IN one of the most favored spots of that pleasant quay which goes by
the name of the Lungo l'Arno, at Florence, there stood a small,
miserable-looking, rickety old building, of two stories high, wedged in
between two massive and imposing palaces, as though a buffer to deaden
the force of collision. In all probability it owed its origin to some
petty usurpation, and had gradually grown up, from the unobtrusive
humility of a cobbler's bulk, to the more permanent nuisance of stone
and mortar. The space occupied was so small as barely to permit of
a door and a little window beside it, within which hung a variety
of bridles, halters, and such-like gear, with here and there the
brass-mounted harnessing of a Calasina, or the gay worsted tassels
and fringed finery of a peasant's Barroccino. The little spot was so
completely crammed with wares, that for all purposes of traffic it was
useless; hence, everything that pertained to sale was carried on in the
street, thus contributing by another ingredient to the annoyance of this
misplaced residence. Threats, tyranny, bribery, seductions of twenty
kinds, intimidation in as many shapes, had all failed in inducing its
owner to remove to another part of the town. Gigi every one in Florence
is known by his Christian name, and we never heard him called by any
other resisted oppressions as manfully as he was proof against
softer influences, and held his ground, hammering away at his old
“demi-piques,” burnishing bits and scouring housings, in utter
indifference to the jarred nerves and chafed susceptibilities of his
fine neighbors. It was not that the man was indifferent to money. It was
not that the place was associated with any family reminiscences. It was
not from its being very favorable to the nature of his dealings, since
his chief customers were usually the frequenters of the less fashionable
localities. It was the simple fact that Gigi was a Florentine, and, like
a Florentine, he saw no reason why he should n't have the sun and
the Arno as well as the Guiciardoni, who lived at his right, or the
Rinuncini, who dwelt on his left hand.
Small and contracted as that miserable frontage was, the sun did shine
upon it just as pleasantly as on its proud neighbors, and the bright
Arno glided by with its laughing ripples; while, from the little window
above stairs, the eye ranged over the cypress-clad hill of San Miniato
and the fair gardens of the Boboli. On one side lay the quaint old
structure of the Ponte Vecchio, with its glittering stores of jewelry,
and on the other the graceful elliptic arches of St. Trinita spanned the
stream. The quay before the door was the chosen rallying-point of
all Florence; the promenade where lounged all its fashionables of an
evening, as they descended from their carriages after the accustomed
drive in the Cascini. The Guardie Nobili passed daily, in all their
scarlet bravery, to and from the Pitti Palace; the Grand Ducal equipage
never took any other road. A continual flow of travellers to the great
hotels on the quay contributed its share of bustle and animation to the
scene; so that here might be said to meet, as in a focus, all that made
up the life, the stir, and the movement of the capital.
Full of amusement and interest as that morning panorama often is,
our object is less to linger beside it, than, having squeezed our way
between the chaotic wares of Gigi's shop, to ascend the little, dark,
and creaking stairs which lead to the first story, and into which we now
beg to introduce our reader. There are but two rooms, each of them of
the dimensions of closets, but furnished with a degree of pretension
that cannot fail to cause amazement as you enter. Silk draperies, carved
cabinets, bronzes, china, chairs of ebony, tables of buhl, a Persian rug
on the floor, an alabaster lamp suspended from the ceiling, miniatures
in handsome frames, and armor, cover the walls; while, scattered about,
are richly bound books, and prints, and drawings in water-color. Through
the half-drawn curtain that covers the doorway for there is no door
you can peep into the back room, where a lighter and more modern taste
prevails; the gold-sprigged curtains of a French bed, and the Bohemian
glass that glitters everywhere, bespeaking another era of decorative
luxury.
It is not with any invidious pleasure for depreciation, but purely in
the interests of truth, that we must now tell our reader that, of all
this seeming elegance and splendor, nothing absolutely nothing is real.
The brocaded silks have been old petticoats; the ebony is lacquer; the
ivory is bone; the statuettes are plaster, glazed so as to look like
marble; the armor is papier mache, even to the owner himself, all is
imposition, for he is no other than Albert Jekyl.
Now, my dear reader, you and I see these things precisely in the same
light. The illusion of a first glance stripped off, we smile as we
examine, one by one, the ingenious devices meant to counterfeit ancient
art or modern elegance. It is possible, too, that we derive as much
amusement from the ingenuity exercised, as we should have had pleasure
in contemplating the realities so typified. Still, there is one
individual to whom this consciousness brings no alloy of enjoyment;
Jekyl has persuaded himself to accept all as fact. Like the Indian,
who first carves and then worships his god, he has gone through the old
process of fabrication, and now gazes on his handiwork with the eyes
of a true believer. Gracefully reclined upon an ottoman, the mock amber
mouthpiece of a gilt hooka between his lips, he dreams, with half-closed
eyes, of Oriental luxury! A Sybarite in every taste, he has invented a
little philosophy of his own. He has seen enough of life to know that
thousands might live in enjoyment out of the superfluities of rich men,
and yet make them nothing the poorer. What banquet would not admit of
a guest the more? What fete to which another might not be added? What
four-in-hand prances by without some vacant seat, be it even in the
rumble? What gilded gondola has not a place to spare? To be this
“complement” to the world's want is then his mission.
No man invents a metier without a strong element of success. The very
creative power is an earnest of victory. It is true that there had been
great men before Agamemnon. So had there been a race of “diners-out”
before Jekyl; but he first reduced the practice to system, showing
that all the triumphs of cookery, all the splendor of equipage, all the
blandishments of beauty, all the fascinations of high society, may be
enjoyed by one who actually does not hold a “share in the company,” and,
without the qualification of scrip, takes his place among the directors.
Had he brought to this new profession commonplace abilities and
inferior acquirements, he would have been lost amid that vulgar herd of
indistinguishables which infest every city, and whose names are not even
“writ in water.” Jekyl, however, possessed many and varied gifts.
He might have made a popular preacher in a watering-place; a very
successful doctor for nervous invalids; a clever practitioner at the
bar; an admirable member of the newspaper press. He might have been very
good as an actor; he would have been glorious as an auctioneer. With
qualities of this order, a most plastic wit, and an india-rubber
conscience, what bound need there be to his success! Nor was there.
He was, in all the society of the capital, not alone an admitted and
accepted, but a welcome guest. He might have failed to strike this man
as being clever, or that as being agreeable. Some might be disappointed
in his smartness; some might think his social claims overrated; none
were ever offended by anything that fell from him. His great secret
seemed to lie in the fact that, if generally easy to be found when
required, he was never in the way when not wanted. Had he possessed the
gift of invisibility, he could scarcely have been more successful in
this latter good quality. He never interrupted a confidence; never
marred a tete-a-tete. A kind of instinct would arrest his steps as he
approached a boudoir where his presence would be undesirable; and he
has been known to retire from a door on which he had already placed his
hand, with a sudden burst of intelligence suggesting “to come another
day.”
These, however, seem mere negative qualities; his positive ones were,
however, not less remarkable. The faculties which some men might have
devoted to abstract science or metaphysical inquiry, he, with a keen
perception of his own fitness, resolved to exercise upon the world
around him. His botany was a human classification, all his chemistry an
analysis of men's motives. It is true, perhaps, that the poet's line may
have been received by him with a peculiar limitation, and that, if
“the proper study of mankind is man,” his investigations took a shape
scarcely contemplated by the writer. It was not man in his freedom of
thought and action, not man in all the consciousness of power, and in
the high hope of a great destiny that attracted him; no! it was for
small humanity that he cared, for all the struggles and wiles and plots
and schemings of this wicked world; for man amid its pomps and vanities,
its balls, its festivals, its intrigues, and its calamities.
He felt, with the great dramatist, that “all the world's a stage,”
and, the better to enjoy the performance, he merely took a “walking
character,” that gave him full leisure to watch the others. Such was our
friend Albert Jekyl, or, as he was popularly called by his acquaintance,
Le Due de Dine-out, to distinguish him from the Talleyrands, who are
Dues de Dino.
Let us now, without further speculation, come back to him, as with his
window open to admit the “Arno sun,” he lay at full length upon his
ottoman, conning over his dinner list. He had been for some time absent
from Florence, and in the interval a number of new people had arrived,
and some of the old had gone away. He was, therefore, running over the
names of the present and the missing, with a speculative thought for the
future.
“A bad season, it would seem!” muttered he, as his eye traced rapidly
the list of English names, in which none of any distinction figured.
“This comes of Carbonari and Illuminati humbug. They frighten John Bull,
and he will not come abroad to see a barricade under his window. Great
numbers have gone away, too, the Scotts, the Carringdons, the Hopleys!
three excellent houses; and those dear Milnwoods, who, so lately
'reconciled to Rome,' as the phrase is, 'took out their piety' in Friday
fish-dinners.
“The Russians, too, have left us; the Geroboffskys gone back to their
snows again, and expiating their 'liberal tendencies' by a tour in
Siberia. The Chaptowitsch, recalled in disgrace for asking one of Louis
Philippe's sons to a breakfast! We have got in exchange a few Carlists,
half a dozen 'Legitimists,' with very stately manners and small
fortunes. But a good house to dine at, a good salon for a lounge, a
pleasant haunt for all seasons and at all hours, what is there? Nothing,
absolutely nothing. And what a city this was once! crammed, as it used
to be, with dear, delightful 'ruined families;' that is, those who
left ruin to their creditors at home, to come out and live gloriously
abroad. And now I look down my list, and, except my little Sunday dinner
at 'Marescotte's,' and that half luncheon thing I take at the Villa
Pessarole, I really see nothing for the whole week. The Onslows, alone,
figure in strong capitals. Let me see, then, how they must be treated. I
have already housed them at the Palazzo Mazzarini, and, for some days at
least, their time will be filled up with upholsterers, decorators,
and such-like. Then the campaign will open, and I can but watch
eventualities, and there will be no lack of these. The young Guardsman
likes play. I must see that Prince Carini does not get hold of him. Miss
Onslow has a taste for Gothic and stained glass; that, nowadays, often
ends in a love of saints' shin-bones and other relics. My lady is
disposed to be a 'fast one;' and, in fact, except the gruff old doctor,
who is a confounded bore, the whole craft is deficient in ballast. But
I was forgetting 'the Dalton,' shame on me, for she is very pretty,
indeed!” He seemed to ruminate and reflect for some minutes, and then
said aloud, “Yes, ma belle Catharine, with the aid of Albert Jekyl, with
his counsel to guide, and his head to direct you, there 's no saying
what your destiny might not be! It would be, I know well, very hard to
convince you of the fact, and, possibly, were I to try it, you 'd be
silly enough to fancy me in love with you!” Albert Jekyl in love! The
idea was so excellent that he lay back and laughed heartily at it. “And
yet,” said he, after a pause, “you 'll see this fact aright one of
these days. You 'll learn the immense benefit my knowledge would be when
joined to your own beauty. Ay, Kate! but it will be too late, just so,
too late; then, like every one else, you 'll have played all your trumps
before you begin to learn the game. A girl who has caught up every trick
of manner, every little tactic of society within a month, and who, at
this hour, would stand the scrutiny of the most fastidious eye, is a
great prize in the wheel. This aptitude might lead to great things,
though, in all probability, it will never conduce, save to very little
ones!”
With this reflection Jekyl arose to begin his toilet, an occupation
which, less from dandyism than pure self-love, he usually prolonged
during the whole morning. It was to him a period of self-examination.
He seemed, to use a mercantile figure, to be taking stock of his own
capabilities, and investigating his own means of future success.
It was an “open day,” that is, he knew not where he should dine; so that
his costume, while partaking of all the characteristics of the morning,
had yet combined certain little decorative traits that would not be
unsuitable if pressed to accept an unpremeditated hospitality.
There were very few, indeed, with whom Jekyl would have condescended
so to dine, not only from the want of dignity incurred, but that on
principle he would have preferred the humblest fare at home to the
vulgarity of a pot-luck dinner, which invariably, as he said himself,
deranged your digestion, and led to wrong intimacies.
His dress being completed, he looked out along the crowd to see in whose
carriage he was to have a seat to the Cascini. More than one inviting
gesture motioned him to a place, as equipage after equipage passed on;
but although some of those who sought him were high in rank, and others
distinguished for beauty and attraction, Jekyl declined the courtesies
with that little wave of the hand so significative in all Italian
intercourse. Occasionally, indeed, a bland, regretful smile seemed to
convey the sorrow the refusal cost him; and once he actually placed his
hand over where his heart might be, as though to express a perfect pang
of suffering; but still he bided his time.
At last a very dark visage, surrounded by a whisker of blackest hair,
peeped from beneath the head of a very shabby caleche, whose horse and
coachman were all of the “seediest;” and Jekyl cried out, “Morlache!”
while he made a sign towards the Cascini. The other replied by spreading
out his hand horizontally from his mouth, and blowing along the surface,
a pantomime meant to express a railroad. Jekyl immediately descended and
took his place beside him.