A Journey to Crete, Costantinople, Naples and Florence: Three Months Abroad

We arrived at the Piazza soon after ten o’clock, and found a place near to the throne, erected in the centre of the Piazza, on which the King took his seat during the ceremony. I could therefore understand much of what the Gonfaloniere and Father Giuliani said when they addressed him.

We had not waited long, when the ringing of the bells of the Palazzo Vecchio, announced that the procession had begun, and before long the music of the band was heard. The guards on horseback, who rode in front of the procession, appeared and cleared the way. Then came a band of music, followed by the representatives of the Italian press, who were succeeded by those of the Italian artists, among which were several ladies, the only females who took part in the procession. Foremost among them I noticed Mdme. Ristori, who walked along with the grace and dignity of a queen.

The ladies wore, as a head covering, instead of bonnets, the pretty and becoming black Italian veil. And then came an endless procession of deputations from every town in Italy, occasionally intercepted by bands of music. Each deputation carried a banner, the beauty and elegance of which surpassed anything of the kind I had ever seen.

When the whole procession had arrived, and ranged itself round the Piazza, and more than three hundred silk banners waved and glittered in the sunshine, the sight was magnificent beyond description. The beautiful banners were, after the ceremony, presented by the different deputations to the municipality of Florence, and will be kept as a remembrance of the 14th of May, 1865.

The deputations of the different towns and provinces followed each other in an alphabetical order, with the exception of the municipal bodies of Florence and Ravenna, representing Dante’s birth-place, and the town where he died and was buried; these were the last in the procession. The red fleur-de-lis of Florence was loudly cheered, so were the arms of Ravenna, and the same honour was bestowed on the sign of the Wolf suckling twin boys, which was carried by a deputation from Rome. This banner had crape attached to it. The cheers became most enthusiastic when the winged Lion of Venice appeared, also with the sign of mourning, and followed by a long train of exiles from that unhappy place. The generous and easily moved Italians were loud in their expression of sympathy; the men shouted and clapped their hands, the women burst into tears and waved their handkerchiefs.

I noticed also a deputation from Trieste. I am no politician, so I may be mistaken; but I thought Austria had an undeniable right to that province, and therefore looked upon its deputation rather as an intruder. And I must not forget to mention two Dominican Friars, who had come with us from Naples, and were sent from some fraternity there. The banner they carried bore the inscription “Roma per Capitale,” and they received many signs of good-will as they passed in the procession, being the only priests that had taken any part in the festival, or shown any feeling that was not indifference or even hostility to it.

The priesthood of Florence behaved in a most ungracious manner. All the beautiful churches of Florence, which thousands of eager strangers wished to see, were closed, except for a few hours daily when mass was said; and money, which usually opens those doors so readily, was of no avail; so that many who could not stay after the festival was over, saw but few, and those often at great inconvenience, being obliged to profit by the short time of service when they were open.

Soon after the procession had ranged itself round the Piazza, and the bands were playing joyful tunes, loud cheers announced the approach of the King, the first King of Italy, the representative of its unity and liberty! The Rè Galantuomo took his seat opposite the veiled statue, and was, as soon as the cheers had subsided, addressed by the Gonfaloniere, who was, like the rest of the municipal body, dressed in his robes of office, which closely resemble those worn by the magistrates at the time of Dante. The moment he had concluded his speech, the covering dropped, and there stood in the midst of his people, indescribably grand, with an expression both austere and kind, sad and happy, Dante the divine. There was a long pause, then a murmur, then loud cheering. It was a moment never to be forgotten. I looked at the statue again next day, and found some fault with it; it takes too wide a stride, the right arm is thrown too far backwards, but at the moment of uncovering I observed none of those defects; it appeared grand and imposing, and the expression of the face worthy of the great soul that once had animated its features.

But where was at that moment Italy’s Hero; he, who had done more than any one living or dead for the realization of the great thought of Dante’s life; he, who resembled the great dead more than any living Italian, in his unselfish, undying love of his country, in his pure and blameless life? A solitary exile, on a bare rock of Caprera sat Giuseppe Garibaldi on that joyful day. Close by the side of the King, as when he entered the Cathedral of Naples, there Italy ought to have prepared a seat for him. But he seemed forgotten by every body. No where did I see a bust that portrayed his noble features; I heard no voice raise the cry, “Evviva Garibaldi!”

Thus let it be! But surely the day will come, as came the Dante day of Florence, when Italy will pay her tribute of honour to her Hero, as she did that day to her Poet. Then will multitudes flock together, and men looking at his noble image, will call out with beating hearts, “Behold our deliverer,” and women will weep, and lifting up their children will cry, “To him we owe it, that we are Italians.” And I missed the presence of another man, of one who, although in another way, laboured as earnestly and successfully for his country. But Camillo Cavour after a life of toil and trouble, rests peacefully at Santena. He saw but the dawn of the bright day that has now arisen over his country. When the king and the people had for some time gazed at the figure that had appeared so suddenly in their midst, Padre Giuliani made a short speech, of which the words “Onorate l’altissimo Poeta, la sua grand anima è placata,”15 made a deep impression. Amidst the sounds of a joyful chorus, singing a hymn to Dante, I left the Piazza Santa Croce.

In the coolness of the night, after having rested from the fatigues of the morning, we took an open carriage for a drive through the illuminated town. I had never seen an illumination abroad, and was enchanted. Oh how little do we understand such things in England! I had always thought the blazing gas-stars, crowns, Prince of Wales’ feathers, and V. R.’s, stuck against some dark shapeless building, very meaningless and hideous, and for the last ten years nothing could ever persuade me to turn out on an illumination night. It was in Florence I learned that such a spectacle can be imposing and lovely. We commit two glaring faults in our illuminations in England. The first is that we employ gas, instead of oil lamps, which glares and dazzles instead of illuminating; secondly, instead of lighting up our buildings architecturally, we stick some ornament against them, which is perfectly unmeaning and arbitrary. I wonder that any one who is not a child, can care to look at a thing only because it is bright. The Florentines had illuminated their beautiful town, especially its most imposing buildings, with lamps arranged in a way to bring out every outline in a blaze of light. The stones of the walls appeared transparent, as if the light which was merely reflected by them, proceeded from them. The wonderful structures of the Palazzo Vecchio, the Palazzo della Podestà, the Palazzo Pitti, and of the Duomo, served as a scaffolding for the fairy palaces that burned through the night. And if possible the effect they produced was even surpassed by the illumination of the Lung’ Arno, where the long rows of innumerable lights along the banks, and round the arches of the bridges, were reflected in the placid waters of the Arno, in which they formed long lines of golden light, and wonderfully increased the effect of the illumination above. How I wish that we could be treated to a similar sight in London. Why are the noble mansions, for instance the Club-houses in St. James, not lighted up in this way, instead of being actually disfigured by senseless ornaments, which I hear are nevertheless very costly? Will none of the honourable members of those clubs, who have seen and admired an illumination of St. Peter’s at Rome, or of the Pitti Palace at Florence, treat the London sightseers to such a spectacle? To hope that such a thing should be done with the houses of Parliament, or St. Paul’s, is perhaps too bold a wish.

In the principal squares of the town were stationed bands of music and choirs; and thus a happy crowd that behaved with a gentleness and politeness, which astonished me as much as the illumination, moved along through the cool pleasant night to the sounds of joyful music. And thus ended the first day of Dante’s great festival.

On the second day there was a matinée musicale, where a “Hymn to Beatrice,” a chorus called “Dante’s return to Florence,” and other pieces, were sung, and in the evening there was a grand concert in the Teatro Pagliano, where a “Dante Symphony,” the “Ave Maria” of Dante, and other appropriate pieces were executed, but as I was present at neither, I cannot say any thing about them. I spent several hours that day in the Palazzo della Podestà, and examined the “Espositione Dantesca.”

Its object was to make us as much as possible acquainted with all that related to Dante and his time. There was a large collection of portraits of Dante, of which an excellent copy of one by Giotto, pleased me most. There were also several pictures of which he was the subject, but they had little intrinsic value. Among the paintings illustrating some part of the Divina Comedia, I noticed but one good picture, a modern one by Benvenuto d’Arezzi. It represents Ugolino and his sons; it is however, not so good as the one by Reynolds, at Knole House, and which depicts this terrible story almost as powerfully as the twenty-third Canto of the Inferno. But there were seventy-four pen and ink drawings, illustrating the Inferno, by Professor Scarramuzzo of Parma, which, in my opinion, were the gems of the whole exhibition. Fine photographs of these beautiful drawings were exhibited with them. My husband wrote for copies of them to Parma, as they could not be bought in Florence; they were sent, and are the most precious remembrances to me of the Dante festival.

There were also old portraits of several of Dante’s contemporaries, or of persons mentioned in the Comedia. I noticed those of Guido Cavalcante and Christo Landini; most curious was an old wooden statue, covered with bronze, of Pope Boniface VIII., which was sent to the exhibition from the Archæological Museum of Bologna, with the following inscription:—

“Qui fui tratto ad onorar il trionfodi lui ch’io cacciai dalla patria.”16

One room was full of manuscripts on parchment, etc., of the Divina Comedia, some as old as the fourteenth century; and other books, especially Bibles, of the same date; and there were also some fragments of manuscripts by the Divine Poet himself, at which I looked with awe and reverence. The exhibition contained also a large collection of arms, furniture, jewellery, and works of art of the middle ages, especially of the time of Dante; and which, examined in connexion with him, acquired a new interest.

The beautiful sword, the Gonfaloniere had presented to the King in the name of Florence, was also exhibited there. On one side of the blade were inscribed the words “Dante to the first King of Italy.” On the other the following lines from the 6th Canto of the Purgatory:—

“Vieni a veder la tua Roma, che piagneVedova, sola, e dì e notte chiama:Cesare mio, perchè non m’accompagne?”

As at every festival there are many young ladies, who are not happy unless they get a dance, and as there are always gentlemen, who in order to enjoy themselves require races or regattas, and as the populace is every where fond of show and display, so there were also at the Dante festival balls, races, regattas, and tournaments. What those things could have to do with Dante, it would be difficult to say; for the love of God, of his country, and poetry, the three great elements of which the soul of the Divine Poet seems to have been composed, are not very intimately connected with these kinds of amusements. I think therefore they were out of keeping, and might as well have been omitted. A Dante festival, although rightly of a cheerful and joyful character, ought, it seems to me, always to be tempered by seriousness, and free from frivolity. I must however confess, that I went myself to look at these things whenever I was not too tired to do so.

The grand ball at the Casino, as the great clubhouse is called, in spite of the splendid ball-rooms, the good music and the elegant dress of the ladies, was rather a failure. The rooms were hot, and the ladies tired after the excitement of the day. Many seemed to prefer a walk through the open galleries, which were beautifully decorated with flowers, and where they could breathe the fresh night air, to a quadrille; and others withdrew to the many elegant rooms that join the two ball-rooms, preferring evidently a chat to a waltz. All retired at an early hour.

The popular ball, in the galleries of the Uffizi, was a much more novel and interesting thing.

The Uffizi, erected by Cosimo I., and considered Vasari’s finest building, enclose a large court or square with porticos round it. One end is formed by a grand arch, under which stands the equestrian statue of Cosimo I., by Giovanni di Bologna, and all round, in niches in the wall, are placed well executed marble statues of great Tuscans by modern artists. There are about thirty in number, and among them such names as Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo, Dante, Petrarca, Boccaccio, Lorenzo the Magnificent, Galileo, Benvenuto Cellini, etc. This vast and splendid place had been converted into an open air ball-room. It had been boarded all over. The walls and columns were covered with splendid Gobelin tapestry of grand designs and rich colouring. Large looking-glasses, encircled by garlands of flowers instead of frames, reflected and multiplied the innumerable lights, which poured their rays like fountains on the assembled multitude. In the middle of the square a fountain played among white, green, and red light, representing the Italian colours. Above, garlands of flowers and evergreens, from which thousands of coloured lamps were suspended, formed the plafond. Now and then the soft night breeze made the lamps swing gently backwards and forwards, which had a pretty effect. An excellent band played ball music. The centre was occupied by the dancers; the spectators moving along under the porticos, a quiet, polite, orderly crowd. I never heard a rude word nor was molested in the slightest degree during my walk round the porticos.

What surprised me however most was the extraordinary modesty and dignity of the Tuscan maidens, who had declined in a body to join the dance, considering the fête of too public a character. This seemed however not to interfere at all with the enjoyment of the ball. The young men thinking most probably that their sisters and sweethearts were right in what they did, danced among themselves, and evidently with no lack of spirit and enjoyment. They were mostly lads of between fifteen and twenty years of age. The young women, on the arm of their fathers, or in companies together, stood around as spectators and seemed to look on with pleasure. The festival concluded not unworthily with a series of “tableaux vivants” at the Teatro Pagliano, illustrating the life of Dante, and parts of the Divina Commedia. The former were accompanied by words set to music for the occasion; the latter preceded by those verses from the divine poem which they were intended to illustrate. The theatre is large, and every space was filled and prettily decorated with wreaths of flowers. Many of the tableaux were charming. The first meeting of Dante and Beatrice in the streets of Florence was lovely. The fiery graves of the Inferno, and the proud figure of Farinato, rising out of one, in order to speak to Dante, was the most effective. The one in which Pia in Purgatory speaks to the poet, will never be forgotten by me, because of the touching manner with which Mme. Ristori spoke the words:—

“Ricordati di me, che son la Pia,

which sounded like an elegy.

Her recitation of the story of the unhappy Francesco da Rimini, was above all praise. Those sad words:—

“Nessun maggior dolore,Che ricordarsi del tempo felice,Nella miseria,”

moved me to tears. Splendidly did she pronounce her detestation of the licentious book that had wrought Francesca’s fall, when she said:—

“Galeotto fu il libro e chi lo scrisse,”

and then added with a shudder of horror that trembled in her voice:—

“Quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.”

Besides Madame Ristori, Sig. Salvini, Sig. Rossi, and Sig. Gottinelli, recited. They are considered the first actors in Italy, but I cannot say that they pleased me. Like those of Hamlet, “they imitated humanity so abominably.” Their countrymen however applauded them the more, the more they “overstepped the modesty of nature;” “strutted and bellowed, and sawed the air with their hands.” But the cheers which were so liberally bestowed upon these recitations, became most enthusiastic whenever the words could be interpreted so as to allude to the great political events and ideas of the day. At the words:—

“Infin che ’l Veltro,Verrà, che la farà morir di doglia.”Infer. Canto 1.

And at those,

“Vieni a veder la tua Roma, che piagne,Vedova, sola, e dì e notte chiama:Cesare mio, perchè non m’accompagne?”Purg. Canto 6.

the audience forgot the “Divina Commedia” and the actors, and loudly cheered the King, who was present at the representation, and had been received with loud and continuous cheers when he entered his box.

But although the Dante festival is over, I cannot leave Florence without telling a little more about it, for the recollection of that charming town is one of the most pleasing of my journey.

Florence means, as everybody knows, the flowery, the blooming; but only those that have seen it in the month of May, can know how well it deserves so fair a name. The beautiful Tuscan valleys, in the most lovely of which Florence lies, may well be regarded as the garden of the temperate zone. It certainly seems to me the most perfect representation of it. Naples has a touch of the tropics; cacti, aloes, and palm trees, are not of our clime. We meet with nothing new or strange at Florence. We are quite at home, all among old friends, wearing a new and more beautiful dress than we were wont to see them in, and they please us more than ever.

The trees are not gigantic, but perfect in form and size. The meadows and fields, though a pleasant sight, are somewhat monotonous at home; here they have a perfectly different look. They are planted with rows of pretty young trees of all kinds, such as poplars, planes, may, mountain ashes, etc., which are not allowed to grow beyond the size of an ornamental garden tree, in order to prevent their giving too much shade. Round every stem twines a vine, that hangs gracefully from its supporting branches, and meets some other vine from a neighbouring tree, thus forming elegant festoons.

And how well the figures that animate this delightful landscape, harmonize with it. The women of Tuscany have not the stately beauty of the Roman matrons, nor the coquetish okay webster’s] grace of their sisters of Milan and Venice. Their eyes have not the fire that burns in those of the Neapolitan girls, nor is their skin so fair as that of the Genoese; but I do not know if, after all, they are not the best looking in Italy. Their eyes have a soft lustre, which is very charming; their features are regular and very pleasing.

We stayed a few days after the festival under the false pretence of resting ourselves, but who could rest when there was so much to be seen and enjoyed?

I spent one day in the famous Gallery of the Uffizi, saw a splendid marble copy of Laocoon, and knew then what I never understood before, why that group is so much admired; saw the eternal ideal of Beauty, in the Venus of Medicis, and those wonderful beings which the brush of Titian has immortalised. But how can I venture to attempt enumerating all that I saw there? Another day was spent in the Palazzo Pitti, where some of Raphael’s most charming works are treasured up. The “Madonna del Cardellino,” the “Madonna del Baldacchino,” which although very lovely, I hardly looked at, because I could not turn my eyes away from those two winged darlings that stand at her feet, and sing her praise; and there was above all my much beloved and revered “Madonna della Sedia.”

I visited of course the churches, the interiors of which are mostly of a sombre grey, that blends with a lighter shade of the same colour, and with white. It produces a simple and serious effect. In striking contrast to the simple grandeur of the interior of these churches, is the Medicean chapel, belonging to the Church of St. Lorenzo, which is gorgeous in the extreme, the walls being entirely covered with costly marbles, and precious stones; a fit monument of the overbearing pride and vanity of that famous family. It astonished me much, this monument of their untold wealth and great power; I could not help contrasting with it the comparative simplicity and modesty of the Mausoleums of the great Sovereigns of our time, and felt that the most powerful and ambitious of them, could not build one for himself like the chapel of the Medici. In the sacristia of the same church, I saw the monuments on the tombs of Lorenzo and Giugliano dei Medici, by Michael Angelo. Of the six figures that compose the two monuments, the one of Lorenzo, made the deepest impression upon me. The whole figure, especially the face, has an expression of deep inconsolable grief. He looks as if sorrowing for ever that he robbed a great and noble people of its liberty; as if come to a full knowledge of his guilt, and the sins and follies of his past life. I think some people say the expression of this sad, mournful figure sitting upon his own tomb, is one of meditation. Rogers writes “he scowls at us.” It did not seem to me that he looks at any thing present at all, he looks with a vacant stare, his sight is turned inwardly, lost in the contemplation of the past.

I went directly from those tombs to the one where the great master reposes. It is in the church of Santa Croce, that the dust of Michael Angelo mingles with that of Galileo, and of many other great men. The allegorical figure of Italy sorrowing over the grave of Alfieri, who also rests within the walls of this church, is by Canova, and is as beautiful a monument as any poet could wish to have erected over his grave.

With a feeling not free from regret, we left Florence early one morning, in a fragrant May shower, that cooled and refreshed the air, and made the garden-country all around look fresher and lovelier than ever. We travelled in the same carriage with the well known Padre Gavazzi, who was not satisfied with the festival, as according to his opinion, it had not been of a character sufficiently decided political and religious.

When changing our carriage at Bologna, I suddenly found myself face to face with Mdlle. S—, and her father, who had been among our travelling companions from Trieste to Smyrna, and who were returning from their pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Their journey may have been one of intense enjoyment, it certainly had been one of great fatigue. The poor girl looked thin and worn, and spoke to me of her adventures with a woeful countenance. The expression of her face was at the same time exceedingly comical, and I could not help laughing at her tale, a laugh in which the good natured girl heartily joined, although it was partly at her own expense. According to her account, and her wan cheeks, and dim, lustreless eyes, confirmed what she said, the fatigues and dangers of the excursion to the Holy Land, must have been very great indeed. The Germans are not an equestrian nation. Of the forty excursionists, not one was a very proficient rider; in fact few of them had ever been on horse or donkey-back before. The consequence was an uninterrupted series of accidents as soon as travelling on horseback became, as it is everywhere in the East, the only mode of transit.