Florence.--Formerly the focus of Trade.--Palaces constructed like
Fortresses.--Moderate price for Lodgings.--Wine sold by great
Families.--Character of the Florentines.--Feelings on visiting the
Antique Statues.--A favourite residence with Foreigners.--Rage
for travelling.--The Count di V----.--English Amateur
Theatricals.--English feeling towards America.--Receptions of the
Prince Borghese.--Waltzing.--Notable persons observed at the Pergola.
As it was our intention to pass the winter here, old Caspar was
discharged, and we took lodgings. Florence is full of noble hotels,
which are termed palaces in the language of the country, and, few
families still retaining a sufficient portion of the ancient wealth to
occupy the whole of such huge edifices, apartments are let in them,
furnished, or not, as it may happen, on the French plan. Hunting for
lodgings gives one a good idea of the domestic economy of a place, for
we entered some twenty or thirty of these palaces with this object.
Rooms are unusually cheap, notwithstanding the number of strangers who
resort to the place, for the town has shrunk to less than half its
ancient population, and probably to a tithe of its ancient magnificence.
We become fully impressed with the changes that time produces, not only
in things, but in the moral aspect of the world, by seeing a town like
Florence. In our age, the man who should dream of making an inland
place, in the heart of the Apennines, the focus of trade, would be set
down as a simpleton; nor could any powers of combination or of wealth
now overcome the efforts of those who would naturally resort to more
favourable positions.
These old merchants, however, men who truly ennobled commerce, and not
commerce them, have left behind them more durable remains of their
ascendency than can be seen in almost any other place. As they were
not particularly pacific, the constant struggles of factions in the
streets induced a style of architecture that is almost peculiar to
Florence, for every palace is a sort of fortress. We took an apartment
in one that belongs to an ancient family who still inhabit a portion
of the building, and as our rooms are on the street, we may be said to
occupy the fortress. The great gate is of iron, and the great stairs,
of course, massive and solid. The lower floor is occupied only for the
offices and stables. Then comes what is called a _mezzinino_, or a low
story, with small windows, but which has some very good rooms. Above
this is our apartment, with ceilings nearly twenty feet high, large
rooms all _en suite_, and windows to look out of which we ascend two
steps. The walls would bear considerable battering, though the position
of the house protected it from any danger of such a nature. Forty or
fifty stout-hearted retainers, and the number would not be great for
the old Florentines, must have been able to stand a respectable siege
in such an abode.
You will ask me what are my impressions, on finding myself entrenched
behind such works, with a thousand recollections of the Medici and
the Strozzi, and the Capponi, to awaken the love of the romantic and
interesting? Alas! I am filled with the consciousness of the impotency
of man, who, after rearing these piles, and guarding against the
violence and ungovernable passions of his fellows, is obliged to allow
that all his resources cannot keep out the musquitoes.
We have two noble bed-rooms, besides several smaller; a large
drawing-room, and a larger dining-room; a good cabinet for myself; an
ante-chamber, and baths, offices, &c., &c., all furnished, for the
moderate sum of sixty dollars a month. We have ten good rooms in all,
besides the offices.
Our hotel has a small court, and, I believe, a garden; though I have
not had access to the latter. By the side of the great gate is a small
hole in the wall, closed in general by a shutter. At eleven o’clock
every day, people come to this shutter and rap, and it is opened by
a steward of the family. The applicant puts in an empty flask and a
paul (ten cents), receiving in return a flask filled with wine. In
this manner, I understand, most of the great families of Florence now
dispose of the products of their vines! It would be curious to learn
if the Medici carried on this trade. The wine of our palace is among
the best of Tuscany, and I drink it with great satisfaction; the more
so because its cost is about four cents the bottle. It is positively
much better wine than half the claret that is drunk in Paris. Twice a
week, a donkey appears in the court, dragging a little cart filled with
flasks from the estate, and carrying away the “dead soldiers.” We are,
however, a little above the market, as our wine commands fully a cent
a flask, or about four mills a bottle, more than most of the Tuscan
liquor.
We burn in our lamps oil that you would be happy to get on your
lobsters and salads. In other respects the market is good, and cloths
are both fine and cheap, finer and cheaper than I remember to have seen
them any where else, and yet they are imported! The shop-keepers are
moderate in their wishes, preferring the _dolce far niente_ to the more
terrible _energies_ of trade.
There is a sleepy indolence in these Italians, that singularly suits my
humour. They seem too gentlemanlike to work, or to be fussy, but appear
disposed to make a _siesta_ of life, and to enjoy the passing moment.
The Tuscans seem full of sentiment, and though the poor, as is the case
all over the continent of Europe, are very poor, the class immediately
above them have as much satisfaction, I fancy, as they who dream
dollars and talk dollars from “the rising of the sun unto the going
down of the same.” If you ask me if I would exchange populations and
habits, I shall answer, we cannot afford it. It would check our career
short of perfect civilisation. We have arts to acquire, and tastes to
form, before we could enter at all into the enjoyments of these people;
one half of their pleasures depending on recollections that possibly
may have had their origin in the _energies_ of the first of the
Medici; and there are things that must be created, but which give more
satisfaction in after ages than during the period of their formation.
For myself, I begin to feel I could be well content to vegetate here
for one half my life, to say nothing of the remainder. All who travel
know that the greatest pleasure is in the recollections; and I fancy
that nations in their decline enjoy more true happiness than nations in
their advance.
Of course, I have visited the Venus, and the Pitti, and all the other
marvels of art that Florence contains. These things have been so
often described, that my remarks shall be limited to such gleanings
as others appear to have left, or as are suggested by my own passing
feelings. The tribune of the gallery contains the most precious
collection of ancient art, perhaps, in the world. Every thing in it is
a _chef-d’œuvre_ in its way; though I am far from seeing the necessity
of believing that every old statue that is exhumed is an original. When
I was introduced into this place, I felt as if approaching the presence
of illustrious personages, and stood, hat in hand, involuntarily
bowing to the circle of marble figures that surrounded me, as if they
were endowed with sensibilities to appreciate my homage. You are not,
however, to suppose that a love of art was so much at the bottom of
this reverence, as association. There was a set of engravings in my
father’s house that represented most of the antique statues, and for
these I had imbibed the respect of a child. The forms had become
familiar by years of observation, and the Venus, the wrestlers, the
dancing faun, and the knife grinder, four of my oldest acquaintances on
paper, now stood before my eyes, looking like living beings.
Florence is walled, but it is in the style of three or four centuries
ago, and the defences may be set down as of no account in the warfare
of our own times. There is a citadel, however, of a more warlike
character, reserved, I suspect, for state purposes. The walls are
picturesque, but, failing of the great military object, they are next
to useless, as they are not provided with promenades. _Au reste_, they
are a little _Jerichoish_, or as I have already described those of
Morat to be.
Economy, the galleries, the facility with which one obtains lodgings,
caprice and the court, unite to make Florence a favourite residence
with strangers. The court has a little more of air and pretension than
it might otherwise possess, from the circumstance of the sovereign
being an archduke. Tuscany, however, is a respectable state, having
nearly a million and a half of subjects, with Lucca in reversion.
Among the strangers the English and Russians predominate; especially
the former, who are found in swarms, on the continent, in all the most
agreeable places of residence. The policy of the Tuscan government
encourages diplomatic appointments, and I belive all the great
courts of Europe have ministers here, the French, Russians, English,
Austrians, and Prussians have ministers plenipotentiaries, and many
other _chargés d’affaires_. All these things contribute to render the
place gay; nor is it without brilliancy at times, the little court
appearing at the festivals and other ceremonies with sufficient pomp.
I shall not philosophise on these things, but I fancy they do more
good and less harm than is commonly thought by us democrats. I have
often compared the _agrémens_ of this little town with those of one
of our own larger cities. New York, which is four times as large as
Florence, and ten times as rich, does not possess a tithe--nay, not a
hundredth part of its attractions. To say nothing of taste, or of the
stores of ancient art, or of the noble palaces and churches, and the
other historical monuments the circle of living creatures here affords
greater sources of amusement and instruction than are to be found
in all the five great American towns put together. Every one appears
to be at leisure, and the demon money seems to be forgotten, unless,
indeed, he occasionally shows his talons at the gaming-table. An
evening party offers the oddest collection of human beings imaginable;
for the natives of half the civilised countries of the world appear
to have met on neutral ground in this little capital, the government
having the liberality to tolerate even men of political opinions that
are elsewhere proscribed. I met at a _soirée_, lately, besides a proper
sprinkling of Tuscans, and Italians from the other parts of Italy,
French, Swiss, Germans from half a dozen states, English, Russians,
Greeks, Americans from several different countries, Dutch, an Algerine,
an Egyptian, and a Turk. There were, in addition, sundry adventurers
from the islands of the Mediterranean.
This is the age of cosmopolitism, real or pretended; and Florence,
just at this moment, is an epitome, both of its spirit and of its
representatives. So many people travel, that one is apt to ask who can
be left at home; and some aim at distinction in this era of migration
by making it a point to see every thing. Of this number is a certain
Count di V----, whom I met in America just before leaving home. This
gentleman went through the United States, tablets in hand, seeming to
be dissatisfied with himself if he quitted one of our common-place
towns with a hospital unexamined, a mineral unregistered, or a church
unentered. It struck me at the time that he was making a toil of a
pleasure, especially in a country that has so little worth examining.
But a short time since, I dined with my banker here. At table, I was
seated between the Marchese G----, a Sardinian, and the Baron P----,
a Neapolitan. Alluding to the locomotive propensities of our times, I
mentioned the ardour for travelling, and the industry I had witnessed
in the aforesaid Count di V----. Signor G---- told me that he knew
him intimately, having himself visited all the North of Europe in his
company, previously to which his friend had explored Greece, Egypt,
Northern Africa, and the West of Asia, by himself. “When he left the
United States,” continued Signor G----, “it was to go--where?” “To the
West Indies and Mexico.” “True; and from the latter he came through
Columbia to Brazil, where I was at the time. He left me there to cross
the Andes, and I cannot tell you what has become of him.” “Why do you
not come to the East Indies?” said an English woman to me the same
evening, and to whom I had been introduced as to a lady who lived in
that part of the world, but who had taken run from Calcutta to pass
the summer in Switzerland, and the winter in Italy. “I fancy few mere
travellers get as far as Hindostan?” “Oh, we have them occasionally.
Now, the winter before I left home, we had one for several weeks in our
own house; he only left us to go to the Himalayah mountains and return
a few months before I sailed.”--“An Englishman, of course?”--“No,
indeed; an Italian.”--“Pray, ma’am, was it Count Carlo di V----!”--“Yes
it was.”--“And may I ask what has become of him?”--“He left Calcutta
to go to Ceylon and Manilla, on his way to China.” So much for our own
times![1]
The strangers are at the head of the gaiety of this place, few of the
Florentines _receiving_ much. In this number may be included Prince
Borghese, the brother-in-law of Napoleon, an amiable, well-intentioned,
and modest man, who has abandoned Rome, his proper country, to reside
here, where he maintains a good stile, opening his palace periodically
for the reception of all who choose to come. Then we have, besides the
regular exhibitions of the town, rival houses in two English theatres,
with amateur-performers; at the head of one of which is Lord B----, and
at the head of the other Lord N----. At the latter only, however, can
one be said to see the legitimate drama; the other running rather into
music,----an experiment not to be idly attempted in Italy.
We have seen Shakspeare in the hands of these noble actors once or
twice, and found the representation neither quite good enough to
please, nor yet bad enough to laugh at. Occasionally, a character was
pretty well represented; but the natural facility of the other sex in
acting was sufficiently apparent, the women making out much better
than the men. It was like all private theatricals, well enough for a
country house, but hardly in its place in the capital of Tuscany. We
had a specimen of the feeling of the English towards America, as well
as of national manners, the other evening, that is worth a passing
notice. One of the players sang, with a good deal of humour, a comic
song, that attempted to delineate national traits. There was a verse
or two appropriated to the English, the French, the Germans, &c. &c.
and the _finale_ was an American. The delineations of all the first
were common-place enough; the humour consisting chiefly in the mimicry,
the ideas themselves having no particular merit. But the verse for the
American seemed to be prepared with singular care, and was given with
great unction. It represented a quasi Western man, who is made to boast
that he is the lad to eat his father, whip his mother, and to achieve
other similar notable exploits. I do not know that I am absolutely
destitute of an appreciation of wit or humour, but certainly, it
struck me this attempt was utterly without either. It was purely an
exaggerated and coarse caricature, positively suited only to the
tastes of a gallery in a sea-port town. The other verses had been
laughed at, as silly drollery, perhaps; but this was received with--how
shall I express it?--a _yell of delight_ would not be a term too strong!
No one is more ready to give proper credit to the just-mindedness and
liberality of a portion of the English than myself: but the truth would
not be told, were I to leave you under the impression that their tone
prevails even among the better classes of their society, in relation
to ourselves. You will remember that this song was not given to the
pit or galleries of an ordinary theatre, but to a society in which
there were none beneath the station of gentlemen, and that I should
deem this caricature altogether beneath the intelligence and breeding
of the company, were it not for the singular rapture with which it was
greeted. It is a much more laughable commentary on this extraordinary
scene, that, just as it was finished, the Count di ---- leaned over and
whispered to me that the dislike and “_jealousy_” (I use his own words)
of the English for the Americans seemed inappeasable! I observed that
the side of the room that was chiefly occupied by the people of rank
was mute, the nobles maintaining a cold and polished indifference; but
in the other end of the _sala_, which was filled with half-pay officers
and the _hoi polloi_ of the travellers, the _yell_ was quite suited
to the theme. One might have fancied it the murdered father shrieking
under the knife of the parricidal son.
At the _receptions_ of Don Camillo Borghese, as the Romans style him,
one sees most of the strangers. These entertainments are _dansantes_,
and, as the rooms are large and the music noble, they are imposing;
though the company is far from being of the purest water. As a proof
of this, a noisy party preceded us, the other evening, the young men
calling out to each other, “Where is the fat man?”--“Now for the fat
man,” &c. the prince being almost unwieldy from his size. Waltzes
are the favourite dances; though no people know how to waltz but the
Germans--or, indeed, to play the necessary airs, but their musicians.
It has struck me that I have seen no people who had the organ of
_time_, but the Germans and the negroes of America: and a waltz without
the utmost accuracy in the movement is a ridiculous dance. I have
observed that the young women of condition in France and Italy were
not often permitted to join in this dance, by their mothers, with men
as partners, unless the latter were near connexions; and as the latter
arrangement cannot well be made in a public ball, none joined in the
waltzes here.
As a specimen of the sort of _omnium gatherum_ that Florence has
become, I will give you a list of some of the notables that were seen,
recently, in the first row of the Pergola, the principal opera-house,
here. First, there was the Count St. Leu, as he is styled, or the
ex-king of Holland. Near him was the Prince de Monfort, his brother, or
the ex-king of Westphalia. In the same row was Mrs. Patterson, once the
wife of the last-named personage. At no great distance was Prince Henry
of Prussia, a brother of the reigning king. In the same line, and at
no great distance, sat Madame Christophe, ex-empress of Hayti, with a
daughter or two. In addition to these, there was a pretty sprinkling of
chiefs of revolutions, _littérateurs_ of all nations, ex-ambassadors,
and politicians _en retraite_, to say nothing of mere people of fashion.
The winter has come upon us sharply, ice forming freely in the ditches
around the town, and skates being brought into requisition. I have seen
snow impending over us, in falling clouds even, but it vanishes before
it reaches the ground: though the Apennines are occasionally powdered.
Once, and once only, a little has lain in the streets, but not long
enough, or in sufficient quantities to enable one to say it has covered
the stones. Still it is snapping cold, and we find our good wood fires
as comfortable as in New York.