WE stayed in Rome until 27th April, when we left for Florence. We
had intended going round by the attractive town of Perugia, but the
morning of the 26th was wet, and, delaying our departure for a day,
we gave up Perugia, partly because to have gone upon a Friday would
have involved spending a Sunday there. The latter part of our journey
was interesting. On arriving at the outskirts of the town the railway
circumnavigates it, so that we had an opportunity from the very first
of seeing the cathedral dome and campanile, and the other towers and
spires of Florence, which lies beautifully situated in a luxuriantly
verdant valley, enclosed by the Apennines and other hills, and
intersected by the river Arno, which, seeing for the first time in the
soft moonlight in the course of the evening, looked so lovely.
The Lung’ Arno, or bank of the river, where most of the principal
hotels are placed, is considered the best situation, at least for
winter residence. Some of the hotels are unpleasantly near a waterfall
or wear stretching across the river, the incessant din of which is
troublesome at night. We spent a few nights at one of the hotels there,
and afterwards a fortnight at the Pension Molini Barbensi[39], on
the left bank of the river, where we found pleasant society and some
former travelling acquaintances. The house is a good one, and the rooms
are large, but a very little expenditure on sanitary arrangements
would improve it as a residence. Living seems not to be expensive at
Florence, and lodgings can be procured at a moderate rate.
* * * * *
Florence lies upon the same river as Pisa, but I suppose fifty or sixty
miles farther up, and the town bears some resemblance to it, but is
far more picturesque and far more lively and populous. In fact, Pisa
is quite a dull, quiet, dead–alive town beside it. The population of
Florence, at present about 170,000, is four times as great as that of
Pisa, and it has been a royal town as well as a provincial capital.
The river is crossed by six bridges (three, or rather four of them, of
very old date) connecting the north and south portions of the city,
which, however, lies mainly upon the north shore. Of these bridges
(all strongly buttressed against the force of the river, which no
doubt occasionally descends in floods with great power), the Ponte
Vecchio is peculiar and picturesque, and a remnant of old times, being
covered on each side with houses, and on one side, on the top floor,
by the long gallery which connects the Uffizi and Pitti Palaces. These
houses on the bridge are very curious. Next the street they present
to view on both sides small booths or stalls, principally occupied
by goldsmiths or jewellers, which very likely much resemble what the
shops of Old London were, but at the present day do not, for jewellers’
wares, inspire confidence. On the other or river sides, all manner of
chambers in or on the wall project, jut out, and overhang the river,
very perilous to behold, and suggestive of _oubliettes_ through which
murdered travellers on the bridge might be quietly dropped into the
river below, but conferring a quaintness of appearance precious in the
sight of the artist. Equally striking in effect is an adjoining range
of buildings on the left bank—also flanking the river, and with their
projecting chambers overhanging it. In the centre of the bridge large
arched openings enable the passer–by to look up and down the river, and
take in the prospect beyond.
[Illustration: PONTE VECCHIO,—FLORENCE.]
Nearly all along both sides of the Arno (protected by parapet walls)
a wide street runs, and the buildings lining it are some of them
stately and handsome, others are old or massive or peculiar, while the
line is diversified here and there by a spire or a curious tower. The
remarkable lofty old tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, and the dome and
campanile of the cathedral,—all such notable objects in the pictures
of Florence,—are prominent from almost every part, but especially from
the south side of the river. There are, however, certain points of view
from which Florence can be commanded. One of these is the terrace of
the church of San Miniato, which stands upon a hill to the south–east,
and is reached by a very delightful winding road bordered by villas,
which were all at the time of our visit looking very charming in
their new drapery of spring foliage. The church is an old one, finely
decorated with marble and mosaics and marble pillars, and possessing
a large crypt below. In itself it is well worth seeing, but it is
principally visited for the sake of the prospect. Looking down from the
terrace in front, Florence, with dome and towers, is seen lying away
below very compactly in the centre of a long, large, flat plain, cut in
two by the river, and surrounded by hills. It has here a fresher and
cleaner look than most Italian towns. Immediately below San Miniato the
piazza named after Michael Angelo lies, adorned in the centre by that
artist’s famous colossal statue of David. The smart terraces of this
nicely laid–out piazza command views similar to those from San Miniato,
but from a lower elevation. A different winding road, as pleasant as
the other, conducts down to the town.
* * * * *
Another fine drive is to the very ancient town of Fiesole, which
stands on a hill upon the north side, and is about three miles out of
town. There is here a curious old church or cathedral, with pillars
said to be of the first century. Ascending a hill a little higher,
and probably 1000 feet above the sea, the view from the top is more
commanding than that of San Miniato, and one sees the Arno winding its
way for a long distance down the valley, and the Carrara Mountains in
the distance. These and other drives about the suburbs of Florence give
the impression of a very charming place for a spring residence; but
Florence is hot in summer and often very cold in winter time, fierce
winds blowing from the hills, which I suppose are frequently covered
with snow. The older portions of the city are similar to most Italian
towns, full of narrow, tortuous streets; but adjoining the river and in
the newer portions, and in the outskirts, the streets are regular and
comparatively wide, with piazzas or open spaces in several parts. There
are wide, handsome boulevards or _viales_ encircling the city. In the
Piazza Cavour there is a graceful triumphal arch akin to that in the
Tuileries of Paris. At the west end, and adjoining the Arno, a large
public park extends, called the Cascine, in which are long avenues
bordered by trees, affording room for delightful drives and walks, one
portion being also laid out as a racecourse. In the quarter south of
the Arno the Boboli Gardens attached to the Royal Pitti Palace are also
extensive, but open to the public only on Sundays and Thursdays.
* * * * *
Florence, historically, is a place of great interest, and is associated
with many great names. It is the birthplace of, among others, Dante,
Boccaccio, Machiavelli, Galileo, Michael Angelo Buonarotti, Cimabue,
Fra Angelico, Leonardo da Vinci, Carlo Dolci, and others eminent in
art. The houses of some of these celebrities are pointed out.
I can imagine that to those who spend a winter in Florence it must be
exceedingly interesting to study the history of the place, and read on
the spot such entertaining books as the remarkable life of that most
remarkable man, Benvenuto Cellini, giving, as it does, such an insight
into Italian life in the sixteenth century. Machiavelli, who died in
1527, brings his history down only to the year 1492; but after reading
Trollope’s history, in four vols., Napier’s in six (leaving off at the
year 1824) will afford for a whole winter a sufficiently tough _pièce
de résistance_, the perusal whereof one’s physician would no doubt
recommend should be diversified occasionally by a chapter in Mrs.
Oliphant’s _Makers of Florence_, or by George Eliot’s _Romola_, which
it is to be hoped was not drawn from the life.
* * * * *
Florence, although in itself a more desirable place of residence than
Rome, has no Roman ruins. It possesses, however, very many objects of
great interest. There are within it about ninety churches, not a few of
which are attractive.
The cathedral, commenced about six hundred years ago, and in its façade
not yet finished, is immense, being 556 feet long by 342 feet wide. The
spirit in which it was originated was lofty, the Florentine Republic
desiring ‘that an edifice should be constructed so magnificent in its
height and beauty that it shall surpass everything of the kind produced
in the time of their greatest power by the Greeks and Romans.’ It is,
at least in external covering, composed of marble—white, black, and
green—with many sculptures and carvings in the marble, especially about
the doorways. The stones are laid on a species of panelling consisting
of upright parallelograms broken by large, formal, circular openings.
Though it be somewhat stiff in pattern, and may be objected to as
piebald, a certain richness of effect is produced. But the interior
is not correspondent with the exterior; it is vast, but too bare and
empty, and dark and dingy—perhaps, therefore, the more sublime! Looking
up from below into the magnificent dome, it seems an enormous height
to the lantern; as it no doubt is, being 352 feet—so high, in fact,
that the dome itself is higher than that of St. Peter’s, although the
highest pinnacle is not. In design and general effect, as a whole, the
cathedral will not compare with the great temple of Rome. The campanile
or bell tower which adjoins, but is separated from it, is of marvellous
beauty, and stands nearly 300 feet high. It is a perpendicular square
tower, built of every kind of coloured marble, adorned by statuary and
covered with rich alto–relievos (of which photographs can be procured);
also by the graceful windows, very charmingly decorated in a species
of suitable tracery. There is a completeness about this tower, even
though it lacks the spire with which Giotto intended it to be crowned,
combined with an exuberant affluence of decoration, which renders it a
delightful object of contemplation, or rather, I should say, a choice
object of study.
* * * * *
On the side of the piazza opposite to the west front the baptistery
stands, an octagonal building 94 feet in diameter, and in one of the
entrances the celebrated bronze gates are placed. We often availed
ourselves of opportunities to examine these beautiful embodiments in
bronze of Scripture subjects. Being exposed to the street, they are
laden with dust, which to a certain extent reduces their apparent
sharpness. Over this entrance gate there is a representation of the
baptism of Jesus in three sculptured figures—our Lord, John the
Baptist, and an attendant angel. Inside the baptistery, besides its
oriental granite columns and its mosaics, there is nothing very
remarkable.
On the south side of the cathedral, in the piazza, we found the little
church of the Misericordia, belonging to that peculiar body of monks
who, dressed in long black cloaks, with black masks over their faces
pierced by eyeholes, are to be occasionally seen going about Florence
and elsewhere in procession with the dead, which they bury, taking
thus the place of the relations, who, in some parts of Italy, seem to
abandon their friends when they die, and appear regardless of what
becomes of their remains. We saw the chapel upon Ascension Day, which
was a great holiday, or, to speak more exactly, _holy_ day in Florence.
On that occasion it was, like other churches, crammed to the door with
a changing audience, and, after pushing our way in, we were as glad to
push our way out again.
The churches of Santa Croce, S.S. Annunciata, Santa Maria Novella,
and San Lorenzo are among the finest. They contain beautiful marble
monuments, altar paintings, and other decorations which it would be
endless to mention. The large church of Santa Croce has a fine white
and black marble façade—rather straight and angular, however, in its
lines. It measures nearly 500 feet long, and the interior, besides
being adorned, as usual, with pictures, is the great receptacle of
monuments to illustrious Florentine men, such as Michael Angelo,
Galileo, and Machiavelli. The cloisters adjoining the church are well
worthy of a visit. Most of the important churches in Florence have the
advantage of a large open piazza in front. The vacant space surrounding
the cathedral, unfortunately, is comparatively insignificant, and it
were well if it could be enlarged. That in front of Santa Croce is
large, and is adorned by a colossal marble statue of Dante in classic
robe, attended by an eagle and guarded by four lions placed at the
corners of a suitable pedestal.
* * * * *
From the church of San Lorenzo, founded in the fourth century, and one
of the oldest churches in Italy, we were conducted by a touting guide
to the adjacent chapel of the Medici,—the princes of Florence,—and
the tombs of these princes, erected at a cost of nearly £900,000. The
chapel contains Michael Angelo’s masterpieces in sculpture—Lorenzo de
Medici as a warrior resting, but ready, while Day and Night personified
recline below, and on the opposite side Julian de Medici sits pondering
over recumbent Dawn and Twilight. Opinions, however, have differed as
to which is Lorenzo and which is Julian, and I am afraid the visitor
has, like the little boy, to ‘take his choice.’
* * * * *
The monastery, formerly of the Silvestrine, afterwards the Dominican
monks, now the Museum of San Marco, is close to the church of San
Marco. Here are to be seen a great many paintings by the pure–minded
Fra (Giovanni) Angelico, who resided in the monastery during the first
half of the fifteenth century. All his works, wrought out in prayer,
are distinguished by the beautiful though smooth painting of the faces,
many of which, here and elsewhere in Florence, are angelic, or, as we
might more correctly designate them, of a saintly, soft beauty, and
composed, devout inexpressiveness of any passion, but peculiar both
in attire and employment. It would be a mistake, however, to set down
all Angelo’s faces as of this description, as in some of his paintings
there is great diversity of contour and of expression, although the
drawing is often singular and in the pre–Raphaelite style. I suppose it
is generally correct, although not always. In one instance I noticed
that a neck seemed to be a linked sweetness rather long drawn out.
There is likewise shown in this museum, which is in reality a range of
monkish cells, the little cell in which Savonarola, the illustrious,
eloquent prior of the order, lived,—a man of great force of character,
a precursor of Luther, fearless as Knox, and a saviour of Florence,
whose people, when they burnt him at the stake, put to death their
greatest benefactor. In a large room were exhibited an immense
collection of the flags, banners, and colours of all the towns and
corporations of Italy which were represented at the Dante festival in
1865.
On the south side of the river, with the exception of Minesota, the
churches do not appear to be so fine; but there is one, the church of
San Spirito, which is large and attractive, and contains no less than
thirty–eight chapels encircling it—by far the largest number of side
chapels attached to a church I have seen anywhere.
* * * * *
The visitor, however, is at first most attracted by the Piazza della
Signoria, which—the centre of business—is a large open space, wherein,
or in its neighbourhood, some of the most important buildings are
congregated. On the south side of this piazza there is a lofty,
covered, arcaded hall, called the Loggia dei Lanzi, open on two sides
to the street by arches resting upon high ornamental pillars. Here
are arranged some of the most beautiful modern statues in Florence,
including the Rape of the Sabines in marble, by Giovanni da Bologna—a
spirited work, which, like some of the others, is constantly being
copied on a small scale in marble and alabaster, for sale in the shops;
and Perseus, a bronze statue by Benvenuto Cellini, a master of whose
works there are various specimens to be seen in Florence. Both these
stand in line with the front of the Loggia. Behind them are several
other groups, including the Rape of Polyxena, Hercules slaying the
Centaur, and one supposed to represent Ajax dragging along the body of
Patroclus or of Achilles, all in fine powerful action. Tall, massive
buildings have been erected on another side of the square, and opposite
them, sentinelled by statues, the Palazzo Vecchio rises grandly but
grimly, with its conspicuous campanile towering over everything
around. This palace is well worthy of a visit. Immediately within the
doorway we found, in contrast with the exterior, a graceful entrance
court, encircled by an arcade supported by rows of columns florid in
arabesques, each differing from the others, and a small fountain in
the centre giving life to the whole. Ascending a long stair, we were
ushered into an enormous hall, ornamented by six huge fresco paintings
representing events in the history of Italy. On a floor above we were
shown a chapel and several small rooms, in one of which there was a
model of the proposed façade of the cathedral. I suspect it will be a
long time before the façade itself be an accomplished fact. It appears
strange that it should be allowed to remain in its present condition,
a blemish upon the building, and a reflection upon the spirit in which
the erection was commenced.
* * * * *
The house of Michael Angelo is not far from the Piazza. It has been
converted into a museum, and contains, besides a series of paintings
representative of events in his life, with some of his drawings and
models in wax, and a small collection of works of art, a closet
or studio in which he wrought, and a portrait and statue of this
extraordinary artist and fiery independent man, conscious of a genius
as versatile as it was unrivalled. The high estimate in which he has
been held by those qualified to judge may be seen by referring to Sir
Joshua Reynolds’ _Discourses_.[40] In another street an inscription
upon a stone in the wall denotes a house in which Benvenuto Cellini at
one time lived.
* * * * *
But the greatest sources of attraction in Florence are the Uffizi and
Pitti Galleries. These are open free to the public on Sundays and
Thursdays—on other days on payment of a franc. The Uffizi Gallery
occupies the upper floor of the three sides of a long narrow street or
court or _cul de sac_, I believe 450 feet long—the fourth being open
to the Piazza della Signoria. The building has a handsome elevation,
scarcely visible in the narrow street, and is adorned by nearly thirty
marble statues of celebrated Tuscans, such as Dante, Petrarch, Michael
Angelo, Lorenzo il Magnifico, evidencing the wealth of Florence in
illustrious men. The gallery itself is reached by a long staircase,
and through vestibules embellished by busts and statues. On entering
we find ourselves in a long corridor, which is carried round the
whole length of the three sides of the building; in fact, making
three long galleries, not particularly high, though high enough for
the purpose, and lighted from the top and by windows looking into the
court. In these corridors, besides a good many pictures interspersed
upon the walls, the greater part of the sculpture of the collection
is assembled—embracing some choice specimens of ancient art, but in
number very small compared with the vast treasures of the Vatican.
Doors open all round into suites of rooms containing an immense
assemblage of paintings, principally Italian, and among them many of
the choicest works of the great masters. Besides the many chambers
devoted to works of art of various nations, among which Britain seems
to be nowhere and Italy to predominate, there are some small rooms
containing collections of gems, medals, and bronzes. Two of the larger
galleries exhibit several hundred portraits of artists, one of the
most pleasingly beautiful among them being a sweet likeness by Mme. Le
Brun of herself, a very favourite subject of copy, and with herself a
not uncommon subject of her brush, as may be noticed in the Louvre.
A very large room is likewise set apart mainly for the exhibition of
seventeen most painfully–expressive statues of the famous Niobe group.
But of all the rooms in this great gathering of art, the Tribune is the
one which displays the choicest specimens. It is a comparatively small
room, but is said to have cost £20,000 in its construction. Here are
chef–d’œuvres of Raphael, Titian, Guido Reni, Correggio, and various
others; while the chamber also contains the famous Venus de Medici, the
Wrestlers, the Dancing Faun, the Whetter—all masterpieces of ancient
sculpture.
Descending by a stair, the visitor proceeds by an almost interminably
long corridor, which stretches out to the Ponte Vecchio, and across
that bridge away to the Pitti Palace on the south side of the Arno—I
suppose scarcely less than half a mile between the two places.
This corridor, being lined with engravings, with drawings of the
masters, and with tapestries,—a collection of things in themselves
valuable,—would take a long time to examine, but in presence of so much
else more attractive, scarcely succeeds in alluring the passing visitor
to any lengthened scrutiny. Away and away it stretches, till after a
weary walk it comes to a termination, and ascending by another stair
into the Pitti Palace, we find ourselves in a collection of upwards of
five hundred paintings and a few sculptures, occupying about fifteen
different beautiful large rooms. It may truly be said there is hardly a
painting in these rooms which is not good, while there are among them
some of the choicest works of the great masters, as, for example,—for
it is but one of very many which might be named,—Raphael’s Madonna
della Sedia, the beauty of which painting is something wonderful.
No engraving and no copy that I have seen approaches the lovely
expressiveness of the original. I was several times in these galleries,
in which one could spend many days with the greatest enjoyment. But to
endeavour to write a description would be not merely fruitlessly to
seek to realize the works, but would be to attempt a disquisition on
the great in art, which, even with capacity for the undertaking, would
here be out of place. I suppose there is not an Italian painter of
eminence who is not represented in the gallery, though beyond native
art I think the only other nations whose artists’ works appear are the
Dutch and Spanish. Photographs and engravings can be procured of many
of the pictures in the shops.
At all times artists are engaged, in both the Uffizi and Pitti
Galleries, making copies of the more celebrated or most attractive
pictures—occasionally two upon the same picture; and they do proceed
with most wonderful patience and infinite pains, copying to the
minutest hair, and laying on coat after coat with the greatest
delicacy, some of them attaining to great excellence. A _permesso_ is
necessary to copy, and for some of the more celebrated paintings the
artists, I was told, had sometimes to wait their turn for years. When
they have, after elaborate painstaking, made a good copy, I fancy they
manufacture other copies from it. I was fortunate enough, among others,
to secure a copy of the lovely Madonna del Cordellina by Raphael, so
perfect that it might almost vie with the original. It was obviously a
copy direct from, and inspired by, the original. Beside it stood in the
same shop another copy, but oh! how different! I believe that some of
the copiers attach themselves more particularly to given masters,—for
example, one in general copies Titians, another Murillos, another
Raphaels. To protect against the abstraction of pictures from the
galleries, no one is allowed to take a picture, not even a copy, out of
Italy without a _permesso_. I bought a small copy of a Titian in the
galleries, and the artist (Adolphe Boschi) accompanied me with it to
the town, because, he said, they would not have allowed me to pass with
it myself.
There is one little inconvenience attendant upon the extreme length of
the galleries. Upon occasion of my first visit, I had unfortunately
taken an umbrella, which I was obliged to leave at the door of the
Uffizi Gallery. After wandering to the extreme end of the Pitti
Gallery, I had to retrace all my steps to regain this umbrella. It is
better, therefore, if anything must be left at the door, to confine a
visit to one or other of the palaces, and there is abundance in either
to engage a whole forenoon.
* * * * *
Not far from the Piazza della Signoria is what is called the National
Museum, contained in the old Palazzo del Podesta, rich, but severely
rich, in its architecture. The ground floor is occupied with ancient
and modern armour and arms. Above there is a gallery of statues, some
of them by Michael Angelo, a room full of majolica, another of ivory
carvings, two of bronzes, two of tapestry, and two of sculpture; but
the collection, though interesting, looks small after experiencing the
extent of the Uffizi and Pitti Galleries, and seems hardly deserving to
be dignified with the name of National.
The Corsini Palace, on the Lung Arno, is open three days in the week
to the public, and contains in twelve rooms a large collection of
paintings, many of which are by the great masters.
The Academia delle Belle Arti contains a large collection of
pre–Raphaelites, commencing with Cimabue, and comprising among others
some fine Peruginos. It is accordingly interesting. In an upper floor
several rooms exhibit paintings by modern Italian artists, principally
battlepieces. I paid a visit also to the rooms of the Association for
the Encouragement of the Fine Arts, which seems to be founded somewhat
on the same principles as similar associations in Great Britain;
but from such opportunities as I have had of forming an opinion, I
cannot say that the mantle of their great predecessors—whose works are
constantly before them, and might be thought calculated to inspire—has
fallen upon the modern Florentine artists.
* * * * *
Florence, besides being a great place for the sale of copies of
paintings, and for the manufacture of the well–known massive and
tastefully–decorated picture–frames, all carved out of the solid wood,
upon which the gilding is laid without any mixture of composition,
is the place of all others for the manufacture and sale of marble and
alabaster sculpture, and of the beautiful Florentine mosaic jewellery.
It is filled with shops for the sale of these various articles, which
are to be had at moderate prices, and strangers seldom leave without
more or less extensively making purchases.
* * * * *
The streets of Florence are always full of life. Occasionally of an
evening a body of men, perhaps twenty or thirty, would form themselves
in a ring, and with deep, rich, melodious voices sing Italian songs.
The power of voice or strength of lungs which the Italians sometimes
possess is indeed often exhibited in a surprising manner. All of a
sudden, walking along a street, it may be meditatively, a vendor of
small wares will abruptly at your very ear, and without apparent
effort, discharge a sharp, stentorian cry, piercing and startling
as with the shock of a nine–pounder, and nearly knocking you down
breathless and affrighted. The markets, too, are noisy,—bargain–making
being a serious operation, in which success is supposed to attend the
most vociferous and energetic,—but sometimes they are more quietly
conducted. Having once penetrated them, and found myself in the press
of a great crowd in very narrow passages, and in odious proximity
to heaps of most unpleasant–looking fish, it was with no little
satisfaction I made my escape as soon as escape was practicable.
* * * * *
There are many other places in Florence to be seen besides those I
have specially mentioned. We did see a good deal in the time we were
there, but not all by any means, and what we did see was in a very
general way. We remained not quite three weeks, and could with pleasure
have stayed much longer. It is a place which, like Rome, though not
to the same extent, requires a long stay, and is full of objects
meriting careful study and worthy of repeated examination. It is not,
however, without its drawbacks, chief among them being the not uncommon
practice in Italian towns of making air–holes from the drains to the
streets, from which unsavoury whiffs occasionally come, not pleasant to
contemplate. The authorities plainly want in sanitary arrangements some
teaching.