The Emperor Ferdinand’s uncle, and the heir presumptive of the imperial crown, is come to spend a day here, and it is thought proper to mark his visit by a festival. The Piazza di San Marco has been illuminated—only with a mezza illuminazione, but still it was very beautiful; nor can anything be otherwise in the magnificent theatre of this stately square.
In addition they opened the opera-house of the Fenice, and lighted it up. An illuminara in one of the great opera-houses is almost a national event in an Italian town: I never witnessed one before, and now could understand the excitement that it occasions. The price of boxes was very high, some sixty swanzikers and more. Signor —— kindly brought me the keys of a very good box, opposite that occupied by the royal party. We went early; the whole house was full; the passages and corridors, all brilliantly lighted, were filled with the common people—admitted without paying. Nothing could be more animated, more gay. Our gondolier, one of whose offices this is, paid for us, and showed us the way to our box. When the door opened we were dazzled: it was like a scene in fairy land. Accustomed to our few wax candles, and the deforming, sombre light of gas, the innumerable lights that shed more than day over the whole house, produced an effect of brilliancy and elegance quite indescribable.
There had been much debating as to the opera, Gazzaniga wished to have the Montecchi e Capuletti, as she shone in the part of Romeo; but the primo buffo did not like to be excluded from singing before H. R. I. H. Accordingly, the opera of Chi dura Vince was fixed on, in which Gazzaniga had a prominent serio-comic part. The story of the play is similar to that of our Honeymoon; and the way in which she acted the angry, deluded bride was very amusing. This opera is by Ricci, and has a few agreeable airs in it—though nothing rising above mediocrity. The Archduke went away before the opera was over. Royal personages labour so very hard; and the Archduke was to leave Venice at four the following morning. He went in a steamer to view the sea-wall building at Malamocco, and thence is to proceed by steam to Trieste. Another steamer accompanied him; and the first people of Venice, and all strangers, were invited, as for a party of pleasure. I had a sort of fore-feeling I should not like it; for though I was assured the steamer would make the voyage in the lagune on this side Lido, I did not quite believe that to be possible. So it proved—the steamers took to the open sea, which was rather rough; and though plenty was provided to refresh and entertain the guests, very little was eaten.
LETTER XI.
Journey to Florence.—Cold and rainy Season.—Excursion to Vallombrosa.
October 30th.
We have taken flight, over plain, river, and mountain, and are arrived in the beautiful city of Italy—Firenze la Bella. We parted excellent friends with the host of l’Hôtel d’Italie, who had shown himself anxious to please, and fair in his dealings. A vetturino journey is always somewhat tedious, and the deep roads neighbouring the Po, having been damaged by rain and flood, our progress was more than usually slow. We were drawn by two admirable little horses, and their avaricious master taxed their strength to the utmost. He had demanded more from us, alleging the necessity of extra horses, but grudged the price asked, and went on merely with his own. The stinginess of this fellow had its reward in riches, for he told us he was called Il Miliorino. This it is that makes avarice an incurable vice. It can never be satiated, for it ever wants more; and it is seldom disappointed, for it gains its ends more passively than actively, and its success depends on self, not on others; but this it is also that renders it so despicable. “Tell him his soul lives in an alley,” said Ben Jonson, when Charles I. sent him a niggard gift. The souls of the avaricious live in the narrowest of all alleys; they are shut up in the dreariest solitary confinement, from which they have not the spirit to escape.
We contrived to peep at a few pictures. At Padua, we paid a hurried visit to one or two churches adorned by frescoes by some of the earlier masters, admirable for the artless gesture—the earnest, rapt expression—the power of shewing the soul breathing in the face. Every painter who aims at the ideal—at expressing the purer and higher emotions of the soul, ought to make a particular study of these early Christian paintings; they must not imitate them—true genius, indeed, cannot imitate. He can catch the light which the labours of his predecessors throw over his path; but he will proceed on one shaped out by himself. To imitate Perugino would be to write poetry in the obsolete language of Chaucer. Yet every English writer ought to be familiar with the pathos, sweetness, and delicate truth of one of our greatest poets.
I was sorry not to spend more time at Ferrara; and in particular not to revisit the galleries, and palaces, and churches of Bologna. To have seen these once was no excuse for not seeing them again; but I could not.
I cannot say why, but the impression left on my mind of the passage of the Appenines had been unfavourable, and I was agreeably surprised to find the scenery far more varied—richer in wood, and more picturesque than I expected. The mountain inns are all much improved since I last crossed. Evening closed as the valley in which Florence is situated opened before us; the descent is rapid, ending almost at the gate of the city itself. We traversed it at its greatest length, from the Porta San Gallo to Schneiderff’s Hotel, where very uncomfortable rooms were assigned to us.
This, and the expense of the hotel, made us eager to take apartments. I was instantly employed in the wearisome task of finding them. There are a great many, but still it was difficult to find such as we wanted. There were several numerous and handsome suites of rooms at a high price, and a great number of narrow and uncomfortable ones tolerably cheap. Neither suited us. We at last fixed on a second floor, on the Lungo l’Arno. The rooms are nearly all turned to the south, and look over the river: they are not large, but they are clean and neat. We are sure of the sun whenever he shines; which is a great desideratum, especially in an Italian winter, when the presence of sunshine often admits of an absence of fire. We have engaged our rooms for four months. It is very cold—as cold as it can be in England.