+FLORENCE+
SUMMER had now given place to Autumn, with its treasures of corn and
wine; not that pallid season, half-summer, half-winter, of our more
northern climes—but the glowing Autumn of Italy, when the purple
clusters of grapes hang pendent from the trellised arbor of vine-leaves
over-head; when the orange groves are fragrant with their golden fruit,
and the luscious fig and dark olive grove invite the traveller to
refreshment and repose.
On quitting Venice, we had decided on retracing our steps, in order to
visit the cities we had not yet seen. From Genoa we followed the
beautiful coast road to Pisa, whence we took rail to Florence, arriving
there towards the latter part of September. We thus had time to visit
the various galleries and artistic curiosities of the city of the
Medici, previously to the commencement of the fashionable season, when
Florence is usually thronged with strangers. We engaged a fine
apartment—“primo piano”—(first floor) on the Lungo L’Arno, considered
the best situation by strangers, though not by the Florentines
themselves, who call it unhealthy. Nor are they wrong—for the Arno, like
the Tiber, is a yellow, dirty stream, unpoetic to the eye, and
frequently most unsavory to another sense. Florence nevertheless well
deserves her name of “La bella.” The town is built on either side of the
river, which is spanned by five exquisitely light and well proportioned
bridges, each of which differs in the style of its architecture from the
others. These bridges unite the two cities as it were into one. As is
usual, one side of the river monopolizes the rank and fashion of
Florence, although the grand ducal palace of Pitti is situate on its
opposite and quieter border. Our first visit was of course to the
“Palazzo d’egli Uffizis,” to view the celebrated Venus de Medicis. We
expected much, and were therefore of course disappointed. The figure is
artistically perfect; perhaps this very perfection causes the effect to
be cold and unsympathetic. The face, too, is entirely without
expression. She resembles rather a young nymph of Diana than the goddess
of love and beauty, whose voluptuous charms are far better portrayed in
the statue called the Venus of the Capitol in Rome—infinitely superior,
in my opinion, to her Florentine sister.
At the Pitti Palace, we spent hours wrapped in silent contemplation
before that superhuman painting, the divine Madonna della Seggiola of
Raphael Sanzio. Most of my readers will be familiar with the copies of
this picture, but these, one and all will give them but a very imperfect
idea of the original, _which cannot be reproduced_. The features and
complexion may, it is true, be copied—but who but the immortal Raphael
could represent the infinitely tender and happy, yet half wondering look
of the young mother, as she clasps that mysterious Babe to her virgin
breast! Who but he might portray those dove-like eyes, welling over with
maternal love? Verily it was given to that wondrous poet-painter alone
to reveal to mortal sight the spotless Mary, who “kept all these things,
and pondered them in her heart.” And even he must have used as his brush
a plume fresh plucked from an angel’s wing, all bright and glowing with
the hues of Paradise. Observe, too, the look of thought, far beyond his
years, which almost casts the shadow of coming sorrow over the baby brow
of that divine Infant. Genius, highest gift of heaven! how glorious are
thy works!—how godlike thy mission upon earth!
Strangers were now fast pouring into Florence, and the winter was
expected to be unusually brilliant. Col. Melville arrived, and became
the constant companion of our walks and drives, and a welcome guest at
our dinner table. Evelyn treated him kindly—at times almost as an
accepted lover, whilst at others she appeared to weary of his society,
and to long for change and excitement. Highly fitted to shine in the
_salon_, and passionately fond of amusement, our heroine had never, as
yet, been able fully to gratify her taste for the world, which from the
very novelty of its pleasures to her, now became her idol. An
all-engrossing affection, it may be imagined, like that of Melville,
rather nettled and annoyed her; she hated restraint, desired to be
uncontrolled mistress of her actions, to dance when and with whom she
pleased, and to accept the homage of the favored few. I will do her the
justice to say she never cared to attract the notice of the million, and
had a perfect horror of the street admiration so usual on the Continent.
Melville was jealous. He could not view with calmness the smiles of the
lady of his love lavished on another. He would leave the room—perhaps
the house—and not return, till a small, rose-colored missive would once
again recall him to the side of his fair tormentor.
With all this, Evelyn was not a deliberate coquette. She admired and
esteemed Melville, and appreciated his devotion with her whole heart—but
unhappily she fell into that fatal mistake common to beauties, that
affection such as his, is of every day occurrence, and to be considered
merely as the meed due to her charms. How frequently do the lovely of
our sex thus make shipwreck of their happiness, not knowing how _very
few_ are capable of feeling the true sentiment of love, and how
priceless therefore is the heart of an honorable man. Alas! in bitter
suffering, and with tears of blood, do they expiate their supreme
folly!—they then, when too late, perceive how they have flung away the
purest gold for mere tinsel, and now they must starve for the want of
that bread of life which can alone satisfy the famished heart, and which
that once despised gold would have purchased.
The plain woman is wiser. _She_ does not trample on the heart that loves
her; and thus her lot is frequently a brighter one than that of her
fairer, though less fortunate sister, doomed to mourn in silence and
loneliness the neglected happiness of the past.
What would that weary one now give for one glance, in which soul answers
to soul—for one word uttered even in reproach, by lips which, in the
past, breathed but tenderness and love? Alas, alas!—it is too late—_too
late_—and the haughty and once-petted beauty is forever alone with the
spectre of by-gone days!
Like all women who have been accustomed to much attention from the
opposite sex, Evelyn looked for impossibilities. The future husband her
fancy painted, was to unite high station and wealth, and every advantage
of mind and person, with, of course, a heart entirely devoted to her.
“That love,” says the Hon. Mrs. Norton, in her beautiful and romantic
novel, “Stuart of Dunleith,” “which at once satisfies the soul, the
intellect, the heart and the senses, is met with once, and once only in
life.” I quote from memory, and consequently express the sentiments of
the gifted author in my own words. But, is it so? _I think not._ Perfect
happiness is not to be found on earth; therefore, let my lady readers be
content, if they meet one who unites three—aye, even two of these
requisites, combined with sincere attachment—let her not then despise
her lover, but rather wear him in her heart of hearts.
The grand ducal court of Florence was, at the time we were there, one of
the pleasantest and most aristocratic _réunions_ of aristocratic Europe.
Any stranger, once presented there by his minister, was invited to all
the balls, concerts, and receptions which were given weekly through the
entire winter season.
The Grand Duke Leopold, a most excellent old man, and greatly beloved by
a large circle of the nobility, was adored by the poor, whose sick-beds
he frequently visited in person. The Grand Duchess, his consort, a
Princess of Naples, though much younger than her husband, had ever borne
a perfectly unblemished reputation. Her imperial highness was a
remarkably fine woman, with the most beautifully-formed shoulders I ever
beheld. She was most gracious, and at the same time dignified in her
manners, and always had a kind and affable word for the ladies whom she
recognized as frequent attendants at her receptions.
The youthful imperial family were worthy of their royal parents. The two
elder Arch-Dukes, although mere boys, were distinguished in the ballroom
for their graceful and amiable manners, and for their skill in the
dance, of which they were passionately fond, as is usual with youths of
their age. The heir-apparent had lately brought home his young and
beautiful bride, a Princess of Saxony. Alas! who could have imagined, in
a few short years, that lovely girl would be laid in an early
grave!—this august family would be forever exiled from their native
soil! Even now, I see the poor old man; his white hairs, powerless to
protect him from insult, bowed down with sorrow—yet struggling manfully
with his grief, in order to console his weeping consort, Grand
Duchess—now in name only. I see the faithful _guardia nobile_ press
around the carriages, to spare the beloved and venerated family the
gibes and sneers of the ladies (women are ever the most cruel) who had
so frequently partaken of their sovereign’s hospitality, but who now
were congregated at the gate of the city, to smile at a misfortune
which, however possible its ultimate benefits to Italy, had fallen on
innocent heads.
The government of Leopold of Tuscany was almost of too paternal a
character. There were literally no police. I never heard of any spies;
and the obnoxious Austrian soldiers had long been sent back to their own
country. _Why_ the Florentines preferred their country being turned into
a province of Piedmont, and governed by a Viceroy, instead of remaining
an independent State, I am at a loss to imagine; nor can I make out
wherefore they disliked their excellent Sovereign and his amiable
family. No good has, for the present, resulted from their bloodless
revolution. Let us, however, hope the day may dawn, which will see fair
Italy once more a nation, united under one head. Then, perhaps, Florence
herself may derive the benefit she has not yet reaped from her change of
rulers.
[Illustration]
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