Death and Redemption in Hanbury’s gardens

Incredible story of an attempt to assassinate Queen Victoria as

told by The Times' correspondent, an eye witness to the events

written by Andrea Becca

Chapter 1: Daniel & Thomas: what is paradise?
Peace. The wind is stilled among the olive trees. The sun has melted into the sea,
spreading shades of red between the azure of the sky and the deep blue of the sea. The
moon peeps shyly from a firmament set with stars.
Peace and silence. Silence against the steady beat of the waves. Silence pierced
intermittently by the song of a distant cricket. Silence broken by the chirping of the last
birds returning to their nests. Silence among the leaves of the oleanders, the branches of
the cypress trees.
All about is the fragrance of the warm earth, the freshly-cut hay, the withered roses. The
Garden is slipping into quiescence.
It is as if God were admiring His creation.
You are right, Daniel. At a moment such as this, one can feel His presence.
Quite so. I have always wondered why.
Perhaps simply because what makes a garden – light, water, plants – strikes a chord deep
in the human soul. A tree lives, grows and dies like a man.
Or perhaps because the garden lives within us. It is the mirror of our being, of our
essence. Thus we rediscover the harmony that our consciousness loses in the humdrum of
daily existence.
Thomas Hanbury took a sip from his glass of red wine and slowly re-lit his pipe. The
silence of that evening of March 1882 was broken by the sputter of the burning tobacco.
Thomas inhaled deeply, with pleasure, while the clouds of smoke drifted away in the light
breeze. Tell me, Daniel, what is paradise?
The word has ancient roots. In Persian – pairi-daiza – it meant walled garden. For the
Greeks – paradeisos – and Romans it meant any garden. In other words, Thomas, you are
in paradise.
Well then, I had better be watchful of Eve and her serpents, laughed Thomas.
The myth of paradise is present wherever there is a man . . .
Come, Daniel, you are always so dashed serious.
Listen, it’s really most interesting. The sacred books of India and the Mahabarata
celebrate Mount Meru from which four rivers flow. The Egyptians recalled a blissful age
when men were ruled by Ra, the ancient Sun God.
The Airyana Vaejah which sprang from Hara Berezaiti in Persia, was a true earthly
paradise. The Chinese speak of Keun-lun, a paradise where there live wonderful trees
freshened by miraculous waters. Romans and Latins tell tales of the time of Chronos and
his blessed land. Assyrians and Chaldeans had stories similar to these that are told in the
Bible.
Indeed, the Bible, said Thomas. Here is a passage from Genesis that I recall: And the
Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had
formed. And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to
the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of
knowledge of good and evil. And a river went out of Eden to water the garden; and from
thence it was parted, and became into four heads.
And then there are the sacred glades of the Celts. Poets such as Tertullian, Proba Faltonia,
Draconzius, Claudius Marius Vittorius and Alcimus Avitus described their marvels while
the Roman empire was crumbling. The harder life became in the dark centuries of the
Middle Ages, the more poets, troubadours and writers of ascetic works exalted the
wonders of the first garden. And finally we arrive at Dante’s highly organised structure
which saw him at the peak of Mount Purgatory facing Jerusalem.
So all civilisations had a clear idea of perfect happiness. . .
I should say, rather, that in all human societies man has felt the need to outline and
elaborate designs for paradise. In all cases, however, it was simply a myth based on the
cult of nature. The tree of life and the tree of sustenance, the tree of science and the tree
of knowledge. So, quite independent from the reality of his existence, man has always
imagined a happier life. What’s more, he has always conceived it in a remote place and a
forgotten age.
Who knows if we modern men have it within us to create our own paradise. Are we
capable of imagining a state of primitive innocence and recognising ourselves within it?
Thomas, in our own way we have tried. Today your garden is a living presence and
within it there are doors that lead to ancient secrets of the spirit and of man’s history.
Mysteries that you cannot understand but that you have learned to respect. The important
thing, as you well know, is that the secrets should be kept.

Chapter 2 : James Vincent : paradise is the Riviera

Nothing worse than spending two hours in this filthy, noisy carriage with no suspension.
With rhythmic regularity the driver spits out his foul gobs of tobacco. So it’s better to
keep the window shut, despite the exceptional heat of the March day. At least thus I am
less afflicted by the warbling of his partner, who persists in singing a song about a lady of
easy virtue.
The two keep passing back and forth a bottle of wine even as they negotiate the
mountainous turns suspended high above the sea. If the editors in London had told me
that I would be subjected to this treatment in following the Queen to the Cote d’Azur, I
would not have accepted with such enthusiasm. I loosen my stiff collar. So this is the
marvellous Riviera!
Suddenly two gendarmes emerge from a cloud of dust. We have arrived at the new Italian
border. From here on we will be in the Kingdom of Savoy. The last time I saw Umberto II
he was standing outside the bedroom of the well-known courtesan, the Belle Edvige, in
Monaco holding up his trousers . . . I can’t help recalling the dishevelled state of his fine
whiskers . . .
The two hired ruffians, their faces burned by the sun, demand our documents with a show
of zeal: let’s pay them and be done with it. A few pennies see their arrogance dissolve
into servility. New nation, same disgusting old habits.
“At the gates of paradise, set in sharp relief against the glittering backdrop of the Italian
Riviera, stands the welcoming entrance of the famous gardens of Sir Thomas Hanbury.
Bathed in the suffused light of a fresh spring morning, the village of La Mortola shines in
its simplicity. Italy – land of seafarers, poets and artists –throws open its gates to my
coach. My white horses leap forward towards the fatherland of culture, the cradle of our
civilisation. Rome – in the splendour of its millennia of history – looms ever-present in
the fabric of this land: not by chance are we travelling on the ancient Aurelian Way. An
impressive feat of construction that enabled the citizens of Rome to travel to the distant
territories of Gaul and Iberia.”
This is what my readers will be offered in tomorrow’s Times. I look admiringly at my
pen. If it were to describe everything, it would also note that the village of La Mortola (la
morte means death in Italian) probably owes its lugubrious name to the fact that it was
once the site of an ancient cemetery.
Its ragged inhabitants have since time immemorial been victims of typhoid, endemic here
because of the contaminated drinking water. One only has to see the land they have to
cultivate. Narrow terraces on which olive trees and vines struggle for a foothold but
where no cornfield could ever flourish.
And the Roman road . . . better not to mention this interminable track just wide enough
for a single ox-cart.
“James, what was your first impression of the Italian coast?”
“I don’t know what to think. What can one think after a journey of three days on a beastly
train with no heating or restaurant car that crawls the length of an infinitely boring French
countryside at 20 mph . . . not to mention the trip from Menton to here, a dreadful road.
I’ll tell you what it is – just the latest in a long line of the English nobility’s madcap
capers. Their first queer idea was to go to Brighton and Portsmouth to take sea baths.
Today they prefer something more exotic, wilder. So why not the south of France? Or,
worse still, the Ligurian Riviera?”
“Perhaps you are forgetting that the British climate is far from ideal for old people.”
“Come, come. Nothing could justify such a journey. And the expense. I believe the Queen
was ill-advised. A sovereign so observant of good manners, so upright and proper. I am
convinced she will be disgusted by the barbarism of the reality.”
“Nonetheless you were also sent here to follow up on a story that’s doing the rounds on
the coast. What is that all about? What can you tell me?”
“No, truly, that is confidential. You know, like any good journalist I have to maintain a
certain discretion. Nonetheless the story is out so I’ll fill you in on a little background. A
couple of weeks ago a gardener stabbed one of his colleagues in the botanical gardens of
an English notable, Sir Thomas Hanbury. Apparently they are a horrible mass of
vegetation tumbling into the sea hear on the border, another eccentric Englishman’s folly.
As for the brawl . . . well, these things happen among people of that sort. Small-time
smugglers and bandits – just not reliable, the Italians. And the poorer they are, the less
reliable they become.”
“But this is not what the excitement is really all about.”
“The curious thing is that the wounded man seemed to be dying but Hanbury – the owner
– intervened and carried him off. He hid him, with the complicity of the head gardener,
Winter, in a pavilion that they kept locked. They left him there for a day and a night.
Then he returned to work as if nothing had happened. It even seems there was no trace of
a stab wound on him.”
“Why on earth would you be interested in such a minor event?”
“You’re right; it’s quite awful. I have to admit that the editor of The Times is really going
overboard on this one. In fact, my job is to follow the royal party and write about what
they do. But in this case John Brown has personally exerted pressure to get to the bottom
of the rumour before Queen Victoria visits the gardens. As everyone knows, Brown is
somewhat paranoid. He sees plots everywhere. But you can understand his point of
view . . .”
“So what are you after?”
“I’ll tell you. Do you know what a scoop is? It’s a new American word that means finding
something out before anyone else. And that translates into money, my friend.”
“Come come, what sort of scoop do you expect to make in a place like this?”
“Don’t you believe it. It seems these Mediterranean gardens have special qualities. It’s
not by chance they attract all the crowned heads of Europe. A certain Dr Bennet extolled
their virtues in a publication that was all the rage in the salons of gouty old English
aristocrats. The story even spread to the court. Now Queen Victoria wants to see for
herself.”
“What did Bennet write?”
“His story is quite entertaining. The old doctor was dying. Or at least he thought he was.
Suffocated by two bigoted sisters, racked by aching bones, Bennet thinks he’s at death’s
door. So he decides to die somewhere more agreeable than tea-time in Liverpool Street.
He says farewell to his impossible family, his house with its damp rooms and the foggy
English countryside. Comes down to the south of France and decides to stay here to die.
At this point death was supposed to carry the doctor off to an Englishman’s heaven even
though – as everyone knows – that’s a dull and dreary place made up of cups of tea, a bit
of cricket and polite conversation about the weather.
“But for some reason the grim reaper fails to put in an appearance. Bennet waits for him
under a big lime tree, symbol of man’s passing, getting the maid to bring him a glass of
the local red from time to time. And here is where the plan goes awry. In my opinion,
Bennet becomes distracted. Instead of getting on with dying – as his heirs would have
liked – he started to notice that this Italian girl was jolly attractive. The coarse country
lass doesn’t have the fine features of upper class English ladies but my goodness nor is
she so boring. Our doctor hears her laugh out loud when a berry falls in his cup of tea. He
watches her run after a butterfly. Or he hears her singing as she hangs out the washing,
dazzling white in the brilliant light of this part of the world.
“No doubt about it, the doctor is starting to enjoy life and to forget about dying. Indeed,
he even gets better. The trouble is that he feels the need to tell all the other gout-ridden
old fogeys about it. He writes a book. Not a manual on the amatory qualities of pretty
Italian girls; not even the diary of an old roué who seduced the maid. That might have
been instructive and amusing.
“The old bore goes and writes a medical tome on the benefits of the Mediterranean
climate and the beauty of the region. Sheer nonsense. There is nothing more agreeable
than the civilised English countryside, as everyone well knows. But in London life is dull
and everyone dreams of far-off Edens, preferably by the sea. And here they come to the
Mediterranean, swarms of English aristocrats searching for a cure to all their ills. They
even learn to swim – at least the men do. All it needs now is for the weaker sex to follow
their example.”
“How do you intend to proceed with your investigation?”
“Very simple. I just need to gather some gossip and a few interviews about the nouveau
riche Hanbury. A few colourful bits of nonsense on the miracles supposed to be
happening in his garden would go down rather well with the great unwashed English
public. Then I’ll categorically deny there ever was a resurrection – a blasphemous word
in a place like this – and I’ll get back, happy and relaxed, to my life as a rich unmarried
gossip columnist.”

Chapter 3 : Interview with Ludwig Winter : a Prussian in paradise

Spartanly dressed, with no jacket and wearing work boots, Dr Winter agreed to a short
interview. Prussian by origin, director of gardens, he is the man to whom Thomas
Hanbury turned to create the gardens at La Mortola in 1865. Today, in the full maturity of
his 45 years, he has realised his dreams both professional – managing a nursery of exotic
plants in Bordighera – and domestically, since he has 10 children with an eleventh on the
way.
“Dr Winter, what can you tell us about Thomas Hanbury and the creation of his garden,
given that you worked with him for 10 years?”
“I am not the right person to answer this question. My business is gardens and I know
plants better than people. Sir Thomas is a London merchant who made his fortune in
Shanghai, China. His story is not unlike that of many other enterprising Englishmen of
the time, even if Sir Thomas was notable for the integrity of his behaviour. Sir Thomas is
a Quaker who stayed faithful to his moral principles even in times of great difficulty.
“He ran his business in a city caught up in a serious political crisis. The Chinese Empire
had trouble containing the various revolts that flared up within it. In 1850 Shanghai was
occupied by a band that the English baptised Small Knives Company. The emperor had
sent his troops to retake the city. The war did not extend to the Concession, where the
westerners lived, but the foreigners barricaded themselves in and organised their own
militia.
“Sir Thomas did not make himself popular with the foreigners in the Concession, for two
reasons. Firstly, he always refused to bear arms or to betray his principles of non-
violence. Secondly, he deplored the way of life of the other merchants in China, their
greed, their trafficking of arms and drugs, their unbridled lust. Above all, he hated their
unjustified scorn for the Chinese. A scorn he did not share.
“In fact, Sir Thomas started to develop good relations with the local merchants and
during the clashes and looting he found himself taking their side. Behaviour that earned
him a lot of good will among the locals.”
“Your are describing him like a hero.”
“A hero is someone who accomplishes an exceptional feat. Sir Thomas did not act in this
spirit. Let me read you a letter he sent to his brother in 1855.
“Two or three days after the city was taken, a tea merchant came to me and said he had a
treasure buried in the walls of his house and persuaded me to go with him to dig it up. I
would have preferred not to go because at that moment the streets were full of blackguard
imperial soldiers brandishing their swords and stealing everything that seemed of value.
Still, I decided to take a servant and go with him. When we arrived at his house we the
soldiers were already there. We sent them outside and, having barricaded the doors,
ordered the servant to dig in a corner of the courtyard with the point of a lance. After
digging for a while, our man unearthed two brown terracotta urns. At just that moment
we heard a loud banging at the door and the poor Chinese merchant thought all was lost.
Not at all. Putting on a brave face, I opened the door to find a score of the scoundrels who
had obviously guessed what we were doing. I shouted at them to be gone and they
obeyed immediately. Then we pulled out the urns, one of which was full of gold pieces
and solid gold ornaments set with precious stones; the other contained silver ingots.”
The letter went on to described how Hanbury himself carried the precious objects back to
the Concession, since the local merchant was too afraid of being followed by the imperial
guards. A well-founded fear: the mercenaries stopped the small company (Are they 2? Or
more?) several times during their journey back, but the fact that an Englishman was in
charge ensured that the treasure was brought to safety. That’s the way Hanbury behaved.
As he did with all the Chinese who, fearing for their own possessions, asked him to
safeguard their families.
“The rich Chinese are continually asking me to look after their properties, to act for them,
to make me their trustee and many other things . . . The other day they consigned to me
the legal documents for no fewer than 27 farms, houses and warehouses. Their combined
value is a little more than £50,000. I have no doubt that, were we attacked, I would have
at least 200 men women and children close around me.”
“And after the attack, what happened?”
“The attack never came. The intervention of the English and French troops stopped the
rebels before they could reach Shanghai. Sir Thomas then handed back to the legitimate
owners all the he had received. Not many others acted in the same way. But his honesty
earned him great credit among the representatives of the Chinese community, who helped
him expand his business. For example, he continued to invest in lands and properties in
Shanghai where by 1864 he was the landowner with the most extensive holdings.”
“How did Hanbury make his fortune?”
“First of all as a tea merchant, but he wasn’t above importing small objets such as French
bracelets made of a kind of Venetian glass much appreciated by Chinese ladies. From
China he exported straw for hats and medicinal rhubarb. His most profitable commercial
perception was to export Chinese cotton to the west when American production was
down because of their Civil War. A product that the Chinese had never before sold
outside their domestic market. Sir Thomas also noticed that Japan was opening up
commercially in 1859 and was one of the first to start trading with Tokyo through his
agents.”
“What are your relations with Sir Thomas?”
“They have always been good but also frank and strained. With his brother Daniel I really
felt a strong liking. Daniel Hanbury didn’t open his mouth without knowing what he
wanted to say. He was the younger brother but he was exceptionally gifted as a botanist.
They say a book of his research is about to be published. Certainly his involvement with
the garden was always dictated by good sense and deep knowledge of the subject. Truth
to tell, I owe a lot to Thomas Hanbury.”
“It appears you are persona non grata in France . . .”
“Nonsense. I was thrown out of the French royal gardens because of a boyish prank. It
seems an agent of the empress heard me singing the Marseillaise. The story is untrue but I
don’t mind if it’s retold. Yes, I believed in the republic and I still think crowned heads
serve only to despoil our country. Nonetheless, beyond that bit of bluster, I have no
interest in politics; for me, only plants exist e le loro sincere relazioni??
“Sir Thomas was not concerned by my past and gave me an opportunity. To be sure, the
job was not easy. A Prussian with broken French like mine, working for an English
master so demanding and also distant, with 30 Italian dependents who scarcely
communicate with each other and then in the dialect of La Mortola. A group of
dependents, many of them barely to be trusted and, what’s more, friends of Sebastiano
Lorenzi, a man of so many faces and not a few vices.
My responsibilities were heavy ones. My men were uncouth peasants with rough
manners. Often they reacted, for no apparent reason, in an excessive and unseemly way.
When they did so, I barely recognised them; they were full of nasty surprises. I was
expected to work with them so that the upkeep and planting of the gardens went ahead
smoothly. Processes that were not all easy: in a spot where water is scarce I had to
manage the acclimatisation and flowering of a nursery full of precious plants from far-
away places. In summer, watering alone took tremendous time and energy. The seedlings
were fragile and vulnerable to everything: animal attack, overexposure to the sun, thirst
and European diseases. And that’s not all. Among my tasks was that of selling the
produce of the garden, whether fruit, flowers or plants, in Ventimiglia or London. Not to
mention that, as we cleared and cultivated new areas, the upkeep continued to become
more burdensome. In other words, a thankless task.”
“What do you make of the rumours that are circulating about ‘his’ garden?”
“To what do you refer? To the story of the resurrection, perhaps? Nothing but local
gossip. Narrow and provincial. Gossip put about because of the ignorance and credulity
of the peasants. I have planted the garden based on the principle of not going against
nature.
“With this philosophy – and with the peerless support of Daniel Hanbury – we have
created a garden where Asian palms grow alongside Italian olives, Mediterranean citrus
fruit touch elbows with succulent South American plants. Local cultures have been
respected and grown in harmony with more exotic and costly species. An innovative and
– so far – unique.” In this context, I think even you will agree if I say that inherent in the
idea of nature is also . . . death.”
“As far as you know, has Sir Thomas any enemies?”
“Hard to say. Certainly the early days were not easy. Particularly when – in order to
create the garden as it is today – we had to remove some olive trees. A sacrifice for us,
too, but something which was seen as truly sacrilegious. In Liguria entire families live
thanks to an olive tree and its fruits. I am sure that for the local people some of our
botanical choices were hard to accept.
“Another problem was limiting the extent of the hunt. Sir Thomas never allowed hunting
on his land and always went to great lengths in his aviaries to maintain the bird
population. Behaviour that he insisted on quite rigidly and that did not, I believe, meet
with great sympathy.
“Finally, there’s the age-old problem of water that sets the various districts in the valley
against one another. Here, too, Sir Thomas’s behaviour may have ????????

Chapter 4 : Interview with Sebastiano Lorenzi : the dark side of the

garden

“Sir Thomas? Imposing whiskers and piercing eyes.” Sebastiano Lorenzi bursts out
laughing after describing his employer to me. Lorenzi is the head gardener who himself
has locally recruited “30 exceptional people” from whom he expects absolute deference,
“as a good father demands of his sons”, to use his own words. To tell the truth, while no
doubt the head gardener, Lorenzi is not as I would have expected. No work clothes, no
muddy boots. On the contrary, he greeted me seated in the shade of a maritime pine,
dressed in an elegant linen suit buttoned at the bottom in the Italian style. He received me
sipping a glass of French wine despite the heat of the late morning.
“Do have a glass, my friend. It’s fresh from the cellar.”
Pleasant and affable, Lorenzi did not wait for me to start asking questions. He seemed to
know already exactly who I was, what I wanted and – strangely – seemed even to be
aware of my conversation with Winter.
“Sir Thomas is a good-natured man,” he began, taking me by surprise. “Nice, nice as pie.
But real English pie, not much spice. We never see him laugh or sing or take any
amusement. Life, bah, life is meant to be enjoyed, in heaven’s name. Between you and
me, even with women . . . nothing; always with his wife Catherine. Yet he could sleep in
a different bed every night. What a waste!
“As for the rest, he would be a perfect master if he weren’t so tight-fisted and pernickety.
Did you know he carries a notebook in which every day he enters all his expenses. A
habit he’s had for years and that he maintains despite his wealth. It’s enough to make
your flesh creep. But let’s drink to the health of Sir Thomas; after all, this bottle is on
him.”
“How did he make his fortune, in your view, Sir Thomas?”
“As everyone knows, by trading with China. But not everyone knows what they ‘trade’ in
China.”
“What do they trade?”
“Opium, my friend, opium. A substance they like very much in that part of the world and
that even here has its, shall we say, followers. Not I, though. I would always prefer a
woman and a bottle of wine. Mark my words, today opium flows in rivers from one
continent to the other. A sea of opium. That is where the English merchants make their
‘big money’, for all their upbringing and elegance. Not to mention that in those barbaric
countries there are other ways of earning money that to us seem immoral but over there
are quite acceptable.”
“I say, Lorenzi, that’s a bit strong. I really don’t see Sir Thomas trading in those
substances.”
“That’s the way you journalists always are. Always ready to twist things to suit your
story. I certainly did not say that. I certainly accused no one. I was speaking in general
terms, just in theory. Sir Thomas is certainly not implicated in any of this. Have a drink,
let’s not have any misunderstandings, and please don’t tell me you don’t drink, because I
hate non-drinkers. I am simply repeating what everyone says about these barbaric parts of
the world. Nothing more.”
“What do you know of the rumours about this garden?”
“Nothing. What rumours? There are no rumours. Just the slanders of evil tongues.
Anyway, evil tongues are everywhere – visionaries too. I know nothing; there is nothing
to say.”
“Very well, no need to be angry. I simply wanted to know if it is true that there was a
fight here between two employees.”
“Fight, fight. I would say a childish squabble. Let us call things by their true name. A few
cross words, a shove and suddenly the village gossips embroider it, build castles in the
air, create their stories. That’s what it is, stories.”
“Well, my information is that two of your men confronted each other armed with knives
and that one of them was seriously wounded and perhaps even died.”
“If you know all these things, why do you come and ask me? I knew nothing of all this.
You can see how local gossip soon becomes legend and in no time, just by word of
mouth, is transformed into fairy tales. You people, journalists and writers, turn it into
reality when you set it down in black on white. For us, they are just stories that
germinate, swell and finally turn into fine robust trees with their roots in fantasy and their
leaves in the memories of the oldest inhabitants. Take this case; they told you there were
dead people. Have you seen any corpses? Or perhaps you think it is easy to hide a
murder?”
“If you had to hide a corpse in this garden, where would you choose?”
“Now you do surprise me. This is truly a naïve question. Listen, Mr Vincent, let us take
the bull by the horns. The two men are called Giacomo Orengo and Aldo Baldizzone. Ask
after them here in La Mortola. Go and see them, touch them if you wish. They are alive,
in fine form, and will be itching for a fight the next time they have too much to drink.”
“Lorenzi, you speak well. Are you still involved in politics? If I am not mistaken, you too
were once a red shirt and were close to Crispi when Garibaldi’s army gathered here in
Liguria.”
“What has this got to do with anything? It was a long time ago. Everything has changed;
some people have done well out of it, others not. Certainly the general did not. Today
Giuseppe Garibaldi is in poor health, some say dying, in his exile in Caprera. I take
consolation from the fact that, just as I do, he can open his eyes and see the water. His
bed faces the window that looks out over the pines to the blue of the sea. Which, after all,
is the same sea we have here. The sea we wanted for Italy, though, certainly not
Piedmont. If you want to know if I killed anyone, the answer is ‘yes, I killed’. As a
soldier, though. More, as a follower of Garibaldi. And then? Does that make me a
murderer? Perhaps I am just disillusioned. I can no longer believe in anything since I lost
my faith, and above all I can’t make myself believe in the ideals of these English nobles.
Gentlemen in white spats like yours, and with consciences black as coal. Vincent, believe
me, you won’t find here the information you’re looking for. You certainly won’t find it
like this.”

Chapter 5 :Interview with John Brown : a paradise called High Lands

John Brown’s gaze is clear and direct beneath the beard that frames his face. It is easy to
see why the Queen liked him.
“How is Her Majesty?”
“She is recovering her good mood, I have to say. Sixty-two years old and the capacity of
an 18-year-old girl to become excited about travelling to France. Madness.”
“Even queens have the right to a holiday from time to time.”
“Nonsense. We have precise intelligence of the fact that the leaders of the Irish rebels
have sought refuge in Paris. Today they call themselves Fenians. According to them, this
is a group of invincible warriors who once defended their wretched island.”
Despite the heat, Brown is dressed, as ever, in his kilt. Beneath his neat whiskers one can
see clearly his indignation at a royal decision that he considers rash, useless and
dangerous.
“I fail to understand why we should not go back to Balmoral, why we have to leave our
own country. This feverish desire to travel to exotic lands is quite beyond me. A long and
uncomfortable journey.”
“Come, Mr Brown, what could go wrong on a journey such as this?”
“That’s exactly what they said at the beginning of the month. Besides, Her Majesty never
shows any concern. Take the parade, for example. If that madman Robert Maclean had
not been such a wretched shot, Edward would today be on the throne and I would have
returned to my old stable at High Lands. It’s common knowledge that Victoria’s sons hate
me.”
“If I am not mistaken, you saved the Queen’s life.”
“No, that occurred quite by chance. I was merely lucky – 10 years ago now – to have
bumped into that crazed idiot. I am just sorry that the Irish lunatic has succeeded in
making a name for himself in the history books. What was his name? Oh yes, Arthur
O’Connor. Personally, I would have had him hanged. In her excessive soft-heartedness
Victoria would have none of it and settled for a reduced sentence on the grounds of
diminished responsibility. Ridiculous.
”Today, though, the danger is far graver. The Queen is the symbol of the Empire yet her
security leaks like a sieve. If you consider that the ironclad Ivincible arrived two days late
in the bay of Menton. Two days without military support: unthinkable. Under present
difficult circumstances the French secret service seems particularly unhelpful. We know
that some of the Irish leaders, such as McMaloney and his group, are hiding in Paris with
the barely-concealed assistance of the new democratic government.”
“Has the Queen been warned of the danger? What are her thoughts?”
“Naturally she has been advised; what do you take us for? As usual, she makes light of it
and underestimates the risk she runs. She is enchanted by France and its manners. Her
mood, in general somewhat sombre, seems to be improving with every day that passes.
For that reason alone the journey was important. Nonetheless it would have been wiser to
return to Scotland, where she had always been happy with His Majesty Albert.”
“Why did she not want to return to the castle that she herself built?”
“Memories and fantasies. At Balmoral she passed the finest days or her life. His Majesty
the King became particularly pleasant and talkative with everyone. Often they organised
little escapades. Once, dressed as travellers, the royal family went on a ferry on the lake,
mixing with the commons in second class. That sort of thing always captivated Queen
Victoria. She still feels the loss.”
“There is much gossip about your relationship.”
“Damn the gossip. There is even a pamphlet on our supposed bastard. Nothing but
nonsense put about by that snake of a woman, the wife of the Queen’s personal secretary.
Patent claptrap. Even on this subject, Her Majesty has never shown the slightest concern.
“After the death of her husband, Victoria was distraught, crushed by a deep depression.
For quite some time she convinced herself that life was no longer worth living. Since then
she has never been out of mourning clothes – in the first instance – but in the early years
she forbade anything lively: balls, receptions, even laughter or brightly-coloured clothes.
Life itself, indeed. It was a fine idea to call me to her side from the stables at Balmoral
Castles (Palace?). It must have been a terrible time for her. And yet when I arrived I saw
her spirits raised. I have never left her since then. My presence reminds her of the good
days we passed with Albert. Between us are the intense memories of long horse rides in
my beloved Scotland. All the rest, the gossip and such like, are nonsense dreamed up by
newspapers. Nothing more.”
“What so concerns you today that you have demanded an investigation in the Hanbury
gardens?”
“The Queen of England, head and symbol of the most powerful country in the world is
undertaking a journey without adequate escort. (see Italian – strafacendo) She will be
going to the garden of some Quaker who has made his fortune in countries of dubious
morality, gardens maintained by a Prussian republican, directed by a head gardener who
supports Garibaldi. All this while the Italian government is evaluating new alliances in
Europe to help its campaign to reunify the country. Not to mention the persistent
information gathered by our agents on the presence of Irish rebels and a dangerous
American assassin in the pay of the rebel army. Is that not enough?”

Chapter 6 : the plants of Eden

«Same nightmare again, Thomas?»
“The same one.”
“Tell me; it will do you good.”
“They knock at the door. Their swords are unsheathed. They are covered with mud and
blood. Drunk with murderous madness, drugged with opium and alcohol. They are about
to break down the door. I have no choice but to act. I open the door and look straight into
the eyes of the one who seems to be in charge. He is surprised to see a westerner but not
dismayed. I hear my own voice: ‘I am here with my men. Leave now.’ The leader signals
to his men to stop. He looks at me, calculating the value of my life, weighing up what I
am likely to do. He looks at the gun I am holding in my right hand. Then, unexpectedly,
with a gesture of irritation, he throws something at my feet and motions to his men to
retreat. Between my ankles I feel something burst with a squelching sound. Before I can
move, my enemy disappears from my sight and and just glimpse the pigtails of the
soldiers amid the dust the raise as they leave. At the toe of my boot an eye drips bloods. It
has becomedetached from the decapitated head I have between my heels. A woman’s
face, transfixed in horror, stares absently into oblivion. At this point I awake. That is all.
However, I can sleep no more, Daniel, for terror of hearing once more those knocks, the
creaking of the hinges. I am afraid they will return.”
“Take a deep breath, Thomas, and a sip of water. Look at the silvery reflection of the
moon on the water. This is your reality, you are here with me, the two of us together.
Lister to the night chorus; breathe in the perfume of the night.”
“Talk to me. Speak of something beautiful again, something magical and unique. Tell me
a story, no, stories. Tell me again about paradise; what is there in paradise?”
“So be it, Thomas. Close your eyes and let us enter the garden so often described by
poets and the fathers of religion. How easy it is to imagine a garden at its moment of
greatest beauty, in the spring. Almost all are agreed that the climate in Paradise is mild
and that it is never disturbed by winds or storms.
“All is good. No need to water, to till, to spread manure – no hard work, in fact.
“To tell the truth, this perfect climate is made possible thanks to a kind of total stasis.
Everywhere there reigns a mood of “immutable golden sweetness”, as Dante Alighieri
described it. Time cannot pass. So wind is banished, along with wind, clouds and even
night. In such a state – evidently – the inhabitants of paradise can neither die nor sicken.
However, nor can they find any diversion.”
“But the plants. What plants are there?”
“To tell you the truth, on the types of plants in paradise texts and poets differ greatly. And
to male matters worse, there is also Bible to take into account. It explicitly makes note of
two trees – the tree of life and that of the knowledge of good and evil – but it is not clear
of they are different or the same tree. And of course the fig tree is named. For naturally,
Adam and Eve had somehow to cover their nakedness.”
“Decorous and seemly.”
“However, men have long created fantasies as to the tree of paradise. Some have even
maintained that its wood was used to make the cross of Our Lord.”
“A little far-fetched. To think I always supposed it an apple tree.”
“This is certainly the story that has been most strongly affirmed, no doubt because of the
Adam’s apple that encumbers men’s necks. But in ancient times not all the fathers of the
church were in agreement on this fruit. Isidorus Pelusiota, in 400 AD, suggested the fig as
the fruit of the temptation. Later the grape was also accused. At any rate, in all its
numberless descriptions, Paradise appears as a woody place full of flowery glades. There,
too, aromatic herbs have their origin, such as balsam and spices.
“A Latin poem describes it thus: The fragrance of the flowers, fruits, trees and herbs, the
waters that flow down the Tagus, the golden sands, the glitter and sparkle of the gems
strewn hither and thither add unspeakable power to delight. Here is no thistle to prick, no
ramno or nettle, no noxious spiky darnel nor any thorn among the trees and grass. Here
all plants are in harmony with the place for it is warmed by the sun. Here there is no
drought, no storm or buffeting wind; here no threat – thanks be – of hunger, thirst, cold.
Adam would have been lord of all this, had he not fallen by dint of his sacrilegious act.”
“A fine story, don’ you think?”
“Sleep now, Thomas. You are far from Shanghai. Rest peacefully. See, the moon has set.”

Chapter 7 : In the Hanbury garden : olive and cypress trees

By now the reader will be wanting to know more about the appearance of the garden
created by Sir Thomas Hanbury.
Even I – who hate the green of the country, I must admit – was not unmoved by what is
to be seen at its entrance. Beyond the vaulted gateway that gives access to the garden, one
can see a long stairway, flanked by cypresses, leading down to the sea. At its lowest
point, the perspective frames a view of the sea that forms the southern limit of the garden.
There is no doubt that the intense blue of the sea and the azure of the sky here make a
striking impression and give rise to powerful emotions. Emotions that last only an instant
but that – I noted – pluck at the heartstrings of every visitor.
Quite another impression when one descends the stairway. Perfectly adapted as a donkey
path, it seems vertiginously steep to a man. Not to mention the ladies. By good fortune,
the cypresses that line its sides shade one in the descent, protecting the poor traveller
from the rays of a sun that saps the strength in the summer months.
Following three flights of steps, one reaches Palazzo Orenga. It is not a fine nobleman’s
palace such as one might find in England, more of a large farmhouse with a small tower.
The fact that the English nobility swoon over it is to me incomprehensible. No turret,
none of the traditional signs of a nobleman’s home. Its walls are ochre-coloured, if not
covered by the tendrils of a weed known as araucaria apparently much prized by
botanists.
The palazzo – where Sir Thomas lives – was built in the 17th century, though people have
lived on the spot for thousands upon thousands of years. In fact, it seems Hanbury is
facilitating the work of a number of archaeologists in the area. These scholars have
uncovered evidence of ancient ruins that are said to reveal the presence of a village
inhabited by primitive men. It seems these ancient savages buried their dead here, in the
caves overlooking the sea.
Unfortunately there are no girls among the 30 gardeners working here. However, thanks
be, there is a great to do these days over the imminent arrival of the Queen. A team of
chambermaids is at work in the house. At last there is something for me to admire. Three
young dark-haired girls cross the path laughing and carrying the washing in their bare
arms. No doubt about it, Dr Bennet must have returned from his imaginary grave for love
of one of these Italian girls.
I continue to watch them for as long as I can; then one of the cypresses hides them from
view.
“I see you find that cypress of particular interest” I hear from behind me. “It’s a tree
typical of the Italian landscape but one that has an ambiguous interest. You no doubt
know already, Mt Vincent, that the cypress has always been associated with images of
death. It was Pluto’s tree in the nether world. In Greece and Egypt its wood was used for
coffins because it is so hard. Some legends have it that cypress wood was used to build
Noah’s Ark.”
What an unpleasant association!
“Oh yes of course, the cypress.” Hmm, what an ugly specimen. “To whom have I the
honour?”
“I am Thomas Hanbury, the owner of the garden. As you know, we are expecting Queen
Victoria and the gardens are therefore not open to visitors. We made an exception for you
in the hope it would provide you with the inspiration for a description of the property.”
The inspiration was there a few minutes ago; Now there are only these stupid plants.
Funereal ones, what’s more.
“A slice of paradise,” I hasten to say, “even though unfortunately I know little of plants or
botany. I don’t even like them very much. I’ll be quite frank with you. I am here to find
out what truth there is to the stories that tell of a genuine resurrection here in the garden.
One of your gardeners . . . “
“I am aware of the episode. Some things are possible, others not, Mr Vincent. A logical
and practical person such as yourself should not believe all the gossip he hears. To be
sure, a kind of resurrection is possible in this garden, but we are talking of a revival of the
spirit. Of the flesh, far less likely. Nonetheless, I am pleased you came to reconnoitre for
love of your Queen as Mr Brown informed me. You will be able to see for yourself how
full of superstition are the local people and how far from danger is a visit to this corner of
the world. It is also possible you will discover the other significance of the word
‘resurrection’. For your information, near the cypresses in the garden you will find olives
growing, trees essential for the livelihood of the local inhabitants. A tree of life.“
It was true. At the foot of the steps a line of tall olive trees led to another set of terraces. I
must say that the pale grey of the little olives, together with the green of the foliage and
the white of the shoots lit the dark of the cypresses with a touch of silver. A touch of
silver – even I was becoming a romantic.
“The presence of these two species of tree – the cypress and the olive – lends continuity
between history and the landscape,” said Sir Thomas. “These trees have been growing
here for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years. Look carefully and you’ll see that the two
also complement each other in their form: one with a slender trunk, vertical lines to the
branches which give it a dignified and severe character. The other low, with twisted trunk,
with the round appearance of its branches and with a character both simple and light-
hearted.”
The poor man seemed delirious, but for some reason it was not unpleasant to hear him
speak thus of his trees. It was apparent that he was enjoying himself and mocking me.
“The olive, with the yew, is one of the oldest trees in human history; some specimens
have lived to 1500 years of age. In the Bible, the olive is the first tree Noah sees as the
waters recede: ‘The dove (see St James). According to Genesis, the waters were on the
face of the earth for 150 days and the fact of surviving for so long confers on the olive a
hint of immortality.
“It was the Greeks, though – and above all the Athenians – to sing the praises of the tree.
For them, it was Athena’s most important gift and for that reason she was chosen as the
city’s divine protectress. Myth relates that the sea god Poseidon also wanted to be the
city’s patron so, with a blow from his trident, he created a perfect sea beside the
foundations of the city. But while, content with his work, he waited for gratitude for
mortal men, he saw Athena, goddess of wisdom, appear.
“The goddess, thrusting her spear into the ground, created something quite new and
unseen in the region: a wild olive tree. Then she showed the inhabitants how to propagate
it, how to make oil and how to make use of the precious liquid’s many attributes.
“The Greeks choose Athena for their divine protectress, infuriating Poseidon, who in his
wrath turns to the tribunal of the gods. Zeus ordains that the citizens be heard and give
the reasons for their choice. ‘The goddess has created something absolutely new for us
and explained to us how to use it. Thus, in the usefulness but also in the novelty of her
gift she has bettered Poseidon.’ In this way Athena wins her competition with the god of
the sea. From rage, Neptune floods the plains near the city and it is for this reason that in
Greece walls are still built to protect fields of olives from the sea.”
“An interesting fable. But isn’t it the case that the olive was the symbol of peace along
with the bird, I mean the dove?”
“Quite. Irene, Greek goddess of peace, was adorned with olive branches, just like the
Roman goddess of peace, whose festival was celebrated on 2 January. Now there is a
festival we would do well to revive.
“Originally, in all religions, the production of olive oil was reserved for the rites. The
custom of burning oil in a lamp to honour the various divinities has been common to all
ages and places. For Moslems, olive oil is the symbol of the law revealed to Mahomet.
“I am certain that in a distant future, when men fly into space, they will carry with them
an olive branch as a token of peace. Perhaps they will leave one on the moon for the
peopes of other worlds.”
“But do you use these trees to produce your oil?”
“Certainly, my garden helps pay for itself, as it were, in part thanks to its production.
What’s more, the tree is the basis for the survival of entire families in these parts. When I
arrived, I had to remove some trees and it seems to have create a little confusion among
the people here whose way of life is, shall we say, a little . . . old-fashioned. Even today,
to know if and when they should marry, the girls in these Italian villages have the habit,
on a night of full moon, of climbing astride an olive branch completely naked. Then, once
they are back home, with a sprig of leaves from the tree, they wet them with saliva and
throw them on the fire. If one of the leaves leaps in the flames or twists about, it means
they will get married. From various other signs to be read in the burnt leaves, they say,
one can also deduce the number of years that separate them from the happy event.”
This vision of the little peasant girl naked in the olives gave a last note of piquancy to
Hanbury’s brief lesson. The old man continued to watch me with a serious expression on
his face but I had the clear sensation that beneath his generous whiskers he was laughing
heartily.

Chapter 8: Interview with Princess Eugenie: the flower of passion

Among the various characters who have visited the garden, one of particular interest is
the Empress Eugenie, wife of Napoleon III. We met her in her villa on Cap Ferrat and
asked what her impressions were when she first arrived at La Mortola and what she
thought of the strange rumours about the botanical garden.
“A resurrection in the Hanbury garden? And why not. After all, in my case there was
something of the sort. Yes, I can say I was revived.”
Playing with here necklace of pearls, was Eugenie suffragava the popular rumours about
the magical powers of the Italian garden?
“Tell us what happened.”
“I believe that in Italy they had given up hope of ever seeing me on that day,” the former
Empress of France started. “We were so late that they must have thought the visit was
cancelled. My temperament, shall we say energetic, my lateness and my temper were
well known. The gutter press of the time had spoken much of my idleness. Just you try
and stand up to all the crowned snobs of Europe without the required line of noble blood.
“I am sure my lateness was interpreted as the last in a long line of the Empress’s whims,
but it was in fact quite otherwise. Few people knew how profoundly I had changed in the
previous three years. I felt the full weight of my close to 60 years. My husband Charles
Louis had been dead for nine years, a mourning that – despite the pain – I had endured
and overcome.
Then, though, I lost my son Eugene Louis. Then there had been three years when time
stood still. He fell in a skirmish, underestimating the strength of those African savages
they call Zulus. Savages that seem to be excellent fighters, given that even today, as late
as 1882, they are giving a lot of trouble to all the Europeans who are trying to civilise
them and occupying their lands.
“At the time I knew only that the British Empire had taken away my only son, my
beloved son and my one hope of escape from the exile that had been imposed on me. In
those days I felt the full weight of the absence of my loved ones. An emptiness that was
starting to give me physical problems.
“The first attack came during a concert held in my honour in Nice. The breath stopped in
my throat, my heart seemed to explode, I felt myself faint. All round me, people were
applauding, shouting, greeting each other, everything was going round, round, round.
Naturally I could not let myself go. For a moment I was sure I was going to die. To die
alone, alone in that crowd divided between adoration of their former queen and envy of
my privileged position. Alone, with no one nearby in whom I could truly trust. It seemed
the concert would never finish and then – from that time on – the attacks continued every
time I appeared in public, at every meeting I had outside my house on Cap Ferrat.
“So on that early afternoon in April I was pleased to see that in the Italian countryside
almost no one was left waiting to see me. The French and Italian flags were hanging
limply in the stifling heat of the spring afternoon. The cockades had slipped down. The
stand where the band had waited all morning was empty, just like the balconies and the
streets.
“Despite the heat, though, someone had waited for me at the entrance to the garden. He
was alone, seated on a wicker chair with an umbrella to protect him from the midday sun.
The one point of shade in the brilliant light of a dazzling day. However incredible it
might seem, despite the heat he had ordered hot tea and was sipping it and smiling.”
“The had told me he was a stubborn man but I had not expected him to be so to such an
extent,” I said.
“Sir Thomas did not stop smiling while all around him the servants seemed panic-
stricken over my by now unexpected arrival. ‘Patience is the virtue of the strong, Your
Highness,’ he answered still smiling, in French with a typical Anglo-Saxon accent. Hard
to explain, but his calm seemed to envelop me too and made me smile despite myself.
There were no formalities, no moments of embarrassment. No babies to kiss, no great
fanfare. In all simplicity we entered through the great arch to his gardens.
“’Your Highness,’ said Sir Thomas, ‘I have a special surprise for you. I am sure you will
appreciate it.’ I don’t know quite what I was expecting but I thought of nothing as a
looked at the sea from the main stairway of the garden. A light breeze fluttered my
crinoline dress, the one that had caused such a scandal at the court in Paris. Then it
seemed a funereal bauble, the futile reminder of a happy life turned to uselessness.
“‘Wait, close your eyes and try first of all to breathe the fragrance,’ he told me with
extraordinary seriousness. I was struck by the smell of the sea and the song of the
crickets. But no, I could not make out any other particular perfume other than the
sensation of moist warmth characteristic of these parts. Nonetheless, I took Sir Thomas’s
hand. Between his fingers I felt something unbelievably soft.
“’This is called passion flower,’ I opened my eyes to see a most startling-looking flower.
‘Would you like to know why? The story is interesting.’
“’It is called thus because it made a great impression on the missionaries who went to the
Americas with the Spanish conquistadors at the end of the 16th century. In particular, an
Augustinian brother of Mexican origin succeeded in convincing the Roman clergy of its
existence. His name was Emmanuel de Villegas.
“’It took a lot to make the Roman cardinals believe in the existence of the marvellous
little flower. In the end, convinced by so much evidence, they accepted its truth and wrote
a most entertaining page on the rich symbolism related to the little marvel. The five petals
and the five sepals represent the 10 apostles.’
“But weren’t there 12? ’Yes, but Judas and Peter were excluded, the first for obvious
reasons, the second because he denied his fellowship with Jesus.
“’The three pistils represent the nails of the cross. The five stamens are the number of
wounds. They liked this latter symbolism so much that still today in Central America the
passion flower is known as the flower of five wounds. The leaf represents the lance that
pierced the side of Jesus – unlike other species, this one has a leaf that is elongated like a
lance. The spots under the leaves are the 33 pieces of silver paid to Judas for his
treachery. Without counting the fact that this flower opens during the day – like the
resistance of Jesus on the cross – then the petals close in on themselves thus representing
the Mysterious Wisdom and the Mystery of the Resurrection. A little too elaborate, don’t
you think?’
“The flower bed seemed to tremble when I opened my eyes. It is hard to breathe when
faced with such beauty.
“’Even for the Aztecs, it was a particularly important flower,’ continued Sir Thomas
ignoring my wonder and surprise. ‘For them the passion flower was linked to solar myth
and was cultivated only in royal gardens and in those of the priests. We know next to
nothing of the myth, but it refers to various curative properties of the plant thanks to a
serpent’s wine. The plant was considered fascinating because it easily regerminated after
great fires. Indeed, there are even some species of the flower whose seed is induced to
bloom again specifically after forest fires.
“’Today, we have tried and tested the curative properties. The fruits of the passion flower
can be used to make a special liquor with soporific powers that can induce prophetic
dreams.’
“Sleep and prophetic dreams. A calm and prolonged sleep, forgetfulness for a few hours.
That was what I wanted then. Hanbury seemed already to read my soul, my torment. I
ought to have felt uncomfortable, but on the contrary . . . instead, his presence gave me
consolation unhoped for, beyond hope, impossible from a chance acquaintance.
“’This flower relates man’s suffering and is – strange though it may seem – a panacea in
some cases,’ Hanbury went on. ‘At any rate, it is my pleasure to inform you that this
flower belongs to the large family of passiflora, but this particular type will be named
Empress Eugenie in your honour.’ Giving a name to a flower, what an idea.
“The tour of the garden continued but my curiosity had been aroused. That evening –
after dinner – I met Hanbury alone on the terrace facing the Gulf of Menton.
“Today, you enchanted me with the story of my flower, the passion flower. What do you
know of my personal passion, I asked without looking him in the eye.
“’I have lived long enough to understand your pain, ma’am,’ he answered simply. ‘I know
what everyone knows, but I see the trembling of your lips and realise the state of
prostration from which you find no way out. To lose a son is one of the most terrible trials
in life. Divine injustice, if I may say so.’
“Tell me, is there a cure?”
“’No, there is no cure for your suffering. Nonetheless, there are remedies to lighten the
load that you carry in your heart. Precisely this little flower may do something to help
you.’
“He then gave me an extract derived from the passion flower. He made me lie down and
started to tell me something more on the property of the white flower.
“’An extract of the fruits of the plant was used by the Aztec priests because the sleep it
induces is similar to a temporary death. For you, though, there will be a moment of
profound and restorative peace. Let yourself be cradled by the song of the crickets and
the sounds of the starry night.’
“These were the last words I heard. I slept deeply and my dreams were vivid. The
Catholic college of Paris whose members enjoyed deriding me because my body was so
thin. The ball where I met Charles Louis. The glorious days of the coronation. The rout at
Sedan with fragments of news on Charles’s health. Finally, the fearful flight to England.
In short, all my life sped past my half-shut eyes.
The morning sun seemed to shine with renewed strength and the light, supreme in its
limpidity, outlined the palm trees outside my window. I did not have the strength to resist.
I wanted to breathe fresh air. In my dressing gown I sat and watched the mirror of the
calm sea shimmering in the first light of morning. Some of the gardeners were already
working. How fine and bronzed they were. The world seemed wrapped in that splendid
light.
“Today I am certain that during that night my soul had once again started to vibrate in my
breast. I was alive and it was time I started to live again. I was ready to go to Spain, in my
true homeland, to find the rest of my family and to think about my future.”

Chap 9 : The hanging gardens of Babylon

“You become accustomed to war. Violence just becomes an everyday part of life. The
indifference towards the death of others, the insensitivity of the victors and the
speculators. Still, there are images that keep coming back to me and stop me sleeping.
“You know my suffering, my torment. During these convulsive nights, twisted like the
trunks of the olive trees, I feel an indefinable torment that refuses to leave me.
”Talk to me, Daniel. Talk to me of paradise. Carry me away, far from my past, from the
horrors I keep reliving in my mind’s eye.”
“Throughout history, mankind has often tried to recreate paradise according to his own
version of of peace and happiness. The most spectacular of all his strivings has been the
garden created in Babylon, which has been recorded as one of the seven wonders of the
world.
“They say the Hanging Gardens of Babylon were an attempt to recreate the childhood
surroundings of Nebuchadnezzar’s wife, who was nostalgic for the landscape of Medea in
the fourth century BC. Those gardens, which are said to date back to the eighth century
BC, were described in loving detail in many ancient texts. The most reliable sources
speak of hanging gardens organised one above the other on terraces built up between the
walls of the royal palace and the outer defensive walls. The hanging gardens themselves
were completely man-made and had nothing in common with the surrounding
countryside. It is assumed they were made up of a bed of earth about six feet thick laid on
top of a drainage layer. The whole thing was supported by an impermeable base built on
vaulted walls. Water was recirculated, irrigating every part of the garden as it flowed
down from the highest level to the lowest. The water supply allowed the cultivation of
many flowering plants; there were also tall trees such as palms, cypresses, pines and so
on.”
“But what went on within the gardens? What were the relations between the two mythical
sovereigns after they had built their marvel?”
“Two texts have been found, written on clay tablets, that relate the emotions of the two
protagonists. Contrasting emotions . . .
Nabucco’s love . . . .
It is no easy thing to find out that one has learned how to love. Not easy for anyone, still
less for me, a warrior and man of power. Why so? Because unexpectedly one becomes
aware of that strange emotion, fear. Fear of losing one’s love, fear that she will no longer
be there when one returns, fear that one will no longer savour her perfume, her
movements, her laughter, caprices, tears.
“My men do not think of me as a weakling. My enemies have suffered the pain of defeat.
In war I have used all the powers of a tyrant to enforce discipline on my soldiers, cunning
to control wayward officials. I am a warrior, a conqueror even in peacetime. My tribunes
administer justice with the whip and even with death. This tight control allows trade to
flourish in the city and the people to enjoy peace unhoped for elsewhere.
I am no weakling, but when I look at her my lips tremble. So sweet, so far away. Smooth-
skinned Amythis is too much in my thoughts. And the more I learn to need her, the more
remote she becomes, sinking ever deeper into herself. There was a time she used to sing.
A sweet, melancholy song that stopped my heart. That time is past and today she utters
barely a word in my hearing. Her heart seems parched like those sun-baked plains that
border on the desert.
That is why I listened to the priest and his visions. He it was who spoke to me of paradise
where the heart blooms again along with its flowers. An earthly paradise. It is for her that
I started upon these wild schemes, wild even for the princes of Egypt.
A great garden made up of terraces supported by vaulted walls. A pyramid of green
terraces organised in flowery meadows, in breathtaking palm-groves. The water from the
river gives life to the paradise of Semiramis. A system of hydraulics made up of linked
buckets carried on moving belts that irrigate all the levels of the garden. The top tier is
reserved for auspices and priests, so that they may read the stars, preaching the future
through study of the flight of birds and performing the sacrifices needed to sustain the
prosperity of my kingdom and my family.
But all the rest is for her. Here she must be able to revive in the shade of the palms or of
the conifers from the north. This oasis of green set in the desert, suspended in the skies
and watered with the flow of a great river, is designed to confound the world and to give
succour to my wife. A wife who cannot bring herself to be mine. When her eyes are
bedazzled by all this, when the power of nature melts her sadness, then I will be there to
watch the flowering of here heart.
. . . the reaction of Amythis
How romantic he can be, my Nabucco. That passionate oratory. Awaken, oh Nabucco.
You won your wife with politics, imposing this marriage on my father. You have tried to
conquer me by force and have discovered how wretched it is to violate my body. You
have tried to conquer my spirit and have realised how deep are your vulgarity and
ignorance, how coarse is your reason. Since then you have made progress, you have tried
to better yourself. In the end, you have tried to conquer my soul with this immense
creation. Nabucco, today you are master of the world and you think you have created a
paradise. And while – with your priests – you rejoice in having created an Eden, you have
not noticed how I have changed.
While you display your pride in the splendour of your great work, I have begun to
sharpen my weapons. From the yew I have learned how to extract a powerful poison that
is fatal to man. I have discovered the mysterious properties of the plant the Indians call
‘ashoka’ and that they hold sacred. I have succeeded in distilling ‘haoma’, a powerful
drug cited in the holy book of Zoroaster, learned to make use of amanita muscaria,
mixing it with other compounds of plants considered magical to make an intoxicating
extract that strengthens heart and mind. A liquid prized by Aura Mazda. A trifling power
that gives me power over your priests.
My paradise is also a treasure trove of herbs, o powerful husband. To start with,
belladonna, of which a few drops are enough to provoke violent delirium. Ingestion leads
to a state of excitement with profuse redness in the face and confusion. This is why they
call it devil’s cherries. Or henbane, which causes drowsiness leading to sleep with
terrifying dreams. Or then there is hemlock, a plant from whose extract one can obtain
conium, which paralyses the motor nerve endings and then attacks the bone marrow
causing certain death.
I have had to learn how to handle purple foxglove. This can be used to raise blood
pressure in cases of heart failure, but in excessive doses – or even small doses continued
over long periods – can provoke serious problems to the heart, gastro-intestinal and
nervous systems. The pulse falls to 40-50 or even 30 beats per minute, overall queasiness
sets in, with feelings of anxiety, violent pains in the epigastrium, dizziness, continuous
vomiting. The pulse rises sharply, with cyanosis, blurred vision and the body finally
collapses.
”And if you come too close, beware stramonium (jimsonweed?) – or Magic Herb – which
will cloud your vision and make you nauseous, dizziness and who knows what other
problems.
“Nabucco, you will find out to your cost that every garden has a dark side. A forbidden
fruit, a sacred tree. Sacred even for you who have profaned everything. There, in the
shadows between life and hell, I will be waiting for you.”

Chapter 10 : The Roman road and Julia Procilla

For a rich booby, Hanbury looked not unimpressive. I was fully expecting to be
confronted by the most boring and pedantic of botanists; on the contrary, I was in the
presence of a cultivated, understated and even engaging personality. He had immediately
grasped my complete indifference to the world of plants – I make an exception of the
green salad that was offered me alongside a steak of truly epic proportions.
“As you know, Queen Victoria is particularly fond of good food,” Sir Thomas said,
apparently in justification. “That is why we ordered special steaks known as ‘Florentine’
in Tuscany. My excuses for the wine, which is a little cooler than is deemed appropriate
for red. Personally I prefer my Beaujolais slightly chilled, particularly when it is as hot as
today. Some mustard, perhaps? Don’t hesitate to ask. Amanda, would you bring some.”
The long brown arms of the serving girl were bare. An irresistible provocation. I tried,
though without success, to see her ankles under the long apron. As if she had felt my gaze
piercing her crinoline skirt to the petticoat that I could only imagine, Amanda turned,
smiling. A dazzling smile, showing a self-confidence that was reflected in two eyes
shining brightly despite their dark colouring. When she approached, I greedily breathed
in the fragrance of her skin. A perfume made up of aromatic herbs from the garden, a
touch of lavender and rosemary. Her lips, red and full, seemed the work of an artist intent
on creating a feature perfect for kissing.
Suddenly, I became aware that Sir Thomas was observing me. He was forever catching
my moments of weakness and in a way seemed to find them amusing.
“I see you are a man keener on literature and history than on botanical matters,” he went
on, feigning not to have noticed my distractedness for the past ten minutes and thus not to
be conscious of my main foible, money apart.
“History, in this case, with a capital H, since it goes back to Roman times. They say that
on the foundations of this house there was once a villa that was home to a Roman
noblewoman. The source is none other than the Roman historian Tacitus in his
‘Histories’. Her name was Julia Procilla.
“Her story is one with tragic aspects. At that time, Nero was ruling Rome, arrogant and
violent. Julia’s husband, the senator and philosopher Julius Grecinus, had committed
suicide to avoid being disgraced by the tyrant.
“Julia thus found herself managing the family’s estates and bringing up their child
Gnaeus Agricola alone. Tacitus tells us that the boy was educated in philosophy thanks to
the Greek schools in what we now know as Marseilles. Then he left to follow a military
career in Britain. A career that was to prove glorious for him and to prepare the
foundations for our great English nation. Legend has it that one morning in 69 AD in
Albintimillium – as Ventimiglia was then known – Julia herself went to the market with
her escort of retainers and serving girls. Let us imagine it was a clear day, perhaps a
bright morning such as today. The road that joined Piana di Latte to the River Nervia
went right through my garden and traces can still be seen today.
“Bear in mind that this area was much sought after by Roman patricians. We know, for
example, that Marcus Emilius Basso lived here: an important man who became one of the
successors of Pontius Pilate as governor of Judea.
“The wealth of the Roman nobility in this area came in part from trade and in part from
levying taxes that ships bound for Gaul and the Iberian peninsula had to pay when they
passed through Albintimillium. Even then, Ventimiglia seemed like a border town with an
array of tolls.”
“But where did the Roman nobility live?” I asked, seeing in my mind’s eye treasure
troves hidden around the wild countryside.
“The aristocrats did not live inside the city, which was very small, according to the
archaeologists, but in their villas overlooking the sea. Villas that must have been marvels,
based on the splendour of their mosaics and the quality of their statuary.
“But let’s get back to our story. I like to think that, that morning, Julia bought something
exceptional. I imagine an Egyptian galley arriving from Alexandria with a priceless
cargo: a dinner service in engraved glass.
“Once down at the port, Julia would have been welcomed into the merchant’s tent to start
negotiations for the purchase. Even though Latin was at that time the lingua franca of
international trade, Julia would have preferred to use Greek, which remained the more
refined usage at the time, and which would have emphasised her noble blood.
Nonetheless, she would have found it difficult to beat down the price. The splendour of
the engraved glass pieces enchanted the Roman matron and all her men.
“Julia pays the price in sestertii after some tough bargaining. Then, satisfied, she leaves
the merchant’s tent to breathe in the perfumes of the market. The acrid smell of the
Middle Eastern spices, the velvety fragrances of the Mediterranean island wines, the
inviting sweetness of the roast game spread out on stalls by the local people.
“After crossing the market, protected by her escort, I like to think Julia might have gone
to the theatre near the hill to watch one of Aristophanes’ comedies and take a frugal
lunch. A light entertainment in a theatre fronting the magnificent panorama of a mirror-
calm sea.
“The matron would have listened distractedly to the latest news from Rome. There,
following the death of Nero, anarchy reigned. The generals of the various legions –
encouraged by the different senatorial factions – were struggling for power, either in
direct armed confrontations or through guerrilla action.
“It was news that to the people of Albintimillium must have seemed remote, a little like
news of our troops in Egypt seems distant to us. Certainly they could not have suspected
that several ships under the command of Otto, one of the generals hoping to take power
in Rome, had sailed from their base in Nikaia and were set to land by the little town.
“In this seemingly peaceful setting, Procilla – after applauding the actors – returns to her
villa. Here she expects to find no more than a dinner of honeyed chicken marinaded in
the local wine. Unluckily, something else awaits her: her destiny.”
At this point Sir Thomas gets up from the table. He wanders out onto the terrace. Looks
out to sea and sighs deeply, turning towards the bay of Menton. The silence of the garden
is broken only by the tower of the local church which is chiming one o’clock. He seems
to be testing my patience, which is strictly limited.
“And then? What surprises does the Roman lady find on her return home?”
“Waiting for the first shadows of dusk,” Sir Thomas finally continues, “Otto’s soldiers
come to shore on little landing craft, thirsty for blood and booty. They know that they will
find hoards of treasure hidden in the villas of the wealthy aristocrats. With that in mind,
they behave as if they were attacking an enemy territory to vanquish an hostile people.
“They are lightly armed, with daggers, clubs, bows and arrows. In absolute silence, they
fall unexpectedly on the men of the Procilla family. It’s a complete massacre, because the
surprise is total. While the soldiers of the advance guard kill everyone they meet, the
main body of troops sets to looting. The rearguard sets fire to the vines and the fields as a
sign of contempt. In Albintimillium panic breaks out at the sight of the nearby fires, but
too late. A second of Otto’s ships blocks the exit to the harbour, threatening to sink any
boats that try to escape. Maniples of armed men rove the streets of the neighbourhood
searching for gold and jewels.
“Julia is not spared. Despite her desperate attempt to defend herself, she is run through
and left to die on the mosaic floor of the terrace. Perhaps right here under our feet.
“The minor account of this Roman noblewoman has a genuine impact on history because,
on hearing news of her death, a grief-struck Agricola leaves Rome to organise a grand
funeral in her honour. And it is precisely during these long funerary rites that he hears of
the victory of Vespasian, supported by the eastern half of the empire. Rome has a new
emperor and Agricola will be quick to rally to his support.”
“Sir Thomas, I have the strange impression you are telling me made-up stories and
passing them for true.”
“No, I would not dare do so much with a journalist as accomplished as yourself. Let us
say merely that I take pleasure in weaving a little fantasy around tales that have a
foundation in truth. Just as the Roman remains you can admire in my domains are
authentic, unlike the trash that is put on display in many gardens in our beloved England.
A not unimportant difference.”

Chapter 11: Fenians and the paradise of the oppressed

“Did you or did you not see it yourself?”
“What?”
“The size of that steak, begorrah.”
“In my country all the steaks are that size.”
“Don’t be talking rubbish, Jesse. I spent more than two years fighting in your country and
I never saw so much meat in a single plate as on that one.”
“OK, no point arguing, you’re right. What are we waiting for? Wouldn’t it be easier just
to do over these dopes and get out of here?”
“Bejesus, same old story of highway robbery. To be sure it’d be easier. (e fallo??) Then
we get caught for sure. At least that way I get to be done with your big-mouth American
ways. Try and understand what we’re here for, won’t you.”
“OK, I don’t want to argue. Just joking.”
“No it’s not OK. Let’s be done for once and for all with these wild ideas. Heavens above.
Here we are soldiers, my friend. If we disobey orders, two things happen. Either the
Queen’s men do away with us, or ours fro; the Brotherhood. Can you get it into your head
that we’re being watched by the whole movement right now. Do you understand how
important it is, what we’re about?”
“All I know is it seems just like a suicide mission to me. Take a look around; how do we
get out of here when we’ve done the job? On a rowing boat, waving to all our friends on
the beach? Or do we ride away down those vertical cliffs on a pair of snow-white horses?
You tell me, Mr shit-hot Revolutionary.”
“Listen to me, Jesse. You owe a debt to the Fenian Brotherhood and you did a very
simple deal with us to get a new life. We’re keeping our end of the bargain, if I’m not
mistaken. Now it’s up to you to show what you’re made of and live up to the reputation
you made in the Confederation. We’ve been entrusted with an extraordinary mission, one
that could change the history of Europe. Are you with me?”
“All I know is you’ve set me up. This was meant to be a simple job. Instead it’s a
hopeless task. You know but you won’t admit it. We got one chance, assuming the Italian
rebs help us escape like they said.”
“And they will, Jesse, they will. Have faith.”
OK, no point arguing, let’s hope for the best. Tell me something, though. I always killed
for money; now I’m doing it to save my skin. Plain and simple. What’s in it for you,
O’Leary?”
“Forget it. It’s not something I talk about.”
“No, hang on a minute, John. I got the right to an answer.”
“Do you really want to know? It’s a rotten, miserable little story. Have you ever heard tell
of Ballinglass in County Galway over in Ireland? No, to be sure. Well my family lived
there. Nothing special, it’s true, but it was my land. Which means my father used to sup a
pint with his friends in the St Patrick and my mother baked cakes in the big oven every
Saturday. The school in the big barn, the church on the hill. Nothing unusual. Many
people would find it dull, but I thought it was great because it was my home.
“Remember how green the grass is in Ireland? These little Italian fields seem yellow next
to the intensity of the green over there. And the sea? Have you ever seen how it breaks
against the cliffs? The waves seem to rise all the way to the sky. A deep blue sky with
little white clouds always scurrying across. The sea here, when you think about it, isn’t
really a sea at all, more of a pond, really. The Italian sky is washed out and lifeless. But
enough of that. (Are you sure, Andrea? I don’t know Ireland well but Brits generally love
Italy and the Med for the deep blue sky, so different from the pale blue and heavy clouds
of Britain)
“In Ballinglass everyone was a tenant farmer on the land of an English owner, a certain
Mr Gerrard. One year, the harvest failed. The potatoes got the mildew (peronospora, not
peronospera) and Mr Gerrard worked out – which wasn’t difficult – that his tenant
farmers wouldn’t be able to pay their rent. Bear in mind my family had never been late
with the rent and that’s why I never saw a piece of meat on the table.
“Shame Mr Gerrard didn’t know or care that my parents were honest. One fine morning,
before the sun was even up, the English 49th light infantry regiment under the command
of the infamous Brown descended on Ballinglass. They had the good manners to sound
the trumpets as a gentle wake-up for the 61 families they were about to evict. We had
barely the time to get out before the soldiers broke down the doors, smashed the
windows, set fire to the furniture and ripped off the rooves. Women and children were
screaming in the confusion of the attack and – in the half-light of morning – tried to run
away between the legs of the maddened horses. Someone tried to resist – more by instinct
than with any intention to do any harm – and was knocked down and whipped. Many of
us were wounded. It’s a miracle no one was killed.
“By midday three quarters of our village had been wiped away. We were allowed to
gather together a few rags from the half-ruined houses before the soldiers set fire to
everything. Mr Gerrard wanted to be sure that no one would be returning for any reason.
In the neighbourhood people were told not to give us refuge, just as if we were criminals.
We who had never stolen anything and who had always made sure to pay our rent in
advance!
“We wandered for days before we got a roof over our heads again. Then my mother took
ill for the terror of it all and the strain she put up with. My little sister . . . but that’s
enough. Even a tough nut such as yourself gets the picture. And my story is just the same
as that of the other Irish who emigrated because of hunger and humiliation.”
“So you joined the Brotherhood because of ‘hunger and humiliation’?”
“No, my friend, there you make a mistake. I joined because the Fenians gave me back the
dignity of believing in tomorrow and faith in my own ability. Thanks to them I started to
think. I started to realise that Ireland needs radical change and the people’s revolution
against all the Mr Gerrards of this world needs to be supported. Paradise is Ireland free,
republican and Catholic. My reward will be see the defeat of all the English officials like
Brown. In the Fenians I was welcomed like a friend and a brother and I’ve always been
helped when I needed a hand.”
“In exchange for a few favours.”
“In exchange for a few favours. You get nothing for nothing in this world.”
“Take it easy, O’Leary. Look, I don’t believe in nothing. My idea of heaven is simple: just
green fields full of hrses and women. I never asked more of this life and hope to get as
much in the next one. No big ideas but that’s the way it is. As far as I’m concerned, you
can forget revolutions, social justice, republics and religion.”
“You know nohting, Jesse. You’re famous for robbing banks, killing men. You now
nothing at all.”
“OK, I don’t want to argue, you’re right. But watch out, O’Leary, don’t go too far. We’ve
been hiding under this cypress tree for hours and that’s not good. Even in my country
they know that this tree is bad luck. Know why? Perhaps a dumb story that the Greeks
made up thousands of years ago. But the curse of the cypress is still around today.”
“Say that again. What story is that?”
“Like I said, the story’s a dumb one. Seems this god Apollo was was making out with a
boy, however disgusting that may seem. This boy was a great hunter, never missed. Never
once. In his country there was some tame deer, an animal that Apollo loved. This deer
was kind of the baby of the family and to protect it is was thought of as a sacred animal.
One morning, though, this beast gets the crazy idea to leave home. It stretches out near a
chestnut tree. The hunter spots it without recignising it and lets fly one arrow right on the
button. Bang, dead. Then, when he sees it, he realises he’s killed the sacred deer. So first
he gets scared, then real desperate. First sad, then plumb crazy. Not even his lover, that
degenerate Apollo guy, can console him. To make him stop whining, the god tells him: go
on, ask anything you want. So the boy asks for something real stupid, to be changed into
a cypress so he can spend every day reliving the pain. That’s why the tree is bad luck and
is always used on graveyards. Leasaways, in graveyards where they can spare the water.”
“Do me a favour. The next time I choose a lookout post, I’ll be sure to choose one that’s
dear to the gods. This spot’s as good as any other. What we need to know is how to get
close, how to get a shot at the Queen, and how to get away as quickly as possible. Don’t
you go worrying about old tales, we’re making a new world and we’re doing it by
knocking down the old gods. Let’s start by uprooting the evil weeds and you’l soon be
seeing a better world.”
“You’re an incurable optimist. It’s not by butchering some old queen that you’ll get your
country back the way it was.”
“At least I will have brought the most powerful country in the world to its knees. But
that’s enough for now. We’d better be getting back to the plan of attack.”
“OK, I give in. No argument. You’re right, as usual.”

Chapter 12: Epicurus’ gardener

“Daniel, there is something of which I have never before spoken but that I must now tell
you. As you know, I always refused to take up arms alongside the other English in the
Protectorate. Even so, for secutiry, I was obliged to carry a pistol around Shanghai.
“One evening, late, I was on my way home. The bargaining had been painfully long but
in the end I had agreed an excellent price for the Chinese silk I was buying. I was quite
satisfied and I was working out for myself how much profit I was going to make in the
following month, when two men accosted me. In the semi-darkness I saw a knife shining.
That’s how I came to fire. Bang. A single shot.
“It’s not easy, Daniel, to look into the eyes of a dying man. I will certainly never forget
his face, like that of a scared child, nor the expression of pain that twisted the lines of his
mouth. I left him lying there, stretched out in a muddy puddle, while the other fled.
“I never knew that man’s name, Daniel, but he takes his revenge by returning to confront
me in the early hours of the morning.”
“There are episodes in our lives that can fade from memory if we talk about them,
Thomas, as you well know. It was a mistake not to tell me sooner. Now try not to think
about it. Let us return to our paradise. Imagine a journey back in time to Ancient Greece.
“In those days reverence for the natural landscape was an important feature of life: as far
back as Homer and for long centuries thereafter, literature is full of references to gardens,
groves, ‘sacred places’. The most evocative descriptions of gardens in the ancient world
are to be found in the Odyssey. For example, the fifth book tells of the natural
surroundings, the verdant and idyllic copse by the nymph Calypso’s house.
“Later, Plato’s Academy was described as a tree-filled garden and, in Hellenistic times,
there were certainly many gardens adorning their cities, which served as models for
Roman villas. A shame that too little survives of Greek writings to let us reconstruct the
organisation of their green spaces. We just have to guess at the appearance of the first
Athenian gardens, or the shady boulevards planted with olives and plane trees, or the
gardens of Theophrastes ar Epicurus.
“Still, I have always wondered what that great philosopher’s gardener might have had in
his mind. I have tried to imagine his thoughts.”
The Persian gardener and the Greek philosopher
“One thing’s sure; he is a great speaker. Like all the great lords of his kind in Athens. He
says things like: ‘First of all, consider the divine essence as eternal, perfect matter,’ my
master does.
“’Eternal and perfect matter.’ That’s what he says, while for two weeks all the matter I get
my hands on is the manure I’m spreading on his garden. Which, if truth be told, isn’t
much of a garden. More of an allotment, really. At any rate, it seems so to me, used as I
am to the great luxuriant Persian gardens.
“Above all, the Greeks like their vines, vegetables, aromatic herbs. That’s fine; it’s all
edible. But quite another thing compared to the gardens full of flowers back where I
come from, with their topiary hedges and their wonderful avenues full of different sorts
of palm. Not to mention the richness of the fauna you get there, such as peacocks and all
sorts of colourful birds. Here, where are the flower beds? Why not let the creepers frame
the pergolas to have shady alleys to walk in? These barbarians seem to like nothing better
than courgettes that they can eat fried in batter.
“For the Hellenes, beauty counts for nothing. You can’t find it in the refined art of the
gardens. They prefer sitting under the olive trees ‘philosophising’.
“Get rid of them all, these olives; that’s what I say. And then, look at them, these boys.
What a sorry sight. Every evening spent talking about death. One day, the master even
called me over to where he was with a group of students. He asks me: ‘Ermarcos, what
do you do when a plant dies? Do you weep for it? Despair, perhaps?’ I give him a good
old sideways look. ‘I may be just a Persian slave but I’m not stupid, master. I just get rid
of the dead plant and put a new one in.
“’See, then,’ he says to the students, ‘we are part of this nature and we must accept its
rules. Death is no more than absence of life. We must be conscious of this fact. He who
understands that death signifies nothing, renders mortality enjoyable. He who becmes
conscious of this takes a steps forward to his own liberation. He has eliminated the
temptation of infinite time.’
“The temptation of infinite time? This seemed to me blasphemy pure and simple. I was
still looking sideways at him. ‘Master, so then you do not believe in paradise?’
“He looked at me with an amused expression. ‘Why is this garden not beautiful?’
Everyone laughed.
“I didn’t understand but I knew they thought I looked a fool. And not only that. I hate it
when someone answers my question with a question. And he always does. He’s always so
sure of himself. It helps him make plenty of enemies. Like Diotimo, the one who wrote
fifty letters against him, even questioning the virtue of his poor mother. In other words,
he has a way of making you feel uncomfortable because he’s always the one with all the
answers. A way that provokes you and makes you want to react.
“‘Yes, this garden is beautiful,’ I burst out, ‘but there are no gods here.
“’You are quite right, there are no gods. The gods are in their garden with their divine
problems. Problems different from ours; otherwise they would be part of our world. The
gods – to be what they are – must be without pain and must live among various worlds.
We must not think of the world beyond. For the gods, our wretchedness matters not a jot.
To them, man is of no significance.
“Such talk leaves you breathless. Quite breathless. He says such things with that smile of
his and so peacefully that it warms the cockles of your heart.
“’We are men precisely because we are of this nature. We are part of its process, its being.
Ermarcos, tell me . . .’ and here I can feel the eyes of those beardless little students
turned on me. ‘Does wine exist in nature’?
“Um, well, grapes exist, but the wine itself – I make it.”
“’We could say the same of the oil?’
“Just so long as you don’t trample the olives, master. If you don’t ruin them all, I always
make the oil.”
“’Indeed. We have oil because you know how to make it. Man has learned to make it,
squeezing and treating the fruit of the olive so he can use it on his food. Isn’t that so? So,
man is this culture, or, on the other hand, this knowledge of how to cultivate something
that is different from what nature presented him.’
“Master, you have lost me. For me this garden could be paradise only if it grew itself. In
other words, if it watered itself, if the weeds disappeared, if the fruit gathered itself in the
baskets without being picked. A garden that carried on by itself without hard work.”
“’Here Ermarcos is faced by another problem. The absence of toil is certainly a pleasure.
For us all pleasure is the principal goal of the happy life. It’s quite natural. For you,
Ermarcos, this principle equals leisure. However, sometimes we put up with suffering so
that subsequent pleasure may be still greater. Each pleasure has its own intrinsic nature
but we must choose. We cannot have all of them. In the same way, each pain is evil, but
not all are to be avoided.’
“If I understood right, hard work was a ‘minor evil’: an evil that, what’s more, I myself
chose so as to be able then to enjoy the fruits of that Greek allotment once they were
served up at the table. And that was enough of that. Time to get back to spreading the
manure.”
Chap 13: Prehistoric palm ???
“Coffee is served.” It was the girl again, appearing framed against the light. By Jove, that
Italian chambermaid was a chice morsel with her beautiful, carefree smile. This time,
though, I had managed to preserve a certain dignified distance.
“Good. Come, Mr Vincent. If you like these stories, I have another very fine one to tell
you. Somewhat unusual: an account of the first murder in history.”
Everything – objects as well as shadows – seemed flattened by the early afternoon
sunlight. Things lose their three-dimensional quality and landscapes turn into cardboard
cutouts in which activity is wearisome. In the garden there was no one to be seen. Our
only company seemed to be the never-ending song of the crickets.
“At this time of day, Italians take a siesta. That’s why you can’t see any gardeners. For
them this is no time for working. And do you know something? They are right. Certainly
to us it seems strange to sleep during the day like children, but in this heat there seems no
alternative.”
“You mentioned the first murder in history. To what were you referring?”
“Ah, I knew that would make a journalistr curious. Right, look at that large plant. What
does it look like?”
“Er, a palm like the others. Perhaps a little less tall.”
“It’s a rare Cyca revoluta, one of the oldest plants still found on earth. Some call it a
living fossil. Imagine, traces of this plant have been found in the Mesozoic era, more than
200 million years ago. Since then, it has changed little. Its great strength is to be able to
adapt to great temperature variations and to all levels of light. Some say its berries are
poisonous, but in fact I don’t think they have any particular potency or toxin.
“The most interesting thing is that these plants were long ago most probably food for the
dinosaurs. The first community of our ancestors must have seen these plants. Indeed,
here, on this very spot, extraordinary archaeological finds are being unearthed.
“On that promontory over there, a few kilometres from here, the remains of a man buried
with two boys have been found.”
“What period are we talking of?”
“We are talking of 25,000 years ago. Of course, you mustn’t think the place was then as it
is today. Because of glaciation, the sea had withdrawn. You have to use a little
imagination. The caves were not, as they are today, 20 metres from the sea but 10
kilometres. As a result, human and animal settlement became possible. Or, rather, human
settlement existed precisely because of the passage of large wild animals: bison, musk ox,
ibex, wild horses. In Menton, they have even found the remains of a few rhinoceroses. So
man could live by hunting and to a minor degree by gathering. Most likely he didn’t
know how to fish, except perhaps in rivers and mountain streams; at most he would have
picked up a few molluscs from the rocks along the coast.
“Bear in mind that these men didn’t look much like ourselves. An adult male was more
than two metres tall and the population – going on the remains that the archaeologists are
finidng – seem all to have been over 1.8 metres.
“Who could the three people be who were buried in one of these sacred caves? And why
together? At the moment when they were buried, their companions sprinkled them with
red ochre and near the bodies placed a rich treasure of pierced seashells, fishbones, stags’
teeth, pendants in worked bone, and extraordinarily long flint blades. Trappings
traditionally reserved for the chief. But that’s not all.
“To me, it’s interesting to note that in the shoulders of one of the boys they found a
fragment that was not bone. Perhaps a primitive spear tip that wounded and killed the
boy. What that means is that there was a fight in this little Cyca wood. Perhaps it was the
first documented murder in the history of mankind.
“A group of men from the mountains launched a rais on these little caves with primitive
weapons but wielded with savage violence. The attack took the inhabitants of prehistoric
La Mortola by surprise but their chief organised an effective defence, including use of a
new and terrible weapon: a catapult. He himself took on the fiercest of the assailants in
hand-to-hand combat, chasing them back to the mountains. A great warrior.
“Shame that in those days an open wound was enough to cause death. So then, I imagine,
the chief would have stretched himself out in the shade of this Cyca. Surrounded by his
tribe and happy in victory, he tries to forget the pain that is carrying him off. When he
shuts his eyes, the whole community feels its loss. That is why the women place a series
of statuettes and equipment by the side of the dead chief, so that he will remember them
and from his place in paradise continue to protect them. Perhaps they even hope that
these caves will perform a miracle or that their chief and his men will sooner or later fine
the vital strength to reopen their eyes and return to fight again.
“Out of reverence for the mysteries, for thousands upon thousands of years fires burned
day and night outside the sacred caves in honour of dark, powerful – but today
unfortunately forgotten – divinities.”
“Sir Thomas, when it comes to fantasy you are in a class of your own. I have to confess
your way of telling the story of this part of the world seems to me somewhat unusual. All
these mournful details, the precariousness of life.”
“Don’t misunderstand me. We follow man’s journey by piecing together what we find of
his deeds. By the nature of things, we more readily find objects related to his death than
to his life. Still, I find it fascinating to think that these plants witnessed at first hand those
events and that in some mysterious and silent way they pass on the knowledge of long-
forgotten events that befell that comical hairless animal we call ‘man’.”
“Nonetheless, I know you are not mocking me. I too have heard tell of the research
carried out by that crazy archaeologist Jullien. How far has he got? What has he found?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know too well myself. He does his excavating in utmost
secrecy and doesn’t seem to intend to publish the results of his work. Still, given that I
have financed his efforts, I count on having better information towards the end of the
season.”

Chapter 14: Catullus’ gardeners

“Tell me again, Daniel; your words are like nectar. They soothe my pain and calm my
sleepless nights.”
“This evening I will tell you a story about the gardens of Ancient Rome. Many people
think the Romans copied the Greek style. It was not always the case. Often their creations
were original ones and derived from changing the cultural contributions of other
civilisations. The strength of the Latins was that they were able to adapt other peoples’
ideas of the garden to their own taste.
“It is true that from their origins until the time of Caesar, the Romans took their
inspiration for the garden from Hellenic, Oriental and Alexandrine models with their use
of peristyles and sistyles; whatever the fashion they always maintained the ‘practical’
character so dear to the Latins.
During the Augustan period in gardens, more importance was attached to the arrangement
of the trees and artistic pruning was introduced (they called it nemora tonsilia) as a way
of creating special effects by trimming the foliage of the trees.”
“The gardens of the great characters of the period are fascinating. What might the
gardeners of the politicians or great poets of Ancient Rome have seen?”

From Catullus to Cicero

“As far as I’m concerned, he’s a filthy pig.”
“Not true, he’s just a bigot.”
“How is it that even you can’t see? He’s always dirty and unkempt. He doesn’t comb his
hair for days, then he shaves his whole body. What’s more, he favours tunics with long
sleeves, just like women.”
“But he always wears lots of perfume.”
“Come, come, he only washes when he goes for a dip in the pool. And he’s so lazy he
hasn’t even learned to swim. Don’t you think he looks ridiculous with that leather ring he
wears?”
“Why can’t you accept that he’s a poet, a man dedicated to art? Can’t you see how
amazingly sensitive he is? Don’t you understand that Gaius Valerius can write words that
stay carved into your heart and that will be remembered for centuries to come?”
“Look at his garden, then. See what a mess it is. How anarchic. Flowers everywhere. We
had to hide the vegetable patch from his delicate view. ‘Don’t expose me to the sight of
those vulgar cabbages!’ Let’s be frank; with Cicero things were quite different. With him,
you could really see the purpose of your work: he knew how Jove meant a garden to be.
Well laid out, looked after and organised. Am I supposed to call this a garden? What are
all these little winding pathways that get lost in strange labyrinths? And what about this
mania for wanting flowers in bloom around the house all year round? It’s against nature.
Flowers bloom, then wither. But not here. Here, we have to replace the plants that died
with those that are blooming.”
“He’s a poet. For every flower, he sees a different significance and he respects it as a little
god. With his words, he turns flowers into little living spirits. You have to understand
that’s the way Catullus is. He loves with infinite passion but suffers with the same
intensity. I told you the episode with the sparrow? A little bird, nothing special at all, that
one of his lady friends was playing with. One fine morning we found it dead. Perhaps the
cold, perhaps the cat. You should have seen his reaction.
“A grown man like him, with tears streaming down his face. The white powder he puts on
as foundation make-up was all streaked. The green powdered antimony he puts on his
eyes to emphasise their beauty all dissolved and made his face look like one of those
dramatic masks you see in Greek drama. He managed to bury the bird but was sobbing
the whole time. They tell me he’s even written a poem about it.
“Mourn, oh Cupids and Venuses, and all of you kind-hearted men: my girlfriend’s
sparrow has died, the sparrow, my girl’s delight, whom she loved more than her own
eyes.”
“All right, very moving. Then the same evening he dined with all his friends on wild fowl
and polenta!”
“It was the same story with the narcissus. ‘Marcus, he said to me, I want the Ninpherium
to be permanently surrounded with narcissus in flower. We must never again let Echo’s
love be forgotten. I cannot allow the existence of so much suffering.’ He was talking
about the myth, you understand. Even a clod such as yourself must have heard of Echo
the nymph who fell in love Narcissus, the demi-god, but couldn’t talk to him. She was
under a spell, you see, and could only repeat the end of the lines she had just heard.
That’s why she couldn’t let Narcissus know what she felt, and he drowned trying to reach
his reflection in the water of the pond.”
“Don’t talk to me about making love. This dirty pig doesn’t seem to do anything else.
And then he has the nerve to write about it. ‘O, Cato, what a funny thing, worthy for you
to hear and laugh at! Laugh, Cato, for the love you bear Catullus. The thing is too too
funny. I just found a young boy banging away at a girl: May it please Dione, I attacked
him with my rigid thing, using it as a spear.’
“It doesn’t surprise me that after these fine jokes we find him the next morning sleeping
in this very flower bed that cost us so much hard work. Quite unacceptable behaviour.”
“Try and look at things from a different point of view. The fact is women become
inflamed when they hear his poetry. Do you know Virginia, the daughter of the seer of
Simione? She has a reputation for being hard as nails. Well, I can tell you that she has
been my lover since I stole the master’s poems.
“All I had to say was: ‘Virginia – obviously I changed the name here – if I were allowed
to kiss your honeyed eyes as often as I wish, I would kiss them 300,000 times; I would
never be satisfied, even if our kisses numbered more than the ears of grain at harvest.’
“She just melted into my arms. ‘Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred, then
another thousand, then a second hundred, then yet another thousand more, then another
hundred. Then, when we have counted many thousands, we will mix them all up so that
we don't know which is which, and so that no one can cast the evil eye on us when he
finds out how many kisses there can be.’
“These words worked like a key that opens girls’ hearts even if I don’t understand why.
Don’t you agree that this garden just exudes sensuality, the power of passion. At the same
time, here in Sirmione it’s different from Rome. The lake lets you appreciate the
sweetness of love’s subtleties in all its strange variations. Certainly a kind of emotion that
your exalted Cicero can’t begin to understand. What a hypocrite!”
“What rubbish. The senator sees things clearly and lives a right and proper existence. His
garden shows how sobre he is in his heart and what a virtuous man. That’s why he
favours the vine, the grain field and the orchard – the useful crops – over the merely
pretty ones. ‘Earth does not afford me pleasure just because of the fruits it produces, but
just as much for the vigour and rightness of its nature.’ That’s something he wrote.”
“Oh yes.? And why don’t you talk about the Ninpheum he had built following the model
of Greek fennel? (??). Why don’t you say that his gardens were based on those of Plato
and Demosthenes? Or perhaps you don’t remember how he boasts of philosophising with
friends like the good-for-nothing Greeks. (??) You conservatives may want to ensure the
purity of Latin culture but at the same time your leaders are lost in admiration for those
decadent Hellenes.”
“There is certainly plenty to discuss on the political front, as you say. But that’s of no
concern to me, just as I’m not interested in supporters of Catilinus such as yourself. What
I’m saying is that the work we did in Cato’s garden was more the way things should be.
There the rows of trees are nice and straight. The whole thing is planned with symmetry
in mind. The vegetable gardens are quite separate from the flower beds.
“Hedges are hedges and aren’t trimmed to make them into animals or whatnot. Even the
statues seem more pleasing to me. Here we have all these satyrs and these secluded caves
with their symbols of oriental rites. There we have our own glorious gods well presented
and clean, in full sunlight. Not to mention the fact that, there, there’s just one statue of
Priapus, at the entrance as in all respectable gardens. Here you find him all over, even in
quite inappropriate places. And don’t forget that Cicero’s statues – he said so himself –
are so important that he uses them to help him learn his speeches.
“Just divide up his writing into various chapters and then imagine, as you walk round the
garden, each statue reciting one of them. To remember the whole text, then, all he has to
do is take a mental walk round the garden. Obviously the path has to be clear of weeds
and perfectly clean. No, look, I just can’t understand the way these mediocre poets
behave. I still appreciate men like Marius Curius, who retired to his garden after
defeating the Sannites. Or Lucius Quintus Cincinnatus. The plough! He was ploughing
his fields when the messengers from the Senate invited him to become Dictator in
Rome.”
“Yes, yes. I remember him well, your Cicero and his arrogant ways. Like when he used a
sedan-chair in Rome knowing full well that it was forbidden by law except to Roman
matrons. I can remember how he was shaking, in the Senate, when he made his speeches
against Catilinus. On one side Cicero, surrounded by enough bodyguards to fill the hall;
on the other Catilinus, who faced up to all the senators, confronting them all alone. I
remember how your Cicero, that very day, took refuge in terror in the most secluded part
of the garden and how he dismissed us gardeners in case – unfounded suspicion though it
was – we might not be loyal to him. What a day that was. Now just be thankful to
Catullus that you have a job again.

Chapter 15: The pine and the myth of Attis

After such a substantial meal I needed to stretch my legs. Sir Thomas seemed to be
drowsing in his rocking chair on the verandah. From within the house one could hear
only the sound of the crockery as it was put away.
I wandered down towards the sea. The sun was burning hot on my skin but under the tall
maritime pines there was a pleasant breeze. I stretched out in the shade, enjoying the
music of the leaves and branches as they were moved by the wind, to the song of the
crickets and the gentle rhythm of the waves.
Suddenly: the muffled sound of a twig snapping. I turn and catch sight of her clearly for a
second. I hear her laugh. Then she disappears. The rustle of the trees covers the sound of
her laughter. I can’t see her any more but I start to look for her. I glimpse the hem of her
dress. The sound of the waves doesn’t help. She is running between the hedges but keeps
eluding my gaze. Then – all of a sudden – behind the trunk of a tree we find ourselves
face to face. We are both panting. I see her breasts rising and falling in the open neck of
her dress. But she is faster than I. Her lips touch mine, once, twice, then she bites me
sharply. I step back from the shock but she takes my face in her hands and kisses me
passionately. She ruffles my hair with her fingers. We pause for breath, in a moment of
immensity. All round us absolute calm has descended. The crickets, the sea and the
fragrance of the grass where we have lain down. Nothing else.
She presses me ever tighter, her lithe body against mine. Amanda, sweet Amanda. The
perfume of lavender on her skin. The taste of cherries on her lips. I try to return her
embrace, to loosen her bodice.
Her whole demeanour changes. All of a sudden, she loosens her hold. She thrusts me
away, jerking herself free and then, while I continue to hold her tight, lashes out at my
face with something. She scratches me, leaving four streaks of blood on my cheek. My
amazement hides the pain. She too is surprised at what she has done – as if that were any
consolation – and like a scared cat opens her eyes wide and flees.
I still can’t believe what happened. I pick up my hat and retrace my steps. Sitting under
the pine where I was earlier stretched out I now find Sir Thomas. Where did he appear
from? He smiles, smoking his pipe.
“Take my handkerchief,” he says in complicit tones, “one would say you’ve been
scratched trying to take wild berries. These things happen.”
“That’s almost exactly what did happen,” I say in a feeble attempt to justify myself.
Sir Thomas turns serious.
“Be cautious with Italian women, especially in out-of-the-way places like this, far from
the civilised world. Their temperament can be disconcerting to a man from northern
climes; often they take even their husbands by surprise. In 1600 there were various trials
for withcraft around here and that’s not by chance. Sometimes the women from these
parts behave in the most perplexing way.”
“Quite so. I’m perplexed and wounded. What an idiot,” I said under my breath.
“I suggest one try a more detached perspective on these matters. Latin carnal love is quite
irresistible to us Anglo Saxons. At the same time we really don’t know how to deal with it
emotionally. Do you know Catullus?”
“To be honest, I have read some of his verses sub rosa. He’s not really on the curriculum
at Eton.”
“Exactly. The power of his words lies in his descriptions of passion. He immortalised the
myth of Attis, the semi-divinity reincarnated in the Pino pinestre that’s shading you now.”
“Wait a moment. With respect, it’s not really the moment for another of your fairy tales.”
“No, listen. The myth is not a fairy tale but the representation of a hidden reality not to be
spoken of in polite society. Relating it might teach us something. Besides, Attis was a
beautiful young man but his pursuer, Agdistis, daughter of Jove and Vibele, was an
ambiguous character who had fallen in love with him in an unhealthy way. After fleeing
her, Attis tried to wed the daughter of King Midas, perhaps so the king wouldn’t turn him
into a gold ingot. But the powerful Agdistis finds him and drives him mad. A madness
that makes Attis castrate himself in a kind of orgiastic frenzy with all his friends.
“After such an act, as savage as cruel, Attis rushes through the wood towards the temple
of Cybele overcome by the throes of a powerful sexual force.
“Come, all of you, without delay, follow me to the Phrygian temple of Cybele, in her
sacred groves where the drums beat and the flutes play, where – wreathed with ivy – the
Maenads rage, where – with piercing shrieks – they celebrate their rites, where the
goddess darts about in restless flight. There must our mad dance take us.”
“My goodness, Sir Thomas. Are you quite sure this is the right story for me?”
“Attis didn’t survive his self-inflicted wounds. His death caused great sorrow among men
and gods. Jove was moved to say: ‘His body will remain red, his blood will never curdle,
his hair and his delicate fingers will continue to grow . Thus you will know that he still
lives.’ After saying this, he changed the bloodless boy into a pine tree.
“In fact, the trunk of this tree is red and the resin prevents it from rotting. Its needles
recall the soft hair, its flowers look like little fingers always in motion. Its fruit . . .
well . . . they look like a man’s erect member.”
“Thank you, Sir Thomas, I feel much consoled and encouraged. Even if, I may say, your
sense of irony continues to escape me.”
“As an historical aside, it’s worth noting that, among the Romans, Cybele was known as
‘the old woman who sits beneath the pines’, because the goddess loved to pass the time
under these trees.
“The festival of Attis, on the other hand, was celebrated in Rome on 22 March. Men
carried a pine tree in a funeral procession. Among the lamentations they planted the tree
in front of the temple. When they had done that, the laments turned to laugher and songs
of joy when they confirmed that the tree was ‘resurrected’ and its foliage still green, once
they had taken it from its sudarium. The chronicles of the time say that the festivals were
orgiastic and that the wine flowed in rivers.”

Chapter 16: Boccaccio’s gardener

“All right, Daniel, let’s hear what stories you have created for us this time.”
“I don’t create stories. Or very few, anyway. I just talk about the history of gardens.
Every historical period had its own model, its own ideal.
“For example, in the medieval period, gardens were often known as hortus conclusus: by
the word hortus they were stressing the fact that at the time gardens were characterised
by a rich variety of fruit, vegetables and aromatic herbs. Conclusus, on the other hand,
showed that these were spaces protected and set apart physically frm the surrounding area
by a high wall. In some cases the garden had an entrance that was separate from that of
the building it surrounded. It was in a hortus of this kind that one of our great literary
monuments was set: Decameron. Here Boccaccio, the author, brings together a group of
young people who are trying to escape the plague that is devastating Tuscany at the time.
You may recall one of his tales where he tells of a vegetable garden in a convent where
the gardener’s work extends a little further than was fitting.”
Tale of the abbess of San Frediano
You could always trust him. Always silent, smiling. Masetto has something special about
him, something indefinable. He arrived at the convent by chance, in rags, deaf-mute and
apparently somewhat simple. We set him to chopping wood and thought that he would be
the right person to replace the old gardener who had just left. An idea that appealed to the
steward, given the low wages he was prepared to accept.
There is no doubt the garden was in need of attention. The area round the entrance and
the four flower beds dedicated to the Evangelists were slowly going to seed. The orchards
were overgown with couch grass. So straight away we set the new arrival to work. After a
few days things had started to improve.
The roses, symbol of the Virgin and holy sign of our Lord Jesus Christ’s divine blood
spilled by his dreadful ordeal on the cross, bloomed all together that spring. The lilies,
snow-white symbols of purity and innocence, burst forth in profusion, setting off the
violets, sweet remembrance of all the archangels. The man’s vigour seemed to flow into
the garden.
The problem is that the sisters, too, started to change. A mood of restlessness snaked its
way into the community. Our hortus conclusus became a meeting place and a centre of
greater interest. At first, the more shameless nuns took advantage of the new gardener’s
deafness to insult him with bad language and obscene epithets. The others limited
themselves to mocking him while he did the heavy work. Everyone was watching him
attentively.
Beneath the symbol of peace, the olive tree, they would admire his strong biceps as he
wielded his pick. Hidden behind the tree of infinite sweetness, the fig, they watched the
movement of his manly haunches. In the shade of the emblem of earthly justice, the oak,
they breathed in the acrid smell of sweat from a man sweating toiling in the fields.
For the dispensary, there was no shortage of sisters volunteering to pick herbs needed for
the minestrone, despite the heat of the afternoon. A job hitherto always considered a sort
of light punishment for the nuns who showed too little respect for their holy orders.
And he? He was always silent, smiling. Mute. The poor chap must have been thus
afflicted since birth and it had left him a little feeble-minded. I often watched him slake
his thirst at the marble fountain in the garden. The fountain of life for all the animals on
earth, the source of strength for its vegetation. He would let the water flow down his
unkempt beard, onto his neck and naked chest, before descending to cool his flanks. I
would observe the growing excitement of the sisters. I would watch them as they watched
him from the embrasures of the first floor.
I should have intervened at that point. I should have foreseen what would happen. In my
naivety, at the time the danger seemed remote. I was unaware that a novice had already
heard a confession. A married woman had poured her heart out, telling the girl the details
of her intimacy. “The pleasures of the spirit are intense, but how much sweeter to feel the
body of a man on top of you,” she had declared.
The novice had rightly reproached her married friend, reminding her of the horrors of the
sins of the flesh. At the same time, she became prey to doubts which she confided in
another of the sisters. In her case, never having suffered the devil’s prongs, how could she
have fled them? How is it possible to escape something one does not know? Why, then,
not carry out an experiment? And why not do it with someone perfectly capable of
keeping a secret.
In this way she decided to try on Masetto the carnal perversions of the devil. The
gardener was forced to submit in the tool shed. There the first novice discovered the
inexpressible pleasure that the devil can give, while her fellow nun stood guard outside.
Following which, the second nun also wanted to try for herself.
Masetto, the poor deaf mute, was thus forced against his will for the whole afternoon.
First with one, then the other. The nuns were not content just to discover the beast that
lives within man but also wanted to master it by hard work and practice. Every day,
therefore, they led Masetto off to the shed forcing him to perform all sorts of impure acts.
Turpitude to which he submitted in his naïve innocence.
Such behaviour did not excape notice. Soon another sister became aware of the repeated
assaults on the deaf-mute. She should have – it was her absolute duty to – denounce the
wicked women. Instead she in turn was convinced to try the new experiments with the
sealing of a pact to keep the secret. Among women, though, such agreements have the life
span of a morning. In her turn this third sister let her dearest friend in the convent into the
secret and she, having been initiated into the company of the toolshed, told the dispensary
sister. She was unable to hide her advernture from the refectory sister who took the
gatekeeper sister with her to the shed. The circle expanded rapidly. Masetto stopped
performing his duties as gardener to dedicate himself to the care of quite other flowers,
other roses. Very special roses; they arrived on foot at the fountain where they drank in
deep draughts before resuming their normal daily activity as if nothing had happened.
An infernal chain. To break it required firm action. With that in mind I called Masetto to
my meeting room. I thought I could guess what was happening in the convent and wanted
to put a stop to it. First, however, I had to ascertain to what kind of violence Masetto had
been subjected. An analysis that I carried out scrupulously, confirming on his shoulders
and back the signs of the devil of temptation. Having evaluated these and other signs of
wickedness, I as abbess of the Convent of San Frediano decided to release Masetto from
the heavy work of tending the vegetable gardens. His new function will be in my private
office where he will work as library assistant and general factotum, activities that he will
be able to perform as soon as he knows how to read, as I am teaching him. A decision that
I take in the mercy of Our Lord Jesus for the benefit of the whole community.
Masetto da Lamporecchio’s story
The abbess’s roses certainly need a lot more attention over a long period. As for the rest, I
can’t complain, I’m in paradise: a paradise made up of tits, bums, mouths, buttocks,
kisses, nipples and sighs. A paradise all coloured pink, made up of bodies in all shapes
and sizes – short, tall, chubby and slender . . available all hours of the day. The abbess
had better not think she can put a ball and chain on me. Now I have found the way to
salvation and I am working strenuously towards it. I’m already looking forward to the
moment when I open my mouth and they discover that I could always talk and that I’m
not stupid either.
Halleluiah! The mute can hear and speak thanks to the fervour of all the nuns. Halleluiah!
The village idiot has started to speak again. A miracle not uncommon in convents and one
that can be exploited to make a little profit. For the moment, though, I just hear them sigh
for the pleasure they take, time and again, in my little personal paradise. Perhaps I might
be so bold as to say we are making celestial music.

Chapter 17: The yucca and the agave

“Did you see how she treated him? Scratches right across his face.”
“That great big filly needs taming.”
“She certainly gave that dandy a lesson to remember.”
“You Europeans got so many fine manners to cover up your weakness. If she’d done that
to me I would have known what to do about it. A good whipping.”
“Everything’s always black and white for you, Jesse. You solve everything with violence.
Is it really possible life’s no more than a battle, one man against the other?”
“In the States that’s how we do it. Plain and simple, less talk.”
“Like animals, in fact. With no laws and no respect for your neighbour. You don’t know
the meaning of the word piety nor pity. Not at all. I’m not surprised you turned out a
highwayman.”
“OK, you’re right. We’re all bloodthirsty beasts, if you like. Or we’re like those plants
down there, you see them? In all this greenery, those are the only ones I know. They
remind me of the wide open spaces in Mexico, the clear skies of the great plains back
home.
“If you think about it, we’re just like those plants you find on the edge of the desert. On
the outside those stalks are just a tangle of spikes, but inside they’re full of cool water
they suck up in the rainy season. The flowers are beautiful bright colours but they only
last a few days or even hours. The Navajo Indians call them yucca and use them for lots
of things. For example, the leaves can be softened and used as hair cream. Or you can
crush them and spread them on your skin to ease sunburn. I’ve even seen women cook
the leaves to make a strange bluish bread called paper bread. Those savages sure know a
few things, I can tell you.”
“I never took you for a botanical expert.”
“’Botanical’, what a fine word. You sure know a lot of fine words but you have no idea
what it means to live in a desert. You’re a hot shot at taking me for a fool but you
wouldn’t walk out alive from the place I live. You see those other plants down there?
They call them agaves, a name that in their old language means ‘magnificent’. The
Indians in Mexico don’t call them that – their name is mayahuel – and they think they’re
a kind of god. You know why?
“Because over there they make a drink stronger than whisky that they call tequila. And
that’s not all. Mixing up the leaves for a bunch of different types of agave, those people
made another even stranger drink. It’s known as mescal. A glass of mescal and you’re off
talking with the gods, my friend. It makes you see things where most of the time there
ain’t nothing. Some of their witch doctors use them to look into the future or to read in
the hearts of men.”
“Your country’s a strange place, to be sure.”
“For me it’s pretty much paradise. No kidding. Sure it’s a paradise made up of a fistful of
spikes stuck in the sand, with leaves as sharp as knives. But under a plant like that I’ve
buried my family, wife and daughters.”
“I didn’t know you had a family.”
“You don’t know a bag of beans but you think you’re better than the rest of us. What do
you think? It’s for them I signed this crazy deal with the Fenian Fraternity. Seemed like a
good idea at the time.”
“It was a good idea. You were given the chance to change your life and – for all eternity –
the life of your people.”
“Let’s go, this is just crazy. Set up your own death by killing this guy, this nobody, just
shoot him in the back of the neck. Do one last job – call it the last curtain – and then start
a completely new life. In Ireland. Clean as a new tin whistle.Sure, great idea. Only I
didn’t know that this ‘one last job’ was big time like this. I’m not an assassin, I rob banks.
That’s my speciality.”
“From what I hear, you’re no sweet innocent. I don’t believe that in the Confederate army
you spared too many lives. They say you were there at the Centralia massacre in ’64.”
“What’s that got to do with anything? That was war.”
“A war you enjoyed, as I hear. And during your robberies were there not a few murders.
According to my information there were seventeen of them. All of them strong healthy
men.”
“But a little slow on the draw. You know I don’t like talking about it. In fact there were
only sixteen and anyway in my old job there are certain risks. Back home where I come
from you make a simple choice: kill or be killed. (dici ‘vivi o uccidi’ ma mi sembra piu
logico cosi??) Your life or mine.”
“Jesse, just for a moment stop and try to think with that great big American blockhead of
yours. For once in your life you have the chance to do something grand, something
heroic. The death of Queen Victoria will bring Ireland freedom from the English yoke. It
will mean changes of alliance among the European powers. It will be the spark that will
unleash a movement to free all the oppressed peoples from the English colonialists.”
“OK, that’s enough. Finish. Don’t get carried away, O’Leary. Keep those little speeches
you learned by heart for your little ladies back home. You’re wasting your time on me;
I’m just an ignorant American from the Far West. I ended up in your political business by
accident.
“I only ask one thing. Who knows if you’ll have the courage to look her in the eyes, the
old bird, while she’s dying. You talk real good and that’s fine and dandy. Will you be able
to pull the trigger when you have to? Remember there’ll be only one chance. If we don’t
do it right, there’ll be no way out for us.”
Chapter 18: Queen Margherita and aloe vera
The strange feeling I experience in this garden is that of never being alone. I have the
unpleasant sensation of being controlled, somehow under observation. In fact, when Sir
Thomas left me to go upstairs for his cup of tea, suddenly the gardener Lorenzi appears.
He steps out from behind an enormous orange tree.
“Are you thirsty after so much emotion, Mr Vincent?” he asks me in mocking tones. Try
a piece of this grapefruit. It’s a rare, ancient variety. The fruit is remarkable for its
sweetness.”
I have to say the grapefruit is appealing. I eat it carefully as if suspicious that it might be
poisoned. I don’t know why, but the presence of this man is somehow disturbing. He, on
the other hand, appears completely relaxed.
“They say this fruit has miraculous properties.” He puts a hand on the crotch of his
trousers and makes a gesture both explicit and vulgar. “Even if you certainly don’t need
it, Casanova.” He explodes in a peal of noisy laughter.
“What a man, our journalist. You were a big success with the beautiful Amandina, eh?”
He lays a complicit hand on my shoulder as if he were a great drinking friend.
“You can rest easy, I won’t say a word. No one will say anything, even that absent-
minded old fellow Thomas. You can have complete confidence in him. He’s a silent as
the grave. Anyway, I’m sure he hasn’t told you the most interesting things about the
garden. I’m sure he’s only given you a lot of hot air and fairytales.”
“What on earth? What a liberty! What are you talking about?” I try to defend myself but
know quite well that he has me cornered.
“I am sure he hasn’t told you about the visit of Queen Margherita. Which Margherita?
Why, the Queen of our beloved realm of Italy. From time to time she turns up here. Only
a few of us know the reason. Everything started four years ago, during her first visit to
Bordighera. The first time I saw her was 1878. At the time she still maintained relations
with her dear husband Umberto. You understand what type of relations? Fucky fucky, I
mean. How do you say it in English? Don’t pretend to be shy. You are pretending?”
“I understand, thank you. No need to be disgusting.”
“At the time she still loved him, the poor girl. She arrived here one Sunday in September.
You should have seen her. Even a republican such as myself could not remain unmoved –
but don’t say a word of that round here.” And he laughed heartily at his own wit.
“All the fascination you journalists write about, you gentlemen of the pen. All her
elegance, fine clothes or broad-brimmed straw hat couldn’t hide the rings under her eyes,
the drawn features, the nervous tics. The attempt on her husband’s life, even though it had
failed, had left her distraught. Do you know what happened? In Naples, an anarchist
called Passanante, a smith, had managed to get through to the royal carriage during the
parade. Right in front of the carabinieri of the royal escort, he managed to land a blow
with his knife. But in his impetuosity the smith missed His Majesty and wounded one of
his ministers, sitting next to him, in the thigh. Minister on the spit, the wags said.
All in all, it wasn’t a particularly dangerous attempt. But Margherita was overwhelmed.
The Queen had always been kept in the dark about the rage and desperation of the
working classes. She had always believed the joyful welcome in Naples was genuine; she
had been touched when they dedicated their local dish to her (that baked bread they call
pizza); she had been impressed by the opulence of the receptions held by the old Bourbon
nobles who had been quick to come over to the House of Savoy. She had never even
dreamed that someone might have been able to hate them.
That’s the way she is; there’s no malice in her, but she is dreadfully shallow. On the other
hand, she had never even been willing to believe that her husband had been cuckolding
her with all – and I really mean all – the ladies of the court. Do you know what they say?
They say Umberto gives her a string of pearls – jewles she adores – each time he
deceives her. She has more pearls than any other sovereign in Europe.”
“Lorenzo, you’re an insolent fellow, but do go on. What happened here at La Mortola?”
“The Queen was suffering a nervous depression. A depression made worse by a disease
passed on to her by the King himself. One of those diseases that one cannot talk of in
polite society because they make you itch between the thighs.” Lorenzo again put his
hand on the crotch of his trousers, laughing.
“Poor girl. That was just one of the many reasons she should have realised what a pig
Umberto was. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when Margherita surprised him
in bed with the Countess Litta, one of his favourites. To tell the truth, Litta was also the
favourite of quite a few others. It’s widely known that the countess was one of Napoleon
III’s paramours and we know quite certainly that she dispensed her favours to various
other crowned heads. Of course, politics under these conditions becomes a little
complex.”
“Do go on. What happened to Margherita?”
“Once she had arrived in the garden, our fine fellow Thomas started to talk. What he said
only she can know, because he whispered to her so no one could hear. He showed her
various parts of the garden, then had afternoon tea served under the pergola in the open
air.
“Those who were there – not I, of course – tell that something really strange happened.
Thomas waved a pocket watch in front of the Queen’s eyes. Back and forth, back and
forth. Margherita seemed first to relax then go to sleep. Even stranger is the fact that our
man Hanbury then starts to ask her questions and she – though she was asleep – answered
him.
“Can you offer any explanation? Seems to me like witchcraft. Still, it’s an event that no
one describes in quite the same way. I’m too ignorant to have the faintest idea what it’s
all about. The fact is that the Queen slept deeply for the whole evening and was carried to
her bed. That’s not all. Our English wizard – otherwise known as Thomas – even
prepared a potion for her –shall we say – ‘intimate’ problems. It was a cream extracted
from a plant called aloe vera. A plant with prodigious attributes: it seems infusions can be
most effective even for treating malignant tumours.
“Not that our Englishman has invented anything new. The Egyptians, the ones who built
the Pyramids, used aloe leaves to relieve the effects of sunburn. Long ago in Africa they
thought the juice from the plant was a precious and sacred medicine. This is all certainly
true, don’t you know?
“Here in the Ligurian Alps the juice of the aloe leaf has always been used to cure skin
wounds. Just like the one you have on your face now.”
In an involuntary gesture, my hand touched the scratches on my cheek.
“But if you take the same leaves, crush them and heat them in a broth like our
grandparents used to do, you empty your gut in no time at all. Understand? The shit just
pours out.”
“Your manner of expressing yourself is as unpleasant as your manners are uncouth.”
“Forget about manners. Just look at this aloe here. It’s a miracle in earth, I tell you. Did
you know, for example, Mr Vincent, that it can cure cancer? It’s an old remedy of the
Franciscan friars. You take half a kilo of pure honey, two big or three small aloe leaves,
three or four spoonfuls of arak or grappa (but whisky will do). You whisk it all up and get
a cream that you drink twice a day. There are those who sneer at it but I have seen men
cured. No miracle, just a remedy that God’s messengers use for those people who can’t
take other medicines.”
At this point Lorenzo turned dark and mysterious, and made the sign of the cross.
“Let’s get back to our Queen. Following the good Hanbury’s care, Margherita blossomed
again, one might say. It seems that she ceased all contact with that faithless husband of
hers, who – as Savoy legend would have it – carried on with his hands up the skirts of not
a few high-class courtesans.”
“That’s quite enough, thank you. Your gossip is quite pointless and your manners do you
little credit. I must be off. Lady Hanbury is waiting.”

Chapter 19: The flowers, the pergola and a little irritation

That evening I really wasn’t hungry.
In the cool of the evening, the garden seemed suddenly to have taken on a new life.
Dozens of gardeners were watering, raking and tidying flowerbeds and paths. The large
house was alive with women in black uniform busying themselves with domestic chores.
From the street shopkeepers were arriving in their carts bringing victuals to replenish the
great iron ice boxes. The festive mood involved everyone in the little village: flags,
banners, posters and pictures dedicated to the Queen were being put up along the main
road. The stage for the band had been made ready days earlier and – from nearby
Ventimiglia – there was a great coming and going of carts full of flowers to brighten the
passage of the royal carriage.
Sir Thomas, like the helmsman on a storm-tossed ship, was supervising all the work in
the villa, a stern look on his face.
For this reason, it was Thomas’s wife, Katharine Hanbury herself, who accompanied me
to the little guest house where a frugal meal was about to be served. Katharine was
nervous but – with that proverbial British stiff upper lip – would never have allowed her
worries to show in her demeanour.
“Whatever happened to your face?” she asked me distractedly.
“A trivial accident, Madam. We city folk are not used to plants and gardens.”
“I believe your accident is quite revealing. This garden is too wild. I understand
Thomas’s passion for exotic plants; he is an expert on cactuses and plants from Central
America. My own preference would be for a garden that is simply a delight to look at, a
corner of paradise made up of perfume and colour.
“Some flowers here, offset by the yellow of the mimosa that grows all year round. Did
you know that Napoleon III brought it with him when he came back from Mexico? (Non
è stata riportata dall’Australia?) Or what do you think of the pale pink begonias from
Brazil or the purple of the camellias brought from China by a Jesuit priest.?”
Goodness, I didn’t feel well. I was starting to feel the effects of all these fragrant plants
that were about to unleash my allergy to pollen.
“Or the so-called ‘virgin’s tears’,” Lady Hanbury continued pitilessly, seemingly unaware
of my nonetheless obvious lack of interest, “or the white lily of the valley: these flowers
were created by Apollo as a carpet for the dwelling of the Muses. What’s more, Apollo is
also said to be responsible for the birth of other flowers, for example the hyacinth.
The iris, on the other hand, was the flower of the God Horus in the Egyptian heavens,
while in Greek mythology it was the symbol of Hermes, messenger of the gods. The
origin of his name seems to derive from the word ‘rainbow’ because of the extraordinary
variety of colours it displays. With the passing of time, unfortunately, it has become the
symbol of our enemies par excellence, the kings of France.” (Non è il giglio questo?)
“The idea of a flower garden dedicated to the nose is very romantic but seems to me not
very useful.” I was trying to close this conversation, which resembled nothing so much as
a meeting of botanists on vacation, with the intention of scooting off as soon as possible
to my room.”
“Oh, don’t be so prosaic. Think how beautiful our topiary is, or the long pergola
overlooking the bay. This is where our bignonias bloom, the flower with the long calyx,
brightly coloured and sweet-smelling. It’s lovely to stroll there in the hottest hours of the
afternoon just to enjoy the shade they give. Or perhaps you think a setting that soothes
the spirit is completely useless?”
A question that left me quite speechless.
“I really wouldn’t know, Lady Hanbury. But it’s getting late. By the way, what are you
intending to show Her Majesty and which way round the garden will you take her?”
“Thomas will be taking care of the visit. Her Majesty does not like to walk too much, so
we have made ready a small gig to be able to show here the garden without tiring her. It
will be drawn by a mule round the paths of the grounds. We haven’t drawn up a precise
route. We know that Victoria does not like to be constrained in her choices. She will
probably be free to choose which way she wants to go.”
Nothing could have been worse. Protecting the Queen among all these plants would be
virtually impossible. I could only confirm that John Brown’s concerns were well-
founded.
Night, black as pitch, descended on the gardens.
After a series of quick good nights, I huddled into the bed in my large room in the guest
quarters. Under the blankets, in place of the beautiful Amanda, I clutched a wet
handkerchief to ease the burning sensation I felt from her scratches on my cheek. Strange
as it may seem, however, I fell asleep without thinking of women but with the
premonition that something important was about to happen. Somewhere in those far-off
heavens, Venus was preparing her transit over our heads as she did punctually every four
hundred years. A rare occurrence.
Who knows what strange novelty she might bring with her.
Chapter 20: Queen Victoria at La Mortola
We English are used to the greys of semi-darkness, to suffused light, to soft colours. We
like subdued tones and live in a world of wonderful opacity.
Here at La Mortola that morning of 25 March 1882 things could hardly be more different.
The bright, glaring light makes it difficult to watch the road without half-closing one’s
eyes. The earthy colours of the Ligurian landscape leap out, the dark and light contrasting
in unexpected ways.
The road meanwhile is seething with life. The whole population of the region seems to
have turned up to celebrate the event. The old women wear black and have bonnets laced
at their chins. The younger ones are dressed up in wide-brimmed straw hats and colourful
shawls. A large throng of children are playing in the dust. They too are wearing their
Sunday best but play shoeless on the road. Despite the springtime heat, the men keep
their jackets buttoned. The VIPs have not yet arrived and the stage is empty, while the
members of the band tune their instruments and rehearse a few notes of the British
national anthem.
Suddenly, a large cloud of dust signals the arrival of horses.
“She’s coming, she’s coming,” the children shout. “The Queen, the Queen of England.”
At this naïve and spontaneous cry excitement grows. The bigwigs and the clergy rush to
take up their places on the reception stand. The band gets ready to play the anthems. A
group of Italian soldiers take up position for the welcome parade. Sir Thomas is smiling.
He seems amused even if he cannot forget his English reserve.
In the bright morning light, amid the dust thrown up by the horses’ hooves, a squad of
soldiers appears. Her Majesty’s escort is arriving under the command of Lord Bridport,
immediately followed by the carriage of the Queen’s private secretary, Sir Henry
Ponsonby.
The short journey had dirtied the golden collar badges of the dragoons in their dress
uniforms and the silver scabbards that hung by their sides. At their arrival, a rumble of
anticipation runs through the crowd and the band leads into an anthem. Immediately
silenced by the local authorities.
The soldiers seem used to the excitement of the onlookers and quietly take up their
positions along the sides of the road in parade order, carefully adjusting their uniforms.
The Queen expects them to be impeccable, but such perfection is difficult today, so far
removed from the cool of the British countryside. But the mood of these outgoing people,
ever ready to laugh or cry, is one of palpable gaiety.
As far as I was concerned, all was well with the world. After a good sleep, I was
preparing to watch this event that the local people were turning into a popular festival. A
spectacle I was enjoying from the shade of a pine tree when I became aware to my
surprise that Sebastiano Lorenzi was standing by my side. Where did he emerge from?
“At last the grand old lady of Europe has come to visit our corner of hell.”
“Of paradise, you mean. Mr Lorenzi. I warn you: I don’t like you and I don’t appreciate
your caustic comments on our much-loved Queen. Go away.”
Suddenly the voice of the head gardener became serious and menacing. “Try and
understand, Mr Vincent, open your eyes instead of insulting me. Even my patience has its
limits.”
“Pay attention,” Lorenzi continues in the local dialect. “A garden is a strange creature. To
flourish, it must be cared for, tended, loved. The first task of a gardener is to make nature
his friend. Even someone as self-satisfied as yourself must be conscious of the spiritual
power of a place such as this. Since time immemorial – truly, throughout human history –
men have been aware of a kind of magic in the kingdom of plants. Why do you think that
is?
“Perhaps because they are moved by the fascination of plants, with their cycle of life and
death. Do you understand now? In every garden there is a dark corner. The important
thing is to attract the positive forces and to deflect the evil ones.”
“You are talking nonsense. You must have had too much to drink.” What on earth was he
trying to say?
“If you weren’t so full of yourself, so distracted by trivialities, you would have realised
all by yourself, Mr Vincent. You would have become aware of the evil eye. You would
have noticed that on the other side of the hill – near the little cross – two men have been
hiding and watching this place for days. They are armed and prepared for anything. For
us it wasn’t difficult to spot them and understand who they are. But you, brilliant
journalist, prefer to chase the girls.”
For an instant, it was as if the breath had been knocked out of me.
“Still I have been ordered – a direct order from Caprera HQ – to inform the English.
True, the general is a republican, but he has always had a soft spot for the British crown
and he is a great admirer of your people. He is the one who wants to save your Queen,
certainly not I.”
“Normally, I charge for information. But let your commanders know that for the English I
will make an exception. Let them know that I need a favour: I must cross the French
border without interference from the customs officers. I am sure the red, white and blue
of your fine flag will give me the protection I need. Recently the checks have been much
stricter because of our government’s stupid treaty with Germany and Austria.”
At that moment Lorenzi took hold of the collar of my jacket with his great hands, looked
me straight in the eye without smiling and without moving a muscle in his face. I was as
if in a dream, an ugly dream.
“Do you understand, Mr Vincent? You would do well to hurry. The old lady is here.”
A shot rang out to announce the arrival of the royal carriage. I started: there was not a
moment to lose. The bells rang out joyfully, the Italians started to shout, throwing flowers
on to the carriage and under the horses hooves. I ran towards the squad of royal guards.
“Let me through. I am Vincent, James Vincent. I must speak immediately to Sir Henry or
John Brown. It’s urgent, the Queen is in danger.”
The cuirassier looked at me , perplexed. “Are you English, Sir?”
“Of course I’m English, idiot. If you don’t let me speak to your general, you will soon
find yourself guarding a palm tree in Egypt. Get a move on, man, call him!” I was beside
myself.
Meanwhile the roar of the crowd had swelled. Two grooms had made ready a set of steps
so the ladies could alight from the carriage. One could barely hear the band as they
played the British anthem, submerged as they were by the cries of the people, who were
waving Italian and English flags. The Queen had not come alone. In horror I saw that –
besides her ladies in waiting – there was also her daughter Beatrice. Two crowned heads
for the price of one: what a gift for the Irish bandits. How much time did I have?
“What do you want, Sir?” Lord Bridport asked me abruptly. “What was it that you
needed so urgently to tell Her Majesty’s secretary?”
“Thank heavens. My name is James Vincent. I am the journalist from The Times and I
was sent ahead by John Brown to reconnoitre. Ask him if you want. Brown suspected an
ambush and he was right. There are two armed men on the brow of that hill. Her Majesty
is in danger.”
The carriage door was about to open.
“It’s too late to stop the visit. The only person who could have made the Queen turn back
was Brown himself, but the Scottish gillie is unwell and stayed in Menton. I don’t know
who you are but as a precaution I’ll call up reinforcements.”

Chapter 21: Pteronia and viper’s bugloss

Queen Victoria appeared on the carriage step. Sir Thomas, smiling, welcomed her along
with the delegation of Italian authorities. Princess Beatrice alighted next, with a powerful
impact on the people of La Mortola. Her white dress – in the brilliant light of that
morning – was dazzling and made her appear luminous alongside her mother’s black
dress. Lady Churchill, Victoria’s lady in waiting, was more soberly elegant, wearing a
vivid green shawl. Beside her came another lady, Miss Baillie.
The Queen found herself walking on a carpet of mimosa and carnations thrown by the
festive crowd. Despite the confusion, the band and all the hullabaloo, Hanbury seemed
perfectly at ease. He made a deep bow to all the ladies immediately in front of the
entrance arch.
“We have come to your house out of a curiosity provoked by so many tales of the marvels
in its gardens, Sir Thomas,” said Victoria.
“It is simply a botanical collection of exotic species, nothing more,” the master of the
house said with false modesty.
The Queen entered through the arch and for a brief moment stopped in wonder at the
sight of the sea beyond the avenue of cypresses. “A perfect picture,” she said. “A truly
heavenly portrait.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. Not everyone knows that, by passing through this arch, one
receives a kind of – if you will permit the expression – Chinese blessing. As you see, on
the keystone of the arch I have had inscribed an ideogram representing two letters in the
original language of the Mandarins. It says ‘FO’ and means ‘happiness’. It is a gift, a
magnificent gift from the first ambassador ever sent by the Chinese emperor. The
diplomat Kuo Sung Tao is an old friend from the time when I worked in Shanghai.
According to traditions of that country, you should now feel the positive influence of the
augury and breathe its salutary power.”
“The harmony of this observation point is remarkable. I wonder if our gardeners would
ever be capable of creating something similar at our property in Osborne.”
“I look forward to it, Your Majesty, I look forward to it.”
In the meantime, Victoria had stepped up on to the small gig made ready for her visit.
“Are these not pteronias? Beatrice, come and look how big they are compared to ours at
Osborne House. A marvellous bloom.”
“Pteronias are part of the Asterea family that contains 170 genera and more than 3000
species.” Hanbury could not restrain himself, inspired by the sacred fire of his love for
botany. “Just imagine that the name ‘Asterea’ probably comes from an ancient divinity
from Greek mythology. This goddess administered justice during a period when Saturn
ruled the world. That is why she is represented blindfolded and with scales in her hand
but sometimes also with wings. Why? Because Asterea was appalled by the misery
humans suffered and the horrors caused by their wars. So she decided to leave the earth
and live in paradise – a separate heaven for the gods, of course. She metamorphosed into
a constellation, Virgo, so that men would always see her splendour. A splendour as
remote as is justice for men.”
“Sir Thomas, you leave me speechless. Is that always your way?” the Queen asked with a
smile.
“No, Your Majesty,” Hanbury replied flamboyantly. “It is just that I sometimes ger
carried away by my passion for my plants.”
“Mother,” Beatrice interrupted, “isn’t this viper’s bugloss? It’s enormous here.”
“My compliments,” said Hanbury. “As you say, this is Echium vulgaris, more commonly
known as viper’s bigloss. Infusions made from it are most beneficial for pain in the joints
and bones. And its broth soothes sore throats: herbalists recommend gargling with it.
Some even eat the stems in salad. Not this variety, however, which comes from Mexico
and is recognised by the striking blue of its flowers. One other particularity: its name can
deceive, since it does not in fact give relief from viper’s bites.”
The ladies regarded Sir Thomas as if drawn to a magnet. For the first time I realised that
to female eyes Thomas was an attractive man. Queen Victoria had always shown a
preference for fine-looking companions and that morning felt all the better disposed to
the handsome and elegant Hanbury. For that reason, or perhaps simply following her
instinct, she decided to risk an intimate request to the master of the house.
“Sir Thomas,” said the Queen, resuming her tour and moving away from the other guests,
“you are an expert in plants and botanical matters. But not only that. They say you also
know a great deal about traditional medicines. Your brother Daniel was famous as an
authority on the subject and wrote what has become a text book for modern
pharmacology. I want to set before you a problem on which perhaps you can advise me.
As many people know, my family suffers from a terrible blood disease: haemophilia. My
son Leopold is thus afflicted and no doubt it will also affect some of my daughters, who –
through marriage – risk spreading the curse to all of Europe’s aristocracy. Do you know
of remedies? And can one establish which of us may be carriers?”
“I believe there is no point in hiding the truth. Until now, Majesty, we do not know
exactly what constitutes this malady,” Hanbury answered. “Not knowing the cause, we
can neither prevent it nor treat its symptoms. Majesty, would that I could tell you
otherwise, but the answer to your question is negative. To treat such an illness, we would
have to strengthen the blood cells with a transfusion of another kind of blood. A remedy
that is today not practical.”
“We appreciate the clarity and frankness of your answers, Sir Thomas. Thank you.”
“For me it is an immense honour to welcome you here and to be able to show you
something that will leave you breathless. Perhaps this will help excuse my ignorance in
medicine,” Hanbury ventured.
With these words he invited the ladies to go up to the first floor of the house and opened
the shutters of the windows in the drawing room as one opens the curtains in a theatre.
Before the eyes of the Queen and her daughter appeared – beyond the green of the hill –
the Gulf of Menton in all its splendour.
“There is a sight that uplifts one heart and soul.”
On the terrace, Hanbury had made ready, under the shade of a spacious white tent, a
comfortable chaise longue.
“It is magnificent. How can one person’s mind encompass so much beauty?”
“Why not try to paint it, Mother? Your paintings are so realistic.”
“Our daughter Beatrice adores us. She is perhaps the most affectionate of our daughters.
And to think we have always been so much preoccupied with our health, so little
disposed to show tenderness to the children. A drawing, what an idea. Sir Thomas, would
it be possible to indulge one such a whim?”
“I will have canvas, easel and paints brought at once.”

Chapter 22: Two shots in paradise

“Nothing beats a Winchester in a tight corner.” That was the only thought running
through Jesse’s mind as he adjusted the sight. It’s nice and light, easy to load and – let’s
admit it – looks good. The fact he had no more than two bullets didn’t worry him unduly.
“The old dame’s dressed in black, drawing on the terrace in the shade of a white tent. An
easy target,” said Jesse. “Only one problem: the distance. She’s too far away. From here I
can’t reach her. We need to get closer to the house.”
“Let’s climb down from the ridge and take up position by those trees.”
Jesse James and John O’Leary moved swiftly, protected by the shade from the trees that
Hanbury himself had planted in the valley. The plan was a simple one, banal even. The
shot would be heard throughout the garden. They had to be quick. After shooting Queen
Victoria, the two would aim for the river and work their way downstream, holding on to a
tree trunk to stay hidden as they negotiated the rough water below, heading for the sea.
There a boat was waiting that the Italians had left on the rocky beach. With the help of a
couple of rowers they would make for the refuge of the German ship Kaiser II that was
waiting offshore and that was to take them secretly to Cork in Ireland. A bold plan, but
not impossible. Jesse had seen worse.
“I don’t know why,” Jesse thought, “but this makes me think of the Northfield,
Minnesota, robbery. What a mistake, what a dumb plan. We thought the townsfolk would
be dead scared when they saw us armed and ready. Some of them saw right away what
we had in mind and warned the sheriff. Like we often did, we started shooting, just to
frighten them. Four of us started riding up and down main street firing on anything that
moved, while the other three went into the bank.
“It didn’t work. The townsfolk started shooting back. And those crazy bank clerks: three
out of four of them refused to give us the cash. One even got away by jumping right
through the window into the street. We found ourselves under a shower of lead. The
owner of the drugstore hit William Stiles in the doorway; a schoolkid on a balcony got
Clel Miller and his skull exploded. That young bastard was a hell of a marksman; hit Bob
Younger too, a nasty wound in the leg. It was his blood that the sheriff’s bloodhounds
followed to track us.
“At least until Bob died. What a bunch of wild ideas go through your head just when you
really need to think straight.”
The two men continued along the crest of the hill to get as close as possible to the target.
“Shooting a fat old dame, what a dumb job,” Jesse thought as he lay in wait. “Let’s get it
over with,” the American said aloud, easing the catch on his rifle and preparing to
squeeze the trigger. The Queen was now sharply framed in the sights at the end of his
barrel. Jesse could see her perfectly, motionless and clearly defined. Then, suddenly, she
disappeared, his vision blocked by a big blurred shape.
“You should know what torments to expect, if you sin in paradise, my friend.” A few
centimetres from the barrel of the Winchester, a man with a perfect English accent was
smiling at him. Daniel Hanbury had just materialised right in front of the rebel. He
showed no sign of fear or emotion. The American stared at him, incredulous, amazed,
frozen by fear. Daniel continued to speak in his calm, schoolmasterly way.
“Ejected from a blessed place, Adam and Eve found themselves in an inhospitable land,
unwelcome among the animals that had become their enemies. Without warning, they
faced difficulties for the first time: they experienced need. The need to eat, drink, sleep.
In the same way they discovered the dark side of human experience: cold, pain, fear.
They tried to re-enter paradise but were chased away by an angel with a sword of fire. It
is your good fortune, Mr James, that I am not that angel.”
“John, they’ve discovered us!” Jesse shouted. “Run quick. Get away.”
O’Leary, pistol in hand, started to run headlong towards the stream. Jesse threw down his
rifle and followed him at full speed. The two stumbled over the tree roots and crashed
down the steep slope. Jesse came to a halt right on the edge of the stream. O’Leary was
not so lucky. The Irishman finished with his head in a vipers’ nest well hidden in the
shade of a holm oak. Two of the little beasts bit him on the neck near the jugular. John
O’Leary didn’t even cry out before he fainted, perhaps as much from fear as anything.
On his side, the American collected himself after his fall. Raising his head, he saw the
man again. On the other side of the stream, there was Daniel sitting on a rock, nearby and
absolutely calm, and still smiling at him.
“”According to Moslem tradition,” the Englishman went on, “Adam’s tears after the
original sin gave rise to the rivers Tigris and Euphrates. According to another tradition,
the tears fell on an island called Serendib and produced all the medicinal plants we know
today and all the aromas. Perhaps some fell here, too. But do not be afraid, your sin is not
so great. There is still hope of life for you. Remember what I say and have no fear.”
Jesse jumped into the stream and clung onto the tree trunk as planned. He started to float
down towards the mouth of the little river in full spate. He sped away among the waves
without for a moment taking his eyes off Daniel, whom he watched with a mixture of
amazement and horror. Who was he? Why had he stopped him? Why hadn’t he shot at
him yet?
Jesse continued on his rapid descent to the sea, half-drowned by the rushing water. He
heard the sound of the sea now close by. Then – in the clear midday light – he saw the
outline of the boat that was waiting for him. He had just a few hundred metres more to
go.
A crack rang out and a first bullet hit him in the back between the shoulder blades. A few
metres more and he would have been on his way to Ireland, to a real home. He would
have seen Zerelda again. The second pitiless bullet passed through the nape of his neck.
Lord Bridport smiled: good shot.
“What was that?” Queen Victoria asked Thomas Hanbury on the terrace, raising her head
from her drawing.
“Nothing, Majesty, just some fireworks going off early that were meant to be part of this
evening’s pyrotechnic display. A Chinese tradition that is also much favoured here at La
Mortola. Someone has spoiled the surprise. Please do continue, your landscape seems to
me to be truly coming to life. Even if perhaps one should speak of “still life” as the
Italians say.

Chapter 23: The woodshed and the nettle

I rushed down the garden paths till I was out of breath. Drawn by the sound of gunfire, I
had immediately grasped what had probably happened. I arrived just in time to see Lord
Bridport and Sir Henry Ponsonby shaking hands. The other soldiers were there too. All of
them were laughing nervously, relieved at their narrow escape and satisfied like hunters
who have just slain their prey.
The body of a man was lying across a tree trunk in the middle of the river, floating down
towards the sea. Sir Thomas appeared quite unexpectedly.
“As you know, the Italian police surrounded the second man, who turned out to be
already dead. Whoever wishes to do so can see the body in the woodshed. The danger has
been averted. May I suggest that you gentlemen say nothing to anybody of what has
happened. The Queen is enjoying her visit and it would serve no purpose at this juncture
to cause her unnecessary concern.
“My compliments to you all for the speed of your reaction and the splendid way you
organised everything. My men will take care of the bodies. You have more important
matters to attend to: taking care of Her Majesty.”
Hanbury was alone in adopting a serious countenance and speaking gravely.
How had it been possible for him to follow the entire military operation? How was it that
he knew of the assassination attempt and of the two Irish rebels?
I followed him, hiding as I went. While the English soldiers took up position again round
the big house where Queen Victoria was drawing, Hanbury told four gardeners to collect
the bodies as discreetly as possible and carry them to the woodshed, taking care to hide
them there using the plentiful supply of palm fronds. He himself then hurried to the
woodshed, not showing the slightest concern at the guests swarming over his garden.
Once inside – where someone was waiting for him – he locked the door behind him.
Standing near the back wall I was able to hear voices and catch glimpses through a crack.
Not exactly honourable behaviour but worthy of the most terrier-like reporter. Sir Thomas
seemed in a great hurry.
“What do you need, Daniel?” I heard him say.
“For the Irishman, I just need you to pick a particular bignonia flower: Unghius cati, the
flower with the pistils that look like a cat’s claws. All we need to do is get this man to
ingest a strong infusion which will act as an antidote. Fortunately, the bites missed his
arteries so his heart is still isolated from the poison, for a short time.
“For the other one, the American, we will have to use all our resources. We simply can’t
countenance a murder in the garden. It would set a dreadful precedent.”
“I am not so sure, Daniel. This man is a thief and a murderer. He has many deaths on his
conscience. He escaped from his own country by a low trick, allowing another man to be
killed in his place. There is nothing worthy about him. In this enterprise he was –
probably – an enemy, someone who hated us.”
“Look at this man’s heart. Do you know what I see, Thomas? It looks like a nettle. Do
you know how nettles sting? On their surface there are arrangements of little hairs that
release an irritant liquid, a mixture of acetyl coraline and histamine. (Andrea: non ho
trovato acetilcoralina. Ho trovato acetilcolina, che è un neurotrasmettitore. Potrebbe
essere questo? Purtroppo non è stato scoperto fino a 1914. Non so quando è stato scoperta
istamina ma la prima menzione, secondo il mio OED è da 1913)
“Now listen, this is not the moment for one of your lectures on chemistry and botany.”
“We have all the time in the world. Listen. Acetyl coraline is a molecule that transmits
messages to the extremities of the nervous system. Histamine is a chemical mediator that
is found in many allergic reactions. An explosive combination. When you touch a nettle,
a gland at the base of the hair contracts. This gland functions as a pump, injecting into the
intruder’s skin. A violent defence, if you will, but only a defensive reaction. Just think
about that.
“Are you capable of judging the nettle’s behaviour? Or this man’s? Why do you consider
him worse than those well-fed worthies you are entertaining in your house? Don’t they
also have wars and massacres on their conscience? And the Queen. Doesn’t she carry the
main responsibility for much misery and injustice?
“No, Thomas. It is not your role, nor mine, to judge. We have only to safeguard the purity
of the garden, which must not be stained by human blood. We must protect our paradise;
that is our duty. Leave judgement in the hands of God and let us behave, as always,
according to the dictates of our conscience. Bring me water from the four fountains.”
I glimpsed the grave expression on Thomas’s face.
“We are taking a serious risk today.”
“On the contrary. Thanks to the confusion, no one will be aware of anything. We will tell
the English dragoons that the carabinieri have taken the bodies and vice versa. Just make
sure that your most trusted men are with us. Lorenzo will stay silent. For now his
interests are closely linked to our family; he’s an intelligent fellow.”
Thomas seemed on the point of making further objections, then suddenly went out.
Muratore, Baldizzone, fetch me some buckets (noci = ??) of water from the fountain.
Then all of you go to Natalin’s house. I might need you again.”
The two gardeners rushed off. Muratore ran towards the Nirvana and Serenity basins;
Baldazzone to the Dragon and Faunus fountains. I saw Thomas, with surreal calm, go
back up to the house.
Here Victoria had finished her drawing and was preparing to sit at the table in the room
with three chimneys. Sir Thomas was at her side at the moment when Her Majesty
noticed the fresco painted by Vernazza on the outside wall of the terrace.
“I wanted to record the passage of Emperor Charles V and his army on their way to
Spain. In the background you can see Porta Canarda that today lies on my land. It’s a
narrow but very fine tower. Through the gate many men have passed, such as the writer
Machiavelli and Pope Boniface VIII. They say that, during his exile in France, even
Dante passed here. The ‘great poet’ may have based certain circles of his Purgatory on his
observations of the extraordinary landscape in the area. More recently, Napoleon
Bonaparte crossed these mountains on his victorious campaign in Italy.”
“It would be better not to pass under there, then,” said the Queen. “I would not want the
Italians to mistake it for another invasion!”
The ladies and gentlement on the terrace exchanged bewildered glances. There was a
brief moment of embarrassment. Then Princess Beatrice and Sir Thomas laughed and the
others felt obliged to join in. It was nonetheless a wary laughter.
Lunch was served. No one noticed that Sir Thomas touched nothing. The Queen, on the
contrary, seemed greatly to appreciate the Italian cooking and drank several glasses of
French wine.
After the meal, Victoria walked with Hanbury under the pergola, in which a gardener was
working. Taken by surprise, Baldazzone offered some Unghius cati flowers to the Queen,
attempting a ridiculous bow, then disappeared in the direction of the woodshed with the
rest of the clump.
“They are not accustomed to one making witticisms,” Victoria said to Thomas as if to
excuse the behaviour of her courtiers. “It is many years since I have felt such a joie de
vivre, Sir Thomas. Since the death of our dear husband Albert, there has always been a
shadow in our heart, a heavy burden. Today, for the first time, we feel lighter. As you see,
we speak openly with you. I must ask you something that may appear foolish. Why does
your garden provoke such a reaction?”
“It is a most sagacious question. There is a reason. May I show you our palm grove?”

Chapter 24: The myth of the phoenix and the palm tree
“Many people know the myth of the phoenix, the fabulous bird with the form of a golden
eagle. After 500 years it withdrew to its nest at the top of a palm tree and let itself be
consumed by fire. Dying, it would sing a marvellous song. From its ashes – after three
days – emerged an egg from which the animal was reborn.
“It was a magnificent animal. Its neck was gold-coloured, its plumage red on its body and
blue on the tail. Two long feathers hung from its forehead.”
“What a lot of detail for a fable, an invented bird,” said Victoria.
“Beware, Majesty. We are not dealing with an invention, but a symbol. A symbol of the
resurrection that is found in some form in all human cultures, like the myth of Eden or
that of the flood. From the Sumerians to the Egyptians, from the Incas to the Hindus,
from the Hebrews to the Chinese. It is as if all the peoples of the world had told each the
same story over the course of time and that it had thus survived as a common tradition.
Certainly, the account is not always exactly the same; there are variants. One of these I
like very much.
“In Jewish legend they tell that Eve, after eating the apple, was envious of the other
animals’ purity. So she convinced them to try the same forbidden fruit. All followed her
example except the phoenix. God rewarded this bird, granting it eternal life.”
“Another story linked to paradise,” said the Queen.
“I would go further. Linked to my garden. The phoenix, in fact, made its nest in the
crown of a palm tree. At least, that’s what Herodotus says in the first historical text that
documents the myth. Or perhaps he was mistaken and confused the name of the animal
with that of the tree called Phoenix dactilifera.
“So the plant became the tree of resurrection. A myth that Christians appropriated to
themselves, in a way making it into one of the symbols of Easter.
“Perhaps the secret of this garden resides in the palms, in their vital force. Here one can
change one’s opinion on life, review one’s own past, find the strength to face a new
future. A new life. One for living to the full. Perhaps the resurrection can also be
understood in another way: knowing how to give renewed energy to one’s own spirit.”
Victoria looked at Sir Thomas with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. She could not
stop herself touching the trunk of one of the palms, though. Its fronds were delicately
swaying in the light breeze.
They returned to the house and Victoria felt that she had known this man since time
immemorial. It was if she had rediscovered an old friend after many years.
That evening found the two of them taking their tea. Lady Churchill was chatting gaily
with Katharine Hanbury, but Thomas was observing the Queen as she relaxed in silence
watching the sunset.
The sun – streaking the infinite blue of the sky – seemed to be setting the sea ablaze. The
visit was coming to an end.
Victoria rejoined her carriage that, as a precaution, was surrounded by soldiers and
servants with torches, though the visibility was still good.
As she prepared to leave, Her Majesty noticed a strange glimmer among the first shadows
of evening: the fireflies. The Queen was captivated by the dancing light from a swarm of
them.
“Sir Thomas, one last question: they are quite beautiful but why do they shine?”
“It is a dance of love, Your Majesty. A dance whose light is often seen on warm nights in
these parts.”
The breeze carried the swarm towards the sea. The Queen saw it floating in the air as it
disappeared into the garden that she was about to leave. The fireflies flitted among the
flowers, around the hair of the ladies and flew up into the crowns of the cypress before
making their way down towards the woodshed.
There, aided by the dark and the shadows, two men came out of the door: sore, confused,
but alive.
“O’Leary, what happened? You got any idea?”
“No, Jesse, I just vaguely remember running through the trees.”
From the darkness came the voice of Daniel Hanbury.
“Pay attention. Today you were reprieved. It can happen only once. Learn to appreciate
the beauty of the gift of life. Yours and that of other men. Be aware that this afternoon
you lost it. At the moment you are listening to me with your ears but in the days ahead try
to let the idea penetrate your tiny brains. Now do exactly as I say. Two gardeners will
take you on a hay cart to a trusted friend in Bordighera, Ludwig Winter. As a Prussian, he
will be able to put you in touch with the German consulate and they will help you return
to Ireland. A journey that you may even make on that ship moored out at sea off Piana di
Latte that was waiting for you this afternoon. Don’t think of going off by yourselves
because any other course of action would inevitably lead to your deaths. Remember that
you have no friends here but that everyone would be interested in the reward for handing
you over.”
“Mr John O’Leary,” Daniel continued, “you were saved after being bitten by vipers. Mr
Jesse James, you have drunk the water of life that flows in the four fountains in this
garden. You are now two new men. It is up to you whether you make something of your
good fortune or fall back into your old ways. Good luck.”
Without a word the two men were taken by the gardeners to the house of the head
gardener, which they left dressed as Italian peasants. They then went out of the garden by
a side gate. The dark of the moonless night shrouded the palm grove. The last thing they
saw from the cart was the shadow of a man barely visible among the light from the
fireflies.
Daniel breathed in the cool air of the sea breeze for the last time. Now it was really time
to go.
Chapter 25: 1882: the missed scoop
An explosion suddenly lit up the sky. The horses of the Queen’s carriage were
immediately brought to a stop in case they panicked. The soldiers gathered nervously
around the vehicle.
On another cart, Jesse instinctively felt for the pistol at his side , only to realise that he
was unarmed.
From the Italian crowd came shouts of excitement and surprise.
A wonderful firework display illuminated the late evening and the drivers of the
cabriolets could see the road as if it were daylight. Some of the fireworks exploded with a
loud bang high in the sky, while others seemed to emerge directly from the sea.
Ordering her carriage to start again on its way to Menton, Victoria could not wrest her
gaze from the outline of Palazzo Orengo, not lit up by the pyrotechnic display.
On the same road, but going towards Bordighera, the two Irishmen were watching the
same spectacle.
I was the only one who did not have his face turned to the heavens. Having left my refuge
behind the woodshed I rejoined Hanbury on the terrace. He was watching the fireworks
alongside his wife Katharine and a small group of guests who had stayed in the house.
“I need to talk to you straight away,” I blurted out with all the breath that remained in my
body.
Come, Mr Vincent, enjoy the spectacle. It’s not something you have the chance to see
every day. It’s one of the finest and oldest Chinese traditions.”
“It’s too important, Sir Thomas, I beg you.”
“All right, then,” he said reluctantly, “le’s go into my library.”
We crossed the room of the three chimneys and went into Hanbury’s study. Here. Thomas
poured two glasses of port.
“Do you like Roman antiquities? I have been offered this lovely statue of a Greek
goddess. It may be a bust of Juno. What do you think of it?”
“No, please listen, Sir Thomas. I am a journalist. My job is to unearth information and
know the facts . . . “ But what was I saying? Why was I justifying myself?
“You don’t have to justify yourself,” Hanbury said. The old bastard was reading my
thoughts now.
“Listen, I was behind the woodshed. I saw everything. Absolutely everything.”
“What did you see. Tell me.”
“I saw your two gardeners carry in two bloodless corpses. I heard the conversation
between you and your brother Daniel, because it is him – Daniel – isn’t it? Then I saw
him administer some concoction to the two men, who seemed dead. The rebels, I mean.
The sickest drank water from your fountains collected in containers made from shells and
palm leaves. Then I saw your brother apply paste made from leaves to both men’s
wounds and, perhaps, recite prayers. Finally, I saw for myself – with my own eyes – the
two men recover in a quite unnatural way. They started to function again as if they had
just been woken from a long sleep.”
The more I told the story, the more I realised how absurd it seemed. The more excited I
became in telling it, the less credible the whole episode sounded to my own ears.
“They walked away on their own legs, I tell you. As if nothing had happened.”
“Are you sure you feel well, Mr Vincent? The wine in these parts is not strong, but it’s
easy to underestimate its effects, if one has a drop too much.”
“We’re talking about the biggest scoop I have ever had in my grasp,” I said with an
energy that carried me along. “Let me speak to your brother Daniel, I beg you. Let me
know what happened, how it was possible, what knowledge he has and what secrets are
hidden in this garden. We can decide together what to publish and how it should be done.
We can create one of the world’s leading medical centres. These incredible cures will
make a fortune for you and this whole area. Can I meet your brother?”
“If this is a joke, it is in the worst possible taste,” Hanbury answered sharply.
“Not at all, I assure you,” I said with conviction.
“Everone knows my brother died seven years ago. He died unexpectedly from typhoid
fever. The pain of his loss still affects me profoundly. That is why I commissioned the
Carrara marble bas relief you see at the top of the staircase.”
“It’s not possible,” I mumbled. “You yourself were speaking with him this afternoon. I
am sure of it, in the woodshed.”
Someone knocked at the door, someone that Hanbury was expecting.
“Come in, Mr Lorenzi.”
The head gardener entered wearing his usual somewhat mocking expression.
“You can speak openly. It seems Mr Vincent saw what happened and is informed about
the whole business. What’s more, it was he who warned the English commanding officer
of the danger.”
“As you ordered, we handed the bodies of the two bandits over to the carabinieri. After
informing the English dragoons, of course.”
“Now, Mr Vincent, it is up to you to decide whether or not to publish what you saw in
The Times tomorrow or to overlook these dramatic events. We, unfortunately, have
promised Her Majesty’s high command to say nothing of what has happened and
consequently will deny in the strongest terms possible the content of your article. To this
effect, we have already warned our friends in London – Lloyds Bank, for your
information – to get in touch with the publishers of your newspaper. Apart from anything
else, it seems to me pointless to upset the Queen’s holidays. It’s up to you.”
“Not to mention,” Lorenzi added, “that we could pass on to our English contacts the
information about our journalist’s prowess with the Italian ladies.”
“Do not be vulgar, Mr Lorenzi. No one has asked for your opinion or advice,” Hanbury
confronted him. “Go back and make sure the evening’s entertainment passes smoothly.”
Lorenzi went out crossly without saying a word.
“I know the head gardener is not a loyal retainer. I know he sometimes takes things that
belong to me and that he is involved in various smuggling activities. Nonetheless, at
times he can make himself discreetly useful.”
“Sir Thomas, you know. I am not mad. You have a great fortune there for the taking, you
and your brother . . .”
“This conversation is over, Mr Vincent. From today we share a secret that I am sure you
will not reveal: a thwarted attempt on the life of Her Majesty the Queen of England. I
hope we are agreed on that much.”
What could I say? I nodded assent, while swallowing the thousands of burning questions
raised by the events of the day. Events that I had witnessed but which could never be
‘real’ and that would certainly never be believed. Secrets that would remain so.
My article spoke only of the splendour of the Chinese fireworks. A spectacle that I had
not even been lucky enough to see.
Secrets of the Hanbury Gardens
Synopsis
In March 1882 Queen Victoria paid a private visit to Menton. During her stay in France,
the Queen decided to go to Sir Thomas Hanbury’s famous garden in Italy. It turned out to
be a perillous journey – two Irish Fenians were waiting to assassinate her. James Vincent,
journalist for The Times, had been sent in advance by the royal advisers to reconnoitre
the garden and warn of any dangers for the Queen but is more interested in strange
rumours telling of the miraculous cure of a gardener apparently killed in a brawl.
The assassination attempt does take place and is thwarted by the journalist himself. The
two would-be assassins are themselves killed nut are revived by the botanical wizardry of
the Hanbury brothers. The investigation makes a deep mark on the cynical Vincent, to the
point of changing his way of life.
The intended readership
Secrets of the Hanbury gardens is a traditional historical novel aimed above all at readers
with a love of plants and gardens. In particular, through a series of interviews, Vincent
relates the history of the Hanbury gardens and reveals the myths about the plants that
grow there. A cultural tour of one of the world’s most beautiful botanical gardens.
Quote
“A garden is a strange creaturre. To exist it must be nourished, cared for, loved. A
gardener’s first job is to make friends with nature. For some reason, we are all aware of
gardens’ strange spiritual force. Since time immemorial, truly, man has seen in them a
sort of secret virtue. Why?
Perhaps we are fascinated by their vitality, their propensity to encourage the positive
forces and ward off the evil ones.

1882
2 January
Oscar Wilde arrives in New York and starts his series of lectures on aesthetics. John D
Rockefeller merges his oil companies, founding Standard Oil Trust.
25 January
Birth of writer Virginia Woolf
12 February
Dr Charcot presents a paper on hypnotism to the Académie des Sciences in which he
gives a detailed description of hypnosis and the state of trance.
2 March
Robert Maclean attempts to assassinate Queen Victoria during a parade.
22 March
The US Congress bans polygamy.
23 April
Jesse Woodson James, an American outlaw, is killed with a bullet in the back by Robert
Ford, his cousin and a member of the same gang, who thus picks up the reward of $5,000.
19 April
Charles R Darwin dies, aged 73, in Dowe, England.
20 May
The Triple Alliance is signed between Germany, Austria and Italy.
2 June
Giuseppe Garibaldi dies, aged 74.
20 August
Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture has its premiere in Moscow.
4 September
Edison tests the first extensive electric power system in New York City.
14 September
After defeating the Egyptian army, English troops reach Cairo. Egypt becomes a
protectorate of the British Crown.
18 October
Historic first telephone call from Alexander Graham Bell to the mayor of Chicago.
10 December
Claude Monet paints The walk on the cliffs at Pourville.
Epilogue
A short explanation
Can visiting a garden be as exciting as reading a novel? This is a question I have asked
myself and tried to answer in this book. As a starting point, I wanted to write about the
garden created by Sir Thomas Hanbury and his guests at the end of the 19th century,
among whom were so many of the great and good.
Queen Victoria’s visit in 1882 started a fashion among Europe’s aristocracy. Nobles from
the great houses, often interrelated, agreed to meet here to exchange information on
political, military and personal matters. It was doubtless the golden age of the Riviera,
which was later destroyed by the two world wars and by property speculation.
The Hanbury garden is nonetheless there, having miraculously survived the fury of the
Nazis who mined it and of the American army who bombed it.
Its fascination is still strong and the marvellous plants are cared for by a handful of
gardeners from the University of Genoa.
At the same time, it is a paradise for botanists and picnickers. But what is its cultural
value?
How can one really appreciate the evolution of this little paradise that, with its botanical
experimentation, relaunched the whole economy of the area?
It seemed to me the only way was to make a cultural journey that revealed the beauty of
the plants at La Mortola by telling their individual stories and myths or relating the events
to which they bore silent witness.
The journey
It was thus that I imagined a journey made up of myths and legends for the reader
interesting in knowing the cultural minutiae that can enrich our understanding of the
plants in the garden.
Here are a few of the stages of the journey that I have recounted in the form of a novel:
The olive tree: its origins according to the myth of Athena.
The cypress: Pluto’s tree.
The passion flower as interpreted by the clerics who accompanied the conquistadors.
The Roman road and the tragedy of Julia Procilla.
The cyca revoluta and the prehistory of the Balzi Rossi.
The pine tree and the myth of Attis.
The American agave: tequila and mezcal.
The curative properties of aloe vera.
Bignoniaceae: the power of the Unghius cati.
Pteronia: the myth of Astrea.
The palm tree: universal symbol of the resurrection.
The characters
Most of the characters in the novel are inspired by people who really existed.
James Vincent: He was in reality The Times’ court correspondent. His name went down in
the annals of journalism precisely because he was late with news of Queen Victoria’s
death. A resounding failure, given that he had been sent to cover the event, and one that
he never explained.
Sir Thomas Hanbury: Rich English merchant who settled on the Riviera in 1867. He
turned a rocky promontory into a paradise. His Quaker cultural background made him a
person of exceptional moral character. Even today, numerous good works can be seen
that Hanbury funded: fountains, schools, hospitals and so on. It seems, moreover, that he
strongly resisted pressure from his agents to make his fortune by trading opium.
Daniel Hanbury: Brother of Thomas, he was a noted botanist. He died prematurely in
1875. His text The pharmacography was published posthumously.
Katharine Hanbury: Wife of Thomas Hanbury. Recent studies have show the generosity
with which she accepted and helped Thomas’s Shanghai-born illegitimate son, sending
him to study in Paris.
Sebastiano Lorenzi: This character is inspired by the first head gardener at La Mortola,
whose name was Antonio Lorenzi. The real Lorenzi did not participate in the Garibaldi
revolution, nor, it seems, was he involved in the illicit business described in the novel. He
was nonetheless dismissed by Hanbury, who uncovered his involvement in various thefts,
and following rebukes from Ludwig Winter, the steward of the garden, who complained
of his idleness.
Ludwig Winter: First curator of the Hanbury garden from 1867 to 1875, who was, in
contrast to Lorenzi, renowned for his honesty and hard work. After leaving La Mortola,
Winter opened his own nursery at Bordighera where he lived with his family of 11
children.
Chambermaid Amanda Orengo: Invented character. I would like to think that eventually
she succeeded in opening an inn in Ventimiglia against the wishes of her parents. Chance
would have it that on this square the flower market was established which in later years
had great success.
Mario Muratori and Aldo Baldizzone: Literary creations but based on historical
characters. The two gardeners continued to work in the Hanbury gardens but never
revealed what had really happened in the garden.
Jesse Woodson James: Born in 1847, he was in fact killed on 3 April 1882 by his cousin
and accomplice Robert Ford for a $10,000 reward. Still, for many years legend had it that
the outlaw was still alive and that someone else had been killed in his place. Legend that
was shown to be false when DNA tests were carried out on the body in 1995.
John O’Leary: A Fenian brother, John O’Leary spent nine years in prison in England
before being exiled to Paris in 1874. He returned to Ireland in 1885 where he lived with
his sister, the poetess Ellen O’Leary, creating a popular literary circle in Dublin. On his
death the poet W B Yeats wrote: “Romantic Ireland dead and gone, It’s with O’Leary in
the grave.”
Queens, princesses, private secretaries, attendants (invented or otherwise) and ladies in
waiting: their lives are documented and were indeed interwoven with the marvellous
story of the gardens at La Mortola.
Bibliography
See Italian text
Thanks
I would like to thank Professor Elena Zappa – curator of the Hanbury garden – for the
technical assistance she has given me during the writing of this book and Mrs Carolyn
Hanbury for her kind collaboration.

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