govern most of our movements. Sometimes we were but two, sometimes
but three, of a company; and it would happen that, when we were four,
we lost touch of each other for a time, and went our separate ways.
Veronica not infrequently was missing; and generally, when this
occurred, when she returned alone to the villa, she brought with her
some ‘object of antiquity,’ as the Florentine dealers in curios and
old furniture call such things, purchased after considerable thought
and much bargaining. I think you know Veronica has a large heart,
and would defraud no one of his due, and indeed would give any one
more than his due, where no bargaining was in question. But she knows
just as much about the date and value of _cassettone_, triptych, or
embroidery, as any of the various dealers on the Ponte Vecchio or in
the Via de’ Serragli; and she not unnaturally enjoyed displaying her
peculiar learning in those interesting haunts. Her perfect familiarity
with the language, and indeed even with Florentine _patois_, added to
her advantage and strengthened her position in appraising the value
of mediæval picture-frame or sixteenth-century mirror. Moreover, it
is the greatest possible error to suppose that Florentine dealers are
consumed with a single-minded desire to rob unwary purchasers; and
I am convinced they much preferred to conclude a fair bargain with
Veronica, than an unfair one with the first ignorant comer. Oriental
ways and traditions of business still linger sufficiently with them to
make _prezzo fisso_ or a rigidly-fixed price exceedingly distasteful.
Their day is long, they have abundance of time on their hands, and,
if the few things they sell in the course of the week were sold
without demur and in a couple of minutes, life would be insufferably
tedious for want of human intercourse and agreeable conversation.
Veronica invariably regaled us with minute accounts, on the occasion
of each fresh purchase, of the polite but protracted controversy
that had attended it; and very diverting these were. She preferred
to conduct these transactions without our company; for, in the
first place, as she truly enough remarked, we knew nothing whatever
upon the subject and could therefore be of no use to her, and, in the
second place, when we honoured her with our useless society, one or
other of us invariably ended by showing signs of impatience, and to
be impatient over a bargain is inevitably to get the worst of it. She
did not always come off a winner in these friendly encounters; and
she was just as candid and as diverting in confessing her defeats as
in recording her victories. On one occasion she suffered a peculiarly
humiliating disaster, which she detailed with much zest at her own
expense. Wishing to give an agreeable surprise to Lamia on the occasion
of that Birthday, when, as you will perhaps remember, I was so sorely
discomfited, she went in search of some amber beads which Lamia had
more than once expressed a longing to find in order to complete a set
she already possessed. But it was indispensable they should be of a
special hue. At length, Veronica discovered some in a shop in the
Por Santa Maria, but, do what she would, and notwithstanding all her
Florentine wit, she could not bring the owner of them into what she
deemed a reasonable frame of mind as regards price.
‘_Ebbene_,’ she said, ‘I will try elsewhere,’
She tried everywhere, but in vain, and so at length had to go back to
the Por Santa Maria, and say she would take the beads at the man’s own
price.
‘But now, _Signora mia_,’ he said, ‘that is no longer the price: you
can find no others in Florence to suit you, so these in the meantime
have become more valuable.’ And he added some insignificant sum to the
original figure, more for the sake of triumph than from any mercenary
motive. Had Veronica been making a purchase for herself, I am sure she
would have defrauded him of his victory by leaving him in possession pf
his amber treasures. But she would not disappoint Lamia, and so paid
the forfeit of her unsuccessful strategy.
But we had a less humorous and far more touching experience on another
occasion. Visiting a hillside village some twenty-five miles away, we
were all much taken by a small altar-piece, a _Presentation in the
Temple_, which stood in a side-chapel in a little church of otherwise
no particular pretension. We discussed, then and there, by whom it
may have been painted, for I need scarcely say that, on that subject,
we all, like so many other people, consider ourselves exceedingly
expert, and quite competent to express an opinion. The _Parroco_, a
venerable Priest of courtly manners but much humility, did not affect
to adjudicate among us, but was evidently much interested in our
deliberations, and still more in our admiration of the picture. At
last he hesitatingly asked Veronica if we should like to become the
owners of it. This had certainly not occurred to us, and we were rather
taken aback by the question. But Veronica, enchanted at the chance
of an unexpected bit of bargaining, said ‘Yes,’ without a moment’s
hesitation. So modest a sum, however, was asked, if compared with the
high artistic qualities we had been attributing to it, that it went
against her conscience, which, as you know, is the strongest part of
her, to offer anything less. Moreover, she probably remembered, on
second thoughts, that the place was not a suitable one for financial
transactions; and any remaining scruple we might have had in completing
the bargain was set at rest by his telling us that he had long been
anxious to buy a second-hand harmonium that was for sale, whereby the
services of his little church could be conducted in a more seemly
manner.
The picture was carried off; and, by the time it had been in our
possession forty-eight hours, its artistic value had enormously
increased, and there was hardly any Umbrian painter, Raphael perhaps
excepted, to whom we were not ready to ascribe it. We discussed, over
and over again, where it should be hung when we returned to England,
and first one position of honour and then another was suggested for
it. But, as I knew well enough from the first would turn out to be the
case, it was finally assigned by Veronica to the Poet’s study.
For a week she had the satisfaction of seeing all of us as much
interested in, and as proud of, a purchase as herself. But, on the
morning of the eighth day after our mountain excursion, the old Priest
suddenly made his appearance at the villa, whither he had walked all
the way; and, in a state of much agitation, he said that he had come
to ask us to give him back the picture, the price of which he would
restore and which he had in his hand. At first there was a protesting
chorus, and Veronica was particularly eloquent in pointing out that the
request was most unreasonable, as we had given the full amount asked
for, without any demur. Thereupon the poor old man explained, with
tears in his eyes, that his parishioners had missed the picture, and,
though he had told them of his intended purchase of the harmonium, they
insisted on its being restored to its traditional home, and all his
pleas and arguments had proved unavailing with them. To such an appeal
but one answer was possible. The picture was returned, and the Poet’s
study will never see that Umbrian masterpiece. Our disappointment
was great; but why, said Veronica, should everybody be disappointed?
Poor old man! He stood there a most touching figure. So we put our
hearts and purses together; and the sound of the second-hand harmonium
now follows on his quavering voice, when, in answer to his _Dominus
vobiscum_, the entire mountain congregation shrills out, to its
instrumental accompaniment, _Et cum spiritu tuo_.
As a rule, however, Veronica’s purchases, over and above being
definitive, were as useful as they were ornamental; and it sometimes
seemed as though Lamia’s predictions concerning the transformation
that was gradually to come over the villa were about to be fulfilled.
Veronica invariably declared that the furniture she brought back
with her from the Via Maggio, or the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, was
intended strictly for home consumption, and would in due course be
packed and dispatched to England. Where she would find room in a
house already remarkably well stocked, was a mystery to all of us; and
meanwhile it remained on the spot, to whose aspect it certainly added
finish and charm, and to whose commodiousness it materially contributed.
‘I told you,’ said Lamia, ‘I should end by having a comfortable
armchair, and you see I have. Nor can I well doubt that a host of
work-people have been secretly introduced by Veronica, for I can now
count on my bell ringing with absolute certainty; and, as for Placida
and Perfetta,’—Placida and Perfetta were two handmaidens,—‘though they
still regard fair words and sweet smiles as the principal ingredients
of domestic service, they have developed a talent for tidying my
drawers and arranging my toilet-table which cannot but have proceeded
from severe drilling by Veronica, while you and I were discussing the
Infinite under the shade of cheerful boughs. Shortly after we first
came, Veronica gave one of our dear devoted but somewhat primitive
attendants a sponge, for what purpose I cannot say. But this domestic
novelty was found so useful, that each of them in turn, she discovered,
had the loan of it, till it came to enjoy an absolute monopoly in the
cleaning of the establishment. Now, I believe, sponges, and all other
requisites of a well-ordered place of residence, are as plentiful as
blackberries. Do you remember,’ she said, turning to me, ‘your giving
me some most lovely flowers last week, which, of course, I treasured
beyond words, even after they had faded? But I discovered, the next
morning, that Perfetta, moved by a spirit of economy which seems to
be a perfect passion with these dear people, was applying them, on
the carpet, to the same purpose, I am told, for which we sometimes
use tea-leaves in England. That was a sad ending, was it not, to your
lovely gift?’
Lamia’s observation on ‘the principal ingredients of domestic service,’
as understood in Italy by those who render it, was strictly accurate.
They wait on you with a smile, and minister to your need with copious
conversation. They will end by giving you all you ask for; but you must
ask, and you must not expect that, having asked for it ninety-nine
times, you will get it the hundredth, without asking for it again.
That would be to defraud them, and you as well, of an opportunity of
talk, the thing they love most in the world. Moreover, they have an
invincible objection to being made methodical; nor can you give them
greater pleasure than to ask them to do the work naturally pertaining
to somebody else. The cook would be delighted to nurse the baby, the
housemaid would find it quite natural to be bidden to cook the dinner,
the butler would eagerly go in search of the vegetables, and the
gardener at once mount the box and drive you into Florence. Only do
not ask them to be perfect, according to English ideas, in their own
line. They will do anything on earth for you, if you go the right way
about it; but they will not be turned into machines. Nothing I have
ever seen in Veronica is more admirable, or shows so conclusively the
discrimination she can blend with her love of order, than the amount of
method, limited no doubt but quite unusual, with which, for the time at
least, she imbued those about us; and Lamia, as we have seen, indulged
in a little characteristic raillery on the subject.
‘It is all very well,’ said the Poet, ‘for us to have our little joke
about a certain person’s passion for discipline. But, upon my word,
what Italy stands in need of is a Ruler with plenary powers, of the
temperament and talents of Veronica. So the Roman Empire was founded,
so the British. Dear Lamia, you are very charming; our friend here is,
I do not forget, a gardener of much repute, and I write verses which, I
am told, sometimes give pleasure to people who are easily pleased. But
Veronica is worth all of us put together a hundred times over.‘
‘Quite so,’ said Lamia. ‘Veronica is our _Minerva Medica_, whose
salutary if sometimes unpalatable wisdom keeps us in such tolerable
health as moral valetudinarians like myself are capable of; whereas I
am but a would-be Egeria, who have not yet succeeded in inducing any
one, and you, dear Poet, least of all, to be my Numa. Still, do not
judge me altogether by the way in which I conduct myself here, among
a people very much after my own heart. I _have_ a conscience, which I
showed by declaring it at the frontier, as I heard it was contraband.
I proved to be right; it was confiscated, and I have got on very
comfortably without it ever since. Indeed, I should have missed a
new gown much more. Poets, we all know, never have a conscience, in
any country. But, as Veronica has enough for two, indeed—obligingly
remembering my existence—for three, I daresay we shall continue to
manage fairly well in this easy-going land, with Veronica’s occasional
assistance.‘
At this moment, Veronica joined us under the lower _loggia_, where we
had for some time been sitting, and desisting more frequently than
perhaps you have imagined, from audible converse, in order to commune
silently with the plashing of the fountain in front of us, with city,
plain, and river far below, and with hill-slope and summit everywhere
around us. The sun had just disappeared; and, each instant, mountain
and sky grew more and more unreal, more and more transfigured in the
afterglow. The last _Ave Maria_ bell had rung; the last wain drawn by
the sleek, swaying oxen had creaked up the hill; and, somewhere among
the more distant olives, a peasant lingering at his work, but pondering
aloud on his love, sang out with clear voice to the clear air:
‘Fin al fin de’ giorni miei,
Io te sola voglio amar.‘
‘You never told us,’ said Veronica, ‘what you two did yesterday
afternoon.’ The two were the Poet and Lamia.
‘You scarcely gave us the chance,’ Lamia replied. ‘We were all so
absorbed in admiring the bust you brought from Florence of the founder
of the Magliabecchian Library, whose name I have already forgotten,
but who was himself, you told us, what you, dear Veronica, will become
if you go on accumulating stray black-letter volumes at the rate you
are doing at present,—_quædam bibliotheca_. But have a care. What if
they were lost or stolen? I was reading only yesterday that, when
Guarino, returning to Florence from Constantinople with a cargo of
Greek manuscripts, was shipwrecked, and all his treasures went to the
bottom of the sea, his hair turned white. See how well-informed I am
getting. I can tell you still more on this interesting subject, and
indeed meditate lecturing on it next winter in the Sala Dante. Cosimo
de’ Medici healed a political breach with Alfonso of Naples by sending
him a Manuscript of Livy; and Lorenzo declared to Pico della Mirandola,
probably where we are now sitting, that, if his fortune proved
insufficient, he would pledge his furniture in order to buy books. But,
when your purse gives out, you will spare my easy-chair, Veronica,
won’t you?‘
‘You have still not told us where you went yesterday afternoon.’
Lamia remained silent; leaving it to the Poet to reply:
‘We carried some flowers to the grave of Elizabeth Barrett Browning.’
Again there was silence. Then, shortly, Veronica asked:
‘Did nothing come of it?’
We all well knew the meaning of the question, and so did he, and
accordingly replied:
‘Well, yes, something came of it, such as it is’; and, not waiting for
us to express a desire he was aware we all entertained, he unaffectedly
recited to us the following lines:—
AT HER GRAVE
I
Lo, here among the rest you sleep,
As though no difference were
‘Twixt them and you, more wide, more deep,
Than such as fondness loves to keep
Round each lone sepulchre.
II
Yet they but human, you divine,
Warmed by that heavenly breath,
Which, when ephemeral lights decline,
Like lamp before nocturnal shrine,
Still burneth after death.
III
Yes, here in Tuscan soil you lie,
With Tuscan turf above;
And, lifting silent spires on high,
The cypresses remind the sky
Of the city of your love.
IV
And you did grow so like to her
Wherein you dwelt so long,
Your thoughts, like her May roses, were
Untrained, unchecked, but how astir,
And oh how sweet, with song!
V
The Poet of Olympian mien
His frenzy doth control,
And, gazing on the dread Unseen,
Keep mind majestic, will serene,
And adamantine soul.
VI
He, save to Wisdom sternly true,
Is but the sport of Fate
And gladiatorial pain. But you!
A poet, and a woman too!
The burden was too great.
VII
And so you laid it down, and here,
Oblivious of life’s load,
Quiet you sleep through all the year,
Young Spring, staid Summer, Autumn sere,
And Winter’s icy goad.
VIII
The swallows, freshly on the wing,
In April’s sun rejoice;
The nightingales unceasing sing;
Yes, Spring brings back the birds of Spring,
But not, alas! your voice.
IX
So round your sleep I soft let fall
Frail emblems of regret;
The lowly wind-flower, tulip tall,
The iris mantling wayside wall,
And weeping violet.
X
My votive flowers to-day will blow,
To-morrow be decayed;
But, though long sunk from sight, I know,
The glory of your afterglow
Will never wholly fade.
[Illustration]
LAMIA’S WINTER-QUARTERS
It was _Pasqua delle Rose_, literally Easter of Roses, to distinguish
it from _Pasqua delle Uova_, or Easter of Eggs; in other words,
Whitsuntide. We were indebted to Lamia for this pretty designation,
which was new to all of us, and she had made acquaintance with it in
the course of conversation with Perfetta, who, though by no means what
her name implied, and, indeed, as Veronica said, the most imperfect
of our native retainers, had long since quite won Lamia’s heart by a
spontaneous compliment. Very early on in her study of Italian, Lamia
had displayed an extraordinarily fine ear for the pronunciation of
that language, and a quick talent for assimilating its most familiar
phrases, so that Perfetta one day declared she must surely be of
Italian parentage.
‘Indeed she is not,’ I said. ‘Guess from what land she comes?’
Perfetta looked at her for a moment, and then exclaimed: ‘_Dal
Paradiso_.’
Lamia treated this suggestion of celestial origin with much levity,
but, all the same, made Perfetta a present of a gown which she declared
was worn out; though to my masculine perception it seemed almost as
good as new, and Veronica confirmed my impression by reproving her for
spoiling Perfetta at the same time that she deprived herself of a still
very excellent garment.
‘I am sure,’ said Lamia, apologetically, ‘you would not scold me if
you had seen Perfetta’s delight, and heard her expression of it. If
one gives a gown to one’s English maid, one receives a most respectful
“Thank you, Miss,” and never hears another word about it; and, likely
enough, she sells it, having no sentiment on the subject whatever.
But Perfetta went into raptures over the poor little gown, hugged
it, kissed it, spread it to the light, and has recurred to it again
and again. Indeed, to listen to her is to have a lesson in Italian
expletives of admiration. She would keep it, she said, for Feast days,
not even for ordinary Sundays, unless perhaps she put it on, for the
first time, on the festival of her patron Saint. Finally, she declared
she would wear it, for the first time, at _Pasqua delle Rose_, and
so you saw her in it yesterday. But, if I gave her the gown, I have
likewise made you all a present of a most beautiful phrase; and, if you
still are of opinion that I have left myself short of a frock, it is
always open to any one to manifest gratitude by replacing it.‘
It was, indeed, an Easter, or, if you will, a Whitsuntide, of Roses.
They were everywhere; clambering up the house, drooping from the roof,
running along the walls, carpeting the ground, festooning themselves
from elm to elm, interlaced with the cypresses, peering through
porch and casement, covering stable and concealing shed, scaling the
tallest and seemingly most inaccessible places, and thence falling
down in untrained profusion, veritable cascades of colour. We talked
of them from morning to night; we lived, moved, and had our being
among them, left them only to go back to them, vowed these were the
most beautiful,—no, those,—no, those others, and perpetually expressed
ourselves in fickle and contradictory adoration. As Lamia wandered
among them, she would break into song, chanting their praises, now in
one tongue, now in another.
‘Roses crimson, roses white,
Deadly pale or lovely blushing,
Both in love with May at sight,
And their maiden blood is rushing
To and fro in hope to hide
Tumult it but thus discloses.
Bring the Bridegroom to the Bride!
Everywhere are roses, roses.’
Then she would remember snatches of Lorenzo’s _Canzone a Ballo_, ‘_Ben
venga Maggio_,’ written in the local dialect of the time, and improvise
for them a suitable strain.
‘E voi, donzelle a schiera,
Con li vostri amadori,
Che di rose e di fiori
Vi fate belle, il Maggio,
Che è giovane e bella,
Deh non sie punto acerba,
Che non si rinnovella
L’ età come fa l’ herba.
Nessuna stia superba.
Al’ amadore, il Maggio.‘
[Illustration: ‘EVERYWHERE ARE ROSES, ROSES’]
Then she would revert to her own tongue, in its paraphrase of the pagan
song the _Compagnacci_ used to troll in the days of Savonarola, when
they wanted to protest against the austerity of his followers and the
Burning of the Vanities.
‘Every wall is white with roses,
Linnets pair in every tree;
Brim your beakers, twine your posies,
Kiss and quaff ere Springtime closes;
Bloom and beauty quickly flee.’
If we drove down to Florence, we drove along roads that were avenues of
roses; and, in the Fair City itself, we forget to look at palace, or
façade, or bridge, absorbed in gazing on the white and yellow Banksias
that hung in bunches and clusters over intramural garden-walls. But,
as the year expanded and deepened in beauty, we grew more and more
unwilling to stir from the enchanting surroundings of the villa itself,
unless it were to wander in other _poderi_ and among other vineyards,
or to make expeditions that took us uninterruptedly through a world of
radiant newness. Lamia did not now inquire how we proposed to employ
ourselves, since being alive was in itself occupation enough. Lest,
however, as she said, Veronica’s conscience should prick her for so
much time passed in the mere delight of doing nothing, she read us the
following passage written by Lorenzo de’ Medici, and which she said she
intended to recite to a larger audience whenever she delivered those
lectures in the _Sala Dante_.
‘What can be more worthy of desire to a well-regulated mind than the
enjoyment of leisure with dignity? That is what all good men wish to
attain, but what great men alone accomplish. In the progress of public
affairs we may indeed be allowed to look forward to a period of rest;
but no repose should totally seclude us from attention to the concerns
of our country. I cannot deny that the path it has been my lot to tread
has been arduous and rugged, full of danger, and beset with treachery;
but I console myself with the thought of having contributed to the
welfare of the State, the prosperity of which now rivals that of any
other, however flourishing. Neither have I been inattentive to the
interests and advancement of my family, having always proposed for
my imitation the example of my grandfather Cosimo, who watched over
his public and his private concerns with equal vigilance. Having now
attained the object of my cares, I trust I may be allowed to enjoy the
sweets of leisure, to share in the reputation of my fellow-citizens,
and to exult in the glory of my native city.’
‘The passage is very interesting,’ said the Poet, ‘and serves to
strengthen one’s impression of the sanity and completeness of Lorenzo’s
talents. But is it not also another contribution to the vanity of
human wishes and the fatuity of human self-complacency? I do not think
Lorenzo ever attained to that enjoyment of dignity with leisure of
which he speaks; and assuredly he had not long been dead before the
glory of his native city, in the sense in which he used the phrase,
passed away.‘
‘If one is to believe Politian,’ I said, ‘either the famous death-bed
colloquy with Savonarola never took place, or it left but little
impression on the dying man.’
‘That is a story,’ said the Poet, ‘one would part with unwillingly. But
what is it that Politian says?’
‘That to judge by Lorenzo’s behaviour, and that of his attendants,
when he was dying, you would have thought it was they who momentarily
expected that fate, and he alone that was exempt from it.‘