I. The Promise
I. The Promise
Today I have finally affixed my signature to the bottom of this document with which I give everything I own to my city, relieving me of all my obligations. I am proud of what I have done.
The city of Florence is dearer to me than all the wealth I have enjoyed during my lifetime. Dearer to me than my own father, Cosimo II, and my brother Giovanni Battista Gastone de’ Medici, known as Gian Gastone, who died last July, may he rest in peace! He left no heirs, just like me, despite the fact that I wanted children so much. It’s better that I do not linger on my feelings for my mother Marguerite Louise d’Orléans, who returned to France and left us when I was eight and the little one was just four. Ferdinando perhaps suffered less, as he was already quite grown-up. I do not hold a grudge against the woman whom I never called ‘mummy’, but that abandonment was certainly painful, especially for my little brother. Calling him little brother reminds me of the great tenderness I felt for the chubby little blonde boy I held in my arms, albeit only for a few minutes because he was heavy. The nurse was afraid that I, a fouryear-old girl, might drop him. My mother, Marguerite, laughed and found my predicament entertaining. All she was concerned with was the size of her waist and the heavy lines of the clothes she had to wear to conceal
Today I have finally affixed my signature to the bottom of this document with which I give everything I own to my city, relieving me of all my obligations. I am proud of what I have done.
The city of Florence is dearer to me than all the wealth I have enjoyed during my lifetime. Dearer to me than my own father, Cosimo II, and my brother Giovanni Battista Gastone de’ Medici, known as Gian Gastone, who died last July, may he rest in peace! He left no heirs, just like me, despite the fact that I wanted children so much. It’s better that I do not linger on my feelings for my mother Marguerite Louise d’Orléans, who returned to France and left us when I was eight and the little one was just four. Ferdinando perhaps suffered less, as he was already quite grown-up. I do not hold a grudge against the woman whom I never called ‘mummy’, but that abandonment was certainly painful, especially for my little brother. Calling him little brother reminds me of the great tenderness I felt for the chubby little blonde boy I held in my arms, albeit only for a few minutes because he was heavy. The nurse was afraid that I, a fouryear-old girl, might drop him. My mother, Marguerite, laughed and found my predicament entertaining. All she was concerned with was the size of her waist and the heavy lines of the clothes she had to wear to conceal
Poor Uncle Francesco! ‘I bow humbly to your beautiful belly’ I used to say to him when I was young. His marriage destroyed him, mortified by the young woman who didn’t want anything to do with this old man and who shunned him constantly. He died shortly afterwards and the following words appeared on the walls of the Palazzo Pitti: ‘Up for rent this year / as the Medicis are going’. My dear, fun-loving uncle would have laughed if he’d had the opportunity to read this. Nevertheless, it was hurriedly removed, so that my father did not see it. He certainly would not have laughed. Cosimo III had put all his energy into keeping our glorious dynasty alive and now he had to resign himself to the truth. Perhaps, as the good Christian he claimed to be, he should have seen a sign from God in those barren wombs and in men who had no wish to father children, even if reasons of state demanded it. “Time passes and one is not aware”.1
And time, which swallows up and devours everything, would now make us disappear too, along with the loving care and attention we had devoted to the arts and beautiful objects that were collected here in Florence by my ancestors. The Austrians who had settled in Tuscany were not much inclined towards culture and good taste, yet presumed to look after the artworks… No, I’m certain they would have dispersed them or even sold off these magnificent and sublime creations that we have in Florence… What would remain of the Tuscan genius? What could I expect when I saw that they had moved some paintings out of the palace rooms because they did not think the frames were sufficiently sumptuous, or simply because the figures were portrayed with their backs to the throne and not inclined towards foolish servitude?
They had even hung portraits of their ancestors over the frescoes in the Palazzo Vecchio. Warriors, hunters, vain and fatuous men, with no culture and no ability to appreciate real beauty. I already knew it deep down, but that was when I began to develop a real understanding of whom we were dealing with. This is why I started studying the history of my city and looking for a solution. The glories of the present can only be drawn from the past, while history is the only thing that helps us to understand who we are and what our task is. And so I recognized the mission that my ancestors had left for me to complete. I, the last of the
Poor Uncle Francesco! ‘I bow humbly to your beautiful belly’ I used to say to him when I was young. His marriage destroyed him, mortified by the young woman who didn’t want anything to do with this old man and who shunned him constantly. He died shortly afterwards and the following words appeared on the walls of the Palazzo Pitti: ‘Up for rent this year / as the Medicis are going’. My dear, fun-loving uncle would have laughed if he’d had the opportunity to read this. Nevertheless, it was hurriedly removed, so that my father did not see it. He certainly would not have laughed. Cosimo III had put all his energy into keeping our glorious dynasty alive and now he had to resign himself to the truth. Perhaps, as the good Christian he claimed to be, he should have seen a sign from God in those barren wombs and in men who had no wish to father children, even if reasons of state demanded it. “Time passes and one is not aware”.1
And time, which swallows up and devours everything, would now make us disappear too, along with the loving care and attention we had devoted to the arts and beautiful objects that were collected here in Florence by my ancestors. The Austrians who had settled in Tuscany were not much inclined towards culture and good taste, yet presumed to look after the artworks… No, I’m certain they would have dispersed them or even sold off these magnificent and sublime creations that we have in Florence… What would remain of the Tuscan genius? What could I expect when I saw that they had moved some paintings out of the palace rooms because they did not think the frames were sufficiently sumptuous, or simply because the figures were portrayed with their backs to the throne and not inclined towards foolish servitude?
They had even hung portraits of their ancestors over the frescoes in the Palazzo Vecchio. Warriors, hunters, vain and fatuous men, with no culture and no ability to appreciate real beauty. I already knew it deep down, but that was when I began to develop a real understanding of whom we were dealing with. This is why I started studying the history of my city and looking for a solution. The glories of the present can only be drawn from the past, while history is the only thing that helps us to understand who we are and what our task is. And so I recognized the mission that my ancestors had left for me to complete. I, the last of the
grew fat and his nephew, seeing him so lacking in zeal for religion, said to him ‘May God bless you and remind some friar that you’re a cardinal, so that he can convert you’.
In his own way, Gastone laughed at the world and how it had reduced him. I really felt for him, but I couldn’t help him. Who knows? If I hadn’t schemed for that marriage, would he have remained a bachelor but happy? Perhaps it was fate that our dynasty had to end this way! In the stench of vomit and in orgies!
No, I absolutely had to do something to restore the pieces of the fresco that had been torn up.
And to think that my father had pictured me as queen of France, like Catherine and Marie, offering me as a bride for the ‘Dauphin’, son of Louis XIV. Those were other times! But the Sun King didn’t want me as his daughter-in-law. They said that the match was opposed by my mother, jealous of my possible role at court, which would certainly have overshadowed her. That’s just a rumour though.
‘His royal highness’ Gian Gastone, seventh and last grand duke of Tuscany, a member of the Medici dynasty, had not always been like that. He used to be a good-natured and well-educated, a lover of peace and the arts. As children we performed together in the rooms of the Palazzo Pitti. He accompanied me on guitar and I sang and played the lute. He was touchy, certainly, and as a young man he didn’t love amusements or lively company, unlike his brother Ferdinando. He never reached an understanding with his wife; they certainly weren’t soulmates. It was such a shame! And it wasn’t for lack of trying. He even went to live in Bohemia with her. He grew more and more reserved and when he visited our beloved parent in Paris, his character became even darker. He expected so much from this meeting, but she was curt and formal. She invited him to lunch and that was the end of it all.
He gave into drink and the wildest vices, seeking to crush the great feeling of melancholy that oppressed him. Marguerite’s intense imagination and Cosimo’s surliness merged in an unhappy young man, who was both moody and wild at the same time. Too sensitive to bear the world.
grew fat and his nephew, seeing him so lacking in zeal for religion, said to him ‘May God bless you and remind some friar that you’re a cardinal, so that he can convert you’.
In his own way, Gastone laughed at the world and how it had reduced him. I really felt for him, but I couldn’t help him. Who knows? If I hadn’t schemed for that marriage, would he have remained a bachelor but happy? Perhaps it was fate that our dynasty had to end this way! In the stench of vomit and in orgies!
No, I absolutely had to do something to restore the pieces of the fresco that had been torn up.
And to think that my father had pictured me as queen of France, like Catherine and Marie, offering me as a bride for the ‘Dauphin’, son of Louis XIV. Those were other times! But the Sun King didn’t want me as his daughter-in-law. They said that the match was opposed by my mother, jealous of my possible role at court, which would certainly have overshadowed her. That’s just a rumour though.
‘His royal highness’ Gian Gastone, seventh and last grand duke of Tuscany, a member of the Medici dynasty, had not always been like that. He used to be a good-natured and well-educated, a lover of peace and the arts. As children we performed together in the rooms of the Palazzo Pitti. He accompanied me on guitar and I sang and played the lute. He was touchy, certainly, and as a young man he didn’t love amusements or lively company, unlike his brother Ferdinando. He never reached an understanding with his wife; they certainly weren’t soulmates. It was such a shame! And it wasn’t for lack of trying. He even went to live in Bohemia with her. He grew more and more reserved and when he visited our beloved parent in Paris, his character became even darker. He expected so much from this meeting, but she was curt and formal. She invited him to lunch and that was the end of it all.
He gave into drink and the wildest vices, seeking to crush the great feeling of melancholy that oppressed him. Marguerite’s intense imagination and Cosimo’s surliness merged in an unhappy young man, who was both moody and wild at the same time. Too sensitive to bear the world.