I had looked forward eagerly to the moment when I should lay these pages of affectionate remembrance before my friend Robert Browning, when, alas! the news came from Venice of his unexpected death, and baulked me of the pleasure of doing so—a disappointment which added to the poignancy of my regret at his loss.

My visits to Casa Guidi were daily, or rather nightly, for my mother’s health at this time compelled her to retire early to rest; and the moment I had bidden her good-night, I would fly to Casa Guidi and spend the early evening, or prima sera, as the Italians call it, with my poets. How delightful were those moments—how swiftly did they pass! how rich was the wit, the wisdom, the knowledge, the fancy, in which I revelled with those dear companions! And then a ring would come at the bell just at the proper moment to save my sweet hostess from fatigue, and I would go downstairs to greet another friend who had kindly allowed me to go into society under her wing. Madame de Manny, to all the vivacity and charm of a Frenchwoman, added some of the dignity and steadiness of the English nature—a rare and valuable combination amid the frivolity and laxity of manners then prevalent in the Florentine capital. The name of de Manny also had a charm for me in the historical associations connected with Froissart and the Carthusian Monastery, for my friend’s husband was a lineal descendant of Sir Walter de Manny, or Many, in those famous chronicles.

CHAPTER XXIV
LAST DAYS AT FLORENCE—RETURN TO ENGLAND—MILLARD’S HILL, LONDON 1848.

While we were at Florence the popular mind had become so excited by passing events, by the Revolution in France, and by the outbreaks in the north of Italy, that disturbances on a modified scale were of almost daily occurrence in the streets or on the walls of the city. I was amused one day at a comic manifestation of the Florentine horror of the Austrian by overhearing a peasant who was beating his donkey, cry out to him in a tone of objurgation: “Oh, Maiter Nick-ee—oh, Maiter Nick-ee.” I could not but intercede for the poor beast, and represent to his master that he could not well be called a foreigner.

Another time, as I was returning from a drive to a neighbouring villa with my mother, our carriage was stopped and surrounded by some men, who desired us to alight and proceed on foot, as we had no more right to go in a carriage than they had. Their words were menacing, but their looks were by no means threatening, and trusting to the Italian’s love of a jest, I told them that it was out of the question for my mother to walk, for she was not strong, and that for myself I did not care how many miles I walked, but I had on a pair of beautiful new thin boots (in those days we wore a dainty chaussure called brodequins), and it would break my heart to spoil them in the muddy road. Oh those good-humoured Tuscans! They laughed, shook their heads, bade the coachman drive on, and showed no ill-will to the little foreigner who had turned aside their wrath with a joke.

But on a future day the populace showed itself more violent. I was unwell, and had not left the house, when my brother came back with the news that there had been a riot in the streets, and that on the appearance of my friend Beppa, the florist, the old cry had been raised of “A spy!—a Court spy!” and the poor woman had been hunted down several streets, and was flying in terror for her very life; then came to her rescue, rising as they ever did, as if by magic, in the hour of need, the noble band of the “Misericordia,” bound to succour and to protect the sick and the sorrowful. Clad in their black robes, their faces shrouded by their black hoods, they interposed between the pursuers and their victim, and claimed the right, which none durst question, of taking possession of the fugitive. Beppa was sick, she was near her confinement, therefore she came within the jurisdiction of the “Misericordia,” who, placing her on the litter they always carry with them, bore her off, not to the hospital, as is usual in such cases, but to a place of safety and secrecy.

“BEPPA” THE FLORIST

I was very much distressed when I heard of the danger my favourite had run, and longed to hear some news of her, which I did a few days later, in rather dramatic manner. I was walking on the Lung’arno when a little boy approached me. He attracted my attention in a mysterious manner, “’St, ’st, Signorina,” he said; “listen to me, but take no notice of me. Beppa salutes you tenderly. She has a beautiful boy; she sends you these flowers,” which he smuggled into my hand, “and hopes to see you soon.”

Accordingly, in the course of time, our faithful Henry ushered a muffled figure, whose face was completely hidden by the hood of a long cloak, into the drawing-room of Casa Lagerschward. It was Beppa, my Beppa! She flung off her disguise as she clasped me in her arms; she wept, she laughed, she went into rapture over her baby, over her husband-“Che mi vuole un ben di paradiso.”[[46]] It was a spectacle to astonish an undemonstrative Northerner. When the time came for us to leave Florence, Beppa was one of the humble friends whom I regretted most; but oh! how I grieved to say farewell to that beautiful city!