A NIGHT RAMBLE IN FLORENCE
Whatever the medieval atmosphere of Florence may have been, and when I
was there the exterior appearance of the central heart was obviously
somewhat akin to its fourteenth- and fifteenth-century predecessor,
to-day its prevailing spirit is thoroughly modern. If you walk in the
Piazza della Signoria or the Piazza del Duomo or the Via dei Calzaioli,
the principal thoroughfare, you will encounter most of the ancient
landmarks--a goodly number of them, but they will look out of place, as
in the case of the palaces with their windowless ground floors, built
so for purposes of defense, their corner lanterns, barricaded windows,
and single great entrances easily guarded. To-day these regions have,
if not the open spacing of the modern city, at least the commercial
sprightliness and matter-of-fact business display and energy which is
characteristic of commerce everywhere.
I came to the Piazza della Signoria, the most famous square of the
city, quite by accident, the first night following a dark, heavily
corniced street from my hotel and at once recognized the Palazzo
Vecchio, with its thin angular tower; the Loggia dei Lanzi, where
in older times public performances were given in the open; and the
equestrian statue of Cosimo I. I idled long here, examining the
bronze slab which marks the site of the stake at which Savonarola
and two other Dominicans were burned in 1498, the fountain designed
by Bartolommeo Ammanati; the two lions at the step of the Loggia and
Benvenuto Cellini’s statue of “Perseus” with the head of Medusa. A
strange genius, that. This figure is as brilliant and thrilling as it
is ghastly.
It was a lovely night. The moon came up after a time as it had at
Perugia and Assisi and I wandered about these old streets, feeling
the rough brown walls, looking in at the open shop windows, most
of them dark and lighted by street lamps, and studying always the
wide, overhanging cornices. All really interesting cities are so
delightfully different. London was so low, gray, foggy, heavy, drab,
and commonplace; Paris was so smart, swift, wide-spaced, rococo,
ultra-artistic, and fashionable; Monte Carlo was so semi-Parisian
and semi-Algerian or Moorish, with sunlight and palms; Rome was so
higgledy-piggledy, of various periods, with a strange mingling of
modernity and antiquity, and over all blazing sunlight and throughout
all cypresses; and now in Florence I found the compact, dark
atmosphere, suggestive of what Paris once was, centuries before, with
this distinctive feature, that the wide cornice is here an essential
characteristic. It is so wide! It protrudes outward from the building
line at least three or four feet and it may be much more, six or
seven. One thing is certain, as I found to my utter delight on a
rainy afternoon, you can take shelter under its wide reach and keep
comparatively dry. Great art has been developed in making it truly
ornamental and it gives the long narrow streets a most individual and,
in my judgment, distinguished appearance.
It was quite by accident, also, on this same evening that I came
upon the Piazza del Duomo where the street cars are. I did not know
where I was going until suddenly turning a corner there I saw it--the
Campanile at last and a portion of the Cathedral standing out soft
and fair in the moonlight! I shall always be glad that I saw it so,
for the strange stripe and arabesque of its stone work,--slabs of
white or cream-colored stone interwoven in lovely designs with slabs
of slate-colored granite, had an almost eerie effect. It might have
been something borrowed from Morocco or Arabia or the Far East.
The dome, too, as I drew nearer, and the Baptistery soared upwards
in a magnificent way and, although afterwards I was sorry that
the municipality has never had sense enough to tear out the ruck
of buildings surrounding it and leave these three monuments--the
Cathedral, the Campanile, and the Baptistery--standing free and clear,
as at Pisa, on a great stone platform or square,--nevertheless, cramped
as I think they are, they are surely beautiful.
I was not so much impressed by the interior of the cathedral. Its
beauty is largely on the outside.
I ascended the Campanile still another day and from its height viewed
all Florence, the windings of the Arno, San Miniato, Fiesole, but,
try as I might, I could not think of it in modern terms. It was
too reminiscent of the Italy of the Medici, of the Borgias, Julius
II, Michelangelo and all the glittering company who were their
contemporaries. One thing that was strongly impressed upon me there
was that every city should have a great cathedral. Not so much as a
symbol or theory of religion as an object of art, something which would
indicate the perfection of the religious ideal taken from an artistic
point of view. Here you can stand and admire the exquisite double
windows with twisted columns, the infinite variety of the inlaid marble
work, and the quaint architecture of the niches supported by columns.
It was after midnight and the moon was high in the heavens shining down
with a rich springlike effect before I finally returned from the Duomo
Square, following the banks of the Arno and admiring the shadows cast
by the cornices and so finally reached my hotel and my bed.
The Uffizi and Pitti collections of paintings are absolutely the most
amazing I saw abroad. There are other wonderful collections, the
Louvre being absolutely unbelievable for size; but here the art is so
uniformly relative to Italy, so identified with the Renaissance, so
suggestive of the influence and the patronage which gave it birth. The
influence of religion, the wealth of the Catholic Church, the power
of individual families such as the Medici and the Dukes of Venice are
all clearly indicated. Botticelli’s “Adoration of the Magi” in the
Uffizi, showing the proud Medici children, the head of Cosimo Pater
Patriae, and the company of men of letters and statesmen of the time,
all worked in as figures about the Christ child, tell the whole story.
Art was flattering to the nobility of the day. It was dependent for its
place and position upon religion, upon the patronage of the Church,
and so you have endless “Annunciations,” “Adorations,” “Flights into
Egypt,” “Crucifixions,” “Descents from the Cross,” “Entombments,”
“Resurrections,” and the like. The sensuous “Magdalena,” painted for
her form and the beauty of suggestion, you will encounter over and over
again. All the saints in the calendar, the proud Popes and Cardinals
of a dozen families, the several members of the Medici family--they
are all there. Now and then you will encounter a Rubens, a Van Dyck,
a Rembrandt, or a Frans Hals from the Netherlands, but they are rare.
Florence, Rome, Venice, Pisa, and Milan, are best represented by their
own sculptors, painters and architects and it is the local men largely
in whom you rejoice. The bits from other lands are few and far between.
Rome for sculptures, frescoes, jewel-box churches, ancient ruins, but
Florence for paintings and the best collections of medieval artistic
craftsmanship.
In the Uffizi, the Pitti, and the Belle Arti I browsed among the vast
collections of paintings sharpening my understanding of the growth of
Italian art. I never knew until I reached Florence how easy it is to
trace the rise of Christian art, to see how one painter influenced
another, how one school borrowed from another. It is all very plain.
If by the least effort you fix the representatives of the different
Italian schools in mind, you can judge for yourself.
I returned three times to look at Botticelli’s “Spring” in the Belle
Arti, that marvelous picture which I think in many respects is the
loveliest picture in the world, so delicate, so poetically composed,
so utterly suggestive of the art and refinement of the painter and of
life at its best. The “Three Graces,” so lightly clad in transparent
raiment, are so much the soul of joy and freshness, the utter
significance of spring. The ruder figures to the left do so portray
the cold and blue of March, the warmer April, and the flower-clad May!
I could never tire of the artistry which could have March blowing on
April’s mouth from which flowers fall into the lap of May. Nor could
I weary of the spirit that could select green, sprouting things for
the hem of April’s garment; or above Spring’s head place a wingèd
and blindfolded baby shooting a fiery arrow at the Three Graces. To
me Botticelli is the nearest return to the Greek spirit of beauty,
grace and lightness of soul, combined with later delicacy and romance
that the modern world has known. It is so beautiful that for me it is
sad--full of the sadness that only perfect beauty can inspire.
[Illustration: I sated myself on the house fronts or backs below the
Ponte Vecchio]
I think now, of all the places I saw in Italy, perhaps Florence really
preserves in spite of its changes most of the atmosphere of the past,
but that is surely not for long, either; for it is growing and the
Germans are arriving. They were in complete charge of my hotel here and
of other places, as I shortly saw, and I fancy that the future of
northern Italy is to be in the hands of the Germans.
As I walked about this city, lingering in its doorways, brooding over
its pictures, reconstructing for myself the life of the Middle Ages, I
could not help thinking how soon it must all go. No doubt the churches,
palaces, and museums will be retained in their present form for
hundreds of years, and they should be, but soon will come wider streets
and newer houses even in the older section (the heart of the city) and
then farewell to the medieval atmosphere. In all likelihood the wide
cornices, now such a noticeable feature of the city, will be abandoned
and then there will be scarcely anything to indicate the Florence of
the past. Already the street cars were clang-clanging their way through
certain sections.
The Arno here is so different from the Tiber at Rome; and yet so much
like it, for it has in the main the same unprepossessing look, running
as it does through the city between solid walls of stone but lacking
the spectacles of the castle of St. Angelo, Saint Peter’s, the hills
and the gardens of the Aventine and the Janiculum. There are no ancient
ruins on the Arno,--only the suggestive architecture of the Middle
Ages, the wonderful Ponte Vecchio and the houses adjacent to it.
Indeed the river here is nothing more than a dammed stream--shallow
before it reaches the city, shallow after it leaves it, but held in
check here by great stone dams which give it a peculiarly still mass
and depth. The spirit of the people was not the same as that of those
in Rome or other cities; the spirit of the crowd was different. A
darker, richer, more phlegmatic populace, I thought. The people were
slow, leisurely, short and comfortable. I sated myself on the house
fronts or backs below the Ponte Vecchio and on the little jewelry shops
of which there seemed to be an endless variety; and then feeling that
I had had a taste of the city, I returned to larger things. The Duomo,
the palaces of the Medici, the Pitti Palace, and that world which
concerned the Council of Florence, and the dignified goings to and fro
of old Cosimo Pater and his descendants were the things that I wished
to see and realize for myself if I could.
I think we make a mistake when we assume that the manners, customs,
details, conversation, interests and excitements of people anywhere
were ever very much different from what they are now. In three or four
hundred years from now people in quite similar situations to our own
will be wondering how we took our daily lives; quite the same as our
ancestors, I should say, and no differently from our descendants. Life
works about the same in all times. Only exterior aspects change. In the
particular period in which Florence, and all Italy for that matter, was
so remarkable, Italy was alive with ambitious men--strong, remarkable,
capable characters. _They_ made the wonder of the life, it was not the
architecture that did it and not the routine movements of the people.
Florence has much the same architecture to-day, better in fact; but not
the men. Great men make great times--and only struggling, ambitious,
vainglorious men make the existence of the artist possible, however
much he may despise them. They are the only ones who in their vainglory
and power can readily call upon him to do great things and supply the
means. Witness Raphael and Michelangelo in Italy, Rubens in Holland,
and Velasquez in Spain.