Florence again.--Palazzo Vecchio.--View on the Arno.--Sculptures by
Cellini and John of Bologna.--Contempt shown by the Austrians to
the memory of the House of Medici.--Evening visit to the Garden of
Boboli.--The Opera.--Miserable singing.--A Neapolitan Duchess.
Florence, October 5th, 1780.
It was not without regret that I forced myself from Lucca. We had all
the same road to go over again, that brought us to this important
republic, but we broke down by way of variety. The wind was chill, the
atmosphere damp and clogged with unwholesome vapours, through which we
were forced to walk for a league, whilst our chaise lagged after us.
Taking shelter in a miserable cottage, we remained shivering and shaking
till the carriage was in some sort of order, and then proceeded so
slowly that we did not arrive at Florence till late in the evening, and
took possession of an apartment over the Arno, which being swollen with
rains roared like a mountain torrent. Throwing open my windows, I viewed
its agitated course by the light of the moon, half concealed in stormy
clouds, which hung above the fortress of the Belvedere. I sat
contemplating the effect of the shadows on the bridge, on the heights of
Boboli, and the mountain covered with pale olive groves, amongst which a
convent is situated, till the moon sank into the darkest quarter of the
sky, and a bell began to toll. Its mournful sound filled me with gloomy
recollections. I closed the casements, and read till midnight some
dismal memoir of conspiracies and assassinations, Guelphs and
Ghibelines, the black story of ancient Florence.
October 6th.
Every cloud was dispersed when I arose, and the purity and transparence
of the æther added new charms to the picturesque eminences around. I
felt quite revived by this exhilarating prospect, and walked in the
splendour of sunshine to the porticos beneath the famous gallery, then
to an antient castle, raised in the days of the Republic, which fronts
the grand piazza. Colossal statues and trophies badly carved in the
true spirit of the antique, are placed before it. On one side a
fountain, clung round with antick figures of bronze, by John of Bologna.
On the other, three lofty pointed arches, and under one of them the
Perseus of Benvenuto Cellini.
Having examined some groups of sculptures by Baccio Bandinelli and other
mighty artists, I entered the court of the castle, dark and deep, as if
hewn out of a rock, surrounded by a vaulted arcade covered with
arabesque ornaments and supported by pillars almost as uncouthly
designed as those of Persepolis. In the midst appears a marble fount
with an image of bronze, that looks quite strange and cabalistic. I
leaned against it to look up to the summits of the walls, which rise to
a vast height, from whence springs a slender tower. Above, in the
apartments of the castle, are still preserved numbers of curious
cabinets, tables of inlaid gems, and a thousand rarities, collected by
the house of Medici, and not yet entirely frittered away and disposed of
by public sale.
It was not without indignation that I learnt this new mark of contempt
which the Austrians bestow on the memory of those illustrious patrons of
the Arts; whom, being unwilling to imitate, they affect to despise as a
race of merchants whose example it would be abasing their dignity to
follow.
I could have stayed much longer to enjoy the novelty and strangeness of
the place; but it was right to pay some compliments of form. That duty
over, I dined in peace and solitude, and repaired, as evening drew on,
to the thickets of Boboli.
What a serene sky! what mellowness in the tints of the mountains! A
purple haze concealed the bases, whilst their summits were invested with
saffron light, discovering every white cot and every copse that clothed
their declivities. The prospect widened as I ascended the terraces of
the garden.
After traversing many long dusky alleys, I reached the opening on the
brow of the hill, and seating myself under the statue of Ceres, took a
sketch of the huge mountainous cupola of the Duomo, the adjoining lovely
tower and one more massive in its neighbourhood, built not improbably in
the style of ancient Etruria. Beyond this historic group of buildings a
plain stretches itself far and wide, most richly studded with villas
and gardens, and groves of pine and olive, quite to the feet of the
mountains.
Having marked the sun’s going down and all the soothing effects cast by
his declining rays on every object, I went through a plat of vines to a
favourite haunt of mine:--a little garden of the most fragrant roses,
with a spring under a rustic arch of grotto-work fringed with ivy.
Thousands of fish inhabit here, of that beautiful glittering species
which comes from China. This golden nation were leaping after insects as
I stood gazing upon the deep clear water, listening to the drops that
trickle from the cove. Opposite to which, at the end of a green alley,
you discover an oval basin, and in the midst of it an antique statue
full of that graceful languor so peculiarly Grecian.
Whilst I was musing on the margin of the spring (for I returned to it
after casting a look upon the sculpture), the moon rose above the tufted
foliage of the terraces, which I descended by several flights of steps,
with marble balustrades crowned by vases of aloes.
It was now seven o’clock, and all the world were going to my Lord T----’s, who lives in a fine house all over blue and silver, with stuffed
birds, alabaster cupids, and a thousand prettinesses more; but to say
truth, neither he nor his abode are worth mentioning. I found a deal of
slopping and sipping of tea going forward, and many dawdlers assembled.
As I can say little good of the party, I had better shut the door, and
conduct you to the Opera, which is really a striking spectacle. The
first soprano put my patience to severe proof, during the few minutes I
attended. You never beheld such a porpoise. If these animals were to
sing, I should conjecture it would be in his style. You may suppose how
often I invoked Pacchierotti, and regretted the lofty melody of Quinto
Fabio. Everybody seemed as well contented as if there were no such thing
as good singing in the world, except a Neapolitan duchess who delighted
me by her vivacity. We took our fill of maledictions, and went home
equally pleased with each other for having mutually execrated both
singers and audience.