The architectural monumental character of the Italian towns together with
their neglected condition palls on one at last. In them a modern man
feels not at home, but as though in an uncomfortable box at the theatre,
with magnificent scenery on the stage.
Life in them has not found its own level, is not simple, and is not
convenient. The tone is elevated; in everything there is declamation,
and Italian declamation (any one who has heard Dante read aloud knows
what it is like). In everything there is the strained intensity which
used to be the fashion among Moscow philosophers and German learned
artists; everything is looked at from the highest standpoint, vom _höhern
Standpunkt_. This artificial strain excludes all _abandon_, and is for
ever prepared for controversy and exposition in set phrases. Chronic
enthusiasm is exhausting and irritating.
Man does not want to be always admiring, always spiritually elevated; he
does not want to have the _Tugenden_ always in evidence; he does not want
to be touched and carried mentally far back into the past; while Italy
will never let him drop below a certain high pitch, but is incessantly
reminding him that her street is not simply a street but also a monument,
that he may not merely walk through her squares but ought to be studying
them.
At the same time everything in Italy, particularly what is beautiful
and grand (possibly it is the same everywhere), borders upon insanity
and absurdity—or at least is suggestive of childishness.... The Piazza
Signoria is the nursery of the Florentine people; granddad Buonarroti
and uncle Cellini presented it with marble and bronze playthings, and it
has strewn them about at random in the square where blood has so often
been shed and its fate has been decided—without the slightest connection
with David or Perseus.... There is a town in the water so that pike
and perch can wander through the streets ... there is a town built of
stone crevices such as would suit centipedes or lizards to creep and run
through—between precipices made up of palaces ... and then a primaeval
wilderness of marble. What brain dared create the outlines of that stone
forest called Milan Cathedral, that mountain of stalactites? What brain
had the hardihood to carry out that mad architect’s dream?... And who
gave the money for it, the incredible immense sums of money?
People only make sacrifices for what is unnecessary. Their fantastic
aims are always the most precious to them, more precious than daily
bread, more precious than self-interest. To develop egoism a man must be
trained, just as for humane culture. But imagination will carry him away
without training, will fill him with enthusiasm without reflection. The
ages of faith were the ages of miracles.
A town which is more modern but less historical and decorative is Turin.
‘It simply overwhelms one with its prose.’
Yes, but it is easier to live in, just because it is simply a town, a
town that exists not only for its own memories but for everyday life,
for the present; its streets are not archaeological museums, and do
not remind us at every step: _memento mori_; but glance at its working
population, at their aspect, keen as the Alpine air, and you will see
that they are a sturdier stamp of men than the Florentines or the
Venetians, and have perhaps even more staying power than the Genoese.
The latter, however, I do not know. It is very difficult to get a view of
them, they are always flitting before one’s eyes, bustling and running
to and fro in a hurry. There are swarms of people in the lanes leading
to the sea, but those who are standing still are not Genoese; they are
sailors of every land and ocean—skippers, captains. A bell rings here, a
bell rings there: _Partenza!—Partenza!_—and part of the ant-heap begins
scurrying about, some loading, others unloading.
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