The Italians | Page 4

a line along
a single story--rises a mediaeval tower of defense of many stories. Each
story is pierced by loop-holes for firing into the street below. On the
machicolated summit is a square platform, where in the course of many
peaceful ages a bay-tree has come to grow of a goodly size. About this
bay-tree tangled weeds and tufted grasses wave in the wind. Below,
here and there, patches of blackened moss or yellow lichen, a branch of
mistletoe or a bunch of fern, break the lines of the mediaeval brickwork.
Sprays of wild-ivy cling to the empty loop-holes, through which the
blue sky peeps.
The lesser of the two palaces--the one on the right hand as you ascend
the street of San Simone coming from the cathedral--is more decorated
to-day than any other in Lucca. A heavy sea of Leghorn hats and black
veils, with male accompaniments, is crowded beneath. They stare

upward and murmur with delight. Gold and silver stuffs, satin and
taffeta, striped brocades, and rich embroideries, flutter from the
clustered casement up to the overhanging roof. There are many flags
(one with a coat-of-arms, amber and purple on a gold ground) blazing
in the sunshine. The grim brick façade is festooned with wreaths of
freshly-plucked roses. Before the low-arched entrance on the pavement
there is a carpet of flower-petals fashioned into a monogram, bearing
the letters "M.N." Just within the entrance stands a porter, leaning on a
gold staff, as immovable in aspect as are the mediaeval walls that close
in behind him. A badge or baldric is passed across his chest; he is
otherwise so enveloped with gold-lace, embroidery, buttons, trencher,
and cocked-hat, that the whole inner man is absorbed, not to say
invisible. Beside him, in the livery of the house, tall valets grin, lounge,
and ogle the passers-by (wearers of Leghorn hats, and veils, and white
head-gear generally). This particular Guinigi Palace belongs to Count
Mario Nobili. He bought it of the Marchesa Guinigi, who lives opposite.
Nobili is the richest young man in Lucca. No one calls upon him for
help in vain; but, let it be added, no one offends him with impunity.
When Nobili first came to Lucca, the old families looked coldly at him,
his nobility being of very recent date. It was bestowed on his father, a
successful banker--some said usurer, some said worse--by the
Grand-duke Leopold, for substantial assistance toward his pet
hobby--the magnificent road that zigzags up the mountain-side to
Fiesole from Florence.
But young Nobili soon conquered Lucchese prejudice. Now he is well
received by all--all save the Marchesa Guinigi. She was, and is at this
time, still irreconcilable. Nobili stands in the central window of his
palace. He leans out over the street, a cigar in his mouth. A servant
beside him flings down from time to time some silver coin among
Leghorn hats and the beggars, who scramble for it on the pavement.
Nobili's eyes beam as the populace look up and cheer him: "Long live
Count Nobili! Evviva!" He takes off his hat and bows; more silver coin
comes clattering down on the pavement; there are fresh evvivas, fresh
bows, and more scramblers cover the street. "No one like Nobili," the
people say; "so affable, so open-handed--yes, and so clever, too, for has
he not traveled, and does he not know the world?"

Beside Count Nobili some _jeunesse dorée_ of his own age (sons of the
best houses in Lucca) also lean over the Venetian casements. Like the
liveried giants at the entrance, these laugh, ogle, chaff, and criticise the
wearers of Leghorn hats, black veils, and white head-gear, freely. They
smoke, and drink liqueurs and sherbet, and crack sugar-plums out of
crystal cup on silver plates, set on embossed trays placed beside them.
The profession of these young men is idleness. They excel in it. Let us
pause for a moment and ask what they do--this _jeunesse dorée_, to
whom the sacred mission is committed of regenerating an heroic people?
They could teach Ovid "the art of love." It comes to them in the air they
breathe. They do not love their neighbor as themselves, but they love
their neighbor's wives. Nothing is holy to them. "All for love, and the
world well lost," is their motto. They can smile in their best friend's
face, weep with him, rejoice with him, eat with him, drink with him,
and--betray him; they do this every day, and do it well. They can also
lie artistically, dressing up imaginary details with great skill, gamble
and sing, swear, and talk scandal. They can lead a graceful, dissolute,
far niente life, loll in carriages, and be whirled round for hours, say the
Florence Cascine, the Roman Pincio, and the park at Milan--smoking
the while, and raising their hats