Florence! O glorious city of LORENZO the Magnificent, cradle of the
Renaissance, birthplace of DANTE, home of BOCCACCIO, where countless
painters and sculptors produced those deathless works which still
fascinate an admiring world, at last I approach thee! I arrive at the
station, I scramble for a _facchino_, I drive to my hotel. It is night.
To-morrow all thy medieval loveliness will burst upon my enraptured
eyes.
In the morning up early and out. Immediately fall against a statue of
a fat man in a frock coat and trousers. Can this be MICHAEL ANGELO'S
_David_? No, no! It is _Manin_ by NONO. Turn hastily aside and discover
a quay. Below is a waste of mud, through which meander a few inches of
thick brown water. The Arno! Heavens, what associations! Raise my eyes
and perceive on the opposite bank a gasometer. Stand horror-stricken
in the roadway, and am nearly run over by a frantic bicyclist. Save
myself by a great effort and cling for support to a gaslamp until I
can recover from the shock. Resolve then to seek out the medieval
loveliness. Start along the quay. Ha, there is a statue! Doubtless
by MICHAEL ANGELO. Hardly; the face seems familiar. Of course, it is
GARIBALDI! Turn and fly up a narrow street. Here at last is something
old, here at last are the buildings on which DANTE may have looked,
in which FRA ANGELICO may have painted, here at last----. Why, what's
this? It's an omnibus. It fills the street. Wedge myself in a doorway,
and when it has passed within three inches of my toes, hurry down a
side street, a still narrower one. Here, perhaps, BENVENUTO CELLINI
devised some glorious metal work. Ha, there is a silversmith's even
to this day! Look! what are those things in the window, above the
inscription "English Spoken"? They are teapots from Birmingham! Resolve
to avoid small streets, and hurry on to large open piazza. Now for some
architecture by GIOTTO, some sculpture by DONATELLO! Yes, there is an
equestrian statue. Doubtless one of the MEDICI. At last! No, it's not.
It's VICTOR EMANUEL. At least, the inscription says so, though the
likeness, not being a speaking one, gives no information. Turn sadly
aside and contemplate some melancholy modern copies of the regular
architecture of rectangular Turin.
Begin to feel depressed. Have not yet found the romantic medievalism.
Somewhat revived by _déjeuner_, resolve to seek it in the suburbs. Of
course, Fiesole. A pilgrimage to the home of FRA ANGELICO. Sublime!
Will go on foot, avoiding the high road. Climb by narrow ways, past
garden walls. Behind them may be the gardens where BOCCACCIO'S stories
were told; down these narrow roads FRA ANGELICO may have passed.
How exquisite to meditate far from the tourist crowd! Filled with
enthusiasm, and gazing at the beautiful blue sky, arrive at the top,
and stumble headlong over some obstacle in the road. It is the rail of
a tramway! Stagger feebly to the Piazza just as the electric tramcar
bumps and rumbles up the hill. From it descends a crowd, carrying,
not lilies, as in ANGELICO's pictures, but Bædekers. And I hear no
tale from the _Decameron_, but a mingled confusion of strange tongues.
"_Ja, ja, ja_; what a squash; _nous étions un peu serrés mais enfin_;
_ach wunderschön_; _un soldo signore_; _ja, ja, ja_; wal, I guess this
is Feaysolay, _che rumore nel tram_; I say, let's buy one of these
straw fans for Aunt MARY; they're awfully cheap, only half a franc,
and look worth half-a-crown; _ah voilà le café_; _wollen sie ein Glas
Bier trinken_; _ja, ja, ja!_" Resolve to abandon search for medieval
loveliness, and go down sadly in the tramcar.
But one art remains. In the country where VERDI still writes I can at
least enjoy music. So after dinner seek the Trianon. It sounds like a
music-hall; but then here, even in a music-hall, there must be music.
As I enter, a familiar sound bursts upon my ear. The singer is Italian,
the words are French, but the tune is English. She is singing "_The Man
that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo_."