CHAPTER XVIII.
Santa Croce--San Lorenzo--_Day_ and _Night_--Picture-galleries--The Tribune--_Venus de' Medici_--Excursion to Fiesole--Ancient Amphitheatre --Aurora _Café_--Climate of Florence--Heavy hotel charges--Departure-- Bologna sausages--Venice.
The church of Santa Croce--the Westminster Abbey of Italy--possesses great interest to every classical student and lover of art and genius. It is situated within a few minutes' walk of the Cathedral in its own piazza, in the centre of which stands the striking monument and statue of the intensely thoughtful Dante, by Canova:
"In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie Ashes which make it holier, dust which is Even in itself an immortality. Though there were something save the past, and this The particles of those sublimities Which have relapsed to chaos:--here repose Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his The starry Galileo, with his woes; Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose.
These are four minds, which, like the elements, Might furnish forth creation:--Italy! Time, which hath wronged thee with ten thousand rent Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, And hath denied, to every other sky Spirits which soar from ruin:--thy decay Is still impregnant with divinity, Which gilds it with revivifying ray; Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day."
The façade of Santa Croce, like that of the Cathedral, is finely encased with marble; but it is the interior that excites such deep interest in the mind; the many fine monuments, and the beautiful sculptures on the tombs of the great and illustrious men whom Italy has had the honour to call her children. In this she is indeed rich among nations. The church contains a great number of chapels, some large, some small, but all possessing paintings, sculptures, mosaics, and monuments of interest.
In the Church of San Lorenzo are the stately mausoleums of the Medici. The Capella dei Deposite, or Chapel of the Buried, was designed by Michael Angelo, on purpose to contain his two celebrated statues of Giuliano and Lorenzo di Medici. At the feet of Giuliano rest the recumbent figures, Day and Night; of the latter, the great Angelo wrote--
"Grateful to me is sleep; to be of stone More grateful, while the wrong and shame endure To see not, feel not, is a benediction; Therefore, awake me not; oh, speak in whispers!"
The other and more imposing statue of Lorenzo, grandson of Lorenzo the Magnificent, is a truly wonderful study. The figure is seated in a perfectly natural attitude, one hand supporting the head, which is covered by a kind of helmet; the shadowed face is full of intense thought, and the stone almost seems to breathe beneath your gaze. The statue is worthy of the master mind which designed it. Allegorical figures, representing Morning and Evening, are recumbent on either side.
There are many other churches to visit in Florence, but although they may well repay the trouble, I think, as a rule, that visitors waste much time and money in making a point of seeing every individual church and chapel in each place they stop at. The hotel-keepers, who make the objects of interest as numerous as possible, derive by far the greatest benefit from it.
Florence is truly wonderful in picture-galleries, and nearly every antique shop is worth stopping at, to look at the copies of great works, though there is too frequently a doubt as to their genuineness; for there is great difficulty in obtaining permission to copy some of the most celebrated of the old masters, therefore the demand for these copies far exceeds the supply, and the shopkeepers resort to unscrupulous means to satisfy their customers and fill their own pockets. Many a British householder has pictures hanging upon his walls with which he is so well pleased, that it would be a pity to question their genuineness and undeceive him.
The chief and most important of the Art Museums are, the Uffizi or National Gallery of Florence, and the royal Pitti Palace. These two buildings, although on opposite sides of the river, are connected by a picture-gallery some seven hundred yards long, which extends across one of the bridges of the Arno. It is impossible to view separately, or form a very connected after-idea of, all the various treasures gathered here--a collection which equals any other in the world. The chief and most universally admired paintings by the old masters are contained in one room called the Tribune--here are also five of the most beautiful of antique statues--the Wrestlers, the Dancing Faun, the Apollino, the Slave, and lastly, the famous Venus de' Medici. Of this last I may truly say, with Hawthorne, "It is of no use to throw heaps of words upon her, for they all fall away, and leave her standing in chaste and naked grace, as untouched as when I began." It is very, very beautiful, but not to be compared with that perfect _chef d'oeuvre_ of sculpture, the Venus of the Capitol, of which it is supposed to have been a copy.
The statues are hardly seen to the best advantage, as the paintings behind them, and the many beautiful art treasures in the room, distract the attention and weary the eye. In fact, in visiting all these celebrated galleries in Italy, one is really unable to devote to each the attention and admiration it deserves, and which we should naturally accord were we not simply overwhelmed and dazzled with such profusion of treasure; the mind refuses to store away all the beautiful and tender thoughts that crowd into it in wild confusion--they pass away almost as swiftly as they come, leaving our after recollections in a sadly fragmentary state, with a feast of undigested mental food.
It is said that both painting and sculpture are almost lost arts at the present time in fair Italy; and that the former has emigrated to England, and the latter to Germany.
Besides paintings, there are some very beautiful mosaics, representing scenes from Roman life. One room also contains a very rich collection of gems, priceless relics of the Medici family set in jewels.
"Precious stones, never grow old."
There are some cabinets wonderfully inlaid and adorned with the smallest possible miniature paintings, representing Scripture scenes in infinitely minute compass; they are exceedingly curious and beautiful, and must have occupied years of patient toil and persevering talent. There was noble and appreciative patronage in those days! Some of the tables in the different rooms are marvellously inlaid and studded with precious stones, the subjects being very beautiful in harmony of colour. One great table, said to be worth £30,000, was sent, I believe, to the exhibition of 1851.
The Pitti Palace was originally built by a rich merchant of that name, and afterwards sold to the Medici; it now belongs to the King of Italy. The gardens at the back of the palace are well worth walking through, chiefly on account of the fine views of Florence obtainable from the upper terraces.
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One of the most enjoyable trips outside Florence is to Fiesole (the mother of Florence), the ancient Fiesula, an Etruscan town, older even than Rome. It is situated in the mountains some thousand feet above the valleys. We took a carriage thither, winding our way up the hillsides, and passing many a picturesque-looking villa. One of them, Villa Mozzi, is the property of an English artist, Mr. William Spence; another, the Villa dei Tre Visi--celebrated in one of Boccaccio's tales--belongs to the Earl of Balcarres. This site is much esteemed for the views it commands of the beautiful plains and valleys by which fair Florence is environed. Many of Italy's men of genius have retired to these peaceful abodes, to recruit their health and meditate on those imperishable works of art and literature which are now the admiration of the whole world, adding greatly both to its pleasure and instruction.
In about half an hour we reached the quaint little village at the top, having enjoyed our drive exceedingly, and having bought some pretty, quaintly shaped straw baskets from the peasant women _en route_. After passing into the Cathedral--there is no town or village in Italy too small to boast of its Duomo, or Cathedral--we mounted still higher to the little chapel on the site of an old monastery, and here we had a magnificent view of the valley of the Arno, for nearly half its extent. Florence, with her great Duomo reposing in the centre of a beautiful plain, and numerous convents, villas, and villages lying here and there around, some in the glens and valleys, others on the hillsides, the whole encircled by the fine chain of mountains which formed a circular boundary-line to the landscape. We found, a few minutes' walk from this spot, the remains of a half-circular Etruscan amphitheatre, in fairly good preservation. Wherever I have seen these coliseums and open-air theatres, I have always found them most admirably situated for grand and extensive views of the country beyond, and this, I think, must have greatly added to the impressiveness of the performance, and perhaps dignified the cruel and barbarous exhibitions that took place there, as the silent and solemn forest scenery raised the superstitious sacrifices of the ancient Druids to acts of veneration and worship.
We found here a very pleasant restaurant called the _Aurora Café_. It is owned by the artist I before mentioned as the proprietor of one of the charming villas. We partook of some refreshment, and I was offered sundry coins and antiques, supposed to have been dug up from the amphitheatre, or the still more ancient Etruscan village. I selected an iron coin, with a fine superscription.
On descending the hillside, we met an English coach and four, and our Italian driver fully shared in our enthusiastic admiration of the fine "Hyde Park" turn out, and the skilful manner in which the horses were handled on these mountain heights. Late in the evening we met the same team, admirably coached through the narrow and crowded streets and lanes of Florence.
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We found the climate of Florence bright and pleasant, bracing and healthful, but it was rather too dear a place for those with a limited income. We had heard that it was an expensive city, and so indeed we found it, for with all our efforts to be economical our bill at the Hotel de Russie was astonishingly high; nor were we alone in this experience, our fellow-travellers averring that it was quite necessary "to cut down your hotel bill, and not to pay quite all that was demanded, as you were always overcharged," and we all remembered what the "Innocents Abroad" had to say on the subject. As far as I have seen of Italian travel, it is a system of "spoiling the Englishman," whenever there is a chance, and the traveller might save himself the trouble of ever taking his hand out of his pocket. As a specimen, we were actually charged a franc each for four small mutton cutlets, and three francs (_2s. 6d._) for a cauliflower! Of course I complained, and got one or two francs knocked off. I believe most of the landlords are fully prepared to reduce their bills, but Englishmen as a rule pay the exorbitant prices charged, contenting themselves with a hearty growl at the same on departure. I told the landlord plainly myself, that the English seldom objected to pay liberally, but hated extortion. The charge of two francs a day for attendance is a snare and a delusion, for it is well known that this does not in the least exonerate one from feeing the waiter, chambermaid, porter, boots, and even the omnibus tout. It is a system of blackmail throughout, and I think something should be done to abolish it, for it is undoubtedly one of the greatest drawbacks to foreign travel. At present there seems a private understanding among the servants, that one and all are to establish some sort of claim on you, thus:--you ring--the chambermaid appears; you ask for candles--she withdraws and sends the sommelier with them; and every trifling duty is performed by a different personage, instead of one servant taking the entire attendance, to whom you might feel some satisfaction in giving a remuneration. I think that, under the present _régime_ there is little doubt that the visitors pay the servants wages rather than the landlord, and therefore the item of "attendance" charged in the hotel bill is simply a fraud.
Then, at the railway stations you have a regular chain of porters for your luggage, as formidable as the array of officials who receive and show you into your hotel, one and all expecting a fee for the service of _welcome_ (?) they have rendered. Hence, it is far cheaper to travel by Cook's Tickets; and if you decide to remain a week or longer at a place, it is a good plan to select a _pension_, where you will be charged so much a week _inclusive_.
Such is the system of extortion in Italy, that if you purchase anything at a shop--mosaics, jewellery, or what not--you are held in contempt if you at once pay the price that is demanded, the shopkeepers naming a sum perhaps three times as much as what they finally take and consider as a good bargain.
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The 29th of March, the morning of our departure from Florence, was as bright and bracing as a real old-fashioned English May morn, and we felt it to be truly enjoyable as we sped over the well-cultivated and sunny plains of the Florentine Basin, the outlines of the distant scenery charmingly developing in the clear Italian atmosphere. Indeed, it is this atmosphere which renders Italy so beautiful, every feature displayed to the best advantage, and the eye allowed to roam from one object to another; whilst in our London, for instance, during one half the year, the view too frequently presents a blurred mass, little really to be seen with distinctness, the buildings and great edifices looming darkly through a half fog--no dimpling lights and shadows, giving life, warmth, and animation, quickening one with admiration and rapture. It is like an otherwise beautiful woman spoiled by a bad complexion.
We passed through fine open plains, then a series of tunnels, rocky defiles, over mountain streams and fertile valleys, until we reached Pracchia. We had been steadily ascending to higher ground, and were now nearly at the top of a mountain range, a wild defile and stream on the one side, a mountain road on the other. Then craggy cliffs, waterfalls, and snow-capped mountains follow in grand succession; sometimes a deep valley, with a mountain torrent plunging far, far into the depths below, the water hanging from the rocks in long petrified icicles. Men and women, like specks in the distance, toiling up the steep hills and winding paths, laden with faggots. We seemed to have been circling round two great mountains whilst having these enchanting glimpses of ever-varying scenery, with no end of intervening tunnels. At last we appear to have passed through a final one, and, emerging quite into daylight, find we have attained the topmost part of the mountains at a station called Pittachia, where we found a good buffet. We here encountered a great many little country maidens, offering bunches of beautiful primroses and violets--veritably a sweet refreshment!
Now we swiftly descend, a mountain stream chasing us on the right, gradually swelling into a river, the Reno. In one part was the wreck of a stone bridge which had evidently been carried away during the inundations of December and January. Many parts of the river-bed were silted up by the action of wind and water on to the great overhanging sandstone mountain, enormous landslips in some places blocking up the river and changing its course. We thus saw how the sand is carried down to the mouths of the rivers into the sea, and how the great sand-banks are formed, such as those on which Venice is built. Everything in Nature is done progressively, never hasting, never resting.
At Bologna we had an opportunity of tasting the famous sausage-meat, and found it exceedingly good, the flavour being somewhat like spiced beef. The dogs of Bologna were, I believe, once a celebrated breed, which is now almost extinct. I do not mean by this remark to induce any uncomfortable reflections with regard to the sausages, but I really was surprised that nothing in the shape of a dog made itself visible in this town.
Journeying round from here, I could not help thinking what a total contrast the scenery now presented to our view. It was one monotonous level, a lagoon-like plain, partly swamped with water, the only features in the landscape being the stunted trees, to which, at regular intervals, the vines were symmetrically trailed and spread. Yet in the far distance we caught the outline of the Apennine range, their snowy summits almost disappearing in the warm blue-grey sky. Slightly in the foreground the darker outline of the nearer hills bounded the basin of the level plains.
At Monselise the scenery improves, and we saw some very picturesque castle ruins, conical-shaped hills lying round; and on approaching Padua we again obtained a fine view of the snow-clad Alps, with the huge mound of hills at their base. We did not stop at Padua, having decided to do so on our return. It is only an hour's journey from Venice, which we were now rapidly nearing, and we eagerly scanned the horizon ever and anon to catch the first glimpse of the wonderful city--the "eldest child of liberty." We had the sea on our right, from whence blew a most refreshing breeze; but soon it spread ahead and to the left, and then we caught sight of little glittering minarets in the midst of the waters, and then Venice, fairy-like disclosed herself to our admiring eyes, rising slowly from the sea, and strangely bringing to mind Tennyson's description of the magic city of Camelot:
"Fairy Queens have built the city, They came from out a sacred mountain-cleft Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand; And built it to the music of their harps."
Gradually the marble city took form, the slim towers and great domes forming a lovely outline against the clear and cloudless beauty of the evening sky.