Then they employ every note in the gamut; and curiously enough the pretty woman in the box is usually as cool under the fusillade as a professional and hardened sister would be.  A strange music hall this to the English eye, where the orchestra smokes, and no numbers are put up, and every one talks, and the intervals seem to be hours long.  But the Florentines do not mind, for they have not the English thirst for entertainment and escape; they carry their entertainment with them and do not wish to escape—­going to such places only because they are warmer than out of doors.

Sitting here and watching their ironical negligence of the stage and their interest in each other’s company; their animated talk and rapid decisions as to the merits and charms of a performer; the comfort of their attitudes and carelessness (although never quite slovenliness) in dress; one seems to realize the nation better than anywhere.  The old fighting passion may have gone; but much of the quickness, the shrewdness and the humour remains, together with the determination of each man to have if possible his own way and, whether possible or not, his own say.

Seeing them in great numbers one quickly learns and steadily corroborates the fact that the Florentines are not beautiful.  A pretty woman or a handsome man is a rarity; but a dull-looking man or woman is equally rare.  They are shrewd, philosophic, cynical, and very ready for laughter.  They look contented also:  Florence clearly is the best place to be born in, to live in, and to die in.  Let all the world come to Florence, by all means, and spend its money there; but don’t ask Florence to go to the world.  Don’t in fact ask Florence to do anything very much.

Civilization and modern conditions have done the Florentines no good.  Their destiny was to live in a walled city in turbulent days, when the foe came against it, or tyranny threatened from within and had to be resisted.  They were then Florentines and everything mattered.  To-day they are Italians and nothing matters very much.  Moreover, it must be galling to have somewhere in the recesses of their consciousness the knowledge that their famous city, built and cemented with their ancestors’ blood, is now only a museum.

When it is fine and warm the music hall does not exist, and it is in the Piazza Vittorio Emmanuele that the Florentines sit and talk, or walk and talk, or listen to the band which periodically inhabits a stand near the centre; and it was here that I watched the reception of the news that Italy had declared war on Turkey, a decision which while it rejoiced the national warlike spirit of the populace could not but carry with it a reminder that wars have to be paid for.  Six or seven months later I saw the return to Florence of the first troops from the war, and their reception was terrific.  In the mass they were welcome enough; but as soon as units could be separated from the mass the fun began, for they were carried shoulder high