however, a conjecture of my own. It was manifestly the intention of
the artist to cause a new _Corso_ to be laid out from this gate, for
the situation, or the present street, is completely wrong. On the left
side there is nothing but barracks; and the line at right angles from
the middle of the gate leads to a convent of nuns, which must certainly
have come down. This was presently perceived, and besides the rich and
higher classes might not have liked to settle in the remote quarter.
The artist perhaps died, and therefore the door was closed, and so an
end was put to the affair.
* * * * *
_Verona, Sept._ 16.
The portico of the theatre, consisting of six large Ionic columns,
looks handsome enough. So much the more puny is the appearance of the
Marchese di Maffei's bust, which as large as life, and in a great
wig, stands over the door, and in front of a painted niche, which is
supported by two Corinthian columns. The position is honorable, but to
be in some degree proportionate to the magnitude and solidity of the
columns, the bust should have been colossal. But now placed as it is on
a corbel, it has a mean appearance, and is by no means in harmony with
the whole.
The gallery, which incloses the fore-court, is also small, and the
channelled Doric dwarfs have a mean appearance by the side of the
smooth Ionic giants. But we pardon this discrepancy on account of
the fine institution, which has been founded among the columns. Here
is kept a number of antiquities, which have mostly been dug up in
and about Verona. Something, they say, has even been found in the
Amphitheatre. There are Etruscan, Greek, and Roman specimens, down to
the latest times, and some even of more modern date. The bas-reliefs
are inserted in the walls, and provided with the numbers, which Maffei
gave them, when he described them in his work: "_Verona illustrata._"
There are altars, fragments of columns, and other relics of the sort;
an admirable tripod of white marble, upon which there are genii
occupied with the attributes of the gods. Raphael has imitated and
improved this kind of thing in the scrolls of the Farnesina.
The wind which blows from the graves of the ancients, comes fragrantly
over hills of roses. The tombs give touching evidences of a genuine
feeling, and always bring life back to us. Here is a man, by the side
of his wife, who peeps out of a niche, as if it were a window. Here
are father and mother, with their son between them, eyeing each other
as naturally as possible. Here a couple are grasping each other's
hands. Here a father, resting on his couch, seems to be amused by
his family. The immediate proximity of these stones was to me highly
touching. They belong to a later school of art, but are simple,
natural, and generally pleasing. Here a man in armour is on his knees
in expectation of a joyful resurrection. With more or less of talent
the artist has produced the mere simple presence of the persons, and
has thus given a permanent continuation to their existence. They do not
fold their hands, they do not look towards heaven, but they are here
below just what they were and just what they are. They stand together,
take interest in each other, love one another, and this is charmingly
expressed on the stone, though with a certain want of technical skill.
A marble pillar, very richly adorned, gave me more new ideas.
[Sidenote: Verona.]
Laudable as this institution is, we can plainly perceive that the
noble spirit of preservation, by which it was founded, is no longer
continued. The valuable tripod will soon be ruined, placed as it is
in the open air, and exposed to the weather towards the west. This
treasure might easily be preserved in a wooden case.
The palace of the Proveditore, which is begun, might have afforded
a fine specimen of architecture, if it had been finished. Generally
speaking, the _nobili_ build a great deal, but unfortunately every one
builds on the site of his former residence, and often, therefore, in
narrow lanes. Thus, for instance, a magnificent façade to a seminary is
now building in an alley of tire remotest suburb.
* * * * *
While, with a guide, whom I had accidentally picked up, I passed
before the great solemn gate of a singular building, he asked me
good-humouredly, whether I should not like to step into the court for
a while. It was the palace of justice, and the court, on account of
the height of the building, looked only like an enormous wall. Here,
he told me, all the criminals and suspicious persons are confined.
I looked around, and saw that round all the stories there were open
passages' fitted with iron balustrades, which passed by numerous doors.
The prisoner, as he stepped out of his dungeon to be led to trial,
stood in the open air, and was exposed to the gaze of all passers, and
because there were several trial-rooms, the chains were rattling, now
over this, now over that passage, in every story. It was a hateful
sight, and I do not deny that the good humour, with which I had
dispatched my "Birds," might here have come into a strait.
* * * * *
I walked at sunset upon the margin of the crater-like amphitheatre, and
enjoyed the most splendid prospect over the town and the surrounding
country. I was quite alone, and multitudes of people were passing below
me on the hard stones of the Bra; men of all ranks, and women of the
middle-ranks were walking. The latter in their black outer garments
look, in this bird's-eye view, like so many mummies.
The _Zendale_ and the _Veste_, which serves this class in the place of
an entire wardrobe, is a costume completely fitted for a people that
does not care much for cleanliness, and yet always likes to appear in
public, sometimes at church, sometimes on the promenade. The _Veste_ is
a gown of black taffeta, which is thrown over other gowns. If the lady
has a clean white one beneath, she contrives to lift up the black one
on one side. This is fastened on so, as to cut the waist, and to cover
the lappets of a corset, which may be of any colour. The _Zendale_ is
a large hood with long ears; the hood itself is kept high above the
head by a wire-frame, while the ears are fastened round the body like a
scarf, so that the ends fall down behind.
* * * * *
_Verona, Sept._ 16.
When I again left the Arena to-day, I came to a modern public
spectacle, about a thousand paces from the spot. Four noble Veronese
were playing ball against four people of Vicenza. This pastime is
carried on among the Veronese themselves all the year round, about two
hours before night. On this occasion there was a far larger concourse
of people than usual, on account of the foreign adversaries. The
spectators seem to have amounted to four or five thousand. I did not
see women of any rank.
When, a little while ago, I spoke of the necessities of the multitude
in such a case, I described the natural accidental amphitheatre as
arising just in the manner, in which I saw the people raised one over
another on this occasion. Even at a distance I could hear the lively
clapping of hands, which accompanied every important stroke. The game
is played as follows: Two boards, slightly inclined, are placed at a
convenient distance from each other. He who strikes off the ball stands
at the higher end, his right hand is armed with a broad wooden ring,
set with spikes. While another of his party throws the ball to him, he
runs down to meet it, and thus increases the force of the blow with
which he strikes it. The adversaries try to beat it back, and thus it
goes backwards and forwards till, at last, it remains on the ground.
The most beautiful attitudes, worthy of being imitated in marble, are
thus produced. As there are none but well-grown active young people, in
a short, close, white dress, the parties are only distinguished by a
yellow mark. Particularly beautiful is the attitude into which the man
on the eminence falls, when he runs down the inclined plain, and raises
his arm to strike the ball;--it approaches that of the Borghesian
gladiator.
It seemed strange to me that they carry on this exercise by an old
lime-wall, without the slightest convenience for spectators; why is it
not done in the amphitheatre, where there would be such ample room?
* * * * *
_Verona, September_ 17.
What I have seen of pictures I will but briefly touch upon, and add
some remarks. I do not make this extraordinary tour for the sake of
deceiving myself, but to become acquainted with myself by means of
these objects. I therefore honestly confess that of the painter's
art--of his manipulation, I understand but little. My attention,
and observation, can only be directed to the practical part, to the
subject, and the general treatment of it.
[Sidenote: Verona.]
S. Georgio is a gallery of good pictures, all altar-pieces, and all
remarkable, if not of equal value. But what subjects were the hapless
artists obliged to paint? And for whom? Perhaps a shower of manna
thirty feet long, and twenty feet high, with the miracle of the
loaves as a companion. What could be made of these subjects? Hungry
men falling on little grains, and a countless multitude of others,
to whom bread is handed. The artists have racked their invention
in order to get something striking out of such wretched subjects.
And yet, stimulated by the urgency of the case, genius has produced
some beautiful things. An artist, who had to paint S. Ursula with
the eleven thousand virgins, has got over the difficulty cleverly
enough. The saint stands in the foreground, as if she had conquered
the country. She is very noble, like an Amazonia's virgin, and without
any enticing charms; on the other hand, her troop is shown descending
from the ships, and moving in procession at a diminishing distance.
The Assumption of the Virgin, by Titian, in the dome, has become much
blackened, and it is a thought worthy of praise that, at the moment of
her apotheosis, she looks not towards heaven, but towards her friends
below.
In the Gherardini Gallery I found some very fine things by Orbitto,
and for the first time became acquainted with this meritorious artist.
At a distance we only hear of the first artists, and then we are often
contented with names only; but when we draw nearer to this starry sky,
and the luminaries of the second and third magnitude also begin to
twinkle, each one coming forward and occupying his proper place in the
whole constellation, then the world becomes wide, and art becomes rich.
I must here commend the conception of one of the pictures. Sampson has
gone to sleep in the lap of Dalilah, and she has softly stretched her
hand over him to reach a pair of scissors, which lies near the lamp on
the table. The execution is admirable. In the Canopa Palace I observed
a Danäe.
The Bevilagua Palace contains the most valuable things. A picture
by Tintoretto, which is called a "Paradise," but which, in fact,
represents the Coronation of the Virgin Mary as Queen of Heaven, in the
presence of all the patriarchs, prophets, apostles, saints, angels,
&c., affords an opportunity for displaying all the riches of the most
felicitous genius. To admire and enjoy all that care of manipulation,
that spirit and variety of expression, it is necessary to possess the
picture, and to have it before one all one's life. The painter's work
is carried on ad infinitum,; even the farthest angels' heads, which are
vanishing in the halo, preserve something of character. The largest
figures may be about a foot high; Mary, and the Christ who is crowning
her, about four inches. Eve is, however, the finest woman in the
picture; a little voluptuous, as from time immemorial.
A couple of portraits by Paul Veronese have only increased my
veneration for that artist. The collection of antiquities is very
fine; there is a son of Niobe extended in death, which is highly
valuable; and the busts, including an Augustus with the civic crown, a
Caligula, and others, are mostly of great interest, notwithstanding the
restoration of the noses.
It lies in my nature to admire, willingly and joyfully, all that is
great and beautiful, and the cultivation of this talent, day after day,
hour after hour, by the inspection of such beautiful objects, produces
the happiest feelings.
[Sidenote: Verona.]
In a land, where we enjoy the days but take especial delight in the
evenings, the time of nightfall is highly important. For now work
ceases; those who have gone out walking turn back; the father wishes
to have his daughter home again; the day has an end. What the day is
we Cimmerians hardly know. In our eternal mist and fog it is the same
thing to us, whether it be day or night, for how much time can we
really pass and enjoy in the open air? Now, when night sets in, the
day, which consisted of a morning and an evening, is decidedly past,
four and twenty hours are gone, the bells ring, the rosary is taken in
hand, and the maid, entering the chamber with the lighted lamp, says,
"felicissima notte." This epoch varies with every season, and a man who
lives here in actual life cannot go wrong, because all the enjoyments
of his existence are regulated not by the nominal hour, but by the time
of day. If the people were forced to use a German clock they would be
perplexed, for their own is intimately connected with their nature.
About an hour and a half, or an hour before midnight, the nobility
begin to ride out. They proceed to the Piazza della Bra, along the
long, broad street to the Porta Nuova out at the gate, and along the
city, and when night sets in, they all return home. Sometimes they go
to the churches to say their Ave Maria della sera: sometimes they keep
on the Bra, where the cavaliers step up to the coaches and converse for
a while with the ladies. The foot passengers remain till a late hour of
night, but I have never stopped till the last. To-day just enough rain
had fallen to lay the dust, and the spectacle was most cheerful and
animated.
That I may accommodate myself the better to the custom of the country
I have devised a plan for mastering more easily the Italian method of
reckoning the hours. The accompanying diagram may give an idea of it.
The inner circle denotes our four and twenty hours, from midnight to
midnight, divided into twice twelve, as we reckon, and as our clocks
indicate. The middle circle shows how the clocks strike at the present
season, namely, as much as twelve twice in the twenty-four hours, but
in such a way that it strikes one, when it strikes eight with us, and
so on till the number twelve is complete. At eight o'clock in the
morning according to our clock it again strikes one, and so on. Finally
the outer circle shows how the four and twenty hours are reckoned in
actual life. For example, I hear seven o'clock striking in the night,
and know that midnight is at five o'clock; I therefore deduct the
latter number from the former, and thus have two hours after midnight.
If I hear seven o'clock strike in the day-time, and know that noon is
at five, I proceed in the same way, and thus have two in the afternoon.
But if I wish to express the hour according to the fashion of this
country, I must know that noon is seventeen o'clock; I add the two, and
get nineteen o'clock. When this method is heard and thought of for the
first time, it seems extremely confused and difficult to manage, but we
soon grow accustomed to it and find the occupation amusing. The people
themselves take delight in this perpetual calculation, just as children
are pleased with easily surmounted difficulties. Indeed they always
have their fingers in the air, make any calculation in their heads,
and like to occupy themselves with figures. Besides to the inhabitant
of the country the matter is so much the easier, as he really does not
trouble himself about noon and midnight, and does not, like the foreign
resident, compare two clocks with each other. They only count from the
evening the hours, as they strike, and in the day-time they add the
number to the varying number of noon, with which they are acquainted.
The rest is explained by the remarks appended to the diagram:--
COMPARATIVE TABLE
of
GERMAN AND ITALIAN TIME,
WITH THE HOURS OF THE ITALIAN SUN-DIAL FOR THE LATTER
HALF OF SEPTEMBER.
MIDDAY.
MIDNIGHT.
The night lengthens half an hour
every fortnight.
Month. Day. Time of night Midnight
as shewn by consequently
German clocks. falls about.
August 1 8½ 3½
-- 15 8 4
Sept. 1 7½ 4½
-- 15 7 5
October 1 6½ 5½
-- 15 6 6
Nov. 1 5½ 6½
-- 15 5 7
From this date the time remains
constant and it is:--
NIGHT. MIDNIGHT.
Dec.
5 7
Jan.
The day lengthens half an hour
every fortnight,
Time of night Midnight
Month. Day. as shewn by consequently
German clocks falls about.
Febr. 1 5½ 6½
-- 15 6 6
March 1 6½ 5½
-- 15 7 5
April 1 7½ 4½
-- 15 8 4
May 1 8½ 3
-- 15 9 3
From this date the time remains
constant and it is:--
NIGHT. MIDNIGHT.
June
9 3
July
_Verona, Sept._ 17.
The people here jostle one another actively enough; the narrow streets,
where shops and workmen's stalls are thickly crowded together, have a
particularly cheerful look. There is no such thing as a door in front
of the shop or workroom; the whole breadth of the house is open, and
one may see all that passes in the interior. Half-way out into the
path, the tailors are sewing; and the cobblers are pulling and rapping;
indeed the work-stalls make a part of the street. In the evening, when
the lights are burning, the appearance is most lively.
The squares are very full on market days; there are fruit and
vegetables without number, and garlic and onions to the heart's
desire. Then again throughout the day there is a ceaseless screaming,
bantering, singing, squalling, huzzaing, and laughing. The mildness
of the air, and the cheapness of the food, make subsistence easy.
Everything possible is done in the open air.
At night singing and all sorts of noises begin. The ballad of
"_Marlbrook_" is heard in every street;--then comes a dulcimer, then a
violin. They try to imitate all the birds with a pipe. The strangest
sounds are heard on every side. A mild climate can give this exquisite
enjoyment of mere existence, even to poverty, and the very shadow of
the people seems respectable.
The want of cleanliness and convenience, which so much strikes us in
the houses, arises from the following cause:--the inhabitants are
always out of doors, and in their light-heartedness think of nothing.
With the people all goes right, even the middle-class man just lives on
from day to day, while the rich and genteel shut themselves up in their
dwellings, which are not so habitable as in the north. Society is found
in the open streets. Fore-courts and colonnades are all soiled with
filth, for things are done in the most _natural_ manner. The people
always feel their way before them. The rich man may be rich, and build
his palaces; and the _nobile_ may rule, but if he makes a colonnade or
a fore-court, the people will make use of it for their own occasions,
and have no more urgent wish than to get rid as soon as possible, of
that which they have taken as often as possible. If a person cannot
bear this, he must not play the great gentleman, that is to say, he
must act as if a part of his dwelling belonged to the public. He may
shut his door, and all will be right. But in open buildings the people
are not to be debarred of their privileges, and this, throughout Italy,
is a nuisance to the foreigner.
To-day I remarked in several streets of the town, the customs and
manners of the middle-classes especially, who appear very numerous and
busy. They swing their arms as they walk. Persons of a high rank, who
on certain occasions wear a sword, swing only one arm, being accustomed
to hold the left arm still.
Although the people are careless enough with respect to their own wants
and occupations, they have a keen eye for everything foreign. Thus in
the very first days, I observed that every one took notice of my boots,
because here they are too expensive an article of dress to wear even in
winter. Now I wear shoes and stockings nobody looks at me. Particularly
I noticed this morning, when all were running about with flowers,
vegetables, garlic, and other market-stuff, that a twig of cypress,
which I carried in my hand, did not escape them. Some green cones
hung upon it, and I held in the same hand some blooming caper-twigs.
Everybody, large and small, watched me closely, and seemed to entertain
some whimsical thought.
[Sidenote: Verona-Vicenza.]
I brought these twigs from the Giusti garden, which is finely situated,
and in which there are monstrous cypresses, all pointed up like spikes
into the air. The Taxus, which in northern gardening we find cut to a
sharp point, is probably an imitation of this splendid natural product.
A tree, the branches of which, the oldest as well as the youngest, are
striving to reach heaven,--a tree which will last its three hundred
years, is well worthy of veneration. Judging from the time when this
garden was laid out, these trees have already attained that advanced
age.
* * * * *
_Vicenza, Sept._ 19.
The way from Verona hither is very pleasant: we go north-eastwards
along the mountains, always keeping to the left the foremost mountains,
which consist of sand, lime, clay, and marl; the hills which they form,
are dotted with villages, castles, and houses. To the right extends the
broad plain, along which the road goes. The straight broad path, which
is in good preservation, goes through a fertile field; we look into
deep avenues of trees, up which the vines are trained to a considerable
height, and then drop down, like pendant branches. Here we can get an
admirable idea of festoons! The grapes are ripe, and are heavy on the
tendrils, which hang down long and trembling. The road is filled with
people of every class and occupation, and I was particularly pleased
by some carts, with low solid wheels, which, with teams of fine oxen,
carry the large vats, in which the grapes from the vineyards are put
and pressed. The drivers rode in them when they were empty, and the
whole was like a triumphal procession of Bacchanals. Between the ranks
of vines the ground is used for all sorts of grain, especially Indian
corn and millet (_Sörgel_).
As one goes towards Vicenza, the hills again rise from north to south
and enclose the plain; they are, it is said, volcanic. Vicenza lies at
their foot, or if you will, in a bosom which they form.
* * * * *
_Vicenza, Sept._ 19.
Though I have been here only a few hours, I have already run through
the town, and seen the Olympian theatre, and the buildings of Palladio.
A very pretty little book is published here, for the convenience of
foreigners, with copper-plates and some letter-press, that shows
knowledge of art. When once one stands in the presence of these works,
one immediately perceives their great value, for they are calculated
to fill the eye with their actual greatness and massiveness, and to
satisfy the mind by the beautiful harmony of their dimensions, not
only in abstract sketches, but with all the prominences and distances
of perspective. Therefore I say of Palladio: he was a man really and
intrinsically great, whose greatness was outwardly manifested. The
chief difficulty with which this man, like all modern architects, had
to struggle, was the suitable application of the orders of columns
to buildings for domestic or public use; for there is always a
contradiction in the combination of columns and walls. But with what
success has he not worked them up together! What an imposing effect has
the aspect of his edifices: at the sight of them one almost forgets
that he is attempting to reconcile us to a violation of the rules of
his art. There is, indeed, something divine about his designs, which
may be exactly compared to the creations of the great poet, who, out of
truth and falsehood elaborates something between both, and charms us
with its borrowed existence.
[Sidenote: Vicenza.]
The Olympic theatre is a theatre of the ancients, realized on a
small scale, and indescribably beautiful. However, compared with our
theatres, it reminds me of a genteel, rich, well-bred child, contrasted
with a shrewd man of the world, who, though he is neither so rich, nor
so genteel, and well-bred, knows better how to employ his resources.