VILLA GAMBERATIA, 
FLORENCE. 
“WEF you get pure beauty, you get about the 
best thing God_ has to give.” Long ago, 
so spoke an old painter, and his words 
came back to me again and yet again as on 
a June afternoon I strayed in Villa Gamberaia. 
(A villa, I may explain, in Italy means not only 
the house, but the grounds as well.) From the 
moment that you pass the gate, with its sentinel 
cypresses, the impression is one of such perfect 
loveliness that at last, by force of contrast, the 
mind goes back to strong Caprarola or tragic Este, 
only to turn once more to bathe in the perfection 
of the Tuscan villa. 
An old villa has been taken, unspoiled, un- 
changed, and put into hands, loving and full of 
knowledge, the hands of owners who in restoring, 
are careful not to go too far and yet who have 
initiative, who are not afraid to show that the 
world has gone forward, and that to-day can add 
beauty even to the most beautiful creations of 
yesterday. 
Gamberaia_ stands on a long, narrow piece 
of land; it is not large, but it is utilised and 
managed so as to give all that the mind can 
desire of variety, and space itself. It is a marvel 
of deft planning. From the short entrance alley 
the visitor emerges on the long bowling green 
of soft rich turf, an avenue than which nothing 
can be more perfect. On one side is set the 
house, the cream-washed villa, with wide eaves and 
heavy mouldings, on the other, a high retaining 
wall, crowned with statues and old vases of pink 
geraniums ; the bowling alley stretches far beyond 
and far behind. In front, where the eye naturally 
turns, the grass ends in a balustrade surmounted by 
one graceful statue, flanked by old fir trees, and 
far away the hills and valleys faint into the blue 
distance. ‘Turn and look towards the other end, 
and past the masses of climbing pink blossoms. 
The green closes in a circular grotto of coloured 
pebbles and shells, an arch, a balustrade, beyond 
which, high against a turquoise sky, the dark, 
dainty finger-tips of cypresses point upwards, 
standing in a line, and fuller and more rugged 
ones close in and descend on either hand. 
The bowling green, long and very narrow, 
runs the whole length of the grounds. We pass 
113 
through the house, cool and gay, with marble 
floors and flowery cotton coverings, and come 
out on the western facade to, again, a narrow 
grass strip, but not so long, and bounded by a 
balustrade on which stand vases and solemn stone 
dogs. Leaning over, or sitting, if you like best, 
on the broad low parapet, you can look down 
on a gravel quarter-deck, the length of the 
bowling green, along which grow roses and 
poppies, and which in wet weather makes a good 
dry parade. The house has a light open arcade 
thrown out on either side, and to the south is 
an oblong piece of ground, which, when the 
present owners took it, was nothing but a rough 
and neglected half-vineyard, half-kitchen garden, 
which had been used for many years as a sort of 
utility-plot. It is now the water-garden, and 
huge tanks are covered with white and pink 
water-lilies ; fountains play in all directions, and 
the one old fountain which was found there still 
occupies the place of honour in the middle. They 
think it must be from a design of Ammanati’s, 
for half effaced as it is, it still shows a master’s 
touch. <A boy riding a dolphin, a common device 
enough; but how this boy rides! with what 
arrogant mischief the imp bestrides his aquatic 
mount, and balances the fountain basin on_ his 
confident head. Thanks to all this water, there 
are flowers in profusion. The roses are quiet for 
the moment, after their summer bloom, and are 
preparing for that of the autumn, but oleanders 
make a rosy tracery against the blue sky ; 
geraniums of every shade flood the stone vases ; tall 
white lilies are just passing over. The whole is a 
feast of pure colour against backgrounds of clipped 
dark green. At the farther end, a circular arcade 
of yews show up marble columns twined with 
roses and shade stone seats, and of course the 
lemon trees stand everywhere along the  stone- 
paved paths in their great terra-cotta pots. 
From the bowling green we pass through the 
wall to a terraced wood. The wood is quite small, 
but like a little cathedral, so dark and dim, with 
stone seats under the dense boughs, and then 
without warning, we come out again into a little 
grotto garden, with fountain and rccoco statues 
and balustraded flights of steps which lead up 
