PISA AND FLORENCE
These two cities have always appeared to me to bear a strong family
likeness to each other, the same river running through the principal
streets, although the buildings on the quays are very different. They
are like two sisters: Pisa, the elder, the more sedate, the graver of
the two, while Florence, the younger, is all smiles and gladness. But in
one respect we were very fortunate, for we saw Pisa under a most
cheerful aspect. There is, or was (for I do not know if it continues), a
triennial festival in honour of her patron saint, St Ranieri, on which
occasion the whole town is illuminated, not, after the fashion of an
English illumination, with crowns and stars and badges and devices, but
by the marking out of the architecture of palaces, churches, and bridges
with lines of light, so that the city bears the appearance of being
built in fire. Beautiful as this effect would be in almost all cities,
it is doubly so in Pisa, more especially on account of that noble group
of buildings, the Cathedral, the Baptistery, and the Leaning Tower. The
last edifice, in particular, presents a most singular and beautiful
aspect with the spiral lines of light, which define so vividly the
peculiar and fantastic form of the erection.
We walked about the streets during the greater part of the night, amid
the most amiable and good-humoured crowd with which it was ever my lot
to mingle.
I cannot help recording here a curious story which was told me by an
English lady at Pisa. A countrywoman of hers, a young girl, said to her
one day when they were standing together in the Baptistery, admiring the
celebrated pulpit, which is supported on the backs of four lions:
“That reminds me of such a curious dream I had last night. I thought I
was standing here where we are now, and that I put my hand into the
lion’s open mouth, when he bit it off.” Suiting the action to the word,
the girl thrust her hand into the marble creature’s jaws, uttered a cry
of agony, and pulled it out hurriedly. The lion’s mouth contained a nest
of scorpions, one of which had stung her so severely as to necessitate
immediate measures to ensure the safety of her injured hand.
[Sidenote: ACTORS AND ACTRESSES]
Our winter season[35] at Florence was as brilliant as that at Rome, and,
to me, more delightful in one respect, as I obtained a theatrical
engagement. On the walls of Florence stood a large and commodious house
(I know not if it still exists). It then belonged to Mr Rowland
Standish, and was called by his name; it had a large garden and a very
pretty theatre. The mistress—the lessee, the manageress, the friend of
all who came near her, whether professionally or socially—was Lady Lucy
Standish,[36] beneath whose auspices the little theatre became the
resort of a happy company, both before and behind the curtain.
Footnote 35:
The winter season of the early months of 1834; see subsequent notes.
Footnote 36:
Lady Lucy Perry, third daughter of Edmund Henry, first Earl of
Limerick; married 1816 to Rowland Stephenson, who took the name of
Standish in 1834.
How excellent were some of our actors and actresses! Ah! I fear very few
survive to read this feeble tribute. Among other performances, we gave
an ambitious representation of the old comedy, _A Cure for the
Heartache_, in which the Secretary of our Legation, Mr George
Edgcumbe,[37] especially distinguished himself as the “yokel” of the
piece. He had lately become engaged to Miss Shelley, a fair friend and
countrywoman of mine, but however preoccupied his heart may have been,
it did not interfere with the rare skill with which he played a
difficult, and some would have considered ungrateful, _rôle_. The
villain of the play, who had designs on the sister of the ploughman,
lays a scheme by which to get the latter into his power. He places a
purse full of money (one of those large elongated purses with which in
old melodramas the wicked peer always tempted the virtuous peasant)
within the grasp of the poverty-stricken brother, when summoned on some
pretext to the great house. After a short soliloquy, lamenting his
penury and the like, the ploughman looks round, sees the golden bait,
and chinks the guineas. Then follows a silent pause. The temptation at
first appears irresistible; you see the struggles which are passing in
the poor fellow’s mind, the difficulty of resistance, the final victory
over himself, and the well-expressed air of reproach and indignation
with which he hands the purse to his tempter on his entering the room.
Footnote 37:
The Honourable George Edgcumbe, second son of Richard, second Earl of
Mount Edgcumbe; married 19th May 1834 Fanny Lucy, eldest daughter of
Sir John Shelley, sixth Baronet.
May I be forgiven for adding a little incident concerning my own
performance? I played the rich heiress whose betrothed lover throws her
over at the end of the piece, in favour of her penniless rival. I
thought it would be neat and appropriate at such a juncture to make my
exit in violent hysterics, and in that state I repaired to my
dressing-room, where I was calmly employed in changing my dress for the
after piece, when the door burst open and my sister rushed in,
terror-stricken.
“O Mary,” she said, “you will kill yourself; this dreadful excitement is
too much for you!”
I looked up and she looked down. I was certainly the calmer of the two,
but my vanity had received a most flattering compliment.
How well I remember the night of our first rehearsal. At its
termination, the gentleman who had kindly undertaken the onerous office
of prompter thus addressed us from his hooded seat on the stage:-“Ladies
and gentlemen, I am most anxious to give you all satisfaction, and in
order to do so, I have taken down every separate direction given me by
each member of the company, as to the especial manner in which he or she
wishes me to prompt, such as, When I look at you, not before. Will you
run on in a low voice the whole time?” “Never mind if I substitute one
small word for another,” etc.
He then read each order, with the name of the giver, and summed up the
total. There were twenty-two entirely different, most specific orders!
[Sidenote: OFFICE OF PROMPTER]
“May I enquire,” he continued, “what I am to do to content you all?”
His harangue was received with a burst of laughter, and the resolution
was carried _nem. con._ that we must all be “letter perfect.” We very
often beat for recruits when we heard of any new English arrival in
Florence, and as we were about to cast a play of which one of the
characters was a decided plunger, I was deputed to ask a certain gallant
hussar, when I next danced with him, if he would help us. I did so, he
gladly accepted, and I made an appointment with him to come to Casa
Standish the next evening at rehearsal hour, when his part would be read
for him. When he arrived, I repeated mine, which contained many tender
passages with my Plunger; but each time I approached him he gazed at me
in a more and more threatening manner, till at last I fancied that he
was more likely to strike than to caress me. The effect was peculiar—the
prompter reading declarations in the most affectionate and insinuating
terms, while the lover looked daggers, not to say swords and pistols, at
the unoffending _jeune première_. At length the crisis came. I had to
recline gracefully on his shoulder (he was six feet two), and to confess
how entirely I reciprocated his ardent love.
He bent over me, and in a stage whisper, with a look of thunder that
might have shattered nerves less strong than mine, said:—
“If you keep me to my promise, I leave Florence to-night.”
This was the second time I had been thrown over, but this time if I had
become hysterical, it would have been through laughter. The Inamorato
did not explain why he broke his engagement, but he had never trod the
stage till then, and I suppose the prompter’s box, the footlights and
the whole dramatic apparatus produced an unmitigated stage fright.
Neither will I omit to make mention of a favourite member of our troupe,
who distinguished himself in more ways than one: this was the clever
pony belonging to the son of the house, whose stable was in the garden.
Often in the intervals of our day rehearsal it was the delight of the
then schoolboys to mount me on “Hotspur’s” back, and slipping the rein,
he would dash off at the word of command, taking the bit in his mouth,
and making the circuit of the garden at the fullest of all speeds. I
well knew that those boys fondly hoped that the day would come when they
would see their playfellow (myself) dismounted from her exalted
position, but I am proud to think I disappointed them.
On one occasion a magnificent _ballet d’action_ was in preparation. The
daughter of General de Courcy, a leading member of the Anglo-Florentine
society, was to represent “Fatima” in a gorgeous Eastern costume, which
became her beauty well, while I took the scarcely less responsible
_rôle_ of “Sister Anne.”
[Sidenote: PONY ON THE STAGE]
Standishes of all ages and both sexes took part in this brilliant
spectacle, while the part of “Selim,”,the rescuer of the lovely Fatima,
was acted by the young Marquis Talleyrand de Perigord, eldest son of the
Duc de Dinon, who had lately become a resident in Florence. We were very
glad to secure the services of the young Marquis, who was handsome,
accomplished and agreeable, and who, moreover, was not likely to be
unwilling to enact the part of rescuer to the fair Fatima, seeing he
appeared in no way insensible to the charms of our _prima ballerina_. I
was the originator of the noble idea of introducing an equestrian
element into the _ballet_, and mounting the gallant soldier on young
Standish’s favourite pony. The effect was thrilling. The clattering of
the hoofs on the stage recalled visions of international circuses. The
final _tableau_, with the equine element in the back-ground, could not
be surpassed for grandeur or originality; but—alas for the vanity of
earthly ambition!—no power on earth could induce the pony to leave the
stage—him to whom the slightest wish of his master was usually law.
Threats, blows, caresses, all were in vain—he stood perfectly
still—stock still, though, as grooms say, a little “handy with his
heels.” Here was a _contretemps_. I had to answer for the proposition,
everybody was cross, supper waiting—that delightful banquet which we had
honestly gained. I felt my honour was at stake. I entreated to be left
alone with the rebellious charger, and my patience was put to no small
test. I bandaged Hotspur’s eyes, I led him round and round, and
backwards and forwards, patting and coaxing him all the time, till my
efforts were crowned with success, and I backed him off the stage. The
horse had evidently had an attack of stage fright, as severe as that of
the hussar. A long discussion ensued between all the members of the
company, as to the advisability of repeating the experiment on the next
evening, when the public were to be admitted; but I pleaded so hard,
taking for my text, “nothing hazard, nothing have,” that the pony made
“his first appearance on any stage,” and despite the thunders of
applause which rewarded his efforts, walked off when required to do so,
as quietly as a lamb!
Ah! those were merry days at Casa Standish, and the boys and girls of
that bygone time are still affectionately remembered by me, and that
dear mother, Lady Lucy Standish, who presided over all our revels. I
trust that any members of the family who may chance to read these lines,
will not be displeased by this slight allusion to those happy days.
It was about this time, at Florence, that I first made the acquaintance
and formed the friendship of the celebrated novelist of the day, G. P.
R. James, whose historical romances were then in the highest favour with
the reading public. I was one of his great admirers, and was delighted
to be made known to him, but it was reserved for me in future days to
fathom the depths of that high and generous nature, and that warm and
noble heart. He had hired a beautiful villa in the environs of the city,
which afterwards became the property of the Countess of Crawford, Villa
Palmieri, and which has been occupied by our beloved Queen Victoria. It
was on one of Florence’s golden afternoons that my mother and I drove
out to dine with Mr and Mrs James, and I pressed for the first time
those hands which were ever afterwards stretched out to me in kindness
and hospitality.
[Sidenote: CAROLINE BONAPARTE]
Amongst the residents at this season in Tuscany’s fair capital was
Caroline Bonaparte, the widow of Joachim Murat, the favourite sister of
the Emperor Napoleon I., whom he described as having the head of a great
man on the shoulders of a pretty woman. Ex-Queen of Naples, she was
living at that time on the Lung’arno, under the anagrammatic title of
Countess Lipona (Napoli), and supposed, with little doubt, to be the
wife of Marshal Macdonald. I think the epithet “captivating” might well
be applied to her; she was small and fair, and, although advanced in
years, bore the traces of great comeliness. I found in her a strange
resemblance to our dear Princess Mary of England, Duchess of Gloucester,
and she was in no wise displeased when I told her so.
Countess Lipona was much beloved and respected at Florence, and had a
great liking and admiration for Félicie de Fauveau, in spite of their
political antagonism, and it was owing to the last-mentioned friend that
I had the privilege and delight of making her acquaintance. I always
approached her as a royal personage, remembering what she had been, and
made what I considered a conscientious compromise by using the title of
_altesse_. On one occasion, at a masquerade, where I personated a
“Marchande de Cœurs,” and carried a basket full of hearts, dramatic,
poetical, diplomatic, and the like, I constructed a gigantic golden
heart inscribed “Cœur de Caroline,” on which I paid an honest tribute to
the extraordinary courage and equanimity with which she had borne the
vicissitudes of a cruel destiny. This golden heart had no price; it was
to be given up to the august Caroline for the value of a single smile,
and kneeling at the feet of the Princess I so much admired, I presented
her there and then with the greatest treasure in my basket. I can
remember her appearance well; she was dressed in a domino of light green
silk, trimmed with costly lace, green and white, the colours of the
Legitimist party, and she laughingly called on Félicie de Fauveau to
account for her selection of that combination. Now, Félicie was a
genuine woman, and was never at a loss for an answer, and this was her
gracious and loyal reply:
“Madame,” she said, “c’est pour nous les faire aimer de toutes les
manières.”
How well I recall that night. Some of the English and Scotch guests
arranged to dance a reel, and I had the good fortune to perform my part
immediately before the spot where Countess Lipona was sitting. At the
termination of the dance, she beckoned to me, and, with a kind kiss,
presented me with her fan, “as a reward,” she said, “for the manner in
which I had danced the _écossaise_.”
It may well be imagined how dearly I cherish this relic of bygone days,
and even more so the small bracelet of hair which she sent me the
ensuing year by my cousin, Lady Clinton, who was travelling in Italy
shortly after her second marriage with Sir Horace Seymour. By the way,
the coupling of these two names, I was assured, caused some
animadversions among the society of a city where you would not have
expected the inhabitants to be extra strait-laced. But our peculiar
English custom of widows retaining the rank of the first husband, if
superior to that of the second, is very perplexing to the mind of a
foreigner, as in other European countries the wife is naturally expected
to bear the name of the suitor whom she accepts.
The last visit I paid to Caroline Bonaparte was deeply interesting to
me. She showed me the portrait of her brother Napoleon, when quite
young, a calm and gentle countenance, with fair complexion and golden
hair. How different from the well-known picture painted in later days by
David, of the dark, menacing warrior of the passage of the Alps. Then
Madame Lipona pointed out to me another portrait, that of her husband
Joachim Murat, answering to the description that I had heard and read of
him—what we should call in England a “fine specimen,” with a perfect
mane of dark hair and flashing eyes, broad-shouldered, with an imperious
aspect, in full and gorgeous uniform, grand in his way, but lacking
refinement. His wife spoke of him with tenderness, and then said to me:
[Sidenote: MURAT’S MILITARY WEAPONS]
“I have a treat in store for you. Go into the next room, and there,
scattered all around, you will find arms of all sorts and kinds, which
were once the property of the King of Naples.”
I obeyed her, and gazed with delight and interest on the accumulated
treasures which met my eye. I had often heard that Murat had an especial
taste for military weapons of all kinds, and that in the days of his
prosperity those potentates or authorities who thought it advisable to
win his favour, usually selected some ornamental implement of warfare as
a stepping-stone thereto. Here were pistols richly set with precious
stones, which sparkled as I held them in my hand, muskets with the butts
inlaid in particoloured wood, and swords and sabres, the gorgeous
mountings of their scabbards out-done by the delicate flexibility of
their Damascus blades. But what riveted my attention most, was a sword
lying on the ground beside the Marshal’s _bâton_ of black velvet _sémé_
with golden eagles, for the sword in question, hilt and scabbord, bore
small and well-painted miniatures of the wife and children Murat loved
so dearly. As I held the weapon reverently in my hand, I recalled the
last pathetic scene of the ex-king’s life, how, when about to receive
his death wound, he bade his executioners pause for one instant, while
he drew a locket from his bosom, and, raising the image of his beloved
Caroline to his lips, gave the order to fire, in as steady a voice as he
would have bade his cavalry charge.
That was the last time I saw that kind and gracious princess—now upwards
of half a century ago—but still, in the secret recesses of an old box, I
have a faded rose which one day bloomed on her table, and was given to
me by a devoted admirer of us both.
Another friend, of a widely opposed class and calling, was Geppina, the
flower-girl of Florence, a well-known character for many succeeding
years in the beautiful city. When I first knew her, she too, was young,
and from a peculiar waywardness and eccentricity in her manner, had
obtained the nickname of _pazzina_, which would answer to the Scotch
appellation of “daft.” There were also some strange stories afloat
respecting her being a Court spy, a rumour to which I disdained to give
credit, for Geppina and I became great friends, and the origin of that
friendship I will describe, as I did at the time, in verse:—
[Sidenote: THE FLOWER-GIRL OF FLORENCE]
“It was a bright, gay morning; in the square
Of Holy Trinity, there passed a pair
On horseback; gloomily they went—
Their wit, or sympathy, perhaps was spent.
Sudden, above the woman’s head there flew
A flower, a lily-bell of spotless hue,
Too pure, too modest—if the truth I tell—
Too spotless for the hand on which it fell.
Disdaining to look round, she reared her head,
And with the bold, proud look of those ill-bred
And nurtured, did she cast the flower
Down on the ground—beneath her horse’s feet,
Down on the muddy pavement of the street;
While poor Geppina there, aghast, amazed,
Upon her scouted offering sadly gazed—
When one stood by her. With an eager bound,
Which indignation in itself expressed,
She raised the sullied lily from the ground,
And placed it, soiled and drooping, on her breast.
And from that day the mad girl’s choicest flowers
Fell round the English maiden’s path in showers;
At home, abroad, at morning, eve and night,
Fresh fragrant garlands blossomed in her sight:
And sweet indeed are those fair Florence weaves
In early spring—the Tyrian violet,
Snowy camellia with the burnished leaves,
Cassia, whose perfume wakes a fond regret,
Myrtle, carnation, and the first young rose,
With almond-scented jessamine that throws
A sweet, faint perfume as the buds unclose.”
Of Geppina, I shall have more to say in future pages. Our connection and
friendship were by no means confined to my first visit to Florence.
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