DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.68272#0320
302
THE GARDENS OF ITALY.
of all the honours paid him, he remained simple and unpretending, loving a quiet life, often
melancholy, though with those he loved he was cheerful and sympathetic. In his later years
he was a constant visitor to Lorenzo at one or other of his villas, and to his last hour Lorenzo
remained greatly attached to him, describing him as “ Marsilio, whom heaven has filled with
its own especial grace.”
The second was the man who stood in the closest relation to Lorenzo, Angelo Poliziano,
whose name is so connected with Villa Medici. He was commended to Lorenzo, while still
young, as the translator of the Iliad. The young head of the house became his friend, and
through all changes Poliziano loved him till he stood by his death-bed. A great poet, his verses,
the “ Stanzas,” the “ Sylvae,” and “ Rusticus,” are counted among the gems of the Italian language.
The third of this delightful trio was Pico della Mirandola. Younger than the others,
though he has left but little finished work behind him, dying at the age of two-and-thirty, yet
his is the impress of a personality that has defied time, that of the most brilliant figure in all
that brilliant circle. We are familiar with the description of his tall, slender, well knit form,
and of the handsome face “ from which something divine seemed to shine.” We are told of his
costly dress and abstruse learning, and of the simplicity and sweetness of character by which
he drew all hearts to himself.
Those who climb to the fresh air of Villa Medici will think with interest of Poliziano’s
letter, written after Lorenzo had installed him there, to Marsilio Ficino : “ When Careggi
becomes too hot in August I hope you may not think this our rustic dwelling of Fiesole
beneath your notice. We have plenty of water here, and, as we are in a valley, but little sun,
and never without a cooling breeze. The villa itself, lying off the road and almost hidden in the
midst of a wood, yet commands a view of the whole of Florence, and although in a densely
populated district, yet I have perfect solitude such as is loved by him who leaves the town.
But I will tempt thee with yet another attraction. Pico sometimes wanders beyond the limit
of his own grounds, breaks in unexpectedly on my solitude and carries me away from my
shady garden to his evening meal.”
In the autumn of 1478, the year of the Pazzi conspiracy, Lorenzo sent Poliziano to
Fiesole with his wife and children. Clarice di Medici was a good and careful mother, and
Poliziano seems to have been a devoted tutor, but the two did not get on. Poliziano was bored
with her, and longing to be again with Lorenzo. “ We get on as well as we can,” he writes,
after a time, “ but I cannot escape a few collisions.” Presently matters came to an open
breach ; they had moved to Careggi, where it rained every day. Poliziano sat by the fire
in dressing-gown and slippers, a prey to melancholy, and only rousing himself to quarrel
with his employer’s wife, who, not unnaturally, wished to have a voice in teaching her children.
So Lorenzo sent him back to Fiesole, where he wrote Latin verses on the view and the
winding Arno.
He was a great believer in witches, and in an address to his students he says, “ In the
neighbourhood of my little villa at Fiesole there is a little brook, hidden by the shadow of the
hillside, and the women of the place say that it is a place of meeting for the witches.” In the
neighbourhood of Villa Medici there are even yet traces of the witch traditions of the Middle
Ages ; on the northern slope of the hill the subterranean chambers of the Roman theatre are
still called by the country people the Witches’ Caves (Bocche delle Fate).
Among such friends Lorenzo passed perhaps his happiest hours, discussing philosophy
and politics, and writing verses and sonnets. Poliziano speaks of these visits in his poem
“ Rusticus ” :
Such was my song, with idle thought
In Fiesole’s cool grottoes wrought.
Where from the Medici’s retreat
On that famed mount, beneath my feet
The Tuscan city I survey,
And winding Arno, far away.
Here sometime at happy leisure,
Bounteous Lorenzo takes his pleasure
His friends to entertain and feast
(Of Phoebus’ sons, himself not least).
Offering a haven, safe and free,
To storm-tossed ships of Poesy.
THE GARDENS OF ITALY.
of all the honours paid him, he remained simple and unpretending, loving a quiet life, often
melancholy, though with those he loved he was cheerful and sympathetic. In his later years
he was a constant visitor to Lorenzo at one or other of his villas, and to his last hour Lorenzo
remained greatly attached to him, describing him as “ Marsilio, whom heaven has filled with
its own especial grace.”
The second was the man who stood in the closest relation to Lorenzo, Angelo Poliziano,
whose name is so connected with Villa Medici. He was commended to Lorenzo, while still
young, as the translator of the Iliad. The young head of the house became his friend, and
through all changes Poliziano loved him till he stood by his death-bed. A great poet, his verses,
the “ Stanzas,” the “ Sylvae,” and “ Rusticus,” are counted among the gems of the Italian language.
The third of this delightful trio was Pico della Mirandola. Younger than the others,
though he has left but little finished work behind him, dying at the age of two-and-thirty, yet
his is the impress of a personality that has defied time, that of the most brilliant figure in all
that brilliant circle. We are familiar with the description of his tall, slender, well knit form,
and of the handsome face “ from which something divine seemed to shine.” We are told of his
costly dress and abstruse learning, and of the simplicity and sweetness of character by which
he drew all hearts to himself.
Those who climb to the fresh air of Villa Medici will think with interest of Poliziano’s
letter, written after Lorenzo had installed him there, to Marsilio Ficino : “ When Careggi
becomes too hot in August I hope you may not think this our rustic dwelling of Fiesole
beneath your notice. We have plenty of water here, and, as we are in a valley, but little sun,
and never without a cooling breeze. The villa itself, lying off the road and almost hidden in the
midst of a wood, yet commands a view of the whole of Florence, and although in a densely
populated district, yet I have perfect solitude such as is loved by him who leaves the town.
But I will tempt thee with yet another attraction. Pico sometimes wanders beyond the limit
of his own grounds, breaks in unexpectedly on my solitude and carries me away from my
shady garden to his evening meal.”
In the autumn of 1478, the year of the Pazzi conspiracy, Lorenzo sent Poliziano to
Fiesole with his wife and children. Clarice di Medici was a good and careful mother, and
Poliziano seems to have been a devoted tutor, but the two did not get on. Poliziano was bored
with her, and longing to be again with Lorenzo. “ We get on as well as we can,” he writes,
after a time, “ but I cannot escape a few collisions.” Presently matters came to an open
breach ; they had moved to Careggi, where it rained every day. Poliziano sat by the fire
in dressing-gown and slippers, a prey to melancholy, and only rousing himself to quarrel
with his employer’s wife, who, not unnaturally, wished to have a voice in teaching her children.
So Lorenzo sent him back to Fiesole, where he wrote Latin verses on the view and the
winding Arno.
He was a great believer in witches, and in an address to his students he says, “ In the
neighbourhood of my little villa at Fiesole there is a little brook, hidden by the shadow of the
hillside, and the women of the place say that it is a place of meeting for the witches.” In the
neighbourhood of Villa Medici there are even yet traces of the witch traditions of the Middle
Ages ; on the northern slope of the hill the subterranean chambers of the Roman theatre are
still called by the country people the Witches’ Caves (Bocche delle Fate).
Among such friends Lorenzo passed perhaps his happiest hours, discussing philosophy
and politics, and writing verses and sonnets. Poliziano speaks of these visits in his poem
“ Rusticus ” :
Such was my song, with idle thought
In Fiesole’s cool grottoes wrought.
Where from the Medici’s retreat
On that famed mount, beneath my feet
The Tuscan city I survey,
And winding Arno, far away.
Here sometime at happy leisure,
Bounteous Lorenzo takes his pleasure
His friends to entertain and feast
(Of Phoebus’ sons, himself not least).
Offering a haven, safe and free,
To storm-tossed ships of Poesy.