There are many ways that lead from Florence to Vallombrosa--by the
hills, by the valley, and by rail--and the best of these is by the
valley, but the shortest is by rail, for by that way you may leave
Florence at noon and be in your inn by three; but if you go by road you
must set out at dawn, so that when evening falls you may hear the
whispering woods of the rainy valley Vallis Imbrosa at your journey's
end. That is a pleasant way that takes you first to Settignano out of
the dust of Via Aretina by the river. Thence you may go by the byways to
Compiobbi, past Villa Gamberaja and Terenzano, among the terraced vines
and the old olives, coming to the river at last at Compiobbi, as I said,
just under Montacuto with its old castle, now a tiny village, on the
road to the Incontro, that convent on the hilltop where, as it is said,
St. Francis met St. Dominic on the way to Rome. The Via Aretina, deep in
dust that has already whitened the cypresses, passes through Compiobbi
on its way southward and west; but for me I will cross the river, and go
once more by the byways through the valley now, where the wind whispers
in the poplars beside Arno, and the river passes singing gently on its
way. It is a long road full of the quiet life of the country--here a
little farm, there a village full of children; a vineyard heavy with
grapes, where a man walks leisurely, talking to his dog, the hose on his
shoulders; a little copse that runs down to the stones of Arno, where a
little girl sits spinning with her few goats, singing softly some
endless chant; a golden olive garden among the corn, where there is no
sound but the song of the cicale that sing all day long. And there are
so many windings, and though the road leaves the river, it seems always
to be returning, always to be bidding good-bye: sometimes it climbs high
up above the stream, which just there is very still, sleeping in the
shadow under the trees; sometimes it dips quite down to the river bank,
a great stretch of dusty shingle across which the stream passes like a
road of silver. Slowly in front of me a great flat-bottomed boat crossed
the river with two great white oxen. And then at a turning of the way a
flock of sheep were coming on in a cloud of dust, when suddenly, at a
word from the shepherd who led them, they crossed the wide beach to
drink at the river, while he waited under the trees by the roadside.
There were trees full of cherries too, so full that in the sunshine they
seemed to dance for joy, clothed all in scarlet, so red, so ripe was the
fruit. Presently I came upon an old man high up in a tree gathering them
in a great basket, and since I was thirsty I asked him for drink, and
since I was hungry I asked him for food. He climbed down the great
ladder, coming towards me kindly enough, and drew me into the shadow.
"Eat as you will, signore, and quench your thirst," said he, as he
lifted a handful of the shining fruit, a handful running over, and
offered it to me. And he stayed with me and gave me his conversation. So
I dined, and when I had finished, "Open that great sack of yours," said
he, "and I will send you on your way," but I would not. Just then four
others came along in the sun, and on their heads were great bags of
leaves, and he bade them come and eat in the shade. Then said I, "What
are those leaves that you have there, and what are you going to do with
them?" And they laughed, making answer that they were silk. "Silk?" said
I. "Silk truly," said they, "since they are the leaves of the mulberry
on which the little worm lives that presently will make it." So I went
on my way with thanks, thinking in my heart: Are we too then but leaves
for worms, out of which, as by a miracle will pass the endless thread of
an immortal life?
So I came to Pontassieve, crossing the river again where the road begins
to leave it. There is nothing good to say of Pontassieve, which has no
beauty in itself, and where folk are rough and given to robbery. A
glance at the inn--for so they call it--and I passed on, glad in my
heart that I had dined in the fields. A mile beyond the town, on the Via
Aretina, the road of the Consuma Pass leaves the highway on the left,
and by this way it is good to go into Casentino; for any of the inns in
the towns of the valley will send to Pontassieve to meet you, and it is
better to enter thus than by railway from Arezzo. However, I was for
Vallombrosa; so I kept to the Aretine way. I left it at last at S.
Ellero, whence the little railway climbs up to Saltino, passing first
through the olives and vines, then through the chestnuts, the oaks, and
the beeches, till at last the high lawns appeared, and evening fell at
the last turn of the mule path over the hill as I came out of the forest
before the monastery itself, almost like a village or a stronghold, with
square towers and vast buildings too, fallen, alas! from their high
office, to serve as a school of forestry, an inn for the summer visitor
who has fled from the heat of the valleys. And there I slept.
It is best always to come to any place for the first time at evening or
even at night, and then in the morning to return a little on your way
and come to it again. Wandering there, out of the sunshine, in the
stillness of the forest itself, with the ruin of a thousand winters
under my feet, how could I be but angry that modern Italy--ah, so small
a thing!--has chased out the great and ancient order that had dwelt here
so long in quietness, and has established after our pattern a
utilitarian school, and thus what was once a guest-house is now a
pension of tourists. But in the abbey itself I forgot my anger, I was
ashamed of my contempt of those who could do so small a thing. This
place was founded because a young man refused to hate his enemy; every
stone here is a part of the mountain, every beam a tree of the forest,
the forest that has been renewed and destroyed a thousand times, that
has never known resentment, because it thinks only of life. Yes, this is
no place for hatred; since he who founded it loved his enemies, I also
will let them pass by, and since I too am of that company which thinks
only of life, what is the modern world to me with its denial, its doubt,
its contemptible materialism, its destruction, its misery? Like winter,
it will flee away before the first footsteps of our spring.
It was S. Giovanni Gualberto who founded the Vallombrosan Order and
established here an abbey, whose daughter we now see. Born about the
year 1000, he was the son of Gualberto dei Visdomini, Signore of Petroio
in Val di Pesa, of the great family who lived in St. Peter's Gate in
Florence, and were, according to Villani, the patrons of the bishopric.
In those days murder daily walked the streets of every Tuscan city, and
so it came to pass that before Giovanni was eighteen years old his
brother Ugo had been murdered by one of that branch of his own house
which was at feud with Gualberto. Urged on by his father, who, we may be
sure, did not spare himself or his friends in seeking revenge, Giovanni
was ever on the watch for his enemy, his brother's murderer; and it
chanced that as he came into Florence on Good Friday morning in 1018,
just before he got to S. Miniato al Monte, at a turning of that steep
way he came upon him face to face suddenly in the sunlight. Surely God
had delivered him into his hands! Giovanni was on horseback with his
servant, and then the hill was in his favour; the other was alone.
Seeing he had no chance, for the steel was already cold on his jumping
throat, he sank on his knees, and, crossing his arms in the form of Holy
Cross, he prayed hard to the Lord Jesus to save his soul alive. Hearing
that blessed, beautiful name in the stillness of that morning, when all
the bells are silent and the very earth hushed for Christ's death,
Giovanni could not strike, but instead lifted up his enemy and embraced
him, saying, "I give you not your life only, but my love too for ever.
Pray for me that God may pardon my sin." So they went on their way; but
Giovanni, when he came to the monastery of S. Miniato of the
Benedictines, stole into the church and prayed before the great
Crucifix,[132] begging God to pardon him; and while he prayed thus, the
Christ miraculously bowed his head, "as it were to give him a token how
acceptable was this sacrifice of his resentment."
How little that sacrifice seems to us! But it was a great, an unheard-of
thing in those days. And for this cause, maybe, Giovanni proposed to
remain with the monks, to be received as a novice among them, and to
forsake the world for ever. And they received him. Now when Gualberto
heard it, he was first very much astonished and then more angry, so that
he went presently to take Giovanni out of that place; but he would not,
for before his father he cut off his hair and clothed himself in a habit
which he borrowed. Then, seeing his purpose, his father let him alone.
So for some four years Giovanni lived a monk at S. Miniato; when, the
old Abbot dying, his companions wished to make him their Abbot, but he
would not, setting out immediately with one companion to search for a
closer solitude. And to this end he went to Camaldoli to consult with S.
Romualdo; but even there, in that quiet and ordered place, he did not
seem to have found what he sought. So he set out again, not without
tears, coming at last, on this side of Casentino, upon this high valley,
Acqua Bella, as it was then called, because of its brooks. It belonged,
with all the forest, to the Contessa Itta dei Guidi, the Abbess of S.
Ellero, who gladly presented Giovanni with land for his monastery, and
that he built of timber. Nor was he alone, for he had found there
already two hermits, who agreed to join him; so under the rule of St.
Benedict the Vallombrosan Order was founded.[133] Of S. Giovanni's work
in Florence, of his fight with Simony and Nicolaitanism, this is no
place to speak. He became the hero of that country; yet such was his
humility that he never proceeded further than minor orders, and, though
Abbot of Vallombrosa, was never a priest. He founded many houses, S.
Salvi among them, while his monks were to be found at Moscetta,
Passignano, and elsewhere in Tuscany and Umbria; while his Order was the
first to receive lay brothers who, while exempt from choir and silence,
were employed in "external offices." It was in July 1073 that he fell
sick at Passignano, and on the 12th of that month he died there. Pope
Celestine III enrolled him among the saints in 1193. After S. Giovanni's
death the Order seems to have flourished by reason of the bequests of
the Countess Matilda.
There is but little of interest in the present buildings at Vallombrosa,
which date from the seventeenth century; nor does the church itself
possess anything of importance, unless it be the relic of S. Giovanni
enshrined in a casquet of the sixteenth century, a work of Paolo
Soliano.
About three hundred feet above the monastery is the old Hermitage--the
_Celle_--now an hotel. Here those who sought solitude and silence found
their way, and indeed it seems to have been a spot greatly beloved, for
a certain Pietro Migliorotti of Poppi passed many years there, and
refused to think of it as anything but a little paradise; thus it was
called Paradisino, the name which it bears to-day. Far and far away lies
Florence, with her beautiful domes and towers, and around you are the
valleys, Val d'Arno, Val di Sieve, while behind you lies the strangest
and loveliest of all, Val di Casentino, hidden in the hills at the foot
of the great mountain, scattered with castles, holy with convents; and
there Dante has passed by and St. Francis, and Arno is continually born
in the hills. And indeed, delightful as the woods of Vallombrosa are,
with their ruined shrines and chapels, their great delicious solitude,
their unchangeable silence under everything but the wind, that
valley-enclosed Clusendinum calls you every day; perhaps in some strange
smile you catch for a moment in the sunshine on the woods, or in the
aspect of the clouds; it will not be long before you are compelled to
set out on your way to seek
"Li ruscelletti, che dei verdi colli
Del Casentin discendon giuso in Arno."