouded over for him. For some time he had been sinking deeper into those glooms which were soon to close for ever over his anguished mind. He had ceased to take much pleasure in life and regarded his beloved art as so much hack-work, and he was spending his time in sombre, solitary reveries, when Emma stepped into the studio, radiant in a Turkish dress, announcing her triumph, her marriage, showing off her resplendent beauty, which had increased since Romney had last painted her, and was now indeed in its full flower.
He at once began to sketch and paint her again, put all other work aside that he might study from this model. He named her "The Divine Lady," adding: "I cannot give her any other epithet, for I think her superior to all womankind." He was commissioned to paint two pictures of her for that expert in female beauty, the Prince of Wales. He even went so far as to abandon his usual unsocial habits and to give a party for her in his studio, where she might display her attitudes. In terms of hyperbole he wrote of this occasion to his friend Hayley: "She performed those both the serious and the comic to admiration, both in singing and acting, but her Nina surpassed anything I ever saw. The whole company were in an agony of sorrow and her acting was simple, grand, terrible, pathetic. My mind was so much heated that I was for running down to fetch you up to see her."
Soon after, the charming lady, absorbed as she was in a thousand pleasures, neglected her visits to the studio, and Romney, suspecting unjustly a studied neglect, fell into a deeper gloom, and wrote: "It is highly probable that none of the pictures will be finished, except I find her more friendly than she appeared to me the last time I saw her." The painter's terrible affliction took the form of doubt and suspicion, and he was already so unbalanced in mind as to see even in the blooming, friendly face of Emma, coldness and disdain. A few days later Emma had returned and the painter was in raptures. "Sketching the most beautiful head of her I have ever painted yet, for her mother," and noting, "I think indeed she is cordial with me as ever and she laments very much that she is to leave England without seeing you."
He painted her also as Joan of Arc, a brilliant headpiece, which was left unfinished.
Emma's poses and songs were successful everywhere; she was offered £2,000 a year and two benefits to sing at the Opera, and Sir William said complacently that "he had engaged her and for life." As a climax to all this London gaiety and excitement, the bridegroom took his Emma to see the millionaire hermit of Font-hill, William Beckford, a man much of his own type, save that he chanced to be a genius; the two men were cousins, one degree removed, and had always maintained friendly relations. Beckford was rather more than eccentric; his reputation was tarnished by scandalous rumours that were never either completely proved or disproved. No one knew whether William Beckford had withdrawn in cold disdain from a world he despised or retired in panic from the hostility of his fellows. Sir William, at least, did not care, and to Emma, Fonthill and Beckford were a kind of peep-show, to be gaped at without being understood.
Fonthill, in Wiltshire, where the author of Vathek, the most gifted amateur that ever graced English literature, lived in gorgeous retirement with a French abbé and a few obsequious companions, was a nightmare imagined by a genius. William Beckford had pulled down the handsome mansion that his father, the wealthy Lord Mayor, had raised, and had built a fantasy, only possible to a genius and a millionaire, with a monstrous top-heavy tower, which had cost £20,000, an English park circled by walls that gave an air of Eastern scenery to a domain that was like a dream of Asia, expressed in the terms of the Gothic revival.
Beckford's huge chambers and long galleries were filled by treasures that were reputed to be of fabulous value; odd proportions, fantastic objects, lofty ceilings, arched windows, gave an air of bizarre enchantment to this weird interior, to which Beckford had endeavoured to give the lurid, smoky atmosphere of the Hall of Eblis.
The huge fortune and large income (£1,000,000 in hand and £100,000 a year) that Beckford derived from his Jamaican estate, were expended in this outlandish display, in the midst of which he moved, not in the guise of a wizard or Arabian potentate, but in that of a fastidious English gentleman, delicate and slender, with a fine profile and attired in neat green and buff; he was then under forty years of age and engaged in building a vast abbey in his grounds.
Sir William viewed his cousin's statues, pictures and prints, with shrill cries of envy--but he would not, for all the nightmare of virtuosity that encumbered Fonthill, have surrendered one charm of the wifely Emma, who hung so coaxingly on his arm, and who so prettily pressed Mr. Beckford to visit the British Embassy at Naples.
Only an eccentric like Beckford could have condoned this crazy marriage, for the rest, London had sniggered, gossiped, and held aloof.
Sir William's relatives had done what they could to dissuade him from so ridiculous a match, but he had replied with pettish humour that he was marrying Emma "for himself alone"; in that he was mistaken.
Horace Walpole remarked that "Sir William was marrying his gallery of antique statues" and added pertinently, that he was surprised that there should be so much talk of the classic Emma's change of expression, since expression was what antiques did not possess. However, the difficult wit admitted that Lady Di, who had seen one of Emma's displays, had found that her poses were very beautiful and striking. But the new Lady Hamilton, according to her custom, avoided all society where she was not likely to be received with applause, and decided soon to quit that London where she might meet one of the gentlemen from Up Park, someone who had seen her as a nursemaid, as a grisette, as the quiet little mistress of Charles Greville.
Thomas Lawrence painted her--finding her "very agreeable to the eye of an artist." Romney tried to hurry through as many likenesses of her as possible in the time she could give him, Sir Joshua Reynolds represented her as a laughing Bacchante. In his white mansion on the green banks of the Thames at Richmond, where weeping-willows and stately swans, floating on the grey river, found a pretty background for some of the more broadminded of London society, the Duke of Queensberry entertained the bride--the handsome Bacchante was quite agreeable to one who had the reputation of being a satyr.
There Horace Walpole at last saw the famous poses and was ravished--Emma's singing, too, was admirable--she sung "Nina" to perfection.
There was a dark side to these triumphs; despite his friendship with the King, Sir William dared not take his lady to Court; the wife of the British Minister at Naples had to leave London without dropping a curtsy to the Queen.
Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, with her plain, pug face, her Bible and her wool-work, her happy marriage that had not created happiness for others, was not considered of much importance in a society where virtue was associated with dullness, but she remained staunch to her ideals; she had heard something of the past of Lady Hamilton, and Emma was not received at St. James's Palace.
Paris held compensations. Emma powdered the rich fleece of hair, put in it, among her feathers, her five hundred pounds' worth of diamonds, laced herself into brocaded satins, and made her curtsy before the Queen of France, whose weak eyes were already stained with secret weeping, whose haughty face had long since hardened into a passive defiance of an implacable destiny.
The National Assembly had been sitting for nearly two years, in this September of 1791, and France was already split from side to side by the first shudderings of the incredible upheaval that was soon to come.
But on the surface--and it was always on the surface with Emma--Paris was gay enough, with the fading chestnut-trees yellow in the thick golden air, with the smart shops in the Palais Royal showing a seductive array of novelties for an Ambassador's lady's choice, with the gaily curtained windows through which less fortunate Emmas peeped to see if any rich old men were looking up, the well-filled theatres, the costly equipages that rolled over the cobbles, and only here and there a hint of change in a short-haired, dark-trousered deputy, in the tone of the free caricatures in the print-shop windows, in the tricolour stuck here and there incongruously, in the distant mutter of the ironic refrain--liberté, égalité, fraternité.
So, with no notion of the first whisperings of the whirlwind that was blowing so near, Sir William and his Emma rolled back to Naples across the Italian cornfields and vineyards, through the last profusion of autumn flowers and under gaudy southern skies, with the Hamilton livery on the lackeys, and maids, and quantities of baggage.
Emma's gratitude to her kind husband overflowed; by the simple standards of her class he had made an "honest woman of her," she was now honourable and innocent, a wedding-ring had dowered her with all the virtues necessary to gain feminine respect.
She had taken many poses in real life besides those she had taken in "the attitudes," and now she had assumed another, as novel as delicious, that of the married woman.
Her reception at Naples exceeded her expectations; since she delighted in describing her own triumphs, she detailed her success to poor George Romney in a letter that besought him to come to Naples, a kindly thought; Sir William would pay the expenses, and it would be delicious to have the adoring painter at her feet in Naples.
There was honest satisfaction with her astonishing luck, mingled with the hypocritical phrases that Emma felt to be proper to the occasion.
"I have been received with open arms by all the Neapolitans of both sexes, by all the foreigners of every distinction. I have been presented to the Queen of Naples by her own desire. She [h]as shown me all sorts of kind and affectionate attentions. In short, I am the happiest woman in the world. Sir William is fonder of me every day, and I hope he will have no cause to repent of what he [h]as done; for I feel so grateful to him, that I think I shall never be able to make him amends for his goodness to me. But why do I tell you this? You know me enugh. You were the first dear friend I opened my heart to. You ought to know me, for you have seen and discoursed with me in my poorer days. You have known me in my poverty and prosperity, and I had no occasion to have liv'd for years in poverty and distress, if I had not felt something of virtue in my mind. Oh, my dear Friend! for a time I own through distress my virtue was vanquish'd. But my sense of virtue was not overcome. How gratefull now then do I feel to my dear, dear, husband, that [h]as restored peace to my mind, that [h]as given me honor, rank, and, what is more, innocence and happiness. Rejoice with me, my dear Sir, my friend, my more than father. Believe me, I am still that same Emma you knew me. If I could forget for a moment what I was, I ought to suffer. Command me in anything I can do for you here. Believe me, I shall have a real pleasure. Come to Naples, and I will be your model:--anything to induce you to come, that I may have an oppertunity to shew you my gratitude to you. Take care of your health for all our sakes. How does the pictures go on? Has the Prince been to you? Write to me."
Then Emma had another kind thought; she wanted to pay a compliment to Mr. Dutens, who had been one of the witnesses at her marriage before the altar which had replaced that where Hogarth's Rake had stood with his old heiress--would Romney give him the little picture of herself that he had painted?
It was a valuable present, and Emma had not paid for it; she always contrived so that others paid for everything to do with her; when Mr. Greville himself had become coldly restive about paying for little Emma, the mother had contrived to shift the bothersome child on to Sir William--a protegée of her's, whom she was looking after out of kindness--how often the word occurred in Emma's affairs!
Sir William accepted this simple tale without question and the Blackburns continued to receive little Emma's allowance but from the uncle instead of from the nephew.
The new Ambassadress's first winter at Naples was a triumph; when the Queen had received her, everyone else could do so.
"We have a many English at Naples as Ladys Malmsbury, Malden, Plymouth, Carneigee, Wright, &c. They are very kind and attentive to me. They all make it a point to be remarkably civil to me. You will be happy at this as you know what prudes our ladies are."
She was quite happy at it herself; at last she had learned all she ever need know--how to please a gentleman who was worth pleasing.
She told Romney that she was reading The Triumphs of Temper by his friend Hayley, and that nothing had vexed her since her marriage-day--with respectability had come peace, and Sir William should never fear that she would be out of humour.
It was not only her amiability that held her husband; he was sixty years of age, and she was the last love of this flâneur who had had too many loves; with the last despairing ardour of failing passions he doted upon her superb femininity, which was a little more costly than any other treasure he had ever bought, but undoubtedly more worth the price.
The Queen of Naples had her reasons for receiving so graciously the new Lady Hamilton; European affairs had changed in the five years since Maria Carolina had first heard of the new English lady at the Palazzo Sessa who might amuse her royal husband as transiently as so many other women had amused him; Sir William was no longer, to the Queen, a mere agreeable companion, a pleasant ornament of her idle Court, he was the representative of Great Britain, a country which, in the present combination of European politics, might prove of infinite importance to the Sicilian Bourbons.
It was obvious that his wife dominated him, and therefore obvious that the Queen must gain over the wife. Maria Carolina did not find this either difficult or distasteful; the daughter of the Caesars and the English peasant-girl had much in common. Emma, who had dragged herself up from the mud solely by the adroit use of her charms, was no more stupid, vulgar, selfish or hysterical than the high-bred daughter of an Emperor. Indeed, in a comparison between the two women's characters Emma would have had the advantage; she was neither so vindictive, so superstitious, nor so pretentious as the Queen, who, besides, lacked all the good humour that softened the Englishwoman's monstrous vanity.
Maria Carolina had been born in Vienna on August 13th, 1752, and was therefore three years older than her sister, Marie Antoinette, Queen of France. In the spring of 1768 she had been married to Ferdinand the Fourth. Her betrothal had followed the death of two sisters, both destined to be Queens of Naples. On the birth of the Crown Prince in 1775 she had received a seat on the Council and had begun to dominate entirely Neapolitan politics; she and her favourite, Sir John Acton, an English baronet, from 1791, entirely ruled the kingdom between them--her supreme authority being only occasionally disturbed by outbursts of jealousy from the King, such as that which had set the French Chargé d'affaires gossiping in 1778. The misgovernment of the Queen and the rapacity of her minister were both an agony and a jest in Naples. Her mischief-making was incessant, her domination absolute; she regarded Naples and every person and everything in the country as her children's patrimony, to be treated as she pleased; she had no ideals higher than those of Court and intrigue, and her keenest ambition was to unite herself to Austria by intermarriages between her children and those of the other members of the House of Hapsburg. It was said of her "la vie de la reine n'est qu'une longue crise de vapeurs." When her brother, the Emperor Joseph the second, died in 1790 and Leopold, Grand Duke of Tuscany, succeeded, the Queen contrived an alliance between Naples and the Empire, which took the form of a triple wedding--her daughter Teresa married the Emperor's eldest son, the Archduke Francis of Tuscany, Amelia married the Archduke Ferdinand; the Prince Royal, still too young to marry, was affianced to the Princess Clementine, sister of the Archdukes. This was very satisfactory to the restive Queen, who, ruling as an absolute monarch in Naples, and having her children handsomely betrothed or married, might have considered that things were going very well for her, had it not been for the horribly disagreeable news from France.
Although, like too many members of her House and like most of those of her husband's House, the Queen kept her eyes shut to everything about her, save what happened in her intimate circle, and although she had no conception of modern tendencies or of the trend of events in Europe, she could not for long remain oblivious of the French upheaval, which seemed likely to cast the thrones of her sister and brother-in-law into ruin. Maria Carolina possessed much of that passionate family affection which is largely passionate family pride. She was a good mother and her children were loved with the fierce possessiveness of the tigress for her cubs.
There could not have been much personal feeling in her anxious love for Marie Antoinette, who had left Vienna to be married in her fifteenth year. Two years afterwards Maria Carolina herself had departed for Naples, so that the sisters had known each other only as children. They were, however, sisters, and Royal sisters, and Maria Carolina could not forget that the present Queen of France was a Hapsburg. She was terrified, moreover, on her own account; her husband was a Bourbon and not superior in intelligence, courage or resource, to Louis XVI, though his very vices might make him more popular in Naples than the King of France had ever been in Paris. As the French Revolution spread, from the year 1789 to the years 1791-92, when Lady Hamilton installed herself in triumph in the Palazzo Sessa, Maria Carolina was watching with intense alarm and fury the progress of events in her sister's Kingdom.
The Liberal ideas that began to be voiced under the Gironde, and that seemed to so many ardent and sensitive people all over Europe like so many messages of hope and relief, were to the Queen of Naples incredibly vile and dangerous, but what really shocked her so deeply that she lost all the little patience and reason that she might have ever possessed was the knowledge that these same hideous doctrines were creeping into her own Kingdom.
Like all arbitrary governors, she and Sir John Acton employed an elaborate system of espionage, and through this they learned that the brilliant intellectuals of Naples, the cultured aristocracy, and the scholarly middle classes were riddled by what the Queen termed "the blackest treachery," but which was in reality an enthusiastic enquiry into all modern and liberal ideas and a grave, if necessarily secret, resolve to reform their own country.
When the Queen had first come to Naples, she had dabbled a little in philosophy, in poetry and music; she had loved to preside at meetings in elegant drawing-rooms where ladies touched the harpsichord or the guitar, where there were charming little philosophic discussions between learned priests and flattering bluestockings, and, ignorant and stupid as she was, she had been quick to catch up a few superficial catchwords and stale witticisms, which had been sufficient to give one of Royal birth a reputation for culture and intelligence.
But when the Queen heard that these same witty ladies whom she had patronized, these same learned abbés, doctors, botanists, antiquarians and scientists, were meeting together under the excuse of freemasonry, clubs, literary societies and academies, to discuss politics, her rage and fear amounted to panic.
She and Sir John Acton at once resolved to crush all Liberal tendencies in Naples as swiftly as they would have crushed a poisonous snake, had it come winding among the luscious dishes of a picnic held on the grass of the Palace lawns.
This, however, was not to be so easily accomplished, even by a Queen with a furious passion for governing and a minister willing to obey her in every detail. The Government of the Kingdom of Naples embodied a chaotic mass that had originated in Roman, Ecclesiastical and Feudal Law, on which had been superimposed the Charters of the various conquerors of the country from the Norman to the Arragonese. Such efficient laws as there were a system of complete and shameless corruption prevented from being carried into effect. Naples, on which the Queen now cast such an angry and suspicious eye, was, next to Paris, the largest city in Europe. Out of a population of 437,000, 30,000 were lazzaroni, vagabonds, fishermen or small tradesmen. There was a large population of idlers, who lived at the expense of the wealthy, as well as some heavily endowed convents and nunneries. Added to these two burdens on the State was the enormous number of monks and priests, of whom there was said to be one in every twenty-two of the population. Neither the Queen nor Sir John Acton, however, nor even the King himself, had any dislike to the lazzaroni, the monks, priests and nuns, and the idlers whom they maintained, for these were loyal to the House of Bourbon and wished for no reform whatever in a system of government under which they did so remarkably well.
What the Queen began to dread was the native aristocracy and the literary and scientific men who, under noble patronage, had founded many new Chairs in the University of Naples, Academies of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture, had endowed libraries and museums, founded a school of anatomy, a chemical laboratory, and a botanical garden.
The reports that the Royal spies brought in showed the Queen with alarming clearness that all these people, including many of the greatest families in the Kingdom, were infected with the new doctrine which seemed to have taken such appalling hold in France, and without a second's pause to consider what might be the rights or wrongs of the matter, who these people really were and what they really represented, Maria Carolina began at once to regard them as her natural enemies, as a most dangerous menace to her House and her family, to be stamped out at the first possible opportunity.
When, at the end of 1791, the Queen so warmly welcomed Lady Hamikon not only to her Court, but to her bosom, she had been for some time harassed by all these terrible problems, of which the "lady of the poses" knew nothing.
On the Queen's return from Vienna, where she had been to be present at the wedding of her children to their cousins, the King and Queen had heard much disturbing news of the state of Europe. They had stopped at Rome, and had there found, living under Papal protection, the two aunts of Louis XVI, the Princesses Adelaide and Victoire, who had thought it well to hasten from Paris before the tide of revolution rose any higher. These ladies had entertained Maria Carolina with heartrending accounts of the plight of the Royal Family of France, of the abominable behaviour of the revolutionaries, and of the incredible martyrdom that appeared to be waiting for the Hapsburg Princess who was Queen of France and Navarre.
Maria Carolina had returned to Naples in a state of fierce nervous tension. She resolved not to find herself in her sister's predicament, if energy or ingenuity could prevent it; she began by heavily policing the city, putting the new force under the command of a certain Luigi di Medici, on whom she believed she could rely. She also greatly extended the espionage system so that nobody, neither the professor in his laboratory, nor the poet in his cabinet, nor the lawyer studying his case, nor the peaceful family in their parlour, was free from the observation and snares of spies. Everything that was Liberal, that was cultured, that was advanced, that was free, was to be suppressed, and, if possible, persecuted. Not idle in other directions, the Queen, who possessed the extraordinary energy that shallow, passionate women so often misdirect, started on shipbuilding by day and night, filled the arsenals with cannons and munitions of all kinds, quartered troops in every village in the Kingdom, called upon the nobles to supply horses and horsemen, conscripted the peasants, and invited foreign volunteers to enrol themselves as hirelings in the Neapolitan Army.
The progress of the revolution in France justified Maria Carolina's most sombre fears; every time she opened the Gazette she read bad news. She shared her alarms, her misgivings, and her furies with her dear Lady Hamilton, who, thus whirled so suddenly into high politics, knew nothing about any of it, but was quite sure that a Queen in distress must be right and was perfectly prepared passionately to champion the woman who offered her this dazzling friendship. Nothing would have pleased her better than to help her agonized Majesty to the best of her power, but for the moment there did not seem anything she could do. Sir William was harassed and did not know which way the British Government would lead; he found the whole imbroglio inexpressibly boring--why did a world which held the Tuscan vases and Emma, music and soft Italian airs, also hold revolutionaries, wars, and such tiresome creatures as reformers and idealists?
It seemed as if England would allow the French to turn their country upside down unaided. In 1792 William Pitt declared that he expected fifteen years of peace; the same year saw the Empire and Prussia at grips with France.
Maria Carolina, distracted with ravaging emotions, wished above everything to help her sister and her brother-in-law, but she had not the power to move either hand or foot.
After the King and Queen of France had been taken back to Paris from their abortive flight to Varennes, the Emperor had refused to receive the French Ambassador at Vienna, and the Baron de Talleyrand had resigned his post at Naples leaving his secretary, as chargé d'affaires. Maria Carolina did what she could by withdrawing the Neapolitan Ambassador, the Marchese di Circillo, from Paris, and by permitting him to intrigue with the French émigrés at Brussels. She dared not, however, break off all diplomatic relations with France and she was obliged to accept M. de Mackau, the new Ambassador sent by the Gironde Government. He chanced to be an aristocrat, his mother had been "gouvernante des enfants de France." and so, he was able to make himself more or less tolerable at the Court at Naples, where he preached moderation and tried to break the Austrian alliance.
The atmosphere of Naples was tense with fear and rage, the Queen hating and dreading the French, the aristocracy and the intellectuals hating and dreading the Queen and the Court, war rumbling in the background and no one knowing which way Bellona would unloose her hounds, while the representative of Britain fussed and lamented, did not quite know what to do, and tried to forget everything in the pleasure of the concerts where Emma sang, or of the receptions where she posed in her alcove.
The Queen went as far as she dared in affronting France, and it was further than most women would have dared; but when the Neapolitan frigate, the Sirene, chased two Algerian pirates into French waters, Naples had to apologize to Paris. There were some affronts, however, that the Queen could not swallow. When M. de Mackau put up the tricolour cockade before his residence, and then waited on the King on August 24th, when the news of the taking of the Tuileries had reached Naples, the Queen showed her hand and refused to receive the representative of revolutionaries and rebels. Nor could M. de Mackau obtain satisfaction though a stormy scene passed between him and Sir John Acton.
The Queen of Naples's brother, Leopold, died and was succeeded by his son Francis, who was married to Maria Carolina's daughter.
A Republic was proclaimed in France and M. de Mackau, although his papers were from Louis XVI, performed a sharp volte-face and remained in Naples as representative of the French people; he was watched by the Neapolitan police and Court spies to see that he was not in touch with the aristocrats and the intellectuals whom Maria Carolina termed "revolutionaries and Jacobins."
Hysterical with fear and vexation, however, the Queen had to give way on the arrival of a French Fleet in the bay and of the news of the defeat of the Austrians and Prussians at Valmy, followed by that of the French invasion of Nice and Savoy; Britain did not move, no satisfaction was to be gained from Sir William or his sympathetic lady. Naples had to play for time and recognize the French Republic, while M. de Mackau, tricolour or no, had to be received at the Court of Naples.
All these excitements Emma looked upon as the necessary, rather monotonous background of a diplomatic life--they disturbed her no more than the sullen rumblings and lurid flashes from Vesuvius did. After all, the mountain had never yet dangerously erupted during her stay in Naples, and the revolution might be equally considerate. She continued her entertainments, her trips on horseback along the enchanting coast, and her sailings in a canopied boat on the bay, nor did she cease to practise her songs and her music, to invent new attitudes to charm Sir William and his guests.
The old Minister, however, did not enjoy any diversion, not even his Emma's poses, with his former relish. The excitement of pursuing, possessing, and marrying Emma had been rather exhausting for one of his decaying physique. He began, despite his care of his health, to pay for a lifetime of persistent, if elegant, indulgence, and during the summer of 1792 was continually laid up with attacks of biliousness and dysentery, which caused Emma to think rather dubiously of the future. It caused her also to think of Charles Greville, and to play with a not altogether displeasing idea. Perhaps, after all, they might enjoy the old man's money together. In the end of the year she wrote to him very formally, the aunt to the nephew by marriage, with fitting sentiment and emotionalism:
"Dear Sir,
"I have the pleasure to inform you that Sir William is out of danger and very well considering the illness he has had to battle with. He has been fifteen days in bed with a bilious fever, and I have been almost as ill with anxiety, apprehension and fatigue. His disorder has been long gathering and was a liver complaint. I need not tell you, my dear Mr. Greville, what I have suffered...I was eight days without undressing, eating or sleeping."
Emma found, however, as usual, compensation. "The English ladies and the Neapolitans have been so kind; though they were at Caserta, fifteen miles from Naples, Lady Plymouth, Lady Webster, several others, have sent twice a day, the King and Queen, morning and night, the most flattering messages."
Still, as Emma reflected, what would all this mean if Sir William were lost? "For surely no happiness is like ours. We live but for one another. Pray excuse me," added the lady of sensibility, "but you, sir, who loved Sir William, may figure to yourself my situation at that moment."
Emma had not written to the Honourable Charles wholly in an attempt to revive her charming image in his dry heart, nor to remind him how dutifully she had nursed his uncle through an unbecoming illness. She entrusted him with a little commission which did credit to her good nature.
Would he please see that her grandmother, whose address was still Mrs. Kidd, Hawarden, Flintshire, received the £20 that Emma had undertaken to send her every Christmas? "I have two hundred a year for nonsense and it would be hard if I could not give her twenty pounds, as she has so often given me her last shilling."
The order was not to be got from Sir William, as he was too ill, and as Emma did not seem able to raise the money herself, why would Mr. Greville pay it? Sir William would refund later. "The fourth of November last I had a dress on that cost £25...Believe me, I felt unhappy all the while I had it on."
Yet Emma had not been able to save the price of these fineries to send to her old grandmother, but must have this charity put to Sir William's account.
This letter was written in December, and in the following February exciting news came to Naples. Chauvin, the Minister of the French Republic, had been asked to leave London, and war had been declared by Great Britain on France in February, 1793.
This was some balm to the woes, lamentations, and hysterical excitement, of the Queen of Naples, whom Emma had done her best to comfort and support during those anxious winter months.
Not only the Queen, but the woman, had been outraged by the terrible accounts of her sister's suffering; Maria Carolina endured almost step by step the martyrdom of Marie Antoinette, until, on the news of the arrest of Louis XVI and his family, she had sunk for a while, overwhelmed by this blow, which struck not only at her family affection, but her firmly rooted family pride, and her implacable belief in the sanctity of royalty.
Emma sympathized passionately with all this Royal fury. She was willing to believe that all Frenchmen were monsters, the Queen of France a saint. She took an eager part in the campaign, instigated by the Queen, which made the lives of every French person living in Naples, every liberal-minded person, from aristocrats to shopkeepers, insupportable; the drama in which she lived enriched her personality. When she sang her dramatic songs, her voice took on a fuller, more emphatic note; when she struck her impressive attitudes, they became those of an avenging goddess, hastening to rescue a Queen in distress. A certain womanly affection grew up between these two vain, undisciplined creatures; Emma became really fond of Maria Carolina, who to her was indeed adorable, a gracious Queen, a devoted mother, a charming friend. Unhampered by any scruples, delicacy or reserve, the two women gossiped, lamented, condoled together, with freedom and zest, they had many vices and a few virtues in common. The Queen gave Emma carriages and horses with her livery; they wandered together in the huge gardens of Caserta or sat in the sun-washed chambers of the palace; they strolled together to the baths or loitered side by side in groves of tamarisk and myrtle, the Queen raving about the atrocious horrors of the French Revolution, the insolence of the Neapolitan aristocracy, the appalling growth of atheism and republicanism in the world, and Emma listening eagerly, and agreeing heartily, and with complete sincerity.
Maria Carolina was not without personal attractions, and they were such as would be likely to impress Emma Hamilton; Her Majesty was then forty years of age and still possessed a certain beauty, a smooth pink and white Hapsburg complexion, the full, impressive, Hapsburg underlip, blue eyes, keen and formidable, but, like those of Marie Antoinette, weak and red-lidded. Her jaw was too powerful, her forehead too high. Though her walk was majestic, her limbs were clumsy; her arms and hands, however, were well-rounded and delicate. Some critics considered her far more beautiful than the Queen of France, some far less. Both the sisters were able to play the dignified Princess to perfection, and looked superb with towering structures of hair, knots of jewels, clusters of ribbons and feathers, gems and pearls on the corsage, like a cuirass, with embroidery and trailing brocades, and satins in yards of stiff, flounced skirts. Both these Austrian arch-duchesses were very suited to sit for a portrait de parade, and both could very well become a throne, both were as much in place in the grandeur of a State ball as they were disastrously out of place in the state cabinet.
Maria Carolina, however, unlike Marie Antoinette, had no passion for dress, and on ordinary occasions was as careless and as untidy as Emma herself, and, in a neglected chamber-robe, with her hair unbound, lost her beauty and her distinction and disappointed the spectator as much as did Emma, when she descended from the dais, put out the candles, took off her Greek robe and slipped into an unbecoming, fashionable dress.
The menace of the French Revolution became an obsession with the harassed Queen; she did not lack energy or courage and would willingly have cast herself against France with every ducat and every soldier she could raise.
But neither the King, comfortable and complacent, nor Sir John Acton, cynical and incapable, dared to make any stand against the arms of the Republic so oddly victorious.
A painful incident forcibly brought home to Maria Carolina her utter helplessness.
The French Minister at Genoa, Semonville, had been writing and publishing pamphlets in favour of Republicanism, despite the efforts of Sir John Acton, who continued to intrigue against him at the Porte, where he had afterwards been sent. Semonville complained to his Government and soon after the French Fleet under the command of Admiral La Touche put into Naples and demanded satisfaction, égal à ègal for the treatment that Semonville had received in Constantinople. This was a day of acute humiliation for the Neapolitan Court, and one of great satisfaction for the intellectuals of Naples.
Not only did the warships of France overawe the great city and overwhelm the frigates in the bay, not only did the loathed tricolours flutter by the dozen in the same air as that which Maria Carolina breathed, but a simple grenadier of the National Guard came ashore, walked unescorted and unarmed to the imposing entrance of the Royal Palace, and delivered a sharp ultimatum from Admiral La Touche. The guns of the French Fleet were pointed on Naples and King Ferdinand had one hour in which to decide whether they should be fired or not.
While the Republican soldier waited contemptuously amid the leering, timid, Bourbon lackeys in the gilded antechamber, Ferdinand, flabby with fright, dictated terms of abject submission in his painted cabinet.
Naples cringed before the Convention, and the ponderous French ships moved slowly out of the bay, in the pocket of La Touche the grovelling surrender of the Sicilian Bourbon.
There were many Neapolitans who watched the departure of the tricolour with keen regret.
This incident was a horrible warning to the Queen that she was not strong enough to strike at France; she felt her position to be intolerable and resorted to foolish, treacherous, and cruel means to gain her ends. Maria Carolina was the type to whom La Rochefoucauld referred, when he wrote of those who "were rogues because they had not wit enough to be honest."
Never for one second could the passionate woman see any points of view save her own, nor even dimly realize that an honourable, tolerant policy might bring success where dishonourable fanaticism would fail.
The Queen was unleashed for mischief; in all her designs she had Sir John Acton, "endowed with every talent necessary for intrigue," at her service, and Emma, representing Great Britain, to flatter and encourage. Little did Emma know or care what might be the outcome of it all, she was the Queen's champion and reckless of everything save the moment's enjoyment.
Maria Carolina did what she dared to annoy and insult the Minister of the French Republic in Naples, but she was forced to countenance the sending of a Neapolitan Ambassador, the Prince di Castelcicala, to Paris, while she filled her arsenals, equipped her army and navy, and strengthened her secret police and her spies.
The political position of Naples was not good; the King was on bad terms with his nearest neighbour, the Pope, to whom he had refused the annual tribute of a white hackney with eight thousand ounces of gold, which had been sent to Rome by all former Kings of Naples.
M. de Mackau cunningly exploited this trouble between the two countries, and the Papal States themselves were being irritated and insulted by Mackau's secretary, the parvenu Hugo de Bassville, who, under the excuse of negotiating with His Holiness, was making himself very unpleasant in the streets of the Eternal City, calling the Cardinals "Purple geese of the Capitol," and referring to the two refugee Princesses, the daughters of Louis XV, as the Demoiselles Capet.
The haughty Romans soon put an end to this irritating foreigner; acting under Mackau's orders, Bassville spoke to Cardinal Zelada, the Papal Secretary of State, about the French Consul's still having the fleur-de-lis over his door. On receiving an unsatisfactory reply, Bassville so far lost his head as to endeavour to put the emblem of the Republic over the Academy of Painting in the Villa de' Medici. This insolence so infuriated the mob that they tore him to pieces in the street, before the authorities could intervene, and Mackau, furious at the murder of his secretary, endeavoured to goad Naples into war with Rome.
At this critical moment arose the extraordinary situation that was created by the execution of Louis XVI and the general European coalition against France.
The news arrived at Naples in the midst of the Carnevale, when Emma was taking out her diamonds for the State balls, when the San Carlo was wreathed with tinsel roses for the gala performances, when on every hand was noisy gaiety, added to the bustling preparations for festival. All this was changed as suddenly as a transformation scene of gauze and silver tissue fades when the Demon King leaps on the stage.
The finery disappeared, the theatres were closed, the balls and concerts cancelled, upholsterers quitted the decorations of the Opera House and the Palace to fasten up crape draperies in the churches, where, amid black-veiled statues, the clergy held pompous funeral services.
The Queen went in heavy gloom, as if she had been a widow, spending hours prostrate on the floor of the Royal Chapel, weeping away the last traces of her sensual beauty.
She was indeed struck to the heart; she had never seen Louis XVI, but she regarded him as symbolic of all crowned heads, and she agonized over her sister's fate; her letters to Marchese di Gallo, her envoy at Vienna, were full of heartfelt lamentations over the fate of Marie Antoinette and pious hopes that death would soon put the Queen of France out of her atrocious suffering. The execution of Louis XVI rendered M. de Mackau's position impossible; the young aristocrat had been a personal friend of the King of France, but, loyal to the Republic, he refused to wear mourning, when he was ordered to do so by Sir John Acton. This caused the final break; the French Minister withdrew from a Court where he knew he would not be received, but owing to the difficulties of travel in time of war, he remained in Naples.
Strained as the political situation was between Naples and France, it was rapidly to become worse, and the Queen's most dreadful fears were to be realized.
In the autumn of 1793, whilst the King and Queen were visiting the Hamiltons, to drink tea in the English garden, and Emma and her husband were practising their little pieces for voices and viola, news came from France, long expected but none the less terrible, that plunged Maria Carolina in an agony of sincere grief. She learnt of the execution under atrocious circumstances of her sister, and though the first paroxysms of her distress were sincere enough, they were soon disfigured by personal fear and a vindictive desire for vengeance, not only upon the murderers of Marie Antoinette, but upon everyone who bore the name of Frenchman or might be suspected of bearing the name of Jacobin. She called her children together in the Royal Chapel and made the dreadful announcement to them with every circumstance of drama and fury; she wrote across the portrait of her sister, which hung above her bureau: "Never will I sleep till vengeance is satisfied."
The poor woman wept on the bosom of Lady Hamilton and-sent her a portrait of the unfortunate Dauphin, bidding her look on the features of the miserable child, "who was either slain or enduring a captivity worse than death." Emma wept too; she thought it was all horrible and violently championed her adorable and distressed Queen; she hoped that England would do something, and do it soon; besides, all this was such an interruption to her gorgeous life of praise and flattery; she saw only one side of the question and she saw that vividly; knowing nothing whatever about the case she delivered on it that emphatic judgment of which only the vulgar and ignorant are capable; she cared nothing for the Neapolitan Liberals, though there might be thousands of them and they might be the most brilliant and cultured members of the population.
The Queen's methods of espionage, secret imprisonment, and tyranny which were enforced by every possible use of reckless means, did not appal Emma; she did not consider, any more than did Sir William, that possibly in the methods of the Queen of Naples might be found the explanation of the incredibly brutal fate of the Queen of France--how should she understand what was happening around her, or know of anything save the surface of life? It was not for Emma Hamilton to have one second's glimpse of the minds and hearts of the brave, intelligent, patriotic people who, hidden in the city, pursued quietly their ideals.
The continual emotional disorder of the Queen was increased when she heard that the French Convention had published a decree promising help "to all people wishing to be free." Soon after this La Touche's Fleet, still cruising in the Mediterranean, was scattered by a tempest and the Admiral put into Naples in his flagship to refit. The Neapolitan Court was forced to offer him all the help he desired, and he had the indiscretion to come ashore with his officers and to get into touch with the patriots and the intellectuals who had been so long the subject of Maria Carolina's suspicion and espionage.
The Queen held her hand until after the departure of the French Admiral, then cast into prison all those with whom he had been in any way in touch. In particular her vengeance fell on the young aristocrats who had given a supper to the French officers at the Villa Rocca Romana at Posilippo, a feast which each had left with a red cap, the emblem of liberty, pinned in his coat lapel. These and many more young nobles and intellectuals--Jacobins, as the Queen called them--were arrested secretly, it appeared, during the night. It was some while before their families discovered that they were in the underground dungeons of Sant' Elmo, chained to the foul, bare ground, fed on bread and water, each in a separate fossa or grave. The result of this act of tyranny was the formation of a patriotic society, which rose out of the suppressed Freemasons' Lodges.
M. de Mackau did what he could to encourage these unhappy Neapolitan patriots, but he did not go beyond the bounds of prudence, for, when the Queen committed the outrage of searching the French Embassy and of stealing the papers, she found nothing of a compromising nature. M. de Mackau soon, however, found his position impossible; he was insulted while the emigres were caressed, and on the occasion of the birth of an Archduke openly affronted, when he arrived at the Palace to participate in the fete that was held to celebrate the event.
Maria Carolina gave herself the satisfaction of turning her back on the Frenchman, who was soon after recalled, but who still could not leave Naples, as the way by land through Rome was closed, and he had to wait till a French ship came to Leghorn. Another envoy, Maret, was sent from France to Naples. General Maudet surrendered Toulon in the name of Louis XVII to the English and as the triumphant result of the policy of the Queen, Naples and Great Britain began to approach an understanding.
All these political thunders and lightnings did not disturb Emma's cheerful mind. A year after the execution of the King of France, she wrote again to Mr. Greville, who had now taken another and larger house in Paddington, this time on the Green; her news was of the continuous gaiety of her life. The Hamiltons had been living for eight months at Caserta, going twice a week to town to give dinners, balls and concerts in the Palazzo Sessa. Emma by then was used to entertaining fifty guests to dinner and three hundred to a ball and supper, and, as she was careful to inform Mr. Greville, she dined very, very often with the Royal Family. Despite the war there were plenty of noble and fashionable travellers in Italy, and none of them failed to arrive at Naples, where the Hamiltons had to receive them, so that their house at Caserta was "like an inn." Duchesses had been plentiful. Her Grace of Devonshire, Her Grace of Lancaster; a rich sprinkling of the noble names of England. She had had her dinner with that noble, amiable lady, the Princess Royal of Sweden, and, most precious of all: "In the evenings I go to the Queen, and we are tête-à-tête two or three hours."
Emma had not neglected her music. She had learnt to sing duets with the King, who was credited with a fine voice; Emma's comment, however, was "It was but bad, and he sings like a king."
The beauty ascribed much of her astonishing success to her naturalness; she informed Mr. Greville that, however familiar she might be with the Queen in private, she always remembered to keep her distance in public, "paying her as much respect as though I had never seen her before, which pleased her very much; but she showed me great distinction that night, she told me several times how she admired my good conduct."
Once more she repeated how happy she was with dear, dear Sir William. "We are not an hour in the day separable; we live more like lovers than husband and wife." She sketched in two pretty pictures of conjugal affection for Mr. Greville's appreciation. One of her songs had been set for a viol on which Sir William accompanied her; taking much pleasure in providing a tender obbligato for her soaring notes. Then they had an English garden, in which the King walked every day, and where she and Sir William were learning botany: "Not to make ourselves pedantical creatures, but for our own pleasure." Politics, then so important a factor in every life, Emma hardly mentioned in her letters to Greville. She knew nothing of the noble families, the cultured middle-classes who were maintaining Liberal principles and working for Liberal ends, even while all they possessed and their very lives were under the heels of the Bourbon-Hapsburgs. While the secret meetings were held, and spies crept about, and the Neapolitan nobility encouraged the Neapolitan intellectuals in opposition to the vicious queen and imbecile king, Emma skimmed the surface of social life, gay as a May-fly on the brilliant waters of a stagnant pool; her only real trouble was her husband's health--the old man's constitution was breaking up; he was perhaps slightly harassed by the constant din in which Emma lived, a little dazzled by the frequent posing, a little deafened not only by the singing of Emma herself, but by the ringing voices of the tenors and sopranos who came to assist at her concerts.
In the autumn of 1794 she found time to write again to "dear Greville," congratulating him on having attained at last the sinecure which would have made such a difference to them in the Paddington days:
"I congratulate you with all my heart on your appointment as a Vice-Chamberlain."
She wrote with her usual good humour, never forgetting how much she owed him:
"I don't know a better, honest or more amiable and worthy man than yourself."
Unfortunately there was not good news of the uncle:
"My dear Sir William has had the disorder that we and all Naples have had since the eruption. Violent diarrhoea that reduced him to so very low an ebb that I was much alarmed for him."
But there they were in the Royal Palace at Castel del Mare "enjoying every comfort and happiness that good health, Royal favour and domestic happiness can give us."
Sir William had told her that he loved her better than ever and "never for a moment repented." Greville was still executing little commissions for her; he was to settle with Mrs. Hackwood, her dressmaker, "though the last things were spoiled and I had no right to pay for them, but I will settle it." He was also to get her "an English riding-habit, very fashionable" and put it down to Sir William's account. "Mother is the comfort of our lives."
Mrs. Cadogan had adapted herself excellently well to her daughter's life of splendour. Placid, discreet, and an excellent housekeeper, she had filled an odd position with credit to herself, and satisfaction to others, and her comfortable presence rounded off Emma's brilliant existence.
They were indeed halcyon days for the lucky young woman, on the stormy waters of a universal tempest her little nest rode high and dry on a becalmed patch of sunlight. Everyone whom she met was pleased with her, those whom she was likely to disgust kept away from the Court.
To the crowd who circled round the King, the Queen, and Sir John Acton, Emma was very acceptable with her classic beauty, her high animal spirits, her bold manners which passed for "naturalness," her expensive, free and easy parties, her perpetual good humour.
She had not enough reputation herself to permit her to be censorious, not enough wit to be critical, and the glow of her immense luck was about her like a radiance, so that she was very good company indeed for the idle, the dissipated, the bored and the extravagant medley who formed the Court of the Sicilian Bourbons. Sir William was delighted with his wife's success; it had become his sole interest in life and supported him through the vexation caused by a European war, the exhaustion produced by a constant biliousness, and the secret burden of mounting debts.
Emma was soon, and in a most effective and even dramatic manner, to come into direct touch with great affairs and a great man.
After the Allies had seized Toulon, a British ship was sent with dispatches from Lord Hood to the British Minister in Naples, asking him to raise Italian troops to garrison the French port; this ship was the Agamemnon, which, with a fine show of canvas and the Union flag flying, put into the bay one September evening.
The Captain, pacing the scrubbed deck that sultry night, admired the magnificent outlines of Vesuvius from whose fiery cone the lava was pouring and the smoke spreading. He wrote a letter to his wife, "at anchor off Naples," mentioning how impressed he had been by the sight of the flaming mountain. As soon as it was light, acting with his usual energetic promptitude, he landed, and early in the morning presented himself at the Palazzo Sessa, and gave his credentials to Sir William Hamilton.
The meeting was enthusiastic; the Captain of the Agamemnon spoke warmly of the success at Toulon, and Sir William promised the required six thousand Neapolitans; the visitor was pressed to stay at the Embassy. Emma was very willing to play the kind hostess; she put at the little sailor's disposal the room prepared for the Prince Augustus, then on his Italian travels, and for four days the Captain of the Agamemnon, and his stepson Josiah Nisbet, were guests in the brilliant apartments overlooking the bay.
When he sailed back to Toulon he wrote again to his wife, commenting on the kindness and goodness he had received from the Hamiltons. His beautiful hostess, however, he disposed of with a prudish comment. "She is a young woman of amiable manners and does honour to the station to which she is raised."
She had been kind to Josiah, noted the little Captain whose name was Horatio Nelson; both the Hamiltons approved of him; they thought him slightly odd, but Emma, at least, believed he had the air of a man who would go far. Besides, despite, or perhaps in consequence of, her early Tower Wharf adventure, she had a tender feeling for the British Navy.
Captain Nelson had wished to return the hospitality which had been offered him by the British Minister; on board his ship, the pig-tailed sailors with the striped shirts and flapping trousers cleaned and polished and made ready the great cabin for the reception of notable people; provisions came aboard, rowed across the bay in native boats, lemons, oranges, onions, chickens, baskets of grapes and peaches.
But the Agamemnon had to put out to sea hurriedly on a report that there was a chance of prize money; news had come of a French frigate's escorting a convoy into Leghorn Harbour; Captain Horatio Nelson cancelled his breakfast party at which he was to entertain the Hamiltons and most of the better-class tourists who happened to be in Naples, and put off the luncheon which he was to have offered the King.
From her window Emma, leaning on the hot sill, watched the pale sails of the splendid vessel, vivid amid the brown and amber canvases of the Italian shipping, while the English flag and the swallow-tailed scarlet Captain's pennant fluttered in the bright blue air.
This visit of the British battleship seemed to increase Emma's stature; she was now something more than the wife of His Britannic Majesty's Minister; she represented the country to whom her adored Queen was looking for succour; if the Royal Family that had been so kind to Emma were to be saved, who could save them but the British Navy?
A glow of patriotism stirred Emma's heart; this surely would be the most impressive of the attitudes--Saviour of the Queen!
It was a time when everyone had to take sides; France had declared for the "rights of man," and in the chorus of a nation's shouting denial of this startling doctrine the voice of William Pitt, representing Britain, was the loudest; Emma, impulsively embracing her Queen, who passed from tears to furies when she thought of France, promised the protection of the British Navy for Naples. She had every reason to feel self-confident; it was so long since she had met with a rebuff.
And indeed it seemed that the Sicilian Bourbons, who were about to reap the harvest of years of shameless bad government as surely as the peasants on the slopes of Vesuvius were about to pluck the red and white grapes for the Lacrima Christi wine, would soon need protection. The Liberals of Naples, fired by the news from France, were ripe for revolt and, as the Queen believed, for anarchy and murder; the city seethed with suppressed panic.
News came of the Agamemnon; that she had missed the convoy, then, that she was outside Toulon. When this superb naval base was attacked from the land by the Republicans, Lord Hood was forced to abandon it, amid scenes of frantic horror, which were not without a powerful effect on the nervous, bitter little Captain of the Agamemnon.
In his austere cabin, amid the charts and maps, on the writing-case where he had lately penned his approval of Emma Hamilton, Captain Nelson wrote to his brother, the Rev. William Nelson, to his wife, his dear Fanny, waiting for him on the Norfolk flats, to H.R.H. the Duke of Clarence, his one distinguished friend, and told them what war meant at a close view;--"the mob rose," scribbled the Captain, using those bombastic phrases which Emma also liked to employ. "Death called forth all his myrmidons, which destroyed the miserable inhabitants in the shape of swords, pistols, fire, water. Thousands are said to be lost. In this dreadful state, and to complete misery, already at its height, Lord Hood was obliged to order the French Fleet, 20 sail of the line, 20 other men-of-war, together with the Arsenal (dockyard), powder magazine, etc., to be set on fire...only three of the French Fleet saved: all the forts are blown up.
"I cannot write all; my mind is deeply impressed with grief. Each teller makes the scene more horrible."
Lord Hood removed his base to Corsica, which surrendered to Colonel John Moore. Captain Nelson's small squadron tried to dislodge the scattered Republican garrisons that held out along the coast. When the sudden Southern spring covered the island with pink cyclamen, dark violets and wild strawberry-flowers, the Captain of the Agamemnon landed near Bastia, ordered the cutting down of the Tree of Liberty, and with his own hand struck the tricolour of the French Republic, which really did seem to him a badge of the most shameless infamy.
Emma, with a palace full of painters, modellers and lapidaries, "striving to outdo the life" with her famous features, expressed a vast interest in the little Captain who seemed to have an heroic outline; he was often mentioned in Naples; this was just the kind of Paladin for whom the harassed Queen was looking; a reckless man who loathed the French.
In March came his greetings to her, when he wrote to her husband for the artillery stores which he could not obtain owing to his squabbles with Colonel John Moore--"respectful compliments" and a grateful memory of kindness to a stranger.
The valiant Captain's mood fluctuated as the fleet prepared for the siege of Bastia; to his wife he maintained a brave strain--"I am on active service, which I like, I am well, never better. I have no joy separated from you."
But there were no prizes, no rewards--"nothing but salt beef and honour--we are absolutely getting sick from fatigue...I trust my name will stand on record, when the money-makers are forgot."
Lord Hood slighted him, the attacks on the Corsican heights were perilous and tedious, but he wrote spirited letters to Sir William, keeping him in touch with events. Emma was intensely interested in the news; she was sorry to hear in July of his wounded eye--a hurt received when he had landed to attack Calvi, but there was a British victory and Emma glowed in the radiance of that glory at the Bourbon Court; neither the war so near on either side, nor the revolution seething so close underfoot, had as yet impinged on her gorgeous life; these lurid cross-lights rather enhanced her attitudes.
Captain Nelson, from the Agamemnon, who had then returned to Leghorn, wrote bitterly: "What I have got at present is nothing. What I have lost is an eye, £300, and my health, with the satisfaction of my ship's company being absolutely ruined."
This last lament was sincere, he really loved his sailors; that year he had written to his wife: "My seamen are now what British seamen ought to be...almost invincible. They mind shot no more than peas."
The ambitious, worldly man was sharply disappointed that he had been once more passed over, slighted; he had not made enough even to buy a cottage in the country--and he hated cottages and the country, he wanted splendour and glory, fame and applause. "They have not done me justice; but never mind; I'll have a Gazette of my own."
Within a few days of the dispatch of these letters to England, Emma was writing to Charles Greville; she was still cheerful and jolly, though Sir William was shrivelled and yellow as his own monkey with casting up bile and swallowing the sovereign powders of Dr. James, and the war was harassing them both.
She wrote from the charming palace of Caserta, where the palms and tamarisks even in winter shaded the marble balustrades of the terraces, and the painted walls showed beribboned amorini for ever pointing at mirrors whence a dozen Emmas were reflected.
"Caserta: DEcember. 18th, 1794.
"I have onely time to write you a few lines by the Neapolitan Courier, who will give you this. He comes back soon, and pray send me by him some ribbands and fourteen yards of fine muslin worked for a gound or fine Leno. Ask what Leno is, and she will tell you, and pray pay Hackwood's (bill), and put (it) down to Sir William's account with his banker. He told me I might; for I have so many occasions to spend my money, that my 2 hundred pounds will scarcely do for me, (with) a constant attendance at Court now, once and generally twice aday, and I must be well dress'd. You know how far 2 hundred will go. To-day we expect the Prince Augustus from Rome. He is to be lodged at the Pallace here, and with us in town. To-morrow we have a great dinner at Court for the Prince. The Queen invited me last night herself. No person can be so charming as the Queen. She is everything one can wish,--the best mother, wife and friend in the world. I live constantly with her, and have done intimately so for 2 years, and I never have in all that time seen anything but goodness and sincerity in her, and, if ever you hear any lyes about her, contradict them, and if you should see a cursed book written by a vile french dog with her character in it, don't believe one word. She lent it me last night, and I have by reading the infamous calumny put myself quite out of humour, that so good and virtus a princess should be so infamously described.
"Lord Bristol is with us at Caserta. He passes one week at Naples, and one with us. He is very fond of me, and very kind. He is very entertaining, and dashes at everything. Nor does he mind King or Queen, when he is inclined to show his talents. I am now taking lessons from Millico, and make great progress. Nor do I slacken in any of my studys. We have been here 3 months, and remain four or five months longer. We go to Naples every now and then. I ride on horseback. The Queen has had the goodness to supply me with horses, an equerry, and her own servant in livery every day. In short, if I was her daughter, she could not be kinder to me, and I love her with my whole soul.
"My dear Sir William is very well, and as fond of me as ever; and I am, as women generally are, ten thousand times fonder of him than I was, and you would be delighted to see how happy we are,--no quarelling, nor crossness, nor laziness. All nonsense is at an end, and everybody that sees us are edified by our example of conjugal and domestick felicity. Will you ever come and see us? You shall be received with kindness by us booth, for we have booth obligations to you, for having made us acquainted with each other. Excuse the haist with which I write, for we are going to Capua to meet the Prince Augustus. Do send me a plan, how I could situate little Emma, poor thing; for I wish it.
"E. Hamilton."
The last lines came in a little oddly; Sir William was paying for the forsaken child, but only Mr. Greville knew her parentage; therefore, he must be asked "to think of a plan." This posssible scheme could not include any acknowledgment of the poor creature by her brilliant mother; Sir William might, as one of his friends wrote to Greville, show "dotage" in his fondness for his wife, but he could hardly be expected to permit this second Emma to run about the Embassy, provoking curiosity and sneers.
Nor did Emma's frustrated maternity disturb her robust good humour, she had no longing for a child, no longing for anything, her life was full of achievement; if she had not had this new interest in the navy which had provided Emma's father, perhaps she would never have remembered Emma at all. She never lacked the excitements she craved; while the British Mediterranean Fleet was cruising along the ragged Italy coasts, and the French Republic, rising fiercely to the cry "La patrie en danger," was building a fleet at Toulon, Emma was entertaining the eccentric Lord Bristol, whose bizarre personality fitted well into the gilded hubbub of courtly Naples.
William Beckford, travelling with nearly a hundred servants, had set out to visit his dear friends in the South, but had struck across the track of war, been held up in Lisbon, then chased by pirates, and, after hiding in a queer Spanish palace, much to his romantic taste, had returned, disgusted at the barbarities of mankind, to England and safety.
In his place Emma had an entertaining creature, the Earl Bishop, who was for ever travelling about in great pomp, diverting himself and amusing others. He became at once Emma's cavaliere servente, flattering her, admiring her, making her laugh with his racy stories and piquant ways.
He viewed Naples with the eyes of a tourist--as a city of pleasure where the valets de place hung about the modish inns I tre Re and Il Capello del Cardinale, offering in broken English to show "Milord" where vice and amusement might be found cheaply. His Grace was surprised to hear from the Hamiltons of the troubles beneath the surface--what--Jacobins in so brilliant a city!
As many as forty thousand, he was told, and the easy prelate was incredulous.
The figure was higher, beyond the most anxious computation of the Queen's spies; no anti-French movement, no setting up of a Giunta, no policing could check the Liberals from organizing themselves while awaiting their opportunity. Joseph Garat, the new French Minister, continually demanded in vain the release of the patriots who had been imprisoned for dining with La Touche's officers at the famous Cena di Posilippo; neither the Hapsburg nor the Bourbon knew the meaning of generosity or common sense. And Garat, who had announced the death sentence to Louis XVI, was not likely to make himself acceptable to any Court, least of all to that of Naples.
The French, bearing the cap of liberty at the point of the sword, swarmed over Italy, a ragged, starved, inconquerable horde, organized by one man of genius Lazare Carnot, led by another, General Bonaparte. A fleet sailed from Toulon to retake Corsica. Prussia and Austria, who had been beaten to their knees, made peace with the Republic, whose trees of liberty were planted on the very frontiers of the Kingdom of Naples.
A violent epidemic of typhus that broke out in the unwilling army the Queen had so ruthlessly recruited, profoundly encouraged the Neapolitan patriots, who were hardly troubled to disguise their contempt and defiance of the Court. Young Liberals wore trousers at the Opera, short hair and scarlet waistcoats in the streets.
Emma often found the Queen in a convulsion, brought on by fear and rage; Maria Carolina indeed worked with a heedless, reckless energy, the word vengeance was frequently on her lips; she had all Emma's sympathy, she too loathed this nation of which she knew nothing, save that they all were monsters.
The two women did what they could, the King and Sir William were goaded until a small fleet was sent out to help the British off Toulon, lying in wait for the new Republican Armada. This fleet was under the command of a Neapolitan Prince, who was known to be a sailor of genius and who had devoted himself to clearing from his native coasts the Corsairs who had infested them for centuries. In this task he had been very successful, and both his equals and those under his command admired him for his vigilant attention to duty, his patriotism, his honourable character, and his high personal courage. His seamanship was superb, and he was greatly beloved by the sailors of the Neapolitan Navy.
He took the blessing of the Queen and of Emma with him to Toulon, where the captain of the Agamemnon made his acquaintance and liked him. This was the only time Horatio Nelson favoured a foreigner, but of this gentleman, with his scanty line of ships, he wrote--"We all love Prince Caragholillo or whatever his name is."
The name that the Englishman found so difficult was Francesco Caracciolo, Duca di Bersina. He was a man of Horatio Nelson's own age, of middle height, very swarthy, serious, but not melancholy, of few words, and courteous manners; he was absorbed in two interests--his country, and ships.
The Queen had to endure what she considered extraordinary affronts from the Neapolitan aristocrats; noble ladies hardly disguised their Jacobin leanings, lodges and clubs met to discuss the questions raised by the French Revolution; despite the secret police, French newspapers and pamphlets circulated freely.
One of the most splendid of the sons of the ancient families, the handsome Ettore Carafa, Duca d'Andria, refused the scarf of the Order of San Gennaro, when the King offered it to him on his father's death; in consequence of this and his blacking out of his own arms in his family chapel the highborn young democrat joined the hundreds of political prisoners rotting mind and body, in Sant' Elmo.
The Giunta pretended to discover a conspiracy; the Queen and Sir John Acton struck with the force of fear; there were sentences of imprisonment, of exile, of torture, of death, which were passed without a pretence of legality.
Three students, aged respectively twenty-two, twenty and nineteen, of good families and characters, were chosen as victims and were hanged on a gallows erected in the Largo del Castello; they died with that courage which alone can render such scenes endurable. Mario Pagano, one of the most famous jurists in Italy, who had defended them, was cast into prison, where he remained four years.
A fellow-countryman wrote of these boys who were the first sacrifices to the ideal for which so many were to perish; "they had no fault beyond aspirations, discourses, and hopes."
The French Minister, Garat, reported that the prisons of Naples were full of the most enlightened men in the country; but the Queen was still afraid. Emma never mentioned these things, when she wrote to her former lover about millinery and her domestic felicity.
Yet the Ambassador's lady was not without great ideas. Might not she, with her influence over a doting husband and Maria Carolina, with her lord who meant as much as and no more than the pavilion on which his honours were emblazoned, play together a large part in Europe?
When the Queen received news from Spain that this country was likely to join France, and sent a copy with a cipher-key to Emma to give to her husband, the Ambassadress felt that she was directing high destinies and beginning to render great services to her country.
Did not Sir John Jervis, when he took over the command of the Mediterranean Fleet, name her again and again the Patroness of the Navy? She was proud of the name--did it bring back to her some early memories of a press-gang ship at the Tower Wharf, where she had joined the laughing ladies of the pavement who had swarmed down dark gangways and into foul cabins to comfort the homing sailors? Did it bring back pictures of a Wapping ale-house, when the rolling seamen had come ashore for their drink and their doxies, and her admired beauty had graced their rough leisure?
Whatever she thought or remembered, she was discreet, the friend of a Queen, representative of Great Britain in this dangerous, assailed spot, and she learned to express triumphant self-assurance in every gesture.
In London, George Romney was building a vast picture-gallery out of his garnered fortune and his sinking wits; involved in the appalling gloom of incipient insanity, no thought of Emma came to cheer the doomed painter--if he could have drawn her likeness then, when he was in the frenzy of his dementia, and she in her half-crazy elevation, he might have left something more magnificent than the lovely insipid pictures he had made of her in Cavendish Square.
He had named her "the divine lady" and said that she surpassed all other women, would he still have thought her divine, could he have seen her in Naples, and glimpsed her background?
Emma, wearing English clothes selected by Charles Greville, walking by clear leaping fountains, in blue cypress shade, by carved vases of arbutus, the blonde hysteric Queen on her arm, the pale, pampered royal children by her side, Sir John Acton with his smooth adroit face, never far away, never intruding.
And the background--not only the great curve of the bay, the piled-up hills, the towering volcano, the black spreading pines, the white-washed churches and convents--but the huge prisons where the young, the noble, and the brave, lay chained in their foul graves, the barracks where the pressed soldiers died of typhus amid filth, the squares where the gallows had been set up, the chamber where the Giunta (Committee for governing Naples,) sat, the cabinets and taverns where the spies made their plans.
Emma in her gorgeous riding-habits, ahead of a cavalcade taking the coast roads set with palms, laurel, and tamarisk. Emma lifting a tazza loaded with grapes and peaches, while she stood on a terrace hung above purple rocks where azure waves broke. Emma watching the light flowerets of fireworks burst among the stars, the cresset lights of festival bloom before the sullen flames of Vesuvius. Emma singing in a bark with golden silk sails, reclining on a brick-red Pompeian couch--Emma like Cassandra indeed, with raised arm and open mouth and fillet-bound hair, prophesying the destruction of France. And, most inspiring picture of all, Emma reading the Gazettes that told of the triumphs of the British Navy and of Captain Horatio Nelson.
But it was not all glory to be on such a pinnacle; the British Government began to notice its Minister at Naples, who had now a delicate role to play--that of making Ferdinand Bourbon and his Kingdom useful to the Allies. All very well, and His Majesty eager enough and the Queen frantic to help, but what of the chaotic conditions of the wretched country, the revolution ready to break out, the French on the frontiers?
Sir William was past the work for which he had never been fitted; he fell ill again, half-crazed by the clatter of his wife's parties, by the brouhaha of women's tongues, by the incessant flatteries cast on the English, by the feverish abuse hurled at the French, by wondering what he could or should do. Even Emma had her moments of depression, when Naples was forced into keeping a humiliating peace by the stern terms that General Berthier sent from Rome; but she dashed off a letter to Greville; she had not forgotten her millinery.
"Naples, Sepbr. 21st, 1796.
"We have not time to write to you, as we have been 3 days and nights, writing to send by this courrier letters of consequence for our government. They ought to be grateful to Sir William and myself in particular, as my situation at this Court is very extraordinary, and what no person [h]as as yet arrived at; but one [h]as no thanks, and I am allmost sick of grandeur.
"We are tired to death with anxiety, and God knows w[h]ere we shall soon be, and what will become of us, if things go on as they do now. Sir William is very well, I am not, but hope, when the cold weather comes on and we go to Caserta, I shall be better. Our house--breakfast, dinner and supper--is like a fair; and what with attendance on my adorable Queen I have not one moment for writing, or anything comfortable. I however hope soon to get quiet, and then I will write to you fully. Pray settle Hackwood's account. We desire it. And send me by the bearer a Dunstable hat, and some ribbands, or what you think will be acceptable. Pray do you never think on me? He is our Courrier; so pray, do not spare him. In haist,
"Ever your sincere,
"Emma Hamilton.
"P.S...I have now to-night an assembly of 3 hundred waiting!"
There continued to be news of Horatio Nelson in the Gazettes Emma read in Naples, and he often wrote to Sir William--how could he forget the kindness that the lady of the Embassy had shown him and Josiah Nisbet, his stepson?
The captain of the Agamemnon began to lose the embellishments proper to a hero, his wounded eye darkened until it was useless; he had to wear a patch and began to despair of the future, he was always overlooked, he was done for, approaching forty years of age without money or fame, in poor health and in partial darkness.
Then, by a rude chance of war, came something of what he had always so desperately longed for--glory. Emma, with lustrous eyes and high cries of joy could rush to her adored Queen with news of another British victory.
On February 14th, 1799, Sir John Jervis had beaten the top-heavy Spanish galleons, manned by pressed men, reluctant foot-soldiers and ignorant fishermen, flying the cheap canvas supplied by a monopoly, hampered by slender masts, twenty miles off Cape St. Vincent, in the South Atlantic.
Horatio Nelson had commanded The Captain, and had snatched the fame he so hotly pursued out of the bloody day; it was as if a goddess with a trumpet had heard his name at last and shouted it abroad. He had boarded the San Josef and received an armful of swords from vanquished Spanish officers; nothing could have been more dashing and romantic.
This exploit had been accomplished by disobeying orders and throwing out of action the Admiral's plan for capturing the entire Spanish flotilla; but it had been daring and showy, and had made Captain Nelson the hero of the victory; "they shouted for me."
Sir John Jervis did not mention Nelson in his dispatches, but the little captain knew how to look after his own fame; he sent an account of his exploits to his friend, Sir William Locker, begging him to insert it in the newspapers; he sent to the city of Norwich the sword of the captured Spanish Rear-Admiral and set all his companions talking about "Nelson's Patent Bridge for Boarding First Rates."
Unfortunately the San Josef had already struck her flag to the Prince George (Captain Sir William Parker), when Captain Nelson boarded her, so that the glory he so eagerly snatched really belonged, in part at least, to another man.
But he was made Rear-Admiral of the Blue, Knight Commander of the Bath, received a handsome share of prize money and just that kind of fame relished by Emma--his name was on the lips of hundreds of people who did not know what he had really done--a popular hero was in the making.
Affairs did not go well for the Allies, Ireland was in revolt, there were two attempts to land French troops there, the Pope was made a prisoner, the Roman Republic was proclaimed and Neapolitan patriots slipped over the frontier to serve under the French generals, mutinies broke out at the Nore and Spithead, and even in the fleet before Cadiz, where Sir Horatio Nelson, K.C.B., was assisting in the blockade, and where he hanged four malcontents on a Sunday dawn--"had it been Christmas Day I would have executed them."
That summer, in a landing on the Mole at Santa Cruz, he was hit in the arm by a grape-shot; the limb was at once sawn off by the ship's surgeon, the torn ligaments being crudely dressed; the suffering was exquisite, a peculiar agony was the jar of the cold steel on the nerves.
Emma learned that the wounded Sir Horatio had sailed home to join the half-pay captains at Bath and to serve with his one eye and one arm, and vivid personality, as a fine peg for the blatant patriotism of print-and ballad-maker. The war had been so long, so disastrous, so costly, that the Government had need of all the possible heroes to gild the pill which must sooner or later be presented to a disgusted nation.
So popular was Sir Horatio that it was thought unwise to disturb an idol suitable for the mob; the protests of Captain Sir William Parker were ignored, and the affair of the San Josef glossed over.
It was an ugly time in England, with Radicals and Pacifists shouting, "no war, no famine!" with riots and risings, high prices, unemployment and poor trade, and certain swelling mutterings, not unlike those that frightened Maria Carolina, rising from secret meetings and stress-corner knots alike.
The Government was very grateful to heroes, and Sir Horatio was graciously received by the King at his Investiture, and given a Reception at the Guildhall, where, in the presence of the Lord Mayor, Alderman John Wilkes, once something of a Jacobin himself, gave the hero of St. Vincent a gold casket and a handsome sword.
Emma exulted to read of all this; she began to think that she had predicted a glorious future for the little captain who had passed four nights in the Palazzo Sessa, and that she had some share in his fame. There seemed, however, little chance of seeing him again; he was looking for a cottage in which to settle down with his amiable, quiet wife, his Fanny, and there was no longer any excuse for him to write to the Hamiltons.
The British Minister's wife began to feel the strain of the Queen's incessant anxieties; there were ten thousand French in the north, twenty-five thousand along the coast round Genoa; the Toulon workshops were still building and fitting out warships, the crust of authority over the patriots of Naples began to wear as thin as the glaze over the cone of Vesuvius before an eruption. The Queen believed herself threatened by land and sea--and with no hope save in the British Navy--the name of General Bonaparte created a panic in Europe; the British Fleet in the Mediterranean seemed the last, the only weapon, in the hands of the old order, which was struggling for existence with a new order so dramatically successful.
Italian princelings were scattered, like the kings on a pack of cards, before a flip of the fingers of the red caps, the tricolour flags showed above the ramparts of ancient patrician cities; when all else in the Continent had fallen before the French, it seemed that Ferdinand Bourbon had little hope of maintaining his unstable throne--which, even in his own country, had no supporters beyond his corrupt favourites, the rabble of lazzaroni and the discredited Church that was already defeated in her great stronghold, Rome. There was, too, the danger from the sea; for what purpose was the huge armament being built at Toulon?
The spies of William Pitt reported to Whitehall that eighty thousand Frenchmen were to embark under General Bonaparte for Egypt as a step on the march to India; French officers were already at the Court of Tippoo Sahib, French agents were endeavouring to raise a revolt against the British in Hindustan.
The Admiralty advised Lord St. Vincent, as Sir John Jervis had been created, to dispatch a flotilla to the Mediterranean and to put it under the command of Sir Horatio Nelson, then in the mouth of the Tagus, on board The Vanguard, "to seek the armament preparing at Toulon"...in order "to take, sink, burn or destroy it."
With fourteen first-rate line-of-battle ships, Sir Horatio set sail for Naples, on his ship of seventy-two guns, with his square blue flag, his blue ensign fluttering from the complicated design of sails and rigging. He was hampered by losing sight of his frigates in a storm, by shortness of stores, by damage to some of the ships; he wrote to Sir William Hamilton, that he needed provisions, frigates, "the eyes of the navy," and "good pilots."
He thought that the French were off the Sicilian coasts and was determined to follow them "even if they go to the Black Sea."
Sir William was distracted; Naples was not at war with the Directory, the French Resident was watchful and arrogant; the French troops were on the frontiers, and Ferdinand, when last he had in a panic conceded peace terms to Berthier, had promised not to victual British ships.
When the fleet put into Naples Bay, Sir William could promise no open help, though he had some useful information. The Frenchmen had passed Sicily, making for the south-east; it was known that General Bonaparte was on board one of the men-of-war.
As for obtaining an order for provisions, pilots and frigates, Sir William could do nothing; the King had shut himself away in an agony of fear, terrified of a rising in the city, terrified of the French, dreaming of the guillotine's being set up in the Piazza del Mercato, of his baroque splendours' being fired about his ears. Even Emma, with the Queen's friendship, even the Queen with her seat at the Council, dared do nothing; they had even to endure the action of the French Resident in sending openly to Rome news of the British Fleet's movements.
The two women could only cling together in the long, shadowed rooms behind the shutters that screened them from the June sunshine, vow vengeance on the French, and pray for success for Sir Horatio Nelson; chattering and weeping in unison, the daughter of the Caesars and the daughter of Cheshire peasants, were perfectly in accord.
The Rear-Admiral of the Blue did not leave the Vanguard, which was anchored in the bay, but Emma wrote to him; "God bless you and send victorious...the Queen desires me to say everything that is kind...God bless you, me dear Sir, your affectionate and grateful Emma Hamilton."
And at the last moment, when the straining canvas was set to catch the wind for departure, another note from the Palazzo Sessa was brought to the ship by a boat rowing swiftly across the harbour. This note enclosed a message from the Queen, the few lines in Emma's hand bade the consecrated hero kiss the royal letter and send it back; it was signed "ever yours, Emma."
Sir Horatio sat down in his cabin, writing hurriedly, painfully with his left hand, peering with his one eye.
"My dear Lady Hamilton,
"I have kissed the Queen's letter, pray say I hope for the honour of kissing her hand when no fears will intervene. Assure Her Majesty that no person has her felicity more at heart than myself, and that the sufferings of her family will be a tower of strength on the day of battle, fear not the event, God bless you and Sir William, pray say I cannot stay to answer his letter here. Yours faithfully, Horatio Nelson, 6 p.m."
The ports of Syracuse were closed to the British Fleet, news came that Malta had fallen to the French, and that the Knights had supplied Bonaparte with provisions; the Republicans were sailing east.
Sir Horatio was now convinced that their destination was Alexandria; he sailed to the Eastern port to find the enemy had not arrived; he cruised round Syria, Crete, returned to golden Syracuse; the timid Bourbon was still neutral, still invisible; Sir Horatio had been gone nearly a month and his provisions were very low; he still had no light frigates; his fleet was blind and deaf. He wrote to patriotic Emma, pouring out his humiliations, his despair, but Emma and the Queen had saved him. Ignoring her husband, the pact with France, Maria Carolina had struck straight at her enemies; her hatred of the French found expression in the order she sent to the Governor of Syracuse. The British Fleet was victualled, watered and sailed with the first favourable breeze across the Tyrrhenian Sea.
Sir Horatio wrote to thank the Hamiltons for their exertions, "be that I will return either crowned with laurels or covered with cypress."
A captured enemy vessel told him that General Bonaparte had landed in Alexandria, the British had missed him by a day; Sir Horatio turned in pursuit and on the last day of July his spy-glass showed him the Republican Fleet anchored in the fairway before Aboukir Harbour; the tricolours brilliant in Eastern sunshine.
In Naples Emma moved through the dazzling fruit-scented heat, attired in her classic muslins, exhaling martial patriotism, a Bellona in a Dunstable straw-hat.
She felt herself a goddess indeed; comforting the Queen, who, on her knees, swallowed holy wafers and babbled to her saints, inspiring Sir William, who was a little overwhelmed by the crisis, driving through the streets where the lazzaroni shouted for her, and the patriots had a glance of contempt for Emma Lyonna, la putana inglese, practising naval songs in her strong ringing voice, defying the French, the rebellious Neapolitans, trusting in Nelson and the British--thus Emma, the big woman, nearly forty years old now, whose beauty was spilling over, like the petals of a loosened rose or the seeds of a split pomegranate. While Horatio Nelson strove for the hero's renown, she prepared for him the hero's reward.
To the little Englishman, making his plans in the main cabin of the Vanguard, the moment was of supreme importance; in his nervous excitement he felt as if his life were rushing up to a climax; for years he had longed for an opportunity of winning glory, and the chance that had come his way at the Battle of Cape St. Vincent had only whetted instead of satisfying his appetite for reward and fame. He was also animated by two other passions--an hysteric loathing of the French people, whom he regarded as monsters capable of all atrocities, and a genuine desire to please the two beautiful women who, from the temptingly brilliant city of Naples, had sent out their appeals and their encouragements.
One of these women was a Queen, of the finest blood in Europe--the other was an Ambassadress and a famous beauty. The simple and rather vulgar mind of Horatio Nelson was fascinated by these words and all they meant to him. His life, up to the moment when he sighted the French Fleet at anchor in the fairway before Aboukir Bay, had not been happy. He had always been tormented by two demons, ill-health and ambition.
If, then, on the eve of this great attempt at a great achievement, he had looked back, as men at such a crisis will look back along the years, he would not have been satisfied with what he saw.
He was within a few weeks of his fortieth birthday, and had from his continued ill-health, anxieties, and his two severe wounds, the appearance of a man at least fifty years of age. Nothing in those forty years had been quite as he would have wished it, except perhaps his late London triumphs, and there had been a sting in them; the glances and smiles of those who really knew the truth of the San Josef incident and the justified complaints of Sir William Parker.
Horatio Nelson had been born in a very quiet part of the world--the village of Burnham Thorpe, in the county of Norfolk.
His early childhood had been passed in a place as dreary as the mind of man could conceive--an eighteenth-century rustic rectory, where the incumbent was both poor and fanatic. Horatio, one of a family of motherless children, was brought up by his father, the rector, in an atmosphere devoid of all pleasure and excitement, all gaiety or colour; he was always delicate and nervous and his character took an unstable turn from his constant fevers and agues.
The village of Burnham Thorpe was as dull as Hawarden; it was off the high road, a cluster of cottages, an inn, the church, the North Sea spreading a few miles away. The rectory was humble, the rooms dark and damp; trees that allowed little sun to penetrate through the small windows stood back and front. There was that constant wind and rain and perpetual mist that Emma had learned to know so well, when she had herded sheep on the Flint-shire moors.
The Nelsons were scarcely gentlefolk; they made the most of a connection on the distaff side with Sir Robert Walpole, but they had little money and little influence and all of them were sickly, gnawed at by constant disabling ailments; Horatio in particular was a neurotic, undersized weakling, but animated by a spirit that flamed with a passionate desire to overcome circumstances. He received some local schooling in Norwich Grammar School, little more than sufficient to teach him to read and to write; he absorbed the grim theology of the evangelical section of the Church of England from his father, the Rev. Edmund Nelson. The clergyman's gaunt figure in his black gown and Geneva bands, preaching death and damnation from the village pulpit to rows of drowsy yokels, became merged in the boy's mind with that of God Almighty.
Not very intelligent, sensitive and quite self-absorbed, he accepted the God who was so crudely drawn for him by a dull and narrow-minded father. The loss of his mother was a deep personal grief and increased his nervousness. At the Norwich Grammar School his schoolfellows jeered at him for his effeminacy because he wore neat clothes and kept a pet lamb.
An uncle in the Navy seemed to indicate a career for Horatio. At nine years of age he was sent from Norwich to Rochester where, homesick and miserable, he was sent on board the Raisonnable, then under the command of his uncle, his mother's brother, Captain Suckling, who had suggested to the Rev. Edmund that the boy was far too weakly to be sent to sea, but that a cannon-ball might supply the provision that did not seem to be coming from any other quarter.
The young boy was worked hard, he sailed on a Polar expedition and to the East; melancholy, sickly, his feeble constitution further shattered by the hardships he had undergone, he returned home at eighteen years of age, loathing the sea, loathing the Navy, and weighed down by a gloom only broken by his own indomitable force of will. An immense vanity that did not quite amount to pride, raised him above himself; in a half-delirium of self-assertion he vowed: "I will be a hero, I will brave every danger."
In 1777, he was sent out to Jamaica; a year later he got his own ship and cruised about looking for prizes; he liked the life, but he soon became desperately ill, and was invalided home to take the Bath waters, shrunken and half-paralysed by poisonous fevers. As soon as he could stand on his feet, he was sent on service in the Baltic; the nervous gloom and the black depression returned; he lived in a continual state of physical suffering; he worked very hard at his duties, was conscientious and anxious and much liked by the sailors; he was frequently and desperately sea-sick.
A touch of brightness came through his acquaintance with Prince William Henry, the King's son, who had been sent into the Navy to encourage recruiting for the senior service. In 1782 Horatio Nelson sailed for the West Indies, delighting in the company of the Royal Prince, in whom he discovered many brilliant qualities. He took some prizes, had a few brushes with the French, and returned to Portsmouth again, discouraged and depressed. A doctor thought he had consumption "and quite gave me up."
He had some abstract consolation, to which he clung tenaciously.
"I believe there is not a speck in my character, and true honour, I hope, predominates in my mind."
There followed a short stay in the Burnham rectory, visits to France, where he hated everything, save two very beautiful English ladies, the daughters of a Mr. Andrews, a clergyman. With one of these he fell in love:
"Had I a million of money I am sure I should this moment make her an offer of them."
But the beauty refused him, and he returned still more despondent to England. He got some childish pleasure from discovering that a French prisoner he had once taken was a great person, the Prince de Deux Ponts--but as for the French, "I hate their Country and their manners."
In 1784, when Charles Greville was taking Emma to George Romney's studio, Horatio Nelson sailed for the West Indies as Captain of the Boreas. The discomforts and miseries of fever-smitten Antigua bored him horribly; his one consolation was the company of the English ladies on the island, in particular of a Mrs. Moutray, who was most kind to him.
Through the sweltering heat and the hot, unwholesome damp days that followed the rainy season, "were it not for Mrs. Moutray who is very, very good to me, I should hang myself in this infernal place." It was there that he met and married his dearest Fanny; she was a certain Mrs. Francis Nisbet, a well-bred, pleasant, handsome young widow with a wealthy uncle and guardian, Mr. Herbert, whose stock of negroes and cattle was valued at £60,000 sterling. She was twenty-three years old and had a little boy, named Josiah, by her husband, a medical man, who had died in a lunatic asylum. He was married in March 1787; the ceremony was honoured by the presence of His Royal Highness, the Prince William Henry, who gave the bride away. The bridegroom's income had been assured by the kindness of his uncle, William Suckling. The future, though it did not look brilliant, was by no means dark. Horatio was really in love with his charming Fanny, who, on her side, had thought him at first odd, and then fascinating, and who was quite prepared to offer him all the esteem and affection she had to give anyone. "With the purest and most devoted affection I do love her," wrote the bridegroom to the benevolent uncle.
At this time Emma was already in Naples, and Sir William Hamilton holding up a candle as he gazed with infatuated admiration at her famous attitudes.
The year of his marriage the captain of the Boreas came home, and for a while there was no new appointment for the young captain. He had to live in the old, damp rectory with his wife and his father, eating his heart out because he felt himself neglected. He was much liked by his intimate companions, but was not popular with those in authority. He was apt to make trouble, to be difficult, quarrelsome and full of complaints; his nerves were always out of order; his wretched health handicapped him severely. Though he pestered the Admiralty for another ship, he was allowed to remain in the boredom of the Norfolk rectory, where "dearest Fanny" showed herself rather dull and uninteresting; she fussed about her health and could not understand her husband's furious desire to be again at sea. He tried to farm, he tried to take up country sports and pastimes--he detested them all. All his education had been at sea; everything he had learned he had learned on board a ship; here in his native corner of Norfolk lie was out of place, disgruntled, and most unhappy. It seemed a poor failure of a life.
Then had come the news of the French Revolution and nobody heard of it with more genuine horror and rage than Horatio Nelson, next, war with a life of action again, Toulon and the Agamemnon's sailing into Naples Bay, where there was such a fine view of Vesuvius, and where Emma Hamilton entertained him so kindly. After that, the Battle of Cape St. Vincent, the sudden honour, the casket and the sword, two wounds, a fine advertisement of his services to his country, which made him dear to the common people at home and caused his name to appear on the ballad-makers' slips, and his figure to be seen in the prints sold in all the bookshops.
He still had his dismal moments: "I hardly think the war can last--for what is it about?"
All this success, however, had not been cheaply purchased. His rudely severed arm had meant much torment, when the only possible sleep had been purchased by opium; his damaged eye caused him continual suffering; every organ in his body was awry. Days and nights were made infernal by fevers, agues, headaches, and uncontrollable attacks of nerves. Still, his immense vanity, which was at once simple and cruel, led him on; disabled, maimed, handicapped as he was, he still strained for the impossible goal; the boyish boast: "I will be great" was again in his heart, almost on his lips. A saying which was attributed to him when he beheld the French in Aboukir Bay: "A peerage or Westminster Abbey," crystallized his thoughts. It was a schoolboy's dream--to be a hero, to be crowned by a beautiful woman.
Sir Horatio Nelson gave the signal for the attack on the afternoon of August 1st, 1798. Admiral Francois Paul Brueys d'Aigalliers, the French noble in command of the Jacobin Fleet, was unable to get his ships into the abandoned and neglected port, though he had offered ten thousand livres to any pilot who would conduct his flotilla into the harbour. He was, therefore, anchored in the open road, in what was considered a fine, if not an impregnable, position. There were thirteen French ships and four frigates; the guns numbered eleven hundred and ninety-six and the men eleven thousand two hundred and thirty; they were animated by much of that stern, fanatic enthusiasm which had enabled the Republicans to win so many stupendous victories on land.
Under Sir Horatio Nelson's command were the same number of ships, but slightly fewer guns and eight thousand and sixty-eight men. A north-west wind bore the British Fleet towards the shoals where the French lay anchored; at half-past six in the evening the guns of the Goliath under Captain Foley, broke the hot blue silence. By a brilliant and unexpected manoeuvre the British, to use technical language, "doubled the enemy's van," that is, Captains Hood and Foley in the Goliath and the Zealous got between the French ships and the shore, thus escaping Brueys's gunfire, for all his cannon were pointed seawards, and in a few minutes disabled the French ships. With six colours flying, so that in case any were shot away, the flagship should not appear to have struck, Sir Horatio opened a murderous cannonade, which permitted the Minotaur, the Bellerophon, the Defence and the Majestic to sail on ahead into the heart of the enemy's squadron and anchor close to the French ships. The French gunners returned the terrific British fire, but intermittently, and, as it seemed, without much heart or direction. They had been discouraged by the unexpected flank attack that was so brilliantly executed.
Admiral Brueys who was in command of the Republican Fleet, was a Languedoc noble, in the prime of life, who had been specially selected by the young General Bonaparte for this responsible charge; he was bold and capable, had been trained in the famous "gardes de la Marine" under the Monarchy and had since well served the Republic. His fault was over-confidence; he had a superiority of 184 guns and 3,162 men over the British and had not believed that they would venture to attack him; he had made the best of his position in the fairway by anchoring in a strong line of battle, but there were no shore batteries to protect him, and the wind that filled his sails was blowing the British forward, nor had he thought it possible for the enemy to anchor in the shallow water between his van and the shore. There was a French garrison at Rosetta at the mouth of the Nile, but this was too far off to do other than view the engagement from a distance. The African coast was lined by Arabs and Egyptians, who stood on the sandy shore or on the roofs of their flat white houses, watching the Europeans slaughter one another, indifferent to the course of the fight, but hoping for a spectacle and some plunder.
They were not disappointed; the French fought tenaciously, but with the desperation of men who believed that, from the first, they were doomed to defeat. Admiral Villeneuve, who commanded the rear, had lost hope from the moment he observed Nelson's manoeuvre, which had opened the attack, and the anchoring of the British ships between their enemies and the shore, which exposed the French to the fatal crossfire.
The swift eastern night fell purple over the yellow coast and the violet sea; it was broken by hundreds of lights; the constant red and orange flash of the gunfire spurting from the decks of the combatants, the groups of four lamps on the rigging of the British ships that were their distinguishing marks in the dark, the random lanterns of the Republicans, the reflections glowing in the dark waters, the bonfires kindled by the watching Africans and the dull gleam in their windows as they lit up their chambers. The frightful din of the combat filled the hot night with a frenzy of sound; the sombre boom of the cannon was broken by the ragged sounds of explosions, fierce shouts of command, the crackle of musketry, the crash of falling sails and rigging.
The courage of the French was as great as that of the British, their cause was at least as good, as they fought for an abstract idealism; but they knew that they were no match for the jailbirds, pressed men, and hardened ruffians, individually so wretched and base, but in combination composing an invincible navy, who affronted them.
Many, perhaps the majority, of the British sailors, were there unwillingly, their condition, as the two great mutinies had recently proved, was that of slaves; they knew little of what the war was about; the Frenchmen were mostly volunteers, animated by a lively patriotism, enthusiastically prepared to die for a lofty, if impossible, ideal. Yet the victory went to the nation always unconquerable at sea. The knowledge that France had never beaten Britain at sea was in every heart during the bloody struggle, stimulating Sir Horatio Nelson's men as it disheartened the Republicans.
The British losses were heavy; the great ships were so closely entangled that every cannonade swept off victims; three times the gunners on the Vanguard were dragged away dead, three times replaced by men naked to the waist, while, in the flares of uncertain light, the powder monkeys ran up, slipping in blood, with fresh ammunition or with pails of water to dash over the red-hot guns.
Each British ship made for a Frenchman, anchored close to her, and raked her at close range; the Bellerophon anchored by the starboard bow of L'Orient (formerly the Sant Culotte), the French flagship; so skilfully had the British movements been made that Nelson's battle-line remained unbroken as ship after ship moved forward, closing in upon the despairing, but obstinate enemy.
After an engagement of two hours the eighth French ship struck her colours; the flag of the Revolution dragged amid shattered rigging. Sir Horatio had scarcely received the news of the last surrender, when he was hit by a stray shot that sent him down on his own quarter-deck with the exclamation: "I am killed! Remember me to my wife!"
He was carried down to where the maimed and dying were huddled in the cockpit, the ship's hospital, where the surgeon, with arms red to the elbows, worked among the filthy, bloodstained straw by the light of swinging oil-lamps. The Admiral insisted on taking his turn with the other wounded; he waited in total darkness; the wound had cast a piece of flesh down over his one good eye; when at length the surgeon lifted this, Horatio could see again, but only through a rain of blood. He believed that he was dying and again sent his remembrances to his wife, and called the chaplain. He also sent for Captain Louis of the Minotaur to thank him for the help he had given the flagship, and made other arrangements among his officers. The surgeon assured him that the wound was not dangerous and prayed him to be quiet, but with heroic energy the Admiral tried to dictate despatches. His secretary, Mr. Campbell, when he was called to this task, was so overcome at the blind and bleeding state of Sir Horatio, who appeared to be dying and yet was enthusiastic, that he could not take down the dictated words, on which the wounded man supported himself on his elbow, and, sightless as he was, endeavoured to trace a few words on the letter-case he took from Campbell's shaking hand, describing the state of the battle.
Close by, in the flame-split darkness another brave man was suffering martyrdom--Admiral Brueys, thrice wounded, had refused to leave his post; his tricolour sash soaked red by his own blood, the Frenchman lay along his ship's deck, beneath the shot-tattered colours of the Republic, and gave the only orders left to him to give--those to die unflinchingly.
Close beside him, in the glare and din, stood a boy of nine years of age, wearing the colours of France in his little cap and looking out for his father among the officers who hurried to and fro. A fragment from a bursting gun almost severed the dying Admiral's legs from his body; he gave orders that he was to remain on deck; it was plain to all on board the flagship that she, hemmed in by six British ships and a target for their incessant fire, could not last. The superb L'Orient, a three-decker that carried a thousand men and a hundred and twenty guns, towered above her assailants, like the bulk of a great beast brought down by a pack of hounds; a treasure of £600,000 sterling was aboard her; she was splendidly y equipped and richly furnished. About half-past nine one of her sister ships, Le Peuple Souverain, dark and dumb, drifted helplessly out of the line; from L'Orient came only a slow, uncertain fire, as some dying gunner dragged himself to his task; then, dreadful, even in that dreadful scene, the cry went from vessel to vessel, from mouth to mouth. "L'Orient is on fire!" The vast and majestic ship began to be outlined in flames, pots of oil and buckets of paint were lying about on the deck, for the beautiful vessel had been in progress of refurnishing when the British had come after her; the flames soon licked these and then rose towering high, like infernal torches, to light the hideous scene. So fierce and sudden was the conflagration that it was impossible to use the fire-buckets or to take any means of saving the blazing ship--the funeral pyre for the mangled body of Admiral Brueys. The Republicans hurled themselves into the water, which was reddened by blood and illuminated by the reflection of flames, covered by huddled spars, tangled wreckage and the shattered bodies of men. The battle continued, but even amid the din of battle the climax of horror was the burning of the French flagship, and all the other ships' crews saw one another by the light of these murderous flames, which rose above them all till they seemed to lick the distant stars.
At eleven o'clock the fire reached the powder magazine of the L'Orient, and with a burst of sound so violent as to drown even the fury of the cannonading, the French flagship was blown up.
The magnificent structure was split into thousands of splintered fragments, which were thrown high into the air, mere specks against the vermilion-orange of the background; as the booming thunder died sullenly away, there was a silence that meant a lull in the combat. The nearest British ship, The Alexander, was desperately sluicing down her sails.
The pause in the tumult brought Sir Horatio, half blind, staggering on deck, leaning on the arm of his captain; the sight of the vast furnace before him caused him to forget everything but a rush of human feeling; he ordered the one boat he had available to be put out to save the possible survivors of the L'Orient. About seventy of the drowning Frenchmen were rescued by the British boat. Among them had been seen, for a second, the white face of the French boy, the son of the Commodore, Casa-Bianca, before he sank with his father.
There was something in this disaster that impressed even the most excited, the most hardened, the most inured to scenes of horror.
The light of the explosion had revealed other French ships drifting dismasted and helpless and silent. Even the brutalized victors felt a touch of pity for so complete a defeat; but, as an English sailor, Captain Miller, afterwards wrote: "All feelings of compassion were stifled by the remembrance of the numerous and horrid atrocities this unprincipled and bloodthirsty nation had committed, and when L'Orient blew up about eleven o'clock, though I endeavoured to stop the momentary cheer of the ship's company, my heart scarce felt a single pang for their fate."
The French did not accept their overwhelming defeat tamely. After a lull of horror the ships in the rear began firing again and fought on with heroic obstinacy, although little was left of them but damaged hulls. Throughout the night they struck one after the other. With the dawn two went aground; with the rising of the sun hardly a tricolour fluttered in Aboukir Bay.
One of the French frigates, in proud despair, blew herself up; ten mere riddled shells surrendered--five were sunk; the Généreux and the Guillaume Tell and two frigates escaped to the west. Over four thousand Frenchmen died for the Republic that night; those that were cast away on the shores were murdered by Arabs, who, in fascinated excitement, had crowded along the edge of the waves and watched the fantastic spectacle presented under the August night.
It was a great victory. It was, as Sir Horatio declared, more than a victory, "it was a conquest," and one not too dearly gained.
The British had lost, in killed and wounded, not many more than eight hundred men; none of their ships was completely disabled; the prize-money would be handsome (though the huge fortune on L'Orient was lost), the honour overwhelming.
The wounded hero, with his wan face and bandaged head, ordered a public thanksgiving on every ship of the Fleet and began his announcement of the triumph with the usual formula: "Almighty God, having blessed His Majesty's arms with victory--"
He was pleased with his men--how superior was "their discipline and good order to the riotous behaviour of lawless Frenchmen."
He did not mention the captain of the Goliath in his despatches--was it the Sir William Parker episode over again? Glory was not a commodity that Sir Horatio could afford to share. While Captain Foley remained unnoticed, Nelson's friend and flag-captain, Edward Berry, went to London to advertise extensively and skilfully the glorious conduct and brilliant success of Horatio Nelson; no one quite knew whether Captain Foley had acted on his own initiative or not in the brilliant manoeuvre which had secured the initial success of the battle.
After victory, the fruits of victory! There were some gloriously gratifying things to be done. There was the dead French Admiral's sword to be sent to the City of London; there was a letter to be dispatched to Sir William Hamilton.
"Almighty God has made me the happiest Englishman in destroying the enemy's fleet, which I hope will be a blessing to Europe. You will have the goodness to communicate this happy event to all the Courts in Italy. My head is so indifferent that I can scarcely scrawl this letter. I have intercepted all Bonaparte's dispatches going to France; his armies must break and will not get out."
When General Bonaparte's letters were deciphered, they were found to contain heartening news. The great Frenchman had been quarrelling with his Generals; L'Orient had had a cargo of ingots of gold and diamonds. The French hoped to seize Egypt, and in time India. It was all wonderfully exciting. Sir Horatio's head was splitting with the noise and his wound, loss of blood, and the nausea of sea-sickness. He could not forbear, however, from writing to the fair Ambassadress at Naples; the hero was panting for his reward.
"My dear Lady Hamilton,
"You will soon be able to see the wreck of Horatio Nelson. May it count for a kindly judgment if scars are marks of honour."
In Naples the suspense had been nerve-racking. So excited was the Queen that it might have been thought that the French Fleet was on its way to attack her capital, instead of having been engaged on quite different business. Emma, too, was keyed up into a state of almost intolerable tension, which, together with the August heat, the terror of the King, and the agitation of Sir William, made her almost lose control of her patriotic ambitions.
When the great news came at last through Captain Capel, on his way with dispatches to London, she quite lost her control; the Queen and Emma both fainted; but Maria Carolina soon revived to give a display of violent hysterics. In a frenzy of enthusiasm she expressed herself with the blatant manner only possible to an excited woman. Kissing her relieved husband and clutching to her bosom her astonished children, embracing everyone who happened to cross her path, she ran about the palace exclaiming: "O, brave Nelson, O God bless and protect our brave deliverer! O, Nelson, what do we not owe to you, saviour of Italy! O, that my swollen heart could tell him personally what we owe to him."
She laughed, cried, clapped her hands, wept and prayed at the same moment. An unprejudiced spectator might have thought that she had received the news she was to be Queen of the world, in permanent security.
This excessive royal joy was equalled by that of the Hamiltons. Sir William felt a great load off his withered heart and bent shoulders. His nation had glorified itself by most emphatic action; he felt himself deputy for a hero as he scribbled: "It is impossible for any words to express in any degree the joy that the account of the glorious and complete victory occasioned at this Court and in this city."
Taking refuge in hyperbole, he declared to Sir Horatio that no history, whether ancient or modern, recorded such a magnificent action; and in his excitement he forgot that he had had the acquaintance of the victorious Admiral only for four days, and added: "You may well conceive, my dear sir, how happy Emma and I are at the reflection that you, our bosom friend, have done such wondrous good in having humbled these proud robbers and vain boasters."
Emma, of course, had to have her say. When the Queen could be a little quieted, when she could contrive a moment or two to herself, she scrawled out her congratulations to Horatio Nelson:
"My dear, dear Sir, what shall I say to you? It is impossible I can write, for since last Sunday I am delirious with joy and assure you I have a fever caused by agitation and pleasure. Never, never has there been anything so glorious. I fainted when I heard the glorious news, and fell on my side and was hurt. I should feel it a glory to die in such a cause. No, I would not like to die till I see and embrace the victor of the Nile."
Characteristically, there was a postscriptum which related to millinery. Emotion had deprived Emma of the careful restraint that, under Sir William's anxious teaching, she had learned to keep over her essential vulgarity. Without Charles Greville to choose her clothes or Sir William to advise upon them, she went wildly astray. "My dress, from head to foot, is all a Nelson; even my shawl is blue with gold anchors all over; my earrings are Nelson's anchor; in short, we are be-Nelsoned all over."
She had found time, while the joy bells were ringing, and the
Queen screaming in hysterics, and the Royal children clapping their hands, and Sir John Acton sobbing with relief, and the King grunting his approval, to run to the shops and to the dressmakers and to order these curious and unbecoming ornaments.
She had other pleasant tasks in hand, too; there was the Palazzo Sessa to decorate, there was a festival to arrange; by now she was an adept at festivals; there must be a supper and a ball, and of course, there were the hero's apartments to prepare, and the Italian orchestra must be taught to play "Rule Britannia" and "God Save the King" and some nautical airs.
The heat was suffocating; fans fluttered in all the palatial apartments, nets were drawn before all the windows; those who could, rested behind shutters during the heat of the day, but Emma was abroad, ordering this and supervising that.
She thought nothing of either trouble or expense; what did it matter if Sir William was already somewhat in debt, if she had lately been outrunning her income? This was not an occasion for economy or prudence.
Mrs. Cadogan, the smug mother, helped with the easy energy of a woman used to these excitements. There was so much to be got ready--shawls for Emma's attitudes, the tambourines she used when she danced the tarantella, the lights for the alcove where she posed, her music to be looked out, wax candles to be laid in by the hundred, baskets and baskets of roses, peaches, nectarines, early grapes, roses, lilies and whatever else could be obtained to be ordered, fresh servants to be hired, new liveries to be commanded, wine in the cool cellars to be set ready to be brought up, fireworks to be prepared, and the whole household to be coaxed and scolded and drilled into an orgy of enthusiasm for "Britannia" and "Britannia's" hero.
Neither the Queen nor Emma, nor, indeed, anyone in the Palace or the British Embassy, noticed the cold and sullen calm with which the city of Naples received the news of the French defeat. The Neapolitan patriots were silenced, but not disheartened. Neither the crammed prisons, nor the increased troops, nor the thousands of spies, nor the efforts of the Giunta had been able to quell their spirits. While the Queen raved and Emma bustled, the patriots waited and endured.
The defeat of the French at Aboukir Bay which left General Bonaparte shut up in Africa with twenty-three thousand men, put an end to the hopes of the Neapolitans of a speedy deliverance from the Bourbon through intervention of French arms.
"Victory," said the victor, "is not a name strong enough for such a scene."
Nor despair a word strong enough for the emotion felt by those oppressed by the tyranny of Ferdinand, Maria Carolina and Sir John Acton, when they heard the news that had sent the Queen and Emma unconscious to the ground.
Unrepresented, silenced by a misgovernment as unjustified as it was intolerable, the Neapolitans went on cautiously and bitterly with their secret schemes for deliverance, while the alien Queen, with her foreign Minister, and her foreign confidante, rejoiced so grossly at the foreign victory.
Sir Horatio Nelson Was Fully Occupied, As Was Emma, with the fruits of victory. He could not at once set sail for Naples; dizzy from the wound in his head--the pain was so intense that he believed his skull was fractured--sleepless, continually sea-sick, shaken by the nervous reaction after the long pursuit and the tremendous battle, Sir Horatio showed an heroic energy in striving to get the utmost out of his victory.
The loss of his frigates, to his intense annoyance, prevented him from following up his success as he would have wished. Two French ships staggered away.
The British squadron had to be refitted, and it was only by the help of his faithful friends, Troubridge, Ball, Hood and Hallowell, that the Admiral was able to undertake this exertion. He also took upon himself to send an officer overland from Alexandretta to India with dispatches to the Governor of Bombay. He had complained of the bombastic tone he had found in General Bonaparte's letters; his were no ill match.
"I trust that God Almighty will overthrow in Egypt the bane of the human race. Bonaparte has never had yet to contend with an English officer, and I shall endeavour to make him respect us."
Lieutenant Thomas Duval carried these letters, announcing the victory of the Nile, overland; this done, the dispatches dictated, read through, and Captain Edward Berry sent off with them to be a forerunner of Sir Horatio's glory in London, the sick and nervous Admiral, shaken by his own fatigue and his own glory, set about putting his victorious fleet in readiness to sail.
Aboukir Bay through those blazing days of summer was a fearful sight with corrupting swollen bodies floating about and tangled masses of the wrecks of the noblest ships of France. On the shore the Arabs burned the dead bodies and searched the driftage for any iron it might contain. The Swiftsure hooked up a portion of L'Orient's mainmast out of the ugly medley in the polluted water, and Captain Ben Hallowell, a sardonic Canadian, ordered his carpenters to make a coffin of it, using both wood and iron.
When this rude casket, made of such strange materials, was finished, Captain Hallowell sent it to the Admiral with this note: "Sir, I have taken the liberty of presenting you with a coffin made from the mainmast of L'Orient, that, when you have finished your military career in this world, you may be buried in one of your trophies, but that that period may be far distant is the earnest wish of your sincere friend, Benjamin Hallowell."
Sir Horatio ordered the coffin to be placed upright in his cabin, where it might be constantly before his eyes.
It seemed that he might soon lie within it; he became extremely ill with fever brought on by fatigue, nervous tension, the blow on the head, and the queer kind of spiritual exaltation that was raging within his racked brain.
He wrote to Lord St. Vincent on a note of despair: "I never expect, my dear Lord, to see your face again. May it please God that this is the finish to that fever of anxiety which I have endured from the middle of June. Be that which pleases His goodness; I am resigned to His will."
The shattered man was, however, at what his contemporaries termed "the summit of glory" and had no material occasion for his gloom and misery, save only his wretched health. He longed to be at Naples, but not immediately could he accept Sir William's passionate invitation: "Come here, for God's sake, my dear friend, as soon as the Service will let you. A pleasant apartment is ready for you in my house and Emma is looking out for the softest pillows to repose the few weary limbs you have left."
Maria Carolina and the Hamiltons were not the only people to become hysterical upon the news of the victory of the Nile. A had swept through England. Captain Edward frenzy of rejoicing Berry was knighted for bringing the news; Lord Spencer wrote from Whitehall sincere congratulations on the very brilliant and signal service you have performed for your country, the glorious action of 1st of August last, which most certainly has not its parallel in naval history"--while the destruction of the French Fleet moved Lady Spencer to strains that Emma could not have bettered:
"Joy, joy, joy to you, brave, gallant, immortalized Nelson. May that great God whose cause you so valiantly support take you to his refuge at the end of your brilliant career. All, all that I can say falls short of my wishes."
There were now likely to be laurels enough, armfuls of them, not only from his own country, but from all over Europe. Whatever reward he wished for he was likely to obtain, but the sick, nervous man was as unhappy as he had been in his neglected days of obscure struggle. Even his own sailors thought him strange in his manner, they reminded one another of the wound in the head, while the victor wrote to his wife, dwelling on his victory, his illness, his splitting head; he had continually to sink exhausted in his cabin, scorched with fever, light-headed from pain, but he was soon up again and his work was well and swiftly done. Three of the badly damaged prizes he burnt; he valued them at £60,000 and hoped that he might count on the Government for so much. The other six prizes were sent home under the escort of Sir James Saumarez; Captain Hood was left with six ships in Aboukir Bay, and not much more than a fortnight after the victory the British Fleet turned towards the brilliant city where Emma was making ready her grandiose welcome.
The voyage across the Mediterranean was difficult for the disabled ships. The Vanguard had been so badly damaged that for the last part of the voyage she had to be towed. Sir Horatio, lamenting that for four years and nine months he had not had a moment's rest for mind or body, lay in his cabin, struggling with nervous sensations more horrible than any wound. He felt as if "a girth were buckled taut over my breast, and I endeavour in the night to get it loose."
From the windows of the Palazzo Sessa, Emma watched the sea in a frenzy of impatience. In the weeks that had passed since the battle the Queen's hysterics had scarcely abated; she had written to the Neapolitan Ambassador in London: "I wish I could give wings to the bearer of the news, at the same time to our most sincere gratitude. The whole of the sea coast of Italy is saved, but this is owing alone to the generous English. This battle, or, to speak more correctly, this total defeat of the Regicides' squadron was obtained by the valour of this brave Admiral, seconded by a Navy which is the terror of his enemies. The victory is so complete that I can still scarcely believe it, and if it were not the brave English nation which is accustomed to perform prodigies by sea, I could not save myself from doubting it...Recommend the hero to his master, he has filled the whole of Italy with admiration of the English...All here are drunk with joy..."
England was then to the Queen "that unique great and illustrious nation," that had beaten "the infernal French." Emma also referred to the nation described by the Queen as "ces monstres nos voisons"--"as cursed France!" "infernal French!" "the abominable French Council!"
While Maria Carolina was writing that everyone in Naples was drunk with joy, she overlooked some details that might have been considered likely to mar this delirium of delight. The British victory had decided her to plunge into war with France--but her fever-racked army was undrilled, unequipped and the only means of drawing the guns was by oxen, winter was coming on and nothing was ready. In brief, despite the Aboukir Bay success, the Queen had many difficulties to face before she could hope to meet the French on equal terms, but she troubled about none of them; well might Baron Alquier, who knew her well, write of her:
"The life of the Queen is nothing but a series of errors and regrets...tormented by a desire to govern...her habit of meddling has been nothing short of disastrous for Europe."
The third week in September the Culloden and the Alexander appeared in the bay, giving notice of the approach of the flagship; the sight of the British colours in the harbour was the signal for an explosion of delirious joy among the Court party and the anti-French the patriots were silent, regarding one another with sad, ironic looks, the aristocracy held contemptuously aloof.
In charge of the Neapolitan Fleet he had laboured so hard to equip, Prince Francesco Caracciolo watched the hubbub without comment. The French Resident, the charming aristocrat, General de Canclaux, whom the Directory had sent to Naples, on being ignored, had left his impossible post some time before. He had been succeeded by Mackau, his chargé d'affaires, a shrewd and fiery sans-culotte, who had given great offence by his efforts on behalf of the imprisoned patriots. Mackau had been replaced by Garat, a pedantic idealogue who was, however, honest and bold, and he had been followed by his secretary Lacheze. This man had now to stand aside and watch Maria Carolina, in spite of all promises and treaties, flaunt herself openly as an ally of Great Britain and an enemy of the Republic.
The Queen's conduct however, caused Lacheze no surprise, his unsuccessful efforts to obtain the release of the political prisoners had shown him her temper; he remained watchful, in touch with Rome, where Masséna had succeeded Berthier. Though it could hardly be said that General Bonaparte "had turned the Mediterranean into a French lake" and had cut the British trade-route with India, the French still occupied the whole of Italy save Venice, which was held by the Emperor, and the tricolour still floated above Valetta--twenty leagues from Sicily--Hompesch had surrendered Malta to General Bonaparte six weeks before the Aboukir Bay battle.
Lacheze, a violent Jacobin, had, however, much to gall him; there were five Portuguese vessels in the bay under the command of the Comte de Puységur, a French royalist; there had been the alliance with the Empire in May of that year; there was the murder of General Duphot in Rome; there was the flagrant violation of neutrality in the watering of the British Fleet at Syracuse--but Lacheze could do nothing but lower in the background and cry: "Tout est vieux en Europe et tout s'achemine vers la ruine, excepté la France!"
Cardinal Fabrizio Ruffo in Paris tried to persuade the Directory that the warlike preparations of His Sicilian Majesty were against the Corsairs, not against France, while the Directory decided to recall Lacheze, whose Republicanism was too violent to be any longer fashionable, and to send in his place General Lacombe Saint Michel to try moderate counsels.
Meanwhile Lacheze had to stand aside and watch the King and Queen of Naples receive the man who had destroyed the French Fleet.
On September 22nd in the golden weather that was beginning to have the thick, drowsy air of an Italian autumn, the Vanguard patched and shattered, came into the bay and was at once surrounded by hundreds of barges, gaily decorated by fluttering pennons, and by boats flying the English and Neapolitan colours, by music, and shouting, and huzzas; a richly decorated barge, which flew the arms of Britain, carrying His Britannic Majesty's Minister and his lady, came up alongside the battered man-of-war; the Hamiltons were accompanied by a band of musicians, who were energetically playing "Rule Britannia"; the stirring melody sounded extremely well on the French horns.
Emma was attired in the special dress she had had designed for the occasion--a blue shawl embroidered with gold anchors, the same nautical emblems, designed in gold, dangling from her ears, a long white dress with small buttons, on which were embroidered large initials of "N" in gold, and a sash of the national colours.
Sir William was attired in a more orthodox fashion, in brocade, with powdered hair, in those breeches and laces and elegant fopperies that were fast becoming the mark of a past generation and a dead order of affairs.
With them was a thronging medley of secretaries and servants; lap-dogs and monkeys were scrambling over tables, on which were the last overblown, vivid Neapolitan flowers, flagons of iced sherbet, baskets of fruit, wine and sweetmeats.
Emma had been shouting directions with great energy as the barge made its slow progress across the bay, and as it neared the side of the Vanguard, it seemed as if her emotion would prove too much for her control; she began to strike one of her famous attitudes, clasped her hands and cast up her eyes, until the captain of the barge, fearful that it would upset, ventured to ask the patriotic lady to keep quiet, until he had manoeuvred alongside the British man-of-war.
The Ambassador's lady subsided, but not for long; it was a great moment, and one that suited her and pleased her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes.
She was swung on to the deck of the Vanguard (from which all traces of blood, fire and powder had been removed by scrubbing and cleaning), in the basket used for conveying lady passengers on board a man-of-war. Released from this grotesque contraption, she looked about her and saw standing before her the long-expected hero. With a shriek: "Oh, God, is it possible"--and bursting into the tears she could so readily command, she cast herself at the disfigured hero, brushed his breast, slid down his one arm, and then fell prone on the deck. Thus they met, Moll Cleopatra and Mark Antony from a Norfolk vicarage.
Sir Horatio found the scene deeply affecting. When Sir William scrambled up the side of the warship, Emma was raised between them and escorted down to the state cabin; they all wept together.
From the boats clustered in the bay rose shouts of "Deliverer! Preserver! Conqueror!" and strains of "Rule Britannia" and "God Save the King" came from hundreds of different instruments.
The lazzaroni lining the quay sent up cheer after cheer, and encaged birds were released as a Symbol of Joy, till the blue air was full of busy, winged things.
Emma was still sobbing, Sir Horatio and Sir William were leaning on each other, all overcome with emotion, when news came that His Majesty, King Ferdinand, with his Queen, was alongside the Vanguard; so the three must go on deck at once to welcome the Sovereigns of Naples.
As the hero and the beauty came up into the sunlight together, they would have been to an impartial spectator an ill-matched pair.
Easy living, freedom from care, plenty of rich food and fine wine, had broadened and coarsened Emma since the days when George Romney had been able to paint her as a wood-nymph or Ariadne. She had always been tall, and now she appeared enormous the span of her shoulders vast, and her waist unbecomingly thick; her feet, always large, had not improved with the years, and she had developed the heavy, slightly wobbling walk of a middle-aged woman who had run to flesh. She had lost, also, some of the magnificent tresses which, in her own imagination at least, had once fluttered round her heels; the famous chestnut locks had been clipped close round the shapely head in the antique fashion, but still hung richly in a profusion of curls; Emma might still be termed beautiful, a goddess, a Juno, a superhumanly handsome creature, though her complexion had coarsened from the lovely rose in which George Romney had delighted, and was like a stain on the broadening cheek; her nose had developed a slight aquiline curve and the flatness of the face, the length of the neck, were now distinctly visible defects. There yet remained the vivid colouring, the magnificent lustrous eyes, the beautiful mouth, the woman's triumphant air of being an acknowledged beauty. Her fame was over her like a golden veil, her self-confidence disarmed criticism. She was Emma, fashioned by twenty years of praise, by the adoration of Romney, by the homage of noblemen, by the friendship of a Queen. She had for long held a position of authority. Her voice, once carefully modulated to please Charles Greville and Sir William, had become loud and insistent. She chattered Italian with a Neapolitan accent, interspersed with English sentences, touched by the tones of Flintshire. She gesticulated violently--at every third or fourth movement she struck an attitude, graceful, dramatic, incongruous.
No one had cared to inquire what her character had become during these Neapolitan years. Her position had been that of a friend of the Queen's and the wife of Sir William; not much of grace or dignity, of honesty or generosity, could be expected of a woman who successfully filled two such roles.
Many scandals had gathered round her; the nobility loathed her as much as the lazzaroni liked her; her past and her present combined against her. It was said in the intellectual salons of Naples that she owed her position, her domestic felicity more to Sir William's blindness than to her own good conduct. To the Italians, the British Minister resembled the well-known figure of their national comedy.
The senile pantaloon's wife need not be faithful, since he so stupidly dotes on her, that, while he is kissing one of her hands, with the other she is passing a note to a lover.
Such as Emma Hamilton was, there she stood on board the Vanguard against her vivid background, beside the hero.
And the hero was satisfied with her; indeed, he wept with delighted, gratified vanity, when he found himself so dazzlingly rewarded by so beautiful a woman.
He saw no flaw in Emma. To him she was as beautiful as she ever had been to Charles Greville or George Romney; a superb creature, incontestably divine. Sir Horatio Nelson was himself of insignificant appearance, frail, even mean looking; but the haggard, lined face, the drooping, sensual underlip, the untidy tousle of hay-coloured hair, had already become symbolic of British sea-power. The little figure in the baffle-worn, weather-stained blue uniform with the empty sleeve, white breeches falling over the shrunken legs, a patch over the inflamed eye, a cocked hat set on with a reckless air, was already known all over the world as a type of the naval glory of England. Ignorant of everything save his chosen profession, uneducated save in the school of war, scarcely a gentleman, and vulgar-souled, the hero had yet, for all his nerves, vanities, humours, and eccentricities, a brilliant air of being above his fellows, a flash of some genius and heroism that made him seem superior to better men.
The King's gorgeous, cumbrous state-barge was alongside the Vanguard, rocking on the blue-gold veiled waters of the bay. Magnificent above all the magnificence in the harbour was the Royal scarlet pavilion on which were emblazoned all the complicated honours of the Spanish Bourbons. Good-naturedly pleased with the excitement, and relieved from the strain of months of panic and fear, King Ferdinand scrambled on board, an imposing figure with his rolling profile, his staring pale eyes, and full lips; His Majesty chattered voluble Neapolitan dialect, as he handed his Austrian Queen forward.
Sir Horatio could not understand a word that the Sovereigns said, nor had they a syllable of English. But no interpreter was necessary; it was understood that everything was joyful, fervent felicitations made the very air glow.
When the British officers landed on the great quay, beneath the semi-circle of flat-roofed houses, the colour of dead flowers, beneath terraces of agaves and arbutus, the high, dark pines beyond, with the Palace before them, and the great formidable fort above on one side, the Castle and the lighthouse on the other, the whole edged by the radiance of the Southern light, amid shouts of welcome and the flying flags, the flutterings of the released doves, and the playing of "Rule, Britannia," there was created an illusion that this was indeed the summit of felicity. It was Ulysses and his companions landing on the island of Circe, it was Rinaldo and his knights entering the garden of Armida, it was King Arthur and his fellows of the round table touching the shores of the Fortunate Isles; it was all this and more to Horatio Nelson.
At night the luxurious city blazed with illuminations, the rockets split into coloured stars in the purple air. In front of the Palazzo Sessa the initials of the victorious Admiral blazed in fairy-lamps; all the shipping in the harbour was outlined with strings of coloured lights; the music was incessant--every fiddler was scraping out "Rule Britannia" or the British National Anthem; fair fingers were plucking out these melodies on guitars and zithers, crowds were singing them in the streets, embracing the sight-seeing British sailors.
In the handsome apartments of the Palazzo Sessa Sir William's Etruscan vases, his antique bronzes, his cabinets of ivories and coins, were twined with laurel wreaths, and ribbons with the famous initial and every nautical emblem that Emma could think of. To her the most familiar of these was an anchor, and anchors there were in plenty, in ribbon, in gold cord, in paste, in flowers, hanging on her own broad white bosom and tangled in her own chestnut locks.
The conquering hero was flattered by the rescued Queen who, with her children clinging to her ample skirts, would have made a touching picture of beauty just rescued from distress, had she not been so obviously courageous herself. Her firm, jutting jaw, her sparkling eyes, the energy of her ferocious denunciations of the French were hardly suited to the language of a timid female, snatched from her enemies. Vengeance was the Queen's first desire.
Everyone was very happy; Sir William gave a great festival to celebrate the fortieth birthday of the British Admiral, a dinner with covers for eighty, a ball for nearly a thousand, for which he incurred debt to the amount of six thousand ducats.
All the Court party were there. There was everything that a lavish hand could provide, that a decadent society could enjoy, and a superb climate adorn. Count Francis Esterhazy also gave a huge ball. But the hero was still the son of the Norfolk parsonage; he believed himself a man like David, raised up by God to do his work, and sick and giddy as he still was, he doubted if the Calvinistic Deity, in whom he so firmly believed, would have been quite at home in the Neapolitan Court, and he viewed at first with disgust his surroundings.
The men seemed to him effeminate, the women depraved; he felt nauseated by the rich, unfamiliar food, he was sickened by the powerful wine, the pungent scent, deafened by the incessant music, the high voices of the women, the inane compliments of the men. He did not like what he could see of the government, corrupt, foolish, and treacherous. Nowhere did he find his own spirit of nervous energy; neither King Ferdinand nor the Queen nor Sir John Acton seemed to wish to do anything but laugh and feast and talk. Even the violent and active spirit of Maria Carolina seemed directed to random ends.
In the middle of all the gilded festival, wholly for his benefit, the hero wrote: "This court is so enervated...I am very unwell and their miserable conduct is not likely to cool my irritable temper. It is a country of fiddlers and poets, whores and scoundrels."
But the bilious attack passed; and he began to recover some health and spirit. In the golden rain of incessant adulation his simple vanity began to expand. He wrote to Fanny:
"All Naples call me Nostro Liberatore, and my greetings from the lower classes was truly affecting. I hope some day to have the pleasure of introducing you to Lady Hamilton, she is one of the very best women in the world, she is an honour to her sex; her kindness and Sir William's to me is more than I can express. I am in their house, and I may tell you it required all the kindness of my friends to set me up...
"Celebrations from Lady Hamilton, celebrating my birthday to-morrow, are enough to fill me with vanity; every ribbon, every button was Nelson; the whole service was marked, H.N., glorious 1st of August. Songs and honours are numerous beyond what I can ever deserve. I send you the additional verse to 'God Save the King,' and I know you will sing it with pleasure."
The pictures of the battle still hung in his disturbed mind and clouded his spirits. Sometimes he felt a little uneasy that he was not wholly pleasing the God with whom he had identified himself. He regretted that the French ship, Guillaume Tell had escaped.
"I trust God Almighty will yet put her into the hands of our King. His all powerful hand has gone with us to the battle, protected us and still continues to destroy the unbelievers. All Glory be to God."
To his father he wrote in an exalted strain:
"The Almighty has made me an instrument of human happiness and I am daily receiving the thanks and prayers of Turks and Christians."
In a half-understanding of his own weakness, he added:
"All my caution will be necessary to prevent vanity from showing itself superior to my gratitude."
The rewards came showering in. They were perhaps more than any man had received before. On October 6th he was gazetted "Baron Nelson of the Nile, and of Burnham Thorpe in the County of Norfolk." This was not what he had expected, but at least it was a peerage.
There was an uproar among his friends in Naples that he had not received an Earldom like Sir John Jervis or a Viscounty like Admiral Duncan.
"Hang them," cried Lady Hamilton, in a fury of partisanship; and the hero himself was ill-tempered at the meagre degree of the honour. Was he, even after such a victory as that of the Nile, still to be neglected and slighted?
It scarcely seemed so; there was another sword from the City of London, valued at two hundred guineas. There was from Selim the Third, the Grand Seigneur, who had lately joined the coalition against France, one of the highest honours within the power of His Imperial Majesty to bestow--a clasp of diamonds and an aigrette of heron's feathers taken from a Royal turban, the chelengk, the famous plume of triumph, and a huge pelisse of rich black sables. The Dowager Sultana sent caskets blazing with brilliants, supposed to be worth a thousand pounds; there were more brilliants from Russia--this time round a portrait of the Tsar; from the King of Sardinia, another potentate relieved from the fears of the dreaded Republicans, a box, also heavy with diamonds; from the City of Palermo a gold box and chain; from King Ferdinand, as an earnest of greater benefits to come, an antique Royal sword; from the Island of Zante a gold-headed cane, whilst soon came news that the East India Company meant to vote him £10,000 and from various other companies and funds were sums of money and pieces of plate. There were also medals in gold for the captains, and in silver for the other officers., gilt metal for the petty officers, and in copper for the seamen and marines, struck by Lord Nelson's old friend, Alexander Davison, whom he had appointed sole prize-agent for the captures of the Battle of the Nile.
The College of Heralds was kept busy, getting together the details of an elaborate coat of arms, the supporters of which had augmented honours, flags, palms and tattered flags. When the news began to come from England, it was indeed very gratifying to the hero of the moment--London had risen to a fervour of rejoicing over the news of the victory; everywhere there had been illuminations, patriotic songs, flag-wavings, transparency scenes in theatres and concert halls, showing the destruction of the French Navy. No man, however vain, could have asked for more adulation. He had, too, on every hand, through the good offices of Captain Berry, now Sir Edward, a good advertisement. His loyal friend acted as a first-class publicity agent and raised quite an agitation in the country because the hero had not received at least an Earldom. It was expected that the question would be mooted, when the Houses of Parliament met in the following November.
Fanny, during all this, remained quietly at Burnham Thorpe, enjoying the newly bestowed honours in the quiet company of her old father-in-law and giving no hint how her mind or her heart lay. There were plenty of local honours to cheer the old age of the Rev. Edmund; there was a village collection for those wounded in the battle, a fat pig roasted whole, big tankards of cider and beer drunk by the gratified yokels, patriotic ballads sung in the sanded tap-room of the local inn, a public banquet, a thanksgiving in the village church; all this news coming in gazettes, prints, letters and broadsheets to Naples, helped to make the very air the hero breathed warm with praise. Emma, echoing all the delightful news with cries of joy, was his constant companion, he was frequently with the Queen, who added feminine allure to regal airs, and whose very title was imposing to the parvenu Englishman. An Imperial Archduchess, a Queen! These titles never lost their zest for Horatio Nelson; he even accepted Ferdinand, with all his obvious, crude faults, as an excellent person--it was enough that he was the King. There were thousands of people in Naples who viewed with bitterness and scorn the antics provoked by the Battle of the Nile. There were those among them who noted that the face of the Queen that smiled so graciously on Lord Nelson, showed "ferocity and sensuality," while that of the King revealed "imbecility, cowardice and frivolity." To these patriots, silent in the background of the festival, "Giovanni Acton," was "corrupt, perfidious, flattering, gifted with all the talents for intrigue" while to them, Sir William, bending and scraping before his illustrious guest was the ridiculous "scimia del ministro britannico."
And Emma? To these aristocratic and intellectual Neapolitans, "the Divine Lady" was merely a woman of the streets and what King Solomon found so hateful--a maid in the place of her mistress.
In the Palazzo Sessa Lord Nelson began to recover gradually his health and spirits, and further, to find himself more at home in a world he had at first so detested. The enchantress had waved her wand and everything had become of magical shape and hue.
The hero had never known anything like it before; he was dazed by the gorgeous ballrooms lit by hundreds of wax lights; the triumphal arches with his name in a transparency, the caressing foreign tongue whispering flatteries; the courtly melodies of Cimarosa, alternating with the heady strains of "God Save the King," to which a new verse had been added:
"Join me in great Nelson's name,
Put on the rolls of fame,
Him let us sing."
Above all--the praise, crude but to this man delicious, of a King, of a Queen, of Emma Hamilton, of dark-eyed ladies, of suave men of high birth.
His revulsion from "the fiddlers and poets, whores and scoundrels" soon passed with the headaches left from nights spent at the gambling-tables or in the ballrooms; he became overwhelmed by adulation, by the "kind attentions" of the Hamiltons; he had lost all sense of proportion when he wrote to his distant Fanny that Sir William and Emma "deserved the love and admiration of the whole world," because of their care of him.
In the debauched atmosphere of Naples, in the honey-sweet sunshine which fell over street after street of dusty stone houses devoted to pleasure, the British sailors became gladly demoralized; there were many Omphales ready to tame these fatigued demigods; an exhausted Hercules could find soft couches in plenty on which to repose; officers and men alike rowed across the crowded blue bay, landed on the busy quays, swaggered through cheering lazzaroni and picked lavish pleasures with fingers that soon grew unsteady.
To serve in the British Navy was believed to be one of the hardest tasks in the world; the recent mutinies at the Nore and Spithead had given a discontented public an odd glimpse into the private lives of sea heroes.
When the red cloths had been run up on the flagships of Lord Rodney and Earl Howe, the fighting men who were at once the pride and the scorn of Britain, became, for the first time and briefly, articulate.
The rude stalwarts who had received their copper medals for sweating at the red-hot British guns in Aboukir Bay, who had rendered possible these gaudy Italian rejoicings, were described by their own advocates as "scourings of jails, the friendless, the abject and the vile." The sailors on the fighting-ships were treated like felons, fed on biscuits as hard as flints, salted horse, Irish pork--some of which was kept so long that it was "polished like a cornelian," putrid water, rancid cheese and butter. Even these wretched supplies lay at the mercy of a cheating purser; on a line-of-battle ship this office was valued at £1,000 a year, the rum, contracted for from the Colonies, served out at the rate of two gills of ardent spirits per head per day, gave temporary relief at the cost of intense suffering. The pay was ninepence three farthings a day; this was usually in arrears and often made in paper of dubious value. The common seaman's share of prize money was small, he was seldom allowed on shore, and he was entirely at the mercy of officers and petty officers, who often treated him with great brutality; a flogging "to lay bare the backbone" was not uncommon.
When sick or wounded the seamen received the roughest treatment, and the least protest or complaint was regarded as insubordination, "Jacobinism," and the offender was liable to summary execution.
The sea voyages were long and there was little or no chance for the seaman to communicate with his friends, nor indeed for them to learn if he were alive or dead. This, in the case of pressed men, violently torn from their homes and occupations, produced a despair that often killed.
As some compensation for these hardships, the Admiralty not only permitted, but encouraged, vice and debauchery amongst both officers and men; when a line-of-battle ship put in at an English port, women of the street came on board in boat-loads and were allowed to disport themselves in the men's miserable quarters, and even to share the bunks occupied by the midshipmen.
Thus filth, disease, and excess extinguished what small chance of health and happiness tyranny might have left the sailor after--"mean, endless and unpitied hardships of food, clothing, and of pay which were aggravated by long years of the most brutal and cold neglect."
The two great mutinies of 1797 had wrung a few paltry concessions from Pitt's Government, on paper at least, but all the championship of Fox and Sheridan had not been able to do much for the men on whose conduct the safety of the country was admitted to depend; men were hanged and transported in revenge for their blockading of the Thames, and the hanging of Billy Pitt in effigy.
Such were the heroes who had won the Battle of the Nile, who had refused to pity the Jacobins, perishing in the flames of L'Orient and who now reeled in and out of the wineshops and bagnios shouting "Rule Britannia" to the tinkle of mandolines.
The officers were mostly middle-class men, bred to the sea from childhood, ignorant of everything save their profession, brutal, vulgar, insensible, unbeatable at their work, greedy for prize money, for medals, for glory. They, too, took their share of pleasure where they could find it, and, scorning these soft foreigners, yet enjoyed strange delights in the intoxicating weather, in the care-free City of Sin, which stood so near the spot where Hannibal and the Carthaginian warriors had been enervated by Campanian luxury.
The vague enchantment over Lord Nelson began to find a focus; when he was writing a dispatch, he put at the end that his letter was "a glorious jumble," because Lady Hamilton was sitting opposite to him; remembering that he was God's chosen captain, he added: "Our hearts and hands must be all in a flutter: Naples is a dangerous place, and we must keep clear of it."
He continued to complain of his health, "I hope," wrote Lord St. Vincent frankly, "the luscious Neapolitan dames have not impaired you."
In November came more exciting news; William Pitt had had to excuse himself in the Commons for the paucity of the reward given to the hero of the Nile, and the Commons, by way of amends, had voted Lord Nelson £2,000 a year; the College of Heralds was still busy with lions devouring tricolour flags, ruined batteries and palms, naval crowns and chelengks, while Lord Grenville had looked out a motto:
"Palmam qui meruit ferat."
True, there was a murmur from Fanny, in Burnham Thorpe, a protest from friends--why did not the hero return to where his family waited to welcome him?
When Lord Nelson had heard of the sable pelisse he was to receive from Turkey, he had expressed the pleasure it would give him to see his Fanny wear it--but when it arrived in Naples, it was at once draped round the splendid shoulders of Emma, while the plume of triumph was sported in her luxurious locks.
The Court was beginning to smile at the junketings in the Palazzo Sessa, at the orgy of patriotism and hero-worship; all that was best in the city held aloof with bitterness or an ironic acceptance of the littleness of the tyrants. Prince Francesco Caracciolo occupied himself with his starved little navy, which was as efficient as his genius could make it, and watched in silence the flamboyant honours paid to the successful foreigners.
At the great banquets where covers were laid for eight hundred guests, where Lord Nelson had the place of honour, where all the talk was of the heroism of the British Navy, Prince Francesco sat silent, seemingly sunk in thought, refusing the elaborate dainties, crumbling his bread on the lace cloth. The displays the Neapolitan Court was making were not pleasant spectacles for a man who happened to be both a patriot and a gentleman. In the hearts of many men, placed as was Prince Francesco, arose the question of other loyalties, more important than the conventional loyalty due to an alien dynasty.
The two women ruled everything; the Queen would have her way and gratify her spite with a war, Emma would have her way and gratify her vanity with a hero.
She was past the need of pleasing the gentlemen; she could aim at something more than a baronet or an earl's son--nothing but the victor of the Nile would satisfy her now.
From the moment that she had slid her substantial person, hung with toy anchors, on to the holystoned deck of the damaged Vanguard, she had meant to have him--the man, his fame, his trophies, his money, a share of the thanks from a grateful country. She saw at once his great weakness and her ability to satisfy it; whatever flattery he required she could supply; she really thought him a great man, but she added something to her own estimate of his worth; she was prepared to see him with his own eyes.
Ignorant of everything, save what profit could be made from masculine passions, and the advantages to be gained from flattering a spiteful woman, the Patroness of the Navy was quite prepared to believe that Lord Nelson was God's elect and that the fight against the French Republicans was a holy war. But this aspect of the case did not much concern her; she wanted the successful man of the moment, as once she had wanted Greville and Hamilton.
Unfortunately for her, the hero was not a man to touch a woman's senses; mean in appearance, withered, yellow, mutilated and half blind, with rough manners, untidy in his dress and uninformed on every subject save the British Navy, weak in physique, continually sick, or coughing or gnawed by nerves, he was, at the age of forty, scarcely a better specimen of manhood than Sir William at sixty-five, and certainly not the sort of creature to enthral an Emma of thirty-eight, hearty and experienced. But she did not mind, she had found no difficulty in assuming love for her old husband, and she would find none in assuming an heroic passion for the battered Horatio. Besides, he was easy to get on with; mentally of her own level, socially nearer to her rank than Greville or Sir William, eager to accept her as she was, without trying to train her, or alter her; he could never tease her into acting the gentlewoman, for he did not know what a gentlewoman was, he would never check her vulgarity, wince at her noisy voice, complain of her garish clothes, for he would never notice these defects.
To him she was perfect; they were as easy in each other's company as the seaman after a long voyage was easy with the fat doxy waiting for him in the Wapping ale-house.
And each of them knew the jargon of the age, she from her cottage, he from his Rectory, had learned somehow all the sentimentalities, the moralizing, the tears, the poses, the affectations rendered popular by the writings of authors neither of them had ever read or perhaps heard of.
He could believe that God was with him in all he did, and she could babble about virtue and goodness with the air of a Julie or a Clarissa. She soon had him completely enchanted; she had not to use many of her arts before her personality had mopped up his, as a sponge mops up water.
He was soon as doting as Sir William, frantically and for ever in love, as besotted as General Bonaparte with his Josephine Beauharnais, quite lost to everything and everyone that did not circle round this woman.
What there was of heroism and genius in him, the fanatic courage, the half-insane energy, the power he had to lead and inspire other men, was not valued by Emma, who was no judge of greatness, but she resolved to use his position and his fame for her own ends. And the sum of it all was, that there was, by that autumn, a war with France, to gratify the Queen.
There were forty-five thousand Frenchmen left in Italy after the Battle of the Nile, and with General Bonaparte shut up in Egypt, these were disposed to keep quiet, and certainly had no intention of attacking Naples.
It was only obvious common sense to leave these dangerous enemies alone. But the Queen still had the picture of her murdered sister hanging in her cabinet with her own threat written beneath, and nothing could induce her to forgo what she thought would prove an easy vengeance. She appealed to the Emperor, who had just renewed war himself, for help; it was promised, but not immediately; winter was coming on and the imperial troops could not think of moving until the spring. Those who knew the leisurely methods of the Viennese Cabinet might doubt if they would stir then.
However, to console his mother-in-law, the Emperor sent her one of his more inefficient generals, the amiable and accomplished Bavarian, General Carl, Freiherr Mack von Leiberich, who a few years before had been in London arranging the campaign of 1794 with the Duke of York, his equal in incapacity, and who had seduced the brilliant Dumouriez from his allegiance to the French Republic.
The elegant imperialist arrived at Naples in a rich equipage with outriders, followed by a staff that occupied five carriages; with his charming manners, white, gold and scarlet uniform, and social graces, he was a great asset to the festivities to which Emma led her Nelson.
Naples was prepared to put eighty thousand men in the field, there was General Mack von Leiberich to lead them--so why not march straight on Rome and dislodge the insolvent, atheistical Republicans who were installed in the Eternal City?
Lord Nelson, then tacitly acknowledged as the arbiter of Neapolitan destinies, strongly pressed this plan; he advised the uncertain king, in language half of the Roman forum, half of the London pothouse, that he had two courses open to him, either to die, sword in hand (with God's blessing on a just cause) or to be kicked out of his kingdom.
This advice was the measure of the Admiral's infatuation; for to urge Ferdinand into an attack upon the French was stupid to a degree, showed a complete ignorance of the entire situation, and even a lack of ordinary intelligence.
If war was to be resolved on, it was only common sense to wait until spring should bring the Austrians and perhaps the Russians into the field as allies, before provoking an enemy for the moment cowed; nor was winter even in the South of Italy a desirable season for a campaign. Besides, Lord Nelson knew the state of the Court, the corruption, the muddle, the topsy-turvy finances, the inefficiency of every department; he had been told that the bulk of the population was seething on the point of revolution; he continually expressed a contemptuous opinion of every branch of the Neapolitan service, and often dwelt on the expense and difficulty of fitting out their costly, but neglected, fleet; he did not trust General Mack von Leiberich, nor indeed any foreigner, and in his quieter moments he must have seen that Ferdinand was a vicious fool and that Maria Carolina was worse, a meddling, vindictive, hysterical woman. But the first was a King, the second a Queen and Emma was their friend, so Lord Nelson urged on the crazy war.
He had always been fond of ladies though in a slightly shamefaced way, as one handicapped by both a religious training and an unattractive person; fourteen years before he had written, self-consciously--"they trust me with the young ladies, I am such an old-fashioned fellow."
Now he proved that there was one lady with whom he could not be trusted, when Emma lured him into starting a campaign in the autumn of 1798.
There was another force at work within him too--fanatical hatred of the French nation. He had himself been startled by the ferocity of his own thoughts when he had written: "Sometimes I despair of getting these starved Leghorners to cut the throats of the French crew--what an idea for a Christian!" he had added. He had had many other odd ideas for a Christian yet perhaps not unsuitable for a Christian trained by an evangelical parson who believed in heaven above and hell beneath, and the chosen and the saved.
When he heard that typhus had broken out among the French, Lord Nelson rejoiced; every time he referred to his enemies, it was in coarse violent terms that would have completely satisfied the Queen of Naples: "Down, down, with the French, is my constant prayer!" he wrote to Mr. Windham, the British Minister at Leghorn.
The glow of the Nile victory was over all the Court; the Queen had forgotten the Battle of Lodi three years before, when her husband, in common with all the Princes of Italy, had desperately cringed before General Bonaparte, when Prince de Belmonte Pignatelli had followed the conqueror from one camp to another in order to obtain an armistice. She had forgotten how Admiral La Touche's grenadier had knocked at her palace door with the ultimatum. She saw her troops, not only overrunning Italy, and restoring the Pope, but seizing some of the Papal territory to which she had long laid claim.
On November 21st there was, if not a formal declaration of war, a manifesto issued in Naples stressing the insults to the Pope and to monarchy lately offered by the French Republic, the seizure of Malta, the occupation of Italy; to remedy these evils, the King of Naples would march on Rome. General Lacombe, the newly arrived French Resident, was fobbed off by the tale that all the preparations were against the Dey of Algiers, but he was not deceived. He had noticed the state of affairs in Naples, the crazy administration, the forced levies, the deflated paper currency, the toppling banks, the ruined trade, the deep discontent, the intolerable taxes, the spoliation of the churches, the universal corruption, and he wrote home of this crazy war--"This Court boasts of sixty thousand men, they have not more than twenty-five thousand, and ought not to count on more than ten thousand."
The Frenchman also knew that the Neapolitan alliance with the Emperor was merely a defensive one, and that, despite the Queen's assertions to the contrary, it was most unlikely that the Emperor would move before the spring.
In brief, no nation could have been less prepared for war than was the Kingdom of Naples in the autumn of 1798. But Lord Nelson could not see what was so obvious to Lacombe; he viewed the situation entirely through the eyes of the Queen, and helped her and Emma to overcome the reluctance of Ferdinand, which arose from cowardice, not wisdom, to take the offensive. To the Englishman, the woman who had flattered him was "a great Queen" and Emma was a goddess--the beautiful woman who had been kind to him.
General Mack von Leiberich continued to inspect and parade the thirty-two thousand reluctant Neapolitans whom he had already flattered as "the finest troops in Europe," they were trained at San Germano, where Maria Carolina and Emma had shown themselves on horseback. The Queen ignored the fact that sixteen companies of her army, owing to the shortage of free men, had had to be recruited from jails.
"Be to us by land, General," said the Queen, with her dramatic air of a distressed wronged princess, "what my hero Nelson has been to us by sea."
It was a stimulating ideal, but Lord Nelson himself did not believe in the Bavarian, he had seen him blunder his manoeuvres badly on the parade-ground, and declared that "he did not know his business."
"I have formed my opinion," he wrote, "I pray heartily that I may be mistaken."
Yet he was still strongly in favour of the silly march on Rome and hung over Emma entranced at her lusciousness, as she scribbled a note to Fanny, who might be beginning to wonder many things, and who had given a most disconcerting hint that she might come to Naples.
Scandal was again busy about the enchantress; Lord Nelson's old friend, Mr. Davison, wrote: "I cannot help again expressing my profound regret at your continuance in the Mediterranean," while Lord St. Vincent hoped "that the fascinating ladies of Naples would not seduce a man of mere flesh and blood, who would be unable to resist their temptations."
But Emma knew how to deal with such situations. Penelope must be kept quietly at home in the dull place that suited her so well, so Circe, grinning a little, wrote:
"Lord Nelson is adored here and looked upon as the deliverer of this country. He was unwell when first he arrived, but by nursing and asses' milk...quite recovered...We only wanted you to be completely happy."
There were compliments to the Rev. Edmund and to "your ladyship" and the clever little letter concluded--"your ladyship's ever sincere friend and humble servant, Emma Hamilton."
There was an informal postscript.
"Sir William is in a rage with Ministers for not making Lord Nelson a Viscount. Hang them I say!"
"Deliverer of the country"; she had, indeed, got him to the point, that he looked upon himself, under God, as the Deliverer of Italy.
Five thousand Neapolitans seized Leghorn; Lord Nelson sailed to Gozo, captured it, planted the Bourbon flag above the rocks and returned to Naples, which was, he was convinced, the one place in the world that required his presence.
He had quarrelled with General Naselli over the question whether Naples was legally at war with France. Naselli declared it was not, and wished to allow the French shipping to leave Leghorn Harbour; after much shuffling on the part of Naples, the Englishman had his way, the French privateers were detained, the crews dismissed, their cargoes dispersed; these had largely consisted of grain for the troops.
Lord Nelson wrote wildly: "The enemy will be distressed, and thank God, I shall get no money. The world, I know, think money is our God; and now they will be undeceived, as far as relates to us."
There had been times when Lord Nelson had not been so indifferent to prizes, but he now had no need to worry about worldly affairs; there was a comfortable fortune awaiting him at home, and a royal treasury at hand for his immediate needs. On his return to Naples after the Malta interlude there were more rejoicings; sonnets fluttered thick as the released doves. An Irish Franciscan predicted that the English hero would take Rome with ships--despite geography. There were more balls, concerts, illuminations, fireworks, and then Ferdinand of Naples and General Mack von Leiberich departed for Rome, inspired by the tears and cheers of the Queen and Emma, and followed by troops both unwilling and untrained. The commissions had been sold to young fashionable men, incapable and frivolous.
As their route was across Neapolitan territory, their progress was unopposed, but the Bavarian General over-marched both men and horses and arrived at Castalana with his troops in a condition of utter fatigue.
The King entered Rome with his motley army, his artillery drawn by oxen taken from the plough; Championnet, the French General in command of the garrison, withdrew at the approach of the Neapolitans.
It was a flash of triumph for the old order, bells clashed, the orthodox rejoiced, the King, surrounded by his nobles, made a stately entry on horseback between Roman palaces lit by wax-tapers and hung with tapestries; there were plenty of orders, plumes, sashes and stars.
Ferdinand had promised protection to all who submitted, but for all that he put to death some French residents who made no resistance; his soldiery rewarded themselves for an uneventful victory by drowning the Jews in the yellow waters of the Tiber, and by the indiscriminate murder and pillage of supposed atheists and Republicans. While his troops were thus celebrating the triumph of Christianity with murder and rapine, the King gave himself up to receptions, eating and drinking, to issuing proclamations, and inviting the Pope to return to Rome "on the Wings of the Cherubim."
This show of friendship to His Holiness was not quite sincere; there was a second plot in the drama of the struggle between the Allies and the French in Italy, and that was the secret struggle between Austria and Naples for the Papal territories. There was not only the question of driving the French out of Rome, but that of seeing that the Imperialists did not get much of the spoil. So King Ferdinand, as befitted a victor, began pillaging what Papal treasures the French had not sent to Paris; and the troops not employed in murdering Jacobins were busy packing up His Holiness's pictures, statues, tapestries and bronzes.
King Nasone had no great taste for these things himself, but they were worth money, looked handsome about a palace, and dear Sir William would no doubt be delighted to see wagon-loads of objets d'art coming into Naples.
The tricolour still waved over the squat, formidable round tower of Castel Sant' Angelo, but the King had silenced the French cannon by informing the garrison that for every shot fired he would put to death one of the sick Frenchmen in the hospitals.
Trees of liberty and red caps, with other republican emblems, were diligently removed from the obelisks that had once proclaimed the pride of people and Pontiff; the King sent messages to Naples ordering a public thanksgiving, and the Queen and Emma were able to embrace each other with tears of gratitude, while the cannons on the Neapolitan castles fired out salvos of joy.
But Lord Nelson was uneasy; he had no inkling that his own advice had been pernicious, but he could not bring himself to trust any foreigner. In between the bouts of sickness caused by mingled champagne and asses' milk, and when he could clear his mind of the dazzle of Emma's overwhelming femininity and drag his shaking limbs off Emma's silk cushions, he looked to the Fleet anchored in the bay. Despite the Te Deums, he thought it likely that the ships might yet prove useful. Events confirmed his poor opinion of Mack, as the Italians called von Leiberich; that general was supposed to have given himself chronic sick headaches by over-studying military science, but he was quite incapable of putting this hard-won learning into practice.
Nor was his present command a test of any man's capacity, since he distrusted, and was distrusted by, both officers and men, and the entire army mistrusted the King. Cowardice and treachery completed the work that inefficiency had begun, and the Neapolitans were soon starving, without clothes or weapons.
San Filippo, commanding nearly twenty thousand Neapolitans, deserted to three thousand of the enemy, shot through the arm by one of his own soldiers, and the Republicans came in for a good haul of booty, which more than balanced the losses they had suffered at Leghorn.
Mack von Leiberich, with the main body of disaffected, disloyal troops, himself disheartened and uncertain, abandoned point after point, despite superior numbers and many technical advantages, and fell back on Capua.
After three weeks of inaction in Rome, Ferdinand also began to feel uneasy; he kept his eye on his line of retreat, carriages, wagons, horses, mules were always ready for the signal for departure.
As the bad news came in, the King's nervousness increased; on December 2nd he cancelled a visit to a gala at the Alberti, on the 7th he was away to the Alban hills; his army had indeed completely collapsed; at least ten thousand men had been taken prisoner without making a show of fight; and Mack von Leiberich's disorderly retreat was turned into a flight by the desertion of hundreds of troops, who sacked the food-wagons and straggled southwards across the winter landscape robbing and destroying as they went.
During the twenty days of King Ferdinand's occupation of Rome, Championnet had been quietly getting together his orderly, seasoned, and disciplined battalions. He, a pupil of Hoche, was one of the best of the magnificent generals the Republic had provided to lead those armies which had overawed Europe; a gentleman, an idealist, cultured and humane, a fine leader and an excellent soldier; he was also young, of a fine presence and spoke Italian fluently.
His plans ready, he advanced on Rome, and re-occupied it without the least difficulty, and ordered the redirection of the packages and bales of Ferdinand's plunder "for the museums of France."
At Albano King Ferdinand heard with unspeakable fear of the downfall of his hopes; he had but one thought, to get back to Naples and the neighbourhood of the British ships. His frank cowardice gave his retreat an air of opera buffo. When he heard that Championnet was in Rome, Ferdinand asked the Duca d'Ascoli to change clothes and place with him. Attired in the royal uniform, the Duke went ahead, while Ferdinand followed, riding beside Prince Migliano Loffredo, and pleading in the dialect of a Neapolitan lazzarone--"not to be left behind."
When the carriages were reached, His Majesty took one of the plainest and sat on the left-hand side, pallid with emotion as he rolled over the ravaged country to Naples.
Lord Nelson heard with disgust of these disasters; the Neapolitans had, he declared, no honour to lose, "they seemed afraid of a sword or a musket," but they had lost everything also; he was sickened and alarmed, too, by the condition of the Court--"the state of this country is very critical; nearly all in it are traitors or cowards...in short, all are corrupt."
He wrote in ignorance; there were thousands of noble, brave, and honest people in the kingdom of Naples, but they did not belong to the Court party. Nor did Lord Nelson trouble his head about them; all not on the side of the King were to him "Jacobins" and worthy of destruction.
"Down with the French, ought to be written on the walls of every Cabinet in Europe," he wrote.
Yet he knew what this King was, and considered his followers the scum of the earth; but an unbalanced mind, one, indeed, almost overturned by nervous reaction and excited vanity, prevented him from seeing even a glimmer of the truth and even from reflecting that his poor opinion of the Neapolitans should have prevented him from urging on a war at the wrong time of the year, and a march on Rome that, in Ferdinand's hands, was bound to be a grotesque failure.
When the rattling carriage with the sweating King inside rolled into the courtyard at Caserta, the Queen who passed for a brave woman, sunk in a panic of terror into Emma's arms, fearing "les scenes de Varennes avec toutes leurs suites."
She might have known that in just such a fashion her wretched husband would return, but she behaved with all the abandon of one profoundly disillusioned, and went from one fit of hysterics to another.
Emma, far more level-headed, took counsel with Lord Nelson, who, uneasy and out of his depth, fretted in the Palazzo Sessa.
No one troubled about His Britannic Majesty's Minister; Sir William was now as much a part of the background as one of his own Etruscan vases; he too felt bilious and nervous, but Emma, with a hero to wait on, no longer fussed over him; he had to nurse her lap-dog, play with his monkey, turn over his cabinets of coins, curse the French, and long bitterly for the quiet days before the war.
With the perfume of Emma's presence over him, Lord Nelson rallied his spirits and tried to take stock of the situation; he liked to be a champion of distressed ladies, he tried to think what could be done for a panic-stricken Queen, with a baby at her breast, a crowd of small children, an incapable husband, a corrupt personnel; with a man like Sir John Acton filling all the big government posts himself.
The task was not easy, even with Emma as inspiration; Vesuvius was in eruption and the air heavy with gases and darkened by showers of fine ashes; the nervous tension was heightened by the sight of the great dark mountain with the flaming cones and gloomy spread of smoke; rumblings of earthquake shook the streets where the British sailors drank and idled; timid people spent the nights in their carriages, and the fishermen read in the livid skies the presages of mighty storms.
The news that came into Naples could hardly have been worse; Championnet and Macdonald had decided to advance on Naples; the foolish advice of Lord Nelson, the impulsive fury of the Queen had roused a nest of hornets. Von Leiberich's disbanded army moved in hordes over the country, destructive as locusts, bloodthirsty as only human beings can be; the towns of the Abruzzi fell without resistance into the hands of the advancing French; Macdonald and Championnet, commanding the best troops in the world, steadily fought their way through anarchy to the coast. In Naples and the surrounding country was utter panic; streams of terrified people followed the priests into churches crowded with images of saints, and, fearful lest God had forgotten them, hid or sent away their property, if possible, by sea.
The Queen and Emma, peeping from the great windows of the Palace, saw the square filled by lazzaroni begging for weapons with which to kill the French and the Jacobins; the educated classes remained desperately quiet, praying for the speedy arrival of the French; Maria Carolina urged on the secret police, the spies, but they slackened in their zeal, apprehensive of Championnet's approach. Yet the Queen contrived to have hundreds of suspects arrested, including the Minister of War.
General Francesco Federici told the King roundly to his face that he alone was to blame for this terrible crisis, Prince Caracciolo sat silent and pale at the dinner-table of General Berta, not even unfolding his napkin, nor drinking a glass of water. Sir John Acton began to pack a lifetime's plunder, Sir William to make agitated arrangements for the transport of the fine collection of Sicilian vases he had hoped to sell to the King of Prussia, and now intended to offer at a bargain price to the museum in Montague House.
Emma was everywhere, supervising everything with the air of a goddess who "rides the whirlwind and directs the storm."
On December 21st an ugly little incident brought matters to a crisis; one Ferrari, a Royal messenger, who was taking a letter to Lord Nelson, then on the Vanguard in the bay, was seized by the excited crowd, dragged to the Piazza Reale and there murdered while the King gaped from a balcony. The meaning of this was obscure; Ferrari, though in Royal employ, was dispatched as a spy and a Jacobin, either under some mistake, because he knew too much, or because, as the patriots said, the Queen had engineered a crisis for her own ends.
In any case, Maria Carolina used the incident to make out that she and her family and all the royalists were in danger of their lives, and to pretend that emigrés were being slaughtered in the streets of Naples.
The King remained in a state of passive terror; watching his wife, Emma and Nelson, for a signal, with the rapt attention of a dog who longed to know if it was to jump through a hoop, or stand on its hind legs.
Since his flight from Rome no one paid him any serious attention and the squibs crackled.
"From his native shore
Marched our King with men galore
Whom he bravely led
Swaggering from home
Flourishing on Rome,
He came, he saw, he fled."
The victor of the Nile decided on flight before the French as quickly as had poor King Big-Nose, when he was caught in Rome by the news of Championnet's advance. Lord Nelson still saw everything through the eyes of Emma; he believed that the mob was rising as it had risen in France in 1793; he could not understand that the vulgar people, the lazzaroni, were entirely on the side of the King and Queen, and that it was the intellectuals and the aristocracy who were against the Court.
It might have been considered the duty of the British Admiral after his once having undertaken to defend Naples, to remain in that city, to fortify it as best he could, and with the men, stores and ammunition at his command to defy the advancing enemy. Instead of doing so he resolved on instant flight, and he used the British Fleet to convey the Royal Family to Palermo across the Tyrrhenian Sea, and that despite hard, winter weather and the gathering of mighty storms.
The political situation was still in a hopeless tangle, the atmosphere full of suspicion, doubt, treachery and hysteric panic. It was still doubtful whether Naples was yet officially at war with France.
The King and Queen, their Court and friends, resolved to escape from this bloody chaos which Ferdinand's cowardice and Maria Carolina's vindictiveness had done so much to bring about. In this design Emma was the guardian angel and Lord Nelson the protecting knight. The Queen clamoured that the mob wanted to keep them as hostages; this was utterly untrue, but Lord Nelson believed it.
He made the fleet ready, and had already written to Troubridge:
"Things are in such a critical state that I desire you to join me without one moment's loss of time..."
"Everything is as bad as possible. For God's sake make haste. Approach the place with caution."
All his instructions were marked "Most Secret." He had so far deceived himself that he did not realize that he was helping a couple of cowards to flee from their posts, but rather saw himself as one who waited on great events. He arranged for barges and cutters to lie outside the docks and wharfs, men to be armed with cutlasses and the launches with carronades. He himself came on shore heavily armed, as if in fear of an attack, mounted to the Queen's room by a secret staircase, and found Emma, assisted by the always useful Mrs. Cadogan, in a state of tragic energy.
She was supervising the packing of all the valuables in the Palace; pictures, tapestries, bronzes, ivories, clothes, furs, were being thrown into boxes and baskets, and tied up in bales and marked "Biscuits" and "Salted Pork"; ornaments and jewels were swept into every possible receptacle. The same work had gone on at the Embassy; everything that was of the least value, from Emma's famous five hundred pounds' worth of, diamonds to the cashmere shawls she used for her poses, was packed up and carted away.
For twelve nights in succession the energetic woman did not take off her clothes, only snatching a few minutes' sleep here and there, then and now, on a Pompeian couch or a satin arm-chair. Gems, curios and dresses to the value of £2,500,000 sterling passed through her hands in less than a fortnight. Under her vigilant eye all this booty was sent with the aid of the British sailors to the British ships. Nor did this amount of plunder blunt the avarice of the King and Queen; as if their design were to ruin utterly the unfortunate country they were abandoning, they took all the money out of the bank, all the treasure--much of it coined from private plate and ornaments that had been gathered together for war--and had this sent on board the Vanguard.
By not confiding their persons and their treasure to Prince Francesco Caracciolo, they offered the Neapolitan Admiral, who had been a personal friend of the King, a deliberate affront. Caracciolo was not only the best sailor in the small Neapolitan Navy, but one of the best sailors in the world. The English Admiral, Hotham, had publicly complimented him on his brilliant services in the Mediterranean; but now, in this atmosphere of universal suspicion where nobody seemed to be trusted by the Royal party save the British, he was passed over, and the plunder of the Bourbons deposited in the charge of the British Admiral.
Efforts were made to keep these preparations of the flight secret, but the news leaked out. The lazzaroni were in despair, believing that their beloved King was abandoning them to be murdered by the French, as indeed he was; while decent citizens secretly rejoiced. An underground passage led from the Royal Palace to the Mole, and this was most useful in conveying away bag and baggage. When everything that was valuable and movable had been taken away, and news was coming daily of the quick advance of Championnet and Macdonald, the Royal Family took the final step and fled from Naples on the night of December 21st accompanied by Sir John Acton, the Hamiltons, the Prince Castelcicala, Prince di Belmonte Pignatelli and some other courtiers and ministers.
With the Queen were her children, the youngest of whom was an infant in arms, and one of whom, the Crown Prince, had with him his wife Clementine, the daughter of the Emperor; this Princess had to look after her delicate and sickly child, who was so backward in intelligence that Maria Carolina declared she believed it was an imbecile.
Lord Nelson watched over the whole proceedings with a solemn anxiety which, considering the circumstances, had an air of caricature. The whole affair was like the libretto of a melodramatic opera. From a city where they were not in the least danger, where indeed a large number of the populace were ready to fight for them, from an enemy who had not yet arrived and who might without difficulty be defied and kept at bay, King Ferdinand, his family, and Court, fled as if a thousand furies had been on their heels.
The use of the underground passage was an unnecessary touch of drama, perhaps the result of Emma's theatrical imagination. If they had gone away openly, there was no one likely to stop them. Nelson, cloaked like a Spanish conspirator, led the way through the passage, swinging a dark lantern, and the party--women and children huddled together, men nervously clutching their swords--came behind him, stumbling in the half-light, shivering in the damp. They emerged at the wharf to find a sharp gale blowing, tattered clouds scudding across a black sky, and the waters foaming high among the rocks. The party sat huddled in the Vanguard's barge, whipped by the winter wind; they were rowed by British sailors across the bay. When they reached the flagship they found it already crowded with other refugees, among whom was the Imperial Ambassador. The other British warships and some foreign merchant-men which had no wish to encounter the French were ready to accompany Lord Nelson. It was, however, by reason of the wind, impossible to leave the bay, and for twenty-four hours the Vanguard veered about the gulf, now and then taking on board other Royalists, whose barges came struggling up through the choppy sea.
Prince Francesco Caracciolo was in command of the Sannita which, though it was poorly equipped, he managed with superb skill.
The storm increased in violence and the ships were unable to pass Capri until dawn on Christmas Day. Several Neapolitan ships which should have accompanied the Royal party were unable to sail, because the sailors had deserted, not so much from disloyalty to the King as from loyalty to the families whom they would have been forced to leave behind to affront an invasion. The passage across the Tyrrhenian Sea was made only with the utmost difficulty. Emma kept up her spirits wonderfully; she bustled about, making up beds, providing linen, nursing the prostrate Queen, comforting her sea-sick children. Afterwards she wrote to her crony, Greville:
"All our sails were torn to pieces and all the men ready with their axes to cut away the masts, and poor I to attend and keep up the spirits of the Queen, the Princess Royal, three young Princesses, a baby six weeks old, and two young Princes. The King and Prince were below in the wardroom, my mother there assisting them, all their attendants being so frightened and on their knees praying."
Maria Carolina lay on the plank in her cabin, vomiting into the basin that one of the Neapolitan sailors brought, emptied, and returned, continuously. Her children were alarmingly ill; their only relief was rags, damped in vinegar, applied to their temples. Nelson, directing the passage of the ship with the utmost anxiety, declared that never before had he seen such a storm; at one moment it was doubtful whether they would make Palermo; nor were the British Admiral's spirits raised by seeing that the Sannita under Prince Francesco Caracciolo's command rode the tumultuous waves easily, despite the tempest, and kept alongside the Vanguard to encourage the King by its presence. High in the wind and rain the vermilion standard of the Sicilian Bourbons fluttered in the dark; the ship's lanterns were gloomy specks of light, half-submerged in the whirl of the tempest. In one of the cabins Sir William, who had been fretting himself to a string over the safety of his antiquities that he had seen packed on board a British merchant-man, and that for all he knew were by then at the bottom of the sea, sat, incapable of rendering anyone assistance, holding a pistol to his head, threatening, he said, to shoot himself if the ship went down, that he might not hear the guggle-guggle of the water in his throat.
The Imperial Ambassador also made other preparations for what he believed was his approaching end. He cast into the angry waves the snuff-box which bore the nude portrait of his mistress. He did not wish, he said, to go into the presence of the Almighty with such a profane article upon his person.
Lord Nelson, harassed and anxious as he was, did not fail to notice with admiration the brave conduct of the beloved Emma. While all the foreigners were groaning with fear and sea-sickness, the Patroness of the Navy showed herself worthy of her title; she was brave, efficient and cheerful, waiting on the Queen and the Royal children with real devotion. It was in her arms that one of the unfortunate little Princes died from exhaustion.
On the afternoon of Christmas Day, as the Vanguard battled round Capri, the little fleet sighted Palermo; the scarlet pavilion and the British flag were still flying from the topmast of the Vanguard as the battered ship lumbered into the harbour. The Captain of a Neapolitan frigate that then chanced to be in the road had to help the British ship into safety, while Prince Francesco Caracciolo showed his expert seamanship by sailing in swiftly over the tempestuous sea; but the skill that he showed on this occasion brought him neither admiration nor reward. It was, if anything, felt to be unfortunate that it should have been he and not the hero of Aboukir Bay to make this display of marvellous seamanship. In the wake of the Royal flight were the red flares of the Neapolitan ships then in the harbour, which, upon being deserted by their seamen, were burnt by Commodore Campbell in command of the Portuguese frigates.
Sick, dishevelled, and shaken with grief at the loss of her son, Maria Carolina landed on the quay at Palermo, attended by her frightened children and her ragged retinue. Emma, however, had kept up her spirits; she and Mrs. Cadogan had shown their superiority to a parcel of foreigners; indeed, so spirited had been her conduct that Nelson, writing an account of the Royal flight to Lord St. Vincent, gave her official praise:
"It is my duty to tell your Lordship the obligation which the Royal Family as well as myself are under on this trying occasion to Lady Hamilton. Lady Hamilton provided her own bed, linen, etc., and except one man, no person belonging to Royalty has helped the Royal Family, nor did her Ladyship enter a bed the whole time she was on board."
The reception given to the fugitives by the Sicilians was, as the Queen bitterly remarked, what might have been expected--curiosity touched with suspicion and contempt. The Royal visit was entirely unexpected, and nothing was ready for the Queen's comfort. The accommodation available at the Royal Palace was of the most wretched kind. Always voluble, a prodigious letter-writer, and in need of a confidant, the Queen sat down the day after her arrival in Palermo and scribbled off two long letters to the Marchese di Gallo, the Neapolitan Minister at the Imperial Court, a man whom she disliked and whom she had violently abused, but to whom she now turned in her distress.
In her own breathless hysteric and vivid way, she described, in cipher and lemon juice, the sufferings that seemed to her without parallel, and despatched the letters to Vienna in the hope which underlay the hysteric scrawl that di Gallo would be able to persuade the Emperor to come to her assistance:
"The most unhappy of Queens, mothers and women, writes this to you. I say the most unhappy because I feel everything so acutely and I doubt if I shall survive what has happened to me during the last forty days. We fled from Naples on Friday. The arrangements for burning the ships kept us till Sunday in the harbour, where we received deputations that came to harangue us to try and make us return, but never thought of arming themselves to defend us. Mack came on board Sunday morning, half-dead, weeping, exclaiming that all was lost, that treason and cowardice were at their height and that his only consolation was to see us on board Nelson's ship. The sailors fled from the ship; at last we had to put English and Portuguese sailors to replace them. At least 1,500 sailors fled in one night. We had at last to man the Sannita and the Archimede--without which Nelson would not sail, with foreigners. The Portuguese remained behind in the harbour to burn, to my eternal grief, our beautiful Navy, which has cost us so much. We set sail at eight hours of the evening. Our misfortunes which are such that I wish to die! To begin with the most essential, at Palermo people seemed pleased to see us but not enthusiastic. The nobles crowded round; they seem to have no desire but to obtain all they can and my heart tells me that if the Emperor does not soon put himself in action it will not be four months before we are forced out of Sicily as we were out of Naples. I would offer these vultures all the jewels and treasures which we have with us, if they would only leave us to live and die in peace...
"Indeed, I feel desperate. I vow to you I do not think I can live in this condition. I do not believe I shall survive. In the name of God, arrange for my unhappy daughters to go to Vienna where marriages can be arranged for them or they can retire to the Convent of the Visitation. My daughter-in-law is very ill with her chest; she is not likely to survive. Their father, though I should not speak of that, does not seem to feel anything except what concerns himself personally and not much of that, or to realize that he has lost the best part of his crown and his revenues. He only takes notice of the novelties that amuse him, without thinking that we are reduced to a quarter of our revenue, dishonoured, unhappy, and have led others into the same unhappiness. Indeed, I am in despair, I do not think I shall survive. Everything displeases me here, all I love best has gone. The civilities here are such as would be given to a King who has lost everything. I think no more of grandeur, nor of glory, nor of honours, I only think to live retired in a corner."
After a pause for Emma's ministrations and a little repose, the unhappy Queen continued to put her troubles on paper:
"The details of all our suffering will make you tremble. It has really been beyond my strength to endure, and I feel that I shall not survive. Friday the 21st, following a revolt in the town, people killed and wounded under the windows of the King, talk of the people confiscating the Castles, the arms, and forbidding anyone to leave the City, flight was decided upon. What I suffered during the rest of this day cannot be expressed. There was a cold north wind as we left at night. I trembled like a leaf. Without my virtuous and attached Mimi I should have fallen a thousand times. Think of the horror of this, with six children and my young daughter-in-law and an infant at the breast! We arrived on board all rigid with cold and I half-insensible with unhappiness. We passed that first night without bed, without light, fire or supper. Saturday, the 22nd, began with a letter from the deputation, everyone demanding to speak to the King, who would see no one. The wretched day passed in this misery and my heart was torn. We tried everywhere to find what was necessary for so many children accustomed to every luxury, but in vain. At last on Sunday morning arrived poor General Mack. We received him, and he was much struck to see an unhappy, but honest, loyal, sensible family, seated like beggars on the ground. The sailors fled; even by offering them gold we could not keep them. At last four vessels, five frigates, ten galleons, twelve corvettes, ninety shallops were condemned to be burnt, proving the infamy of our sailors, who, though they cried 'Long live the King' continued to flee, and so condemned to the fire the fruits of so much trouble, so much money. Niza, the Portuguese Admiral, performed this work so cruel to me, and the Sannita and the Archimede left, the last with four hundred sailors, and the Sannita with two hundred, of which half were English and Portuguese, all the Neapolitans having fled. We raised anchor at eight o'clock in the evening. At midnight the bad weather commenced, but the storm did not really break till Monday, the 24th. We were all the voyage lying on the ground, eleven of us in the demi-poop, the women half-unconscious, two sailors kept bringing us vinegar and basins in which to vomit. At one o'clock after midday there came such a tempest that the sails were all torn to shreds, both in our vessel and that of Caracciolo. We began to think ourselves lost. The mast broke, the sailors were climbing about with hatchets to cut down the damaged rigging. Louise was in her chemise on her knees, Amelia demanding a confessor who would come to give her absolution, Leopold the same. I felt so unhappy to think of what had happened and what must happen yet, that I saw death come without regret, trusting in the Divine Mercy and content to perish with my children. Towards two o'clock the danger ceased and Nelson said that in the thirty years he had been at sea he had never seen such a storm, a wind and tempest. When night came the sea was so heavy that everything had to be roped. We remained still on the ground. Tuesday, Christmas Day, the storm diminished a little, and at nine o'clock my son Albert, aged six years and a half, who had never suffered from convulsions, though so very delicate, suddenly took one so strong that, though he had never vomited, he died at half-past seven in the evening in the midst of us, despite all our remedies. Let any mother judge of my feelings. His dear little corpse stayed with us until five o'clock in the morning, when we arrived, and I hastened to disembark. The town of Palermo is large, the Palace uninhabited, inconvenient, cold, lacking everything, neither chairs, nor bed, nor sofa, nor anything. One half-furnished apartment, which was warmed, had to serve for my daughter-in-law and her child. The former is very sickly, but I hope to prolong her life. I have been bled, all my children are ill, nobody has yet recovered from the voyage. I have besides the frightful loss of my child and that of our realm. The King is well, the Prince the same. The Princess suffers with her chest and keeps coughing. My daughters and Leopold are sad, overcome, suffering, and think as I do. I have seen little here, but everything affects me, and I believe I cannot live long here; I am convinced that I shall succumb, and my death is indifferent to me, if I can see my six daughters and Leopold established in some religious institution in Austria. I see everything black. Give all these frightful and truthful details to the Empress, my daughter.
"I feel everything, as I alone can feel. I foresaw all and no one would listen to me. Religion can alone support me. Italy is in the hands of barbarians, our commerce is ruined. Further, for the climax of unhappiness, the few effects and the goods we saved have been lost in the tempest. I do not even like to think how many honest people have perished--only the diamonds are saved. I should have preferred to have kept more useful furnishings. As for me, I am in true despair, convinced that Sicily will soon follow the example of Naples, and that we shall lose life and honour. If the sea voyage were not so long I would try to get to Austria, but I fear too much to lose another child. The King passes my comprehension. He has already taken a little house in the country. Prince Jaci is his factotum. He goes each evening to the theatre or the masked ball and is gay and content, is irritated if anyone talks to him of Naples, will not give any audiences, will not show himself officially in any public place, he grumbles at anyone who mentions business to him and speaks as if nothing had happened; therefore they all despise him and do as they please. I am quite sure I shall perish here; I cannot live much longer and my children will remain without a mother, abandoned orphans. O blessed tempest, why do you not engulf us all?"
Throughout that winter the Queen continued to write to the Marchese di Gallo, a man whom she had scornfully declared to be "half a Frenchman," but on whom she now relied to urge the Emperor to assist her. These letters were all of the same tone, full of lamentations, descriptions of her miserable situation, and constant assertions that she "would not be able to survive."
The King had, as his wife so bitterly noted, slipped easily into his old comfortable ways. Avoiding his querulous wife and sickly family as much as possible, he settled down to the only kind of life he relished. As long as he had his boon companions and petty cash for his pleasures, he was content, and considered himself to be well rid of Naples.
"He is a philosopher," said Lord Nelson, adding with zest, "God bless him."
Emma and Mrs. Cadogan, cheerful and resourceful, did what they could for the Queen, but the winter was bitter, the Palace rooms gaunt and unfurnished. The Royal children went from one illness to another. It was believed that the Crown Princess, the Archduchess Clementine, was dying of consumption. She was kept alive only by a milk diet. The stone-floored Palace, with the long, uncurtained windows and undraped doors, lacked every comfort. There were no cushions, no easy chairs, no good beds; worst of all was the cold. The Queen's cries against the draughts, the chilly atmosphere, and the bitter winds rose to heaven.
The British ships, men-of-war, and the merchant-men rode in the harbour; the British sailors and refugees did what they could to accommodate themselves in Palermo. The polished, elegant Sicilian nobility viewed the Royal caravan with cynic amusement, those who hoped to get something out of the King hung round him, all others remained aloof; there was always somebody to give a masked ball, a company to perform at the theatres, enough singers and musicians to get up a concert.
Emma's indomitable energy soon produced a fair imitation of the delights of Naples; she did not relax any of the arts that fascinated Lord Nelson, and she was constantly his companion during these trying winter months, while her old husband sat shrunken in front of the smoking wood-fires cursing the mighty winds that blew from Etna and lamenting over the cases of vases which had been lost in the famous tempest.
Queen Maria Carolina, with her usual exaggeration, had greatly overstated the Royal losses on the passage from Naples to Palermo. Most of the booty besides the diamonds had been saved, and the only life lost had been that of the unhappy little Prince Albert.
Never had a city been more completely abandoned than Naples. When the populace saw that the harbour was clear of British shipping and that the Royal Family had fled, they soon discovered that they had been despoiled not only of every means of defence, but almost of every means of existence. There was no money in the Royal Treasury or in the banks, everything of value had gone from the Royal Palaces and museums; private property belonging to Royalists and foreigners had been taken away by British and allied ships. The army that had followed King Ferdinand to Rome and back was now split up into marauding banditti; there were not enough regular troops left in Naples to garrison one of the castles. The sailors who had deserted the Royalist ships were without officers and practically disbanded. There was no form of government; Prince Pignatelli had been left as Regent with the foolish injunction "to defend Calabria to the last rock."
On January 12th news came that General Mack von Leiberich, who had returned to Capua, had surrendered to Championnet, who refused his sword with the smiling remark that his Government had forbidden him to accept goods of English manufacture.
The leading citizens hastily got together in some attempt at law and order, and sent deputations to wait on the Regent, who put them off with evasive replies. On December 28th the anxious inhabitants of Naples saw smoke rising off the coast at Posilippo, and learned that the Portuguese Commodore, the Marchese di Niza, acting under whose orders no one knew, was burning the Neapolitan Fleet, which had been Prince Francesco Caracciolo's pride and occupation for years and which had successfully kept at bay the Corsair.
During the next few days the wintry seas about Castellamare and other places along the coast were illuminated with bonfires fed by Neapolitan ships. Some believed that the Portuguese Commodore had received his orders from Lord Nelson, some thought that this was the Queen's meddling, some thought that he had acted on his own initiative; the actual destruction of the fleet had been carried out by Commodore Campbell, a Scotsman in the service of Portugal. The wanton destruction of the Navy which had cost so much to build, and which had been a source of satisfaction to all honest Neapolitans, caused distress and indignation in the heart of every patriot. One of them wrote: "It was a pitiful sight to see the burning ships while the nation was robbed of its strength--so many tears, so much substance and wealth of the citizens were consumed. All night long they kept on burning, keeping the whole sea ablaze."
This strange act, which completed the defencelessness of the great city, increased the panic in Naples; there were reports that all the wood stored for shipbuilding and all the grain in the granaries at the Porta della Maddalena were also to be destroyed.
Deputations of the more responsible citizens waited in vain on the Regent, he would receive no one; petitions were ignored; Championnet was at Spavanise, a few miles off, and the tumult, tension and fear, in Naples became fearful; the militia, or town guard, paced before the threatened stores, while there were bread riots in the streets, and the citizens sat long hours in anxious conclave.
Anarchy was in sight; the situation resembled that of Paris in 1792, save that, in Naples, the mob was loyal to the sovereigns, and the aristocrats as well as the intellectual middle-classes, were republican in sentiment.
These people were hot against the Queen; it was said that she had been heard to declare that she would "leave Naples nothing but its eyes to weep with." Her hand was suspected in everything; the only hope of safety--of existence--seemed to be in the coming of the French.
By January 11th, Pignatelli had made ruinous terms with the French Generals; a two months' truce was purchased by ceding Capua with all its military stores and a line passing from Acerra on the Mediterranean to the mouth of the Ofanto on the Adriatic; the ports of the two Sicilies were to be declared neutral, and Ferdinand was to indemnify the Republic by a payment of ten million francs. After telling the city to raise the sum the French demanded, Pignatelli took flight, disguised, appropriately enough, as an old woman; when he reached Palermo, Ferdinand, for no particular reason, put him in prison. The lazzaroni were now rising; they were still desperately and blindly loyal; furious at the thought of the Frenchmen's succeeding without much difficulty, after getting arms from two regiments which arrived from Leghorn they began to parade the streets, shooting and sacking. Everyone in the confusion was fighting with everybody else, not quite knowing why or how; the prisoners in the Vicaria rose, the militia fired on the mob. The brilliant city was falling into the convulsions of anarchy, while Maria Carolina sat in her cold, marble room in the Palermo Palace, scribbling her lamentations to di Gallo.
King Ferdinand was better served in Naples than he deserved to be; the faithful lazzaroni seized and captured the Castel Nuovo and ran up the Royal banner, after carrying off all the arms and ammunition in the fort. The Castel dell' Ovo and Sant' Elmo fell both rapidly and easily into the hands of the people and all three forts soon displayed the vermilion pavilion of the Sicilian Bourbons.
The better classes believed that the Regent Pignatelli, acting on orders from the Queen, had arranged, before his flight, for the garrisons in the forts to give way to the people. The Royal adherents, in other words, the lowest, basest part of the population, then opened the prisons and began massacring everyone whom they suspected of Jacobin principles, including any young men whom they happened to see wearing trousers or short hair. The turmoil was not soothed by the news that, when the Regent had fled, he had taken with him the last five hundred thousand ducats of the public money.
On the 19th the mob barbarously murdered the Duca della Torre and his brother. Della Torre was a mathematician and geologist, whose cabinets of curiosities and scientific instruments were among the finest in Italy, and whose collections of antiquities rivalled those of Sir William Hamilton. He was a wealthy man and of an ancient family; he had wished to accompany the King to Sicily, but for some reason been refused permission. Like every other cultured gentleman in Naples, he was suspected of Jacobinism. The mob broke into his Palace, which they completely sacked, destroying among other rarities a priceless library, pictures by Raphael, Titian, Correggio and Giorgione valued at upwards of a hundred thousand ducats, an elaborate collection of mechanical instruments and a costly laboratory. The Duca and his brother, after the Palace had been stripped till nothing but the bare walls were left standing, were dragged to the Marinella, there shot, and burned in tar-barrels on bonfires.
When Maria Carolina heard of this, she was not disturbed. It rather brightened her own exile:
"I believe that the people were entirely right," she wrote to the Empress.
Some of the other news from Naples was not so gratifying to the Queen. The patriots by means of strategy had contrived to get possession of Sant' Elmo, and from the great fort they ran up the tricolour flag. From the ramparts they could see Championnet's camp-fires.
The Republicans marched on the city from every side; the lazzaroni fought in a fury of bravery worthy of a better King. It was only after three days of hand-to-hand struggling in the streets, which he had to clear by firing guns at close range, and wherein he was assisted by the batteries of the Patriots from the castles, that the French General was able to occupy Naples. All parties of decent people, though they named themselves Patriots, Republicans or Liberals, were united against the lazzaroni, and ready to make common cause with the French.
The next news that reached Palermo was sufficient to send the Queen into a faint, falling on Emma's resplendent bosom. Championnet was completely master of the city; everyone, even the lazzaroni, was now subdued, and won over by a compliment to San Gennaro.
Championnet had been welcomed by the Patriots and a Republic with the pedantic name of Parthenopean had been proclaimed.
This name was in the popular, intellectual tradition, an echo of the classical idealism of the dead Gironde, a tribute to that enthusiasm for Brutus, Plutarch, and the heroes and heroines of Corneille and Racine, that had proved at once so stimulating and misleading to the children of the French Revolution.
But, childish and affected as the name might seem, it was not altogether inappropriate: Parthenope was the ancient name of Neapolis or Naples, so called from the name of a Siren whose dead body was cast up on this rocky coast.
The ideals that these desperate, exalted, honest, gifted men followed, might have been likened to the themes of the songs of the Sirens, seductive, luring to destruction--the echoes of a melody uttered by a Siren already dead.
General Championnet, an idealist himself, chose the most brilliant, unselfish, scholarly and single minded, of the intellectuals, professors, poets, doctors of medicine, scholars, and men of letters, to rule his new Republic. Naples being what it was, a worse choice could hardly have been made. The selection of a President was typical of the new government; Carlo Lauberg, in a French uniform, with the office of chief chemist to the Republican forces, seemed a fine combination of talent, efficiency and science; but he was an unfrocked monk, who had married, and fled from Naples some time before on account of his Jacobinism, he was, while honest and zealous, a fanatic, and the last person likely to appeal for long to the lazy, ignorant, superstitious, Neapolitans, while his election was an unforgivable insult alike to the Church and the Bourbon.
The mob had committed hideous excesses during the struggle with the French. In the middle of their patriotic efforts they had lost interest in the battle and had begun to loot the city indiscriminately, including the Palace of the very monarch for whom they so ferociously fought. While some of the lazzaroni were hurling stones from the house-tops on the French, others carried off the doors and window-frames from the Royal residence. Many of them had been heard to lament that if the fight in the streets with Championnet's troops had lasted only another day, the lazzaroni would have been able to enrich themselves for life by sacking the entire city. The French General lost a thousand men during the battle in the streets; it was believed that four times that number of lazzaroni were slaughtered.
But the brilliant city quickly recovered its gay spirits. A popular speech from the tactful Championnet, whose Italian was clear and easy, a present to San Gennaro, a guard of honour for the Saint, a few promises, a burst of sunshine, and the crowd was screaming; "Long Live the French"; in dark wine-shops and bagnios, where the British sailors had revelled away their prize-money, the soldiers of the French Republic refreshed themselves after their labours with the same zest and the same welcome.
The flags of the new Republic, red, blue and yellow, stitched together from cloths taken from the Church of San Martino were flying above the massive fortification of Sant' Elmo; the Carthusian monks feasted the patriots in the Certosa. On Sunday a Te Deum (despite the French atheism) was sung in the Cathedral, Champion-net superintended the planting of a Tree of Liberty before the King's residence which his own loyal subjects had so zealously sacked; this was an elaborate affair, a huge pine-tree, uprooted in the neighbourhood with all its roots and branches, the famous Phrygian Cap crowned the topmost branch, while the new colours of the Parthenopeans were bound to the trunk with those tricolour ribbons the French always carried with them.
The King's supporters in Naples seemed as happy as Ferdinand himself, who was in Palermo not in the least affected by the news which sent the Queen into convulsions of rage; her husband shook it all off with his habitual good humour; he had two and a half millions of money into which to dip, several factotums to see to his pleasure, a nice little house in the country, and Sicily seemed to him in every way as desirable as Naples.
With a shrug he dismissed all thoughts of his lost Kingdom, but the Queen, thinking of that French-born Republic across the water, was ready to die of rage and shame--"I cannot survive" was the burden of her letters to di Gallo, who was not able to stir the Emperor into action on her behalf.
The news of the French success across the water did not greatly affect Emma; she, too, like the King soon settled down to the new conditions. The Sicilian winter might be bitter, but it was soon over. Emma always knew how to achieve a certain comfort; the new mode of life suited her very well, for Lord Nelson, as a matter of course, had made his home with the Hamiltons; he was no longer a guest in their Palace, but one, as it were, of the family.
To the Sicilians the withered old husband, the buxom wife, and the draggled hero, were three very familiar characters, who always made their appearance in every farce and puppet-show, and whose antics were always highly applauded.
When she was in Naples, one of Emma's famous impersonations had been a young girl with a raree-show, she was now providing a raree-show in real life and one much relished by the spectators. She was enjoying herself hugely and cared nothing about what was happening in Naples or anywhere else; Sir William had rented a grandiose Palace containing fifty great painted rooms. There the three of them lived with Mrs. Cadogan in attendance and a swarm of hired servants installed.
As the Queen had persuaded herself that all her plunder had been lost in the tempest, so Emma was talking about nine thousand pounds' worth of valuables left behind at the British Embassy. The truth was that she had saved everything worth saving and had trunks of dresses, boxes of plate, cases of china and every kind of luxury with which to furnish her new abode, nor was it altogether unpleasing to her vanity to be able to pose as the heroine of a great tragedy and the confidante of a Queen in distress. She was not cowardly; besides, she felt sure there was no real danger--the British Fleet was in the harbour, and the hero Nelson was as much attached to her as the locket to her wrist; she kept open house for all the British in Sicily.
By March the lazy, cynic city of Palermo had by then learnt that a hero was dwelling in their midst, and presented Lord Nelson with the Freedom of the City in a golden casket. The Sicilians, at once subtler, finer and easier, than the Neapolitans, and completely indifferent to the Bourbon dynasty which to them was an alien tyranny, viewed with detached amusement the antics of the exiled royalties and of the foreigners, and saw to it that a large portion of the plunder of Naples should pass into their hands.
With Sir William, the convenient mari complaisant fast becoming decrepit, Emma found that the life at Palermo, which was even looser than that of Naples, suited her perfectly. She had, in a way, put aside her official position, and during this interlude she might forget she was the wife of His Britannic Majesty's Minister, just as easily as King Ferdinand forgot that he was supposed to be master of the Two Sicilies. When she was not encouraging the Queen in the draughty marble Palace, she was drawing closer her enchantments round the man whom she had long since marked as her own.
Their relationship was perfectly well understood by all, and, when the sudden spring adorned the gilded island with an intoxicating wealth of flowers, Emma had passed to Lord Nelson as she had passed to Sir William from Charles Greville.
His money was useful, too; the largesse given by a grateful nation went to foot the bills that Emma ran up. Sir William, who had become petulant in his new and humiliating position, had whined about the expense of keeping an open table for all the officers of the fleet in Palermo Harbour, and for all the British travellers who, even in this time of war, managed to straggle down into Italy; but there was no need for Emma to retrench; Lord Nelson's purse was now at her disposal; and she, feeling that practically the gratitude of the British nation was at her back to pay her expenses, became extravagant as she had never been in her life before.
Every evening there was a banquet, every night, gambling. There were wax-lights and liveried servants, costly dainties, and carriages and horses, silk and satin dresses for Emma. There was no longer Mr. Greville nor Sir William to keep her in check, to whisper to her how a gentlewoman behaved, there was only Lord Nelson to admire and applaud. Sometimes she would sit half the night at the green-baize tables, flinging down and taking up the piles of gold, while the hero, trying to keep up with the glittering activities of his Circe, would, drowsed with wine and fatigue, often fall asleep, nodding over the piled cards; as much as five hundred pounds was sometimes lost by Emma at these card parties, but she was often lucky and always good-humoured.
The news of this fantastic establishment in the Sicilian capital spread across Europe. The British Embassies and Chancellories, and the various Courts, were, or affected to be, scandalized.
The Admiralty thought that Lord Nelson might be better employed, the Foreign Office could hardly be gratified by the position occupied in Palermo by His Britannic Majesty's representative. But how was the scandal to be stopped ?--an odd combination of circumstances had given the game into Emma's hands.
Fanny, Lady Nelson, was mute, and silently suffering, living patiently with the Rev. Edmund in Burnham Thorpe; her son, Josiah Nisbet, had made scenes in Naples, on his mother's behalf, but in vain. To her husband Fanny was not only in another world, but non-existent. The possession of Emma had given him a desperate courage; between that and the fumes of his own glory his head was turned, and he was ready to defy the world. According to the theology of Burnham Thorpe, Palermo was the headquarters of all the sins, and the Palace which Nelson shared with Sir William and Emma, a fit abode for the Scarlet Woman. By what jugglery the man who thought that he had been raised up by God to pursue a holy war against infernal monsters reconciled himself to his being the lover of his host's wife, he alone knew; but, in some way, he had so justified himself to himself; he felt neither remorse nor regret, and his clouded mind was ready to believe that there was something divine in the woman who had dazzled his senses so that their love for each other redeemed everything. Love, the infatuated man named his passion, and the word was misused; but it served, as so often before and since, as a cloak for passions with uglier names. It was fashionable to affect to believe that "love" redeemed everything, and these lovers had caught up this convenient theory as aptly as if they had been characters in a French novel: "I hate their country and their manners," Nelson had once written of the French; but it was the French model of "sensibility" and illicit passion glossed by the unchallenged divinity of love, that he was unconsciously following. The man who prayed so fervently to a Deity he had never understood, this product of a rustic parsonage was playing a part familiar to the frequenters of the cheaper French theatres, the admirers of the crudest French farces.
Curiosity, perhaps a touch of malice, brought English travellers who had contrived to straggle across the seat of war to Palermo and to the Palace where the British Minister and his wife entertained the hero of the British people.
One such tourist who was received thus at Sir William's palace, noted curiously how Emma came into the room "leaning on her old husband's arm, her tresses floating round her full bosom." Short locks were unpopular because of the Jacobins, and she had allowed her ringlets, once cropped in classical fashion, to grow again. Emma clasped her bosom with an affected enthusiasm, declaring that she was languishing for her beloved Naples, but the visitor noticed that her colour was high and that her health seemed excellent. She had, of course, a great deal to say about the political situation. Her speech was a mixture of Lancashire and Italian; she referred constantly to her "dear Queen" and lamented over the valuable properties she had left behind in the Palazzo Sessa. One of the tourists, Lord Montgomery, she claimed as a cousin and begged him to stay to dinner. The hero came forward from a dark corner where he had been sitting over his desk, and began to cross-examine the Englishmen as to what was happening in Naples, as they had lately come from that city. He insinuated, rather impertinently they thought, that they should not have stayed in the rebel city so long; whereupon Lord Montgomery, who happened to be of Liberal tendencies, replied hotly that he much admired the Neapolitan Republicans, adding that true patriotism seemed extinct nowadays, upon which Lord Nelson and his fair friend exchanged very significant glances. The two Englishmen half-amused, half-disgusted, came to dinner that evening in Sir William's great Palazzo, when Lord Nelson took the opportunity to buttonhole one of them with:
"Say, sir, have you heard of the Battle of the Nile?"--continuing, "that battle was the most extraordinary one that was ever fought, and it is unique, sir, for three reasons. First, for having been fought at night, secondly, for having been fought at anchor, and thirdly, by its having been gained by an Admiral with one arm."
The Englishman was not impressed; he thought the speech more fitted to after-dinner, when an extra glass of wine might have excused it.
There were other visitors who were not so tolerant. When the new British Ambassador at Constantinople, Lord Elgin, came through Sicily, he noted emphatically "the necessity of a change in our representative at Naples and in our conduct there."
Captain Troubridge, no Puritan and attached to Nelson, who had been left as Commander of the Mediterranean squadron, wrote urgently:
"Pardon me, my Lord, it is my sincere esteem for you that makes me mention it. I know you can have no pleasure in sitting up all night at the cards. Why then sacrifice your health, purse, even everything. If you knew what your friends feel for you I am sure you will cut all the nocturnal parties. The gambling of the people at Palermo is publicly talked of everywhere."
Nothing had any effect--Emma might do as she pleased. The place was a fitting background to her enchantment; every night there were serenades on the water of the bay; moonlight began to fall on the breaking blossoms of orange-groves, on the amber-coloured rocks of Palermo, on the rich palaces with the twisted iron balconies where the luscious creepers hung, on the magnificent church where Frederick Hohenstaufen rotted to dust in his Imperial Purple. Everything was different from anything that Lord Nelson had known before, even more gorgeous, unexpected than Naples had been. In Palermo everything was for sale, and there was the money at hand with which to pay. The Queen might complain of lack of comfort, but neither the King, the Hamiltons nor Lord Nelson felt any pinch. In the spring the gorgeous island was like a basket of flowers, of jewels round the fruitful slopes of the snow-wreathed volcano. Blossoms plentiful enough to wreathe all the vanished nymphs of Greece blazoned the fields of which Theocritus had sung. Was not this an earthly Paradise to those of the fogs, mists and damps? The art of man had cunningly enhanced nature; there were gardens where fountains flashed in trim allies, where temples shone white amid the perfumed boughs of syringa, oleanders and pomegranate; there were walks where hedges of hornbeam, cut stiff as walls, cast a purple shade. There was the Palace in the Conca d'Oro in the Chinese style, where even the Christian chapel was hung with Eastern bells like a pagoda, and where the superb garden was laid out in the curve of the golden shell, where the corn-coloured cliffs rose bare into the violet sky and to right and left could be seen the blaze of the ocean. Within the toy-like palace were dainty contrivances for amusement, for enjoyment, a table that rose, loaded with dainties, through the floor, at the pressing of a button, alcoves where water slid over the backs of kneeling marble Tritons offering rose-leaves in a shell, lattices of scented wood through which the sunlight streamed in slats of gold, couches piled with cushions filled with swansdown. And, when flowers staled by their profusion, there were more costly ornaments to please the eye, crystal dishes filled with coral and pearl, a coffee-service painted with the portraits of the heroes of the Nile, some of Sir William's rescued treasures--a bronze satyr, a Pompeian vase, encrusted with masks, a Renaissance jewel that winked emerald and ruby.
And always there was Emma, with her Olympian beauty, her voluptuous curves, her jolly laugh, her unfailing kindness, her high spirits that filled the days with excitement.
She was so clever, too, at arranging those drama scenes that greatly pleased the victor of the Nile; Emma's histrionics vivaciously expressed something in his own temperament.
A Turk was sent by the Czar of all the Russias with a presentation snuff-box, and Lord Nelson received him in the Pelisse and Plume of Triumph sent by the Grand Seigneur. Emma worked this up into a gratifying scene. The Turk was afterwards entertained to dinner, when he took too much rum, and encouraged by Emma's smiles he leapt up, drawing his sword:
"With this weapon I cut off the heads of twenty French prisoners in one day. Look, there is blood remaining on it."
Emma kissed the sword and handed it to Lord Nelson.
Then there was the excitement of the arrival of cases from England, as much as fifty guineas' worth of prints of the Battle of the Nile, all the caricatures in the newspapers, ballads and other evidences of the great popularity of the hero, and the walls of the Sicilian palaces began to be plastered with his exploits praised in his native tongue.
There remained a fear that Fanny might come out to join him; distasteful amid all this excitement as it was to write to her, her husband forced himself to pen such letters as would prevent this catastrophe.
"You would have seen how unpleasant it would have been if you followed any advice which carried you from England to a wandering sailor. I could, if you had come, only have struck my flag and carried you back again, for it would have been impossible to have set up an establishment either at Naples or Palermo."
But he was not for ever happy and was never content. Melancholia and sickness often overtook him for days together; he wrote in a fanatic, half-crazy strain to his friends:
"My only wish is to sink with honour into a grave, and when I do that I shall meet death with a smile."
These delights did not grace any definite action; nothing much was done by the Bourbons, the Hamiltons or Lord Nelson, to dislodge the French who seemed to be firmly established in Naples, where the aristocrats and the intellectuals were, with fervent honesty and energetic idealism, trying to build up a Republic, and this in spite of every handicap. The women had their petty intrigues to vex and confuse what Lord Nelson, unfamiliar with classical names, termed the Vesuvian Republic, but for the rest, the British Fleet idled, for no particular reason, in the Harbour of Palermo.
To one man at least the situation was intolerable. Prince Francesco Caracciolo had been wounded in his pride as a man, as a patriot, and as a sailor. He, who had devoted his life to the interests of the Neapolitan Navy, had had to see it almost utterly destroyed in a moment of panic and fear, he, who had been a loyal subject of the Bourbons, a personal friend of the King, had had to see himself set aside, while a foreigner had been overwhelmed with adulation and entrusted with the persons of the Royal Family and with all their treasure.
He saw that neither Lord Nelson, nor Sir William Hamilton, nor indeed any of the English, understood a jot of the political situation of his unhappy country; he saw that they were committing blunder after blunder, the results of which were tending to the utter ruin of the Kingdom of Naples.
Not only was Lord Nelson absolutely incapable of judging the political situation of Italy or of Europe, but he was, in the estimate of a man like Prince Francesco Caracciolo, of no birth--a parvenu. Indeed, Horatio Nelson, proud as he was of his connection with the Walpoles, was, even in the indulgent eyes of his own countrymen, scarcely a gentleman. He had had during his whole career to complain of being neglected as an outsider. Nor had he ever been able to acquire any veneer of breeding.
To a Neapolitan of ancient race, like Francesco Caracciolo, everything the Englishman did and said, jarred, and the flattery so grossly showered on him, that he so greedily accepted, was nauseating.
The burning of that fleet with which the Neapolitan Admiral had kept the coasts clear of pirates was a hard blow to Caracciolo, and it was reasonable to impute some of the blame for this frantic act to the all-powerful Englishman. Lord Nelson indeed, and no doubt with sincerity, repudiated Commodore Campbell's action and went so far as to say that he would court-martial him were he under his command, but the Queen smoothed the matter over.
In any case the fleet had gone and it was not easy to trust the word of one obviously in such a hysterical condition as was the English Admiral, nor to respect the good faith of the Queen. Indeed, in the exaggerated, often lying letters she was writing frequently to the Marchese di Gallo at Vienna, Maria Carolina described the destruction of the fleet as having occurred on January 5th; it had taken place on the eighth of that month, and the news did not come to Palermo till some days later.
It was not difficult, therefore, for Prince Francesco Caracciolo to credit the bitter rumour that the property of the people of Naples, and his own especial interest and pride, had been sent up in flames to satisfy the spite and fears of the Queen and the wild, random policy of Lord Nelson. No man of sense could have placed any reliance on the judgment of the Englishman after his advice to Ferdinand to march on Rome. Nor could the Italian aristocrat respect either the behaviour or the morals of this son of a puritanical English rectory; manners were lax in Neapolitan Court circles, but the spectacle which the Hamiltons and Lord Nelson provided, while they raved of patriotism, glory, and virtue, was too much even for southern Italian broad-mindedness.
Not only was the thing scandalous to the squeamish, it was in its grossness, vanity, and lack of humour offensive to the well-bred.
No friends of Prince Francesco Caracciolo had fled with the Royal Family; only the moral scum of Naples had shared that shameful flight; round the King and Queen, as always, were the foreigners Maria Carolina had encouraged at the expense of the Neapolitan nobility; Tuscans and Austrians, flattering the Englishman Sir John Acton, who was amusing his exile by making arrangements to marry his brother's daughter. Francesco Caracciolo detested these people; across the sea in the abandoned city were his family, his friends, his fellow-countrymen, all he admired, all he loved. He knew their worth, the sincerity of their motives, the desperate situation in which they had been left, the odious tyranny under which they had suffered. These men, and Francesco Caracciolo himself, were patriotic in a fashion unknown to Lord Nelson and the Hamiltons; they did not expect honours, glory, stars, ribbons, praise, and pensions; they were prepared to risk all they had, to dare utter ruin and an ignominious and horrible death for the sake of an ideal--la patria. Republicanism was in the air; intelligent people everywhere were infected, sometimes to madness, by the hopes of a possible new order for mankind, by visions of liberty, tranquillity, the spread of intellectualism, humanitarianism, a reaching upwards to a universal felicity.
To such people the claims of Divine Right--all the intricate entanglement of dying, dead or corrupting systems of government that encumbered Europe--seemed disgusting and farcical. Francesco Caracciolo might well ask himself if any loyalty was due to Ferdinand Bourbon, who had twice forfeited his claims to kingship--(a claim at best founded on a dubious foreign conquest)--first, by utter misgovernment, secondly, by despoiling and abandoning his country in a moment of crisis.
After a few weeks at Palermo, Francesco Caracciolo requested permission to go to Naples to look after his affairs. This was granted, not without a sharp warning from Sir John Acton, and the Neapolitan Admiral arrived in his native city on March 2nd; he was warmly welcomed by the men trying to rule the kingdom. Carlo Lauberg, the President, chemist and mathematician, Pasquale Baffi, one of the finest Greek scholars in the world, Mario Pagano, the famous jurist, and Domenico Cirillo, a celebrated botanist, Gabriele Manthoné, a brave high-minded soldier, General Massa, the General Federici who had told King Ferdinand to his face of his faults, and such brilliant young aristocrats as Ettore Carafa, Gennaro Serra di Cassano, Prince Pignatelli di Strongoli, Prince Ferdinando Pignatelli, Prince Moliterno, the Duca di Roccaromana and many other like-minded patriotic aristocrats. Supporting these energetic, talented, and devoted men, were a group of fervent middle-class intellectuals, such as Vincenzo Cuoco, Vincenzo Russo and Ignazio Giaja, the poet, and several high-born ladies conspicuous among whom were Giulia Carafa, the Duchessa di Cassano, and Maria Antonia Carafa, Duchessa di Popoli, noble and beautiful sisters, who were prepared to risk all they possessed for republican ideals.
Francesco Caracciolo was welcomed also by the Madame Roland of this Gironde--the muse of the Parthenopean Republic, Eleanora Fonseca Pimentel, a poetess of merit, a cultured intelligent woman, who was then devoting herself to editing, with skill and enthusiasm, the official journal of the Republic--Il Monitore.
The Neapolitan Admiral thus found himself surrounded by all that was familiar, inspiriting, agreeable; in contrast to what he had left, which was alien, degrading, hateful. In Naples was all he liked, in Palermo all he detested. No man who possessed any reasoning power, and who was capable of a cool judgment, could have failed to see where his loyalty lay.
Emma had to console the Queen for more bad news from across the water; Francesco Caracciolo, loved, respected by all classes in Naples, the idol of the disbanded sailors who were longing for revenge for their burnt ships, had joined his friends and had entered the ranks of the Republican army as a foot-soldier in the National Guard.
Maria Carolina was beside herself with fury at this dastardly treachery, as she termed it, but she and Emma soon contrived to amuse each other with a new intrigue.
This consisted in fomenting, by petty means, royalist risings in Naples. The trick was to smuggle into Naples printed pamphlets, or leaflets, that were written by the Queen, but purported to be Republican proclamations likely to cause public indignation and trouble between the Neapolitans and the French; some of these false manifestoes gave out that Easter, and other great religious festivals were to be abolished, others gave notice of imaginary conspiracies against Championnet, which were likely to inflame him against the Republican middle-classes.
This stuff was slipped by Emma into the Minister's post-bag for Leghorn, from there it was distributed to English residents who sent it through the ordinary post to Royalist agents in Naples; these were mostly among the lazzaroni, who enjoyed any excuse for making mischief. Anyone of intelligence saw through the trick; only those, the very ignorant, whose mentality was the same as that of the Queen, were deceived. But some trouble was caused; French soldiers were murdered, when they were caught unawares, and constant disorders broke out among the basso populo. The Republican Government, as incapable as brilliant and honourable, was harassed and bewildered.
The Queen continued to be unhappy in this Sicilian exile; she quarrelled with everyone, and her lamentations were unending; her letters, ill spelt, ill written, testify not only to her condition of life, but to the state of her mind.
"My health is very poor. I inhabit a fresh, new apartment where nobody has ever lodged before, without tapestries or furniture and a cold to make one tremble. I had a high fever. At present I have a heavy cold on the chest which nothing can remove except the opium which I take at night to stupefy my sense a little. The King is quite well, I envy him. He is not in the least afflicted, only irritated to see me always in tears. My daughter-in-law makes me feel unquiet. She often has little fevers, sweats at night, and dry coughs. The other day she coughed up two handkerchiefs full of blood. She is horribly thin; she lives on a milk diet and keeps in bed. Francesco has a cough, very often fever, and I believe that another tragedy is preparing for me, and bow my head to Divine Will. I believe that I cannot endure many more misfortunes. My daughters are still ill from what they suffered on the sea, from the damp here, from the cold, and from the privation of all conveniences that we find here. My three daughters and Leopold are all this morning in my chamber so that the apartment where they sleep can be aired a little. There are fifteen beds in four rooms, where they pass the night. There is not a single covered wall in the place, nor a sofa, nor an arm-chair; nothing but white walls, a straw chair; and without a fireplace, the cold is enough to kill one. Also I have a cold that never ceases, and each evening causes me a little fever. I beg with tears in my eyes to remember that the greatest act of friendship you can do for me, that which will bring all my sincere and devoted gratitude, will be to find establishments for my daughters. That will allow me to die in peace and tranquillity."
A letter sent later continues in the same strain.
"For me my only hope is for a miracle sent by Providence; it is no more use relying on human means of succour, unless you can do something for us. If you can, you will be indeed our saviour. For me, I only desire to remain quietly at home, and far from the world. I vegetate in the narrow circle of my friends and mix no more with anything. I see that you and I have the same ideas as to the future of the Princess. This good young person is always in bed, takes milk four times a day, with opium pills, and despite that her dry cough never comes to an end. She is certainly in a consumption and coughs up blood in quantities, has abundant sweat, and always her young husband sleeps beside her. They ought to be separated. My health is always bad. I cannot recover. The blow has been beyond my forces, my strength to endure. Here everything afflicts me, and besides I lack everything. The little that I have left must be for those who have exiled themselves for us...The King is charmed to be in safety. He economizes in a villainous fashion at our expense, torments us horribly, goes out to a theatre, the country, and is not in the least affected. The Prince and the Princesses are sick and suffering. My daughters and Leopold suffer, but try to console me. I am desperate, nothing can comfort me. The government here is in such a state that there is very little one can do..."
In all the long correspondence there is no mention of the devoted Emma, and very little of the hero of the Nile. The one object of the correspondence was to goad di Gallo into teasing the Emperor to drive out of Naples those insolent Republicans with their tricolours, Trees of Liberty, and Phrygian caps, who made Maria Carolina feel ill every time she thought of them.
In May, in the ripe heat of the Sicilian spring, news came that another French Fleet had put to sea. It was believed to be making for the Mediterranean and Lord St. Vincent ordered Lord Nelson to join him at Minorca; the answer was a refusal to obey.
"I am sorry that I cannot move to your help. This island appears to hang on my stay. Nothing could console the Queen if I departed, as I promised not to leave them."
He added irrelevantly that his heart was breaking and he was seriously unwell.
On May 19th, however, he set sail on the Vanguard, writing immediately to Emma:
"You cannot conceive what I feel when I recall you all to my remembrance."
The French, through the laxity of the British blockade, slipped into Brest, and in not much more than a week Lord Nelson returned to Palermo. He was received with a fulsome flattery that would have made a sane man wince. When he was twenty-four he had written:
"I have closed the war without a fortune, but I trust, from the attention that has been paid to me, that there is not a speck on my character. True honour, I hope, predominates in my mind far above riches."
Yet now he did allow Maria Carolina publicly to crown him with honour on his return from an eventless voyage--he had not even seen the enemy. There had been a time when he had considered the wearing of epaulets on a naval uniform a little cheap; now he was pleased to wear Turkish aigrettes, sable capes, and that most unbecoming of honours, a wreath of laurel.
His fortune was being rapidly spent; Emma kept no check on the expenditure and Sir William never asked where the money came from as long as the bills were met.
Long before, Lord Nelson had written of another woman, Miss Andrews: "Had I a million of money, I am sure I should this moment make her an offer of them." Had he had a million of money then it would have been at Emma's disposal.
The war began to take a turn against the Republicans; Russia took an active share in hostilities and captured Corfu; the Austrians defeated the French. Championnet and Macdonald withdrew from the City and Kingdom of Naples, leaving only small garrisons behind, and the few-months-old Republic was left totally defenceless.
To add to the peril of the unfortunate patriots who had hoped and dared so much, Cardinal Fabrizio Ruffo, a Cardinal but not a priest, had landed in Calabria as the King's Lieutenant to raise the country. As he advanced and the French retreated, he gathered together a horde of men who, in the name of the Roman Catholic faith and of Ferdinand of the two Sicilies, were prepared to follow him in an attack on Naples. Among these strange troops, whom he called the army of the Holy Faith, the Santa Fede, were the Calabrese peasants, some priests and friars, criminals who had escaped from the galleys in the confusion of the times, bandits who had been roaming the country during the late disorders, and a large number of the disbanded soldiers who had broken up on Ferdinand's retreat from Rome.
The Queen's hopes began to rise high; she saw herself returning, and returning in triumph, to Naples, but she still needed the British hero and the British ships; all Emma's arts were to be employed to induce Nelson to return to Naples. It was true that Lord St. Vincent had ordered him to follow up the French squadron at Toulon, but the infatuate man did not long resist the pleadings of the enchantress and of the Queen. The Bourbons needed the British Fleet to overawe the already lost Republicans. Emma wrote to Lord Nelson:
"The Queen begs and conjures you, my dear Lord, to arrange matters so as to be able to go to Naples. For God's sake consider and do it. We will go with you if you will come and fetch us. Sir William is ill, I am ill, it will do us good. God bless you."
Not without some agony did Lord Nelson give way:
"I am full of grief and anxiety," he wrote to Sir William, "but I must go. It will finish the war."
He cared little whether it finished the war or not. All that mattered to him was that he was pleasing Emma and would be in her company. When he left for Naples in the middle of June, husband and wife accompanied him on the Vanguard.
The islands between Sicily and the mainland had surrendered at once to Captain Troubridge, who had come up from Alexandria to join Nelson, bringing several ships with him. It was Nelson's wish to encourage the loyalty of the inhabitants of the islands by distributing food and money among them, many of them being in a state of famine, and, with a flash of his native intelligence, his rage rose against the Sicilian Court when he saw these reasonable demands refused.
"There is nothing," he said, "which I propose that is not as far as orders go implicitly complied with, but the execution is dreadful and almost makes me mad. I desire to serve their Majesties faithfully, as is my duty, and has been such that I am almost blind and worn out and cannot, in my present state, hold out much longer."
The assistance to the islanders was to be given only to the loyal remnant left after a complete purge of Jacobinism; this did not show any merciful spirit in either of the English officers. The Republicans made a desperate effort at defence.
The Queen heard with despairing fury that Prince Caracciolo had been elected head of the Republican Marine, the small remnant of the navy which had been destroyed by Niza and Campbell.
On April 8th the Prince issued a proclamation in which he put, with justification, the blame of his country's disaster on the English, who had "sacrificed every right to their own interests" and who were despoiling the fugitive King of the national treasure he had pillaged before his flight. With hopelessly inadequate means, the patriotic Neapolitan did what he could; flying the new flag of Naples, he put to sea to challenge the English off Procida.
The coarse and brutal Troubridge was cruising about the islands on the Culloden (a sinister name for such an errand) and encouraging not only the massacre of "Jacobins," but of all who had remained passive under Republican rule. Among these were some harmless old priests; the lonely islands had neither gallows nor hangmen and Vincenzo Speciale, the miserable Sicilian lawyer who represented Bourbon vengeance, asked Troubridge for these adjuncts of civilization. The English captain indignantly refused, on the ground that the British Fleet was being asked to do menial work, but he made no effort to save the priests nor any other of the innocent victims of the Bourbon re-action; "the villains increase so fast on my hands and the people are calling for justice; eight or ten of them must be hung." Lord Nelson promised help, adding in his reply: "Send me word some proper heads are taken off; this alone will comfort me." The King wrote in the same strain with a touch of his usual buffoonery, "the cheeses must be hung up to dry," with the help of the Russians and of God, all the rebels would soon be strung up, and so on.
The Queen expressed the same sentiments in her violent, dramatic style, the "vile, corrupt nation" must be punished; the traitors, Caracciolo, Moliterno, Roccaromana, Federici, etc., must be put to death. "I would have no pity used," "a massacre would not displease me," "the weeds must be hunted out, destroyed, annihilated."
In brief there was a plan for a wholesale scheme of vengeance; Emma approved, encouraged, was a busy go-between, quick at messages, and a clever interpreter; Troubridge wrote to her of the progress of the slaughterings in the islands and she fed him with the Royal flatteries so that the son of a Westminster tradesman, so oddly in charge of the fortunes of these Italians, wrote: "I feel highly honoured by Her Majesty's notice. I wish I could serve them more essentially and quick (sic)."
On April 27th Prince Francesco Caracciolo was all day with his five gun-boats between the fire of the Royalists in the fort at Castellamare and that of the British ships at sea; the next day Macdonald arrived with reinforcements by land, a few corvettes and Caracciolo's one frigate came to his help; the British were driven off and the Bourbon colours captured from the fort. Neither the Queen nor Lord Nelson was likely to forgive this success. On May 16th Caracciolo again attacked the British at Procida, from which fort the British ships had been called to meet the Gallo-Spanish Fleet, which was then sailing into the Mediterranean.
He had eight gun-boats, six fire-boats, and some smaller vessels; a spirited action was kept up all day; the new flag of the Parthenopean Republic was floating from the little fleet as it attacked the coast defences.
The Conte di Thurn, a foreigner in the Bourbon service, in command of the Minerva, sailed out to defend the shore, and Caracciolo surrounded and nearly captured the frigate; Thurn was saved by a stiff wind, which caught the sails of the patriots and caused them to retreat.
The last success of the bankrupt, doomed Republic was that gained at Torre Annunziata by General Schipani, assisted by the fire from Caracciolo's gun-boats.
Misfortune closed round the adherents of the Parthenopean Republic. Through Calabria Cardinal Ruffo's army of the Holy Faith advanced on them. On the sea the British Fleet drew near. The lazzaroni in Naples and the peasants round about began to rise in favour of the Bourbons, to whom, at heart, they had always been loyal. The fishermen along the coast began to murder those they disliked on their own account. Captain Troubridge received, with a basket of grapes sent for his breakfast, the head of a Jacobin concealed beneath the leaves, and wrote on the margin of the accompanying letter: "A jolly fellow."
Over the whole Kingdom of Naples the peasantry were rising in their traditional manner and indulging in acts of hideous violence. The Republicans did what they could, but their situation was such that no one could do much.
Captain Edward Foote on the Sea Horse, with Neapolitan frigates and a small British vessel, with a few regular troops--Russians, Turks and Austrians--was sent ahead to co-operate with the land forces of Cardinal Ruffo and the Royalists. He had no other instructions, he awaited news of Ruffo's advance and of the arrival of the British Fleet from Palermo.
Cardinal Ruffo advanced with his terrible horde of ruffians towards Naples. On learning of his approach, the Republicans threw themselves into the two great castles, dell' Ovo and Nuovo, while such French as remained in the city went up into Fort Sant' Elmo, which so magnificently commanded the city and bay. These forts were all very strong places, heavily fortified, and the design of the Republicans was to hold them until the French or Spanish Fleet came to relieve them, by driving off the British ships, and landing troops to defeat Ruffo. This was their only hope.
By Midsummer Day, after grim fighting at the Ponte della Maddalena, Cardinal Ruffo had forced his way into the city and taken possession of Naples in the name of King Ferdinand. As soon as they found themselves successful and knew that the gorgeous city was at their feet, Cardinal Ruffo's troops, the Sanfedisti, plunged into bloody excesses that horrified him, cynic and insensible as he was. He did his utmost to stop these scenes of carnage, but with little success.
Lord Nelson and the Hamiltons had not arrived and Ruffo was plenipotentiary for his master, the King of the two Sicilies. He, therefore, on his own authority, and acting in concert with Captain Foote of the Sea Horse--then in the bay--arranged an armistice with the Republicans. For five days the negotiations went on; a treaty was then signed by the representatives of five nations, Great Britain, Naples, Turkey, Russia, France. The most important article of the long capitulation was "that the troops composing the garrisons will remain in the fortresses till such time as the ships hereunder referred to, for the transportation of those individuals who desire to proceed to Toulon, shall be ready to set sail."
It had been arranged by the Cardinal, who was sick, anxious and exhausted, wishful not to estrange so completely the Republicans as to render the return of King Ferdinand impossible, and who was eager to avoid further bloodshed, that the lives of all in the three great forts should be spared, and that if they submitted they should either be allowed to return to their own homes or go on board transports provided for Toulon. The Cardinal also agreed that the garrisons should march out with the honours of war, with their arms and baggage, drums beating, colours flying, guns loaded, and each with two pieces of artillery. Antonio Micheroux, who also represented King Ferdinand, was emphatically for leniency.
The two generals in charge of the castles, Manthoné and Massa, signed the treaty on June 19th; two days later it was accepted by Méjean in command of Sant' Elmo, Captain Foote, for Great Britain, signed on the 23rd; the Turkish and Russian commanders had already signed.
Both Ruffo and Micheroux were sincere in their desire for some sort of issue from the bloody anarchy in which the country seethed. They knew that Ferdinand, in his wife's words, "cared no more for Naples than if it had been the country of the Hottentots," and they believed it their interest and their duty to supply his deficiences. Ruffo was sickened by the incredible excesses of his own followers that he could not check, he wished to save as many of the Republicans as he could; on this point all the Allies agreed with him. No one had any objection to the treaty whereby the important forts, the very keys of Naples, would return to the King, and the brave garrisons, together with any other people who might have taken refuge with them, would be granted their lives, on condition that they returned quietly to their homes, or, if they could not accept King Ferdinand as master, went into exile in France. Transports were to be provided for such as wished to go to Toulon, and Ruffo sent hostages up to Sant' Elmo who were only to be released, when the patriots should have reached French soil.
So far, so good; Cardinal Ruffo, disgusted, weary and shocked, was thankful that he had been able to make so honourable an arrangement with the remnant of the Parthenopean Republic, and Antonio Micheroux, a sensitive, and humane man, was relieved to know that some lives at least would be spared amid the slaughterings that marked the triumph of the Santa Fede.
Micheroux had, from the first, protested strongly against Ruffo's policy of arming the dregs of the nation and setting them on the Republicans and he had, before the surrender of Naples, been in favour of very generous terms for the vanquished. Both these men knew that neither the King nor the Queen would like any leniency to be shown to the patriots, but, confronted by an appalling situation, they hoped that expediency would prove a fair excuse, even before the fury of Maria Carolina.
Captain Foote had signed the treaty without demur and nothing remained but to put it into effect, and this Ruffo proceeded to do, though he had received a letter from the Queen, confused, contradictory, yet clear enough in its refusal "to treat with criminal rebels at their last gasp...trapped like mice...low and despicable scoundrels."
On the morning of June 24th, the Royal hostages were released from Sant' Elmo and the refugees began to leave Castel Nuovo where Massa had persuaded the Republicans, who wished to die fighting, to surrender.
By the evening of that day the British Fleet had anchored in the bay, with Lord Nelson and the Hamiltons on board the Foudroyant; shortly before a boat had brought a letter from Sir William to Cardinal Ruffo, informing him that Captain Foote had sent Lord Nelson a copy of the treaty and that the British Admiral disapproved of it and was resolved not to remain neutral.
Indeed, Lord Nelson, with the last light of the Midsummer Day, had beheld an ugly sight through his spy-glass, the white flags floating from the mast of the Sea Horse and from the formidable bastions of dell' Ovo and Nuovo, while from Sant' Elmo, dominating the whole city, fluttered the colours of the French Republic.
The British Admiral was intensely angry at this sight. He knew well enough the temper of the King and Queen of Naples, and, he declared, "as to rebels and traitors no power on earth has the right to stand between their gracious King and them," and he added that he thought the armistice "infamous."
He proposed to send Captains Troubridge and Ball to inform Cardinal Ruffo of his opinions and intentions, but Ruffo, deeply alarmed and agitated by this turn of events, came on board the Foudroyant that evening. As a man of intelligence and spirit, he at once refused to accept this dictation from a foreigner. Not only had he been given full power by the King, his master, but Lord Nelson was not a subject of King Ferdinand and had not been put in command of either the army or the navy. Neither had Lord Nelson had anything to do whatsoever with the fall of Naples--that was entirely the work of Cardinal Ruffo and the amy of the Holy Faith. He, therefore, on every ground, considerd himself justified in standing by the capitulation which had been approved by Captain Edward Foote representing Great Britain, by France, by Turkey and Russia, as represented by the officers of these nations then in Naples.
When Lord Nelson learned that Cardinal Ruffo intended to stand by the capitulation, his fury flamed, and Emma was by his side to encourage him. She knew, perhaps even better than he did, the temper of the Queen. They had not been sent to Naples to make terms, but to inflict vengeance. Maria Carolina had not wished the British Fleet to sail against her capital in the hope of making some honourable compromise which would allow her a more or less peaceful return to her throne--no, she had wished it to go as the instrument of her vendetta against the Jacobins, Republicans and Frenchmen. She had said and written that a massacre would not displease her. To her the establishment of the Parthenopean Republic had been an intolerable affront, which nothing but blood and a great deal of blood could wipe out. Neither she, nor the King, nor Sir John Acton, nor any of the ministers who had fled to Palermo had stopped to think what the abandoned city was expected to do. It would seem that its inhabitants had been expected to allow themselves to be massacred for the sake of the Royal Family they had always loathed, and of that Government which had not only abandoned them defenceless to an enemy, but which had for years spied on them, imprisoned them, confiscated their property, and insulted them in every possible manner. As they had not done this, but taken advantage of the crisis to try and form their own government, to introduce law and order into chaos, to make some sort of workable constitution out of anarchy, they were to be treated as the most dastardly rebels and traitors.
Lord Nelson knew, Emma knew, and Sir William knew, when they consulted together in agitated anger on the Foudroyant, that the least talk of mercy to Naples would be abhorrent to the Queen. Nor was the King much less vindictive; his veneer of good humour had soon been rubbed off. He had appeared indifferent to all his fortunes, he had amused himself in Palermo with the money plundered from Naples, issuing his little edicts that the women were not to cut their hair short or the men to wear fringes à la Brutus, but when the chance of vengeance came he was ready to take it.
He, too, wished the disobedient city to be punished--no thought of magnanimity, nor prudence, nor policy, nor of what their future reign was likely to be if they took this bloody vengeance when it was in their power, troubled either of these sovereigns. Nor did it concern them, nor Lord Nelson, nor Emma, that the most enlightened people in Naples, the bravest, the most cultured, the sincerest and the most honourable, had founded and run the brief Republic. There was only one man at this little conclave who had some humanity, some common sense, some dignity--Fabrizio Ruffo. He did not believe in the policy of blind cruelty that would turn Naples into a shambles. There had already been hideous deeds enough; the prisons were full of maimed and dying Republicans; the streets were piled with corpses. Cardinal Ruffo was not a particularly enlightened statesman, nor even a brilliant politician, but it did not seem to him that it was possible for their Sicilian Majesties to return and reign with even passable comfort and security in a city where the decent inhabitants had been given over to slaughter by the lowest of the population, where these ruffians and banditti who composed the army of the Holy Faith had been allowed to pillage and murder without let or hindrance. Besides, he was the victor and felt he had a right to decide what he should do with his victories. He had promised the garrisons that the terms of the capitulation would be observed and he intended to keep this promise, despite the King, the Queen, and Lord Nelson.
He declared nobly that to violate the treaty would be an abominable outrage against public honour, and that he would hold responsible before God whoever should dare to impede its execution.
Cardinal Fabrizio Ruffo expressed himself thus in forcible Italian that Sir William, harassed and peevish, and Emma, voluble and raucous, translated to Lord Nelson, who seemed to have taken upon himself the role of arbiter of the destinies of Naples.
His Eminence had a good case, which he put into eloquent words; alone among the councillors of King Ferdinand he had some wisdom and humanity, was a little far-seeing as a politician, and a little magnanimous as a man. In everything he was a contrast to the British Admiral who listened to him with nervous rage.
The Cardinal, worn and excitable, came of one of the oldest, and proudest families in Calabria, had been Papal Treasurer, was brilliantly educated, witty, infidel, active, energetic, and subtle, with all the faults of an intellectual and of an aristocrat.
He was capable of ignoble actions, he was an opportunist, licentious, and extravagant, for no man could serve King Ferdinand without lending himself to some baseness. There had been some flaws and scandals in the career of Fabrizio Ruffo, but he was in everything the superior of the three people with whom he so passionately argued.
He was the only man that had done anything to regain Naples for the Bourbons and from the first he had advised moderation in dealing with the rebels. He had been firmly opposed to the Royal plan of vengeance, and had argued, as a matter both of humanity and of common sense, that Ferdinand's only reasonable policy was one of conciliation and mercy.
He had done his best to control the rabble of the Santa Fede, and had been sincerely horrified by the excesses committed by ruffians who were utterly beyond his control; all this he put before the three English people. His present case he thought simple.
The great object was to obtain the surrender of the three great castles which were capable of holding out for months, and which, in the event of the appearance of the Gallo-Spanish Fleet, might prove extremely difficult to deal with. This he had accomplished by means of an armistice which the representatives of five nations had approved and signed.
The garrisons were prepared to disarm, to evacuate the forts, most of them would exile themselves to Toulon; they had already released their hostages.
What was to be gained by breaking the armistice, by annulling Jr violating the capitulation? Obviously nothing but the delights of vengeance on helpless enemies.
But the two Englishmen remained obdurate, Emma, in her muslins, blowsed with fatigue and heat, fanning herself and sipping iced water in the great cabin of the Foudroyant, translated into French Lord Nelson's contemptuous refusal to see any point of view save his own, while Sir William repeated stupidly: "Kings don't treat with rebels." Ruffo argued that the treaty, once made, must be observed, in the name of common honesty. His honourable attitude was so odd to Lord Nelson that he began to suspect the Cardinal of Jacobinism, he was utterly under the sway of Emma, and behind Emma was the vindictive Queen.
Angered and indignant, Ruffo was rowed ashore to consult the other signatories to the treaty, the Russian and Turkish commanders, and Antonio Micheroux, King Ferdinand's other plenipotentiary.
All these men at once agreed that it would be impossible to violate the treaty, and made the emphatic statement that it was "useful, necessary and honourable to the arms of the King of the Two Sicilies and of his powerful allies, the King of Great Britain, the Emperor of Russia and the Sublime Porte, because without further bloodshed that treaty put an end to the deadly civil and national war, and facilitated the expulsion of the common foreign enemy from the kingdom."
It might have been supposed that here the matter would have ended. But there was still the strange trio on board the Foudroyant to be reckoned with, and behind them the Bourbon and the Hapsburg.
On the 25th Troubridge and Ball went on shore with the messages for the Commandants of the two rebel castles that Ruffo refused to send to them; these stated Nelson's refusal to honour the treaty, Nelson also asked Ruffo, if, supposing that he, Nelson, broke the armistice, would, he, Ruffo, assist an attack on the forts?
The Cardinal refused and wrote to the British Admiral, reminding him that Foote had signed the treaty in the name of the King of Great Britain, and that if he, Lord Nelson, broke it, he would do so on his own responsibility; and in such an eventuality he, the Cardinal, would put the enemy in statu quo and withdraw his own troops.
During the whole morning the messages went to and fro, then Fabrizio Ruffo came again on board the Foudroyant, which lay anchored within sight of the two great forts, which were flying the flag of truce, and of the third, Sant' Elmo, from which the tricolour still floated in the sultry June air.
No one's temper was improved by the tension of the last few days; Sir William was peevish, Emma bored and "fag'd," Lord Nelson violent and domineering. The Cardinal showed all the weary passion of the man who felt he was in the right and was most unaccountably thwarted by the folly and cruelty of an upstart.
He haughtily questioned the right of Lord Nelson to dictate terms to another country's General, as he, Ruffo, was, but the three English people knew whom the King and Queen would support.
There was a passionate discussion that lasted two hours, neither side would give way; Emma was quite worn out with interpreting, when her lover seized a piece of paper, and scrawled across it with his left hand: "Rear-Admiral Lord Nelson, who arrived in the bay on June 24th with the British Fleet, found a treaty entered into with the rebels, which he is of opinion ought not to be carried into execution without the approbation of His Sicilian Majesty."
Thus the attitude of Lord Nelson was clearly defined; Cardinal Ruffo returned to Naples and, still considering the treaty binding, wrote to General Massa, commanding in Castel Nuovo, advised him of the English attitude, reminded him that Lord Nelson had command of the sea, and broadly hinted that the garrison had better try to escape by land, to which course he, Ruffo, would offer no resistance.
Massa suspected this generous and desperate attempt to save him from Nelson to be a trap to induce him to break the articles of the capitulation and so deliver him to Royalist vengeance.
He sent a reply which showed his firm reliance on the honour of the signatories to the capitulation treaty and his determination to abide by it in every detail.
Ruffo, deeply conscious of his dreadful situation, agitated and distracted, made yet another attempt to save the men for whose lives he believed himself responsible. He tried to induce the two rebel garrisons to come out, by sending a herald with a renewal of his offer, and proclaimed that he would shoot anyone that meddled with them or with their property.
Again the patriots refused to listen.
The Cardinal now found that his authority was being undermined by Royalists, who, encouraged by Nelson, and followed by armed lazzaroni, were arresting suspected persons and taking them by sea to Procida, where they would be out of the jurisdiction of Ruffo.
These people were also tearing down the Cardinal's humane proclamation, which he had pasted up all over the city, forbidding any interference with private citizens and commanding respect for the white flag; the English and their emissaries were indeed encouraging the rabble to rise against the Cardinal as a "Jacobin."
The Queen, on hearing the news from Naples, had at once written her mind to Emma; along a copy of the treaty she had scribbled her indignant comments on every article; she shared Lord Nelson's opinion that it was "infamous."
"June 25th, 1799.
"My Dear Lady,--I have just received your dear letter without date from the ship, with the Chevalier's for the General...The General writes the wishes of the King, who incloses a note under his own hand for the dear Admiral. I accede entirely to their wishes, but cannot refrain from expressing my sentiments to you...The rebel patriots must lay down their arms and surrender at discretion to the pleasure of the King. Then, in my opinion, an example should be made of some of the leaders of the representatives, and the others to be transported under pain of death if they return into the dominions of the King, where a register will be kept of them; and of this number should be the Municipalists, Chiefs of Brigade, the most violent Clubbists, and seditious scribblers. No soldier who has served shall ever be admitted into the army; finally, a rigorous severity, prompt and just. The females who have distinguished themselves in the revolution to be treated in the same way, and that without pity...The Sedile, the source of all the evils, which first gave strength to the rebellion, and who have ruined the kingdom and dethroned the King, shall be abolished for ever, as well as the baronial privileges and jurisdiction, in order to ameliorate the slavery of a faithful people who have replaced their King upon the throne, from which treason, felony, and the culpable indifference of the nobles had driven him. This is not pleasant, but absolutely necessary, for without it the King could not govern quietly his people for six months, who hope for some recompense from his justice, after having done everything for him. Finally, my dear Lady, I recommend Lord Nelson to treat Naples as if it were an Irish town in rebellion similarly placed."
On the 26th Nelson, fortified by this letter, himself sent into the castles copies of his manifesto that Ruffo had refused to handle.
The Cardinal, on learning of this, put his troops in statu quo; he still hoped that the Republicans would come out and surrender unconditionally, thus relieving him of the onus of breaking the capitulation.
Neither of the Republican Commanders, however, took any notice of Ruffo's desperate moves and clung to the articles of the treaty, which they were resolved to observe scrupulously.
Riots and panic broke out in Naples as Ruffo withdrew his troops to their original positions; thousands of fugitives streamed out of the city fearing a renewal of the civil war.
News came from Capua that the French and Jacobins had beaten the Royalists and were marching on Caserta; the hostages held by the French sent out messages to say that, owing to the delay in carrying out the terms of the treaty, they were in danger of their lives.
Ruffo put these matters before Lord Nelson, begging him to take some decisive action; he himself expected nothing but a flare up of the hideous conflict.
The terrible situation suddenly changed; on the same morning, June 26th, Captains Troubridge and Ball came ashore, waited on the Cardinal and gave him a letter written in French by Sir William, and dated early in the morning of that day:
"Lord Nelson begs me to assure your Eminence that he is resolved to do nothing to break the armistice that your Excellence has accorded to the Castles of Naples."
Suspicious but relieved, the Cardinal asked the two captains to authorize the following declaration, which he had written in Italian:
"Captains Troubridge and Ball have authority on the part of Lord Nelson to declare to His Eminence that his Lordship will not oppose the embarkation of the rebels and of the people who compose the garrisons of the Castles Nuovo and Dell' Ovo."
Ball signed this declaration, Troubridge would not; of course, neither of their signatures would have had any value; Ruffo argued with the Englishmen, wanting a more precise undertaking, but had to be content with Hamilton's and the dictated paper which he sent by ten o'clock to Antonio Micheroux with a covering letter, saying that Lord Nelson had consented to carry out the capitulation, and that he, Micheroux, was to proceed to carry out the treaty; the two documents were sent to assure the safety of the garrisons, but Micheroux did not use them, as the Republicans trusted in his "simple word," as he put it himself. Acting in good faith, Antonio Micheroux did as Ruffo directed; the garrisons marched out, only the Russians giving them the stipulated honours of war; those patriots who chose exile were given safe conducts and allowed to embark on a transport waiting to take them to Toulon, others returned to their homes in Naples.
The British sailors took possession of the castles; the transports did not sail, but were anchored between the guns of the castles and those of the British ships; on June 28th, the members of the garrison who had gone home were arrested and taken back to the castles--this time to the dungeons.
On the 29th, Sir William wrote from the Foudroyant to Sir John Acton at Palermo, touching on the tiresome disagreement between the Cardinal and Lord Nelson--"however, after good reflection, Lord Nelson authorized me to write to His Eminence this morning early, to certify to him that he would do nothing to break the armistice...with the rebels." Hamilton added that Nelson had promised "any assistance of which the fleet was capable" (presumably in embarking the rebels) and added complacently--"This produced the best possible effect. Naples had been upside down in the apprehension that Lord Nelson might break the armistice; now all is calm." In conclusion Sir William added the banality: "If one can't do exactly what one wishes, one must act for the best and that is what Lord Nelson has done."
On the following day Hamilton again wrote to Sir John Acton, coolly exposing the cheat. "Lord Nelson, concluding that his Sicilian Majesty has totally disapproved of all that the Cardinal has done in contradiction to his instructions as regards the rebels of the castles, and those rebels further being on board of twelve or fourteen transports...Lord Nelson has believed himself sufficiently authorized to seize the transports and have them anchored in the middle of the British Fleet...I have reason to believe that we have Cirillo and all the greatest traitors on board the transports and that the coup will have been totally unexpected."
Thus the Britannic Minister, writing of the cleverness of his wife's lover to the lover of the Queen.
To Lord Grenville in Whitehall Sir William sent an inaccurate, garbled account of the affair, which suffered both from the fact that a mind always weak was breaking up as the result of age and fast living, and from the Minister's desire to put a gloss over a most dishonourable affair to the Home Government.
Sir William, nervously anxious to put himself right with his Government, wrote a "separate and secret" dispatch to Lord Grenville, in which he enclosed some of the Queen's letters to Lady Hamilton which he found did "so much honour to the Queen's understanding and heart" and a copy of Cardinal Ruffo's capitulation, to which document Sir William applied Lord Nelson's term "infamous." In his letter the Minister (writing from the Foudroyant, July 14th, 1799) mentions that he thinks of returning to England on "the first ship that Lord Nelson sends downwards"--probably this was to protect himself from the possible humiliation of a recall, as Sir William seems to have had no sincere intentions of return. The vindictive nature of the Queen's comments on the capitulation is sufficiently shown by the last paragraph of her letter. No doubt Sir William's object in sending this paper was to cover himself in case of possible censure, but his taste in humanity was not as fine as his taste in antiquities if he believed that Maria Carolina's cruel spite could be accepted by anyone as showing either "understanding" or "heart."
After using the expressions "real insolence," "infamous," "absurd," "real wickedness," "vile," "base," and other such terms about the rebels the Queen summed up her sentiments in her usual breathless style and with her usual fury.
"This is such an infamous treaty that if by a miracle of Providence some event does not happen to break it or destroy it I count myself dishonoured and I believe that at the cost of dying of malaria, of fatigue, of a shot from the Rebels, the King on one side and the Prince on the other ought immediately to arm the Provinces, march against the Rebel city and die under its Ruins, if they resist, but not remain vile slaves of the scoundrelly French and their infamous Mimics the Rebels.
"Such are my sentiments; this infamous capitulation if carried out afflicts me far more than the loss of the Kingdom and will have far worse consequences."
Almost as great as the bitter wrong done to the garrisons of the castles was the wrong done by Lord Nelson and the Hamiltons to Fabrizio Ruffo. Ruffo had seen what was right and had tried to do it; against terrible odds he had endeavoured to be just, merciful and wise. And these other three, with the Queen behind them, had overwhelmed him, had broken his resistance, had traded on his fundamental weakness. He was no hero and did not believe in heroism; forced to an issue, he could not risk ruin by offending the King and Queen; beyond a point he could not suffer for a good cause. He saw the trick--the use of the word "armistice" instead of "capitulation," he knew how little Lord Nelson was to be relied on, he knew Sir William's quality, he knew Emma was on board the Foudroyant, managing husband and lover for the Queen's ends. But he pretended to be deceived; he even helped to deceive Antonio Micheroux by making out that the English letter had undertaken more than it really had; he abandoned the men whom he had tried so hard to save, because he could not face the consequences of a longer resistance. He knew that on every hand he was being intrigued against, that his estates, his rewards, his life, might have to answer for his humanity, and he gave way. Like Pilate he washed his hands, and while the shameful betrayal was taking place, he went to the Cathedral to celebrate a Te Deum, cynic misery in his heart, the ornate service sounding like jeering mockery in his ears.
He wrote to the Queen, asking, on the score of fatigue, to be allowed to resign his post. Maria Carolina replied with vague, false flatteries; as he was well aware, she suspected and disliked him. To her, as to the Hamiltons and Lord Nelson, humanity, wisdom, and magnanimity seemed to be Jacobin qualities.
An actor in the scenes that were taking place in Naples, while Emma was singing "Rule Brittania" on board the Foudroyant, has left an account of them.
Guiseppe Lorenzo, of a respectable lower middle-class family, was a clerk in one of the regiments of the Republican Guards. On the arrival of the Santa Fede Lorenzo obeyed the signal given from Sant' Elmo and rallied with some others of the guards to the defence of the city, which was being desperately undertaken by the Marchese di Monterone and the Duca di San Pietro di Maio, seconded by General Wirtz with a legion of Calabrese and a few cavalrymen. After fiercely disputing the ground inch by inch, the Republicans were driven back, some threw themselves into the Castello del Carmine, others dispersed, seeking for shelter from the advancing hordes of Cardinal Ruffo's troops.
Lorenzo and a companion, Gennaro Grasso, ran to the house of the elder Lorenzo, where they changed their uniforms for civilian clothes, and hastened out again, with the intention of trying to get into the Castel Nuovo, over which the flag of the Parthenopean Republic still waved; they changed their minds, however, on the advice of Grasso, and made their way to the barracks of their regiment, which was attached to the convent of Monte Oliveto; they found this crowded with soldiers and other refugees.
Exhausted by fatigue they cast themselves across a table in the guard-room and slept; after three hours they were awakened by shouts of "Evviva ii Re," the war-cry of the rabble. Springing up, they found that all their companions had disappeared and that the corridor outside was crowded by a horde of armed people, all, including women and children, waving weapons and shouting fiercely. The two young men escaped by a side door in the guardroom to the convent.
A lay brother who knew Grasso hid them all night in his cell, and in the morning shaved off their military side-whiskers and gave them monkish habits and rosaries.
He had hardly done this, when the mob, searching through the convent, broke into the cell; they were, however, satisfied that the soldiers were genuine monks, and one man, remarking the pallor of Lorenzo, asked him kindly if he felt ill. But as they were leaving, a barber who had formerly been employed by his family recognized Lorenzo. Barbers and hairdressers were all violently against the Republicans, who wore their hair short and unpowdered, thereby diminishing considerably the trade of the coiffeur. This question of long hair became a very important one. A man could change his trousers for breeches and turn his red waistcoat, but he could not at once grow his hair. Locks and queues of tow and horse-hair were resorted to, usually in vain; the garb of a monk remained the only disguise that offered much hope of escape.
This barber followed Lorenzo with threatening looks, muttering in his ear: "Your life is in my hands." As Lorenzo hastened his pace, the barber gave him a vicious thrust with the butt end of his musket that threw the young man to the ground; he picked himself up, and, together with Grasso, contrived to struggle through the press and out of the building. Hurrying along, almost at random, with their hoods over their faces, the two soldiers found themselves in the centre of the city, which was being sacked by the victorious lazzaroni, who were destroying the houses of so-called "Jacobins" and everything that was in them. They were dragging out the clerks from the banks and shops and murdering them; Lorenzo observed bands of ruffians driving along groups of naked women and children; at the street-corners were already heaps of corpses, piles of heads and of human limbs, recently hacked off.
Half-crazed by horror, the two young men decided to take refuge with an uncle of Lorenzo's who was a monk in the convent of Santo Tolandino, quite close to the Castel Sant' Elmo; this person not only refused to receive them, for fear of compromising himself, but jeered at them, saying: "Do you think Ferdinand IV will lose a kingdom with as little fuss as if it were a handkerchief?"
The two youths turned away, and went on a desperate search for help, followed by insults and suspicious looks from the swarms of Ruffo's men who passed them. They tried in vain to persuade another relative of Lorenzo's, who lived near the little Porta di San Lorenzo, to take them, and were forced to retrace their steps across the city; they found themselves pushed by the immense crowds on to the Piazza di Mercato, where the congestion was so great that it was impossible to pass through. The Tree of Liberty, which had been put up by the Republicans in the middle of this square, was being degraded in the most bestial fashion by the Calabrese and the lazzaroni, and this in the presence of a great number of women, who assisted at the spectacle. A large number of prisoners were being conducted in front of the tree, "just like cattle to the butchers," and were being shot at. Most of them were not killed at once. Dead, or half-alive, they were decapitated; the heads were rolled on the ground as an amusement and formed the ball in a kind of game.
The two fugitives managed to push through this horrible crowd, and got away by the Porta Alba. They were again held up before the convent of San Pietro di Maio, against which the Calabrese were directing a fusillade, declaring that the Jacobins were shut up inside it.
A good woman, the wife of a tailor, took them into her shop, believing them to be monks. Soon after, she went out to explore the streets, to see what was happening, and returned trembling, having been censured by the crowd for sheltering two Jacobin monks. Almost at the same instant the shop was invaded by armed men. The chief of them began to interrogate the fugitives and demanded to see their papers; the presence of mind of Lorenzo saved them. He was able to throw away secretly the two gold earrings he had in his portfolio, and to show the holy relics on his person which had been given him by his mother shortly before her death.
The ruffians then were persuaded that these were genuine monks, and the chief of the gang offered their help in exchange for a consideration. Lorenzo had in his pocket ten piastre, but he did not dare show this for fear of exciting the cupidity of the mob, and therefore refused the assistance. When they had escaped this peril, Lorenzo, who had never ceased to remind his friend what stupid advice he had given him and how much better it would have been if they had gone into Castel Nuovo, tried to think how it would be possible to get into the fortress, after all, and they set out to cross the city again with this purpose in view.
They saw on all sides the same tragic scenes; in the Piazza Trinita Maggiore they saw people being massacred, by shooting and stabbing by bayonets. Further they saw being murdered a certain Guiseppe Merendo, a poor, honest man who had lost his reason, and who insisted on coming out of his house with the French cockade in his hat.
In the same Piazza, Calabrese and brigands were seated on top of bodies to eat their meals.
When the two young men reached the church of Santa Maria Nuovo they were arrested by the armed people who were guarding the house of the President, Molinare, and who suspected diem of being Republicans. Lorenzo, however, showed such wit, and gave such meek, holy, and learned answers to their captors that the mob were half-persuaded they had before them two poor lay-brothers of Monte Oliveto, and when a man appeared on the balcony of the President's house and declared that the two friars were really two members of the Civic Guard, those who had arrested them exclaimed that the gentleman must be mad or mistaken. This personage, who had recognized the two young men, insisted that he was right, he knew them very well, and they were soldiers and Jacobins.
Lorenzo continued to argue that he was a true religionist, and he and his companion were conducted before the Castello at the Bridge of the Maddalena; a rabble of ruffians accompanied them; Lorenzo arguing tranquilly that he was really a monk. His companions disputed this. One of the lazzaroni cast a cord round Lorenzo's neck three times, and drew it so tight that he felt his eyes starting from his head, as if all the nerves of his forehead were bursting. He felt the effect of this for eight days afterwards.
As a last resort he slipped the ten piastre that he had in the hand of a lazzarone, who was at his side. He soon saw that he had done right, for from that moment this wretch became his protector.
When they reached the Bridge of the Maddalena, they found that most of those who had been conducted in front of the Castello had been massacred, not only men and grown-up people, but women, children, old men, girls, and on two carts, like so much butcher's meat, were piled the bodies that were thrown immediately into the sea, nearly all still half-alive.
A group of armed men came forward and wished to take the two newcomers from the hands of those who had brought them to treat them in the same manner, but those who had captured Lorenzo and his companion insisted on conducting them in front of the Castello. The Calabrese officer at last took them into the presence of the Cardinal.
Fabrizio Ruffo was at a half-gunshot distance, surrounded by all his staff and many officers. The Calabrese presented to him the two monks and informed him of the case.
Ruffo turned to Lorenzo and asked:
"Ah, well, who are you? Are you really monks?"
Lorenzo was about to reply, when the Cardinal pushed him back with both hands, and said: "Stand away from me, and then talk," as if he feared, when Lorenzo came to approach him, that he was going to be the victim of a desperate attack.
When Lorenzo was about ten paces from the Cardinal, Ruffo repeated: "Speak now." The young man said: "We are not monks--that is the truth."
He gave him then the whole story, from the moment they had been routed on the Bridge of the Maddalena, told him they were not conspirators, but only men who had been engaged in a humble capacity as secretaries in the Civil Guard.
The Cardinal then wanted to know why they had been arrested. The crowd shouted out they were certainly two perfidious Jacobins. There was then an argument between the Cardinal and the crowd--the Cardinal wanted to set the prisoners free, the crowd to shoot them. At last Ruffo, knowing the fate that would have been theirs, if he released them, said to his officers:
"Put these where the others are, in a safe place."
The crowd then broke out into a furious orgy of hate, biting their fingers at the two victims they had lost, and screaming out: "Ah, dogs, if we had known you were not monks, we should have carved you in pieces!"
Lorenzo felt, however, a little assured, as if he were in the power of justice. He and his companion were taken first to a provisionary depot of prisoners, and then to the courtyard of an empty palace in the Via de' Portici.
The escort which accompanied the column of prisoners was captained by a Calabrese priest, armed with two pistols and a sword, who amused himself by telling the prisoners they were all being taken off to be shot, and at every forty steps made the column pause, telling them this was the place where they were to meet their end, and then marched them on under the pretence of finding a better spot in which to murder them.
Lorenzo made the great mistake of beginning to address this priest as "citizen," having been accustomed for several months to use that form of address:
"Citizen, in the name of charity, tell me where we are going?" The terrible priest replied:
"Ah, scoundrel, how is it you have the courage to call me citizen? I am your enemy, and I assure you I am taking you to be shot," and added some foul words and gave him a blow in the side that caused a severe wound.
Lorenzo was sent from one prison to another, from Portici to the Granili, from the Granili to the Corbletta Stabia, and from there to the prison of Santa Maria Apparente. His descriptions of the sufferings of the victims of the Bourbons, of the spoliation and extortion committed by officials and jailers, of the insults and torments inflicted by the lazzaroni on the prisoners, are almost incredible.
"The Neapolitan people," he wrote, "were tormented until the last moment of imprisonment."
He was, however, once allowed to see his father, and had a visit from his uncle, the monk, who showed himself so affectionate towards him on June 14th. He remained in prison till the first fury of the reaction had passed. Judged and condemned at the end of the year, he was exiled for ten years, and left for France and arrived at Toulon on January 1st, 1800.
He is thus described:
"Giuseppe Lorenzo of Naples, son of Alexandro, about twenty-two years of age, five feet eight inches, dark chestnut hair, regular features, chestnut eyebrows, dark-blue eyes, straight nose, clean-shaven."
Emma found life on board the Foudroyant trying. It was a great tax on her, energy and resource to have to manage husband and lover at once in the restricted space of the man-of-war. Still, she did her best, as she always had done, to please the gentlemen. Sir William was coaxed, Lord Nelson flattered, and everyone on board ship kept in a good humour as well as she was able to do it. Even in the boiling heat with the continuous and hideous excitement and turmoil going on, she preserved her cheerfulness and continued to keep one object in view--the pleasing of the Queen by a clean sweep of all the rebels, by means of herself and Lord Nelson. Not only would this be, in her opinion, in itself a most meritorious action, it would bring more reward and glory to both the hero and his supporters.
She had always hated politics and she found the whole situation extremely tiresome; she would much rather have been in the Palazzo Sessa or in the rambling old palace at Palermo, sitting at the faro-table gambling away Nelson's prize-money, or posing in a well-lit alcove with wreaths of flowers, shawls and vases. She neither understood nor cared anything about the real situation in Naples, Italy or Europe, but she hoped it would soon be over, that she could go back to the old, jolly life with an obedient husband doddering at her side, a tame hero in her train.
Whenever she could get a few guests on board, she gave dinner-parties and afterwards performed on the harp, singing patriotic airs or odes written by Court poets in praise of Lord Nelson. Often in the evening the big woman would hold a concert on deck, gathering the sailors round her in a semi-circle to provide the chorus for her singing of "." Her powerful voice went across the heavy night to where the transports, then turned into prison-ships, were anchored in the middle of the British Fleet; there the patriots, who had emerged from the castle trusting in the sworn words of five nations, languished in misery, chained down in the heat and darkness, without any comfort for mind or body, without a spark of hope, while through the portholes would come the strains of the strident British anthem and the ringing voice of the Patroness of the Navy.
Every day boats rowed out from the quays to the transports and took aboard numbers of the prisoners. They were delivered to the Giunta and speedily tried, if the farcical preliminary to rapid executions could be called a trial.
Negotiations continued with the French Commandant at Sant' Elmo. This man, Méjean, chanced to be a scoundrel. It was therefore not difficult to make terms with him. It would have been possible for him to have obtained, even from the Queen, the lives of several Republicans. This much concession the Court was prepared to grant in return for the surrender of the formidable castle. But Méjean asked for nothing and even betrayed those Neapolitans who were among his own men, and who could have claimed the right of protection of the French uniform. It was said that he accepted large sums of money from the Sicilian Court for this service.
When the garrison marched out of Sant' Elmo, many of the French officers tried to disguise as fellow-countrymen the Neapolitans who had served with them, but Méjean walked up and down the ranks, pointing out the Republicans to their enemies.
Another excitement was provided for the party on board the Foudroyant. Prince Francesco Caracciolo had been, ever since he had joined the Republicans, an object of the Queen's peculiar spite. She had accused him of base ingratitude in forsaking her husband's service; but in truth the noble Neapolitan owed nothing to the Sicilian Court. His honours were hereditary and his position he had won for himself by hard work--he had never accepted pension nor favour from King Ferdinand. Still, however, the Queen persisted in regarding him as a monster of base ingratitude and perfidious disloyalty. Apart from these feelings she was afraid of him. He knew, as she said in one of her letters, "every gulf and inlet" in the long Neapolitan coast. He was far too dangerous a man to be suffered to escape, and, whenever she ran over any particular objects of her vengeance, she always mentioned Francesco Caracciolo.
When the Prince saw there was no more fighting possible, he had left the castle secretly and, in disguise, gone to some of his mother's land outside Naples, where he had hoped to remain concealed until he was able to get out of the country.
Cardinal Ruffo, had endeavoured to save Caracciolo, a man whom he had always liked and admired. He tried to convey to him certain passes which would enable him to slip out of Calabria, but he found it impossible to reach the fugitive Prince, who was betrayed by a servant into the hands of the Royalists, and after two days in one of the abominable prisons of Naples, corrupt as the grave and melancholy as hell, Francesco Caracciolo was brought on board the Foudroyant and delivered to Lord Nelson, a man who had once been his companion-at-arms and who had affected to admire him. "We all love Prince Caragholillo or whatever his name is."
Heavily chained, ragged, unshaven, and almost fainting from lack of food and water, Francesco Caracciolo stood on the quarterdeck of the British vessel. He was mute with the silence of one who knows both that his case is hopeless and that his judges are contemptible. His fate had, indeed, been decided, before ever he was dragged on board the British ship. The Queen had written:
"I am very sorry about the flight of Caracciolo, for I believe that such a ruffian on the sea may be dangerous to the sacred person of the King. Therefore I could wish him put beyond the power of doing harm."
Both Nelson and Sir William Hamilton agreed with the Queen's views, which they proceeded at once to put into execution. As soon as it was known on board the Foudroyant that Caracciolo had been arrested, Sir William Hamilton asked for him, quite ignoring Ruffo, whose tendency to humanity he knew and dreaded, and appealing directly to Sir John Acton. Nelson made two applications direct to Cardinal Ruffo for the custody of Caracciolo. Ruffo kept Caracciolo out of Nelson's hands as long as he could, but when the Royal letters arrived from Palermo giving Nelson full powers, the Cardinal retired bitterly to the background, and Caracciolo was given to his enemies.
It was on June 29th when the Neapolitan Admiral was brought on board the Foudroyant. On the 27th of that month Hamilton had written to Sir John Acton:
"Caracciolo and twelve others of those insolent rebels will shortly be given into Lord Nelson's hands. If I am not mistaken, they will be sent cautiously to Procida to be judged there, and as they become condemned they will return here for the execution of their sentence. Caracciolo will probably hang from the yard-arm of the Minerva, where he will remain exposed from daybreak till sunset to set such an example as is necessary for the future service of His Sicilian Majesty's Marine in the heart of which Jacobinism has already made such great progress."
This course of action having been decided upon, it would appear that it was a waste of time to submit Francesco Caracciolo to the form of even a brief court-martial, but this was done; judicial murderers often like to be nice in their methods.
Hamilton wrote again to Sir John Acton soon after Caracciolo had been dragged on board the flagship. The mincing senile dilettante wrote with the callousness of a man entirely without heart:
"Here we have the spectacle of Caracciolo, pale, with a long beard, half-dead and with downcast eyes, brought in handcuffed on board this vessel, where he is at this moment with the son of Cassano, D. Giulio Pacifico the priest and other infamous traitors. I suppose justice will be immediately executed upon the most guilty. In truth, it is a shocking thing, but I, who know their ingratitude and their crime, have felt it less painful than the numerous other persons present at this spectacle. I believe it to be a good thing that we have the chief culprits on board our ship now that we are just going to attack Sant' Elmo, because we shall be able to cut off a head for every cannon ball that the French throw into the City of Naples."
Lord Nelson immediately ordered a court-martial on Caracciolo to take place on his flagship, that is, British ground. When, a few months previously, he had been irritated by Commodore Campbell's burning of the ships, he had declared that he would have court-martialled him had he been under his command.
Francesco Caracciolo was no more under Lord Nelson's command than had been the Englishman in Portuguese service, but all such considerations were now brushed aside. Nelson was responsible, first, to Lord Keith, the Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean, and, then, to the British Government; he was a subject of King George III and not of King Ferdinand, who had not even officially given him the position of Generalissimo of his forces or Admiral of the Sicilian Fleet, an office which was nominally held by the Crown Prince. Lord Nelson had, therefore, not a shadow of any authority to take any action whatsoever against any Neapolitans or subjects of the Sicilian King. The full extent of his duty would have been to hand the prisoners over to the representatives of King Ferdinand, but he knew, and the Hamiltons knew, indeed, all the British Fleet and all the Royalists knew, that he could do what he liked in the way of ferocity against the patriots with the full applause and approval of the Sicilian Court.
Conte di Thurn, a foreigner in the Bourbon service, was sent for by Nelson, and with five senior officers formed a Council of War, to try, as Thurn put in the report he sent to Ruffo that evening: "Cavaliere Don Francesco Caracciolo, accused as a rebel against His Majesty, our August Master, to be tried and awarded punishment adequate to his crime."
The court-martial was held in one of the cabins of the Foudroyant. It lasted two hours. The prisoner had no one to speak in his defence and was not allowed to call any witnesses. When he was asked what he could say for himself, he replied that far from deserting the King, as he was accused, the King had deserted him. No proper report of the proceedings was taken. The prisoner could hardly hold himself upright from exhaustion. "He seemed half-dead with fatigue," noted Hamilton. He made one request--to be judged by English officers, saying that Thurn was his personal enemy and they had lately been engaged in a bitter civil war. No notice was taken of this request. He was judged guilty by a majority of votes, four of the officers voting for death and two against.
When Lord Nelson received this verdict he ordered Thurn to inflict on Francesco Caracciolo the most ignominious possible death--he was to be hanged at five o'clock of the same day at the yard-arm, and left hanging till sunset, at which hour, the cord being cut, he was to be let fall into the sea.
It was one o'clock when Thurn received this order from Nelson; in another half-hour he put Francesco Caracciolo on a boat, took him on board the Minerva, the ship on which Caracciolo had fired and which he had nearly captured in the action off Procida, and put him in cappella. Not only was the mode of death the most degrading possible, but the last proviso contained for the seaman a peculiar horror. Nelson himself had a dread of being thrown uncoffined into the sea. Besides, it meant that the Prince, a Roman Catholic, would be denied not only the last rites of the Church, but all Christian burial. He would, indeed, be treated as a dog, and his carcass as carrion. Conte di Thurn, himself no friend of the prisoner, was a little uneasy at the severity of the sentence. He ventured to point out to the British Admiral that it was usual to give condemned prisoners twenty-four hours' respite, in which, in company with a priest, they could attend to their soul's welfare. Sir William Hamilton ventured to second this request, but Nelson refused to listen to it.
During the time between Caracciolo's leaving the Foudroyant and the hour of the execution, which had been placed at five o'clock, two requests came from the prisoner--one that he might have a priest, another that he might be shot instead of being hanged. Lord Nelson refused both.
He could have saved Francesco Caracciolo. The death of this brave man and the deaths of the garrisons of the two castles that were held by the patriots were directly owing to his action. He, too, had the entire responsibility for the hideous details of the execution.
At five o'clock precisely in the late, blazing Neapolitan afternoon, the starved, hunted man, stumbling from fatigue, was brought on the deck of the Minerva. The rigging of the British ship was dark with seamen waiting to see the spectacle of a Neapolitan patrician hanged at the yard-arm of a Neapolitan ship. None of the bitterness of an ignominious death, none of the full taste of complete failure was spared Francesco Caracciolo. He died like a brave man, finding a smile for a midshipman who wept to see his fate, glancing even in that moment with interest at the design of a British ship riding near. The noose was adjusted, the haggard, thick-set man run up to the yard-arm, where he kicked out his life in the blue air.
Sir William scribbled away to Sir John Acton, fit recipient of such letters:
"All that Lord Nelson thinks and does is dictated to him by his conscience, by his honour, and I believe that in the end his decisions will be acknowledged as the best that could have been taken."
Yet there was something about this terrible action that struck uneasiness even into the withered heart of the British Minister:
"For the love of God," he added, "contrive that the King comes and lives on board the Foudroyant, that if possible his Royal Standard be run up. The die is cast. Now we must be as firm as we can."
At sunset the body of the Neapolitan Admiral was cut down and flung like offal into the darkening waters of the bay.
Emma had kept out of the way. She had seen to it that there was no record of the proceedings on that occasion. Ugly stories were told about her. One was that she and Nelson had taken a boat and rowed round the Minerva, staring with coarse curiosity at the corpse of Francesco Caracciolo; another was that on having a sucking-pig for supper she had begun to weep, declaring that it reminded her of the man that had been just executed--but afterwards, recovering her good spirits, she made a hearty meal, devouring even the animal's brains. It is likely enough that these stories are not true, but there were some women of whom they would never have been said. She had played her part; she had been the Queen's most efficient instrument, always at her husband's ear, always at her lover's ear, urging that they must please the adorable Queen. And the Queen was not unmindful of these services.
Whilst Caracciolo in his misery was waiting for death, Emma Hamilton scribbled three letters to the Queen, which have not survived, but the Queen's answer is in existence. It runs:
"I have received with infinite gratitude your dear, obliging letters, three of Saturday's and one of anterior date bearing the list of the Jacobins arrested, who formed part of the worst we have had. I have seen also the sad end of the crazy Caracciolo. I comprehend all that your excellent heart must have suffered and that augments my gratitude. I see perfectly what you point out to me and am filled with gratitude for it."
Probably Emma had mentioned that her exquisite sensibility was a little hurt by all the horrors that were happening around her. On shore the executions were beginning; the garrisons of the castles were the first to suffer.
Gabriele Manthoné asked if it was true that the King had annulled the capitulation; when told that it was so, he replied: "Then I maintain that he is a tyrant," and refused to speak again.
General Massa, who was hurried from the court-martial to the square where he was to be executed, said with ironic bitterness: "Make haste, make haste, I have so little time to lose." He had before lamented that through relying on the word of five nations he had betrayed his own garrison.
"Had I not got," he said, "men and ammunition and arms and provisions? I could have held out for months, or, at the worst, I could have blown myself, my fellow-soldiers, and the Castle into the air, and met a noble, not a felon's death."
One by one they were beheaded in the broiling heat and amid the insults and jeers of the lazzaroni drunk with blood.
So indecent were the ghastly antics of the crowd that the Bianchi (padri confortatori), the Brothers who, in Christian compassion, waited on the last moments of those who were condemned as criminals, protested.
These monks said that these unfortunate "rebels" were hurried to their end so swiftly, that there was no time to think of their souls. The Bianchi also complained that the dead bodies were left for hours at the mercy of the mob, and that the most horrible scenes took place. It is impossible to dwell on the orgies of obscene cruelty, of cannibalism, in which the vile crowd indulged.
In thus loosing the basest of the savage populace on those who had endeavoured, in the face of every difficulty, to maintain an ideal, in thus hurling the brave, the noble, the gentle, the cultured, the learned, the young, and the beautiful, to glut the foul passions of the mob--passions, too, like her own, the Queen gratified at last her lust for vengeance; one wish of hers was fulfilled; Naples was treated "like a rebel Irish town"; many of the atrocities committed in that city were the same as those which were being committed by Sir Ralph Abercrombie's troops in Ireland. The mutilation of the dead, the eating of human flesh, the use of human heads as footballs, were common to both the Bourbon vengeance of Naples, and William Pitt's vengeance on Ireland.
As a meddling, vindictive woman is universally loathed more deeply than a masculine tyrant, the victims of this fury found a focus for their scorn in the Queen; she was not more detestable than her wretched husband, than the worthless Sir John Acton, but she appeared more hateful because she was a woman; her sex gave an added air of meanness, of degradation to these ignoble horrors.
Already the patriots had quoted against the Queen the French verses written to her sister, Marie Antoinette, about the violated treaty:
"Monstre échappé de Germanie,
Le désastre de nos climats!
Jusqu'à quand contre ma patrie
Commettras-tu tes attentats?
Approche, femme détestable.
Regarde l'abîme effroyable
Où tes crimes nous ont plongés!
Veux-tu donc, extreme en to rage,
Pour consommer ton digne ouvrage
Nous voir l'un par l'autre égorgés?
Plus prodigue que l'Egyptienne,
Dont Marc Antoine fut épris,
Plus orgueilleuse qu' Agrippine
Plus lubrique que Messaline
Plus cruelle que Médicis."
The attack was ferocious and extravagant, but these terms might more justly be applied to Maria Carolina than the Queen to whom the stern reproaches were addressed.
Nothing was gained by the massacres in Naples, by these savage executions, save the gratification of Bourbon cruelty. It was a lesson to a world that had been shocked by the excesses of La Terreur Rouge in France, that La Terreur Blanche, as had indeed already been proved in La Vendée and Marseilles, that the old order could be as savage, as base, as insane, as any sans culottes, drunk and starving from the slums. While among the followers and instruments of the Bourbons could be found men like Charette, Speciale or Mammone, it was merely ironical for any Royalist to appear shocked at the record of the Jacobins.
The odium of these atrocities was cast on the British, "ferocious wolves of English," who became detested by all save the basest class; the final political result was to drive the country into the arms of France, to make Naples feel that anything was better than the renewal of the Bourbon rule.
The ruined men who were thus martyred would, had they been exiled, have been no trouble to the Neapolitan government, but, put thus infamously to death, they became in their turn potent symbols of future vengeance.
The fanatic Garat, who had been the French envoy at Naples, exclaimed with just fury:
"You say the dead do not return, that you murder these men to be rid of them! Indeed, in this way you will never be rid of them. The dead do return, in more terrible guise than ever the living came back--they come to demand payment for their spilt blood!"
Nothing had been gained by the judicial murder of Francesco Caracciolo, which Lord Nelson had intended as a frightful example to the rebel Jacobins, and those French, "the mere mention of whom made his blood boil." Caracciolo, ruined and a prisoner, would have done no harm to the Bourbons alive; dead, he became a national hero, a reminder of what had been done, an earnest of what might be achieved.
"The consecration of an heroic fall," neither the Bourbons nor the British were fine enough to see that aspect of the fall of the "figli di Parthenope"; in this desperate sacrifice lay the germ of Italian unity, of Italian liberty; those who died for la patria in 1799 prepared the way for 1806, for 1860, when Garibaldi and his patriots chased the Bourbons and their parasites for ever from the fair countries they had befouled.
In the Piazza dei Martiri--named after these martyrs--in Naples, the mighty Lion of 1799 at the base of the memorial column is wounded but still grips eternally the fasces.
On June 28th, Captain Foote, whom it was convenient to have out of the way--he had signed the violated capitulation in the name of Great Britain--sailed to Palermo to fetch the King, while Emma was making herself useful by collecting lists of prisoners, which she sent to the Queen. She wrote to Maria Carolina every day and the lists of condemned persons passed to and from the women, till one would have thought that they would have felt their fingers befouled by blood.
The Queen had long had a list by her of those on whom she would take vengeance if the Republic fell; among them was the editress of Il Monitore, the elegant and gifted poet Eleanora Fonseca Pimentel; she had found refuge in the castle and then had been taken on board the transports. She was among the number of the remnant of prisoners who were at last told they could depart; she had given a guarantee never to return to Naples and not to interfere in politics, and it was believed she might be allowed to sail for Toulon. This was not to be. She had written several scathing articles against the Queen and the Royal Family in the columns of Il Monitore, and no pity could be extended to a severe critic of Maria Carolina.
The Royalist guards came on board the polacca, arrested her and lodged her in the prison that the Bianchi protested against entering, because of the filth, foul air, and condition of the captives.
On July 8th the King came on board the Foudroyant; at the same moment as this grand eloquent reception was taking place, and while he and his smug courtiers were overwhelming the Hamiltons and Lord Nelson with noisy gratitude, prisoners were still being rowed across the bay from polaccas to the prisons in Naples.
This was a very pleasant sight for His Majesty, who listened with relish while Sir William, who was flustered but relieved that the worst was over, explained how cleverly Lord Nelson had stopped the transports just as they had been about to sail for Toulon, and how he had acted so promptly in getting Caracciolo out of the hands of Ruffo (who must be a Jacobin at heart) and in having him hanged before there was time for anyone to interfere. And there was Emma, blooming, but a little fagged from the heat, to drop her curtsy and to receive the messages from her adorable Queen.
The Foudroyant was now to be a Palace and a Court, since His Majesty, for all the triumph of the Santa Fede, dared not go ashore.
The Royal vengeance was hurried on. The accounts of this made a pleasant diversion to amuse His Majesty, when he was at his ease after supping with Emma and Nelson and Sir William. It was ordered that these hangings and beheadings should all take place before twelve, because soon after that hour there was a drawing of the lottery and the good King did not wish to deprive his subjects of the excitement either of the executions or of the lottery.
When Emma went on deck to obtain a little air in those stifling July days, when the sun beat down from sunrise to sunset on the brilliant waters, she could see the boats going to and fro, taking loads of prisoners from the polaccas to the town; she could see the outlines of the prisons where people of all ages and of both sexes festered alive in filth and disease.
She knew what was taking place in Naples. She constantly received from people she had known and from people who were strangers to her, but who realized her influence, applications, supplications and entreaties; she took no heed of them, and there is no record that she made any effort to save anyone or even that she was the least affected by the circumstances in which she found herself. She only wished that the whole affair was over and that she was back again in the rich, luxurious life she liked so well.
On July 19th, she wrote thus to her old friend and love, Charles Greville, who must have seemed a long way from these strange events in which the girl in distress that he had rescued from the London streets was taking so prominent a part.
"On board the Foudroyant,
"Bay of Naples, July 19th, 1799.
"Dear Sir,
"We have an opportunity of sending to England, and I cannot let pass this good opportunity without thanking you for your kind remembrance in Sir William's letter. Everything goes on well here. We have got Naples, all the Forts, and to-night our troops go to Capua. His Majesty is with us on board, where he holds his councils and levees every day. General Acton, Castelcicala, with one gentleman of the bedchamber, attends His Majesty. Sir William, with Lord Nelson and Acton, are the King's counsellors, and you may be assured that the future government will be most just and solid. The King has bought his experience most dearly, and at last he knows his friends from his enemies, and also knows the defects of his former government and is determined to remedy them. But he has great good sense and his misfortunes have made him steady and looking to himself. The Queen is not come; she sent me as her deputy and I am very popular, speak the Neapolitan language, and am considered, with Sir William, friends of the people. The Queen is waiting at Palermo and she is determined, as there has been a great outcry against her, not to risk coming with the King, for if it had not succeeded on his arrival and he not being well received, she would not bear the blame, nor be in the way. We arrived here before the King some fourteen days and I have privately seen all the Royal parties, and having the head of the lazzaroni, an old friend, who came on the night of our arrival and told me that he had ninety thousand lazzaroni ready at the holding up of his finger, some supplied with arms. Lord Nelson, to whom I interpreted this, has got a large supply of arms for the rest, and they were deposited with this man...
"We gave him only one hundred of our marine troops and these brave men kept all the time in order and he brought the heads of all this ninety thousand round the ship on the King's arrival, and he is to have promotion. I have through him made the Queen's party and the people at large had prayed her to come back--she is now very popular. I send her every night a messenger to Palermo with all the news and letters and she gives me the orders in the same way. I have given audiences to those of her party and have settled matters between her nobility and Her Majesty...
"In short, as I can judge, it may all turn out fortunate. The Neapolitans have had a dose of Republicanism. What a glory to our good King, to our country, to ourselves, that we, our brave fleet, our great Nelson have had the happiness of restoring the King to his throne, to the Neapolitans their much loved King, and being the instrument of giving the future a solid and just government to the Neapolitans...
"The guilty are punished, but the faithful are rewarded. I have not been on shore but once. The King gave us leave to go as far as Sant' Elmo to see the effect of bombs. I saw at a distance our spoilt house, the town and villa that had been plundered. On Sir William's new apartment a bomb burst. It made me low-spirited I don't desire to go back again. We shall, as soon as the government is safe, return to Palermo and bring back the Royal Family, for I can see not any permanent government till that event takes place...
"I am quite worn out, for I am interpreter to Lord Nelson, the King and Queen, and altogether feel quite shattered, but if things go well it will set me up. We dine now every day with the King at twelve o'clock and the dinner is over by one. His Majesty goes to sleep and we sit down to write in the heat. On board you may guess what we suffer. My mother is at Palermo and I have an English lady with me used to write and helping to keep papers and the things in order. We have given the King all the upper Cabin, all but one room that we write in and receive the ladies who come to the King. Sir William and I have an apartment in the ward-room, and as to Lord Nelson, he is here and there and everywhere. I never saw such vigour and activity in anyone as in this wonderful man. My dearest Sir William, thank God, is well, and of the greatest use now to the King. We hope Capua will fall in a few days and then we shall be able to return to Palermo. On Sunday last we had prayers on board. The King assisted and was much pleased with the order, decency and good behaviour of the men, the officers, etc. Pray write to me. God bless you, my dear Sir, and believe me, Ever Yours affectionately, Emma Hamilton.
"It would be a charity to send me some things, for in saving all for my dear and Royal friend, I lost my little all. Never mind."
Not all the men had been so decent and orderly as those whom the King admired, when he saw them at their Protestant prayers on the clean-scrubbed deck of the Foudroyant. One, John Jolly, had been shot by Nelson's orders for insubordination, and a sailor for the same reason had been strung up to the yard-arm.
Emma, when she had gone ashore, had noticed nothing but the damage to her own property, but Naples at that moment was almost what Ruffo had bitterly said it would become--"a heap of stones," and the blood was drying on the hot pavements. The hangings, and beheadings, went on day by day; the flower of Neapolitan civilization, all that was enlightened, cultured, scholarly, humane, suffered the most hideous, degrading, and painful of deaths in the packed square of the Mercato, where the mob, drunk with blood-lust, blasphemed and rioted under the fierce sun, in the sour stenches.
Emma went on compiling her lists of prisoners and condemned, the Queen checking the names off with those other lists she held herself. The two women estimated that there were still eight thousand left in the prisons; no one counted those who had been massacred, killed in the street fights or driven into exile.
The King, strolling on the deck of the British man-of-war after one of his afternoon naps, saw a dark object in the bright, fouled waters of the bay that roused his curiosity. He peered through his spy-glass and was soon shrieking in terror. Coming rapidly towards the ship, visible to the waist as if he walked through the polluted waves, was the body of Francesco Caracciolo, bolt upright, with his long black hair hanging round his livid swollen face. Frightened and convulsed were the superstitious crowd--Ferdinand and those with him; only one of the priests recovered sufficient wits to say--"Caracciolo has returned from the dead to beg the King's pardon."
This slightly reassured Ferdinand, but he immediately ordered that the corpse have Christian burial.
The body of Caracciolo was drawn up on board one of the Neapolitan ships, rowed ashore in the twilight, and buried in the little church of Santa Maria delle Grazie a Catena, built by the fishermen's savings, on the shore of Santa Lucia, where the sailors and fisherfolk, who had greatly loved the man who had so long defended their coast, and who had lived in the great house in their quarter, laid him in his native soil beneath a humble gravestone on which was written "Francesco Caracciolo, 1799."
The Brothers belonging to the fraternity of Santa Maria delle Grazie a Catena helped to bury the body of the Captain who had carried the flag of Naples to the shores of Tunis, and one of them gave it a benediction. The porter of the monastery had known Francesco Caracciolo since, as a boy, he used to run wild around these rocky coasts, and the old man recalled how the Prince had been called "the madcap," with his streaming black hair, quick limbs and merry laugh.
Long after the curious searched in vain for a trace of the grave of the woman who queened it on board the Foudroyant, while Francesco Caracciolo was furtively buried by his humble friends in the sea-shore church, this inscription might be read:
Francesco Caracciolo
Ammiraglio della Repubblica Partenopea
Fu dall' astio d'ingeneroso nemico
Impeso all' antenna il 29 Giugno, 1799.
I Popolani Di S. Lucia
Qui Tumularono L'onorando Cadavere.
On August 5th, Emma wrote again to Charles Greville:
"Foudroyant,
"Bay of Naples, August 5th, 1799.
"As Sir William wrote to you to-day, my dear Sir, I will only say that the Kingdom of Naples is clear. Dasta and Capua have capitulated, and we sail to-night for Palermo, having been here seven weeks and everything gone to our wishes. We return with a Kingdom to present to my much loved Queen. I have also been so happy to succeed in all my company and everything I was charged with. The King is in great spirits. I have received all the ladies for him and he calls me his Grande Maîtresse. I was near taking him at his word, but as I have had seven long years service in Court I am waiting to get quiet. I am not ambitious of more honours. We have had the King on board a month and I have never been able to go once on shore. Do you not call that slavery? I believe we shall come home in the spring. It is necessary for our pockets and our bodies want bracing...
"Your sincere and affectionate Emma.
"My mother in Palermo is longing to see her Emma. You can't think how she is loved and respected by all. She has adopted a mode of living that is charming. She has a good apartment in our house, always lives with us, dines, etc. Only when she does not like it. For example, at great dinners, she herself refuses, and has always a friend to dine with her and la Signora Ambasciatrice Inglese is known all over Palermo, as she was at Naples. The Queen has been very kind to her in my absence, went to see her, told her she ought to be proud of her glorious daughter who had done so much in these last suffering months. There is great preparation for our return. The Queen comes out with all Palermo to meet us, a landing place is made, all suppers, illuminations all ready. The Queen has prepared my clothes. In short, I am fagged, I am more than repaid. I tell you this that you may see I am not unworthy of having been once your pupil. God bless you."
There was a faint shadow over all this glory in the thought of Fanny's waiting in Burnham Thorpe Vicarage, and the letters, which became with each one more peremptory in tone, from Lord Keith, reminding his second-in-command that he could not for ever keep the British Navy in the Bay of Naples.
As early as June, while the question of the rebel castles was distracting Naples, Lord Keith, newly Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean Fleet, had ordered Lord Nelson to "send such ships as you can possibly spare off the Island of Minorca to await my orders."
Lady Hamilton's lover disobeyed, evading his superior's commands by declaring that the safety of the Bourbon Kingdom demanded his presence off Naples. Urged again, and more emphatically, he put forward as an excuse for not moving the Fleet that the French were still at Capua, giving it as his unasked-for opinion that it was better to save the Kingdom of Naples and risk Minorca, than to risk Naples to save Minorca. Taking no notice of this advice or comment, Keith retorted by a peremptory command:
"Your Lordship is hereby required to repair to Minorca."
By this time he had heard or guessed something, perhaps a little too much, of what had been happening in Naples: "Advise those Neapolitans not to be too sanguinary. Cowards are always cruel," he wrote. "Give them fair words and little confidence."
Again Lord Nelson disobeyed. He sent four ships to Minorca, but he could not be expected himself to leave the Bay of Naples where the celebration of the anniversary of the Battle of the Nile was to take place on a grand scale; he had, however, to endure other annoyances besides Lord Keith's vexatious dispatches. Above all there was the question of Fanny. Nelson, when he had got an opportunity through Captain Hardy's going on leave to England, had sent tactful messages to his wife and requested that she would send Lady Hamilton some presents. Fanny had obeyed and dispatched a cap and 'kerchief such as were fashionable in London. She had given him scraps of news; she had ordered for him a suit of fine clothes for Her Majesty's birthday and that the expenses of his new chariots were alarming:
"Nothing fine about it, only fashionable...Three hundred and fifty-two pounds for harness, etc., for one pair of horses."
Lord Nelson cared little about matters of expense; the present from the East India Company--£10,000--had just been paid to his English bank, and he was glad of the chance of distributing it among his friends and relations; not only was he, where money was concerned, generous by nature, but it was a good opportunity of keeping his family quiet and of swaying them in his favour. £500 was to be given to his father, £500 each to his two brothers; there was plenty left over for his sister and for Fanny, to whom he wrote pleasantly, begging her to distribute the money, promising to return as soon as his health permitted, but carefully emphasizing the poor state he was in. He was able to send Fanny also a glo