Part 31

On the south side of the cathedral, in the piazza, we found the little church of the Misericordia, belonging to that peculiar body of monks who, dressed in long black cloaks, with black masks over their faces pierced by eyeholes, are to be occasionally seen going about Florence and elsewhere in procession with the dead, which they bury, taking thus the place of the relations, who, in some parts of Italy, seem to abandon their friends when they die, and appear regardless of what becomes of their remains. We saw the chapel upon Ascension Day, which was a great holiday, or, to speak more exactly, _holy_ day in Florence. On that occasion it was, like other churches, crammed to the door with a changing audience, and, after pushing our way in, we were as glad to push our way out again.

The churches of Santa Croce, S.S. Annunciata, Santa Maria Novella, and San Lorenzo are among the finest. They contain beautiful marble monuments, altar paintings, and other decorations which it would be endless to mention. The large church of Santa Croce has a fine white and black marble façade—rather straight and angular, however, in its lines. It measures nearly 500 feet long, and the interior, besides being adorned, as usual, with pictures, is the great receptacle of monuments to illustrious Florentine men, such as Michael Angelo, Galileo, and Machiavelli. The cloisters adjoining the church are well worthy of a visit. Most of the important churches in Florence have the advantage of a large open piazza in front. The vacant space surrounding the cathedral, unfortunately, is comparatively insignificant, and it were well if it could be enlarged. That in front of Santa Croce is large, and is adorned by a colossal marble statue of Dante in classic robe, attended by an eagle and guarded by four lions placed at the corners of a suitable pedestal.

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From the church of San Lorenzo, founded in the fourth century, and one of the oldest churches in Italy, we were conducted by a touting guide to the adjacent chapel of the Medici,—the princes of Florence,—and the tombs of these princes, erected at a cost of nearly £900,000. The chapel contains Michael Angelo’s masterpieces in sculpture—Lorenzo de Medici as a warrior resting, but ready, while Day and Night personified recline below, and on the opposite side Julian de Medici sits pondering over recumbent Dawn and Twilight. Opinions, however, have differed as to which is Lorenzo and which is Julian, and I am afraid the visitor has, like the little boy, to ‘take his choice.’

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The monastery, formerly of the Silvestrine, afterwards the Dominican monks, now the Museum of San Marco, is close to the church of San Marco. Here are to be seen a great many paintings by the pure–minded Fra (Giovanni) Angelico, who resided in the monastery during the first half of the fifteenth century. All his works, wrought out in prayer, are distinguished by the beautiful though smooth painting of the faces, many of which, here and elsewhere in Florence, are angelic, or, as we might more correctly designate them, of a saintly, soft beauty, and composed, devout inexpressiveness of any passion, but peculiar both in attire and employment. It would be a mistake, however, to set down all Angelo’s faces as of this description, as in some of his paintings there is great diversity of contour and of expression, although the drawing is often singular and in the pre–Raphaelite style. I suppose it is generally correct, although not always. In one instance I noticed that a neck seemed to be a linked sweetness rather long drawn out. There is likewise shown in this museum, which is in reality a range of monkish cells, the little cell in which Savonarola, the illustrious, eloquent prior of the order, lived,—a man of great force of character, a precursor of Luther, fearless as Knox, and a saviour of Florence, whose people, when they burnt him at the stake, put to death their greatest benefactor. In a large room were exhibited an immense collection of the flags, banners, and colours of all the towns and corporations of Italy which were represented at the Dante festival in 1865.

On the south side of the river, with the exception of Minesota, the churches do not appear to be so fine; but there is one, the church of San Spirito, which is large and attractive, and contains no less than thirty–eight chapels encircling it—by far the largest number of side chapels attached to a church I have seen anywhere.

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The visitor, however, is at first most attracted by the Piazza della Signoria, which—the centre of business—is a large open space, wherein, or in its neighbourhood, some of the most important buildings are congregated. On the south side of this piazza there is a lofty, covered, arcaded hall, called the Loggia dei Lanzi, open on two sides to the street by arches resting upon high ornamental pillars. Here are arranged some of the most beautiful modern statues in Florence, including the Rape of the Sabines in marble, by Giovanni da Bologna—a spirited work, which, like some of the others, is constantly being copied on a small scale in marble and alabaster, for sale in the shops; and Perseus, a bronze statue by Benvenuto Cellini, a master of whose works there are various specimens to be seen in Florence. Both these stand in line with the front of the Loggia. Behind them are several other groups, including the Rape of Polyxena, Hercules slaying the Centaur, and one supposed to represent Ajax dragging along the body of Patroclus or of Achilles, all in fine powerful action. Tall, massive buildings have been erected on another side of the square, and opposite them, sentinelled by statues, the Palazzo Vecchio rises grandly but grimly, with its conspicuous campanile towering over everything around. This palace is well worthy of a visit. Immediately within the doorway we found, in contrast with the exterior, a graceful entrance court, encircled by an arcade supported by rows of columns florid in arabesques, each differing from the others, and a small fountain in the centre giving life to the whole. Ascending a long stair, we were ushered into an enormous hall, ornamented by six huge fresco paintings representing events in the history of Italy. On a floor above we were shown a chapel and several small rooms, in one of which there was a model of the proposed façade of the cathedral. I suspect it will be a long time before the façade itself be an accomplished fact. It appears strange that it should be allowed to remain in its present condition, a blemish upon the building, and a reflection upon the spirit in which the erection was commenced.

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The house of Michael Angelo is not far from the Piazza. It has been converted into a museum, and contains, besides a series of paintings representative of events in his life, with some of his drawings and models in wax, and a small collection of works of art, a closet or studio in which he wrought, and a portrait and statue of this extraordinary artist and fiery independent man, conscious of a genius as versatile as it was unrivalled. The high estimate in which he has been held by those qualified to judge may be seen by referring to Sir Joshua Reynolds’ _Discourses_.[40] In another street an inscription upon a stone in the wall denotes a house in which Benvenuto Cellini at one time lived.

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But the greatest sources of attraction in Florence are the Uffizi and Pitti Galleries. These are open free to the public on Sundays and Thursdays—on other days on payment of a franc. The Uffizi Gallery occupies the upper floor of the three sides of a long narrow street or court or _cul de sac_, I believe 450 feet long—the fourth being open to the Piazza della Signoria. The building has a handsome elevation, scarcely visible in the narrow street, and is adorned by nearly thirty marble statues of celebrated Tuscans, such as Dante, Petrarch, Michael Angelo, Lorenzo il Magnifico, evidencing the wealth of Florence in illustrious men. The gallery itself is reached by a long staircase, and through vestibules embellished by busts and statues. On entering we find ourselves in a long corridor, which is carried round the whole length of the three sides of the building; in fact, making three long galleries, not particularly high, though high enough for the purpose, and lighted from the top and by windows looking into the court. In these corridors, besides a good many pictures interspersed upon the walls, the greater part of the sculpture of the collection is assembled—embracing some choice specimens of ancient art, but in number very small compared with the vast treasures of the Vatican. Doors open all round into suites of rooms containing an immense assemblage of paintings, principally Italian, and among them many of the choicest works of the great masters. Besides the many chambers devoted to works of art of various nations, among which Britain seems to be nowhere and Italy to predominate, there are some small rooms containing collections of gems, medals, and bronzes. Two of the larger galleries exhibit several hundred portraits of artists, one of the most pleasingly beautiful among them being a sweet likeness by Mme. Le Brun of herself, a very favourite subject of copy, and with herself a not uncommon subject of her brush, as may be noticed in the Louvre. A very large room is likewise set apart mainly for the exhibition of seventeen most painfully–expressive statues of the famous Niobe group. But of all the rooms in this great gathering of art, the Tribune is the one which displays the choicest specimens. It is a comparatively small room, but is said to have cost £20,000 in its construction. Here are chef–d’œuvres of Raphael, Titian, Guido Reni, Correggio, and various others; while the chamber also contains the famous Venus de Medici, the Wrestlers, the Dancing Faun, the Whetter—all masterpieces of ancient sculpture.

Descending by a stair, the visitor proceeds by an almost interminably long corridor, which stretches out to the Ponte Vecchio, and across that bridge away to the Pitti Palace on the south side of the Arno—I suppose scarcely less than half a mile between the two places. This corridor, being lined with engravings, with drawings of the masters, and with tapestries,—a collection of things in themselves valuable,—would take a long time to examine, but in presence of so much else more attractive, scarcely succeeds in alluring the passing visitor to any lengthened scrutiny. Away and away it stretches, till after a weary walk it comes to a termination, and ascending by another stair into the Pitti Palace, we find ourselves in a collection of upwards of five hundred paintings and a few sculptures, occupying about fifteen different beautiful large rooms. It may truly be said there is hardly a painting in these rooms which is not good, while there are among them some of the choicest works of the great masters, as, for example,—for it is but one of very many which might be named,—Raphael’s Madonna della Sedia, the beauty of which painting is something wonderful. No engraving and no copy that I have seen approaches the lovely expressiveness of the original. I was several times in these galleries, in which one could spend many days with the greatest enjoyment. But to endeavour to write a description would be not merely fruitlessly to seek to realize the works, but would be to attempt a disquisition on the great in art, which, even with capacity for the undertaking, would here be out of place. I suppose there is not an Italian painter of eminence who is not represented in the gallery, though beyond native art I think the only other nations whose artists’ works appear are the Dutch and Spanish. Photographs and engravings can be procured of many of the pictures in the shops.

At all times artists are engaged, in both the Uffizi and Pitti Galleries, making copies of the more celebrated or most attractive pictures—occasionally two upon the same picture; and they do proceed with most wonderful patience and infinite pains, copying to the minutest hair, and laying on coat after coat with the greatest delicacy, some of them attaining to great excellence. A _permesso_ is necessary to copy, and for some of the more celebrated paintings the artists, I was told, had sometimes to wait their turn for years. When they have, after elaborate painstaking, made a good copy, I fancy they manufacture other copies from it. I was fortunate enough, among others, to secure a copy of the lovely Madonna del Cordellina by Raphael, so perfect that it might almost vie with the original. It was obviously a copy direct from, and inspired by, the original. Beside it stood in the same shop another copy, but oh! how different! I believe that some of the copiers attach themselves more particularly to given masters,—for example, one in general copies Titians, another Murillos, another Raphaels. To protect against the abstraction of pictures from the galleries, no one is allowed to take a picture, not even a copy, out of Italy without a _permesso_. I bought a small copy of a Titian in the galleries, and the artist (Adolphe Boschi) accompanied me with it to the town, because, he said, they would not have allowed me to pass with it myself.

There is one little inconvenience attendant upon the extreme length of the galleries. Upon occasion of my first visit, I had unfortunately taken an umbrella, which I was obliged to leave at the door of the Uffizi Gallery. After wandering to the extreme end of the Pitti Gallery, I had to retrace all my steps to regain this umbrella. It is better, therefore, if anything must be left at the door, to confine a visit to one or other of the palaces, and there is abundance in either to engage a whole forenoon.

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Not far from the Piazza della Signoria is what is called the National Museum, contained in the old Palazzo del Podesta, rich, but severely rich, in its architecture. The ground floor is occupied with ancient and modern armour and arms. Above there is a gallery of statues, some of them by Michael Angelo, a room full of majolica, another of ivory carvings, two of bronzes, two of tapestry, and two of sculpture; but the collection, though interesting, looks small after experiencing the extent of the Uffizi and Pitti Galleries, and seems hardly deserving to be dignified with the name of National.

The Corsini Palace, on the Lung Arno, is open three days in the week to the public, and contains in twelve rooms a large collection of paintings, many of which are by the great masters.

The Academia delle Belle Arti contains a large collection of pre–Raphaelites, commencing with Cimabue, and comprising among others some fine Peruginos. It is accordingly interesting. In an upper floor several rooms exhibit paintings by modern Italian artists, principally battlepieces. I paid a visit also to the rooms of the Association for the Encouragement of the Fine Arts, which seems to be founded somewhat on the same principles as similar associations in Great Britain; but from such opportunities as I have had of forming an opinion, I cannot say that the mantle of their great predecessors—whose works are constantly before them, and might be thought calculated to inspire—has fallen upon the modern Florentine artists.

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Florence, besides being a great place for the sale of copies of paintings, and for the manufacture of the well–known massive and tastefully–decorated picture–frames, all carved out of the solid wood, upon which the gilding is laid without any mixture of composition, is the place of all others for the manufacture and sale of marble and alabaster sculpture, and of the beautiful Florentine mosaic jewellery. It is filled with shops for the sale of these various articles, which are to be had at moderate prices, and strangers seldom leave without more or less extensively making purchases.

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The streets of Florence are always full of life. Occasionally of an evening a body of men, perhaps twenty or thirty, would form themselves in a ring, and with deep, rich, melodious voices sing Italian songs. The power of voice or strength of lungs which the Italians sometimes possess is indeed often exhibited in a surprising manner. All of a sudden, walking along a street, it may be meditatively, a vendor of small wares will abruptly at your very ear, and without apparent effort, discharge a sharp, stentorian cry, piercing and startling as with the shock of a nine–pounder, and nearly knocking you down breathless and affrighted. The markets, too, are noisy,—bargain–making being a serious operation, in which success is supposed to attend the most vociferous and energetic,—but sometimes they are more quietly conducted. Having once penetrated them, and found myself in the press of a great crowd in very narrow passages, and in odious proximity to heaps of most unpleasant–looking fish, it was with no little satisfaction I made my escape as soon as escape was practicable.

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There are many other places in Florence to be seen besides those I have specially mentioned. We did see a good deal in the time we were there, but not all by any means, and what we did see was in a very general way. We remained not quite three weeks, and could with pleasure have stayed much longer. It is a place which, like Rome, though not to the same extent, requires a long stay, and is full of objects meriting careful study and worthy of repeated examination. It is not, however, without its drawbacks, chief among them being the not uncommon practice in Italian towns of making air–holes from the drains to the streets, from which unsavoury whiffs occasionally come, not pleasant to contemplate. The authorities plainly want in sanitary arrangements some teaching.

BOLOGNA.

We left Florence for Bologna by train at 7.50 A.M. As we were about to enter a railway carriage, a pleasant–looking English lady looked out and cried to us deterringly, ‘This is not a smoking carriage.’ ‘Thank you, madam,’ I replied; ‘that is just what we want.’ So, as the two parties filled the compartment, we were not troubled with any selfish smoker, and, as we were all English, with no needless exclusion of the views by lowering the blinds. We reached Bologna at noon. The railway passes through many tunnels, and in some places at a great elevation. The views from it are fine.

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Bologna is a singular old university town, very compact within the walls, so as to accommodate its population of 109,000. From the twelve or thirteen gates in the walls, leading streets converge to the centre, constructed with arcades at the sides, under which the pavements and shops are placed. The object of the arcading is probably to afford shelter from the snow in winter and the rain in summer. The town itself is dull, and the shops entering from the arcades are dark and second–rate. Photographs of Bologna can be procured at Florence, and perhaps in some as yet undiscovered region in Bologna itself. The Hotel Brun (the principal one) is an old–fashioned house. Like many of the Italian hotels, the _salons_ are entered direct from the court–yard.

As soon as possible, as we were only to stay one night, we went out for a drive of some hours, and were taken first to the two leaning towers, which stand together. These are long, lanky, and square, dark with age and long exposure to the weather, often, I suspect, of a humid character. One of them—the _Torre Asinelli_—said by Bædeker to be 272, and in other authorities 320 feet high, was originally 476 feet, or 40 feet higher than the top of the cross of St. Peter’s. It was shortened in 1416 after an earthquake. It now lies 3 ft. 5 in. off the perpendicular. The other, that of Garisenda, is, according to Bædeker, 138 feet high, and upwards of 8 feet out of the perpendicular, and by no means assuring to look at. They are neither of them imposing architecturally, although noted features viewed from outside the city. From this point we went to the Etruscan Museum, in which a variety of antiquities are exhibited, and, among other things, several skeletons of an old date discovered in neighbouring excavations. Under the same roof there is also a large library, comprising upwards of 100,000 volumes. I believe the museum and library are connected with the University, 760 years old. Close by is the large church of San Petronio, 384 feet long by 154 feet wide, intended to have been a vast deal larger. Here Charles v. was crowned emperor in 1530. There are various other large churches interesting to see, but, after those in Rome and Florence, they have, with all their grandeur, rather a provincial look. We then drove beyond the walls to the Villa Reale, one of the royal palaces. It stands upon a height, and commands admirable views of the town, out of which rise a good many towers, domes, and spires, relieving its otherwise spiritless level. One also sees far into the surrounding country, which, for the most part, is very flat. The villa contains some long corridors, one of them 500 feet long, adorned by statues. The church of the monastery is entered from the galleries. From this we drove (still outside the walls) to the Campo Santo, which is much larger, is more ramified, and is older than that at Genoa, but it is by no means equal to it either in arrangement or in monuments. Some of the monuments are good, but many are paltry. On our way back to town we entered the churches of San Domenico and San Pietro, both large, and containing greater objects of interest than San Petronio.

Cab fares in Bologna are moderate. I paid the cabman half a franc more than his fare, and, wonderful to say, he thanked me. It was the first and only time in Italy. The usual course is to take all that is offered and beg for more. Do the cabmen of Bologna graduate at the University?

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Rain fell heavily the following morning, and as we were to leave for Venice at twelve o’clock, we had not much time, but I could scarcely leave Bologna without taking a hurried glimpse of the Academia delle Belle Arti. An hour in this large gallery was, of course, far too brief a space for seeing its contents, and in the galleries there are many great paintings of more or less merit; among others, Raphael’s celebrated and beautiful picture of St. Cecilia listening to heavenly music, in which, however (such are the exigencies of art), six solid angels, securely seated on a cloud, obtain their words and their time, somewhat inconveniently, from two stout music–books, perhaps purchased in the Via outside—a profane remark; but irreverent thoughts will intrude even in the presence of the most wonderful works. It was a change to pass from the well–favoured countenance of St. Cecilia to Guido Reni’s Crucifixion. There are indeed two Crucifixions by Guido, but the smaller one seems to me the grander effort of genius. The effect of the darkness in the painting is truly sublime.

XV.

_VENICE AND VERONA._

VENICE.