FIRST IMPRESSIONS.
Florence! O glorious city of Lorenzo the Magnificent, cradle of the Renaissance, birthplace of Dante, home of Boccaccio, where countless painters and sculptors produced those deathless works which still fascinate an admiring world, at last I approach thee! I arrive at the station, I scramble for a facchino, I drive to my hotel. It is night. To-morrow all thy medieval loveliness will burst upon my enraptured eyes.
In the morning up early and out. Immediately fall against a statue of a fat man in a frock coat and trousers. Can this be Michael Angelo's David? No, no! It is Manin by Nono. Turn hastily aside and discover a quay. Below is a waste of mud, through which meander a few inches of thick brown water. The Arno! Heavens, what associations! Raise my eyes and perceive on the opposite bank a gasometer. Stand horror-stricken in the roadway, and am nearly run over by a frantic bicyclist. Save myself by a great effort and cling for support to a gaslamp until I can recover from the shock. Resolve then to seek out the medieval loveliness. Start along the quay. Ha, there is a statue! Doubtless by Michael Angelo. Hardly; the face seems familiar. Of course, it is Garibaldi! Turn and fly up a narrow street. Here at last is something old, here at last are the buildings on which Dante may have looked, in which Fra Angelico may have painted, here at last——. Why, what's this? It's an omnibus. It fills the street. Wedge myself in a doorway, and when it has passed within three inches of my toes, hurry down a side street, a still narrower one. Here, perhaps, Benvenuto Cellini devised some glorious metal work. Ha, there is a silversmith's even to this day! Look! what are those things in the window, above the inscription "English Spoken"? They are teapots from Birmingham! Resolve to avoid small streets, and hurry on to large open piazza. Now for some architecture by Giotto, some sculpture by Donatello! Yes, there is an equestrian statue. Doubtless one of the Medici. At last! No, it's not. It's Victor Emanuel. At least, the inscription says so, though the likeness, not being a speaking one, gives no information. Turn sadly aside and contemplate some melancholy modern copies of the regular architecture of rectangular Turin.
Begin to feel depressed. Have not yet found the romantic medievalism. Somewhat revived by déjeuner, resolve to seek it in the suburbs. Of course, Fiesole. A pilgrimage to the home of Fra Angelico. Sublime! Will go on foot, avoiding the high road. Climb by narrow ways, past garden walls. Behind them may be the gardens where Boccaccio's stories were told; down these narrow roads Fra Angelico may have passed. How exquisite to meditate far from the tourist crowd! Filled with enthusiasm, and gazing at the beautiful blue sky, arrive at the top, and stumble headlong over some obstacle in the road. It is the rail of a tramway! Stagger feebly to the Piazza just as the electric tramcar bumps and rumbles up the hill. From it descends a crowd, carrying, not lilies, as in Angelico's pictures, but Bædekers. And I hear no tale from the Decameron, but a mingled confusion of strange tongues. "Ja, ja, ja; what a squash; nous étions un peu serrés mais enfin; ach wunderschön; un soldo signore; ja, ja, ja; wal, I guess this is Feaysolay, che rumore nel tram; I say, let's buy one of these straw fans for Aunt Mary; they're awfully cheap, only half a franc, and look worth half-a-crown; ah voilà le café; wollen sie ein Glas Bier trinken; ja, ja, ja!" Resolve to abandon search for medieval loveliness, and go down sadly in the tramcar.
But one art remains. In the country where Verdi still writes I can at least enjoy music. So after dinner seek the Trianon. It sounds like a music-hall; but then here, even in a music-hall, there must be music. As I enter, a familiar sound bursts upon my ear. The singer is Italian, the words are French, but the tune is English. She is singing "The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo."
A First Impressionist.
"Ah!" sighed Mrs. R. sadly, when her advice had not been taken by her daughter, "I'm a mere siphon in the family!"