FLORENCE.--DESPERATION OF BUTTONS, OF MR. FIGGS, AND OF THE DOCTOR.
Florence, the fair!--Certainly it is the fairest of cities. Beautiful
for situation; the joy of the whole earth! It has a beauty that grows
upon the heart. The Arno is the sweetest of rivers, its valley the
loveliest of vales; luxuriant meadows; rich vineyards; groves of
olive, of orange, and of chestnut; forests of cypress; long lines of
mulberry; the dark purple of the distant Apennines; innumerable white
villas peeping through the surrounding groves; the mysterious haze of
the sunset, which throws a softer charm over the scene; the
magnificent cattle; the fine horses; the bewitching girls, with their
broad hats of Tuscan straw; the city itself, with its gloomy old
palaces, iron-grated and massive walled, from the ancient holds of
street-fighting nobles, long since passed away, to the severe Etruscan
majesty of the Pitti Palace; behold Florence!
It is the abode of peace, gentleness, and kindly pleasure (or at any
rate it was so when the Club was there). Every stone in its pavement
has a charm. Other cities may please; Florence alone can win enduring
love. It is one of the very few which a man can select as a permanent
home, and never repent of his decision. In fact, it is probably the
only city on earth which a stranger can live in and make for himself
a true home, so pleasant as to make desire for any other simply
impossible.
[Illustration: Florence From San Miniato.]
In Florence there is a large English population, drawn there by two
powerful attractions. The first is the beauty of the place, with
its healthy climate, its unrivalled collections of art, and its
connection with the world at large. The second is the astonishing
cheapness of living, though, alas! this is greatly changed from
former times, since Florence has become the capital of Italy.
Formerly a palace could be rented for a trifle, troops of servants
for another trifle, and the table could be furnished from day to day
with rarities and delicacies innumerable for another trifle. It is,
therefore, a paradise for the respectable poor, the needy men of
intelligence, and perhaps it may be added, for the shabby genteel.
There is a glorious congregation of dilettante, literati, savans; a
blessed brotherhood of artists and authors; here gather political
philosophers of every grade. It was all this even under the Grand
Duke of refreshing memory; hereafter it will be the same, only,
perhaps, a little more so, under the new influences which it shall
acquire and exert as the metropolis of a great kingdom.
The Florentines are the most polished people under the sun. The
Parisians claim this proud pre-eminence, but it can not be
maintained. Amid the brilliancies of Parisian life there are
fearful memories of bloody revolutions, brutal fights, and
blood-thirsty cruelties. No such events as these mar the fair
pages of later Florentine history. In fact, the forbearance and
gentleness of the people have been perhaps to their disadvantage.
Life in Florence is joy. The sensation of living is of itself a
pleasure. Life in that delicious atmosphere becomes a higher state of
being. It is the proper home for poets and artists. Those who pretend
that there is any thing in America equal to Florence either in
climate, landscape, or atmosphere, are simply humbugs. Florence is
unique. It is the only Athens of the modern world.
[Illustration: Pitti Palace.]
The streets are cool and delightful. The great bath houses keep off
the rays of the sun. The people love to stroll away the greater part
of their happy days. They loiter around the corners or under the
porticoes gathering news and retailing the same. Hand-organs are
generally discountenanced. Happy city!
[Illustration: Fountain Of Neptune, Palazzo Vecchio.]
When it is too hot in the streets there is the vast cathedral--Il
Duomo--dim, shadowy, magnificent, its gigantic dome surpassed only
by that of St. Peter's. And yet in the twilight of this sacred
interior, where there dwells so much of the mysterious gloom only
found in the Gothic cathedrals of the north, many find greater
delight than in all the dazzling splendor, the pomp, and glory, and
majesty of the Roman temple. Beside it rises the Campanile, as fair
as a dream, and in appearance almost as unsubstantial. Not far off
is the Baptistery, with its gates of bronze--an assemblage of glory
which might well suffice for one city.
[Illustration: The Duomo.]
Around the piazza that incloses these sacred buildings they sell
the best roasted chestnuts in the world. Is it any wonder that
Florence is so attractive?
[Illustration: The Campanile.]
The Dodge Club obtained furnished apartments in a fine large hotel
that looked out on the Ponte della Trinita and on the Arno. Beneath
was the principal promenade in the city. It was a highly agreeable
residence.
No sooner had they arrived than Buttons set out in search of the
Spaniards. Three days had been lost on the road. He was half afraid
that those three days had lost him the Spaniards altogether. Three
days! It was possible that they had seen Florence in that time and
had already left. The thought of this made Buttons feel extremely
nervous. He spent the first day in looking over all the hotels in
the city. The second in searching through as many of the
lodging-houses as were likely to be chosen by the Spaniards. The
third he spent in meandering disconsolately through the cafés. Still
there were no signs of them. Upon this Buttons fell into a profound
melancholy. In fact it was a very hard case. There seemed nothing
left for him to do. How could he find them out?
[Illustration: Trozzi Palace.]
Dick noticed the disquietude of his friend, and sympathized with
him deeply. So he lent his aid and searched through the city as
industriously as possible. Yet in spite of every effort their
arduous labors were defeated. So Buttons became hopeless.
The Senator, however, had met with friends. The American Minister
at Turin happened at that time to be in Florence. Him the Senator
recollected as an old acquaintance, and also as a tried companion
in arms through many a political campaign. The Minister received
him with the most exuberant delight. Dinner, wine, feast of reason,
flow of soul, interchange of latest news, stories of recent
adventures on both sides, laughter, compliments, speculations on
future party prospects, made the hours of an entire afternoon fly
like lightning. The American Eagle was never more convivial.
The Minister would not let him go. He made him put up at his hotel.
He had the entree into the highest Florentine society. He would
introduce the Senator everywhere. The Senator would have an
opportunity of seeing Italian manners and customs such as was very
rarely enjoyed. The Senator was delighted at the idea.
But Mr. Figgs and the Doctor began to show signs of weariness. The
former walked with Dick through the Boboli gardens and confided
all his soul to his young friend. What was the use of an elderly
man like him putting himself to so much trouble? He had seen enough
of Italy. He didn't want to see any more. He would much rather be safe
at home. Besides, the members of the Club were all going down the
broad road that leadeth to ruin. Buttons was infatuated about
those Spaniards. The Doctor thought that he (Dick) was involved in
some mysterious affair of a similar nature. Lastly, the Senator was
making a plunge into society. It was too much. The ride over the
Apennines to Bologna might be interesting for two young fellows
like him and Buttons, but was unfit for an elderly person.
Moreover, he didn't care about going to the seat of war. He had
seen enough of fighting. In short, he and the Doctor had made up
their minds to go back to Paris via Leghorn and Marseilles.
Dick remonstrated, expostulated, coaxed. But Mr. Figgs was inflexible.
[Illustration: Buttons Melancholy.]