Gleanings in Europe

The great Florentine fête was celebrated a short time since. One of the ceremonies is so peculiar, that it may amuse you to have a short account of it. There are several considerable squares in the town, but the largest is that of Santa Maria Novella. At the festival of St. John, who is the patron saint of the city, an imitation of the ancient chariot-races is held in this square, which affords the most space. The games are called the corsi dei cocchi. There are two small obelisks on opposite extremities of the square, and the temporary circus is constructed by their means. A cord is stretched from one to the other; a sort of amphitheatre is formed by scaffoldings around the whole, the royal and diplomatic boxes being prepared near the goal. As there is much scenic painting, a good parade of guards both horse and foot, a well-dressed population, and a background of balconies garnished by tapestry and fine women, to say nothing of roofs and chimneys, the general effect is quite imposing.

The falling off is in the chariots. The ancient vehicle was small and had but two wheels; whereas these were large and clumsy, had four wheels, and unusually long and straggling perches,—an invention to keep them from upsetting. In other respects the form was preserved, and the charioteers were in costume.

Four chariots, to use the modern language, entered for the race. The start was pretty fair, and the distance twice round the obelisks. If you ask me for the effect, I shall tell you that, apart from the appliances—such as the court, the guards, the spectators and the dresses, and perhaps I might add the turns,—one may witness the same any fine evening in New York, between two drunken Irish cartmen who are on their way home. There was certainly a little skill manifested at the turns, and it was easy to see that betting should have been on the outside chariot; for those nearer to the obelisks were obliged to go considerably beyond them before they could come round, while the one farthest from the poles just cleared them. This outside chariot won the race, the charioteer having the sagacity not to make his push before the last turn.

After the chariot-races, we had the corso dei barberi, or a race between barbs. The horses were without riders, and the track was the longest street of the town. To this amusement every one who could went in a carriage, and the corso of vehicles was much the most interesting part of the exhibition. Two lines are made, and the coaches move in opposite directions through the same street, on a walk. Of course, everybody sees everybody,—and pretty often the somebodies, see nobodies, for the mania to make one on these occasions is so strong, that half the artisans are abroad in carriages, as well as their betters. The royal equipages moved in the line, the same as that of the milliner. When we were well tired of looking at each other, the grand duke went into a gallery prepared for him, and the race was run. The latter does not merit a syllable; but so strong is the rage for sporting, that I heard some Englishmen betting on the winner.

But the amusements of the evening were really fine. They consisted of fireworks and illuminations, besides an odd scene on the river. It is only for a few of the summer months that the “Silver Arno” deserves its reputation; for I scarcely know a more turbid or dingy stream during the period of high water. Indeed it brings down with it from the mountains so much yellow earth, that “Golden Arno” would better express its tint. But, at this season, it is placid and silvery. Care has been taken to make it a river all the year round, in the town at least, by raising a dam just at the suburbs, which causes the water to fill the bed between the quays even in the dry months. Below this dam, it would be possible for an active man, aided by a leaping-staff, to jump across the channel. This is the common character of the Italian rivers, which, fed by the mountains, are turbulent torrents in the winter, and ribands of water in the hot months. Many are absolutely dry in midsummer.

We were kindly invited to witness the fête on the Arno, from the palace of the Comte de St. Leu, the windows of which overlooked the river. The party was small, but it contained several members of the Bonaparte family. Among others was the Comtesse de Survilliers, or, a name she is better known by, la Reine Julie; and that fine young man the Prince Napoleon, with his wife, the Princess Charlotte, so well known in America. The Prince and Princess of Musignano, with their children, made up the family party.

I believe I have not spoken to you of the Comte de St. Leu. He is one of the handsomest men of his age I have ever met with; but it is the beauty of expression more than of features, though the latter are noble and regular. I can scarcely recall a more winning countenance; and his manner, though calm and dignified, is kind and unpretending. I should think his stature materially above that of Napoleon, though he is not of more than the middle height, and his figure is compact and square. The Comte de Survilliers is short, inclining to fat, and, though rather handsome, particularly as to expression, is not by any means so striking in appearance as his brother. The Prince of Canino (Lucien) is taller than either, thin, and has a decided Italian countenance, one that is shrewd, quick, and animated. The Prince de Montfort (Jerome) is short and slight, and resembles his brother Lucien more than the others. He is said to have most of the expression of Napoleon; but I should think, judging from the busts and likenesses, that Louis has most of the noble outline of the Emperor. The whole family, so far as I have known them, are certainly very intellectual and well-informed. The Comte de St. Leu lives here in a good style; having a fine villa, where I dined lately, and this palace in the town, which is altogether suited to his rank and past life. He is styled “your majesty” by those around him, as was the Countess of Survilliers; and a little, though not much, of the etiquette of royalty is maintained in his intercourse with others.[4]

As for the fête, it consisted of a display of boats, with a multitude of coloured paper lanterns. The former were filled with company, and as they floated about, with their lights and music, they made both a singular and a pleasing exhibition. There were extremely fine fireworks on one of the bridges, which terminated the amusements. One sees the influences of climate in the Italian fireworks generally, which are brilliant beyond comparison. On returning to the villa St. Illario, we found that the dome of the cathedral was illuminated; and you may judge of the effect produced by showing the outlines of so noble a piece of architecture at night, by the aid of artificial and well disposed lights. It looked like a line-engraving of fire.

Notwithstanding the constant practice of men, one is constantly surprised at the ignorance of the commonest laws of philosophy that is betrayed on such occasions. I have often seen the gardens of the Tuileries illuminated, when the torches have been placed on the pedestale of the statues, but in plain view; the eye necessarily taking in the flame, to the exclusion of all the minor light.—Were these torches concealed in a way to exclude them from the view, while their rays fell on the statuary,—a thing easily enough done,—the effect would be infinitely more agreeable, though perhaps less vulgarly flaring. I remember to have once beheld a drop scene, at a theatre, formed of mirrors. A flood of light was on and near the stage, and, as a matter of course, the audience, instead of seeing itself when the curtain fell, as was the intention, had a glorious view of the reflection of a thousand lamps and candles! Had the lights been so disposed in the boxes, as to illuminate the audience, while they were not seen from the stage, the desired effect would have been produced. Franklin, speaking of some of the coarse contrivances of French industry, pithily remarks, that “a respectable instinct would be better than such a reason!”[5]

Still, the illuminations of architecture are usually good; and I remember one particular thing at Paris, that is quite unrivalled in its way. The Hotel of the Legion of Honour is the ancient Hôtel de Salmes, of which Jefferson speaks so much in praise, in his letters. It is a low building, though a very pretty one; and on the occasion of the great fêtes it is the practice to raise a tall spar from the roof, and to hoist at it an imitation of the star of the order, formed by coloured lamps. This star, seen on a dark night, shining, as it were, in the heavens, is, in its way, the prettiest thing I know.

We have also had the Corpus Domini, which is the great Catholic fête of the year. The royal family walked in the procession, as usual; and there was a parade of the Knights of St. Stephen, in their robes,—an order of chivalry that, I believe, had some connexion with the suppression of the piracies of the barbarians from Africa.

The heat in July became intense, and we began to think of quitting Florence, where we had then been nearly nine months. I found the sun intolerable out of the shade; and the hills, which render the valley cold in winter, have the effect of converting it into an oven in the summer. Accordingly, I announced an intention to depart, and soon had occasion to remark that birds of passage like ourselves have little hold on those we employ beyond their gains. Two of our Florentine domestics conducted themselves in such a manner, as soon as they ascertained the day we were to quit the place, that I was compelled to discharge them; and, as this occurred on the third day of their respective months, both demanded an entire month’s wages! This, you will perceive, was just doubly their time. I resisted and gained both my causes; and it is to be hoped that these people are the wiser for their defeat.

A little occurrence that took place soon after our arrival in Florence is worthy to be related, as it may serve to put other Americans on their guard, and to let you understand the nature of European intrigues. We commenced housekeeping with a man-cook, a housemaid, and two footmen, with the Swiss maid whom we brought with us. One of the footmen was discharged for drunkenness, within a fortnight, and I did not think it worth while to fill his place. The other proved an excellent servant, but a great scoundrel. It was not long before A—— complained to me of the bills of the cook, which, on examination, turned out to be about double what they were at Paris, though Florence has a reputation for cheapness. The housemaid, who was a Lucchese woman, offered her services, and the man being discharged, she was promoted to the kitchen, and her place was otherwise filled. Her name was Bettina.

About this time, a poor Neapolitan, who had fallen under the notice of A—— just before her confinement, came to return her thanks for certain little comforts she had received. “You got the money I sent you?” asked A——. “Si, signora.” “How much?” “Three pauls, each time, signora.” Now these three pauls should have been ten pauls, or a francescone each time, and Bettina had been the messenger. On demanding an explanation, the newly-made cook admitted the fraud, giving as a reason for keeping back seven-tenths of the money, that she thought it was too much for the Neapolitan. Notwithstanding this flagrant dereliction, there was something so naïf in her confessions, that the woman was not discharged. But some dissatisfaction caused A—— to change the milkman. A day or two after this change, the milk for the coffee was found to be turned.—Bettina was sent for, and she attributed it to the bad milk of the new milkman. When she went out, Luigi the footman quietly observed that he happened to have a little of the milk put away cold for the tea, and by setting it before the fire in the breakfast-room, we might soon ascertain whether it was really bad or not. The experiment was made, and the milk proved to be good. Bettina was again examined, and on my threatening to take her to the police, she confessed that the old milkman had bribed her to put vinegar in the new milk. Of course she was now discharged.

As Luigi had hitherto behaved perfectly well, and had gained a reputation by his expedient, his counsel was attended to, and he was permitted to put a friend of his own into the kitchen. The explanation of the whole is as follows:—The man-cook, though out of reason a rogue, was got rid of by a combination between Luigi and Bettina; Bettina next lost her place, by the management of Luigi, who reaped the advantage of his intrigues, as I afterwards learned, to the tune of about two hundred francesconi, beyond his wages. When he obtained his discharge he actually had the audacity to chase my little son with a carving knife, threatening to cut his throat. He was paid his wages regularly every month, and towards the close of the time half-monthly, at his own request,—an expedient to prevent stoppages, as I subsequently found, on account of his frauds,—and I owed him a dollar when he was sent away. This he refused, claiming ten; and before the cause was decided, he claimed his entire wages for the whole nine months, affirming I had paid him nothing! In other respects he proved to be a thorough villain.

I do not tell you this as a specimen of Tuscan or Italian character, but as a proof of the impositions to which strangers are liable. After an experience of nine months, I am disposed to think well of the Italians, who seem a kind, and who certainly are a clever people; but the great throng of strangers in these towns loosens the ordinary social ties, by releasing the evil-disposed from many of the usual responsibilities. It may be taken as a general rule, I think, that travellers, unless greatly favoured by circumstances, see the worst portion of every country: the better classes and the well-disposed, waiting to be sought, while those of the opposite character must seek acquaintances and connexions where they are least known, and where it is easiest to practice their deceptions.