sympathise, Veronica? With the mountains, or with the sea?’
‘O, with the sea!
‘The sweetest thing in all the world is pain
Consoled by Love.‘
‘And you, Sir Poet?’
‘Surely, with both,’ he answered.
‘But,’ she persisted, ‘with which of the two, chiefly?’
‘I suppose,’ he replied, ‘with the ineradicable selfishness of a man,
one inclines towards the mountains. _Pacem summa tenent._ Serenity
dwells upon the heights.’
[Illustration]
LAMIA’S WINTER-QUARTERS
I heard the Poet’s voice in the balcony, followed by the pushing back
of heavy _persiane_, and then:
‘Lamia! Come as quickly as you can; I want to show you what you may
never have a chance of seeing again.’
There was no reason why, if there was anything new or wonderful to
behold, Lamia and the Poet should have a monopoly of the spectacle; so,
arraying myself as rapidly as I could, I emerged onto the balcony just
as Lamia, in incomplete but most fascinating attire, did the same.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘What hills! What slopes! What villas! But where
is Florence?’
‘Wait,’ said the Poet, ‘and you shall see. Like you, dear Lamia, she
is very fair,’—how I wish I had the courage to address her in that
fashion!—‘but, unlike you, she has not yet flowered out of the night.’
‘Neither have I, quite, I fear,’ she said, showing, when thuswise
reminded, a quite unnecessary concern respecting her hastily-donned
apparel.
‘She is veiled, absolutely veiled, as I have never seen her before,
in a, shall I call it, _peignoir_ of white mist, which conceals her
utterly from sight. But look! she is beginning to disrobe her marble
beauty.’
‘O, what is that, that surges through the mist?‘ ‘That is the noblest
symbol of civic liberty in the world, the Tower of the _Palazzo
Vecchio_.’
‘And that? And that?‘ ‘The topmost tier of Giotto’s Belfry, worthy, by
its sublime simplicity, to serve for the type of all great Art; and, at
its side in the rapidly-clearing ether, the cupola of the Duomo, that
Michelangelo would not copy and could not better.‘Dome after dome,
tower after tower, _campanile_ after _campanile_, surged silently out
of the mist; and, to use the Poet’s I hope not too familiar simile, the
silvery folds of night sank downward to her feet, and Florence stood in
naked loveliness before Lamia’s delighted gaze. Over the eastern hills
came the bright vernal sun, every mountain slope broke into smiles
and dimples, and in the last of its seaward valleys Arno glanced and
gleamed with joy of the expanding dawn. Distance lends enchantment
to the sound as well as to the view, and the clang and clash of
innumerable belfries came modulated through the intervening air,
wherefrom the last lingering trails of mist were gradually wizarded
away.
[Illustration: FLORENCE]
Question and answer followed each other in uninterrupted succession.
Yes, that was _San Miniato Al Monte_, with _La Bella Villanella_ hard
by; and that beyond was _Santa Margherita_, neighboured by the villa
in which Guicciardini completed his History. And yes,—Lamia was quite
right,—that was the _Torre del Gallo_, and away to the right and
farther up the hills was the Medicean _Poggio-a-Cajano_, where Lorenzo
wrote his poem on the _Ambra_. Over the matchless panorama of hill and
valley her interrogatories wandered unceasingly, whilst we called on
our recollection to supply the names she asked for.
Suddenly, other _persiane_ were pushed back, and Veronica joined us.
‘What are you all doing?’
‘Do you remember,’ answered Lamia, ‘the wife of Cosimo, Pater Patriæ,
asking him, when advanced in years, why he so often sate with closed
eyes, and his answering that he did so in order to accustom them to
what they must soon always be doing? I am opening mine thus early,
feeling that, in such a world as this, I shall never be able to close
them again.’
* * * * *
‘It is perfect, absolutely perfect,’ said Lamia, ‘and no wonder
Politian found it so.’
‘But did Politian really live here?’ I asked.
‘Let us be wise enough to think so,’ said the Poet, ‘and it was quite
in keeping with Lorenzo’s magnificence, when that testy scholar, to
whom he had committed the tuition of his sons, quarrelled with Donna
Clarice because she thought she also should have something to say
to their training, to provide him with such a sanctuary. Besides,
in Italy, Tradition is not, as some one has said she is elsewhere,
a toothless old crone with memory half gone, but the trustworthy
depositary of unforgotten glories.‘
‘It is more than a tradition,’ said Veronica. ‘Only this morning I came
across a passage from Politian’s correspondence, which would seem to
confirm local legend. Here it is. He is writing to Lorenzo. “When you
are incommoded by the heat of the season at Careggi, you will perchance
bethink you of the shelter of my abode, nor deem it undeserving of your
notice. Nestled in the sloping sides of the hill, we have here water
in abundance, and, being constantly refreshed by moderate breezes,
experience but little inconvenience from the fervour of the sun. As you
approach the villa itself, it seems embosomed in a grove; but, when
you reach it, you discover that it commands a full view of the city.
Though the neighbourhood is not without its denizens, I can here enjoy
the solitude so congenial to my disposition. But I can offer you the
temptation of other allurements. Wandering beyond his own boundaries,
Pico della Mirandola sometimes steals unexpectedly on my retirement,
and draws me from my seclusion to share his supper. What that is, you
well know; modest indeed, but neatly served, and made grateful by the
charm of his converse. But be you my guest. The meal shall be as good,
and the wine better.”‘
‘How very philosophic!’ said Lamia. ‘So much so, that the passage was
probably written on the morrow of a certain fascinating young woman,
whose name I cannot remember, but of whom Politian, I have read, was,
notwithstanding his erudition, deeply enamoured, giving her hand to
a rival scholar, though which of them, I need scarcely say, I have
equally forgotten.’
‘The great Marullus, I think,’ said the Poet; ‘and your fascinating
young woman was Alessandra, the accomplished daughter of Lorenzo’s
Chancellor, Bartolomeo della Scala, whose house, still standing, you
must remind us to show you in Florence.‘ [Illustration: A TUSCAN VILLA]
Our first business was to make acquaintance with the immediate
surroundings of the home provided for us by Veronica’s indefatigable
foresight, operating through a protracted correspondence none of us
had been deemed worthy to peruse. The rural architecture of Tuscany is
of a noble simplicity; and, in the main portion of our villa, built in
the course of the sixteenth century, there was no deviation from the
familiar type. But, adjoining it westward, and seemingly of more
ancient date, were an upper and a lower _loggia_ of conventual aspect;
the upper one having a sloping roof of rich red tiles supported by
graceful pillars of _pietra serena_, and the lower one serving as an
Italian equivalent of an English verandah, only more spacious and more
tasteful, in which we could sun or shade ourselves according to the
mood of the weather. Together, they formed an impenetrable barrier
against the well-known keenness of the _tramontana_, while the main
building provided ample shelter against possible inclemency from the
east. To the west our view was over the final valley of the Arno, that
spacious plain of fertile cultivation tenderly protected by hills of
exquisite shape and moderate elevation, on whose bolder ridges stand
historic towns of unmatched picturesqueness; while southward, over
vineyards and olive-groves terraced down precipitously-sloping ground,
we gazed on the domes and towers of the fair Tuscan capital. If one
lives on the side of a hill, one cannot reasonably expect to have a
very vast level expanse for the purposes of a garden. A quadrangular
space of modest dimensions between the house and the low boundary wall,
where the ground began to fall away, was all that had been dedicated
to that pleasurable end; and this afforded Lamia an opportunity of
observing that two such enthusiastic horticulturists as the Poet and
myself would find but few worlds to conquer in so narrow a territory.
‘Forget,’ I ventured to plead, ‘what it is useless to remember. England
is well enough, and so is Italy, but only on condition that you do
not ask from the one what belongs to the other. I am not quite sure
that the person who is intimately acquainted with both is ever quite
satisfied with either, since it is part of our perverse human nature
mentally to extol what we have not, to the depreciation of what we
have.’
‘Is it to a woman you say that?’ observed Lamia, to my complete
confusion. ‘Men preach Philosophy, women practise it; and I shall
probably show myself quite content without your well-filled borders,
while you inwardly, and perhaps sometimes outwardly, long for your
rampant greenery and untidy efflorescence. These _garofani_—you see,’
she said, turning to the Poet, ‘I know the Italian for carnations,—in
their tasteful pots along the loopholed wall are much more to my taste
than all the straggling annuals and robust perpetuals in the world.’
‘I can see,’ he said, kindly coming to my rescue, ‘you have found
your proper home at last. I thought it would be so; and we can only
congratulate ourselves on the result. But now let us explore farther
afield, and we shall probably find that, if we will only use the word
garden in a liberal sense, and indeed in that in which it is used in
the corner of England where we have our home, there is more of it than
we have just rashly assumed.’
Thereupon, we passed through a cool, spacious _cortile_, cloistered
on two of its sides, but for the rest open to the sky, and whose only
occupants were a disused fountain and a tall glistening orange-tree
covered with golden fruit, of course of the hardy bitter sort; thence
under an archway festooned with wistaria not yet in flower, and out
into the _podere_, which I must needs call by that name, since there is
no English equivalent for it, and which is nowhere to be seen in such
perfection as in Tuscany.
‘Indeed, indeed you are right,’ exclaimed Lamia; ‘right as when you
once said that, were it always Spring, one would never garden, even
in England. O this young green corn, with its purple anemones, its
crimson tulips, its pale almond and intensely bright peach blossom,
its fantastically growing fig-trees with their budding tips, its
burgeoning vines and spectral olive-trees, all dwelling together on
the fair hillside that seems to be smiling self-complacently at its
own loveliness! Look at that bank of irises, not yet broken from their
sheath! But when they have, what a sight they will be!’
It is always delightful to have one’s feelings expressed by some one
else in language of enthusiasm one might oneself be afraid to employ;
and we accompanied Lamia, as a sort of chorus, echoing all she said,
and only too well pleased to follow in her footsteps, as she wandered
on and on through a world of beauty wholly new to her.
‘And these lovely grassy paths,’ she said, ‘that lead everywhere and
nowhere, tempting one to travel on in search of something unknown, but
with ever, on either side, more sprouting wheat, more pendent vines,
more crookedly-branching fig-stems, more tulips, more windflowers,
more mountains, more glimpses of towers and belfries in the glittering
distance. In England everything seems to crouch. Here everything seems
to soar.’
Lured onward by Lamia’s enjoyment, and mounting by such easy and
gradual slopes that we hardly noticed we were ascending, we suddenly
came to a grassy plateau almost encircled by secular cypresses that are
the distinctive glory of Tuscany; and here we might have been tempted
to halt, had it not been that yet beyond it were rugged paths that
zigzagged among tall, dense bushes of white heath and yellow broom,
both now in full flower; while on shapeless boulders and protruding
rocks were the stars of the white, the yellow, and the rose-coloured
cistus. Here and there we came on sheets of the single pink anemone;
elsewhere, in the more sheltered nooks, were the Apennine wind-flower
which, with due care and choice of position, perhaps you remember, we
have persuaded to flourish in the garden that we love.
‘As Veronica has told us that we are to lead a life of strict
simplicity,’ said Lamia, ‘we had better do something to make it
graceful; and, if you two will only cut some branches of heath and
broom, I will be equally energetic among the anemones.’
We were descending homeward with our lovely spoil, when we heard a
creaking sound well known to me; and, in another moment, we overtook
the slowly-rolling wheels of a wooden wain—of wood, not only in its
low, long body, but of wood throughout, with wooden wheels, wooden
pole, and wooden yoke—drawn by a couple of cream-coloured steers, and
bearing a fragrant load of newly-cut rye-grass. Though at no little
inconvenience and delay, on the incline along which it was moving,
the peasants who accompanied it at once cried a halt, that they might
show their respect to and make the acquaintance of the new-comers. Of
the manifold charms of Tuscany, perhaps there is none so great or so
enduring as the charm of manner peculiar to its rural population. Frank
without being free, deferential but never servile, not without a fine
reserve yet with never a touch of shyness, withholding not a certain
tribute to social superiority, while tacitly intimating the fundamental
equality that appertains to human brotherhood, the demeanour and speech
of Tuscan _contadini_ keep intercourse perpetually fresh, and impart
to conversation on the tritest and most familiar themes perennial
liveliness and interest. Their salutations, frequent though these be,
for they would never think of passing you without one, are divested of
conventionality by their manifest sincerity. They can never see you,
never speak to you, too often; and, whenever they speak, they smile.
For thousands of years, morning has risen upon the world, but without
any diminution in its freshness; and it is the same with their _Buon
giorno, signore_! their _Felice sera, sua signoria_! their _Felicissima
notte, e buon riposo_! their _A rivederla_! and all their ancient
consecrated phrases for conveying their sense of the strong link that
binds human creatures to each other. Every time they say these things,
they mean them; nor do they ever tire of the iterated and reiterated
courtesies of life. The undeferential nod of Northern manners, the
mumbled recognition, the slipshod salutation, would seem shocking to
them, as lacking in human piety. On this occasion, no doubt, natural
curiosity blended with native good-breeding to make them halt in
their labours; for they were, I have no doubt, as eager to make our
acquaintance as we were to make theirs. Yet of visible curiosity there
was not a trace, as they lifted their hats from their beaded foreheads
and remained bareheaded till we begged them to cover themselves. What
they conveyed was a fervour of welcome akin to the glow of an Italian
sun, a welcome that warmed us through and through, and made us feel
that, at that instant, we were forming friendships that, save for some
fault of ours, would last through life. Were we all in good health?
Had we had a fatiguing journey? Were we comfortable and happy in the
villa? They hoped we were going to stay a long time. Could they do
anything for us? Did we love Italy? Had we been there before? O, but it
was evident we had; for we talked their language like one of themselves
(somewhat of an exaggeration, save in the case of Veronica). Yes, the
season was fairly forward, and there was good promise for everything,
given what was now wanted, plenty of sunshine. Commonplaces, you
perhaps will say. Indeed, yes. But which of us in this world is so
surprisingly original? The real originality, in some countries I could
mention, would be amiability, unfailing courtesy in the ever-recurring
trifles of life, a wish to please and to be pleased, and a perpetual
freshening of existence by treating nothing in it as a matter of
course, or as undeserving of recognition and thankfulness. Even the
most original of us are original only sometimes; and, if we are to
consort with each other at all, we must needs indulge in a good deal of
repetition and commonplace. But freshness of manner can make repetition
sound absolutely new, and kindliness of disposition invest the veriest
commonplace with an air that everybody shall take for uncommon.
It was with difficulty we led Lamia away from her new acquaintances,
not the least attractive of those being the sleek, smooth-coated,
soft-eyed oxen that play so large a part in the picturesqueness as in
the rural life of Tuscany, and that seemed to appreciate the tender
stroking of her hand and the equally soft caress of her voice.
‘I never felt such a bumpkin before,’ she said, ‘as in the presence of
those gracious peasants. What barbarians they must think us!’
‘If they thought that of you, Lamia,’ I said, more struck by the
exaggeration than by the humility of her remark, ‘they certainly
contrived to conceal their impression. Still, speaking generally, rural
Tuscany is a school of manners.’
The noble simplicity referred to as the distinguishing mark of villa
architecture in Tuscany, is as dominant in the interior as on the
exterior of its buildings; ample space being their chief feature and
adornment. Unless they have been invaded by modern hands, they depend
for effect on bold outlines rather than on decorative detail; and they
are furnished in harmony with the same severe taste. When Veronica
admonished us that we were to lead a life of strict simplicity, she
referred to this circumstance among others.
‘I hope,’ she said, ‘you have left your sybaritic tastes at home. You
will find many shapely but no comfortable chairs, no superfluity of
cushions, nowhere a footstool, and, if you choose to lie on what looks
like a sofa, you will soon find you are not reposing on rose-leaves.
You must not come to me and complain that there is not a bell in your
room, or, if there is, that it apparently has no communication with the
outer world. If Lamia wishes to make a mess indoors with her flowers
and branches of blossom, she shall not be denied; but you must not
look for those more permanent graces of life to which you are all so
attached.’
‘Don’t mind _me_,‘ said Lamia. ‘I am quite prepared to empty my own
bath, brush my own skirts, answer the bell instead of ringing it, and
live on _fagioli_ and dried _funghi_. Indeed, it was chiefly to indulge
in those unusual luxuries that I came to Italy.’
Considering who it is that has created, cherished, and fostered in
us those sybaritic tastes, and that attachment to the graces and
elegancies of life of which Veronica spoke, and with which she told
us we were now to dispense, we may be pardoned, I think, if, at the
first opportunity, we indulged in some private humour at her expense.
If we are demoralised by domestic luxury, who is it but Veronica that
has corrupted us? I protest that most men, in the matter of material
comfort, are absolute Spartans, and, as for the Poet, his native
austerity was once not to be surpassed, and he still indulges from time
to time in his ideal, at any rate in conversation. But he too has, for
the most part, succumbed to Veronica’s unequalled capacity for making
life at once graceful and commodious; and I am not sure that now he
would not, if at home, feel almost wronged if, should he happen to want
a paper-cutter, he had to rise from his chair in order to go in search
of one.
‘Just you wait!’ said Lamia, ‘and see what becomes of the simple life
to which we are to dedicate ourselves. The first time Veronica goes to
Florence, she will return, I will engage to say, laden with manifold
conveniences of existence, and by degrees she will introduce a world
of things into this splendid vacuum; and if, some fine morning, you
meet a plumber or bell-hanger on the stairs, you need not regard
him as an interloper. Nor would I mind wagering my next quarter’s
dress-money that, before long, you will see me sitting in the easiest
of easy-chairs, and gracefully reposing on the softest of ottomans.‘
‘I doubt it,’ said the Poet, ‘for Veronica has a fine sense of the
fitness of things, and her tastes are sufficiently flexible for her to
distinguish between Northern and Southern needs, Northern and Southern
traditions. When Francesco Cibo, the nephew of Innocent VIII., married
Lorenzo’s daughter, and came to Florence with a large and splendid
retinue, he was entertained during the period of the nuptials with the
utmost magnificence. But, at the end of that time, he observed that
all the silver vessels and ornaments, of which there had been such a
profusion, disappeared from the table, and were replaced by others of
brass; and, moreover, that every meal was now served with the utmost
plainness and frugality. Anxious lest his Roman attendants should
carry back to the Eternal City the impression that he had contracted a
union with either a very poor or a very parsimonious family, he sought
to discover how they were faring, and found they were still being
entertained in the most sumptuous manner. The enigma was explained
when Lorenzo said to him, “You are now one of ourselves, and as one of
ourselves I treat you. My grandsire Cosimo used to say to his sons,
‘Remember you are only citizens of Florence, and must reserve what
splendours you can command for the glorification of the City.’ As his
descendant, I obey his injunction.”‘
‘Hark!’ I said. ‘Already there are sounds of modern civilisation. The
grass-plot is being mown.’
Lamia and the Poet listened, though I think the latter at once guessed
my meaning.
‘What is it?’ said Lamia. ‘A mowing-machine? I cannot hear it. I hear
only the bleating of sheep.’
We passed afresh into the garden, and there was a flock of ewes and
lambs nibbling the sweet short clover, attended by a picturesque
shepherd girl, who carefully kept them off the shrubs, but went on
industriously knitting all the while.
‘Is not that a simple enough mowing-machine for you?’ I asked. ‘It
attains to even Veronica’s ideal of primitive expedients.‘
‘It is as simple and primitive,’ said Lamia, ‘as much of the garden
itself. What a comfort it is to find oneself in a country where’—I
imagine this was intended as a shaft against myself—‘there does not
rage a fidgety mania for perfection. Flowers here are reduced to their
proper subordination in the universe.’