Florence is like a lily in the midst of a garden gay with wild-flowers;
a broken lily that we have tied up and watered and nursed into a
semblance of life, an image of ancient beauty--as it were the _memento
mori_ of that Latin spirit which contrived the Renaissance of mankind.
As of old, so to-day, she stands in the plain at the foot of the
Apennines, that in their sweetness and strength lend her still something
of their nobility. Around her are the hills covered with olive gardens
where the corn and the wine and the oil grow together between the iris
and the rose; and everywhere on those beautiful hills there are villas
among the flowers, real villas such as Alberti describes for us, full of
coolness and rest, where a fountain splashes in an old courtyard, and
the grapes hang from the pergolas, and the corn is spread in July and
beaten with the flail. And since the vista of every street in Florence
ends in the country, it is to these hills you find your way very often
if your stay be long, fleeing from the city herself, perhaps to hide
your disappointment, in the simple joy of country life. More and more as
you live in Florence that country life becomes your consolation and your
delight: for there abide the old ways and the ancient songs, which you
will not find in the city. And indeed the great treasure of Florence is
this bright and smiling country in which she lies: the old road to
Fiesole, the ways that lead from Settignano to Compiobbi, the path
through the woods from S. Martino a Mensola, that smiling church by the
wayside, to Vincigliata, to Castel di Poggio, the pilgrimage from Bagno
a Ripoli to the Incontro. There, on all those beautiful gay roads, you
will pass numberless villas whispering with summer, laughing with
flowers; you will see the _contadini_ at work in the _poderi_, you will
hear the _rispetti_ and _stornelli_ of the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries sung perhaps by some love-sick peasant girl among the olives
from sunrise till evening falls. And the ancient ways are not forgotten
there, for they still reap with the sickle and sing to the beat of the
flail; while the land itself, those places "full of nimble air, in a
laughing country of sweet and lovely views, where there is always fresh
water, and everything is healthy and pure," of which Leon Alberti tells
us, are still held and cultivated in the old way under the old laws by
the _contadino_ and his _padrone_. This ancient order, quietness, and
beauty, which you may find everywhere in the country round about
Florence, is the true Tuscany. The vulgarity of the city, for even in
Italy the city life has become insincere, blatant, and for the most part
a life of the middle class, seldom reaches an hundred yards beyond the
_barriera_: and this is a charm in Florence, for you may so easily look
on her from afar. And so, if one comes to her from the country, or
returns to her from her own hills, it is ever with a sense of loss, of
sadness, of regret: she has lost her soul for the sake of the stranger,
she has forgotten the splendid past for an ignoble present, a strangely
wearying dream of the future.
Yet for all her modern ways, her German beer-houses, her English
tea-shops, her noisy trams on Lung' Arno, her air as of a museum, her
eagerness to show her contempt for the stranger while she sells him her
very soul for money, Florence remains one of the most delightful cities
of Italy to visit, to live with, to return to again and again. Yet I for
one would never live within her walls if I could help it, nor herd with
those barbarian, exclamatory souls who in guttural German or cockney
English snort or neigh at the beauties industriously pointed out by a
loud-voiced cicerone, quoting in American all the appropriate
quotations, Browning before Filippo Lippi, Ruskin in S. Croce, Mrs.
Browning at the door of S. Felice, Goethe everywhere.
No, I will live a little way out of the city on the hillside, perhaps
towards Settignano, not too far from the pine woods, nor too near the
gate. And my garden there shall be a vineyard, bordered with iris, and
among the vines shall be a garden of olives, and under the olives there
shall be the corn. And the yellow roses will litter the courtyard, and
the fountain will be full of their petals, and the red roses will strew
the paths, and the white roses will fall upon the threshold; and all day
long the bees will linger in the passion-flowers by the window when the
mulberry trees have been stripped of leaves, and the lilies of Madonna,
before the vines, are tall and like ghosts in the night, the night that
is blue and gold, where a few fire-flies linger yet, sailing faintly
over the stream, and the song of the cicale is the burden of endless
summer.
Then very early in the morning I will rise from my bed under the holy
branch of olive, I will walk in my garden before the sun is high, I will
look on my beloved city. Yes, I shall look over the near olives across
the valley to the hill of cypresses, to the poplars beside Arno that
tremble with joy; and first I shall see Torre del Gallo and then S.
Miniato, that strange and beautiful place, and at last my eyes will rest
on the city herself, beautiful in the mist of morning: first the tower
of S. Croce, like a tufted spear; then the tower of Liberty, and that
was built for pride; and at last, like a mysterious rose lifted above
the city, I shall see the dome, the rosy dome of Brunellesco, beside
which, like a slim lily, pale, immaculate as a pure virgin, rises the
inviolate Tower of the Lowly, that Giotto built for God. Yes, often I
shall thus await the Angelus that the bells of all the villages will
answer, and I shall greet the sun and be thankful. Then I shall walk
under the olives, I shall weigh the promised grapes, I shall bend the
ears of corn here and there, that I may feel their beauty, and I shall
bury my face in the roses, I shall watch the lilies turn their heads, I
shall pluck the lemons one by one. And the maidens will greet me on
their way to the olive gardens, the newly-married, hand in hand with
her husband, will smile upon me, she who is heavy with child will give
me her blessing, and the children will laugh and peep at me from behind
the new-mown hay; and I shall give them greeting. And I shall talk with
him who is busy in the vineyard, I shall watch him bare-foot among the
grapes, I shall see his wise hands tenderly unfold a leaf or gather up a
straying branch, and when I leave him I shall hear him say, "May your
bread be blessed to you." Under the myrtles, on a table of stone spread
with coarse white linen, such we see in Tuscany, I shall break my fast,
and I shall spill a little milk on the ground for thankfulness, and the
crumbs I shall scatter too, and a little honey that the bees have given
I shall leave for them again.
So I shall go into the city, and one will say to me, "The Signore must
have a care, for the sun will be hot, in returning it will be necessary
to come under the olives." And I shall laugh in my heart, and say, "Have
no fear, then, for the sun will not touch me." And how should I but be
glad that the sun will be hot, and how should I but be thankful that I
shall come under the olives?
And I shall come into the city by Porta alla Croce for love, because I
am but newly returned, and presently through the newer ways I shall come
to the oldest of all, Borgo degli Albizzi, where the roofs of the
beautiful palaces almost touch, and the way is cool and full of shadow.
There, amid all the hurry and bustle of the narrow, splendid street, I
shall think only of old things for a time, I shall remember the great
men who founded and established the city, I shall recall the great
families of Florence. Here in this Borgo the Albizzi built their towers
when they came from Arezzo, giving the city more than an hundred
officers, Priori and Gonfalonieri, till Cosimo de' Medici thrust them
out with the help of Eugenius IV. The grim, scornful figure of Rinaldo
seems to haunt the old palace still. How often in those September days
must he have passed to and fro between his palace and the Bargello close
by, the Palace of the Podestà: but the people, fearing they knew not
what, barricaded the place so that Rinaldo was persuaded to consult
with the Pope in S. Maria Novella. At dawn he dismissed his army, and
remained alone. Then the friends of Cosimo in exile went to the Pope and
thanked him, thus, as some have thought, surprising him into an
abandonment of Rinaldo. However that may be, Rinaldo was expelled,
leaving the city with these words, "He is a blind man without a guide,
who trusts the word of a Pope." And what figure haunts Palazzo Altovite,
the home of that fierce Ghibelline house loved by Frederick II, if not
that hero who expelled the Duke of Athens. Palazzo Pazzi and Palazzo
Nonfinito at the Canto de' Pazzi where the Borgo degli Albizzi meets Via
del Proconsolo, brings back to me that madman who first set the Cross
upon the walls of Jerusalem in 1099, and who for this cause was given
some stones from Christ's sepulchre by Godfrey de Bouillon, which he
brought to Florence and presented to the Republic. They were placed in
S. Reparata, which stood where the Duomo now is, and, as it is said, the
"new fire" was struck from them every Holy Saturday, and the clergy, in
procession, brought that sacred flame to the other churches of the city.
And the Pazzi, because of their gift, gave the guard of honour in this
procession: and this they celebrated with much pomp among themselves;
till at last they obtained permission to build a _carro_, which should
be lighted at the door of S. Reparata by some machine of their
invention, and drawn by four white oxen to their houses. And even to
this day you may see this thing, and to this day the car is borne to
their canto. But above all I see before that "unfinished" palace the
ruined hopes of those who plotted to murder Lorenzo de' Medici with his
brother at the Easter Mass in the Duomo. Even now, amid the noise of the
street, I seem to hear the shouting of the people, _Vive le Palle, Morte
ai Pazzi_.
So I shall come into the Proconsolo beside the Bargello, where so many
great and splendid people are remembered, and she, too, who is so
beautiful that for her sake we forget everything else, Vanna degli
Albizzi, who married Lorenzo de' Tornabuoni, whom Verrocchio carved and
Ghirlandajo painted. Then I shall follow the Via del Corso past S.
Margherita, close to Dante's mythical home, into Via Calzaioli, the
busiest street of the city, and I shall think of the strange difference
between these three great ways, Via del Proconsolo, Via Calzaioli, and
Via Tornabuoni, which mark and divide the most ancient city. I shall
turn toward Or San Michele, where on St. John's Day the banners of the
guilds are displayed above the statues, and for a little time I shall
look again on Verrocchio's Christ and St. Thomas. Then in this
pilgrimage of remembrance I shall pass up Via Calzaioli, past the gay
cool caffè of Gilli, into the Piazza del Duomo. And again, I shall fear
lest the tower may fall like a lopped lily, and I shall wish that Giotto
had made it ever so little bigger at the base. Then I shall pass to the
right past the Misericordia, where for sure I shall meet some of the
_confraternità_, past the great gazing statue of Brunellesco, till, at
the top of Via del Proconsolo, I shall turn to look at the Duomo, which,
seen from there, seems like a great Greek cross under a dome, that might
cover the world. And so I shall pass round the apse of the Cathedral
till I come to the door of the Cintola, where Nanni di Banco has
marvellously carved Madonna in an almond-shaped glory: and this is one
of the fairest things in Florence. And I shall go on my way, past the
Gate of Paradise to the open door of the Baptistery, and returning find
the tomb of Baldassare Cossa, soldier and antipope, carved by Donatello:
and here, in the most ancient church of Florence, I shall thank St. John
for my return.
Out in the Piazza once more, I shall turn into Borgo S. Lorenzo, and
follow it till I come to Piazza di S. Lorenzo, with its bookstalls where
Browning found that book, "small quarto size, part print, part
manuscript," which told him the story of "The Ring and the Book." There
I shall look once more on the ragged, rugged front of S. Lorenzo, and
entering, find the tomb of Piero de' Medici, made by Verrocchio, and
thinking awhile of those other tombs where Michelangelo hard by carved
his Night and Day, Twilight and Dawn, I shall find my way again into the
Piazza del Duomo, and, following Via Cerretani, that busy street, I
shall come at last into Piazza S. Maria Novella, and there on the north
I shall see again the bride of Michelangelo, S. Maria Novella of the
Dominicans.
Perhaps I shall rest there a little before Duccio's Madonna on her high
altar,[85] and linger under the grave, serene work of Ghirlandajo; but
it may be the sky will be too fair for any church to hold me, so that
passing down the way of the Beautiful Ladies, and taking Via dei Serpi
on my left, I shall come into Via Tornabuoni, that smiling, lovely way
just above the beautiful Palazzo Antinori, whence I may see Palazzo
Strozzi, but without the great lamp at the corner where the flowers are
heaped and there are always so many loungers. Indeed, the whole street
is full of flowers and sunshine and cool shadow, and in some way, I know
not what, it remains the most beautiful gay street in Florence, where
past and present have met and are friends. And then I know if I follow
this way I shall come to Lung' Arno,--I may catch a glimpse of it even
from the corner of Via Porta Rossa over the cabs, past the Column of S.
Trinità.
[Illustration: PONTE VECCHIO]
Presently, in the afternoon, I shall follow Via Porta Rossa, with its
old palaces of the Torrigiani (now, Hotel Porta Rossa), and the
Davanzati into Mercato Nuovo, where, because it is Thursday, the whole
place will be smothered with flowers and children, little laughing
rascals as impudent as Lippo Lippi's Angiolini, who play about the Tacca
and splash themselves with water. And so I shall pass at last into
Piazza della Signoria, before the marvellous palace of the people with
its fierce, proud tower, and I shall stand on the spot before the
fountains where Humanism avenged itself on Puritanism, where Savonarola,
that Ferrarese who burned the pictures and would have burned the city,
was himself burned in the fire he had invoked. And I shall look once
more on the Loggia de' Lanzi, and see Cellini's young _contadino_
masquerading as Perseus, and in my heart I shall remember the little wax
figure he made for a model, now in Bargello, which is so much more
beautiful than this young giant. So, under the cool cloisters of Palazzo
degli Uffizi I shall come at last on to Lung' Arno, where it is very
quiet, and no horses may pass, and the trams are a long way off. And I
shall lift up my eyes and behold once more the hill of gardens across
Arno, with the Belvedere just within the old walls, and S. Miniato, like
a white and fragile ghost in the sunshine, and La Bella Villanella
couched like a brown bird under the cypresses above the grey olives in
the wind and the sun. And something in the gracious sweep of the hills,
in the gentle nobility of that holy mountain which Michelangelo has
loved and defended, which Dante Alighieri has spoken of, which Gianozzo
Manetti has so often climbed, will bring the tears to my eyes, and I
shall turn away towards Ponte Vecchio, the oldest and most beautiful of
the bridges, where the houses lead one over the river, and the little
shops of the jewellers still sparkle and smile with trinkets. And in the
midst of the bridge I shall wait awhile and look on Arno. Then I shall
cross the bridge and wander upstream towards Porta S. Niccolò, that
gaunt and naked gate in the midst of the way, and there I shall climb
through the gardens up the steep hill
"... Per salire al monte
Dove siede la chiesa...."
to the great Piazzale, and so to the old worn platform before S. Miniato
itself, under the strange glowing mosaics of the façade: and, standing
on the graves of dead Florentines, I shall look down on the beautiful
city.
Marvellously fair she is on a summer evening as seen from that hill of
gardens, Arno like a river of gold before her, leading over the plain
lost in the farthest hills. Behind her the mountains rise in great
amphitheatres,--Fiesole on the one side, like a sentinel on her hill; on
the other, the Apennines, whose gesture, so noble, precise, and
splendid, seems to point ever towards some universal sovereignty, some
perfect domination, as though this place had been ordained for the
resurrection of man. Under this mighty symbol of annunciation lies the
city, clear and perfect in the lucid light, her towers shining under the
serene evening sky. Meditating there alone for a long time in the
profound silence of that hour, the whole history of this city that
witnessed the birth of the modern world, the resurrection of the gods,
will come to me.
Out of innumerable discords, desolations, hopes unfilled, everlasting
hatred and despair, I shall see the city rise four square within her
rosy walls between the river and the hills; I shall see that lonely,
beautiful, and heroic figure, Matilda the great Countess; I shall suffer
the dream that consumes her, and watch Germany humble in the snow. And
the Latin cause will tower a red lily beside Arno; one by one the great
nobles will go by with cruel alien faces, prisoners, to serve the Lily
or to die. Out of their hatred will spring that mongrel cause of Guelph
and Ghibelline, and I shall see the Amidei slay Buondelmonte
Buondelmonti. Through the year of victories I shall rejoice, when
Pistoja falls, when Siena falls, when Volterra is taken, and Pisa forced
to make peace. Then in tears I shall see the flight at Monteaperti, I
shall hear the thunder of the horses, and with hate in my heart I shall
search for Bocca degli Abati, the traitor, among the ten thousand dead.
And in the council I shall be by when they plot the destruction of the
city, and I shall be afraid: then I shall hear the heroic, scornful
words of Farinata degli Uberti, when in his pride he spared Florence for
the sake of his birth. And I shall watch the banners at Campaldino, I
shall hear the intoxicating words of Corso Donati, I shall look into his
very face and read the truth.
And at dawn I shall walk with Dante, and I shall know by the softness of
his voice when Beatrice passeth, but I shall not dare to lift my eyes. I
shall walk with him through the city, I shall hear Giotto speak to him
of St. Francis, and Arnolfo will tell us of his dreams. And at evening
Petrarch will lead me into the shadow of S. Giovanni and tell me of
Madonna Laura. But it will be a morning of spring when I meet
Boccaccio, ah, in S. Maria Novella, and as we come into the sunshine I
shall laugh and say, "Tell me a story." And Charles of Valois will pass
by, who sent Dante on that long journey; and Henry VII, for whom he had
prayed; and I shall hear the trumpets of Montecatini, and I shall
understand the hate Uguccione had for Castracani. And I shall watch the
entry of the Duke of Athens, and I shall see his cheek flush at the
thought of a new tyranny. Then for the first time I shall hear the
sinister, fortunate name Medici. Under the banners of the Arti I shall
hear the rumour of their names, Silvestro who urged on the Ciompi, Vieri
who once made peace; nor will the death of Gian Galeazzo of Milan, nor
the tragedy of Pisa, hinder their advent, for I shall see Giovanni di
Bicci de' Medici proclaimed Gonfaloniere of the city. Then they will
troop by more splendid than princes, the universal bankers, lords of
Florence: Cosimo the hard old man, Pater Patriae, the greatest of his
race; Piero, the weakling; Lorenzo il Magnifico, tyrant and artist; and
over his shoulder I shall see the devilish, sensual face of Savonarola.
And there will go by Giuliano, the lover of Simonetta; Piero the exile;
Giovanni the mighty pope, Leo X; Giulio the son of Guiliano, Clement
VII; Ippolito the Cardinal, Alessandro the cruel, Lorenzino his
assassin, Cosimo l'Invitto, Grand Duke of Tuscany, bred in a convent and
mourned for ever.
So they pass by, and their descendants follow after them, even to poor,
unhappy, learned Gian Gastone, the last of his race.
And around them throng the artists; yes, I shall see them all. Angelico
will lead me into his cell and show me the meaning of the Resurrection.
With Lippo Lippi I shall play with the children, and talk with Lucrezia
Buti at the convent gate; Ghirlandajo will take me where Madonna Vanna
is, and with Baldovinetti I shall watch the dawn. And Botticelli will
lead me into a grove apart: I shall see the beauty of those three women
who pass, who pass like a season, and are neither glad nor sorry; and
with him I shall understand the joy of Venus, whose son was love, and
the tears of Madonna, whose Son was Love also. And I shall hear the
voice of Leonardo; and he will play upon his lyre of silver, that lyre
in the shape of a horse's head which he made for Sforza of Milan; and I
shall see him touch the hands of Monna Lisa. And I shall see the statue
of snow that Buonarotti made; I shall find him under S. Miniato, and I
shall weep with him.
So I shall dream in the sunset. The Angelus will be ringing from all the
towers, I shall have celebrated my return to the city that I have loved.
The splendour of the dying day will lie upon her; in that enduring and
marvellous hour, when in the sound of every bell you may find the names
that are in your heart, I shall pass again through the gardens, I shall
come into the city when the little lights before Madonna will be shining
at the street corners, and the streets will be full of the evening,
where the river, stained with fading gold, steals into the night to the
sea. And under the first stars I shall find my way to my hillside. On
that white country road the dust of the day will have covered the vines
by the way, the cypresses will be white half-way to their tops, in the
whispering olives the cicale will still be singing; as I pass every
threshold some dog will rouse, some horse will stamp in the stable, or
an ox stop munching in his stall. In the far sky, marvellous with
infinite stars, the moon will sail like a little platter of silver, like
a piece of money new from the mint, like a golden rose in a mirror of
silver. Long and long ago the sun will have set, but when I come to the
gate I shall go under the olives; though I shall be weary I shall go by
the longest way, I shall pass by the winding path, I shall listen for
the whisper of the corn. And I shall beat at my gate, and one will say
_Chi è_, and I shall make answer. So I shall come into my house, and the
triple lights will be lighted in the garden, and the table will be
spread. And there will be one singing in the vineyard, and I shall hear,
and there will be one walking in the garden, and I shall know.