We regretfully descended the tower, and threading our way in and out of several narrow streets arrived at the renowned Palazzo Vecchio, a sort of fortress with a tall battlemented watchtower of the Tuscan type. This was once the palace of the Medici princes and former seat of the Republic of Florence, and so there was much of interest to be seen: paintings, beautiful ceilings and historical monuments. I cannot compete with Baedeker in describing so many marvels. Perhaps what impressed me most was the Sala dei Gigli, or Hall of the Lilies, whose ceiling has a background of deep blue, patterned by gold squares, each containing fleur de lys in gold. This is not strictly the French lily, but the Florentine one, which is slightly more elaborate and appears on many books, objets d’art and so on. It is in fact the crest of the city itself, symbolising the long connection with France, maintained by Catherine, wife of Henry II of France, and others. Now the Palazzo Vecchio is the Town Hall, and busy functionaries hurry to and fro, or work in small discreet offices, hidden from view and segregated from the display rooms. Their presence was noticed as they hurried back and forth with sheaves of files and papers, in quiet conferences with members of the public, at a window or under an arch, and in the faint but occasionally audible click-click of hidden typewriters, or the sudden ring of a telephone bell. Down in the courtyard the ubiquitous carabinieri scrutinised all-comers and one or two jeeps were parked near the sculptured fountain.
That day we also managed to squeeze in a visit to the massive square edifice of the Palazzo Strozzi. It was not officially on view either, now being used for offices, but we persuaded a friendly caretaker to take us round. It seemed that during the siege of Florence by our troops, the Germans moved into the Palazzo Strozzi and locked all the staff in the cellars or perhaps, as Alfred suggested, they went of their own accord, being too frightened to stay above ground. I felt some sympathy with this point of view.
We later went on to Palazzo Pitti, were there was an exhibition of French paintings. We arrived there at 6 p.m. and the palazzo was due to close at seven, and so we raced round the galleries at breakneck speed, and then decided to take a look at the famous Boboli gardens, which rise gently up behind the palace. These also seemed to be closed, but we managed to penetrate the palace through a window unobserved and found ourselves in a courtyard leading into the garden itself. As it was past closing time, all was deserted and we had the place to ourselves, a world of shimmering ponds, water lilies, carpets of thick green grass and the ever-present luxuriant foliage reminiscent of an English park. In the cool tranquillity of the sunset hour, we climbed to the top of the gardens and gazed out at the roofs and spires of Florence, framed on either side by the lush green of centuries-old chestnuts and sycamores. Beyond, the outline of the mountains was blurred slightly in the evening haze. But time was passing fast, and we had a dinner date with Tiny and Pat. Pat had of course spent the day recuperating, having her hair done, shop gazing and generally making herself spick and span for the evening’s entertainment. For that, we had decided to try a place that advertised itself as a sort of glorified nightclub, but with local colour, where in a beautiful Florentine garden and mansion one could ‘rest in comfortable places’ and drink in the ‘lemon tree bar’, amongst other delights.
From the moment I saw this quaintly worded poster on the hotel noticeboard, I longed to sample the place, which would surely offer one some genuine ‘atmosphere’, if nothing else. The others seemed a trifle sceptical as to what it would be like, but I was resolved to enjoy it, come what may, and if it did not immediately exude ‘atmosphere’ would do my best to find some. The name of this magical spot was ‘Bellosguardo’, or ‘Beautiful View’, and it really did live up to its reputation. It was situated on a hill south of the river, and consisted of an old Florentine villa, or mansion, with a large rambling garden set out formally in front of the house and a broad grassy terrace overlooking the twinkling lights of the city below. There were lawns and trees everywhere, dark cypresses looming over the flowerbeds and expansive umbrella pines, throwing out a faint but clean smell of resin and pine needles. At the back of the house was a walled fruit and vegetable garden, faintly lit by small lanterns. Here two guitarists played gently, and one could wander at will along narrow paths among borders edged with small box hedges and shaded by the spreading branches of lemon and walnut trees. The air was perfumed and warm, caressed as it was by the soft notes of the guitars, playing the music of Italy’s traditional melodies, which somehow seem to touch emotional chords, whose vibrations echo down the years.
Inside the house, there was dancing in the big hall, still hung with the portraits of distinguished ancestors, and where coats of armour did not seem out of place amongst the furniture. A small orchestra played at one end, and for the first time in Italy I saw people in evening dress. Needless to say, Pat and I, although dressed up to the best of our ability, were in khaki drill and almost the only English girls present. The other girls were all well dressed and looked very respectable – this was indeed quite a superior sort of place and it seemed a little sad that such a stately home should be used for such a trivial purpose. But then, a great many temporarily homeless men were passing a few hours of harmless enjoyment and relaxation there, so perhaps the purpose was not so trivial after all.
We rested on comfortable settees in the drawing room and had refreshments of excellent calibre in other equally well-furnished apartments. The house was just as it must have been when a rich and cultured family lived there, which probably they still did, and one saw solid antique furniture, a library full of good books and an air of comfortable prosperity about everything. This was probably misleading, though, because behind the facade of gentility and culture might lurk real poverty or, at best, serious financial stress. Italy’s aristocracy was beginning to feel the pinch, but they were putting a brave face on it. But no such reflection spoiled our enjoyment that evening and after a final gaze at the lights below us and the faintly discernible outlines of cypresses and pines from the terrace, we betook ourselves back into town, conscious of having passed an extremely pleasant and most restful evening. There was indeed ‘atmosphere’, and it made one relax and forget the rush and tear of Army transport, cups of NAAFI tea and innumerable flies in the office. For a time we had breathed in the atmosphere of a beautiful home and the effect was strangely refreshing to the spirit.
The following day, being Sunday, I attended morning service at the English church and was surprised to see what a large English congregation there was. It seemed as though one had temporarily left Italy and returned to England, perhaps to some village church. There were the same elderly ladies, with beflowered summer hats, and respectable retired gentlemen that one would see in any parish church on a Sunday. The same hymns were sung to the same tunes and a similar sermon preached to those one had heard so many times before in the pre-war years, when one went to church in one’s best hat and gloves and made a mental note before the service started of who was there, sitting where, and when they arrived, particularly if late. It was unbelievably English and only the sprinkling of military in the back pews, a variety of ranks, belied the picture of a tranquil English Sunday morning in a small parish church at home.
That afternoon we went out to Fiesole. We crossed the railway and climbed a broad, winding main road, up towards the north and presently came out into a small square set with the gayest and most attractive stalls, where all sorts of handiwork was for sale. Most notable were the intricately embroidered bags, hats, belts, handbags and mats, mostly made of raffia, string and silk by the local inhabitants. Various vendors were soon suing for our custom, cheerfully waving gaily coloured bags and the like enticingly before our eyes. Pat and I longed to linger there, but Tiny firmly told us we would have plenty of time for purchasing later and hastened us away to a small garden restaurant, from the terrace of which there was yet another magnificent view of the city, from exactly the opposite position to that of Bellosguardo. Food was still supposedly very difficult, but that day we somehow managed to
achieve chicken and it was a royal feast to us. A rather shabby old man arrived and opened a box of wares, and began showing us various small objects made in coloured raffia. I could not let him go away completely disappointed, and so I bought a couple of porta fortuna from him. These are a local tradition and consist of a tiny man and girl made in raffia of various colours, holding hands and attached to a loop, and are supposed to be lucky charms. They cost 2s 6d each and I was very annoyed later on to see better ones for less money, but Pat and I decided to be un-regimental and each attached one to our bush shirts.
After lunch we visited the Roman amphitheatre, where with difficulty Tiny and I restrained Pat from taking a nap among the ruins. We went on to see a small Franciscan convent, with yet another delightful view of the city and tiny cool courtyards where flowers flourished, protected from excessive sunshine and drying winds. We saw everything there was to see, including the cells of monks from bygone days, still with their easels and their prie-dieux, the walls covered with drawings and sayings from the scriptures.
It was late afternoon as we descended the cobbled path from this little Franciscan convent, and once more wandered among the well-stocked stalls on the square and their cheery salespeople. This time Tiny allowed us time off for purchasing and then took us back for tea in town.
And so that day we learned that the fascination of Florence extends also to its environs, which to a nature-lover are doubtless more lovely than the city itself.
There was, however, another aspect of Florence which for the female sex held a special appeal. The shops must be among the best in Italy, and on the quaint old Ponte Vecchio, the only bridge left intact by the German engineers who carried out their demolition work with characteristic Prussian efficiency, we found shops crammed with the most entrancing trinkets, jewellery, leather, beaten silverware – everything you could think of and all very reasonable in price. I bought the most exquisite blue leather bag, with thin gold-embossed lines crossing it diamond-wise. I know for a fact that it has been shown at Mass every Sunday since its owner received it in 1945, and Florentine leather, as well as having the most attractive designs, wears well. I did just manage to restrain Pat from buying a second skirt, when she had already purchased one. I happened to be passing a dress shop with her when she suddenly exclaimed, ‘That’s a pretty skirt!’ and dashed into the shop. I waited outside for a few moments, but seeing the assistant take the skirt out of the window and show it off with a near-triumphant look in her eye decided me. I marched inside, grasped Pat firmly by the arm, told the assistant the skirt was ‘troppo caro’ and led Pat, who was too surprised to protest, determinedly out. ‘You can’t afford it,’ I said, ‘not according to the calculations we made in Naples anyway.’ For we had made a joint calculation before leaving and decided just how much we could afford and for what. Pat was at first disposed to be annoyed but she admitted in the end to being quite glad still to have the cash in hand.
And so, our first three days on leave behind us, the office seemed already to have receded into another world, and we set out for Venice, our minds crammed with impressions of the City of Flowers.
It seemed strange not to have to been on duty every morning and I sometimes missed Luisa’s bright ‘Buongiorno, Signoree’, and the shrill voices of the young Perellis. But I already had the bee of discovery in my bonnet and I brushed away regrets and threw myself once more into the thrill of absorbing new scenes and visiting fresh places. Bologna with its burnt-sienna arcades, and its small, secretive side streets, its cobbled pavements and lopsided overhanging eaves and gables fascinated me and I longed for time to explore it. There was an air of Dickens-like respectability about the place, and yet, as in Dickens’s books, you could imagine that many comedies and tragedies were enacted behind those shuttered windows.
On the way we had stopped for a brew-up at a mountain farm and the farmer’s wife had boiled water for our billycan. The farmhouse was spotlessly clean and the people genuinely friendly and interested to hear that their stone-floored kitchen with its massive cross-beams was not unlike those of our own Tudor dwellings. There were frequent signs of war in these parts, bumpy roads, blown-up bridges and ruined houses, and the road into Bologna itself passed through acre upon acre of bombed buildings and riddled masonry. It was uncanny to think that only a few months earlier our men had been waging a life and death struggle in those grim mountains, often cold and hungry, cut off from base and supplies, and within sniping reach of a ruthless and desperate enemy.
We left the mountains and came to the plain of Lombardy, with its expanses of flat land, criss-crossed by dykes and punctuated by watermills and gently swaying lines of young poplars and mournful willows. Here the sun was obscured, the clouds seemed pregnant with rain, and the fertile orchards testified to a lush, well-watered countryside. The houses, painted in delicate pastels, had sloping tiled roofs, surmounted by tiled chimney pots. Shutters painted in shades which contrasted with the walls gave added colour to a scene of pleasing rusticity. But we soon came to more and more fearful signs of the recent destruction. The contemplation of the homely farmsteads and corn-stacks was interrupted, and instead one passed through towns laid low by the havoc of war, where sometimes one saw weary people grubbing hopefully amongst the dusty rubble. At Pontelagoscuro, an immense bridge lay in two truncated blocks across the vast River Po, but the waters were spanned by a magnificent pontoon bridge, a working tribute to the genius of the Sappers, and consisting of probably more than a hundred boats. I had heard that sometimes when the water was high this bridge broke and swung to either side, but always the engineers were quickly on to the job and had it right again in a matter of hours. One could not imagine Italy without Bailey bridges in those days, and even now some remain. Without them, the traffic of the country would have been paralysed, not to speak of the communications and the Army of Occupation, which could not have relied entirely on the air or sea for its many needs.
At Mestre we took on board a tommy who wanted a lift to Venice, but we were not sorry to discard him as he turned out to be rather a nuisance. We left our transport in the park and embarked with the driver in a gondola. It seemed strange to ride up to the town mayor’s office in a boat, and a gondola of all things! The office was situated in a beautiful fifteenth-century palazzo, with the Union Jack swaying gracefully over its classical portals. A Military Police motorboat was fixed to the painted mooring stakes, to which in former times the elegant gondola of some rich merchant would have been tied with silken cords, attended by a gondoliere in sumptuous livery. But ‘Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse’ and we, two of the twentieth-century female soldiers of democracy, were about to spend a day or two’s glorious, and what we hoped was well-earned, leave among the antique buildings of this amazing city-port.
After a wash and brush-up at our hotel, Pat suggested we should go off on our own and meet for dinner. I was slightly suspicious of her intentions, but spent a marvellous two hours, locating the great square, Piazza di San Marco, the Bridge of Sighs, which more than comes up to expectations, and the cathedral. Here I sat for some time, drinking in the atmosphere, where Byzantine and Western art are strangely intermingled, and in marvelling at the mosaic floor, uneven in many places and much worn. The late sun shone through the open doors, lighting up the gold on pictures and altars, and casting long shadows from the Romanesque arches of the doorways. People moved about in silence, lighting the candles of devotion, or standing rapt in prayer or contemplation for a quiet moment at the end of the day.
As I went back to the hotel, tearing myself away from the most attractive shop windows (except those of Florence) that I had ever seen, I had a presentiment that Pat would have indulged in some terrible and unnecessary extravagance which we should both regret. These fears were soon justified, for she held out a hand and showed me something like an engagement ring, and asked me what I thought of it. I tried hard to appear enthusiastic; it was a pretty glass stone, cut in Venetian style, but it did not interest me much, although
the setting was attractive enough. Pat herself was already tiring of it and asked if I would buy it. I soon disabused her of that hope, and she then offered it to me as a present. I told her to keep it and sell it to a profitable customer later on. She said she might as well get some wear of the ring in the meantime and placed it prominently on her hand before we went down to dinner.
When we were in the restaurant, the head AT of the Command arrived with an ATS major and her ADC. Pat became very worried, for she was far from ‘properly dressed’ in Army parlance: she was wearing white shoes, her sleeves were rolled up (forbidden at night), her legs were clad in the sheerest of silk stockings and her hands displayed three rings and deep crimson nail varnish. While we were sipping our coffee, Commander Turner came over to speak to us and was very charming. Pat had thrust her feet well under the table, hastily placed one ring under her plate and with the utmost sangfroid greeted the chief and offered her a liqueur. As someone remarked afterwards, had she forgotten the ring under the plate, the waiter doubtless would have taken it for a tip! Ma Turner stayed and chatted for a few minutes, probably not in the least deceived by Pat’s subterfuge, and then got up to go and we were once more on our own to listen to the band and carry on interminable discussions pro and contra the unfortunate ring. That night, after saying goodnight to me in my room, she got locked out of her own and I found her wandering disconsolately about in the corridor munching a green apple and musing on the romanticism of Venice at night. ‘How shall I get back to bed?’ she asked. ‘My door has locked itself by banging shut and my key is inside.’ My key was no good and so we had to telephone the night porter to let her in.
My Italian Adventures Page 24