RAVENNA

I write these lines on a cold Swiss mountain-top, shut in by an intense

white mist from any glimpse of the underworld of lovely Italy; but as

I jotted down the other day in the ancient capital of Honorius and

Theodoric the few notes of which they are composed, I let the original

date stand for local colour’s sake. Its mere look, as I transcribe it,

emits a grateful glow in the midst of the Alpine rawness, and gives a

depressed imagination something tangible to grasp while awaiting the

return of fine weather. For Ravenna was glowing, less than a week since,

as I edged along the narrow strip of shadow binding one side of the

empty, white streets. After a long, chill spring the summer this year

descended upon Italy with a sudden jump and an ominous hot breath. I

stole away from Florence in the night, and even on top of the Apennines,

under the dull starlight and in the rushing train, one could but sit and

pant perspiringly.

At Bologna I found a festa, or rather two festas, a civil and a

religious, going on in mutual mistrust and disparagement. The civil,

that of the Statuto, was the one fully national Italian holiday as by

law established--the day that signalises everywhere over the land at

once its achieved and hard-won unification; the religious was a jubilee

of certain local churches. The latter is observed by the Bolognese

parishes in couples, and comes round for each couple but once in ten

years--an arrangement by which the faithful at large insure themselves

a liberal recurrence of expensive processions. It was n’t my business

to distinguish the sheep from the goats, the pious from the profane, the

prayers from the scoffers; it was enough that, melting together under

the scorching sun, they filled the admirably solid city with a flood

of spectacular life. The combination at one point was really dramatic.

While a long procession of priests and young virgins in white veils,

bearing tapers, marshalled itself in one of the streets, a review of

the King’s troops went forward outside the town. On its return a large

detachment of cavalry passed across the space where the incense was

burning, the pictured banners swaying and the litany being droned, and

checked the advance of the little ecclesiastical troop. The long vista

of the street, between the porticoes, was festooned with garlands and

scarlet and tinsel; the robes and crosses and canopies of the priests,

the clouds of perfumed smoke and the white veils of the maidens, were

resolved by the hot bright air into a gorgeous medley of colour, across

which the mounted soldiers rattled and flashed as if it had been a

conquering army trampling on an embassy of propitiation. It was, to tell

the truth, the first time an’ Italian festa had really exhibited to my

eyes the genial glow and the romantic particulars promised by song and

story; and I confess that those eyes found more pleasure in it than they

were to find an hour later in the picturesque on canvas as one observes

it in the Pinacoteca. I found myself scowling most unmercifully at Guido

and Domenichino.

For Ravenna, however, I had nothing but smiles--grave, reflective,

philosophic smiles, I hasten to add, such as accord with the historic

dignity, not to say the mortal sunny sadness, of the place. I arrived

there in the evening, before, even at drowsy Ravenna, the festa of the

Statuto had altogether put itself to bed. I immediately strolled forth

from the inn, and found it sitting up a while longer on the piazza,

chiefly at the cafe door, listening to the band of the garrison by the

light of a dozen or so of feeble tapers, fastened along the front of

the palace of the Government. Before long, however, it had dispersed and

departed, and I was left alone with the grey illumination and with an

affable citizen whose testimony as to the manners and customs of

Ravenna I had aspired to obtain. I had, borrowing confidence from prompt

observation, suggested deferentially that it was n’t the liveliest place

in the world, and my friend admitted that it was in fact not a seat of

ardent life. But had I seen the Corso? Without seeing the Corso one did

n’t exhaust the possibilities. The Corso of Ravenna, of a hot summer

night, had an air of surprising seclusion and repose. Here and there in

an upper closed window glimmered a light; my companion’s footsteps

and my own were the only sounds; not a creature was within sight. The

suffocating air helped me to believe for a moment that I walked in the

Italy of Boccaccio, hand-in-hand with the plague, through a city which

had lost half its population by pestilence and the other half by flight.

I turned back into my inn profoundly satisfied. This at last was the

old-world dulness of a prime distillation; this at last was antiquity,

history, repose.

The impression was largely confirmed and enriched on the following day;

but it was obliged at an early stage of my visit to give precedence to

another--the lively perception, namely, of the thinness of my saturation

with Gibbon and the other sources of legend. At Ravenna the waiter at

the café and the coachman who drives you to the Pine-Forest allude to

Galla Placidia and Justinian as to any attractive topic of the hour;

wherever you turn you encounter some fond appeal to your historic

presence of mind. For myself I could only attune my spirit vaguely to

so ponderous a challenge, could only feel I was breathing an air of

prodigious records and relics. I conned my guide-book and looked up

at the great mosaics, and then fumbled at poor Murray again for some

intenser light on the court of Justinian; but I can imagine that to

a visitor more intimate with the originals of the various great

almond-eyed mosaic portraits in the vaults of the churches these

extremely curious works of art may have a really formidable interest. I

found in the place at large, by daylight, the look of a vast straggling

depopulated village. The streets with hardly an exception are

grass-grown, and though I walked about all day I failed to encounter a

single wheeled vehicle. I remember no shop but the little establishment

of an urbane photographer, whose views of the Pineta, the great

legendary pine-forest just without the town, gave me an irresistible

desire to seek that refuge. There was no architecture to speak of; and

though there are a great many large domiciles with aristocratic names

they stand cracking and baking in the sun in no very comfortable

fashion. The houses have for the most part an all but rustic rudeness;

they are low and featureless and shabby, as well as interspersed

with high garden walls over which the long arms of tangled vines

hang motionless into the stagnant streets. Here and there in all this

dreariness, in some particularly silent and grassy corner, rises an old

brick church with a front more or less spoiled, by cheap modernisation,

and a strange cylindrical campanile pierced with small arched windows

and extremely suggestive of the fifth century. These churches constitute

the palpable interest of Ravenna, and their own principal interest,

after thirteen centuries of well-intentioned spoliation, resides

in their unequalled collection of early Christian mosaics. It is an

interest simple, as who should say, almost to harshness, and leads one’s

attention along a straight and narrow way. There are older churches in

Rome, and churches which, looked at as museums, are more variously and

richly informing; but in Rome you stumble at every step on some curious

pagan memorial, often beautiful enough to make your thoughts wander far

from the strange stiff primitive Christian forms.

Ravenna, on the other hand, began with the Church, and all her monuments

and relics are harmoniously rigid. By the middle of the first century

she possessed an exemplary saint, Apollinaris, a disciple of Peter, to

whom her two finest places of worship are dedicated. It was to one of

these, jocosely entitled the “new,” that I first directed my steps.

I lingered outside a while and looked at the great red, barrel-shaped

bell-towers, so rusty, so crumbling, so archaic, and yet so resolute to

ring in another century or two, and then went in to the coolness, the

shining marble columns, the queer old sculptured slabs and sarcophagi

and the long mosaics that scintillated, under the roof, along the wall

of the nave. San Apollinare Nuovo, like most of its companions, is a

magazine of early Christian odds and ends; fragments of yellow marble

incrusted with quaint sculptured emblems of primitive dogma; great rough

troughs, containing the bones of old bishops; episcopal chairs with the

marble worn narrow by centuries of pressure from the solid episcopal

person; slabs from the fronts of old pulpits, covered with carven

hierogylphics of an almost Egyptian abstruseness--lambs and stags and

fishes and beasts of theological affinities even less apparent. Upon all

these strange things the strange figures in the great mosaic panorama

look down, with coloured cheeks and staring eyes, lifelike enough to

speak to you and answer your wonderment and tell you in bad Latin of

the decadence that it was in such and such a fashion they believed and

worshipped. First, on each side, near the door, are houses and ships and

various old landmarks of Ravenna; then begins a long procession, on

one side, of twenty-two white-robed virgins and three obsequious magi,

terminating in a throne bearing the Madonna and Child, surrounded

by four angels; on the other side, of an equal number of male saints

(twenty-five, that is) holding crowns in their hands and leading to a

Saviour enthroned between angels of singular expressiveness. What it

is these long slim seraphs express I cannot quite say, but they have an

odd, knowing, sidelong look out of the narrow ovals of their eyes which,

though not without sweetness, would certainly make me murmur a defensive

prayer or so were I to find myself alone in the church towards dusk.

All this work is of the latter part of the sixth century and brilliantly

preserved. The gold backgrounds twinkle as if they had been inserted

yesterday, and here and there a figure is executed almost too much in

the modern manner to be interesting; for the charm of mosaic work is,

to my sense, confined altogether to the infancy of the art. The great

Christ, in the series of which I speak, is quite an elaborate picture,

and yet he retains enough of the orthodox stiffness to make him

impressive in the simpler, elder sense. He is clad in a purple robe,

even as an emperor, his hair and beard are artfully curled, his eyebrows

arched, his complexion brilliant, his whole aspect such a one as the

popular mind may have attributed to Honorius or Valentinian. It is all

very Byzantine, and yet I found in it much of that interest which is

inseparable, to a facile imagination, from all early representations of

our Lord. Practically they are no more authentic than the more or less

plausible inventions of Ary Scheffer and Holman Hunt; in spite of which

they borrow a certain value, factitious perhaps but irresistible, from

the mere fact that they are twelve or thirteen centuries less distant

from the original. It is something that this was the way the people in

the sixth century imagined Jesus to have looked; the image has suffered

by so many the fewer accretions. The great purple-robed monarch on the

wall of Ravenna is at least a very potent and positive Christ, and the

only objection I have to make to him is that though in this character he

must have had a full apportionment of divine foreknowledge he betrays no

apprehension of Dr. Channing and M. Renan. If one’s preference lies, for

distinctness’ sake, between the old plainness and the modern fantasy,

one must admit that the plainness has here a very grand outline.

{Illustration: SANT APOLLINAR NUOVO, RAVENNA.}

I spent the rest of the morning in charmed transition between the hot

yellow streets and the cool grey interiors of the churches. The

greyness everywhere was lighted up by the scintillation, on vault and

entablature, of mosaics more or less archaic, but always brilliant and

elaborate, and everywhere too by the same deep amaze of the fact that,

while centuries had worn themselves away and empires risen and fallen,

these little cubes of coloured glass had stuck in their allotted places

and kept their freshness. I have no space for a list of the various

shrines so distinguished, and, to tell the truth, my memory of them has

already become a very generalised and undiscriminated record. The total

aspect of the place, its sepulchral stillness, its absorbing perfume

of evanescence and decay and mortality, confounds the distinctions

and blurs the details. The Cathedral, which is vast and high, has

been excessively modernised, and was being still more so by a lavish

application of tinsel and cotton-velvet in preparation for the centenary

feast of St. Apollinaris, which befalls next month. Things on this

occasion are to be done handsomely, and a fair Ravennese informed me

that a single family had contributed three thousand francs towards a

month’s vesper-music. It seemed to me hereupon that I should like in

the August twilight to wander into the quiet nave of San Apollinare,

and look up at the great mosaics through the resonance of some fine

chanting. I remember distinctly enough, however, the tall

basilica of San Vitale, of octagonal shape, like an exchange or

custom-house--modelled, I believe, upon St. Sophia at Constantinople.

It has a great span of height and a great solemnity, as well as a choir

densely pictured over on arch and apse with mosaics of the time of

Justinian. These are regular pictures, full of movement, gesture and

perspective, and just enough sobered in hue by time to bring home their

remoteness. In the middle of the church, under the great dome, sat an

artist whom I envied, making at an effective angle a study of the choir

and its broken lights, its decorated altar and its incrusted twinkling

walls. The picture, when finished, will hang, I suppose, on the library

wall of some person of taste; but even if it is much better than is

probable--I did n’t look at it--all his taste won’t tell the owner,

unless he has been there, in just what a soundless, mouldering,

out-of-the-way corner of old Italy it was painted. An even better place

for an artist fond of dusky architectural nooks, except that here the

dusk is excessive and he would hardly be able to tell his green from

his red, is the extraordinary little church of the Santi Nazaro e Celso,

otherwise known as the mausoleum of Galla Placidia. This is perhaps on

the whole the spot in Ravenna where the impression is of most sovereign

authority and most thrilling force. It consists of a narrow low-browed

cave, shaped like a Latin cross, every inch of which except the floor

is covered with dense symbolic mosaics. Before you and on each side,

through the thick brown light, loom three enormous barbaric sarcophagi,

containing the remains of potentates of the Lower Empire. It is as if

history had burrowed under ground to escape from research and you

had fairly run it to earth. On the right lie the ashes of the Emperor

Honorius, and in the middle those of his sister, Galla Placidia, a lady

who, I believe, had great adventures. On the other side rest the bones

of Constantius III. The place might be a small natural grotto lined with

glimmering mineral substances, and there is something quite tremendous

in being shut up so closely with these three imperial ghosts. The shadow

of the great Roman name broods upon the huge sepulchres and abides for

ever within the narrow walls.

But still other memories hang about than those of primitive bishops and

degenerate emperors. Byron lived here and Dante died here, and the tomb

of the one poet and the dwelling of the other are among the advertised

appeals. The grave of Dante, it must be said, is anything but Dantesque,

and the whole precinct is disposed with that odd vulgarity of taste

which distinguishes most modern Italian tributes to greatness. The

author of _The Divine Comedy_ commemorated in stucco, even in a

slumbering corner of Ravenna, is not “sympathetic.” Fortunately of all

poets he least needs a monument, as he was pre-eminently an architect in

diction and built himself his temple of fame in verses more solid

than Cyclopean blocks. If Dante’s tomb is not Dantesque, so neither is

Byron’s house Byronic, being a homely, shabby, two-storied dwelling,

directly on the street, with as little as possible of isolation and

mystery. In Byron’s time it was an inn, and it is rather a curious

reflection that “Cain” and the “Vision of Judgment” should have been

written at an hotel. The fact supplies a commanding precedent for

self-abstraction to tourists at once sentimental and literary. I must

declare indeed that my acquaintance with Ravenna considerably increased

my esteem for Byron and helped to renew my faith in the sincerity of

his inspiration. A man so much _de son temps_ as the author of the

above-named and other pieces can have spent two long years in this

stagnant city only by the help of taking a great deal of disinterested

pleasure in his own genius. He had indeed a notable pastime--the various

churches are adorned with monuments of ancestral Guicciolis--but it is

none the less obvious that Ravenna, fifty years ago, would have been an

intolerably dull residence to a foreigner of distinction unequipped with

intellectual resources. The hour one spends with Byron’s memory then

is almost compassionate. After all, one says to one’s self as one turns

away from the grandiloquent little slab in front of his house and looks

down the deadly provincial vista of the empty, sunny street, the author

of so many superb stanzas asked less from the world than he gave it. One

of his diversions was to ride in the Pineta, which, beginning a couple

of miles from the city, extends some twenty-five miles along the sands

of the Adriatic. I drove out to it for Byron’s sake, and Dante’s, and

Boccaccio’s, all of whom have interwoven it with their fictions, and for

that of a possible whiff of coolness from the sea. Between the city and

the forest, in the midst of malarious rice-swamps, stands the finest of

the Ravennese churches, the stately temple of San Apollinare in Classe.

The Emperor Augustus constructed hereabouts a harbour for fleets, which

the ages have choked up, and which survives only in the title of this

ancient church. Its extreme loneliness makes it doubly impressive. They

opened the great doors for me, and let a shaft of heated air go wander

up the beautiful nave between the twenty-four lustrous, pearly columns

of cipollino marble, and mount the wide staircase of the choir and spend

itself beneath the mosaics of the vault. I passed a memorable half-hour

sitting in this wave of tempered light, looking down the cool grey

avenue of the nave, out of the open door, at the vivid green swamps, and

listening to the melancholy stillness. I rambled for an hour in the Wood

of Associations, between the tall smooth, silvery stems of the pines,

and beside a creek which led me to the outer edge of the wood and a

view of white sails, gleaming and gliding behind the sand-hills. It

was infinitely, it was nobly “quaint,” but, as the trees stand at wide

intervals and bear far aloft in the blue air but a little parasol of

foliage, I suppose that, of a glaring summer day, the forest itself

was only the more characteristic of its clime and country for being

perfectly shadeless.

{Illustration: RAVENNA PINETA.}

1873.