On the opposite side, but at a greater distance, stood the Villa Salviati, inhabited by a beautiful countrywoman of ours, Mrs Vansittart before-mentioned, the tall and stately chatelaine of that magnificent house afterwards purchased by Mario and Grisi, and which, I believe, still bears the name of the former. Many delightful evenings were spent beneath Mrs Vansittart’s roof, where Charles and I were frequent guests. I remember once when he and I had done our best to amuse our hosts with a ballet d’action on a small scale, at the conclusion of which I was nearly smothered by the profusion of flowers which were lavished upon me from that fertile garden. Oh yes, and I remember only too vividly the homeward walk with that beloved companion, across a short cut, all hedged and fringed with cypress and ilex, glistening and sparkling in the silver radiance of a Tuscan moonlight.
That was an eventful period in the lives of both, for, during that summer Charles’s destiny became entwined with that of a young English lady whose acquaintance he had made the previous winter at Rome, and who with her widowed mother was a constant visitor at the Villa Careggi. Indeed, before the end of the summer, my dear brother was engaged to be married to Miss Moore, the daughter of General Sir Lorenzo Moore, late Governor of the Ionian Islands, in commemoration of which office he had bestowed on his daughter the somewhat strange though musical name of Zacyntha. The lovers were separated for the winter, but on their return to England, in the year 1849, they were united, and my brother gained a devoted and faithful wife, even to his life’s end, and she became the mother of a large family of noble and beautiful children.
During our stay at Careggi we kept open house. Numerous friends and acquaintances, en route for Florence or Rome, flocked from all parts to find a hearty welcome from the English occupants of that historical palace, so intimately bound up with memories of the palmy days of Florence and her merchant princes; while the neighbours from the villas before-mentioned often frequented our charming gardens of an evening. Amongst our visitors was Prince Anatole Demidoff (so well known in Florence as one of the chief leaders of society), afterwards the husband of Princess Mathilde, the sister of Prince Napoleon, who gave splendid receptions at his own villa of San Donato.
I was much amused by an anecdote which was related to me as having happened some years before the time of which I am speaking. Prince Demidoff was very hospitable to foreigners, and an English lady having received an invitation to a soirée at this villa, arrayed herself in the best ornaments contained in her jewel-box, which were not of a very costly description. It was at a time when, in England at least, malachite was very much used, not only for table ornaments, such as ink-stands and paper-weights, but also occasionally for brooches, earrings, and the like, or what then were called sevignés. Thus decorated, our countrywoman took her way to Prince Demidoff’s reception, but her consternation was great when, on entering the noble suite of apartments, she found that the chimney-pieces, the consoles, and the very doors themselves were constructed of the identical material which formed her parure.
During our stay at Careggi, I had provided myself with an independent little vehicle in which I drove occasionally into Florence, to pay a visit to Félicie de Fauveau. I was invariably stopped at the gate of the city, and interrogated by a pompous official as to whether I had anything contraband to declare. “Oh dear yes,” said I one day, impatient at being delayed, “two apricots and a book,” which reply made my driver laugh aloud. My coachman was a bright young fellow who rejoiced in the classical name of Œdipus. He had been educated at a Jesuit school, and spoke his native language with great purity, and even eloquence. It is certainly remarkable to listen to the choice selection of words used by the lower classes in Tuscany. The common saying of “lingua Toscana in bocca Romana,” is strikingly true, for the guttural pronunciation of the Florentines—inherited doubtless from the Spaniards—contrasts disadvantageously with the soft, so to speak, languishing, cadence of the Roman dialect.
BATHS OF CASCIANO
I made a delightful little expedition in my own carretella to the Baths of Casciano, near Pisa, to pay a visit of two days to Félicie de Fauveau and her mother. It was a whole day’s journey, and we halted half-way, if I remember right, at the picturesque, fortified old town, to bait our little stout Calabrian pony. I found Œdipus a delightful travelling companion, for he knew the history and the legends of the country through which we passed, and I was quite sorry to bid him good-bye, for it was settled I should return with my friends.
Casciano is a picturesque spot, whose baths were at one time in great repute, and the legend connected with the discovery of its boiling springs interested me not a little. The Empress Matilda, it would appear, who was devoted to the sport of hawking, possessed a falcon of uncommon skill and beauty, whose constant perch was on the Imperial wrist. Suddenly the favourite began to droop and shed its feathers, and to show signs of some malady more severe than the usual moulting of birds. Unable to carry on its vocation or to join in its beloved mistress’s cherished sport, the poor falcon hung its head, disfigured and ashamed. One morning the bird was missing, and could not be traced, and much surprise was expressed that the diminished pinions should have had sufficient strength to ensure its flight. Time passed, and the “tasset gentle” was supplanted but not replaced in the heart of the royal sportswoman. But one day, when on a grand hawking expedition, the Empress had just let fly her falcon in search of its quarry—lo! a miracle: perching on her wrist, pluming itself, and nodding and bowing, with all the grace of which a bird can be capable, and all the loyalty of a devoted subject, was the long lost one. A recurrence of the falcon’s indisposition, and a restlessness which seemed to foretell an inclination to absent itself once more, caused the Empress to issue her commands that the bird should be watched. It seems difficult to imagine how her wishes were carried out, but we must suppose that the will of that Imperial lady was omnipotent. At all events, the story goes (and who would question so romantic a legend) that the winged invalid was found bathing in the warm springs of Casciano, and after this voluntary cure, found its way back in renovated health and plumage to the Court of its noble mistress, thereby laying claim to being the founder and patron of the baths in question.
LEGEND OF THE FALCON
Oh! it is hard, even in retrospective thought, to tear one’s self away from those blissful days which were prolonged late into the autumn, when the Apennines so often assume that rich colouring of Imperial purple, illumined by golden sunlight, which adds fresh lustre to the environs of Florence. To that city we made our next move, and took up our abode in a house in the Santa Croce quarter, between which and the Casa Fenzi, in Piazza Santa Maria Novella, where Lady Moore and her daughter were now located, there was constant intercourse, until the sposa and her mother left for Rome, and my brother Charles took his departure for England.