After some little time and trouble we found an apartment in the
Palazzo Berti, in the ominously named Via dei Malcontenti. It was so
called because it was at one time the road to the Florentine Tyburn.
Our house was the one next to the east end of the church of Santa
Croce. Our rooms looked on to a large garden, and were pleasant
enough. We witnessed from our windows the building of the new steeple
of Santa Croce, which was completed before we left the house.
It was built in great measure by an Englishman, a Mr. Sloane, a
fervent Catholic, who was at that time one of the best-known figures
in the English colony at Florence.
He was a large contributor to the recently completed façade of the
Duomo in Florence, and to many other benevolent and pietistic good
works. He had been tutor in the Russian Boutourlin family, and when
acting in that capacity had been taken, by reason of his geological
acquirements, to see some copper mines in the Volterra district, which
the Grand Duke had conceded to a company under whose administration
they were going utterly to the bad. Sloane came, saw, and eventually
conquered. In conjunction with Horace Hall, the then well known and
popular partner in the bank of Signor Emanuele Fenzi (one of whose
sons married an English wife, and is still my very good and forty
years old friend), he obtained a new concession of the mines from
the Grand Duke on very favourable terms, and by the time I made his
acquaintance had become a wealthy man. I fancy the Halls, Horace and
his much esteemed brother Alfred (who survived him many years, and was
the father of a family, one of the most respected and popular of the
English colony during the whole of my Florence life), subsequently
considered themselves to have been shouldered out of the enterprise
by a certain unhandsome treatment on the part of the fortunate tutor.
What may have been the exact history of the matter I do not know. But
I do know that Sloane always remained on very intimate terms with the
Grand Duke, and was a power in the inmost circles of the ecclesiastic
world.
He used to give great dinners on Friday, the principal object of which
seemed to be to show how magnificent a feast could be given without
infringing by a hair's breadth the rule of the Church. And admirably
he succeeded in showing how entirely the spirit and intention of
the Church in prescribing a fast could be made of none effect by a
skilfully-managed observance of the letter of its law.
The only opportunity I ever had of conversing with Cardinal Wiseman
was in Casa Sloane. And what I chiefly remember of His Eminence was
his evident annoyance at the ultra-demonstrative zeal of the female
portion of the mixed Catholic and Protestant assembly, who _would_
kneel and kiss his hand. A schoolmaster meeting boys in society, who,
instantly on his appearance should begin unbuttoning their brace
buttons behind, would hardly appreciate the recognition more
gratefully.
Within a very few weeks of our establishment in Casa Berti my
mother's home became, as usual, a centre of attraction and pleasant
intercourse, and her weekly Friday receptions were always crowded. If
I were to tell everything of what I remember in connection with those
days, I should produce such a book as _non dî, non homines, non
concessere columnae_--a book such as neither publishers, nor readers,
nor the _columns_ of the critical journals would tolerate, and should
fill my pages with names, which, however interesting they may still be
for me, would hardly have any interest for the public, however gentle
or pensive.
One specialty, and that not a pleasant one, of a life so protracted as
mine has been in the midst of such a society as that of Florence in
those days, is the enormous quantity of the names which turn the
tablets of memory into palimpsests, not twice, but fifty times written
over!--unpleasant, not from the thronging _in_ of the motley company,
but from the inevitable passing _out_ of them from the field of
vision. One's recollections come to resemble those of the spectator of
a phantasmagoric show. Processions of heterogeneous figures, almost
all of them connected in some way or other with more or less pleasant
memories, troop across the magic circle of light, only, alack! to
vanish into uttermost night when they pass beyond its limit. Of course
all this is inevitable from the migratory nature of such a society as
that which was gathered together on the banks of the Arno.
Some fixtures--comparatively fixtures--of course there were, who gave
to our moving quicksand-like society some degree of cohesion.
Chief among these was of course the British minister--at the time of
our arrival in Florence, and many years afterwards--Lord Holland. A
happier instance of the right man in the right place could hardly be
met with. At his great _omnium-gatherum_ dinners and receptions--his
hospitality was of the most catholic and generous sort--both he
and Lady Holland (how pretty she then was there is her very clever
portrait by Watts to testify) never failed to win golden opinions from
all sorts and conditions of men and women. And in the smaller circle,
which assembled in their rooms yet more frequently, they showed to
yet greater advantage, for Lord Holland was one of the most amusing
talkers I ever knew.
Of course many of those who ought to have been grateful for their
admission to the minister's large receptions were discontented at
not being invited to the smaller ones. And it was by some of these
malcontents with more wit than reason, that Lady Holland was accused
of receiving in two very distinct fashions--_en ménage_ and _en
ménagerie_. The _mot_ was a successful one, and nobody was more amused
by it than the _spirituelle_ lady of whom it was said. It was too
happy a _mot_ not to have been stolen by divers pilferers of such
articles, and adapted to other persons and other occasions. But it was
originally spoken of the time, place, and person here stated to have
been the object of it.
Generally, in such societies in foreign capitals, a fruitful source of
jealousy and discord is found in the necessary selection of those to
be presented at the court of the reigning sovereign. But this, as
far as I remember, was avoided in those halcyon days by the simple
expedient of presenting all who desired it. And that Lord Holland
_was_ the right man in the right place as regards this matter the
following anecdote will show.
When Mr. Hamilton became British minister at Florence, it was
announced that his intention was, for the avoiding of all trouble
and jealousy on the subject, to adhere strictly to the proper and
recognised rule. He would present everybody and anybody who had been
presented at home, and nobody who had not been so presented. And he
commenced his administration on these lines, and the Grand Duke's
receptions at the Pitti became notably weeded. But this had not gone,
on for more than two or three weeks before it was whispered in the
minister's ear that the Grand Duke would be pleased if he were less
strict in the matter of his presentations. "Oh!" said Hamilton,
"that's what he wants! _A la bonne heure!_ He shall have them all,
rag, tag, and bobtail." And so we returned to the _Saturnia regna_ of
"the good old times," and the Duke was credibly reported to have said
that he "kept the worst drawing-room in Europe." But, of course, His
Highness was thinking of the pockets of his liege Florentine letters
of apartments and tradesmen, and was anxious only to make his city a
favourite place of resort for the gold-bringing foreigners from that
distant and barbarous western isle. The Pope, you see, had the pull
in the matter of gorgeous Church ceremonies, but he couldn't have the
fertilising barbarians dancing in the Vatican once a week!
One more anecdote I must find room for, because it is curiously
illustrative in several ways of those _tempi passati, che non tornano
piu_. Florence was full of refugees from the political rigours of the
papal government, who had for some time past found there an unmolested
refuge. But the aspect of the times was becoming more and more
alarming to Austria, and the _Duchini_, as we called the Sovereigns of
Modena and Parma; and pressure was put on the Duke by the pontifical
government insisting on the demand that these refugees should be given
up by Tuscany. Easy-going Tuscany, not yet in anywise alarmed for
herself, fought off the demand for a while, but was at last driven to
notify her intention of acceding to it. It was in these circumstances
that Massino d'Azeglio came to me one morning, in the garden of our
house in the Via del Giglio--the same in which the poet Milton lodged
when he was in Florence--to which we had by that time moved, and told
me that he wanted me to do something for him. Of course I professed
all readiness, and he went on to tell me of the critical and dangerous
position in which the refugees of whom I have spoken were placed, and
said that I must go to Lord Holland and ask him to give them British
passports. He urged that nothing could be easier, that no objection
could possibly be taken to it; that the Tuscan government was by no
means desirous of giving up these men, and would only be too glad to
get out of it; that England both at Malta and in the Ionian Islands
had plenty of Italian subjects--and in short, I undertook the mission,
I confess with very small hopes of success. Lord Holland laughed
aloud when I told my tale, and said he thought it was about the most
audacious request that had ever been made to a British minister. But
he ended by granting it. Doubtless he knew very well the truth of what
d'Azeglio had stated--that the Tuscan government would be much too
well pleased to ask any questions; and the passports were given.
It was not long after our establishment in the Via dei Malcontenti
that a great disaster came upon Florence and its inhabitants and
guests. Arno was not in the habit of following the evil example of the
Tiber by treating Florence as the latter so frequently did Rome. But
in the winter of the year 1844 a terrible and unprecedented flood
came. The rain fell in such torrents all one night that it was feared
that the Arno, already much swollen, would not be able to carry off
the waters with sufficient rapidity. I went out early in the morning
before breakfast, in company with a younger brother of the Dr.
Nicholson of Penrith whom I have mentioned, who happened to be
visiting us. We climbed to the top of Giotto's tower, and saw at once
the terrible extent and very serious character of the misfortune.
One-third, at least, of Florence, was under water, and the flood was
rapidly rising. Coming down from our lofty observatory, we made our
way to the "Lung' Arno," as the river quays are called. And there the
sight was truly a terrible and a magnificent one. The river, extending
in one turbid, yellow, swirling mass from the walls of the houses on
the quay on one side, to those of the houses opposite, was bringing
down with it fragments of timber, carcases of animals, large
quantities of hay and straw;--and amid the wreck we saw a cradle with
a child in it, safely navigating the tumbling waters! It was drawn
to the window of a house by throwing a line over it, and the infant
navigator was none the worse.
But very great fears were entertained for the very ancient Ponte
Vecchio, with its load of silversmiths' and jewellers' shops, turning
it from a bridge into a street--the only remaining example in Europe,
I believe, of a fashion of construction once common. The water
continued to rise as we stood watching it. Less than a foot of space
yet remained between the surface of the flood and the keystone of the
highest arch; and it was thought that if the water rose sufficiently
to beat against the solid superstructure of the bridge, it must have
been swept away. But at last came the cry from those who were watching
it close at hand, that for the last five minutes the surface had
been stationary; and in another half hour it was followed by the
announcement that the flood had begun to decrease. Then there was
an immense sensation, of relief; for the Florentines love their old
bridge; and the crowd began to disperse.
All this time I had had not a mouthful of breakfast, and we betook
ourselves to Doney's _bottega_ to get a cup of coffee before going
home. But when we attempted this we found that it was more easily said
than done. The Via dei Malcontenti as well as the whole of the Piazza
di Santa Croce was some five feet under water! We succeeded, however,
in getting aboard a large boat, which was already engaged in carrying
bread to the people in the most deeply flooded parts of the town. But
all difficulty was not over. Of course the street door of the Palazzo
Berti was shut, and no earthly power could open it. Our apartment was
on the second floor. Our landlord's family occupied the _primo_. Of
course I could get in at their windows and then go up stairs. And we
had a ladder in the boat; but the mounting to the first floor by this
ladder, placed on the little deck of the boat, as she was rocked by
the torrent, was no easy matter, especially for me, who went first.
Eventually, however, Nicholson and I both entered the window,
hospitably opened to receive us, in safety.
But it was one or two days before the flood subsided sufficiently for
us to be provisioned in any other manner than by the boat; and for
long years afterwards social events were dated in Florence as having
happened "before or after the flood." In those days, and for many days
subsequently to them, Florence did indeed--as I have observed when
speaking of the motives which induced us to settle there--join to its
other attractions that of being an economical place of residence. Our
money consisted of piastres, pauls, and crazie. Eight of the latter
were equal to a paul, ten of which were equivalent to a piastre.
The value of the paul was, as nearly as possible, equal to
fivepence-halfpenny English. The lira--the original representative
of the leading denomination of our own _l.s.d._--no longer existed
in--the flesh I was going to say, but rather in--the metal. And it is
rather curious, that just as the guinea remained, and indeed remains,
a constantly-used term of speech after it has ceased to exist as
current coin, so the scudo remained, in Tuscany, no longer visible or
current, but retained as an integer in accounts of the larger sort. If
you bought or sold house or land, for instance, you talked of scudi.
In more every-day matters piastre or "francesconi" were the integers
used, the latter being only a synonym for the former. And the
proportion in value of the scudo and the piastre was exactly the same
as that of the guinea and the sovereign, the former being worth
ten and a half pauls, and the latter ten. The handsomest and best
preserved coin ordinarily current was the florin, worth two pauls and
a half. Gold we rarely saw, but golden sequins (_zecchini_) were in
existence, and were traditionally used, as it was said, for I have no
experience in the matter, in the payment by the government of prizes
won in the lottery.
Now, after this statement the reader will be in a position to
appreciate the further information that a flask of excellent Chianti,
of a quality rarely met with nowadays, was ordinarily sold for one
paul. The flask contained (legal measure) seven troy pounds weight of
liquid, or about three bottles. The same sum purchased a good fowl
in the market. The subscription (_abbuonamento_) to the Pergola, the
principal theatre, came to exactly two crazie and a half for each
night of performance. This price admitted you only to the pit, but as
you were perfectly free to enter any box in which there were persons
of your acquaintance, the admission in the case of a bachelor,
permanently or temporarily such, was all that was necessary to him.
And the price of the boxes was small in proportion.
These boxes were indeed the drawing-rooms in which very much of
the social intercourse of the _beau monde_ was carried on. The
performances were not very frequently changed (two operas frequently
running through an entire season), and people went four or five times
a week to hear, or rather to be present at, the same representation.
And except on first nights or some other such occasion, or during the
singing of the well-known tit-bits of any opera, there was an amount
of chattering in the house which would have made the hair of a
_fanatico per la musica_ stand on end. There was also an exceedingly
comfortable but very parsimoniously-lighted large room, which was
a grand flirting place, where people sat very patiently during the
somewhat long operation of having their names called aloud, as their
carriages arrived, by an official, who knew the names and addresses of
us all. We also knew _his_ mode of adapting the names of foreigners to
his Italian organs. "Hasa" (Florentine for _casa_) "Tro-lo-pé," with
a long-drawn-out accent on the last vowel, was the absolutely fatal
signal for the sudden breaking up of many a pleasant chat.
Florence was also, in those days, an especially economical place for
those to whom it was pleasant to enjoy during the whole of the gay
season as many balls, concerts, and other entertainments as they could
possibly desire, without the necessity, or indeed the possibility, of
putting themselves to the expense of giving anything in return. There
was a weekly ball at the Pitti Palace, and another at the Casino
dei Nobili, which latter was supported entirely by the Florentine
aristocracy. There were two or three balls at the houses of the
foreign ministers, and generally one or two given by two or three
wealthy Florentine nobles--there were a few, but very few such.
Perhaps the pleasantest of all these were the balls at the Pitti. They
were so entirely _sans gêne_. No court dress was required save on the
first day of the year, when it was _de rigueur_. But absence on that
occasion in no way excluded the absentee from the other balls. Indeed,
save to a new comer, no invitations to foreigners were issued, it
being understood that all who had been there once were welcome ever
after. The Pitti balls were not by any means concluded by, but rather
divided into two, by a very handsome and abundant supper, at which, to
tell tales out of school (but then the offenders have no doubt mostly
gone over to the majority), the guests used to behave abominably. The
English would seize the plates of _bonbons_ and empty the contents
bodily into their coat pockets. The ladies would do the same with
their pocket-handkerchiefs. But the Duke's liege subjects carried on
their depredations on a far bolder scale. I have seen large portions
of fish, sauce and all, packed up in a newspaper, and deposited in a
pocket. I have seen fowls and ham share the same fate, without any
newspaper at all. I have seen jelly carefully wrapped in an Italian
countess's laced _mouchoir_! I think the servants must have had orders
not to allow entire bottles of wine to be carried away, for I never
saw that attempted, and can imagine no other reason why. I remember
that those who affected to be knowing old hands used to recommend
one to specially pay attention to the Grand Ducal Rhine wine,
and remember, too, conceiving a suspicion that certain of these
connoisseurs based their judgment in this matter wholly on their
knowledge that the Duke possessed estates in Bohemia!
The English were exceedingly numerous in Florence at that time, and
they were reinforced by a continually increasing American contingent,
though our cousins had not yet begun to come in numbers rivalling our
own, as has been the case recently. By the bye, it occurs to me, that
I never saw an American pillaging the supper table; though, I may add,
that American ladies would accept any amount of _bonbons_ from English
blockade runners.
And the mention of American ladies at the Pitti reminds me of a really
very funny story, which may be told without offence to any one now
living. I have a notion that I have seen this story of mine told
somewhere, with a change of names and circumstances that spoil it,
after the fashion of the people "who steal other folks' stories and
disfigure them, as gipsies do stolen children to escape detection."
I had one evening at the Pitti, some years however after my first
appearance there, a very pretty and naively charming American lady on
my arm, whom I was endeavouring to amuse by pointing out to her all
the personages whom I thought might interest her, as we walked through
the rooms. Dear old Dymock, the champion, was in Florence that winter,
and was at the Pitti that night.--I dare say that there may be
many now who do not know without being told, that Dymock, the last
champion, as I am almost afraid I must call him--though doubtless
Scrivelsby must still be held by the ancient tenure--was a very small
old man, a clergyman, and not at all the sort of individual to answer
to the popular idea of a champion. He was sitting in a nook all by
himself, and not looking very heroic or very happy as we passed, and
nudging my companion's arm, I whispered, "That is the champion." The
interest I excited was greater than I had calculated on, for the lady
made a dead stop, and facing round to gaze at the old gentleman, said
"Why, you don't tell me so! I should never have thought that that
could be the fellow who licked Heenan! _But he looks a plucky little
chap!_"
Perhaps the reader may have forgotten, or even never known, that the
championship of the pugilistic world had then recently been won by
Sayers--I think that was the name--in a fight with an antagonist of
the name of Heenan. In fact it was I, and not my fair companion, who
was a muff, for having imagined that a young American woman, nearly
fresh from the other side of the Atlantic, was likely to know or ever
have heard anything about the Champion of England.
There happened to be several Lincolnshire men that year in Florence,
and there was a dinner at which I, as one of the "web-footed," by
descent if not birth, was present, and I told them the story of my
Pitti catastrophe. The lady's concluding words produced an effect
which may be imagined more easily than described.
The Grand Duke at these Pitti balls used to show himself, and take
part in them as little as might be. The Grand Duchess used to walk
through the rooms sometimes. The Grand Duchess, a Neapolitan princess,
was not beloved by the Tuscans; and I am disposed to believe that she
did not deserve their affection. But there was at that time another
lady at the Pitti, the Dowager Grand Duchess, the widow of the late
Grand Duke. She had been a Saxon princess, and was very favourably
contrasted with the reigning Duchess in graciousness of manner,
in appearance--for though a considerably older, she was still an
elegant-looking woman--and, according to the popular estimate, in
character. She also would occasionally walk through the rooms; but her
object, and indeed that of the Duke, seemed to be to attract as little
attention as possible.
Only on the first night of the year, when we were all in _gran gala_,
_i.e._ in court suits or uniform, did any personal communication with
the Grand Duke take place. His manner, when anybody was presented to
him on these or other occasions, was about as bad and imprincely
as can well be conceived. His clothes never fitted him. He used to
support himself on one foot, hanging his head towards that side,
and occasionally changing the posture of both foot and head, always
simultaneously. And he always appeared to be struggling painfully with
the consciousness that he had nothing to say. It was on one of these
occasions that an American new arrival was presented to him by Mr.
Maquay, the banker, who always did that office for Americans, the
United States having then no representative at the Grand Ducal court.
Maquay, thinking to help the Duke, whispered in his ear that the
gentleman was connected by descent with the great Washington, upon
which the Duke, changing his foot, said, "_Ah! le grand Vash_!" His
manner was that of a lethargic and not wide-awake man. When strangers
would sometimes venture some word of compliment on the prosperity
and contentment of the Tuscans, his reply invariably was, "_Sono
tranquilli_"--they are quiet. But in truth much more might have been
said; for assuredly Tuscany was a Land of Goshen in the midst of the
peninsula. There was neither want nor discontent (save among a very
small knot of politicians, who might almost have been counted on the
hand), nor crime. There was at Florence next to no police of any kind,
but the streets were perfectly safe by night or by day.
There was a story, much about that time, which made some noise in
Europe, and was very disingenuously made use of, as such stories are,
of a certain Florentine and his wife, named Madiai, who had been, it
was asserted, persecuted for reading the Bible. It was not so. They
were "persecuted" for, _i.e._ restrained from, preaching to others
that they ought to read it, which is, though doubtless a bad, yet a
very different thing.
I believe the Grand Duke (_gran ciuco_--great ass--as his irreverent
Tuscans nicknamed him) was a good and kindly man, and under the
circumstances, and to the extent of his abilities, not a bad ruler.
The phrase, which Giusti applied to him, and which the inimitable
talent of the satirist has made more durable than any other memorial
of the poor _gran ciuco_ is likely to be, "_asciuga tasche e
maremme_"--he dries up pockets and marshes--is as unjust as such
_mots_ of satirists are wont to be. The draining of the great marshes
of the Chiana, between Arezzo and Chiusi, was a well-considered and
most beneficent work on a magnificent scale, which, so far from
"drying pockets," added enormously to the wealth of the country, and
is now adding very appreciably to the prosperity of Italy. Nor was
Giusti's reproach in any way merited by the Grand Ducal government.
The Grand Duke personally was a very wealthy man, as well as, in
respect to his own habits, a most simple liver. The necessary expenses
of the little state were small; and taxation was so light that a
comparison between that of the Saturnian days in question and that
under which the Tuscans of the present day not unreasonably groan,
might afford a text for some very far-reaching speculations. The
Tuscans of the present day may preach any theological doctrines they
please to any who will listen to them, or indeed to those who won't,
but it would be curious to know how many individuals among them
consider that, or any other recently-acquired liberty, well bought at
the price they pay for it.
The Grand Duke was certainly not a great or a wise man. He was one
of those men of whom their friends habitually say that they are "no
fools," or "not such fools as they look," which generally may
be understood to mean that the individual spoken of cannot with
physiological accuracy be considered a _crétin_. Nevertheless, in his
case the expression was doubtless accurately true. He was not such
a fool as he looked, for his appearance was certainly not that of a
wise, or even an intelligent man.
One story is told of him, which I have reason to believe perfectly
true, and which is so characteristic of the man, and of the time, that
I must not deprive the reader of it.
It was the custom that on St. John's Day the Duke should visit and
inspect the small body of troops who were lodged in the Fortezza di
San Giovanni, or Fortezza da Basso, as it was popularly called, in
contradistinction from another fort on the high ground above the
Boboli Gardens. And it was expected that on these occasions the
sovereign should address a few words to his soldiers. So the Duke,
resting his person first on one leg and then on the other, after his
fashion, stood in front of the two or three score of men drawn up
in line before him, and after telling them that obedience to their
officers and attachment to duty were the especial virtues of a
soldier, he continued, "Above all, my men, I desire that you should
remember the duties and observances of our holy religion, and--and--"
(here, having said all he had to say, His Highness was at a loss for
a conclusion to his harangue. But looking down on the ground as he
strove to find a fitting peroration, he observed that the army's shoes
were sadly in want of the blacking brush, so he concluded with more of
animation and significance than he had before evinced) "and keep your
shoes clean!"
I may find room further on to say a few words of what I remember of
the revolution which dethroned poor _gran ciuco_. But I may as well
conclude here what I have to say of him by relating the manner of his
final exit from the soil of Tuscany, of which the malicious among the
few who knew the circumstances were wont to say--very unjustly--that
nothing in his reign became him like the leaving of it. I saw him pass
out from the Porta San Gallo on his way to Bologna among a crowd of
his late subjects, who all lifted their hats, though not without some
satirical cries of "_Addio, sai" "Buon viaggio_!" But a few, a very
few, friends accompanied his carriage to the papal frontier, an
invisible line on the bleak Apennines, unmarked by any habitation.
There he descended from his carriage to receive their last adieus, and
there was much lowly bowing as they stood on the highway. The Duke,
not unmoved, bowed lowly in return, but unfortunately backing as
he did so, tripped himself up with characteristic awkwardness, and
tumbled backwards on a heap of broken stones prepared for the road,
with his heels in the air, and exhibiting to his unfaithful Tuscans
and ungrateful Duchy, as a last remembrance of him, a full view of a
part of his person rarely put forward on such occasions.
And so _exeunt_ from the sight of men and from history a Grand Duke
and a Grand Duchy.