16 - Katharine Hooker, "Wayfarers in Italy" (1902)

Katharine Hooker, Wayfarers in Italy, San Francisco: D.P. Elder and Morgan Shepard, 1902

 

Sojourning in Florence

 

Arno gentil, fiorenti

Prati delle Cascine,

Leggiadre palazzine

Superbi monumenti,

 

Bianche ville ridenti

Sparse per le colline,

Vezzose Fiorentine

Dai musicali accenti

 

Bella città di fuori

Piena di glorie sante,

Cinta di eterni allori,

 

Culla immortal di Dante

Che l’universo onori

T’amo come un amante!

 

E. DE AMICIS, A FIRENZE

 

I wonder if any place in the world has the charm of Florence to those who love her. The return to her after years is a keen delight, and simply to tread her streets, to stand upon her bridges, gives a thrill so moving that tears are not far from the surface. To explain a statement thus verging on the sentimental, to analyze the charm that is so consummate, and at the same time to avoid emotional exaggeration would not be easy. I might dwell upon her exquisite situation, her marvelous treasures of art and architecture, and the wonderful, the stupendous history of her past, that seems to breathe life into the very stones of her streets and to rise up and envelop one who passes along them; but how could I transfer to those who have never seen her what can only be felt here on the spot—and even then not everyone falls a victim to her fascinations!

I met our good Doctor C—yesterday on the famous corner of a certain street,—only to pass there on the smallest errand fills me with visions. And what said he? Why, glancing about with a sort of provisional impatience, he remarked that it was wasting time to be here when one might be stopping in Rome. I quoted to him a saying adapted by a friend of ours, “See Naples, visit Rome, live in Florence,” at which he merely looked scornful and changed the subject. And so will I, and tell the homely details of our arrival and establishment here.

The first night was spent at the Anglo-American, an excellent, quiet hotel, a little too far up the river, but with many advantages, including that of an unusually agreeable proprietor. This was but a stepping-stone, however, to what we meant to compass, which was to become inmates in an Italian household where we should hear no English, and, if possible, see something of the life of a Florentine family. We had the address of such a place, and searching it out promptly, found we could be received at once, and what was better, that we should be the only strangers in the house. So we moved directly and became dwellers in the street of the Holy Spirit, and entirely comfortable and contented.

The Casa T—comprises our handsome, cordial hostess, a widow, and her five children, from the Signorina Maria, who may be twenty-one, down to little Pierino, aged ten, a beautiful child, the molding and coloring of whose charming face it is a pleasure to gaze upon though all the family are well endowed with good looks. The two eldest are daughters, already busy teaching, the three youngest, sons, still in school, though rather irregularly so, for the Signora is a somewhat too indulgent mother, it is easy to see. As for our surroundings, we occupy one floor of an old palazzo, which, as every one knows, is the custom here where a family does not have an entire house to itself, the different floors being let to different people, and the entrance and stairway serving as common property. Our stairs, by the way, are of evident antiquity; the lift of each one is quite beyond the altitude of ease, and the tread is a ponderous slab of stone, worn to a sort of bevel at the edge, by the passage of centuries of steps, no doubt, giving one a slightly giddy feeling as of pitching forward while one descends.

On the ground floor is a large hall, now the property of a society, which keeps much gaudy regalia there; the next floor has a more imposing front door than ours, and the dwellers therein appear to keep rather finer company. I observed that carriages bring gayly dressed people to it, and yesterday I saw an example of a curious and rather undesirable fashion, fallen out of use in America, but evidently still in full force here, that of dressing sisters exactly alike, so that they suggest a brood of fledglings. In this case three brunettes, ranging perhaps between twenty-eight and thirty-five, with fatigued, indifferent faces, appeared in three showy gowns of what is known as electric blue, with three hats of bizarre shape and bewildering variety of color. The conspicuousness of this effect thrice repeated seemed to render the mode all the more objectionable.

However, no matter what elegance stops at the first floor, we rest satisfied that our own secondo piano is the really choice location, as so much lighter and more airy, nor do we hear even an echo of the high life below stairs or the proceedings of the humbler menage above us, the thickness of the stone floors preventing all discomfort from noise, that great objection to living in such close proximity to others in our own less thoroughly constructed houses. There are many unlooked-for possibilities of space and privacy in old buildings such as these, perhaps once the centers of a wealthy patriarchal life, but now fallen to the uses of a humbler housekeeping. The effort of the present day is to so plan a house that every foot of space has its immediate use, and thus to the practical and economical American the big corridors and lofty rooms, which perhaps serve merely as separation or entrance to certain others, and often enjoyed by families in very small circumstances, are a fresh surprise. Yet this space, which may be regarded as superfluous, saves the necessity of all occupations, sounds and odors being shared at once, so to speak, by all the members of a family, and one is apt sooner or later to incline toward dropping the compact as a standard of desirability, and adopting that of the spacious, as affording much advantage of restfulness and quiet.

For ourselves, we have but one room between us, it being so large that we find it easy to regard it as equal to the two we at first demanded. Its stone floor is covered with a sort of enamel, laid on to represent a granite center tastefully relieved by a green border! Rugs are spread beside the beds and tables. We have two iron bedsteads with little stands beside them bearing tall candlesticks, two broad washstands with a towel-rack between as big as a donkey, a dressing-table, a chest of drawers, an extensive wardrobe, a roomy table for books and writing materials, and several chairs. But perhaps the most important piece of furniture is a tall, circular earthenware stove, much embellished and surmounted by a Parian bust swathed in white gauze. The effect of it is so imposing that when it is lighted we almost seem to be deriving warmth from a historic monument. But it is not often brought into use. Of a chill evening Gina brings us each a cassettina, a little object that in shape might be a jewel-casket somewhat worn and blackened, with handles like an old-fashioned basket. This is filled with hot charcoal and packed with ashes, and used as a footstool is most comforting. When Gina comes to announce dinner she catches them up and carrying them out to the sala deposits them under the table, that we may dine without resting our feet upon the frigid stone floor. All the furniture mentioned, however, does not crowd our apartment, in which there is plenty of space besides. It is lofty enough to make two stories of the common height, and has a beamed ceiling painted and decorated in blue and white. There are also two great arched casement windows, furnished with outside and inside shutters, and large enough for a procession to march through. High on the wall over them are huge yellow canopies.

Gina, the little maid who waits upon us, is most assiduous. Instead of walking, she runs at full speed to do our bidding. Although almost overcome by bashfulness in our presence, she yearns to serve us and invents things to do for us. She is grieved if she cannot have all our various garments to brush and our shoes to polish every day, and she bids us good-night each evening in a little set speech in which we are first implored to permit her to assist us further if possible, and then commended to the Powers for protection and blessing during the interval till she sees us again.

When we are ready for coffee in the morning we pull a long, heavy bell-cord, suspended from the upper regions, and in a few moments breakfast is prepared for us in the adjoining salon, where we have it alone, the family being already dispersed to its various occupations, after which we go forth, perhaps first for a walk and then to study the galleries, keeping the freshest hours of the day for the pictures. To these peaceful and congenial haunts we carry our handbooks and wander about or sit on soft divans studying at our ease. At noon we go home, and the Signora lunches with us. The food is good and delicately cooked, and there is only too much anxiety that there shall be a choice of dishes to suit our taste. Luncheon, or colazione as it is called, will perhaps consist of the following courses: first, macaroni, then shirred eggs, cutlets with fried potatoes, fruit, nuts, etc. Crips rolls and good wine accompany the meal. Bread, by the way, is an article upon which American and Italian tastes differ. The white flour rolls which are taken for us do not find acceptance with the rest of the family, who prefer cuts from the big loaf, darker, coarser in texture, and unsalted. Butter is a comparatively unimportant article of diet; we do not see it excepting at our early coffee and then it is a concession to foreign taste. It is sometimes served with cheese and biscuit as a course at colazione.

The afternoon is left for more diversified occupations, wandering through the old streets to verify historic sites, exploring churches, and driving to the suburbs. At seven the whole family is assembled, and we dine in a big sala in another part of the establishment. Here a lively conversation goes on, and the harassed American follow what they can of it, but as the young people talk with fearful rapidity and in general at least three at a time, it is a breathless pursuit. It is said that one of the daughters speaks a little English, but if so she is too shy to try it. We, on the contrary, plunge into the conversation in the most reckless way. When we get into a hopeless entanglement the whole family rushes impetuously to our assistance, guessing at what we wish to say or supplying missing words. At this meal the usual courses of meat and vegetables follow one another, but pastry and sweets are uncommon; instead of the latter, fresh fruits, figs and nuts are served. All the children drink wine freely, down to the youngest, but add a good deal of water to it. The wine is brought to the house at intervals and poured into a tall red jar, a true Greek pithos in shape, which stands in the hall. From this it is drawn into decanters for the table. Many other details of housekeeping differ from ours; things which we are accustomed to see done in the house are sent out, and vice versa. For example, the clothes are taken away to be washed and brought back to be starched and ironed, and fastidious housekeepers often have the macaroni made at home, where, upon a large table, you may see a vast, unbroken sheet of it spread out, reduced by tireless labor to the thinness of paper. In a small family in Florence a cook receives in the neighborhood of five dollars a month; a waitress about three; if, however, the family that employs the latter is a fashionable one, and she is also capable of acting in the capacity of lady’s maid, she may even demand ten dollars. The rent of an apartment such as this, of fourteen rooms, in a locality convenient and good but not fashionable, is upwards of a hundred and sixty dollars a year. In that quarter of the city where foreign residents most do congregate, and the buildings are more modern and less interesting, rents are much higher.

While upon domestic subjects I must revert for a moment to our little maid, Gina, of whom we have been growing quite fond. It appears that she is the center of a little drama of love and jealousy, in consequence of which we are to lose her this week. Nunzia, the servant who preceded her, was incorrigibly dishonest, and in the end the Signora was obliged to dismiss her. She went away wrathful, and has now managed to stir up trouble for her innocent successor. Gina is a Contadina and lived with her parents in a little village not far from Florence. Not being very strong she was unable to accompany her brothers and sisters to their work in the fields, and her part, therefore, was to remain alone at home, attending to the indoor affairs of the family. This she found very lonely and so preferred to earn her living as housemaid here, where she has a good home and labor not beyond her strength. Gina, however, has a lover, and to work upon his jealousy became the aim of the wicked Nunzia. She therefore wrote to him in a spirit of friendly warning, and told him that his Gina had an admirer in Florence, which was the reason she was so much fonder of staying with Signora T—than of remaining at home. This terrible accusation fired his Italian heart and he has written to say that Gina must return. If she persists in staying away he will conclude that she no longer loves him and renounce her. At this Gina’s parents are in a state of mind, for the lover is a merchant, comfortably off, and a most advantageous match. It is to be hoped that Gina has a sincere affection for her fidanzato; indeed, she may well be devoted to him and yet prefer to earn her trousseau here; but be that as it may, when she leaves to spend Holy Week at home, as is the custom here, she will not return and we shall miss her.

Another member of the family of whom I have not yet made mention is a small, white, curly dog, the property of Maria. Stellina is her name, and she is a dog of marked personality. There is obstinacy in the inflexible curve of her tail; there is cynicism in the corner of her sharp little eye, and the air with which she patrols the front hall is nothing short of domineering. She is devoted to her young mistress, but chary of her favors to outsiders, and though she occasionally accompanies Maria to see us in the evening, she allows no familiarity from us but sits by in dignified silence while the visit lasts and retires sedately with Maria at its close, no blandishments inducing her to remain with us or to unbend while in our presence in the smallest frolic. In short, it will be seen that reserve and sobriety are features of her character, and yet Stellina is not invulnerable; there is a weak spot in her armor—a subject that is unendurable to her. Naturally, the part of good breeding would be to avoid this painful topic, and yet such is human nature that we cannot refrain from bringing it up occasionally just to see her cool superiority ruffled, her haughty indifference broken down. It appears that some time ago another dog, by name Diana, absorbed part of the affections of the family. Of this rival she was madly jealous and, though Diana has long been dead, the emotions she awakened in the breast of Stellina are as lively as ever, and I confess it is an experiment approaching vivisection in cruelty to play upon the sensibilities of this tiny animal, as I have owned that we now and then do. On a first mention of Diana’s name Stellina sits up straight, her little body stiffens, her eye flashes and she seems to make an effort to keep her feelings well in hand. But it is useless; at a second she loses all control of herself and flies into a transport of anger and fury, in which she darts vividly about, apparently looking for the hated being whose presence she dreads. She searches in every hole and corner, barking frantically; she roots under the furniture; she even scratches at doors and listens at the crack underneath, ever and anon flying back to her mistress’ side, lest in her momentary absence Diana should have usurped her place. It is a good while before she can be calmed on these occasions, and for some time thereafter she is nervous and uneasy. She glances restlessly about, emits a short yelp now and then, and she gradually grows quieter gazes up at Maria with pleading eyes and a low whine, which tells her suffering so speakingly that we one and all resolve not again to be the wicked means of her torture.

The weather, which has been capricious, is now mild and warm again, and out-of-door explorations are more tempting. The flower market is a very pleasant resort on the days when it is held. It takes place at the Mercato Nuovo in the heart of the city, a fine structure, in form an open square, the roof of which is supported on columns. To stray into it is to find the air loaded with fragrance and thousands of cut flowers lying in heaps for sale, their tempting masses offered so cheaply as to fill one with the desire to carry them all away at once. The next day, however, all will have been changed, and the Mercato Nuovo have perhaps become a depot for the sale of straw hats. In the center of its stone floor is a disk of white marble, quite inconspicuous, and yet in the past it must often have supported keen misery and mortification; it is nothing less than the spot upon which bankrupts were obliged to sit exposed to public humiliation. It is needless to say that even in Florence that usage passed out of date long since, and now I fear too little obloquy is attached to failure to meet business obligations here as elsewhere. Not far from this spot sits a merchant presiding over a tub nearly full of yellow lupine seeds in salt water, a delicacy only to be appreciated by local palates, and failing to tempt us even upon the warm recommendation of the vendor. At this point we emerge from the marketplace, passing the great bronze boar who presides over its fountain. From here it us but a step to the Piazza della Signoria, the core of the city’s present life and past history. There towers the old town hall, the Palazzo Vecchio, that superb pile, with its nobly mounting tower, old enough to have looked down upon a long succession of events.

What brilliant and glittering spectacles has it witnessed, what noisy and picturesque festivals presided over! And yet those associations that most haunt the memory are the terrible ones—the cruelty, the torture, the agony that it had witnessed. Strange and dreadful memories these, and yet, perhaps, in the midst of such recollections one’s eyes light upon an object close by which starts another train of thought. If in this place human life has been held cheaply, how reverently has beauty been regarded, for here stands a famous statue upon its pedestal of elaborate workmanship, exquisite and fragile carved marble, and here it has stood in the open air for three hundred years, perfectly accessible to all the mischievously disposed urchins of the city, and yet it is unbroken.

In the neighborhood of this piazza cluster memorable buildings, and streets lead from it to history and romance. Much has been torn away, sacrificed to the too progressive spirit of the modern Florentines; but though one must not insist that they shall remain in moldering, unsanitary buildings for the sake of pilgrims in search of the picturesque, they might have been less uncompromising in the fury of thoroughness with which they have wiped away whole quarters. We, for instance, are too late to know the pictorial decay of the Mercato Vecchio, but photographs not many years old show us that delight of artists as it then was, and we cannot but regard it with a fond regret. Today, as the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, nothing could exceed its substantial propriety, but its charm is gone.

Within its precincts we have watched with much curiosity the working of one of the institutions of the Italy of today, the periodical lottery. It was quite an exciting scene. The great square began to fill at five in the evening, and gradually it became black with a solid mass of thousands of people facing the pavilion where the drawing was to take place. It looked as though most of the population of Florence had assembled. All purchasers of chances held their tickets in their hands and had supplied themselves with pencils, so that shortly something very like a gigantic game of lotto began. Each ticket had fifteen figures printed upon it and as fast as a number was drawn and exposed, if it corresponded with the one upon your list, you at once market it off, the first card filled taking the prize. This, it will be seen, keeps everybody eager and excited, with the hope of winning, till the last moment. The person next me had all but five numbers marked when the winner was announced. This drawing proved a short one, occupying only about twenty-five minutes. At intervals some portion of the crowd swayed and shouted but when at last one man had filled his card, it seemed somehow to be communicated to the whole mass at once, and a general hubbub took place for a short time while the winner made his way to the platform to receive his thousand lire, a goodly sum to write or speak but in reality amounting to something less than two hundred dollars in American money. The crowd began to flow away through the streets leading out of the piazza, and we watched the winner walk off, a well-to-do looking man of middle age, leading a sturdy little boy by the hand, numerous stragglers skipping about and before them to have a look at the hero of the occasion. It is said that the lottery is an important source of government revenue, and the whole spectacle is a rather uncivilized one and an undignified method for a government to resort to, as, of course, it impoverishes the poor and ignorant of the people most.

With the happy inconsequence of those who, when in Rome, enjoy doing as the Romans do, a day that begins in the shadow of the sanctuary may end in the glare of the theater, and so one morning we dutifully carried our guide books and our Ruskin to Santa Croce, there to look at some celebrated frescoes which are very hard to see, and only to be puzzled out early in the forenoon of a day when the sun rises clear. The weather is so variable that this is not an easy condition to secure, and we grew rather cross with straining our eyes to discern almost invisible objects, for the sun would come out for ten seconds and then retire behind a cloud for ten minutes, and at last we gave it up for that day and walked down the nave, as directed by Mr. Ruskin to do, so as to inspect a certain one of two funereal tablets in the floor. There lies a forgotten worthy, whose features have long since trodden into smooth blackness by the feet of careless worshippers, but three folds in his cap remain, and likewise. The tassels of his marble cushion; and if you can see why these, in comparison with the adjoining tablet, are so supremely right, you are worthy to study the art of Florence; otherwise, says Mr. Ruskin, you may as well depart from the city at once, as nothing here will ever do you any good.

My two companions refused to lend themselves to these pious investigations, and railed at Mr. Ruskin and at those who weakly submit to his tyrannous exactions; but that dear man’s testiness and petulance should but elicit an indulgent smile, while for all his great and endearing qualities there is room for love and reverence, and one likes to try sometimes to put oneself in his mood and see with his eyes. Determined, therefore, on behaving with decorum, I was just beginning to discover the immense superiority of the folds and tassels, when, oh, horror! I found I was examining the wrong ones. Conceive my feelings. Humbled and chastened, I meekly left the church and repaired to the Pitti Palace, where there were pictures in the full light of day with the names of the artists upon the frames, so that one could not make the mistake of admiring the wrong ones.

On the evening of this day we were induced to go to the theater, to see a wonderful spectacular ballet. We understood that it was to come on at the beginning of the performance, but found on arriving that we must first listen to a mediocre little opera in two long acts. The singing was not very good, and it was surprising to find the audience no more discriminating than one in an American town might have been. It did not appear to matter whether the singer was exactly on the key; as long as the note was loud enough and long enough she was applauded to the echo. The orchestra was full and good, and the theater a large one, but less well furnished and handsomely finished than might have been satisfactorily expected. The opera at last drew to a tragic close, and after the heroine and her lover had been satisfactorily stabbed, and the husband had gone mad, the curtain rose again on the famous ballet, and truly there could scarcely had been a more bewildering display. The immense stage was one blaze of light and glitter and appeared to extend into infinite distance. This effect was cleverly carried out by having children to represent the people in the background and on the heights, thus aiding the perspective.

One could hardly imagine anything prettier or more captivating than the first effect until the second part, when the three hundred dancers came out in white wigs and the daintiest court costumes, of course shortened to the necessary brevity. The color effects were managed marvelously, swaying lines or masses of pale pink, intertwined with others of pale-blue and silver, sea-green and gold, snow-white or shaded lavender. It was really enchanting. The première danseuse was young and pretty, with a charming slim figure, and was evidently a great favorite. At the right moment, when she had nearly danced her little feet off and her glossy hair out of curl, there arose a murmur in the audience and a procession appeared, bearing the floral tributes.

I thought I had seen tributes of important size before, but these were colossal, and their magnitude and number became absurd. It took a round dozen of men to carry them in and heave them upon the stage. There were easels ten feet high, stars of prodigious magnitude, wreaths that could hardly be lifted, with many other devices of graduated size, and there they stood, disposed in a towering semicircle, as a background to another sprightly passeul, executed in the midst of the vociferous delight of the audience. Such occasions as these we indulge in rarely, for the fatigue of the late hours which are the custom here is apt to interfere with the next day’s pleasure. Beginning at nine, one is usually kept out of bed till two.

One of the charms of Florence, as every one knows, is the beautiful variety of villas for which its situation is so favorable. Lying in a somewhat narrow valley, which it nearly fills, its lovely forest-like park extending itself along the river beyond, the wooded declivities of Fiesole are on the south and the more gradual slopes of the Oltrarno opposite. Little steam trams bustle out into the country, making it possible to have a very accessible home beyond the city’s noise, or if one desires a more perfect seclusion he may be as peacefully retired among gently rolling hills clothed with vines and olives as he pleases, and yet within easy driving distance.

Between two villas we visit, occupied by American friends, it is hard to choose. One has a location of the latter sort, and dreams away the days among the sweetest of the peaceful outlooks over cultivated rounded hills. The rooms are large enough for spaciousness but not for empty vastness, and the house has been furnished gradually with beautiful and tasteful things found in Florence. A certain simplicity prevails; nowhere is there any overcrowding of furniture or overloading of ornament. It was the abode of a famous family, and the little chapel which forms a wing adds greatly to its attractiveness. On a certain festa of the Virgin Mary there is a service in it to which the neighboring contadini flock, and they are allowed to prepare it and deck it with flowers, according to their own ideas, which they do with the utmost reference and care. This year a part of the preparation was to cover the whole pavement and the path outside for some distance with a carpet of rose pedals.

The other villa of which I spoke is on the south side of Florence, and from the little tram which plies below it you may walk up easily in a few minutes. It is where the first hills rise toward the heights of Fiesole, and the suburbs of San Gervasio and Maiano lie along the heights. This villa also must have had a history, though the details of it, I believe, are not known, for it was a Medici house, and among the frescoes of its open court it is easy to recognize Lorenzo’s ugly face. Against the wall is a fine old well, and through the hall beyond you may see out into a sunny garden. Beautiful views spread themselves before every window—the city, the river, the mountains—and at the back a group of fine old cypresses brood over the lawn. There is a large open belvedere upon the roof, and in the four corners of it stand four great red jars, large enough to conceal the thieves of Ali Baba. To these the water is conveyed that is afterward distributed over the house. At the foot of the hill upon one side stands Vernon Lee’s house, marked by its one great stone-pine, which stretches his circular shady parasol over the little enclosure.

Close by is one of the rarest domains near Florence, and it is for sale. On a commanding point of the hill stands its villa, upon a wide graveled terrace, solid and spacious, and I am told handsome and in excellent order within. From it stretch down the lower ground on the west acres of shady woods and open glades, among which paths wind, to be sure, but otherwise the look of an almost untouched bit of nature is preserved. There one may make discoveries among the tall grass and tangled vines of some bit of ancient stonework, some fountain or well now overgrown, and there birds live and nest in a security undisturbed. And all this dream of beauty, with its comfort and accessibility, may be bought for twenty-five thousand dollars. When one thinks of a prosaic city house, with a few feet of clipped lawn, for which more than this is demanded, it seems almost incredible. Within sight of it is another little estate, also for sale, at less than half the price of the first, beguiling to a somewhat humbler aspiration and a shorter purse. This lies lower than its lordly neighbor, but still sufficiently elevated for a vista which is the perfection of tranquil loveliness, ending with the gently folding curves of hills that close in the distance. Besides the comfortable house, with its broad front, there is a little podere or farm, which is worked upon the tenant system which prevails here and which makes Tuscany the province of all Italy where one would choose to live in the country, because there is less misery among the peasantry. The system is explained as follows, by some one who knows more than I do of it:

“The mezzadria or metayer system generally prevailing in Tuscany induces a patriarchal feeling between landlord and peasant which is very pleasant to see, but is not conductive to agricultural progress or a good thing for the landlord. He pays all the taxes to the government, which are enormous; he provides the house-rent free, and keeps it in repair; he buys the oxen, cows and horses, bearing half the loss if they die, and, of course, getting half the profit when they are sold. The peasant gives his labor, the landlord gives the land and the capital, and the proceeds are divided between them. In bad years the landlord advances corn to his peasants, which they repay, when they can, in wine, oil, beans, etc. Where there is a large family of young children the peasant sometimes accumulates a load of debt that cripples him for years; in rare instances the landlord turns him out at six months’ notice, and puts another family on the farm; but, as a rule, the peasants remain for generations on the same property, and always talk of themselves as the gente [people] of their landlord.”—Janet Ross, Italian Sketches.

About and beyond the villas I have mentioned lie endless possibilities for driving or rambling, for it is a region well nigh inexhaustible. One such excursion we took after having arranged it telescopically, so to speak, as our eyes ranged over the surrounding country from the top of the Palazzo Vecchio tower one morning. As we landed upon the parapet of that commanding summit two castles that had long tantalized us in their distance seemed to beckon us irresistibly and we began to talk to the custodian about them. Soon we had made our plans and warmed to excitement in the spirit of adventure and later we carried them through successfully.

We began by taking the tram up to Fiesole in the afternoon, carrying provision with us for a meal al fresco. Arrived at the piazza where it sits securely in its saddle upon the hill, looking down on either side to valleys below, we made our escape as quickly as possible from the vendors of straw fans who project themselves upon all newcomers, and directed our steps westward, along the spine of the ridge. Beyond the confines of the village we came out upon scattered trees not yielding much shade, and thence to slopes covered with low-growing shrubs—an almost wild bit of country with farmhouses at long distances apart.

On reaching the first of the two castles, Poggio Castelo, we found it inhospitable, for a printed notice warned trespassers away, so we could only circle round it and admire its dark solidity and the tall pines that profiled themselves against its gray walls and battlements. A restless wind played about it which suggested its being cool and comfortable when the warmth of summer set in, for Florence is said to become almost unbearably hot from July to September. At this place the descent began and we strolled downwards, setting ourselves now and then to look at the valley spread out before us and recognize the different clusters of roofs between the trees; so we approached at last our second castle, first passing the little church and the handful of buildings that lie below its walls.

Vincigliata is a sort of phoenix, which rose from its ashes about forty years ago. It had had a long and varied history as tumultuous as the times in which it existed, ending at last in its complete demolishment. How long it remained a mere heap of ruins I do not know, but at last it was purchased by an American, Mr. Leader, with the idea of rebuilding it. It seemed a gigantic undertaking. The outline of the exterior was hardly traceable and all that remained standing was a fragment of wall which had formed part of the principal tower. It is said that, given a single bone, Mr. Agassiz could reconstruct a whole primeval fish, and perhaps in like manner archaeologists can project a whole building from the most insignificant remnant.

At all events, whatever secrets archaeology and history yielded up, Vincigliata took shape again, its walls and towers, its battlements and fortifications became tangible, cypresses grew up about it and took on the look of age, and with the completion of the exterior the interior was not neglected. Old armor and weapons hang upon the walls, relics of antiquity are collected everywhere, and much modern reproductions helps it out. Decades ago wealth could command much more than it can today, when every corner of Italy has been ransacked for such things, and the treasures of carved marble and stone one comes upon here are not now to be found. We lingered fascinated by the medieval kitchen with its interesting contrivances, its cavernous recesses, and its huge copper vessels; examples of majolica in a row just above our heads lent a glowing band of color to the dusky apartment, for when showers of arrows were liable to enter at the windows light had perforce to be curtailed. In the courtyard a row of marble tablets in the wall commemorated the reception of many parties of titled visitors, and certain rooms were furnished to receive the family when they wished to stay there, a thing which the custodian says does not happen now. It is open on Sundays and Thursdays to those who bring the required permit, and although it was neither of those days we dared to ring at the postern, confiding in the good nature of the custodian (who of course gains some profit from visitors) and were not refused admittance.

When we had climbed to the top of the tower and peered fearfully into the black depths of an oubliette which afforded heartfelt satisfaction to the youngest member of our trio, we took leave of Vincigliata and proceeding a little beyond its boundaries chose a favorable situation for our out-of-door feast, which of course was more or less frugal in its elements as we had been obliged to carry it with us during our long ramble. On our travels we never waste the smallest remainder of these repasts, however. In America what would be the surprise and disdain of a passer-by to whom you offered a few mouthfuls of food, but here there is always some one to whom you may proffer it, sure of a smile and a ready acceptance. Such an one we encountered soon after our repast as we walked on, a ruddy-faced man a little past middle age, clothes powdered with the dust of the light stone used. He had a good, intelligent face and a cheerful expression, and accepted our small offering with an acknowledgement so pleasant and at the same time so self-respecting that he put us quite at our ease, and left us wishing it had been much larger.

Passing some delightful villas and gardens as we neared the foot of the hills, and reluctantly leaving unexplored the path that would have taken us aside to Settignano, that alluring little nest, we reached the group of houses at the terminus of the tram, whose infrequent trips seemed to be supplemented by a light cart which stood by the roadside and whose proprietor offered to set us down inside the barriers of Florence for a sum that but slightly exceeded the tram fare. We disguised our surprise and joyfully accepted, and having the little vehicle to ourselves jogged home in the utmost comfort and good humor, enjoying the sweet fields and hedgerows and the ever new beauty of the delicious valley in the oncoming twilight.

At the barriers we bargained with our handsome vetturino for an extension of the drive—could he not take us across the city and set us down at Doney’s? For we had concluded that a luxurious, nay almost dissipated climax to our day of pleasure would be to have ices and confectionery upon a little table outside that celebrated caffè. He agreed at once and volunteered to leave any extra compensation to the generosity of the Signore. Artful being! How well he understood the softening effect of such confidence! How could we do less after this than to part leaving him with a satisfied smile and a cheery tone in the voice that wished us good night?

The preparations for Easter are going on. All the pictures in the churches are covered, many windows are darkened, and even the figures of Christ on the small crucifixes have little bits of purple cloth fastened over them. Between Thursday and Sunday no bells will be rung, but at noon on Sunday all the bells of Florence will resound at once. On Holy Thursday, after the manner of good Roman Catholics, we visited churches to see the various representations of the Holy Sepulcher prepared in each one. To do your duty properly on that occasion you must go on to seven; we overdid ours and, first and last, visited ten; and yet when all was over we were cruelly informed that we had omitted the one we should have seen above all others—that of San Giovenino. There is of course a wide choice as there are eighty important churches in Florence, besides I know not how many smaller ones. For the representation of the sepulcher a chapel in the church is chosen, decorated with flowers and greenery, and lighted by scores of candles, from the height of a taper to that of many feet.

As you enter some churches the fragrance of fresh blossoms meets you; in other the flowers are mostly of paper fastened carefully upon stems of real green leaves, but everywhere a great feature is the pots of sprouting wheat. These are prepared eight days beforehand and placed in a cellar or other nearly dark place, so that the grain as it sprouts and seeks the light shall remain white. It grows to a length of six or eight inches, part of it drooping over the edges so that the outside of the pot is nearly concealed, and numbers of these pots are placed among the other plants and arranged as borders upon the floor. In some churches the flowers, plants and burning tapers form the total preparation, but they all vary in the arrangement of their effects. In the Misericordia, the most interesting one we saw, the church was hung with black and there was no light excepting what came from the altar of the sepulcher. A life-size figure of the dead Christ lay there, terribly real, and covered with wounds of ghastly in their verisimilitude and crimson with streaming or coagulated blood. A silent crowd coming and going filled the church. Women and children pressed up to kiss the body and babies were raised in their mothers’ arms that they might touch their lips to each wound separately.

Above the bier, and appearing everywhere among the flowers and lights, where the emblems of the Passion—the crown of thorns, the nails, the sponge, the sword, the dice, the red robe, the ladder, the hand which buffeted, the pillar to which He was bound, and the cock that reminded Peter. The people stream from one church to another to pray at as many as they can during the day. The parishes, of course, differ much in the amount and cost of the decoration which they can afford. For example, San Giovenino, the church we failed to see, belongs to a rich parish whose wealthy inhabitants send such masses of exquisite hot-house flowers that there I said to be nothing like it in Florence. However, there is an artificiality about this which one regards as hardly more than curious. The true spirit of the thing is to be found in some little village where the rural population, full of sincere feeling and unquestioning faith, deck the sepulcher with field flowers and the simple offerings they are able to bring, and something like this we saw in the little village of Grassina, whither we sent to see a procession which takes place at this season yearly.

Under the guidance of the organizer of the expedition we carried our supper with us, and started upon our hour’s drive out into the country late in the afternoon. The sun was near the horizon when we entered the long street of the little village and all the population was abroad, together with many visitors who had come on foot or in vehicles of every description to be present at the ceremonies. Booths were set up on either side of the way for the sale of sweet-cakes and other eatables and we stopped to purchase some wafers special to the occasion. The thrifty dealer, noting the fact that we were foreigners, gave us less than half the quantity the same money would have purchased if offered by a native, but when we had tasted the cakes we were satisfied with the quantity, as they were strong of anise, a flavor which they here like carried to a point far beyond what we find pleasant.

Participants in the procession were collecting, and ever an anon a knight with pasteboard helmet and long rose-colored or blue cotton cloak came pricking by, hastening to the rendezvous. The church stood a little above the village on the long, gradual slope of a hill, and we mounted to it and afterwards chose a position a little above it where was a stone-terraced garden, giving us a position overhanging the road by which the procession would approach, so that no group of village lads could cut off our view at the last moment. Here, upon a carpet of grass next a border of blue iris, we seated ourselves to enjoy the sunset and our supper while waiting. Placed as we were we overlooked the little basin-like valley; the village lay at the bottom, and the grass-covered hills curved away and upward from it on every side. The sun, almost disappearing over the rim, sent down long golden shafts, accenting the shadows on one side, while it glorified every growing thing on the other. The tufts of grass, the clumps of shaggy bushes, gilded in its rays, seemed to round themselves to more harmonious moldings, and the waved outline of the hills above was almost fluent against the pale blue of the sky.

Softly but quickly the changes of light take place at this hour; very soon the sun had dipped, but it was not till twilight was upon us that the head of the procession turned the corner of the church and began to mount the slope in our direction. Leading it were several musicians playing dirges and requiems, whose lingering measures floated out upon the air of the little pastoral valley with a curiously mournful effect. Following the musicians were the Roman knights whom we had met singly earlier in the afternoon. They were more impressive now; pasteboard and cotton turned to steel and velvet in the half light, illuminated by the flare of the torches, and the dignity with which they sat their chargers was all that could be required of them. Then came a number of little boys bearing the emblems of the Passion, and following them the Apostles, clothed in loose robes and turban-like headgear of white. They preceded a bier bearing upon it the dead Christ, and as it came all the peasantry gathered upon either side of the path, dropped to their knees and remained with bared heads till it had passed them. After this appeared a troop of little girls in white frocks and black sashes, their rosy faces filled with the seriousness of the occasion and the importance of their share in it, and after them paced the older girls, also in white and with white veils. Very charming and virginal they looked, in spite of a slight self-consciousness in the air of some of them, and behind them towered the Queen of Heaven, carried upright under a swaying canopy managed with some difficulty upon the steepness of the hillside. A band of older women walked behind, dressed in deep black, and the procession closed with a large number of people in everyday dress, representing the populace sure to be present upon all public occasions.

Some halts and hesitations gave us the opportunity we wished, to examine details of emblems and costume, and to note the sincerity and gravity with which the whole ceremony was regarded by both participants and spectators. Then the cortège slowly withdrew and gradually became a long, undulating line, marked by the luminous dots of its torches, twinkling and dipping as it followed the irregularities of the path where it mounted and dropped among the folds of the hills. Long we gazed after it and then reluctantly left our garden perch to return to the village, mount our carriage again and drive back through the light of stars, whose broken reflections we watched in the ripples of the Arno as we followed its banks toward Florence.

In the afternoon of Holy Thursday there is a great emblematical ceremony at the cathedral, the washing of feet. We went early to secure favorable places, but as the high altar is surrounded by a screen of glass in heavy panels, it is not easy to find them. After we had waited for a while a procession came slowly up the church, and from it twelve old men from the almshouse, dressed in long white robes and with their heads bound round with white, filed into the chancel and sat upon a high settle covered with brocade, before which was a foot-rest. The space around was filed with priests and choristers, and presently the archbishop mounted his throne. Then, as the ceremony went on, there was much dressing and undressing of the feeble old archbishop, almost buried under his costly robes. They changed his habiliments, they put on and off the miter, they gave and took away the crosier; but at length he slowly descended the steps of the throne and proceeded toward the beggars, whose shoes and stockings were removed by this time. A great silver basin was presented, each old fellow’s heels rested in the basin in turn, while a little water was poured on them and a slight drying with a towel followed, after which the great dignitary bent forward as to kiss the feet; but this was done symbolically, as on the stage.

Not so very long ago, before the unification of Italy, King Carlo Albertus used also to perform a ceremony something like this, but more agreeable. Twelve little boys, up to the age of twelve years, the prettiest that could be found among the noble families of Italy, were taken to the palace, the King washed their feet and afterward they remained to breakfast with him. He gave to each a costume of velvet and a silver knife, fork and spoon. But the most remarkable result of this event was that none of the children so honored was subject later to capital punishment, no matter what crime he might commit when grown up—imprisonment, if necessary, but not execution.

All day long on Holy Thursday as you go from church to church you see for sale outside each one numbers of rods bound spirally with colored paper. These have to do with a service which takes place about sundown. At that time we repaired to Santa Maria Novella and edged our way slowly through the thousands of people already assembled till we reached the lighted sepulcher, or rather stood within sight of it on some steps which raised us above the surging crowd, for it never remains stationary but sways and moves perpetually. Out of sight, the choir chanted the penitential psalms, with intervals between. Just as the singers are finishing the last one a noise suddenly begins, and in a moment swells to a thunderous volume of sound. This is the flagellation, and it lasts a few moments only, till the rods with which the people are supplied have been broken, as they furiously beat the stone floor, the steps, the columns—anything nearest them. Originally perhaps there was a solemnity to this observance, but now it appears to be mostly confined to the children. I did not see any grown people assisting at the beating.

On good Friday at noon there is a famous musical service at the same great church, called “The Three Hours of Agony,” in commemoration of Christ’s suffering on the cross. For these three hours singing and exhortation alternate. The church is darkened and the high altar concealed by a representation of Calvary as large as the scenery of a theater, with life-size figures of the people standing about the cross. We stayed only about an hour, for the crowd was so great that we would not get near enough to hear the exposition of the priest, and we found that there were twenty minutes of preaching to five of music. This virtually closed those ceremonials in Holy Week which were of any note. It is not as it once was. “As black is to white, so is the Holy Week of today to that of Pio Nono’s time,” said an Italian friend to whom we ventured to intimate that we had looked for a little more pomp and circumstance in its observance.