RESIDENCE IN FLORENCE—CHARLES LEVER—REVOLUTION, AND THE BROWNINGS
Our new residence in Florence consisted of a very pretty apartment on
the ground floor of the Casa Lagerschwerd, opening on a bright little
garden, which was a perfect sun-trap, and where, even on cold days, my
dear mother could bask in safety. We had not been there very long ere I
received a letter from our friend G. P. R. James, recommending his
friend, the bearer, Charles Lever, to our especial notice.
Him he thus describes:-“One of the most genial spirits I ever met; his
conversation is like summer lightning—brilliant, sparkling, but
harmless. In his wildest sallies I never heard him give utterance to an
unkind thought.”
The old advice, “If you like his works, do not make acquaintance with
the author,” would have been misplaced as regards him. He essentially
resembled his works, and whichever you preferred, that one was most like
Charles Lever. He was the complete type and model of an
Irishman—warm-hearted, witty, rollicking, of many metres in his pen, but
never unrefined, imprudent and often blind to his own interests—adored
by his friends, the play-fellow of his children and of the gigantic
boar-hound he had brought from Tyrol.
[Sidenote: LEVER’S ENTRY INTO FLORENCE]
I well remember his first visit, his chivalrous, deferential manner to
my mother, and the hearty, cordial way in which he claimed my
friendship. He gave me a most amusing description of his entry into
Florence, with his three children, two girls and a boy, with whom he had
performed the journey from the Tyrol on horseback. They had spent the
summer among hardy mountaineers, and had imbibed many of the tastes, and
had adopted the greater part of the costume of the Tyrolese—such as the
conical-shaped hat with its golden cord and peacocks’ feathers.
Altogether, his appearance, with that of his young companions, followed
by their brindled boar-hound, attracted great attention as they passed
slowly through the Porto San Gallo. The crowd which gathered round them
were impressed by the belief that they formed part of a company of a
circus or hippodrome, and Charles Lever, in great glee, even assured me
that he had been accosted on his road with a view to an engagement. Our
first interview, on the whole, was most satisfactory, and all the more
so when my new friend informed me that he had rented Casa Standish for
the winter, and that he counted upon me to resume the post of _prima
donna_, which he had heard, so ran his courteous words, “I had already
filled with so much honour.”
It did not take Charles Lever long to be installed as tenant of Casa
Standish, manager and lessee of the little theatre; and then began a
series of rehearsals and dramatic representations, the frequent reunion
of kindred spirits, the merry suppers and joyous dances in which my soul
delighted. Our company was excellent, and foremost in the troupe, and in
my recollection, since we generally played the two leading characters of
the “Juvenile Caste,” was Captain Elliott, who, with his charming wife,
was located for the time in an apartment in Piazzi Pitti. Good-looking,
graceful in deportment, courteous in manner, with great flexibility of
countenance, Captain Elliott was well qualified to play first lover,
although he occasionally condescended to take a part in low comedy. We
shared some bright laurels on several occasions, especially in two or
three detached scenes from the _School for Scandal_, particularly in the
famous Screen scene; Captain Elliott distinguished himself as “Joseph
Surface,” while our host and lessee gave a decided and Irish colouring
to the reckless humour of his namesake “Charles.” But the latter was
still more in his element in the then favourite farce of _The Irish
Tutor_, a part lately rendered famous by the impersonation of Tyrone
Power, the best “Irishman” that ever walked, or rather tripped, the
stage—he whose untimely fate made so deep an impression on the lovers of
the drama, when all hope was relinquished of the safety of that vessel
in which he had been a joyous passenger. Charles Lever was no unworthy
rival in the character of “Doctor O’Toole,” and the jig which we danced
together laid good claim to be called an “Everlasting,” its duration
being so prolonged by repeated plaudits of the audience.
Dear old friend! We met twice again after a separation of many years,
once, as a glad surprise, when arriving rather late for dinner, I turned
round and found him as my neighbour at one of those delightful banquets
at Charles Dickens’ table, where all that was eminent in Literature and
Art, or endowed with social and intellectual gifts, was sure to find a
place and a welcome.
[Sidenote: I ENTERTAIN LEVER IN 1870]
In the year 1870, during the first Viceroyalty of Earl Spencer in
Ireland, Lever paid a visit to Dublin,[43] where he made friends with my
nephew Courtenay Boyle, and was a frequent and welcome visitor at the
Castle and Viceregal Lodge. From Ireland he came to London, and I had
the pleasure of entertaining him at my little house in South Audley
Street, where Lady Spencer gladly agreed to meet him. On the table lay a
volume of Bret Harte’s parodies[44] of popular novelists, and I,
volunteering to read a passage aloud, asked if he could recognise the
authorship. It was the narrative of a cavalry officer who, in the heat
of an engagement, took a flying, but unwilling, leap over a horseman in
a dark cloak, cocked hat and white feathers. As far as I can remember
the words-“My horse cleared the obstacle well, I lifted my eyes, and
found myself for the first time in the presence of Field-Marshal The
Duke of Wellington!”
Footnote 43:
I well remember this visit and the many chats we had about his novel,
“Lord Kilgobbin,” then on the stocks.
Footnote 44:
The parody was “Terence Deuville”-“Putting spurs to my horse I rode at
him boldly, and with one bound cleared him, horse and all. A shout of
indignation arose from the assembled staff. I wheeled suddenly, with
the intention of apologising, but my mare misunderstood me, and again
dashing forward, once more vaulted over the head of the officer, this
time, unfortunately, uncovering him by a vicious kick of her hoof.
‘Seize him!’ roared the entire army. I was seized. As the soldiers led
me away, I asked the name of the gray-haired officer. ‘That?—why
that’s the Duke of Wellington!’ I fainted.”
A somewhat similar episode is recorded in another parody, the fighting
“Onet y Oneth,” by W. M. Thackeray, written many years before Bret
Harte (who, I am sure, was no plagiarist) wrote “Terence Deuville.”
Never shall I forget Lever’s burst of laughter, which seemed to flood
the whole room with sunshine. “Upon me soul, I believe it’s meself; it’s
uncommonly like me.” That was the last time we ever met. The wife to
whom he was deeply attached died shortly afterwards, and Charles Lever
did not long survive her.
That was an eventful time for Florence, for Italy, for the whole of
Europe. The spirit of revolution was abroad, and France had set a
startling example to other nations. In the month of February, 1848, the
Carnival was at its height, and the youth, beauty and fashion of
Florence were assembled in a splendid ball-room in one of her principal
palaces. I was sitting beside my dear friend Félicie de Fauveau, who had
been rebuking me for dancing with _cette canaille_—for so she designated
Baron Ward, Prime Minister and ex-groom of the Duke of Parma—and I had
excused myself on the ground that it amused me to become acquainted with
celebrities—perhaps, in this case, I had better have said
notorieties—when we were all startled by the rapid entrance of a
stranger. There was a pause, a hush, and then he became the centre of a
little crowd that gathered round him, evidently the bearer of some
strange intelligence. Félicie and I rose together to inquire the cause.
It was soon told—a Revolution in France, and Louis Philippe and his
whole family driven from the capital. To my companion, the news was of
deep interest, for was she not devoted heart and soul to the cause of
Henri Cinq? In that assembly, which contained many nationalities among
the company, the intelligence was listened to with varying degrees of
excitement, pleasure or indifference, while to the younger portion of
the community, who cared little for the destiny of kings and
governments, the paramount thought was that the _bal masqué_ at the
French Embassy would not take place.
[Sidenote: I PLAY THE PART OF CONSPIRATOR]
The downfall of the Orleans dynasty naturally led to a renewal of hope
among the more devoted and sanguine of the Legitimists, which proved,
however, but short-lived. One morning, soon after the ball already
alluded to, Félicie de Fauveau called upon me and asked if I could
undertake a commission for her. Any messenger she could send, she
explained to me—indeed, any Frenchman or Frenchwoman who was the bearer
of a letter to the Duchesse de Berri—would be an object of suspicion.
“Have you any fellow-countryman whom you could safely trust to carry a
communication from me to that Princess?” Most fortunately, a friend of
ours, an Englishman, had the day previously expatiated to me on his
delight at the prospect of seeing Venice for the first time. I summoned
him to our assistance, entrusted Félicie’s packet to his care, enjoined
prudence and secrecy, and thus, for the first and last time in my life,
played the part of conspirator, though, sooth to say, with no important
or successful result.
In Florence, where people did not take life _au grand sérieux_, there
was no end of chaffing and jesting on the subject, which could not be
said to be a jest to Paris and the Parisians. All the princes and
princesses, all the counts and countesses, sometimes good-humouredly,
sometimes spitefully, were addressed as _Citoyens_ and _Citoyennes_. I
heard of an incident at the club, which only just escaped having an
unpleasant termination.
A Russian nobleman, who, for some reason or another, was not on good
terms with a Frenchman of decided Legitimist tendencies, approached him
and, in rather a provocative tone, said, “Bon jour, Citoyen.” The
Frenchman looked at him with some disdain, and turning on his heel,
exclaimed, “Adieu, esclave,” which retort elected a laugh from the
bystanders.
Meanwhile, as we jested and acted and danced, the Tuscan Revolution was
proceeding slowly on its course. The Grand Duke[45] whose reign had been
marked by a mild paternal sway, and who was as popular as an Austrian
well could be in those anti-Austrian days, endeavoured at first to make
a compromise with the Tuscans by granting them a charter for the Civic
Guards. This was made an occasion of great rejoicing in the city, and
the Italians, who always turn a festivity into a pageant, organised a
procession, which defiled for the space of three hours beneath the
windows of the Palazzo Pitti, where, on the balcony, Leopold II.
appeared, surrounded by his family. It was not to be expected that he
should wear a very cheerful aspect, for although the air rang with
_vivas_, in recognition of his Civic grant, and although he affected to
advocate the cause of United Italy, yet it was easy to know that the
compact between the Prince and the people was hollow and fragile, and
that “Leopoldo essendo straniero,” must sooner or later come under the
cry for the expulsion of the foreigner.
Footnote 45:
Leopold II., died at Rome, 1870.
[Sidenote: CASA GUIDI]
On the morning appointed for the procession in question, I went,
accompanied by my sister and my future sister-in-law, to a house in the
Piazza Pitti, the name of which has now become classical; for the walls
of Casa Guidi bear a tributary inscription to the memory of Elizabeth
Barrett Browning, who, with the “heart of a woman, the knowledge of a
professor, and the spirit of a poet, formed a link between Italy and
England.” These are Florence’s grateful words to our English poetess,
and well did she deserve the tribute, for no one ever participated more
cordially in the aspirations of Italy’s future, or gave utterance to
those aspirations in so musical a form.
I would gladly transcribe _verbatim_ the lines in which that noble
spirit described the scene I witnessed, in her dear company, and that of
her husband, from Casa Guidi windows; for how cold and colourless must
my words appear compared with her surpassing eloquence. But space will
not allow of the whole transcript, and I therefore unwillingly confine
myself to fragments—
“The day was such a day
As Florence owes the sun. The sky above,
Its weight upon the mountains seemed to lay,
And palpitate in glory, like a dove
Who has flown too fast, full-hearted—take away
The image! for the heart of man beat higher
That day in Florence, flooding all her streets
And piazzas with a tumult and desire.
How we gazed
From Casa Guidi windows while, in trains
Of orderly procession, banners raised,
And intermittent bursts of martial strains
... they passed on!
The Magistracy, with insignia, passed, ...
And all the people shouted in the sun,
And all the thousand windows which had cast
A ripple of silks in blue and scarlet down
(As if the houses overflowed at last),
Seemed growing larger with fair heads and eyes.
The Lawyers passed ...
The Priesthood passed.... Next were viewed
The Artists; next, the Trades; and after came
The People....
And very loud the shout was for that same
Motto, ‘Il popolo’—‘IL POPOLO.’
And next, with banners, each in his degree,
Deputed representatives a-row,
Of every separate State of Tuscany:
Siena’s she-wolf, bristling on the fold
Of the first flag, preceded Pisa’s hare,
And Massa’s lion floated calm in gold,
Pienza’s following with his silver stare,
Arezzo’s steed pranced clear from bridle-hold?”
Then followed a concourse of foreigners of all nations, lovers of Italy—
“Oh heaven, I think that day had noble use
Among God’s days!”
And so it had, for that day was a forerunner of better days to come,
though many a reverse was in store for the House of Savoie, and many a
check was to be given to the brave Sardinians in the battle-field.
Still, that day, commemorated by our English poetess, shadowed forth the
time when the King of Sardinia became the King of Italy, and Imperial
Rome the capital of his kingdom.
And now that I have had occasion to speak of that poet pair, the
Brownings, let me recall the hours of enchantment which I passed beneath
their roof. I was the bearer of a letter from a common friend, and well
do I remember knocking at the door, which was opened to me by the poet
in person. How kindly they received me! how truly they welcomed me,
stranger as I was, whose very name was unknown to them. How one-sided
seemed the advantages of that acquaintance; for I had known and loved
them long, and when I went up to the sofa where the poetess lay, half
bird, half spirit, as a loving hand described her, I felt inclined to
address her by the name of “Bar,” the pet name of her own sweet poem,
which her brother gave her
“When we were children ’twain,
When names acquired baptismally
Were hard to utter as to see
That life had any pain.”
[Sidenote: “FLUSH”]
And there on her lap was her dog “Flush,” with whom I was so well
acquainted in verse. The pale, thin hand of his mistress resting on the
glossy head of that “gentle fellow-creature” like a benediction.
All seemed familiar to me from the first moment, and all became truly
familiar to me soon, and now remains a sacred memory. I have never in
the course of my life seen a more spiritual face, or one in which the
soul looked more clearly from the windows; clusters of long curls, in a
fashion now obsolete, framed in her small delicate face, and even
shrouded its outline, and her form was so fragile as to appear but an
ethereal covering.
I had looked forward eagerly to the moment when I should lay these pages
of affectionate remembrance before my friend Robert Browning, when,
alas! the news came from Venice of his unexpected death, and baulked me
of the pleasure of doing so—a disappointment which added to the
poignancy of my regret at his loss.
My visits to Casa Guidi were daily, or rather nightly, for my mother’s
health at this time compelled her to retire early to rest; and the
moment I had bidden her good-night, I would fly to Casa Guidi and spend
the early evening, or _prima sera_, as the Italians call it, with my
poets. How delightful were those moments—how swiftly did they pass! how
rich was the wit, the wisdom, the knowledge, the fancy, in which I
revelled with those dear companions! And then a ring would come at the
bell just at the proper moment to save my sweet hostess from fatigue,
and I would go downstairs to greet another friend who had kindly allowed
me to go into society under her wing. Madame de Manny, to all the
vivacity and charm of a Frenchwoman, added some of the dignity and
steadiness of the English nature—a rare and valuable combination amid
the frivolity and laxity of manners then prevalent in the Florentine
capital. The name of de Manny also had a charm for me in the historical
associations connected with Froissart and the Carthusian Monastery, for
my friend’s husband was a lineal descendant of Sir Walter de Manny, or
Many, in those famous chronicles.
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