CHAPTER IX.FLORENCE
Summerhad 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 withstrangers. 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 ofthe 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 thesalon, 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 howvery feware 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.Shedoes 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 aristocraticréunionsof aristocratic Europe. Any stranger, once presented there by his minister, wasinvited 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 exiledfrom 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 faithfulguardia nobilepress 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.Whythe 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 seefair 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.