IN THE VALE OF THE ARNO.
FLORENCE, September 27th.
We are getting more into the heart of Italy as we come farther south.
In the old Roman days the country watered by the Po was not a part of
Italy; it was Cisalpine Gaul. This we leave behind as we turn
southward from Genoa. The road runs along the shore of the
Mediterranean; it is a continuation of the Riviera as far as Spezzia,
where we leave the sea and strike inland to Pisa, one of the Mediaeval
cities, which in its best days was a rival of Genoa, and which has
still some memorials of its former grandeur. Here we spent a night,
and the next morning visited the famous Leaning Tower, and the
Cathedral and Baptistery, and the Campo Santo (filled with earth
brought from Jerusalem in fifty-three ships, that the faithful might
be buried in holy ground), and then pursued our way along the Valley
of the Arno to Florence.
And now the inspiration of the country, the _genius loci_, comes upon
us more and more. We are in Tuscany, one of the most beautiful
portions of the whole peninsula. We are favored by the season of the
year. Before we came abroad I consulted some of my travelled friends
as to the best time of the year to visit Italy. Most tourists come
here in the winter. Rome especially is not thought to be safe till
late in the autumn. But Dr. Bellows told me that, so far from waiting
for cold weather, he thought Italy could be seen in its full beauty
_only_ in an earlier month, when the country was still clothed with
vegetation. Certainly it is better to see it in its summer bloom, or
in the ripeness of autumn, than when the land is stripped, when the
mountains are bleak and bare, when there is not a leaf on the vine or
the fig-tree, and only naked branches shiver in the wintry wind. We
have come at a season when the earth has still its glory on. The
vineyards are full of the riches of the year; the peasants are now
gathering the grapes, and we have witnessed that most picturesque
Italian scene, the vintage. Dark forests clothe the slopes of the
Apennines. At this season there is a soft, hazy atmosphere, like that
of our Indian summer, which gives a kind of purple tint to the Italian
landscapes. The skies are fair, but not more fair than that heaven of
blue which bends over many a beloved spot in America. Nor is the
vegetation richer, nor are the landscapes more lovely, than in our own
dear vales of Berkshire. Even the Arno at this season, like most of
the other rivers of Italy, is a dried up bed with only a rivulet of
muddy water running through it. Later in the autumn, when the rains
descend; or in the spring, when the snows melt upon the mountains, it
is swollen to such a height that it often overflows its banks, and the
full stream rushes like a torrent. But at present the mighty Arno, of
which poets have sung so much, is not so large as the Housatonic, nor
half so beautiful as that silver stream, on whose banks the meadows
are always fresh and green, and where the waters are pure and
sparkling that ripple over its pebbled bed.
But the position of Florence is certainly one of infinite beauty,
lying in a valley, surrounded by mountains. The approach to it by a
railroad, when one gets his first view from a level, is much less
picturesque than in the old days when we travelled by _vettura_, and
came to it over the Apennines, and after a long day's journey reached
the top of a distant hill, from which we saw Florence afar off,
sitting like a queen in the Valley of the Arno, the setting sun
reflected from the Duomo and the Campanile, and from all its domes and
towers.
In this Valley of Paradise we have spent a week, visiting the
galleries of pictures, and making excursions to Fiesole and other
points of view on the surrounding hills, from which to look down on as
fair a scene as ever smiled beneath an Italian sun.
Florence is in many respects the most attractive place in Italy, as it
unites the charms of art with those of modern life; as it exists not
only in the dead past, but in the living present. It is a large,
thriving, prosperous city, and has become a great resort of English
and Americans, who gather here in the winter months, and form a most
agreeable society. There are a number of American sculptors and
painters, whose works are well known on the other side of the
Atlantic. Some of their studios we visited, and saw abundant evidence,
that with all our intensely practical life, the elements of taste and
beauty, and of a genius for art, are not wanting in our countrymen.
Florence has had a material growth within a few years, from being for
a time the capital of the new kingdom of Italy. When Tuscany was added
to Sardinia, the capital was removed from Turin to Florence as a more
central city, and the presence of the Court and the Parliament gave a
new life to its streets. Now the Court is removed to Rome, but the
impulse still remains, and in the large squares which have been
opened, and the new buildings which are going up, one sees the signs
of life and progress. To be sure, there is not only _growing_ but
_groaning_, for the taxes are fearfully high here, as everywhere in
Italy. The country is bearing burdens as heavy as if it were in a
state of war. If only Italy were the first country in Europe to reduce
her armaments, she could soon lighten the load upon her people.
But leaving aside all political and financial questions, one may be
permitted to enjoy this delightful old city, with its treasures of
art, and its rich historical memories. Florence has lately been
revelling in its glories of old days in a celebration of the four
hundredth anniversary of the birth of Michael Angelo--as a few years
since it celebrated the six hundredth anniversary of the birth of
Dante. Surely few men in history better deserve to be remembered than
Michael Angelo, whose rugged face looks more like that of a
hard-headed old Scotchman, than of one who belonged to the handsome
Italian race. And yet that brain was full of beautiful creations, and
in his life of eighty-nine years he produced enough to leave, not only
to Florence, but to Rome, many monuments of his genius. He was great
in several forms of art--as painter, sculptor, and architect--and even
had some pretension to be a poet. He was the sculptor of David and
Moses; the painter of the Last Judgment and the frescoes of the
Sistine Chapel, and the architect who built St. Peter's. And his
character was equal to his genius. He was both religious and
patriotic, not only building churches, but the fortifications that
defended Florence against her enemies. Such was Michael Angelo--a
simple, grand old man, whose name is worthy to live with the heroes of
antiquity.
We were too late to enjoy the fetes that were given at this
anniversary, and were only able to be present at the performance of
Verdi's Requiem, which concluded the whole. This sublime composition
was written for the great Italian author Manzoni, and to be sung in
the Cathedral of Milan, whose solemn aisles were in harmony with its
mournful and majestic strains. Now it would have seemed more fitting
in the Duomo of Florence than in a theatre, though perhaps the latter
was better constructed for an orchestra and an audience. The
performance of the Requiem was to be the great musical event of the
year; we had heard the fame of it at Milan and at Venice, and having
seen what Italy could show in one form of art, we were now able to
appreciate it in another. Months had been spent in preparation.
Distinguished singers were to lead in the principal parts, while
hundreds were to join their voices in the tremendous chorus. On the
night that we witnessed the representation, the largest theatre in
Florence was crowded from pit to dome, although the price of admission
was very high. In the vast assembly was comprised what was most
distinguished in Florence, with representatives from other cities of
Italy, and many from other countries. The performance occupied over
two hours. It began with soft, wailing melodies, such as might be
composed to soothe a departing soul, or to express the wish of
survivors that it might enter into its everlasting rest. Then
succeeded the DIES IRAE--the old Latin hymn, which for centuries has
sounded forth its accents of warning and of woe. Those who are
familiar with this sublime composition will remember the terrific
imagery with which the terrors of the Judgment are presented, and can
imagine the effect of such a hymn rendered with all the power of
music. We had first a quiet, lulling strain--almost like silence,
which was the calm before the storm. Then a sound was heard, but low,
as of something afar off, distant and yet approaching. Nearer and
nearer it drew, swelling every instant, till it seemed as if the
trumpets that should wake the dead were stirring the alarmed air. At
last came a crash as if a thunder peal had burst in the building. This
terrific explosion, of course, was soon relieved by softer sounds.
There were many and sudden transitions, one part being given by a
single powerful voice, or by two or three, or four, and then the
mighty chorus responding with a sound like that of many waters. After
the Dies Irae followed a succession of more gentle strains, which spoke
of Pardon and Peace. The _Agnus Dei_ and other similar parts were
given with a tenderness that was quite overpowering. Those who have
heard the Oratorio of the Messiah, and remember the melting sweetness
of such passages as "He leadeth me beside the still waters," and "I
know that my Redeemer liveth," can form an idea of the marvellous
effect. I am but an indifferent judge of music, but I could not but
observe how much grander such a hymn as the Dies Irae sounds in the
original Latin than in any English version. _Eternal rest_ are sweet
words in English, but in music they can never be rendered with the
effect of the Latin REQUIEM SEMPITERNAM, on which the voices of the
most powerful singers lingered and finally died away, as if bidding
farewell to a soul that was soaring to the very presence of God. This
Requiem was a fitting close to the public celebrations by which
Florence did honor to the memory of her illustrious dead.
Michael Angelo is buried in the church of Santa Croce, and near his
tomb is that of another illustrious Florentine, whose name belongs to
the world, and to the _heavens_--"the starry Galileo." We have sought
out the spots associated with his memory--the house where he lived and
the room where he died. The tower from which he made his observations
is on an elevation which commands a wide horizon. There with his
little telescope--a very slender tube and very small glass, compared
with the splendid instruments in our modern observatories--he watched
the constellations, as they rose over the crest of the Apennines, and
followed their shining path all night long. There he observed the
mountains in the moon, and the satellites of Jupiter. What a
commentary on the intelligence of the Roman Catholic Church, that such
a man should be dragged before the Inquisition--before ignorant
priests who were not worthy to untie his shoes--and required, under
severe penalties, to renounce the doctrine of the revolution of the
globe. The old man yielded in a moment of weakness, to escape
imprisonment or death, but as he rose from his knees, his spirit
returned to him, and he exclaimed "_But still it moves!_" A good motto
for reformers of all ages. Popes and inquisitors may try to stop the
revolution of the earth, but still it moves!
There is another name in the history of Florence, which recalls the
persecutions of Rome--that of Savonarola. No spot was more sacred to
me than the cell in the Monastery, where he passed so many years, and
from which he issued, crucifix in hand (the same that is still kept
there as a holy relic), to make those fiery appeals in the streets of
Florence, which so stirred the hearts of the people, and led at last
to his trial and death. A rude picture that is hung on the wall
represents the final scene. It is in the public square, in front of
the Old Palace, where a stage is erected, and monks are conducting
Savonarola and two others who suffered with him, to the spot where the
flames are kindled. Here he was burnt, and his ashes thrown into the
Arno. But how impotent the rage that thought thus to stifle such a
voice! His words, like his ashes, have gone into the air, and the
winds take them up and carry them round the world. Henceforth his name
belongs to history, and in the ages to come will be whispered by
"Those airy tongues that syllable men's names,
On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses."
It is a proof of the decline of Italy under the oppression of a
foreign yoke--of the paralysis of her intellectual as well as her
political life--that she has produced no name to equal these in four
hundred years. For though Byron eulogizes so highly, and perhaps
justly, Alfieri and Canova, it would be an extravagant estimate which
should assign them a place in the Pantheon of History beside the
immortals of the Middle Ages.
And yet Italy has not been wholly deserted of genius or of glory in
these later ages. In the darkest times she has had some great writers,
as well as painters and sculptors, and in the very enthusiasm with
which she now recalls in her celebrations the names of Dante and
Michael Angelo, we recognize a spirit of life, an admiration for
greatness, which may produce in the future those who may rank as their
worthy successors.
Within a few years Florence has become such a resort of strangers that
some of its most interesting associations are with its foreign
residents. In the English burying ground many of that country sleep
far from their native island. Some, like Walter Savage Landor and Mrs.
Browning, had made Florence their home for years. Italy was their
adopted country, and it is fit that they sleep in its sunny clime,
beneath a southern sky. So of our countryman Powers, who was a
resident of Florence for thirty-five years, and whose widow still
lives here in the very pretty villa which he built, with her sons and
daughter married and settled around her, a beautiful domestic group.
In the cemetery I sought another grave of one known to all Americans.
On a plain stone of granite is inscribed simply the name
THEODORE PARKER,
Born at Lexington, Massachusetts,
In the United States of America,
August 24th, 1810.
Died in Florence
May 10th, 1860.
One could preach a sermon over that grave, for in that form which is
now but dust, was one of the most vigorous minds of our day, a man of
prodigious force, an omnivorous reader, and a writer and lecturer on a
great variety of subjects, who in his manifold forms of activity, did
as much to influence the minds of his countrymen as any man of his
time. He struck fierce blows, right and left, often doing more ill
than good by his crude religious opinions, which he put forth as
boldly as if they were the accepted faith of all mankind; but in his
battle for Liberty rendering services which the American people will
not willingly let die.
Mrs. Browning's epitaph is still briefer. There is a longer
inscription on a tablet in the front of the house which was her home
for so many years, placed there by the municipal government of
Florence. There, as one looks up to those CASA GUIDI WINDOWS, which
she has given as a name to a volume of her poems, he may read that "In
this house lived and died ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, who by her
genius and her poetry made a golden link between England and Italy."
But on her tomb, which is of pure white marble, is only
E. B. B. OB. 1861.
But what need of more words to perpetuate a name that is on the lips
of millions; or to speak of one who speaks for herself in the poetry
she has made for nations; whose very voice thus lives in the air, like
a strain of music, and goes floating down the ages, singing itself to
immortality?