3 DECEMBER 1870, Page 14

THE FLORENTINES.* "BLESSED are they that expect nothing, for they

shall not be disappointed," was, unfortunately, not one of the beatitudes.

• The Florentine. By the Countess Montemerli. London: Thuile/ Brothers.

implanted in our minds at a season when the memory is plastic and receives deep and permanent impressions, but was taught us later in life by some cynical and embittered acquaintance, and is, therefore, not always at hand to warn us against too sanguine -expectations. When we read the names of this book and its authoress, we were sure we should have some pleasant pictures of Florence and its favoured inhabitants generally ; and after we had glanced through it, and caught the words of " Garibaldi " and -" .111entana," and saw that Florence was not especially the theme, we fancied that we should have, instead, a vivid account of that unsuccessful attempt to recover their Capital by the Italian Volun- teers, which was frustrated by the soldiers of the late French .Empire; and again we were disappointed. But, after all, the title is only wide of the mark because it is too wide in its signifi- cance; instead of " The Florentines," read " a dozen Florentines," and we shall have a perfectly honest description of the contents. What we really do have is the trials and sorrows, during a few 'months, of two families, springing partly out of the disastrous -expedition to Rome, partly from the pride of the head of one of the families, and partly from the villainy of one Fra Paolo, con- lessor to both families, who had thus immense opportunities of ,making mischief between them, which he was much too conscien- tious to waste.

The effect of the book is strange enough ; it reads like a story -of English domestic life a hundred years ago, lived somehow, in modern Italy, and confused still further by the presence of Gari- baldi, as we hear of him this very day, at the head of his band of red-shirted philanthropists in the defiles of the Vosges mountains. Except that we are brought up continually by Italian names and titles, we seem, at one moment, to be reading of the days we have -heard of in England when parents were everything, and children 'nothing ; when our fathers obeyed their parents according to the letter of the commandment, and said " Sir " and " Ma'am" to them, and went courting decorously in the presence of chaperons ; -and when our mothers would have blushed scarlet at the thought -of sending, or even receiving, a letter that had not been first visa -by mamma ; then, suddenly, we are startled by the introduction of 'recent Italian politics, and we are at once moved far away in -distance, while we are brought much nearer in time.

The Countess Montemerli has perhaps been wise in avoiding a thousandth repetition of the description and praise of Florence, and not falling into the error of Mr. Bouncer—better know to fame as the possessor of Thu and Buz—who " did a little guide-book" when :subject-matter failed him for his periodical epistles to his revered ." maternal ;" but it is a pity that one of the few descriptive passages we have leaves on the mind—not already impressed— a very dreary and desolate picture of Florence ; the bitter cold, the driving rain, the wet and narrow streets, the prison-like palaces, .and—in the houses—the tiled floors, the immense and almost -empty apartments of the impoverished nobility, and above all, the absence, not only of open fires but of all fires, fix themselves in the imagination, and give the very falsest idea of the beautiful City of Flowers ; but we are more than compensated by the picture—if it be but a true one—of the sweet harmoniousness of the domestic relations of Italians. There is a greater beauty than that of -Southern cities and a better warmth than that of open fires, in the -unfailing and tesder respect of the young, the unselfish love of the -old, the perfect generosity of fraternal sympathy, the devotion of -domestics and the regard and confidence which they receive in ,return, all which are set forth so simply and unaffectedly that we cannot help but believe, though it seems almost too good to be true. There is something very captivating, too, in the simplicity -of the manners and customs of an Italian home, as Madame Montemerli describes them, and in the absence of ceremonial and -etiquette, even to such an adaptation of apparel to the exigencies of the seasons as would shock an English lady of proper feeling. There is a sense of rest and refreshment and of shade and shelter in this picture of perfect family unity and love—adorned, as it is, by cul- tivation and refinement—which we seldom feel in perusing stories

• of the more independent and individual life of northern climates ; nor, if we trust Madame Montemerli, does this unity of feeling result at all from inactivity of mind, for her scenes are laid -in the homes of enthusiastically patriotic families, holding advanced liberal opinions on questions both political and eccle- -siastical.

The book depends for its interest, very principally indeed, on these descriptions of Italian home-life and on the very clever studies of character, —of which that of the Countess Albrandi is unquestionably the most powerful, —and the thoughtful and beau- tiful little scraps of thought and feeling which pervade it ; little passages like the following, which is as pathetic as true, abound in these volumes. Elena has unexpectedly received from her mother permission to write, in future, to her lover without supervision :—

" Elena felt confused. For a moment she seemed overcome between a feeling of gratitude and a perfectly inexplicable sensation of discom- fort. No longer to confide in her mother, and to be able to indulge in confidence apart from her, seemed to her delightful and grievous, charm- ing and cruel. This suddenly acquired happiness, which she had never foreseen, and which she purchased at the price of a liberty whioh she had not desired, arrested the happiness of her heart, as the voice of the master arrests the bird on the door of its cage, when he exclaims, `Go, my poor little one ; be free.' Leaving the beloved voice behind, the bird hesitatingly spreads its wings to fly off alone into the perils of liberty."

Or this, which enters so completely into the dreaminess of old age:— " Yes, my dear ; she nurtured and encouraged this nascent affection, with the unconsciousness of old age shown towards youth, when the active events of life are left too far behind to retain their true proportions. After the material cares of life have been laid aside for years, and necessaries have been always at hand without any thought being spent upon obtaining them, persons forget how much it costa to live, and are ready to sacrifice all the material interests upon which family life is founded to a caprice of the heart. The romanticism of old age is more dangerous than that of youth. It gravely counsels folly ; and as the cares, the perplexities, and the sorrows of real life leave no traces in the heart, in which the memory of enjoyment is always to be found, faint and pale, perhaps, yet intact and vital, age dogmatically affirms the certainty of happiness, and past wretchedness is lightly touched upon."

Or this :— " Row severe and unjust is the human heart!' continued the old lady. 'In the course of my life I have made a very sad observation. It is, that we become so accustomed to the good qualities of those with whom we live, that we end by losing the appreciation of them ; while, on the other hand, we never get used to their defects, but ever feel them more and more unbearable.' " Or this, on poverty :— " If people did but understand the significance of the word poverty, and all that it implies of privation, anxiety, and nights of sleeplessness, what it costs in labour, fatigue, and humiliation! People who endure its sting, though they be but eighteen years old, are no longer young. It gives to the most charming face not only a look of premature age, but an abstracted glance, a farrowed brow and bitter smile. Poverty ! What a vampire ! what a torment! It is uncer- tainty for the morrow ; it is incessant fear ; it is the complete submersion of all illusions ; it is darkness extending over the whole life."

And this, on its antidote, showing that the humorous element is not absent from the Countess Montemerli's pages, as many other passages also prove. Two old servants are gossiping together :—

" 'Do not talk staff, Giovanni! When people have bags full of money, they have the right to do what they please.'—' But the Countess would not give her consent.'—' Caro mio, nobody refuses money. They may raise some difficulties at first ; but they give way at last, and resign themselves to being comfortable.' After a pause, Palmira continued; ' I cannot say I am over-fond of good-temper, Giovanni ; it chills the intelligence. You are very good-tempered, but you never seem to understand anything.'—' I beg your pardon. I understand perfectly, only I do not believe the thing is possible.'—' That is just what I say. So much good-temper makes everything seem impossible. I do not know whether it is the same in other countries, but in Italy, when men are good-tempered, it is dreadful; they become no better than mummies.'" And this, on the effect of the antidote. Mother and daughter have received presents of money :— " Yes, dear mamma,' answered Nina; who thought to herself, Whitt present could I possibly make mamma with my forty francs ? I will consult my cousin about it. How amiable mamma is when she has money ! I really believe that, if we wore rich, her temper would be charming ! ' " The book has charmed us very much by its beauty, quaintness, and simplicity, but it would not be quite fair to pass over its failings. As a story, its whole interest, which is very slight, centres in the opposition of the stern Countess Albrandi to her daughter's marriage ; and even this opposition is at first so faint that it has to be fanned into a flame by machinery known to novel-writers. The machinery in this case is so simple of invention, if only it were obtainable, that it reminds us of the fertile resources of children. " Oh ! I wish we had a desert island, Willy ! " "So do I. Oh ! I know,—let's make a lake." And we could almost imagine Madame Montemerli consulting a little daughter thus, " Oh ! I do so want to bring all these people into trouble, what shall I do ? " " Why, mamma, won't it do to send all the young gentlemen to battle to get killed ? " "No, dear, you don't understand at all ; natural troubles of that sort are so easily put right ; I want something that will bring about secrets and misunderstandings, and make every one jealous and vexed." " Oh I know, make a wicked monk." " Clever child ! admirable idea he shall confess both families, and tell lies all round ; thank you for the suggestion very much." And this is done, in a very thorough, flagrant and unlikely manner ; and the most amusing part of it is that Madame Montemerli has not the heart to distress her readers, so she makes the victims of her monk aware of his duplicity in general, and discover each act of it in particular as it occurs, to prevent painful complications. Why they all believe the monk, knowing what he is, we are not told, but we can see at once that there are wise reasons for it. The monk ends by suddenly putting all things to rights, on receiving an appointment at the Vatican ; and confesses to having told all his naughty stories because he was a little out of spirits about his worldly affairs. The childish element turns up in other places also ; we are frequently led, apparently to the very edge of tragic events, by incidents that seem to have no other object, and then Madame Montemerli's heart misgives her, and we hear nothing more about it. For instance, a lover is ill of fever, and if he has three attacks he will inevitably die ; melancholy madness nearly makes a prey of his fiancée ; the second attack seizes him on the eve of their marriage, and then,—well, that's all ; he recovers, and they live happy ever after, and present us with their first child. But at any rate, we get the benefit of this child-like softness of heart, for the story ends to perfection ; nobody dies, everybody gets everything they want, and the villain-monk, as we have said, repents and takes himself off ; and we will do the same, first thanking the Countess Montemerli for this thoroughly satisfactory denouement and for her very pleasant book, written in exceptionally pure and elegant English.