THE DANTE FESTIVAL AT FLORENCE.
“Del bel paese la dove il si suona.”
DANTE.
And now the great day had come, the 14th of May, 1865! I had to rise
very early, for we intended to leave by the first train, which started
from Leghorn at four o’clock in the morning. Although rather averse to
early rising in England, it cost me no effort here. The thought of going
to Florence roused me, besides the warm bright twilight of an Italian
May morning lighted up my bedroom, and the street was already full of
people, all in holiday dress, and taking the road towards the station,
in order to secure places in the train that was to take them to
Florence.
We were not the last in the crowd, and three hours after, arrived at
Florence, where Italy was going to celebrate on that day the sixth
centenary anniversary of the birth of Dante. Truly this solemn event
happened “in the fulness of time,” and every thing concurred to make it
as splendid and happy a festival as any nation has ever celebrated. Now,
for the first time, the grand idea of Dante, a free and united Italy,
has almost become a complete reality, and the hearts of all his people
rejoice that from the Alps to Mount Etna, one law now reigns, and
hopefully trust that the other great thought of Dante, the deliverance
of the Church from the burden of temporal power, will ere long also
become a reality. The disappointment and irritation the Italians felt at
the loss of Savoy and Nice, has almost entirely passed, while what they
have gained has still all the charm of a new possession, and something
of the passion and enthusiasm of honeymoon-love in it. Is it therefore
to be wondered at that the people of Italy rejoiced on the 14th of May?
that every countenance wore a smile, and that their lively eyes sparkled
with joy!
The festival happening in Spring-time was also a favourable
circumstance. Dante, near the entrance of Hell, felt comforted because
it was “la bella stagione,” was it therefore not natural that it added
much to the splendour and enjoyment of a fête in “blooming Florence!”
Had the anniversary happened in December or January, where could the
flowers have come from, and the glory of the golden sunshine round
Dante’s statue. A pelting rain might easily have damped the enthusiasm
of his countrymen, as it would most certainly have spoiled the pretty
bonnets of his fair compatriots, that made so nice a show in seats round
the Piazza Santa Croce.
Most favourable for the celebration of the anniversary of Dante’s birth,
was lastly, that it happened at Florence, the very town in all the world
best adapted for the celebration of such an event.
Fancy a national festival at Paris or London! The size of those towns
does not admit of a general decoration; but even if such a miracle could
be performed, nobody would ever see a tenth part of it, as one would be
nearly dead with fatigue getting half way from the Marble Arch to St.
Paul’s. Another serious drawback are the immense multitudes that inhabit
these monster towns, and create unpleasant crowds, which, to all that
have not nerves of iron, and great physical strength, destroy all
feeling of enjoyment. None of these unfavourable conditions existed in
Florence. It is but a little place, though such a gem of a town, and can
therefore be uniformly decorated, changed into a gigantic palace,
through whose halls and corridors the inhabitants and visitors, that do
not number by millions, gaily move. And such a place Florence appeared
on that day. All the houses had red, green, or yellow silk hangings
falling down from their windows, and were besides richly decorated with
pictures, busts, flags, flowers, and evergreens. The noble architecture
of the town, the nice clean streets, which are neither too narrow to
look sombre, nor too broad not to be easily spanned by garlands of
flowers, all united to produce the happiest effect. On all the principal
places, statues of great Italians had been placed, or trophies in
remembrance of some great national event, which happened on that
particular spot. There was a great number of them; for the Florentines
boast, and not without some reason, that if a stone were to mark every
glorious memory of the town, there would hardly be a stone in Florence
that did not deserve special distinction. I could not attempt to find
out what all the statues and trophies meant, but even if I had looked at
them all, and remembered every inscription, I could not enumerate them
here, else what is to be but a chapter would become a volume.
I must however mention a fine statue of Galileo, on the Piazza Santa
Maria Novella, with the following inscription:--
“A Galileo.
Finirà la tua gloria
quando il genere umano
cessi di vedere il sole ed abitare la terra.”[G]
[G] Thy glory will end, when the human race shall have ceased to
see the sun, and to inhabit the earth.
Near the Ponte alla Carraia, there was a statue to Goldoni, the great
writer of comedies, and on the Piazza del Duomo, those of the famous
architects Arnolfo and Brunelesco. On the houses where celebrated men
were born, lived, or died, tablets were placed recording their names and
deeds, ornamented with banners, wreaths of flowers and laurels, and
often with the bust or portrait of the illustrious dead.
The Bruneleschi palace, where Michael Angelo lived and died, and which
still contains his books, furniture, etc., interested me much. On a
house in the Corso, I noticed the following inscription:--
O voi che per la via d’amor passate
volgete uno sguardo alle mure
ove naque nell’ aprile del 1266
Beatrice Portinari,
prima e purissima fiamma,
che accese il genio
del Divino Poeta
Dante Alighieri.[H]
[H] You that walk in the path of love, cast a look upon these
walls, where in April 1266, was born Beatrice Portinari,
etc.
The house of Giovanni Battista Strozzi, named the Blind, the great
scholar and philosopher of the 17th century, was beautifully decorated.
I remarked also Frescobaldi’s, the friend of Dante, which stands in the
Via Maggio, and not far from it, on the Piazza Santa Trinità, the house
in which Robert Dudley, an English mathematician of the 17th century
lived, whose memory still survives in Florence.
In Sta. Maria Maggiore, I observed a tablet which marks the spot where
Brunetto Latini, Dante’s master, is buried. Under the name was written
the following line from the Divina Comedia, which is deservedly
considered a grander and more lasting monument than any that could be
erected in marble:
“M’insegnavate come l’uom s’eterna.”[I]
[I] You taught me how a man becomes immortal.
On the Piazza del Duomo, is the “Sasso di Dante,” a stone upon which the
great man often sat in meditations, as lofty and grand as the glorious
Dome on which he was silently gazing.
In a niche in the wall over that spot, was placed the bust of Dante,
surrounded by laurel wreaths and flowers. The Piazza dei Signori, looked
magnificent and most beautiful of all that part which is formed by the
Loggia dei Lanzi, under whose noble arches are placed some of the finest
works of art: the Theseus by Benvenuto Cellini, the Rape of the Sabines
by Giovanni di Bologna, and others. This gem of architecture is at all
times splendid, but now its walls were covered with the most exquisite
Gobelin tapestry, after designs by Michael Angelo. They represented the
history of Adam and Eve, from their creation to their expulsion from
Paradise.
The greatest care had however been bestowed on the decoration of the
Piazza Santa Croce, where the inauguration of the national monument to
Dante was to take place. This piazza is a large oblong space, whose
houses were covered with flowers and rich red silk hangings, and the
background was formed by the splendid marble façade of the church of
Santa Croce. The piazza had been boarded and carpeted all over, and
raised seats were erected for the spectators who had obtained tickets.
When these seats and the windows round the piazza were all filled,
principally with ladies, in the most elegant spring toilets, the effect
was the gayest imaginable.
Behind the seats were placed thirty-eight paintings imitating
bas-relief, illustrating the life of Dante. The first represented him
when, nine years old, he first saw Beatrice, in the house of her
father; the last showed his burial in Ravenna. There were also the
portraits of about forty celebrated contemporaries, translators, or
commentators of Dante.
Round the piazza were placed rich banners of Florence and Tuscany, the
poles of which were festooned with wreaths of laurels and flowers. On
the pole of each banner was placed a tablet with some verses from the
great poem of Dante; many of which anticipated the great political and
religious events of the day, for the accomplishment of which 550 years
ago, Dante had longed with passionate desire. I noted down a few, which
I will transcribe here.
Soleva Roma, che’l buon mondo feo,
Duo Soli aver, che l’una e l’altra strada
Facean vedere, e del mondo e di Deo.
L’un l’altro ha spento, ed è giunta la spada
Col pastorale: e l’un coll ’altro insieme
Per viva forza mal convien che vada.[J]
_Purgatorio, Canto 26._
[J] Rome, that turned once the world to good
Was wont to boast two suns, whose several beams
Cast light in either way; the world’s and God’s.
One since has quenched the other, and the sword
Is grafted on the crook; and so conjoined
Each must perforce decline to worse, unawed
By fear of other.
_Cary’s translation._
Di oggimai, che la chiesa di Roma
Per confondere in sè duo reggimenti
Cade nel fango, e sè brutta e la soma.[K]
_Purg. Canto 26._
[K] The Church of Rome,
Mixing two governments that ill assort,
Hath missed her footing, fallen into the mire,
And there herself and burden much defiled.
Ahi, Costantin, di quanto mal fu matre
Non la tua conversion, ma quella dote,
Che da te prese il primo ricco patre![L]
_Inferno, Canto 19._
[L] Ah Constantine! to how much ill gave birth
Not thy conversion, but that plentous dower
Which the first wealthy
Father gained from thee.
_Cary’s Dante._
Non fu nostra intenzion, ch’a destra mano
De’nostri successor parte sedesse
Parte dall’altra, del popal cristiano,
Nè che le chiavi, che mi fûr concesse
Divenisser segnacolo in vessillo
Che contra i battezzati combattesse.[M]
_Paradiso, Canto 27._
[M] No purpose was of ours
That on the right hand of our successors,
Part of the Christian people should be set,
And part upon their left; nor that the keys,
Which were vouchsafed me, should for ensign serve
Unto the banners, that do levy war
On the baptized.
Lo maggior don, che Dio per sua larghezza
Fêsse creando, ed alla sua bontate
Più conformato, e quel ch’ei più apprezza,
Fu della volontà la libertate
Di che le creature intelligenti,
E tutte e sole, furo e son dotate.[N]
_Paradiso, Cant._ v.
[N] Supreme of gifts which God, creating, gave
Of his free bounty, sign most evident
Of goodness, and in his account most prized,
Was liberty of will, the boon wherewith
All intellectual creatures, and them sole,
He hath endowed.
Through the happy crowd that thronged the festive streets of Florence,
we wound our way to the Piazza St. Croce, after having rested a little
while at the house of a friend, who had kindly invited us to stay with
him during the festival, as it was almost impossible to get any good
accommodation in the over-crowded hotels.
We arrived at the Piazza soon after ten o’clock, and found a place near
to the throne, erected in the centre of the Piazza, on which the King
took his seat during the ceremony. I could therefore understand much of
what the Gonfaloniere and Father Giuliani said when they addressed him.
We had not waited long, when the ringing of the bells of the Palazzo
Vecchio, announced that the procession had begun, and before long the
music of the band was heard. The guards on horseback, who rode in front
of the procession, appeared and cleared the way. Then came a band of
music, followed by the representatives of the Italian press, who were
succeeded by those of the Italian artists, among which were several
ladies, the only females who took part in the procession. Foremost among
them I noticed Mdme. Ristori, who walked along with the grace and
dignity of a queen.
The ladies wore, as a head covering, instead of bonnets, the pretty and
becoming black Italian veil. And then came an endless procession of
deputations from every town in Italy, occasionally intercepted by bands
of music. Each deputation carried a banner, the beauty and elegance of
which surpassed anything of the kind I had ever seen.
When the whole procession had arrived, and ranged itself round the
Piazza, and more than three hundred silk banners waved and glittered in
the sunshine, the sight was magnificent beyond description. The
beautiful banners were, after the ceremony, presented by the different
deputations to the municipality of Florence, and will be kept as a
remembrance of the 14th of May, 1865.
The deputations of the different towns and provinces followed each other
in an alphabetical order, with the exception of the municipal bodies of
Florence and Ravenna, representing Dante’s birth-place, and the town
where he died and was buried; these were the last in the procession. The
red fleur-de-lis of Florence was loudly cheered, so were the arms of
Ravenna, and the same honour was bestowed on the sign of the Wolf
suckling twin boys, which was carried by a deputation from Rome. This
banner had crape attached to it. The cheers became most enthusiastic
when the winged Lion of Venice appeared, also with the sign of mourning,
and followed by a long train of exiles from that unhappy place. The
generous and easily moved Italians were loud in their expression of
sympathy; the men shouted and clapped their hands, the women burst into
tears and waved their handkerchiefs.
I noticed also a deputation from Trieste. I am no politician, so I may
be mistaken; but I thought Austria had an undeniable right to that
province, and therefore looked upon its deputation rather as an
intruder. And I must not forget to mention two Dominican Friars, who had
come with us from Naples, and were sent from some fraternity there. The
banner they carried bore the inscription “Roma per Capitale,” and they
received many signs of good-will as they passed in the procession, being
the only priests that had taken any part in the festival, or shown any
feeling that was not indifference or even hostility to it.
The priesthood of Florence behaved in a most ungracious manner. All the
beautiful churches of Florence, which thousands of eager strangers
wished to see, were closed, except for a few hours daily when mass was
said; and money, which usually opens those doors so readily, was of no
avail; so that many who could not stay after the festival was over, saw
but few, and those often at great inconvenience, being obliged to profit
by the short time of service when they were open.
Soon after the procession had ranged itself round the Piazza, and the
bands were playing joyful tunes, loud cheers announced the approach of
the King, the first King of Italy, the representative of its unity and
liberty! The Rè Galantuomo took his seat opposite the veiled statue, and
was, as soon as the cheers had subsided, addressed by the Gonfaloniere,
who was, like the rest of the municipal body, dressed in his robes of
office, which closely resemble those worn by the magistrates at the time
of Dante. The moment he had concluded his speech, the covering dropped,
and there stood in the midst of his people, indescribably grand, with an
expression both austere and kind, sad and happy, Dante the divine. There
was a long pause, then a murmur, then loud cheering. It was a moment
never to be forgotten. I looked at the statue again next day, and found
some fault with it; it takes too wide a stride, the right arm is thrown
too far backwards, but at the moment of uncovering I observed none of
those defects; it appeared grand and imposing, and the expression of the
face worthy of the great soul that once had animated its features.
But where was at that moment Italy’s Hero; he, who had done more than
any one living or dead for the realization of the great thought of
Dante’s life; he, who resembled the great dead more than any living
Italian, in his unselfish, undying love of his country, in his pure and
blameless life? A solitary exile, on a bare rock of Caprera sat Giuseppe
Garibaldi on that joyful day. Close by the side of the King, as when he
entered the Cathedral of Naples, there Italy ought to have prepared a
seat for him. But he seemed forgotten by every body. No where did I see
a bust that portrayed his noble features; I heard no voice raise the
cry, “Evviva Garibaldi!”
Thus let it be! But surely the day will come, as came the Dante day of
Florence, when Italy will pay her tribute of honour to her Hero, as she
did that day to her Poet. Then will multitudes flock together, and men
looking at his noble image, will call out with beating hearts, “Behold
our deliverer,” and women will weep, and lifting up their children will
cry, “To him we owe it, that we are Italians.” And I missed the presence
of another man, of one who, although in another way, laboured as
earnestly and successfully for his country. But Camillo Cavour after a
life of toil and trouble, rests peacefully at Santena. He saw but the
dawn of the bright day that has now arisen over his country. When the
king and the people had for some time gazed at the figure that had
appeared so suddenly in their midst, Padre Giuliani made a short speech,
of which the words “Onorate l’altissimo Poeta, la sua grand anima è
placata,”[O] made a deep impression. Amidst the sounds of a joyful
chorus, singing a hymn to Dante, I left the Piazza Santa Croce.
[O] Let us honour the sublime Poet, his great soul is appeased.
In the coolness of the night, after having rested from the fatigues of
the morning, we took an open carriage for a drive through the
illuminated town. I had never seen an illumination abroad, and was
enchanted. Oh how little do we understand such things in England! I had
always thought the blazing gas-stars, crowns, Prince of Wales’ feathers,
and V. R.’s, stuck against some dark shapeless building, very
meaningless and hideous, and for the last ten years nothing could ever
persuade me to turn out on an illumination night. It was in Florence I
learned that such a spectacle can be imposing and lovely. We commit two
glaring faults in our illuminations in England. The first is that we
employ gas, instead of oil lamps, which glares and dazzles instead of
illuminating; secondly, instead of lighting up our buildings
architecturally, we stick some ornament against them, which is perfectly
unmeaning and arbitrary. I wonder that any one who is not a child, can
care to look at a thing only because it is bright. The Florentines had
illuminated their beautiful town, especially its most imposing
buildings, with lamps arranged in a way to bring out every outline in a
blaze of light. The stones of the walls appeared transparent, as if the
light which was merely reflected by them, proceeded from them. The
wonderful structures of the Palazzo Vecchio, the Palazzo della Podestà,
the Palazzo Pitti, and of the Duomo, served as a scaffolding for the
fairy palaces that burned through the night. And if possible the effect
they produced was even surpassed by the illumination of the Lung’ Arno,
where the long rows of innumerable lights along the banks, and round the
arches of the bridges, were reflected in the placid waters of the Arno,
in which they formed long lines of golden light, and wonderfully
increased the effect of the illumination above. How I wish that we could
be treated to a similar sight in London. Why are the noble mansions,
for instance the Club-houses in St. James, not lighted up in this
way, instead of being actually disfigured by senseless ornaments, which
I hear are nevertheless very costly? Will none of the honourable members
of those clubs, who have seen and admired an illumination of St. Peter’s
at Rome, or of the Pitti Palace at Florence, treat the London sightseers
to such a spectacle? To hope that such a thing should be done with the
houses of Parliament, or St. Paul’s, is perhaps too bold a wish.
In the principal squares of the town were stationed bands of music and
choirs; and thus a happy crowd that behaved with a gentleness and
politeness, which astonished me as much as the illumination, moved along
through the cool pleasant night to the sounds of joyful music. And thus
ended the first day of Dante’s great festival.
On the second day there was a matinée musicale, where a “Hymn to
Beatrice,” a chorus called “Dante’s return to Florence,” and other
pieces, were sung, and in the evening there was a grand concert in the
Teatro Pagliano, where a “Dante Symphony,” the “Ave Maria” of Dante, and
other appropriate pieces were executed, but as I was present at neither,
I cannot say any thing about them. I spent several hours that day in the
Palazzo della Podestà, and examined the “Espositione Dantesca.”
Its object was to make us as much as possible acquainted with all that
related to Dante and his time. There was a large collection of portraits
of Dante, of which an excellent copy of one by Giotto, pleased me most.
There were also several pictures of which he was the subject, but they
had little intrinsic value. Among the paintings illustrating some part
of the Divina Comedia, I noticed but one good picture, a modern one by
Benvenuto d’Arezzi. It represents Ugolino and his sons; it is however,
not so good as the one by Reynolds, at Knole House, and which depicts
this terrible story almost as powerfully as the twenty-third Canto of
the Inferno. But there were seventy-four pen and ink drawings,
illustrating the Inferno, by Professor Scarramuzzo of Parma, which, in
my opinion, were the gems of the whole exhibition. Fine photographs of
these beautiful drawings were exhibited with them. My husband wrote for
copies of them to Parma, as they could not be bought in Florence; they
were sent, and are the most precious remembrances to me of the Dante
festival.
There were also old portraits of several of Dante’s contemporaries, or
of persons mentioned in the Comedia. I noticed those of Guido Cavalcante
and Christo Landini; most curious was an old wooden statue, covered with
bronze, of Pope Boniface VIII., which was sent to the exhibition from
the Archæological Museum of Bologna, with the following inscription:--
“Qui fui tratto ad onorar il trionfo
di lui ch’io cacciai dalla patria.”[P]
[P] “I was brought here to honour the triumph of him whom I sent
into exile.”
One room was full of manuscripts on parchment, etc., of the Divina
Comedia, some as old as the fourteenth century; and other books,
especially Bibles, of the same date; and there were also some fragments
of manuscripts by the Divine Poet himself, at which I looked with awe
and reverence. The exhibition contained also a large collection of
arms, furniture, jewellery, and works of art of the middle ages,
especially of the time of Dante; and which, examined in connexion with
him, acquired a new interest.
The beautiful sword, the Gonfaloniere had presented to the King in the
name of Florence, was also exhibited there. On one side of the blade
were inscribed the words “Dante to the first King of Italy.” On the
other the following lines from the 6th Canto of the Purgatory:--
“Vieni a veder la tua Roma, che piagne
Vedova, sola, e dì e notte chiama:
Cesare mio, perchè non m’accompagne?”
As at every festival there are many young ladies, who are not happy
unless they get a dance, and as there are always gentlemen, who in order
to enjoy themselves require races or regattas, and as the populace is
every where fond of show and display, so there were also at the Dante
festival balls, races, regattas, and tournaments. What those things
could have to do with Dante, it would be difficult to say; for the love
of God, of his country, and poetry, the three great elements of which
the soul of the Divine Poet seems to have been composed, are not very
intimately connected with these kinds of amusements. I think therefore
they were out of keeping, and might as well have been omitted. A Dante
festival, although rightly of a cheerful and joyful character, ought, it
seems to me, always to be tempered by seriousness, and free from
frivolity. I must however confess, that I went myself to look at these
things whenever I was not too tired to do so.
The grand ball at the Casino, as the great clubhouse is called, in spite
of the splendid ball-rooms, the good music and the elegant dress of the
ladies, was rather a failure. The rooms were hot, and the ladies tired
after the excitement of the day. Many seemed to prefer a walk through
the open galleries, which were beautifully decorated with flowers, and
where they could breathe the fresh night air, to a quadrille; and others
withdrew to the many elegant rooms that join the two ball-rooms,
preferring evidently a chat to a waltz. All retired at an early hour.
The popular ball, in the galleries of the Uffizi, was a much more novel
and interesting thing.
The Uffizi, erected by Cosimo I., and considered Vasari’s finest
building, enclose a large court or square with porticos round it. One
end is formed by a grand arch, under which stands the equestrian statue
of Cosimo I., by Giovanni di Bologna, and all round, in niches in the
wall, are placed well executed marble statues of great Tuscans by
modern artists. There are about thirty in number, and among them such
names as Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo, Dante, Petrarca, Boccaccio,
Lorenzo the Magnificent, Galileo, Benvenuto Cellini, etc. This vast and
splendid place had been converted into an open air ball-room. It had
been boarded all over. The walls and columns were covered with splendid
Gobelin tapestry of grand designs and rich colouring. Large
looking-glasses, encircled by garlands of flowers instead of frames,
reflected and multiplied the innumerable lights, which poured their rays
like fountains on the assembled multitude. In the middle of the square a
fountain played among white, green, and red light, representing the
Italian colours. Above, garlands of flowers and evergreens, from which
thousands of coloured lamps were suspended, formed the plafond. Now and
then the soft night breeze made the lamps swing gently backwards and
forwards, which had a pretty effect. An excellent band played ball
music. The centre was occupied by the dancers; the spectators moving
along under the porticos, a quiet, polite, orderly crowd. I never heard
a rude word nor was molested in the slightest degree during my walk
round the porticos.
What surprised me however most was the extraordinary modesty and dignity
of the Tuscan maidens, who had declined in a body to join the dance,
considering the fête of too public a character. This seemed however not
to interfere at all with the enjoyment of the ball. The young men
thinking most probably that their sisters and sweethearts were right in
what they did, danced among themselves, and evidently with no lack of
spirit and enjoyment. They were mostly lads of between fifteen and
twenty years of age. The young women, on the arm of their fathers, or in
companies together, stood around as spectators and seemed to look on
with pleasure. The festival concluded not unworthily with a series of
“tableaux vivants” at the Teatro Pagliano, illustrating the life of
Dante, and parts of the Divina Commedia. The former were accompanied by
words set to music for the occasion; the latter preceded by those verses
from the divine poem which they were intended to illustrate. The theatre
is large, and every space was filled and prettily decorated with wreaths
of flowers. Many of the tableaux were charming. The first meeting of
Dante and Beatrice in the streets of Florence was lovely. The fiery
graves of the Inferno, and the proud figure of Farinato, rising out of
one, in order to speak to Dante, was the most effective. The one in
which Pia in Purgatory speaks to the poet, will never be forgotten by
me, because of the touching manner with which Mme. Ristori spoke the
words:--
“Ricordati di me, che son la Pia,”
which sounded like an elegy.
Her recitation of the story of the unhappy Francesco da Rimini, was
above all praise. Those sad words:--
“Nessun maggior dolore,
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice,
Nella miseria,”
moved me to tears. Splendidly did she pronounce her detestation of the
licentious book that had wrought Francesca’s fall, when she said:--
“Galeotto fu il libro e chi lo scrisse,”
and then added with a shudder of horror that trembled in her voice:--
“Quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.”
Besides Madame Ristori, Sig. Salvini, Sig. Rossi, and Sig. Gottinelli,
recited. They are considered the first actors in Italy, but I cannot say
that they pleased me. Like those of Hamlet, “they imitated humanity so
abominably.” Their countrymen however applauded them the more, the more
they “overstepped the modesty of nature;” “strutted and bellowed, and
sawed the air with their hands.” But the cheers which were so liberally
bestowed upon these recitations, became most enthusiastic whenever the
words could be interpreted so as to allude to the great political events
and ideas of the day. At the words:--
“Infin che ’l Veltro,
Verrà, che la farà morir di doglia.”
_Infer. Canto 1._
And at those,
“Vieni a veder la tua Roma, che piagne,
Vedova, sola, e dì e notte chiama:
Cesare mio, perchè non m’accompagne?”
_Purg. Canto 6._
the audience forgot the “Divina Commedia” and the actors, and loudly
cheered the King, who was present at the representation, and had been
received with loud and continuous cheers when he entered his box.
But although the Dante festival is over, I cannot leave Florence without
telling a little more about it, for the recollection of that charming
town is one of the most pleasing of my journey.
Florence means, as everybody knows, the flowery, the blooming; but only
those that have seen it in the month of May, can know how well it
deserves so fair a name. The beautiful Tuscan valleys, in the most
lovely of which Florence lies, may well be regarded as the garden of the
temperate zone. It certainly seems to me the most perfect representation
of it. Naples has a touch of the tropics; cacti, aloes, and palm trees,
are not of our clime. We meet with nothing new or strange at Florence.
We are quite at home, all among old friends, wearing a new and more
beautiful dress than we were wont to see them in, and they please us
more than ever.
The trees are not gigantic, but perfect in form and size. The meadows
and fields, though a pleasant sight, are somewhat monotonous at home;
here they have a perfectly different look. They are planted with rows of
pretty young trees of all kinds, such as poplars, planes, may, mountain
ashes, etc., which are not allowed to grow beyond the size of an
ornamental garden tree, in order to prevent their giving too much shade.
Round every stem twines a vine, that hangs gracefully from its
supporting branches, and meets some other vine from a neighbouring tree,
thus forming elegant festoons.
And how well the figures that animate this delightful landscape,
harmonize with it. The women of Tuscany have not the stately beauty of
the Roman matrons, nor the coquetish grace of their sisters of Milan
and Venice. Their eyes have not the fire that burns in those of the
Neapolitan girls, nor is their skin so fair as that of the Genoese; but
I do not know if, after all, they are not the best looking in Italy.
Their eyes have a soft lustre, which is very charming; their features
are regular and very pleasing.
We stayed a few days after the festival under the false pretence of
resting ourselves, but who could rest when there was so much to be seen
and enjoyed?
I spent one day in the famous Gallery of the Uffizi, saw a splendid
marble copy of Laocoon, and knew then what I never understood before,
why that group is so much admired; saw the eternal ideal of Beauty, in
the Venus of Medicis, and those wonderful beings which the brush of
Titian has immortalised. But how can I venture to attempt enumerating
all that I saw there? Another day was spent in the Palazzo Pitti, where
some of Raphael’s most charming works are treasured up. The “Madonna del
Cardellino,” the “Madonna del Baldacchino,” which although very lovely,
I hardly looked at, because I could not turn my eyes away from those two
winged darlings that stand at her feet, and sing her praise; and there
was above all my much beloved and revered “Madonna della Sedia.”
I visited of course the churches, the interiors of which are mostly of a
sombre grey, that blends with a lighter shade of the same colour, and
with white. It produces a simple and serious effect. In striking
contrast to the simple grandeur of the interior of these churches, is
the Medicean chapel, belonging to the Church of St. Lorenzo, which is
gorgeous in the extreme, the walls being entirely covered with costly
marbles, and precious stones; a fit monument of the overbearing pride
and vanity of that famous family. It astonished me much, this monument
of their untold wealth and great power; I could not help contrasting
with it the comparative simplicity and modesty of the Mausoleums of the
great Sovereigns of our time, and felt that the most powerful and
ambitious of them, could not build one for himself like the chapel of
the Medici. In the sacristia of the same church, I saw the monuments on
the tombs of Lorenzo and Giugliano dei Medici, by Michael Angelo. Of the
six figures that compose the two monuments, the one of Lorenzo, made the
deepest impression upon me. The whole figure, especially the face, has
an expression of deep inconsolable grief. He looks as if sorrowing for
ever that he robbed a great and noble people of its liberty; as if come
to a full knowledge of his guilt, and the sins and follies of his past
life. I think some people say the expression of this sad, mournful
figure sitting upon his own tomb, is one of meditation. Rogers writes
“he scowls at us.” It did not seem to me that he looks at any thing
present at all, he looks with a vacant stare, his sight is turned
inwardly, lost in the contemplation of the past.
I went directly from those tombs to the one where the great master
reposes. It is in the church of Santa Croce, that the dust of Michael
Angelo mingles with that of Galileo, and of many other great men. The
allegorical figure of Italy sorrowing over the grave of Alfieri, who
also rests within the walls of this church, is by Canova, and is as
beautiful a monument as any poet could wish to have erected over his
grave.
With a feeling not free from regret, we left Florence early one morning,
in a fragrant May shower, that cooled and refreshed the air, and made
the garden-country all around look fresher and lovelier than ever. We
travelled in the same carriage with the well known Padre Gavazzi, who
was not satisfied with the festival, as according to his opinion, it had
not been of a character sufficiently decided political and religious.
When changing our carriage at Bologna, I suddenly found myself face
to face with Mdlle. S--, and her father, who had been among our
travelling companions from Trieste to Smyrna, and who were returning
from their pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Their journey may have been one of
intense enjoyment, it certainly had been one of great fatigue. The poor
girl looked thin and worn, and spoke to me of her adventures with a
woeful countenance. The expression of her face was at the same time
exceedingly comical, and I could not help laughing at her tale, a laugh
in which the good natured girl heartily joined, although it was partly
at her own expense. According to her account, and her wan cheeks, and
dim, lustreless eyes, confirmed what she said, the fatigues and dangers
of the excursion to the Holy Land, must have been very great indeed. The
Germans are not an equestrian nation. Of the forty excursionists, not
one was a very proficient rider; in fact few of them had ever been on
horse or donkey-back before. The consequence was an uninterrupted series
of accidents as soon as travelling on horseback became, as it is
everywhere in the East, the only mode of transit.
The poor girl had slipped off her horse with saddle and all, at a most
dangerous spot in going to the Dead Sea; she might have been seriously
injured, as she could not extricate herself at once, and the horse was
moving on. Fortunately the young Kentuckian, who, as I had observed on
the steamboat, was always trying to be near that “nice German girl,” was
close behind her. He jumped from his horse and caught hold of hers, so
that she was able to get up, having sustained no great injury beyond the
fright. She feelingly remarked, that fortunately her papa was far
behind. He only heard of the accident, when the saddle and the young
lady were safe again on the back of the steed. The poor man had been out
of his saddle more than once, but without other injury than a sprain of
his foot, which obliged him to lie down for a few days, and hurt him for
many more.
Poor M. L--, a professor from Prague, did not escape so easily. In one
of his falls he managed so badly that he hurt his leg seriously.
Inflammation set in, and he had forty leeches applied to it. But what
might have been the worst of all accidents, happened to Mme. de H--, the
sister of the Archbishop. Horse and lady fell down together, and turned
over and over before either got up again. The fair rider however escaped
unhurt. I was sorry that there was no time for Mdlle. S. to tell me of
all the accidents that befell these unlucky excursionists, for every
one met with some mishap, either in Palestine or Egypt, with the
exception of the four young Americans and old General T--. The latter
seemed as much at home in Jerusalem and Cairo, as he had been on board
the Neptune. He always ate with a tremendous appetite whatever the fare
might be, and slept like a bear on whatever couch he rested.
The guard, who called out that the train for Milan was going to start,
interrupted our conversation. Mdlle. S-- took up a little box, which she
had set down near her, and which contained a small tortoise, which poked
its head through a hole in the lid. This and a shell, which she wore as
a sign of her pilgrimage on her little hat, was, as far as I could see,
all she had to recompense her for the endless troubles and fatigues of
her journey.
And now I will hasten to conclude mine; for after we left Florence the
journey no longer offered any great attractions. The places I saw now, I
had already seen before, nor could they vie with those I had so lately
visited. Now I was with heart and soul already in England, at home with
my children. Oh, how slowly the express train travels! How long is a
night in a railway carriage! Shall we rest a day at Paris? No, I am not
tired. I cross the Channel as in a dream. There are the white cliffs of
Dover, I am in old England! Fly away train, rush along, take me home,
home!
At last the train stops, a few minutes bring me to our garden gate. I
fly through the garden, the door opens. Yes, there they are all, and all
well! My baby climbs up a chair, and clings round my neck; the boys make
a deafening noise, and I believe the mamma is almost as noisy.
And now I leave them, though for a few minutes only. I sit down in my
own room, on my own chair, and all at once I feel I am tired. I shut my
eyes, out of which tears steal, and my full heart thanks Him, who gave
me the joys of the journey, who brought me safely home to my children
and who watched over them, and preserved them while I was away.
THE END.
Transcriber’s Note:
Punctuation has been standardised. Hyphenation and spelling have
been retained as in the original publication, including sejour,
kaik, lingring, caffés, vallies and coquetish. Also retained is
the conversion of degrees Reaumur to Fahrenheit although 16°
Reaumur is 68° Fahrenheit, and 10° Reaumur is 54.5° F.
Changes to the original have been made as follows:
Page 10
ziz-zag up the mountain _changed to_
zig-zag up the mountain
Page 43
were of a dazling whiteness _changed to_
were of a dazzling whiteness
Page 55
in asetting of diamonds _changed to_
in a setting of diamonds
Page 56
possessng a great talent _changed to_
possessing a great talent
Page 58
more pleasure to Lelià’s music _changed to_
more pleasure to Leilà’s music
Page 76
strange and yet familar _changed to_
strange and yet familiar
Page 97
carries his mistress’ slippers _changed to_
carries his mistress’s slippers
Page 119
that you are obliged bring _changed to_
that you are obliged to bring
Page 124
but not my hubsand _changed to_
but not my husband
Page 139
kindness of Mrs. Beecher Stow’s little Eva _changed to_
kindness of Mrs. Beecher Stowe’s little Eva
Page 160
Sante Maria Novella _changed to_
Santa Maria Novella
Page 172
was merely reflected bv them _changed to_
was merely reflected by them