If undeveloped communications were to become enough for me at those
retrospective moments, I might have felt myself supplied to my taste,
let me go on to say, at the hour of my making, with great resolution,
an attempt on high-seated and quite grandly out-of-the-way Volterra:
a reminiscence associated with quite a different year and, I should
perhaps sooner have bethought myself, with my fond experience of
Pisa--inasmuch as it was during a pause under that bland and motionless
wing that I seem to have had to organise in the darkness of a summer
dawn my approach to the old Etruscan stronghold. The railway then
existed, but I rose in the dim small hours to take my train; moreover,
so far as that might too much savour of an incongruous facility,
the fault was in due course quite adequately repaired by an apparent
repudiation of any awareness of such false notes on the part of the
town. I may not invite the reader to penetrate with me by so much as a
step the boundless backward reach of history to which the more massive
of the Etruscan gates of Volterra, the Porta all’ Arco, forms the
solidest of thresholds; since I perforce take no step myself, and am
even exceptionally condemned here to impressionism unashamed. My errand
was to spend a Sunday with an Italian friend, a native in fact of the
place, master of a house there in which he offered me hospitality; who,
also arriving from Florence the night before, had obligingly come on
with me from Pisa, and whose consciousness of a due urbanity, already
rather overstrained, and still well before noon, by the accumulation
of our matutinal vicissitudes and other grounds for patience, met
all ruefully at the station the supreme shock of an apparently great
desolate world of volcanic hills, of blank, though “engineered,”
undulations, as the emergence of a road testified, unmitigated by the
smallest sign of a wheeled vehicle. The station, in other words, looked
out at that time (and I daresay the case hasn’t strikingly altered) on a
mere bare huge hill-country, by some remote mighty shoulder of which
the goal of our pilgrimage, so questionably “served” by the railway, was
hidden from view. Served as well by a belated omnibus, a four-in-hand of
lame and lamentable quality, the place, I hasten to add, eventually
put forth some show of being; after a complete practical recognition of
which, let me at once further mention, all the other, the positive and
sublime, connections of Volterra established themselves for me without
my lifting a finger.
The small shrunken, but still lordly prehistoric city is perched, when
once you have rather painfully zigzagged to within sight of it, very
much as an eagle’s eyrie, oversweeping the land and the sea; and to
that type of position, the ideal of the airy peak of vantage, with all
accessories and minor features a drop, a slide and a giddiness, its
individual items and elements strike you at first as instinctively
conforming. This impression was doubtless after a little modified for
me; there were levels, there were small stony practicable streets, there
were walks and strolls, outside the gates and roundabout the cyclopean
wall, to the far end of downward-tending protrusions and promontories,
natural buttresses and pleasant terrene headlands, friendly suburban
spots (one would call them if the word had less detestable references)
where games of bowls and overtrellised wine-tables could put in their
note; in spite of which however my friend’s little house of hospitality,
clean and charming and oh, so immemorially Tuscan, was as perpendicular
and ladder-like as so compact a residence could be; it kept up for me
beautifully--as regards posture and air, though humanly and socially
it rather cooed like a dovecote--the illusion of the vertiginously
“balanced” eagle’s nest. The air, in truth, all the rest of that
splendid day, must have been the key to the promptly-produced intensity
of one’s relation to every aspect of the charming episode; the light,
cool, keen air of those delightful high places, in Italy, that tonically
correct the ardours of July, and which at our actual altitude could but
affect me as the very breath of the grand local legend. I might have
“had” the little house, our particular eagle’s nest, for the summer,
and even on such touching terms; and I well remember the force of the
temptation to take it, if only other complications had permitted; to
spend the series of weeks with that admirable _interesting_ freshness
in my lungs: interesting, I especially note, as the strong appropriate
medium in which a continuity with the irrecoverable but still effective
past had been so robustly preserved. I couldn’t yield, alas, to the
conceived felicity, which had half-a-dozen appealing aspects; I could
only, while thus feeling how the atmospheric medium itself made for a
positively initiative exhilaration, enjoy my illusion till the morrow.
The exhilaration therefore supplies to memory the whole light in which,
for the too brief time, I went about “seeing” Volterra; so that my
glance at the seated splendour reduces itself, as I have said, to
the merest impressionism; nothing more was to be looked for, on the
stretched surface of consciousness, from one breezy wash of the brush.
I find there the clean strong image simplified to the three or four
unforgettable particulars of the vast rake of the view; with the
Maremma, of evil fame, more or less immediately below, but with those
islands of the sea, Corsica and Elba, the names of which are sharply
associational beyond any others, dressing the far horizon in the grand
manner, and the Ligurian coast-line melting northward into beauty and
history galore; with colossal uncemented blocks of Etruscan gates and
walls plunging you--and by their very interest--into a sweet surrender
of any privilege of appreciation more crushing than your general
synthetic stare; and with the rich and perfectly arranged museum, an
unsurpassed exhibition of monumental treasure from Etruscan tombs,
funereal urns mainly, reliquaries of an infinite power to move and charm
us still, contributing to this same so designed, but somehow at the same
time so inspired, collapse of the historic imagination under too heavy a
pressure, or abeyance of “private judgment” in too unequal a relation.