LAST DAYS AT FLORENCE—RETURN TO ENGLAND—MILLARD’S HILL, LONDON 1848.
While we were at Florence the popular mind had become so excited by
passing events, by the Revolution in France, and by the outbreaks in the
north of Italy, that disturbances on a modified scale were of almost
daily occurrence in the streets or on the walls of the city. I was
amused one day at a comic manifestation of the Florentine horror of the
Austrian by overhearing a peasant who was beating his donkey, cry out to
him in a tone of objurgation: “Oh, Maiter Nick-ee—oh, Maiter Nick-ee.” I
could not but intercede for the poor beast, and represent to his master
that he could not well be called a foreigner.
Another time, as I was returning from a drive to a neighbouring villa
with my mother, our carriage was stopped and surrounded by some men, who
desired us to alight and proceed on foot, as we had no more right to go
in a carriage than they had. Their words were menacing, but their looks
were by no means threatening, and trusting to the Italian’s love of a
jest, I told them that it was out of the question for my mother to walk,
for she was not strong, and that for myself I did not care how many
miles I walked, but I had on a pair of beautiful new thin boots (in
those days we wore a dainty _chaussure_ called _brodequins_), and it
would break my heart to spoil them in the muddy road. Oh those
good-humoured Tuscans! They laughed, shook their heads, bade the
coachman drive on, and showed no ill-will to the little foreigner who
had turned aside their wrath with a joke.
But on a future day the populace showed itself more violent. I was
unwell, and had not left the house, when my brother came back with the
news that there had been a riot in the streets, and that on the
appearance of my friend Beppa, the florist, the old cry had been raised
of “A spy!—a Court spy!” and the poor woman had been hunted down several
streets, and was flying in terror for her very life; then came to her
rescue, rising as they ever did, as if by magic, in the hour of need,
the noble band of the “Misericordia,” bound to succour and to protect
the sick and the sorrowful. Clad in their black robes, their faces
shrouded by their black hoods, they interposed between the pursuers and
their victim, and claimed the right, which none durst question, of
taking possession of the fugitive. Beppa was sick, she was near her
confinement, therefore she came within the jurisdiction of the
“Misericordia,” who, placing her on the litter they always carry with
them, bore her off, not to the hospital, as is usual in such cases, but
to a place of safety and secrecy.
[Sidenote: “BEPPA” THE FLORIST]
I was very much distressed when I heard of the danger my favourite had
run, and longed to hear some news of her, which I did a few days later,
in rather dramatic manner. I was walking on the Lung’arno when a little
boy approached me. He attracted my attention in a mysterious manner,
“’St, ’st, Signorina,” he said; “listen to me, but take no notice of me.
Beppa salutes you tenderly. She has a beautiful boy; she sends you these
flowers,” which he smuggled into my hand, “and hopes to see you soon.”
Accordingly, in the course of time, our faithful Henry ushered a muffled
figure, whose face was completely hidden by the hood of a long cloak,
into the drawing-room of Casa Lagerschward. It was Beppa, my Beppa! She
flung off her disguise as she clasped me in her arms; she wept, she
laughed, she went into rapture over her baby, over her husband-“Che mi
vuole un ben di paradiso.”[46] It was a spectacle to astonish an
undemonstrative Northerner. When the time came for us to leave Florence,
Beppa was one of the humble friends whom I regretted most; but oh! how I
grieved to say farewell to that beautiful city!
Footnote 46:
“Who loves me with the love of heaven,” is the only translation I can
render of these untranslatable words.
“Oh! rightly, justly named the fair,
There is a magic in thine air,
A gladness in thine atmosphere,
Where floating particles of joy,
With hidden hope the spirits buoy,
And every feeling cheer.
“Fair city of the myriad towers,
How oft my heart will yearn
Towards thee and thine and those dear hours
Which never can return.
No more for me thy suns shall shine,
No more, no more thy flowerets twine
A garland for my brow!”
The gardener’s family from Careggi came to bid us farewell, and it was
only by a violent effort I could wrench myself away from the two weeping
sisters, who loaded me with caresses. The separation between the two
mothers was more affecting still, for they were both well stricken in
years, and knew they could not meet again on this side of the grave. I
shall never forget the faithful Italian’s tender look as she pressed my
mother’s hand for the last time to her lips, and exclaimed: “A rivederla
in Paradiso.” Then there was dear Félicie de Fauveau, of whom to take a
sad, and, as it turned out, a lasting farewell, and the good Levers, our
friend Charles and his excellent little wife.
Although in the early part of 1848 the whole of Europe was in a state of
political turmoil, our travel homeward was unattended by any excitement
or adventure. We fell in with no fighting, although we followed closely
on its track, and in Milan and many other towns through which we passed
we found all inscriptions and insignia in any way connected with
Austria, effaced and defaced, while in several streets and thoroughfares
were collected groups of citizens, for the most part in fantastic
dresses (for Italians generally love to throw a Carnival colouring over
all their doings), singing the Italian hymn of _Viva Italia!_ and _Viva
Pio Nono!_ for the name of the Pontiff was still beloved, as he had not
repudiated his first principles, or taken his flight to Gaeta yet,
neither had his name been superseded in the popular cries by _Viva
Garibaldi!_
For myself I was in constant correspondence with one of Charles Albert’s
most distinguished and confidential officers, the Cavaliere Pietro de
Boÿl, of whom I have already spoken in my chapter on Genoa. He well knew
how my brother Charles and I sympathised with his patriotic views for
Italy’s future, and he would write to me from Turin, or the camp,
according to where he was stationed, to enquire news of what was passing
in Tuscany, or farther south.
[Sidenote: DOWN THE RHINE]
In our passage down the Rhine our steamers carried troops, and I shall
never forget the intense delight with which I listened to the beautiful
part-singing of those good soldiers. I had just received a treasure from
England—it was the novel of “Jane Eyre,” at that moment making a great
noise in the literary world, and my recollections of that book have been
invariably intertwined with the strains of the excellent music to which
I listened during its perusal.
When we arrived in London we found it in a ferment of Chartists and
special constables; but in spite of the turmoil, we took our quiet way
to our little woodland house in Somersetshire, suffering, at least I
speak for myself, from the _mal du pays_, for I had got to love and
consider Italy as my home.
In the year 1849, my brother Charles and his wife, after a short sojourn
with us, embarked for the Cape of Good Hope, where he had obtained an
appointment; but there were still “good times in store for me,” for,
when the season was at its height, I went to London to pay a most
delightful visit to my friend Adelaide Sartoris.[47] Her comparatively
small drawing-rooms in Park Place were the resort of all that was
remarkable and superior in Society, whether as to talent or position.
The best _artistes_ in music, painting, sculpture, or histrionic
celebrity, were her frequent and welcome guests, enlivened, as the
Society papers would say, by a “sprinkling of beauty, rank and fashion.”
Here, for the first time, I heard the noble voice of Charles Santley,
which I always likened to three-piled crimson velvet, and from that
moment I have never met him without pleasure, or listened to him without
delight.
Footnote 47:
Younger daughter of Charles Kemble, and sister of Frances Anne Butler.
[Sidenote: VISIT TO MRS SARTORIS]
Charles Hallé, too, was there, with his exquisite rendering of
Mendelssohn, Beethoven, etc., whom I have often told that his playing
made me feel good and happy for at least a week; and his kindly,
friendly wife, and occasionally, though not at that time out in the
world, their eldest daughter, with whom it is still a pleasure to talk
of those old days, and who, never forgetting my admiration for her
father’s talent, includes me in many a kind invitation to profit by it.
Here, too, I often met Lord Dufferin, Lord Fordwich,[48] and Frederick
Leighton, the tried and trusty friend of the Sartorises, who sang duets
with Adelaide in songs of many nations, and whose fame as a painter,
although still young, was so firmly established, that his future honours
as P.R.A. caused no wonder to his friends or to the public. Here also
was an Italian singer, whose simple-minded remark on one occasion caused
us great merriment. Ciabatti was a man of great personal beauty, and I
overheard him one evening complaining to Mrs Sartoris that this “dowry,”
like unto Italia’s, had been fatal to him. “I seldom get an engagement,”
he said, “for the moment the mammas see me, they will not run the risk
of the daughters falling in love with me, for, you know, _cara_, I am so
very, very handsome!” No idle boast, but the plain unvarnished truth.
Footnote 48:
Francis, sixth Earl Cowper; born 1834; married, 1870, Lady Katrine
Compton, daughter of William, fourth Marquess of Northampton.
During that visit I was in my element—concerts at home and abroad,
operas, theatres and dramatic entertainments, in which my hostess and I
took part. The Alfred Wigans were our common friends, and it was
arranged on one occasion that a representation should be given in the
little theatre at Store Street, for the benefit of the above-named
distinguished actor. The piece chosen was _The Merry Monarch_, and the
caste was as follows:—
CHARLES II. MR HENRY GREVILLE
EARL of ROCHESTER MR ALFRED WIGAN
CAPTAIN COPP MR EDWARD SARTORIS
HONBLE. GEORGE
BYNG[49]
LADY CLARA MRS SARTORIS
MARY COPP MISS MARY BOYLE
the evening concluding with Alfred Wigan’s _chef-d’œuvre_ of _The First
Night_. How well I recall the happy meetings which the rehearsals
entailed.
Footnote 49:
Afterwards third Earl of Strafford.
It was a brilliant success financially and socially. The Sartorises at
that time had no country house of their own, but it was their habit to
hire one, during the summer and autumn months, in different parts of
England, where I often visited them, and spent hours of happy
intercourse with dear Adelaide and her sister Fanny, enjoying the
delight of intellectual conversation and genial sympathy.
At Henry Greville’s house in Queen Street, where his small and select
reunions had all the characteristics of a French _salon_, all the best
musicians of the day lent their talents to make the evening attractive
in the highest degree; while it was a standing jest among the female
friends of our dear host, that their newest toilettes and brightest
diamonds were to be worn in his honour.
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