CHAPTER XXIV

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.