A Royal Uncovering: When My Grandmother Brought Pratolino Back To Life

I found a notebook handwritten in 1957 by my grandmother expressing her feelings and reflections on this property that my grandfather had inherited in 1955 from his aunt, Princess Moina Abamelek-Lazarev, who was the sister of his mother, Princess Aurora Demidoff.

Moina was a sweet, good, and a rather original lady who lived alone in this big house for almost 80 years. During the last five years of her life, she lived as a recluse, refusing to see anyone and never leaving her bedroom, not even for meals. My grandparents would see her occasionally; she was always affectionate.

She was born Princess Maria (Moina) Demidoff of San Donato, daughter to Pavel Pavlovich Demidov, 2nd Prince of San Donato, who was the owner of this large palace which bears the same name on the outskirts of Florence. He was known for his fabulous collection of art objects and paintings, and his enormous greenhouses full of rare plants.

Demidov bought the domain of Pratolino in 1872 as a hunting place. After some repairs, the prince and his family moved into the villa in 1880. He left his property to his wife, born Princess Troubetzkoy, who didn’t like it and would go on to live the rest of her life in Russia. At the end of the century, she gave it to her daughter, Princess Abamelek.

Princess Abamelek lived in Pratolino during spring and autumn, spending the winters in Rome, and traveling the rest of the year. She was known for her beauty, her kindness, and generosity, which was traditional in her family, and her charity toward poor people was almost proverbial. For example, she bought a beautiful house from the Medici on the road to Certosa and gave it, in the name of her husband, as an institute for the blind for those who had fought during the First World War.

She liked to dance ballet and a room was always reserved for exercise at Pratolino and in the beautiful villa she and her husband owned in the west of Rome on the hill of Gianicolo, overlooking Saint Peter’s Basilica. In her palace in Saint Petersburg, she had a theater with a hidden orchestra, and her Master of Ballet was the legendary Enrico Cecchetti who debuted at La Scala.

My grandmother was a young and shy newlywed when she first met Aunt Moina in 1923. She was impressed by the long wall enclosing the park, as well as the impressive drive from the entrance of the property—lined with century-old trees, the large curb of the meadows, and the imposing statue of a giant looking into a pond called Colosso dell'Appennino by the Flemish sculptor Giambologna (Jean de Boulogne).

The old butler, who was waiting for them at the front door, took them through a long, dark corridor to her room on the first floor. There were a lot of marble statues, paintings of all sizes, bronzes, beautiful furniture, vases with fake flowers, books, photographs, trinkets, and books stacked on anything that could sustain them. Heavy velvet curtains covered the doors and the windows, keeping everything in the shade. She and my grandfather went wandering through the house, visiting certain rooms with fearful respect.

It had been difficult to walk through the house as it was so dark and so cluttered; even the park was overgrown and wild. Most rooms hadn’t been lived in for years and, on some beds, were laurel wreaths laid in memory of parents or servants long since dead. My grandmother felt in another world, with old chintz fabric on the walls and furniture, a strong smell of wax, and artificial flowers—stuck in sand so they would stand straight—were everywhere.

My grandmother wrote that they had dinner in the vast dining room, with its dark, low, heavily-carved wooden ceilings, and the old butler in white gloves. The table was covered with a huge white cloth, porcelain, glassware, and a large silver bowl in the center filled with real flowers.

In 1955, my grandmother returned to Pratolino, not as a shy newlywed but to “her” house.

She had been dreaming about that moment, what her first actions would be: to open all the curtains and windows and throw away the fake flowers. She wanted air and light so she could see and touch all the furniture and numerous objects, which she did immediately, even before taking off her coat. It gave her a sense of relief, rather than one of possession. It was so easy, so agreeable to not feel guilty of indiscretion.

As the light came into the rooms, the old house seemed to open its sleepy eyes, one at a time. The rooms looked happy, despite the accumulation of furniture. She needed to win the approval of the old staff, some of them had served for 30 years. After explaining her concerns, she had them all on her side.

She had two tasks to accomplish. Inside the house, she moved a lot of furniture, paintings, statues, and objects to storage in the big room and had the ceilings lifted and whitewashed. Outside, the trees dangerously close to the house were cut down. The park was beautiful and gave her a sense of peace and protection, which reminded her of Slovenia and Russia in her youth. Of course, the park had lost some of its symmetry, grandeur, and dignity that it had during the Medici times. The penultimate Grand Duke of Tuscany had, on a whim, destroyed the main villa in 1824. Pieces of Giambologna statues were found in the lake while parts of crystal chandeliers were found in the fields. The house where she lived now was called “The Paggeria” and was used by the court and staff.

During the Second World War, thanks to the faithful butler, most of the silver, porcelain, and miniatures were hidden or buried, under the stairs, under the floor and in a cupboard that had been walled in. My grandmother decided to open the walls and stairs and floors to look for the treasures. Under the staircase, she found a large number of huge dishes, candelabras, plates, and cutlery signed by the goldsmith, Odiot. Then she had the floor removed in the living room and found porcelain, a tea service, and old plates. The walled-in cupboard produced gold icons, many precious miniatures, a large quantity of crystal and silver carafes of various sizes, and many 18th-century porcelain figurines. Also hidden in a drawer was a collection of Fabergé objects.

She wrote that she learned the contents of the wine cellar had also been hidden, under the wood floor of the billiard room. Some wines had no more alcohol content but some Porto from 1812, 1813 and 1814 were drinkable—and delicious—as well as Tokay from 1789.

She rearranged three living rooms on the ground floor, with portraits of Emperor Paul I of Russia by Dmitry Levitsky, his wife by the Swedish artist Roslin, Countess Elisabeth Strogonoff by Mrs Vigé-Lebrun and two others by Roslin.

Most of the work needed to be done in the big room, in the south-east side of the house, which is two stories high and 8 meters large, and now used as storage. It has enormous paintings, two marble busts of Napoleon III and Empress Eugenie by Carpeaux, some paintings by Toqué, Bruloff, Greuze, and A. Scheffer.

Then there is a second entry dated from 1961 where she explains the finishing touches to the house, with the introduction of a modern laundry room and heating system. Also, the dining room has been completed, its ceiling heightened, and the library, too. The old stables have been modernized and house 125 Bruna Alpina Swiss cows that produce 600 liters of milk per day, which is sold, as well as hundreds of ducks, chickens and turkeys. The artificial lake of one hectare and ten meters deep provides water for the fields and the cattle.

This last entry ends with her hope that the house goes on in the family, and that many improvements could be done.

When they sold the villa, I was eleven. Much to my chagrin, I was not able to keep it and develop it in a cultural destination resort. Villa Pratolino and its gardens were bought by the province of Florence’s art society and, in 2013, it was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The house sits empty.