Among the other things that contributed to make those Florence
days very pleasant ones, we did a good deal in the way of private
theatricals. Our _impresario_ at least in the earlier part of the
time, was Arthur Vansittart. He engaged the Cocomero Theatre for our
performances, and to the best of my remembrance defrayed the whole of
the expense out of his own pocket. Vansittart was an exceptionally
tall man, a thread-paper of a man, and a very bad actor. He was
exceedingly noisy, and pushed vivacity to its extreme limits. I
remember well his appearance in some play--I fancy it was in _The Road
to Ruin_, in which I represented some character, I entirely forget
what--where he comes on with a four-in-hand whip in his hand; and I
remember, too, that for the other performers in that piece, their
appearance on the stage was a service of danger, from which the
occupants of the stage boxes were not entirely free. But he was
inexhaustibly good-natured and good-humoured, and gave us excellent
suppers after the performance.
Then there was Edward Hobhouse, with--more or less with--his
exceedingly pretty and clever wife, and her sister, the not at all
pretty but still more clever and very witty Miss Graves. Hobhouse was
a man abounding in talent of all sorts, extremely witty, brim full
of humour, a thorough good fellow and very popular. He and his wife,
though very good friends did not entirely pull together; and it used
to be told of him, that replying to a man, who asked him "How's your
wife?" he answered with much humorous semblance of indignation, "Well!
if you come to that, how's yours?" Hobhouse was far and away the
cleverest and best educated man of the little set (these dramatic
reminiscences refer to the early years of my Florence life), and in
truth was somewhat regrettably wasted in the midst of such a frivolous
and idle community. But I take it that he was much of an invalid.
Of course we got up _The Rivals_. I was at first Bob Acres, with an
Irishman of the name of Torrens for my Sir Lucius, which he acted,
when we could succeed in keeping him sober, to the life. My Bob Acres
was not much of a success. And I subsequently took Sir Anthony, which
remained my stock part for years, and which I was considered to do
well.
Sir Francis Vincent, a resident in Florence for many years, with whom
I was for several of them very intimate, played the ungrateful part
of Falkland. He was a heavy actor with fairly good elocution and
delivery, and not unfitted for a part which it might have been
difficult to fill without him. He was to a great degree a reading man,
and had a considerable knowledge of the byeways of Florentine history.
My mother "brought the house down" nightly as Mrs. Malaprop; and
a very exceptionally beautiful Madame de Parcieu (an Englishwoman
married to a Frenchman) was in appearance, _manière d'être_, and
deportment the veritable _beau idéal_ of Lydia Languish, and might
have made _a furore_ on any stage, if it had been possible to induce
her to raise her voice sufficiently. She was most good-naturedly
amenable. But when she was thus driven against her nature and habits
to speak out, all the excellence of her acting was gone. The meaning
of the words was taken out of them.
Sir Anthony Absolute became, as I said, my stock part. And the phrase
is justified by my having acted it many years afterwards in a totally
different company--I the only remaining brick of the old edifice--and
to audiences not one of whom could have witnessed the performances of
those earlier days. Mrs. Richie, an American lady--who had, I think,
been known on a London stage under the name of "Mowatt"--was in those
latter days, now so far away in the dim past, our manageress. Mrs.
Proby, the wife, now I am sorry to say the widow, of the British
Consul, was on that occasion our Mrs. Malaprop, and was an excellent
representative of that popular lady, though she will, I am sure,
forgive me for saying not so perfect a one as my mother.
Quite indescribably strange is the effect on my mind of looking back
at my three Thespian avatars--Falstaff at Cincinnati, Acres and Sir
Anthony in Grand Ducal Florence, and Sir Anthony again in a liberated
Tuscany! I seem to myself like some old mail-coach guard, who goes
through the whole long journey, while successive coachmen "Leave you
here, sir!" But then in my case the passengers are all changed too;
and I arrive at the end of the journey without one "inside" or
"outside" of those who started with me! I can still blow my horn
cheerily, however, and chat with the passengers, who joined the coach
when my journey was half done, as if they were quite old fellow
travellers!
It must not be imagined, however, that that pleasant life at Florence
was all cakes and ale.
I was upon the whole a hard worker. I wrote a series of volumes on
various portions of Italian, and especially Florentine, history,
beginning with _The Girlhood of Catherine de Medici_. They were all
fairly well received, the _Life of Filippo Strozzi_ perhaps the most
so. But the volume on the story of the great quarrel between the
Papacy and Venice, entitled _Paul the Pope and Paul the Friar_, was, I
think, the best. The volumes entitled _A Decade of Italian Women_,
and dealing with ten typical historic female figures, has attained,
I believe, to some share of public favour. I see it not unfrequently
quoted by writers on Italian subjects. Then I made a more ambitious
attempt, and produced a _History of the Commonwealth of Florence_, in
four volumes.
Such a work appeals, of course, to a comparatively limited audience.
But that it was recognised to have some value among certain
Anglo-Saxons whose favourable judgment in the matter was worth having,
may be gathered from the fact that it has been a text-book in our own
and in transatlantic universities; while a verdict perhaps still
more flattering (though I will not say more gratifying) was given by
Professor Pasquale Villari (now senator of the kingdom of Italy), who,
in a letter in my possession, pronounces my history of Florence to be
in his opinion the best work on the subject extant.
Professor Villari is not only an accomplished scholar of a wide
range of culture, but his praise of any work on Italian--and perhaps
especially on Tuscan--history comes from no "prentice han'." His
masterly _Life of Macchiavelli_ is as well known in our country as
in his own, through the translation of it into English by his gifted
wife, Linda Villari, whilom Linda White, and my very valued friend.
All these historical books were written _con amore_. The study of
bygone Florentines had an interest for me which was quickened by the
daily and hourly study of living Florentines. It was curious to mark
in them resemblances of character, temperament, idiosyncrasy, defects,
and merits, to those of their forefathers who move and breathe before
us in the pages of such old chroniclers as Villani, Segni, Varchi, and
the rest, and in sundry fire-graven strophes and lines of their mighty
poet. Dante's own local and limited characteristics, as distinguished
from the universality of his poetic genius, have always seemed to me
quintessentially Tuscan.
Of course it is among the lower orders that such traits are chiefly
found, and among the lower orders in the country more than those
in the towns. But there is, or was, for I speak of years ago, a
considerable conservative pride in their own inherited customs and
traditions common to all classes.
Especially this is perceived in the speech of the genuine Florentine.
Quaint proverbs, not always of scrupulous refinement, old-world
phrases, local allusions, are stuffed into the conversation of your
real citizen or citizeness of _Firenze la Gentile_ as thickly as the
beads in the _vezzo di corallo_ on the neck of a _contadina_. And
above all, the accent--the soft (not to say slobbering) _c_ and
_g_, and the guttural aspirate which turns _casa_ into _hasa_ and
_capitale_ into _hapitale_, and so forth--this is cherished with
peculiar fondness. I have heard a young, elegant, and accomplished
woman discourse in very choice Italian with the accent of a
market-woman, and on being remonstrated with for the use of some
very pungent proverbial illustration in her talk, she replied with
conviction, "That is the right way to speak Tuscan. I have nothing to
do with what Italians from other provinces may prefer. But pure, racy
Tuscan--the Tuscan tongue that we have inherited--is spoken as I speak
it--or ought to be!"
I had gathered together, partly for my own pleasure, and partly in the
course of historical researches, a valuable collection of works on
_Storia Patria_, which were sold by me when I gave up my house there.
The reading of Italian, even very crabbed and ancient Italian which
might have puzzled more than one "elegant scholar," became quite easy
and familiar to me, but I have never attained a colloquial mastery
over the language. I can talk, to be sure, with the most incorrect
fluency, and I can make myself understood--at all events by Italians,
whose quick, sympathetic apprehension of one's meaning, and courteous
readiness to assist a foreigner in any linguistic straits, are
deserving of grateful recognition from all of us who, however
involuntarily, maltreat their beautiful language.
But the colloquial use of a language must be acquired when the organs
are young and lissom. I began too late. And besides, I have laboured
under the great disadvantage that my deafness prevents me from sharing
in the hourly lessons which those who hear all that is going on around
them profit by.
Besides the above-mentioned historical works, I wrote well nigh a
score, I think, of novels, which also had no great, but a fair, share
of success. The majority of them are on Italian subjects; and these,
if I may be allowed to say so, are good. The pictures they give of
Italian men and women and things and habits are true, vivid, and
accurate. Those which I wrote on English subjects are unquestionably
bad. I had been living the best part of a life-time out of England; I
knew but little comparatively of English life, and I had no business
to meddle with such subjects. But besides all this, I was always
writing in periodical publications of all sorts, English and American,
to such an extent that I should think the bulk of it, if brought
together, would exceed that of all the many volumes I am answerable
for. No! my life in that Castle of Indolence--Italy--was not a
_far-niente_ one!
We were great at picnics in those Florence days. Perhaps the most
favourite place of all for such parties was Pratolino, a park
belonging to the Grand Duke, about seven miles from Florence, on the
Bologna road. These seven miles wave almost all more or less up hill,
and when the high ground on which the park is situated has been
reached, there is a magnificent view over the Val d'Arno, its thousand
villas, and Florence, with its circle of surrounding hills.
There was once a grand ducal residence there, which was famous in
the later Medicean days for the multiplicity and ingenuity of its
water-works. All kinds of surprises, picturesque and grotesque
effects, and practical jokes, had been prepared by the ingenious, but
somewhat childish skill of the architect. Turning the handle of a
door would produce a shower-bath, sofas would become suddenly boats
surrounded by water, and such like more or less disagreeable surprises
to visitors, who were new to the specialties of the place. But all
this practical joking was at length fatal to the scene of it. The
pipes and conduits got out of order, and eventually so ruined the
edifice that it had to be taken down, and has never been replaced.
But the principal object of attraction--besides the view, the charming
green turf for dining on, the facility for getting hot water, plates,
glasses, &c., from a gardeners house, and a large hall in the same,
good for dancing--was the singular colossal figure, representing "The
Apennine," said to have been designed by Michael Angelo. One used
to clamber up inside this figure, which sits in a half crouching
attitude, and reach on the top of the head a platform, on which four
or five persons could stand and admire the matchless view.
About three miles further, still always ascending the slope of the
Apennine, is a Servite monastery which is the cradle and mother
establishment of the order. Sometimes we used to extend our rambles
thither. The brethren had the reputation, I remember, of possessing a
large and valuable collection of prints. They were not very willing
to exhibit it; but I did once succeed in examining it, and, as I
remember, found that it contained nothing much worth looking at.
A much more favourite amusement of mine was a picnic arranged to last
for two or three days, and intended to embrace objects further afield.
Vallombrosa was a favourite and admirably well selected locality
for this purpose. And many a day and moonlight night never to be
forgotten, have I spent there. Sometimes we pushed our expeditions to
the more distant convents--or "Sanctuaries" as they were called--of
Camaldoli and Lavernia. And of one very memorable excursion to these
two places I shall have to speak in a subsequent chapter.
Meantime those dull mutterings as of distant thunder, which Signor
Albèri had, as mentioned at a former page, first signalised to me,
were gradually growing into a roar which was attracting the attention
and lively interest of all Europe.
Of the steady increase in the volume of this roar, and of the results
in which it eventuated, I need say little here, for I have already
said enough in a volume entitled _Tuscany in 1849 and in 1859_. But
I may jot down a few recollections of the culminating day of the
Florentine revolution.
I had been out from an early hour of that morning, and had assisted at
sundry street discussions of the question, What would the troops do?
Such troops as were in Florence were mainly lodged in the forts, the
Fortezza da Basso, which I have had occasion to mention in a former
chapter, and the other situated on the high ground beyond the Boboli
Gardens, and therefore immediately above the Pitti Palace. My house at
the corner of the large square, now the Piazza dell Indipendenza, was
almost immediately under the walls and the guns of the Fortezza da
Basso; but I felt sure that the troops would simply do nothing; might
very possibly fraternise with the people; but would in no case burn a
cartridge for the purpose of keeping the Grand Duke on his throne.
A short wide street runs in a straight line from the middle of one
side of the Piazza to the fort; and a considerable crowd of people,
at about ten o'clock, I think, began to advance slowly up this street
towards the _fortezza_, and I went with them. High above our heads
on the turf-covered top of the lofty wall, there were a good number,
perhaps thirty or forty soldiers, not drawn up in line, but apparently
merely lounging and enjoying the air and sunshine. They had, I think
all of them, their muskets in their hands, but held them idly and with
apparently no thought whatever of using them. I felt confirmed in my
opinion that they had no intention of doing so.
Arrived at the foot of the fortress wall, the foremost of the people
began calling out to the soldiers, "_Abbasso l'Austria! Siete per
Italia o per l'Austria?_" I did not--and it is significant--hear any
cries of "_Abbasso il Gran Duca!_" The soldiers, as far as I could see
at that distance, appeared to be lazily laughing at the people.
One man called out "_Ecco un bel muro per fracassare il capo
contro!_"--"That is an excellent wall to break your heads against!"
It was very plain that they had no intention of making any hostile
demonstration against the crowd. At the same time there was no sort
of manifestation of any inclination to fraternise with the
revolutionists. They were simply waiting to see how matters would go;
and under the circumstances they can hardly be severely blamed for
doing so. But there can be no doubt that, whichever way things might
go, their view of the matter would be strongly influenced by the very
decided opinion that that course would be best which should not imply
the necessity for _doing_ anything. I think that the feeling generally
in "the army," if such it could be called, was on the whole kindly
to the Grand Duke, but not to the extent of being willing to fight
anybody, least of all the Florentines, in his defence!
How matters _did_ go it is not necessary to tell here. If ever there
was a revolution "made with rose-water," it was the revolution which
deposed the poor _gran ciuco_. I don't think it cost any human being
in all Florence a scratch or a bloody nose. It cost an enormous amount
of talking and screaming, but nothing else. At the same time it is
fair to remember that the popular leaders could not be sure that
matters might not have taken another turn, and that it _might_ have
gone hard with some of them. In any case, however, it would not have
gone _very_ hard with any of them. Probably exile would have been the
worst fate meted out to them. It is true that exile from Tuscany just
then would have been attended by a similar difficulty to that which
caused the old Scotch lady, when urged to run during an earthquake, to
reply, "Ay! but whar wull I run to?"
I do not think there was any bitter, or much even unkind, feeling
on the part of the citizens towards the sovereign against whom they
rebelled. If any fact or circumstance could be found which was
calculated to hold him up to ridicule, it was eagerly laid hold of,
but there was no fiercer feeling.
A report was spread during the days that immediately followed the
Duke's departure that orders had been given to the officers in the
upper fortress to turn their cannon on the city at the first sign of
rising. Such reports were very acceptable to those who for political
purposes would fain have seen somewhat of stronger feeling against the
Duke. I have good reason to believe that such orders _had_ been given.
But I have still stronger reasons for doubting that they were ever
given by the Grand Duke. And I am surest of all, that let them have
been given by whom they may, there was not the smallest chance of
their being obeyed. As for the Duke himself, I am very sure that he
would have given or even done much to prevent any such catastrophe.
But perhaps the most remarkable and most singular scene of all that
rose-water revolution was the Duke's departure from his capital and
his duchy. Other sovereigns in similar plight have hidden themselves,
travestied themselves, had hairbreadth escapes, or have not escaped at
all. In Tuscany the fallen ruler went forth in his own carriage with
one other following it, both rather heavily laden with luggage. The
San Gallo gate is that by which the hearse that conveys the day's dead
to the cemetery on the slope of the Apennine leaves the city every
night. And the Duke passed amid the large crowd assembled at the gate
to see him go, as peaceably as the vehicle conveying those whose days
in Florence, like his, were at an end, went out a few hours later by
the same road.