The more I look at the old Florentine domestic architecture the
more I like it--that of the great examples at least; and if I
ever am able to build myself a lordly pleasure-house I don't see
how in conscience I can build it different from these. They are
sombre and frowning, and look a trifle more as if they were meant
to keep people out than to let them in; but what equally
"important" type--if there be an equally important--is more
expressive of domiciliary dignity and security and yet attests
them with a finer æesthetic economy? They are impressively
"handsome," and yet contrive to be so by the simplest means. I
don't say at the smallest pecuniary cost--that's another matter.
There is money buried in the thick walls and diffused through the
echoing excess of space. The merchant nobles of the fifteenth
century had deep and full pockets, I suppose, though the present
bearers of their names are glad to let out their palaces in
suites of apartments which are occupied by the commercial
aristocracy of another republic. One is told of fine old
mouldering chambers of which possession is to be enjoyed for a
sum not worth mentioning. I am afraid that behind these so
gravely harmonious fronts there is a good deal of dusky
discomfort, and I speak now simply of the large serious faces
themselves as you can see them from the street; see them ranged
cheek to cheek, in the grey historic light of Via dei Bardi, Via
Maggio, Via degli Albizzi. The force of character, the familiar
severity and majesty, depend on a few simple features: on the
great iron-caged windows of the rough-hewn basement; on the noble
stretch of space between the summit of one high, round-topped
window and the bottom of that above; on the high-hung sculptured
shield at the angle of the house; on the flat far-projecting
roof; and, finally, on the magnificent tallness of the whole
building, which so dwarfs our modern attempts at size. The finest
of these Florentine palaces are, I imagine, the tallest
habitations in Europe that are frankly and amply habitations--not
mere shafts for machinery of the American grain-elevator pattern.
Some of the creations of M. Haussmann in Paris may climb very
nearly as high; but there is all the difference in the world
between the impressiveness of a building which takes breath, as
it were, some six or seven times, from storey to storey, and of
one that erects itself to an equal height in three long-drawn
pulsations. When a house is ten windows wide and the drawing-room
floor is as high as a chapel it can afford but three floors.
The spaciousness of some of those ancient drawing-rooms is that
of a Russian steppe. The "family circle," gathered anywhere
within speaking distance, must resemble a group of pilgrims
encamped in the desert on a little oasis of carpet. Madame
Gryzanowska, living at the top of a house in that dusky, tortuous
old Borgo Pinti, initiated me the other evening most good-
naturedly, lamp in hand, into the far-spreading mysteries of her
apartment. Such quarters seem a translation into space of the
old-fashioned idea of leisure. Leisure and "room" have been
passing out of our manners together, but here and there, being of
stouter structure, the latter lingers and survives.
Here and there, indeed, in this blessed Italy, reluctantly modern in spite alike of boasts and lamentations, it seems to have been preserved for curiosity's and fancy's sake, with a vague, sweet odour of the embalmer's spices about it. I went the other morning to the Corsini Palace. The proprietors obviously are great people. One of the ornaments of Rome is their great white-faced palace in the dark Trastevere and its voluminous gallery, none the less delectable for the poorness of the pictures. Here they have a palace on the Arno, with another large, handsome, respectable and mainly uninteresting collection. It contains indeed three or four fine examples of early Florentines. It was not especially for the pictures that I went, however; and certainly not for the pictures that I stayed. I was under the same spell as the inveterate companion with whom I walked the other day through the beautiful private apartments of the Pitti Palace and who said: "I suppose I care for nature, and I know there have been times when I have thought it the greatest pleasure in life to lie under a tree and gaze away at blue hills. But just now I had rather lie on that faded sea-green satin sofa and gaze down through the open door at that retreating vista of gilded, deserted, haunted chambers. In other words I prefer a good 'interior' to a good landscape. The impression has a greater intensity--the thing itself a more complex animation. I like fine old rooms that have been occupied in a fine old way. I like the musty upholstery, the antiquated knick-knacks, the view out of the tall deep-embrasured windows at garden cypresses rocking against a grey sky. If you don't know why, I'm afraid I can't tell you." It seemed to me at the Palazzo Corsini that I did know why. In places that have been lived in so long and so much and in such a fine old way, as my friend said--that is under social conditions so multifold and to a comparatively starved and democratic sense so curious--the past seems to have left a sensible deposit, an aroma, an atmosphere. This ghostly presence tells you no secrets, but it prompts you to try and guess a few. What has been done and said here through so many years, what has been ventured or suffered, what has been dreamed or despaired of? Guess the riddle if you can, or if you think it worth your ingenuity. The rooms at Palazzo Corsini suggest indeed, and seem to recall, but a monotony of peace and plenty. One of them imaged such a noble perfection of a home-scene that I dawdled there until the old custodian came shuffling back to see whether possibly I was trying to conceal a Caravaggio about my person: a great crimson-draped drawing-room of the amplest and yet most charming proportions; walls hung with large dark pictures, a great concave ceiling frescoed and moulded with dusky richness, and half-a-dozen south windows looking out on the Arno, whose swift yellow tide sends up the light in a cheerful flicker. I fear that in my appreciation of the particular effect so achieved I uttered a monstrous folly--some momentary willingness to be maimed or crippled all my days if I might pass them in such a place. In fact half the pleasure of inhabiting this spacious saloon would be that of using one's legs, of strolling up and down past the windows, one by one, and making desultory journeys from station to station and corner to corner. Near by is a colossal ball-room, domed and pilastered like a Renaissance cathedral, and super-abundantly decorated with marble effigies, all yellow and grey with the years.