Is it possible that the patron saints of cities should mould the temper
of the people to their own likeness? St. George, the chivalrous, is
champion of Ferrara. His is the marble group above the cathedral porch,
so feudal in its mediaeval pomp. He and St. Michael are painted in fresco
over the south portcullis of the castle. His lustrous armor gleams with
Giorgionesque brilliancy from Dossi's masterpiece in the Pinacoteca.
That Ferrara, the only place in Italy where chivalry struck any root,
should have had St. George for patron, is at any rate significant.
The best-preserved relic of princely feudal life in Italy is this
Castello of the Este family, with its sombre moat, chained draw-bridges,
doleful dungeons, and unnumbered tragedies, each one of which may be
compared with Parisina's history. I do not want to dwell on these things
now. It is enough to remember the Castello, built of ruddiest brick,
time-mellowed with how many centuries of sun and soft sea-air, as it
appeared upon the close of one tempestuous day. Just before evening the
rain-clouds parted and the sun flamed out across the misty Lombard
plain. The Castello burned like a hero's funeral pyre, and round its
high-built turrets swallows circled in the warm blue air. On the moat
slept shadows, mixed with flowers of sunset, tossed from pinnacle and
gable. Then the sky changed. A roof of thunder-cloud spread overhead
with the rapidity of tempest. The dying sun gathered his last strength
against it, fretting those steel-blue arches with crimson; and all the
fierce light, thrown from vault to vault of cloud, was reflected back as
from a shield, and cast in blots and patches on the buildings. The
Castle towered up rosy-red and shadowy sombre, enshrined, embosomed in
those purple clouds; and momently ran lightning-forks like rapiers
through the growing mass. Everything around, meanwhile, was quiet in the
grass-grown streets. The only sound was a high, clear boy's voice
chanting an opera-tune.