Italian Hours/Two Old Houses and Three Young Women, part III
In Italy, if we come to that, this particular appearance is far
from being only in the streets, where we are apt most to observe
it--in countenances caught as we pass and in the objects marked
by the guide-books with their respective stellar allowances. It
is behind the walls of the houses that old, old history is thick
and that the multiplied stars of Baedeker might often best find
their application. The feast of St. John the Baptist is the feast
of the year in Florence, and it seemed to me on that night that I
could have scattered about me a handful of these signs. I had the
pleasure of spending a couple of hours on a signal high terrace
that overlooks the Arno, as well as in the galleries that open
out to it, where I met more than ever the pleasant curious
question of the disparity between the old conditions and the new
manners. Make our manners, we moderns, as good as we can, there
is still no getting over it that they are not good enough for
many of the great places. This was one of those scenes, and its
greatness came out to the full into the hot Florentine evening,
in which the pink and golden fires of the pyrotechnics arranged
on Ponte Carraja--the occasion of our assembly--lighted up the
large issue. The "good people" beneath were a huge, hot, gentle,
happy family; the fireworks on the bridge, kindling river as well
as sky, were delicate and charming; the terrace connected the two
wings that give bravery to the front of the palace, and the
close-hung pictures in the rooms, open in a long series, offered
to a lover of quiet perambulation an alternative hard to resist.
Wherever he stood--on the broad loggia, in the cluster of company, among bland ejaculations and liquefied ices, or in the presence of the mixed masters that led him from wall to wall-- such a seeker for the spirit of each occasion could only turn it over that in the first place this was an intenser, finer little Florence than ever, and that in the second the testimony was again wonderful to former fashions and ideas. What did they do, in the other time, the time of so much smaller a society, smaller and fewer fortunes, more taste perhaps as to some particulars, but fewer tastes, at any rate, and fewer habits and wants--what did they do with chambers so multitudinous and so vast? Put their "state" at its highest--and we know of many ways in which it must have broken down--how did they live in them without the aid of variety? How did they, in minor communities in which every one knew every one, and every one's impression and effect had been long, as we say, discounted, find representation and emulation sufficiently amusing? Much of the charm of thinking of it, however, is doubtless that we are not able to say. This leaves us with the conviction that does them most honour: the old generations built and arranged greatly for the simple reason that they liked it, and they could bore themselves--to say nothing of each other, when it came to that--better in noble conditions than in mean ones.
It was not, I must add, of the far-away Florentine age that I most thought, but of periods more recent and of which the sound and beautiful house more directly spoke. If one had always been homesick for the Arno-side of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, here was a chance, and a better one than ever, to taste again of the cup. Many of the pictures--there was a charming quarter of an hour when I had them to myself--were bad enough to have passed for good in those delightful years. Shades of Grand-Dukes encompassed me--Dukes of the pleasant later sort who weren't really grand. There was still the sense of having come too late--yet not too late, after all, for this glimpse and this dream. My business was to people the place--its own business had never been to save us the trouble of understanding it. And then the deepest spell of all was perhaps that just here I was supremely out of the way of the so terribly actual Florentine question. This, as all the world knows, is a battle-ground, to- day, in many journals, with all Italy practically pulling on one side and all England, America and Germany pulling on the other: I speak of course of the more or less articulate opinion. The "improvement," the rectification of Florence is in the air, and the problem of the particular ways in which, given such desperately delicate cases, these matters should be understood. The little treasure-city is, if there ever was one, a delicate case-- more delicate perhaps than any other in the world save that of our taking on ourselves to persuade the Italians that they mayn't do as they like with their own. They so absolutely may that I profess I see no happy issue from the fight. It will take more tact than our combined tactful genius may at all probably muster to convince them that their own is, by an ingenious logic, much rather ours. It will take more subtlety still to muster for them that dazzling show of examples from which they may learn that what in general is "ours" shall appear to them as a rule a sacrifice to beauty and a triumph of taste. The situation, to the truly analytic mind, offers in short, to perfection, all the elements of despair; and I am afraid that if I hung back, at the Corsini palace, to woo illusions and invoke the irrelevant, it was because I could think, in the conditions, of no better way to meet the acute responsibility of the critic than just to shirk it.
1899.