At Siena last spring, prowling round outside the cathedral, we saw an
English ecclesiastic in a stringed, sub-shovel hat. He had a young lady
with him, presumably a daughter or niece. He eyed us with much the same
incurious curiosity as that with which we eyed him. We passed them and
went inside the duomo. How far less impressive is the interior (indeed I
had almost said also the exterior) than that of San Domenico! Nothing
palls so soon as over-ornamentation.
A few minutes afterwards my Lord and the young lady came in too. It was
Sunday and mass was being celebrated. The pair passed us and, when they
reached the fringe of the kneeling folk, the bishop knelt down too on the
bare floor, kneeling bolt upright from the knees, a few feet in front of
where we stood. We saw him and I am sure he knew we were looking at him.
The lady seemed to hesitate but, after a minute or so, she knuckled down
by his side and we left them kneeling bolt upright from the knees on the
hard floor.
I always cross myself and genuflect when I go into a Roman Catholic
church, as a mark of respect, but Jones and Gogin say that any one can
see I am not an old hand at it. How rudimentary is the action of an old
priest! I saw one once at Venice in the dining-room of the Hotel la Luna
who crossed himself by a rapid motion of his fork just before he began to
eat, and Miss Bertha Thomas told me she saw an Italian lady at Varallo at
the table-d’hôte cross herself with her fan. I do not cross myself
before eating nor do I think it incumbent upon me to kneel down on the
hard floor in church—perhaps because I am not an English bishop. We were
sorry for this one and for his young lady, but it was their own doing.
We then went into the Libreria to see the frescoes by Pinturicchio—which
we did not like—and spent some little time in attending to them. On
leaving we were told to sign our names in a book and did so. As we were
going out we met the bishop and his lady coming in; whether they had been
kneeling all the time, or whether they had got up as soon we were gone
and had spent the time in looking round I cannot say, but, when they had
seen the frescoes, they would be told to sign their names and, when they
signed, they would see ours and, I flatter myself, know who we were.
On returning to our hotel we were able to collect enough information to
settle in our own minds which particular bishop he was.
A day or two later we went to Poggibonsi, which must have been an
important place once; nothing but the walls remain now, the city within
them having been razed by Charles V. At the station we took a carriage,
and our driver, Ulisse Pogni, was a delightful person, second baritone at
the Poggibonsi Opera and principal fly-owner of the town. He drove us up
to S. Gimignano and told us that the people still hold the figures in
Benozzo Gozzoli’s frescoes to be portraits of themselves and say: “That’s
me,” and “That’s so and so.”
Of course we went to see the frescoes, and as we were coming down the
main street, from the Piazza on which the Municipio stands, who should be
mounting the incline but our bishop and his lady. The moment he saw us,
he looked cross, stood still and began inspecting the tops of the houses
on the other side of the street; so also did the lady. There was nothing
of the smallest interest in these and we neither of us had the smallest
doubt that he was embarrassed at meeting us and was pretending not to
notice us. I have seldom seen any like attempt more clumsily and
fatuously done. Whether he was saying to himself, “Good Lord! that
wretch will be putting my kneeling down into another _Alps and
Sanctuaries_ or _Ex Voto_”; or whether it was only that we were a couple
of blackguard atheists who contaminated the air all round us, I cannot
tell; but on venturing to look back a second or two after we had passed
them, the bishop and the lady had got a considerable distance away.
As we returned our driver took us about 4 kilometres outside Poggibonsi
to San Lucchese, a church of the 12th or 13th century, greatly decayed,
but still very beautiful and containing a few naïf frescoes. He told us
he had sung the Sanctus here at the festa on the preceding Sunday. In a
room adjoining the church, formerly, we were told, a refectory, there is
a very good fresco representing the “Miraculous Draught of Fishes” by
Gerino da Pistoja (I think, but one forgets these names at once unless
one writes them down then and there). It is dated—I think (again!)—about
1509, betrays the influence of Perugino but is more lively and
interesting than anything I know by that painter, for I cannot call him
master. It is in good preservation and deserves to be better, though
perhaps not very much better, known than it is. Our driver pointed out
that the baskets in which the fishes are being collected are portraits of
the baskets still in use in the neighbourhood.
After we had returned to London we found, in the Royal Academy
Exhibition, a portrait of our bishop which, though not good, was quite
good enough to assure us that we had not been mistaken as to his diocese.