In summer we sometimes made excursions to avoid the heat of Florence. One year we went to Valombrosa and the convents of La Vernia, and Camaldoli, which are now suppressed. We travelled on mules or ponies, as the mountain paths are impracticable to carriages. I was disappointed in Valombrosa itself, but the road to it is beautiful. La Vernia is highly picturesque, there we remained two days, which I spent in drawing. The trees round the convent formed a striking contrast to the arid cliffs we had passed on the road. The monks were naturally delighted to see strangers. They belonged to the order of St. Francis, and each in his turn wandered over the country begging and living on the industry of others. We did not pay for our food and lodging, but left much more than an equivalent in the poor-box. Somerville slept in the convent, and we ladies were lodged in the so-called Foresteria outside; but even Somerville was not admitted into the clausura at Camaldoli, for the monks make a vow of perpetual silence and solitude. Each had his little separate hut and garden, and some distance above the convent, on the slopes of the Apennines, they had an establishment called the Eremo, for those who sought for even greater solitude. The people told us that in winter, when deep snow covers the whole place, wolves are often seen prowling about. Not far from the Eremo there is a place from whence both the Mediterranean and the Adriatic can be seen.
We occasionally went for sea-bathing to Viareggio, which is built on a flat sandy beach. The loose sand is drifted by the wind into low hillocks, and bound together by coarse grass thickly coated with silex. Among this and other plants a lovely white amaryllis, the Pancratium Maritimum, with a sweet and powerful perfume, springs up. We often tried to get the bulb, but it lay too deep under the sand. One evening we had gone a long way in search of these flowers, and sat down to rest, though it was beginning to be dark. We had not sat many minutes when we were surrounded by a number of what we supposed to be bats trying to get at the flowers we had gathered, but at length we discovered that they were enormous moths, which followed us home, and actually flew into the room to soar over the flowers and suck the honey with their long probosces. They were beautiful creatures with large red eyes on their wings.
Our life at Florence went on pretty much as usual when all at once cholera broke out of the most virulent kind. Multitudes fled from Florence; often in vain, for it prevailed all through Tuscany to a great extent. The terrified people were kneeling to the Madonna and making processions, after which it was remarked that the number of cases was invariably increased. The Misericordia went about in their fearful costume, indefatigable in carrying the sick to the hospitals. The devotion of that society was beyond all praise; the young and the old, the artisan and the nobleman, went night and day in detachments carrying aid to the sufferers, not in Florence only, but to Fiesole and the villages round. We never were afraid, but we consulted Professor Zanetti, our medical adviser, whether we should leave the town, which we were unwilling to do, as we thought we should be far from medical assistance, and he said, "By no means; live as usual, drive out as you have always done, and make not the smallest change." We followed his advice, and drove out every afternoon till near dark, and then passed the rest of the evening with those friends who, like ourselves, had remained in town. None of us took the disease except one of our servants, who recovered from instant help being given.
The Marquis of Normanby was British minister at that time, and Lady Normanby and he were always kind and hospitable to us. At her house we became acquainted with Signora Barbieri-Nini, the celebrated opera-singer, who had retired from the stage, and lived with her husband, a Sienese gentleman, in a villa not far from Villa Normanby. She gave a musical party, to which she invited us. The music, which was entirely artistic, was excellent, the entertainment very handsome, and it was altogether very enjoyable. As we were driving home afterwards, late at night, going down the hill, our carriage ran against one of the dead carts which was carrying those who had died that day to the burying-ground at Trespiano. It was horribly ghastly—one could distinguish the forms of the limbs under the canvas thrown over the heap of dead. The burial of the poor and rich in Italy is in singular contrast; the poor are thrown into the grave without a coffin, the rich are placed in coffins, and in full dress, which, especially in the case of youth and infancy, leaves a pleasant impression. An intimate friend of ours lost an infant, and asked me to go and see it laid out. The coffin, lined with white silk, was on a table, covered with a white cloth, strewed with flowers, and with a row of wax lights on either side. The baby was clothed in a white satin frock, leaving the neck and arms bare; a rose-bud was in each hand, and a wreath of rose-buds surrounded the head, which rested on a pillow. Nothing could be prettier; it was like a sleeping angel.
Pio Nono had lost his popularity before he came to visit the Grand Duke of Tuscany. The people received him respectfully, but without enthusiasm; nevertheless, Florence was illuminated in his honour. The Duomo, Campanile, and the old tower in the Piazza dei Signori were very fine, but the Lung' Arno was beautiful beyond description; the river was full, and reflected the whole with dazzling splendour.
I made the acquaintance of Signore Donati, afterwards celebrated for the discovery of one of the most brilliant comets of this century, whose course and changes I watched with the greatest interest. On one occasion I was accompanied by my valued friend Sir Henry Holland, who had come to Florence during one of his annual journeys. I had much pleasure in seeing him again.
Political parties ran very high in Florence; we sympathised with the Liberals, living on intimate terms with the chief of them. As soon as the probability of war between Piedmont and Austria became known, many young men of every rank, some even of the highest families, hastened to join as volunteers. The most sanguine long hoped that the Grand Duke might remember that he was an Italian prince rather than an Austrian archduke, and would send his troops to join the Italian cause; but his dynasty was doomed, and he blindly chose the losing side. At last the Austrians crossed the Mincio, and the war fairly broke out, France coming to the assistance of Piedmont. The enthusiasm of the Tuscans could then no longer be restrained, and on the 27th April 1859, crowds of people assembled on the Piazza dell' Indipendenza, and raised the tri-coloured flag. The government, who, the day before, had warning of what was impending, had sent sealed orders to the forts of Belvedere and del Basso, which, when opened on the eventful morning, were found to contain orders for the bombardment of the town. This the officers refused to do, after which the troops joined the popular cause. When this order became generally known, as it soon did, it proved the last blow to the dynasty, although the most eminent and respected Liberals used their best efforts during the whole of the 27th to restore harmony between the Grand Duke and the people. They advised his immediate abdication in favour of his son, the Archduke Ferdinand, the proclamation of the Constitution, and of course insisted on the immediate alliance with Piedmont as their principal condition. It was already too late! All was of no avail, and in the evening, whilst we were as usual at the Cascine, the whole Imperial family, accompanied by the Austrian minister, and escorted by several of the Corps Diplomatique, drove round the walls from Palazzo Pitti to Porta San Gallo unmolested amid a silent crowd, and crossing the frontier on the Bologna road, bade farewell for ever to Tuscany. The obnoxious ministers were also permitted to retire unnoticed to their country houses.