Meanwhile George Eliot continued her reading, now at the British Museum. La Vita di G. Savonarola, by Pasquale Villari, gave her much inspiration. The book had just been published, and it may well have suggested the scene where Baldassarre Calvo meets Tito Melema on the steps of the Cathedral. No other available writer had previously described the struggle which took place for the liberation of the Lunigiana prisoners, which plays so important a part in the plot of Romola.

In January, 1862, George Eliot writes in her diary, “I began again my novel of Romola.” By February the extraordinary proem and the first two chapters were completed. “Will it ever be finished?” she asks herself. But doubt vanished as she proceeded. In May, 1863, she “killed Tito with great excitement,” and June 9, “put the last stroke to Romola—Ebenezer!”

Since then I have re-read Romola with the increased interest which came from the new knowledge, and the story added to my love of Florence. Many times have I wandered, as George Eliot and Lewes did, to the heights of Fiesole, and looked down, even as they, in sunlight, and with the moon casting shadows upon the wonderful and obsessing city, wishing that my vision were strong enough to extract from it another story such as Romola.


Such were the experiences that extended my stay in Florence. The memory of them has been so strong and so obsessing that no year has been complete without a return to Biagi and the Laurenziana. Once, during these years, he came to America, as the Royal representative of Italy at the St. Louis Exposition (see also page [182]). In 1916 his term as librarian expired through the limitation of age, but before he retired he completely rearranged that portion of the Library which is now open to visitors (see page [149]). The treasures of no collection are made so easily accessible except at the British Museum.

I last visited Biagi in May, 1924. His time was well occupied by literary work, particularly on Dante, which had already given him high rank as a scholar and writer; but a distinct change had come over him. I could not fathom it until he told me that he was planning to leave Florence to take up his residence in Rome. I received the news in amazement. Then the mask fell, and he answered my unasked question.

“I can’t stand it!” he exclaimed. “I can’t stay in Florence and not be a part of the Laurenziana. I have tried in vain to reconcile myself, but the Library has been so much a fiber of my being all my life, that something has been taken away from me which is essential to my existence.” The spell of the Laurenziana had possessed him with a vital grip! The following January (1925) he died, and no physician’s diagnosis will ever contain the correct analysis of his decease I shall always find it difficult to visualize Florence or the Laurenziana without Guido Biagi. When next I hold in my hands those precious manuscripts, still chained to their ancient plutei, it will be with even greater reverence. They stand as symbols of the immutability of learning and culture compared with the brief span of life allotted to Prince or Librarian

INDEX

INDEX