THE MEDICI BALLS
[Illustration:
BENOZZO GOZZOLI PINX ANDERSON PH.
Lorenzo de' Medici
]
The Medici Balls
SEVEN LITTLE JOURNEYS
IN TUSCANY
ANNA R. SHELDON
M. MOYCA NEWELL
_OVER ONE HUNDRED ILLUSTRATIONS_
CHARTERHOUSE PRESS
NEW YORK
1904
COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY
M. M. NEWELL
_ALL RIGHTS RESERVED_
SCHLUETER
PRINTING
COMPANY
NEW YORK
_To_
Frances Cecilia Newell
WE DEDICATE THIS BOOK
PREFATORY NOTE
[Illustration]
Why the Medici family assumed the well-known device of red balls on a
field of gold, is one of the vexed questions of heraldic history. Some
hold that as the saints, Cosmo and Damian, who appear so often in the
votive pictures of the Medici, were also patron saints of medicine
and surgery, and because the name of the family signifies physicians,
the balls may suggest pills (_palle_). Others think that a cluster of
balls, formerly the sign of money-lenders, was adopted as a device by
Giovanni de' Medici, founder of the greater branch of the illustrious
house, who as a banker attained great wealth and influence. As the
Medici identified themselves with the trading interests and government
of Florence, and were connected with several noble Florentine families,
their coat of arms became familiar throughout all that extensive
territory subject to Florence in the fifteenth century. With its varied
number of balls, or quartered with other arms, as charged with the
royal lily of France, or surmounted by the keys of St. Peter and a
pontiff's tiara, it greets the traveller at every turn, not only on
palaces and city gates, but on illuminated manuscripts and choir books,
on the covers of mediæval ledgers, and terra-cotta wine jars.
Thus the title of "Medici Balls" has been given to the following record
of seven little journeys in Tuscany by the authors, who in all their
travels, even in lanes and modest farm-houses, have found themselves
under the ægis of the powerful banker-princes of Florence. The shield,
bearing seven red balls on a field of gold, represents the arms of
Piero de' Medici, and the period when Medicean supremacy was at its
height; in the sequence of balls employed by the various members of
the family, it serves to connect the eight balls displayed on the arms
of Cosimo, Pater Patriæ, the munificent financier, with the six balls
of Lorenzo the Magnificent, in whom the glory and renown of the family
culminated.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE MUGELLO 3
PRATO: A MEDIÆVAL JOURNEY 45
CHIANTI AND THE IMPRUNETA 73
CASTRUCCIO CASTRACANE, LORD OF LUCCA 101
PISTOJA, "CITY OF CINO" 123
A SUNDAY AMONG THE HILLS OF BRANCOLI 163
BARGA AND THE VALLEY OF GARFAGNANA 199
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Lorenzo de' Medici. _Photogravure_ _Frontispiece_
From "Procession of the Magi," Riccardi Palace, Florence.
By Benozzo Gozzoli.
PAGE
Della Robbia Frieze 3
Badia a Settimo 4
Straw Plaiters, Mugnone Valley 7
A Loggia, Piero a Sieve 9
Palazzo Pubblico, Scarperia 11
The Main Street, Scarperia 13
Madonna and Child, Chapel of the Sacred Girdle, Duomo, Prato.
By Giovanni Pisano 15
Ancient Campanile della Pieve, Borgo San Lorenzo 20
Torraccia Romanelli, Borgo San Lorenzo 21
A Farm-house, Mugello 22
Ponte d'Elsa, Mugello 23
Hill of Vespignano, Mugello 24
Round Tower of Vespignano, Mugello 26
Joachim Returning to the Sheepfold, Arena Chapel, Padua.
By Giotto 29
From the Walls of Scarperia 31
A Country Road, Scarperia 32
Detail of Bronze Grille. Chapel of the Sacred Girdle, Prato 33
Portrait of Bianca Cappello, Uffizi, Florence.
By Alessandro Allori 37
Coats of Arms of the Ubaldini and Vichio 40
The Procession of the Magi, Riccardi Palace, Florence.
By Benozzo Gozzoli 43
Ornamental Band, Della Robbia 45
The Campanile, Prato. By Giovanni Pisano 46
Detail, Procession of the Magi, Riccardi Palace, Florence.
By Benozzo Gozzoli 47
Arcades "Where Hang the Copper and Woolen Goods," Prato 50
The Fortress, Prato 51
The Cathedral of Prato 53
Garden Belonging to Lorenzo's Favorite Villa, Poggio a Caiano 56
Erroneously entitled in the book as "Villa of Petraia."
External Pulpit, Cathedral, Prato. By Donatello 57
Madonna and Child, with Saints, Lunette Over Central Door,
Duomo, Prato. By Andrea Della Robbia 61
Lucrezia Tornabuoni, Wife of Lorenzo Il Magnifico. Wearing the
Marsyas Jewel of the Medici. By Botticelli 65
Coat of Arms of Prato 68
Detail of Frieze. S. Maria Delle Carceri, Prato.
By Andrea Della Robbia 69
The Piazza, Greve, Chianti 73
Ponte Falciano, Chianti 74
Ponte Capello, River Greve 75
Vitigliano, Chianti 76
Old Watch-Tower, Chianti 77
Panzano from a Distance, Chianti 78
S. Leolino a Flacciano, Pieve di Panzano, Chianti 79
A Villa in Panzano, Chianti 81
Old Wine Jar, Chianti 83
A Peasant of Chianti 85
The Stately Cypress 87
A Country Road, Chianti 89
Piazza, Impruneta 90
A Street, Impruneta 91
Predella to Tabernacle, Chapel of the Holy
Cross, Impruneta. By Luca della Robbia 93
Adoring Angels, Impruneta. By Luca della Robbia 95
Coat of Arms, Courtyard, Palazzo Cenami, Lucca 99
Della Robbia Ornament 101
Apse End and Campanile, San Andrea, Serravalle 103
The Rocca of Castruccio, Serravalle 104
Olive Trees 105
Iron Lantern, Palazzo Baroni, Lucca 107
Monument of General Bartolommeo Colleoni, Venice.
By A. Verrocchio 108
Moat of Castle Sarzanella, Sarzana 109
Monument of General Gattamelata, Padua. By Donatello 111
Statue of John Hawkwood, Cathedral, Florence.
By Paolo Uccello 112
Madonna and Child, with Two Saints, Castelfranco.
By Giorgione 115
Portrait of a Young Florentine, Royal Gallery, Berlin.
By Botticelli 116
Stemma of Serravalle 118
Medici Shield, Ospedale del Ceppo, Pistoja. Della Robbia 121
Viale dell'Arcadia, Pistoja 123
Shield of Pistoja, Supported by Bears 124
Piazza del Duomo, Pistoja 125
Coat of Arms, Pistoja. By Verrocchio 129
Bronze Candelabra, Duomo, Pistoja 132
Head of Filippo Tedici, Pistoja 133
Campanile, from Via Ripa del Sale, Pistoja 137
Loggia, Ospedale del Ceppo, Pistoja 141
Coat of Arms of Hospital, Pistoja. Della Robbia 145
Healing the Sick, Detail of Frieze, Ospedale del Ceppo,
Pistoja. By Giovanni della Robbia 149
Via Abbi Pazienza 152
Coronation of the Virgin, Ospedale del Ceppo, Pistoja.
By Benedetto Buglione 153
Adoration of the Magi, S. Andrea, Pistoja 155
Monument of Cardinal Forteguerra, S. Cecilia, Rome.
By Mino da Fiesole 157
Virgin and Child, with Saints, Cathedral, Lucca.
By Fra Bartolommeo 161
Bastions of San Colombo, Lucca 163
Old City Wall and Moat, Lucca 164
Tomb of Ilaria del Carretto, Cathedral, Lucca.
By Jacopo della Quercia 165
On the Ramparts, Lucca 168
San Frediano, Lucca 169
S. Frediano, from the Guinigi Tower, Lucca 171
A "Grey Tower" 173
Ponte a Moriano, Serchio River 175
An Old Stone Bridge 177
Bridge Over the Serchio 178
Church of Santa Maria e San Giorgio, Brancoli 179
San Lorenzo, Brancoli 181
Interior of Santa Maria e San Giorgio, Brancoli 183
Holy-water Stoup, Santa Maria e San Giorgio, Brancoli 186
Baptismal Font, Santa Maria e San Giorgio, Brancoli 187
Detail of Pulpit, Santa Maria e San Giorgio, Brancoli 189
Detail of Pulpit, Santa Maria e San Giorgio, Brancoli 190
Pulpit, Santa Maria e San Giorgio, Brancoli 191
Three Coats of Arms, Lucca 194
St. George and the Dragon, Brancoli. By Andrea and
Giovanni della Robbia 195
Sarzanella 199
Bridge at Vinchiana 200
"The Devil's Bridge," Borgo a Mozzano 201
Bagni di Lucca 203
Parish Church, Loppia 204
The Cathedral, Barga 205
Door of the Cathedral, Barga 208
Interior of the Cathedral, Barga 211
Pulpit in Cathedral, Barga 215
Adoration of the Magi, Pulpit, Cathedral, Barga 219
Tabernacle in Cathedral, Barga, Della Robbia School 223
Assumption of the Virgin, Church of the Capuchins, Barga.
By Giovanni della Robbia 227
"Violet-eyed Tuscan Oxen" 229
Trappings on Horse of Lorenzo de' Medici 230
THE MUGELLO
[Illustration]
THE MUGELLO
[Illustration]
Every year Italy is thronged with thousands of travellers who are
thoroughly familiar with the larger cities of Tuscany: Florence, Lucca,
Siena, and Leghorn are crowded with visitors, while Florence has
practically become the Italian home of English and American wanderers;
they not only fill hotels, pensions, and apartments, but occupy many of
the villas on neighbouring hillsides. Fiesole's terraces are converted
into tea-gardens, and resound with Anglo-Saxon chaffer for straw fans
and baskets. San Miniato, with its incomparable view of the city, also
caters to the universal cry for "the cup that cheers," which outrivals
in popularity the noble old Tuscan-Romanesque church hard by. Trim
Americans are met at every turn; Settignano, Bello-Sguardo, Marignano,
Badia a Settimo, and the rest, are frequent haunts; and the padrona
of the vine-covered terrace at Majano, where stone-cutters are wont
to sit about rude stone tables and drink their wine, has learned the
"afternoon tea" secret for the _gentili forestieri_, who walk out
from Florence to enjoy the charming view. Convenient tram lines run
to the more distant and choicest places, and whoever demands more
retired ways may board one of those nondescript vehicles, by courtesy
called "diligence," which are seen on every country road leading from
Florence, making their way through pretty valleys and hill towns.
The Tuscan diligence is an institution in its way, though not always
inviting in appearance; usually covered with dust, its brown canvas
curtains strapped down, excluding all air and views, and "full up"
to bursting with all sorts and conditions of humanity and luggage.
However, one is always sure of the most respectful and obliging driver,
smiling and kindly travelling companions, and no end of interesting
chat and story at the cost of a few centesimi. Thus the country distant
from the usual railway lines is every year becoming more and more
familiar and appreciated, although there are still many delightful
"untrodden ways" known but to the few, who are good pedestrians or
devoted lovers of nature and "dear country places." Follow up any of
the Tuscan rivers--through the Val d'Ema, Val di Pesa, Val d'Elsa, or
the valleys of the Mugnone, Sieve, Bisenzio, and Ombrone, every one an
affluent of the Arno--and you will find a pathway of delight, a real
progress through a world of exquisite colour, form, and fragrance. Yet
it is not easy to turn away from Florence and wander off in pastures
new; like a siren, she holds us in willing thraldom by the infinite
variety of charms so potent that all the world beyond her warm, grey
walls becomes vague and unreal.
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
BADIA A SETTIMO]
But suddenly, on a crisp spring morning, a quick turn from a narrow
street gives us a vision of the hills, olive-grey, brown, and
purple--hills with the Apennine heights beyond. The spell is broken,
our hearts burn for the "spring running," and, as in old Chaucer's
day, "Then longen folk to go on pilgrimage." We have the old poet's
authority that England's Spring came in April, but to us in Tuscany
this year she appeared by the middle of January, and has never for a
day turned her face, coming safely through the "ides of March," even
to the end of April in almost continuous sunshine and ever-increasing
bloom. Blackthorn, almond, and fruit trees, daisies and daffodils,
violets and roses, rival each other in bewildering loveliness wherever
the eye may turn; out of city gates the paths lie luringly open to
hillsides clad with ilex and magnolia, to hidden valleys, and the
snow-clad Apennines beyond Vallombrosa.
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
STRAW PLAITERS IN THE MUGNONE]
We yearn for unbroken space with no dome but the blue above, no tower
but the stately cypress; our resolution is quickly taken to climb
out of Val d'Arno, and slip over yonder delectable heights into the
Mugello. Diligence and tram are too slow for our patience; therefore,
at the easy hour of nine, on a clear, sunny morning, we leave the city
by the Florence and Faenza railway, run through the pretty valley of
the Mugnone, pass the stone-quarries close under the northern flank of
steep Fiesole, discover a world of beauty unknown to us before, dash in
and out of tunnels, catching flying glimpses of a broken countryside,
grey-walled towns, and bosky slopes; thus pushing northward for half a
dozen miles, where the line loops back toward the south, and gives us
once more, and from a greater height, the charming view of Fiesole's
northern slope. Now the railroad rises rapidly by well-built viaducts,
galleries, and tunnels to Vaglia, only nine miles from Florence, as
the crow flies, then passes swiftly over the ridge which separates the
valleys of the Arno and Mugnone from the Mugello region.
There are no more views of populous Fiesole; we are in a new world,
over which Mr. Ruskin feels justified in making lament. After expanding
with his customary word-painting upon the view from Fiesole over Val
d'Arno, he continues thus: "The traveller passes the Fiesolan ridge,
and all is changed. The country is on a sudden lonely. Here and there,
indeed, are scattered houses of a farm grouped gracefully upon the
hillsides; here and there the fragment of a tower upon a distant rock;
but neither gardens nor flowers nor glittering palaces exist." To us,
however, the scene is charming; the still distant valley spreads out
broad and fertile to the sun, well-watered by the Sieve and its many
tributaries, or _torrenti_, all of which hasten to lose themselves
later in the Arno, just within the western boundary of the Casentino.
Surrounding the happy valley rises a cordon of mountains belonging to
the Central Apennine range--among them Monte Giove, 3,255 feet above
sea-level, and Monte Morello, 3,065 feet. The latter peak is clearly
seen from Florence, and in its varied moods is regarded as a natural
weather bureau by the people, who are fond of repeating the old
saying, "Take your umbrella when Monte Morello puts on his cap."
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
A LOGGIA, PIERO A SIEVE]
Descending the narrow pass of Carza, the train reaches Piero a Sieve,
where we leave it to pursue its way through a most picturesque country,
over the mountains to Faenza, while we explore the quaint little
hamlet of Piero a Sieve, which clings by grey walls and terraces to the
side of a steep hill, crowning which are the massive fortifications
of San Martino. We climb to the fortress, take a snap-shot at one of
the loggias, where the group of ever-busy women in bright skirts and
kerchiefs would make a delightful picture in water-colour, have a look
at the parish church, with its so-called Della Robbia font, and then
proceed on our way to Scarperia, three miles to the northwest, which is
our destination.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
PALAZZO PUBBLICO, SCARPERIA]
After judicious bargaining at the station with drivers of a varied
assortment of country vehicles, we are cleverly packed into two small,
rattling, rather clumsy but very comfortable carts, one drawn by a
phenomenally brisk donkey, and away we bowl toward the towers of
Scarperia. Somehow the sunshine and exhilarating air incites us into
rebellion against Mr. Ruskin's opinion that the scene is "only a grey
extent of mountain ground, tufted irregularly with ilex and olive, a
scene not sublime, for its forms are subdued and low; not desolate, for
its valleys are full of sown fields and tended pastures; not rich nor
lovely, but sunburnt and sorrowful."
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
THE MAIN STREET, SCARPERIA]
For us a golden touch is laid on everything; we love the plain of
olive orchards and vineyards and peaceful fields; the large, white,
violet-eyed Tuscan oxen driven by kindly faced peasants; even the
donkey is a nonesuch, and we wax poetic over the greenest of green
patches of grain in vineyards, the rows of lopped elm-trees married
to the vines, which are festooned from trunk to trunk. Along the
way we meet the country doctor, riding madly in his cart drawn by
a quick-stepping pony. Another Dr. Antonio, we say, ready in case
of accident to invent and furnish us anything from bathing-machines
and coffee-pots, instruction in botany and art, to a serenade, or
making butter to accompany the good bread of Scarperia, unbaked loaves
of which we see carried into the town on a long board over a man's
shoulder.
But now we are rattling up the main street of Scarperia, the donkey
trying his best to get ahead, and it is high time to speak like a
guide-book, though no account we have found condescends to give the
population of the place, which is the way every well-regulated book
should begin. Murray's description is summed up in half a dozen lines,
as follows: "Scarperia was built in 1306 by the Commune of Florence to
curb the pride of the Ubaldini and other rebels of the Mugello. The
parish church has some fine cloisters. In the Palazzo Vecchio there are
interesting frescoes. There is a large industry of scissors." This is
all.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Giovanni Pisano_
MADONNA AND CHILD OF THE SACRED GIRDLE
DUOMO, PRATO]
We hasten to buy scissors, also the ubiquitous postal card, visit the
cloisters, which are really good, and then hang about the old Palazzo,
which would alone make the town interesting. Its tower, or campanile,
is remarkably fine, simpler and a thought more serious, perhaps, but
hardly less beautiful, than its more famous sister of the Palazzo
Vecchio, Florence; and the good people of Scarperia proudly declare
that it was at least designed by the same master hand--that of Arnolfo
di Cambio. It rises gracefully as a lily on its grey stalk, dominating
the clustering red roofs below and peering at us over the cloister
roof, as if to say, "We belonged together in those stirring mediæval
days when municipal life had two centres: the Palazzo Pubblico and the
Duomo--Civil Government and the Church." The façade of the old palace
is a mad eruption of various coats of arms, or _stemmi_, carved in
stone or formed in reliefs of glazed terra-cotta, and no less than
fourteen of these are products of the Della Robbia atelier, bearing
the devices of great families of Tuscany; and here, if we were wise
in heraldry, might the whole history of the Mugello be set forth as
it transpired in those adventurous days before its rebels had been
curbed! Prominent and oft-repeated among these _stemmi_ is the Medici
shield emblazoned with its balls, or pills, suggesting the traditional
origin of that famous house and proud device. The story runs that, when
Charlemagne made his historic descent upon Italy, among his followers
was a certain brave and noble knight named Avérard Medici, who, amid
the Apennines, encountered and challenged to mortal combat a mighty
giant called Mugello, who ruled with a high and cruel hand all this
portion of Italy. After a long and furious battle the giant was done
to death, and Avérard, as victor, took possession, not only of his
arms and personal goods, but all the lands under his sway--that is,
the territory bearing his name to this day. What is more, the six
dents on Avérard's golden buckler, which had been made by the furious
blows of Mugello's iron-spiked club, became the Medici device. There
is historical evidence that an early Medici settled in this region and
possessed great estates and castles, to which he very shrewdly retired
whenever his enemies in Florence became too troublesome. There is also
proof that while Cosimo, "father of his country," beautified Florence
with noble villas, palaces, and churches, he did not neglect the cradle
of his race, but built in the Mugello the two convents of the Bosco and
of St. Francis.
We enter the old palace through a stately atrium, or vestibule; the
walls are covered with coats of arms and faded frescoes, and beyond is
a pleasant little court open to the sky, but serving the municipality
to-day no further than as a chicken enclosure. Then we ascend the broad
stone stairway to the municipal offices; the faded frescoes of Our
Lady and saints in the anteroom are doubtless good, and deserve more
attention than we give them; but our eyes are enthralled by the superb
view from the window of the river-laced plain and encircling mountains.
After lunch at the modest _albergo_, where kindly faces and willing
service more than compensate for an indifferent cuisine, we set forth
for a long drive of exploration through the Mugello. Our carriage,
"the calash," is apparently an institution of Scarperia, and is such a
pleasant surprise that we heartily commend it to all fellow travellers.
It is a rather light, well-hung, smart-looking vehicle, something
between a victoria and landau in shape, with comfortable seats which
easily accommodate our party of five. It is drawn by a pair of glossy
chestnut roadsters unvexed by checking-straps or throat-chains, and
stepping off freely at a brisk, even trot, which they maintain steadily
during the entire drive of thirty miles. Our handsome young driver is
in keeping with his equipage--kind and skilful with his horses, and
courteous in answering our many questions. Thus we drive all the sunny
afternoon through the fertile and well-tilled valley, over the best of
roads, passing comfortable farm-houses, orchards, and vineyards, where
the peasants are busy trimming and tying the vines or turning the earth
with awkward, primitive spades. We cross and recross the river Sieve
over picturesque stone bridges half hidden by birches and elms.
[Illustration: ANCIENT CAMPANILE DELLA PIEVE BORGO S. LORENZO]
Our first halt is at Borgo San Lorenzo, chief town, or capital, of
the Mugello, situated on the Sieve, also on the direct railway line
to Faenza, and containing about three thousand inhabitants. While
lacking, one cannot tell why, the charm of Scarperia, the town has
its attractions, notably two noble and well-preserved gateways,
several towers, and many a cluster of rich-coloured, irregular roofs.
Especially interesting is the lofty Antico Campanile della Pieve--a
battered veteran keeping its time-honoured watch and ward over the
Sieve valley, its sides showing many a scar and patch, and its simple,
conical roof, like an old cap pulled low over its sleepless eyes.
[Illustration: TORRACCIA ROMANELLI, BORGO S. LORENZO]
We enter the town through the fifteenth century gateway, its battered
watch-tower speaking volumes of that olden time when Mugello's
rebels worked their stark will along these narrow thoroughfares. The
substantial, old Palazzo del Podestà, minus a tower, looks somewhat
meekly forth on its ancient square, or piazza, as it has done for
centuries. Its façade is hung thick with the shields of turbulent
lords, ten of whom called on the Della Robbia art to set forth their
emblems here, also to fashion glazed terra-cotta Madonnas for the
churches of St. Catherine and St. Stephen, hard by.
[Illustration: A FARM-HOUSE, MUGELLO]
[Illustration: PONTE D'ELSA, MUGELLO]
We can stop but a few moments at Borgo San Lorenzo, and soon
drive on, past a little shrine at the street corner and under the
battlemented tower called Torraccia Romanelli, to our country roads
once more. Outside the walls the country assumes a more broken and
hilly appearance, fewer cultivated fields, and more pasture where a
few sheep graze; irregular farm-houses of rough, grey stone, with
loggias and sloping roofs of red tiles, set amidst scattering trees,
many of them cypress, dark and rusty as an outworn mourning coat. The
accompanying picture shows a representative house of the country, and
we are told that this one had its little romance and love's young
dream. It is a wrinkled old woman you see trudging down the hillside
to fill her copper bucket at the stream; but in yonder corner loggia
is a sparkling-eyed young _contadina_, some pretty Tessa, who as she
spins her flax is thinking of a handsome and dashing young Florentine
who often finds his way to the farm-house, which belongs to his
uncle's country villa hard by. A bit farther on we reach the pretty
double-arched bridge Ponte d'Elsa, the very one, our driver says, where
Cimabue met the shepherd boy Giotto; and here too, nibbling the scanty
grass along the roadside, are surely the descendants of Giotto's sheep,
even the new-born lamb looking quite mediæval.
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
HILL OF VESPIGNANO, MUCELLO]
The hill of Vespignano, Giotto's birthplace, is much too steep for the
chestnuts and calash; moreover, we are only too glad of an excuse for
walking up the pretty path cut into the hillside, bordered by trees
hung with ivy, and leading to a serried rank of young cypresses, ranged
together like a black watch on the crest of the hill, as if to guard
the modest stone building, which tradition says is the very house where
the artist Giotto was born. Even for a shepherd's dwelling, the house
is small and uninteresting, which naturally flings a suspicion over
its verity; nevertheless, the spirit which actuates the preservation
of all historical sites and relics by the Italian government cannot
be too highly commended. The house is converted into a meagre museum,
and kept in good order on estates at present belonging to the Villa
Capriani-Cateni, the various buildings of which cover the crest of a
considerable height and possess a noble outlook into the near hills,
which are now taking on a hazy blue mystery in the afternoon light.
A large portion of the villa is of modern architecture, plain and
dignified, but the massive, square battlemented tower at one corner is
of quite an early date, perhaps the thirteenth century, while not far
away is the ruined prison-house of ruddy grey stones and brickwork,
with a picturesque round tower, presumably of a still earlier time, and
reminding one of the ancient towers still found in parts of Ireland.
The whole pile speaks eloquently of a long residence on this hilltop
of a people whose wants were few, their tastes stern and simple as
the mighty Apennines which encircled them. A fine-looking old man is
weaving an osier basket as he sits on the terrace in the shadow of the
old tower. He answers all our questions with quiet courtesy; but upon
our offering him a fee, as we have learned is generally expected, it is
gently but firmly declined, and we walk away somewhat abashed, thinking
of the varied influences which surrounded young Giotto amid such
pastoral scenes and such kindly, self-respecting people. He certainly
must have carried much of the experience and knowledge of his shepherd
life into his art.
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
ROUND TOWER, VESPIGNANO]
In the Arena Chapel, Padua, one of the finest of the frescoes is
that of Joachim returning to the sheepfold, where Giotto shows his
intimate knowledge of a shepherd's surroundings and animal forms, but
particularly of the characteristics of sheep, giving to each one an
individuality which only a close observer could have done. There is the
same quality in one of the sculptures on his tower in Florence, where
the puppy, with an absurd expression of anxious responsibility, is
guarding the sheep.
As the shadows lengthen and the mountains are gleaming in purple and
gold, we return to Scarperia for the night, and enjoy such sleep in the
clean, coarse, homespun linen on our beds, as only a day in the brisk
open air can give.
The morrow is Sunday, and the old Piazza, between church and palace,
is filled with the people coming and going to mass, and to chaffer
with the pedlar displaying his wares on a little cart, consisting of
a slender stock of kerchiefs, stuffs, bright toys, and various homely
utensils, which he cries as lustily as another Autolycus:
"Will you buy any tape,
Or lace for your cape,
My dainty duck, my dear-a?
Come, buy of me! come buy, come buy!"
Both men and women have good faces, with that kindly responsive and
patient expression characteristic of the Italian peasants; they are
interested in everything, particularly in the _forestieri_, who in
their turn enjoy the groups of women and children in gay kerchiefs
and gowns, making a pretty picture in the old grey square. We walk
through the narrow streets, sit on the city walls which still partially
surround the town, and look down on the pretty road overhung with
trees, where the trailing-footed, white oxen slowly come and go, placid
and restful.
[Illustration:
_Alinari_ _Giotto_
JOACHIM RETURNING TO THE SHEEPFOLD, ARENA CHAPEL, PADUA]
We follow the _contadini_ out of the old city gate on the road to
St. Agatha's Church, lying between vineyards where the young grain is
now pushing its green spears through the brown earth--for spring is
later here than in Val d'Arno--and olive orchards, where clouds of
silver-grey leaves quiver and shine in the light.
[Illustration:
_M. M. Newell._
FROM THE WALLS OF SCARPERIA]
[Illustration:
_M. M. Newell_
A COUNTRY ROAD, SCARPERIA]
[Illustration:
_Alinari_
DETAIL OF THE GRILLE
CHAPEL OF THE SACRED GIRDLE, CATHEDRAL, PRATO]
Taking another road, we saunter on a mile or so to the Villa Tolomei,
belonging to an old Tuscan family, whose arms are a gold band with
three green vine leaves on a blue field, and above a red label with
the three gold lilies of Anjou. The grounds are pleasant, though
somewhat neglected, but the prospect looking toward the mountains
is entrancing; and the walk back toward Scarperia gives us a continual
view of the fine campanile. By this time all the rebel blood of
the Mugello is burning in our veins, and we demand a drive back to
Florence; no railroads and tunnels for us if we must leave these "dear
country places." We long to push eastward, only three paltry miles
away, up to the very crests of the Apennines, where all the rivers
hasten joyfully to the Adriatic. But not to-day may we follow fancy's
lead eastward along curving Ronco's flowing stream, but again, with
chestnuts and calash, are constrained to hold our way along the river
bank, returning over the road to Piero a Sieve--was it only yesterday
that we first knew it?--and strike at once into the famous old highway
leading from Bologna to Florence, as it has done almost since the
beginning of the Christian era. What a thoroughfare it has been! What
mighty personages have trod this path with high hopes, burning spirits,
and breaking hearts!
"There is a joy in every spot made known in times of old,
New to the feet, although each tale a hundred times be told."
What hordes of barbarians and armies of haughty kings have swept this
way; what great pageants and devout pilgrimages! We remember that one
of Gian Galeazzo, Duke of Milan in 1471, when, accompanied by his
wife, Bona of Savoy, in accomplishment of a vow, he made a pilgrimage
to Florence in unparalleled splendour. There were twelve palanquins of
cloth of gold borne on the backs of mules over the Apennines, preceded
by fifty palfreys for the Duchess and her ladies when they preferred
the saddle; fifty horses for the Duke and his gentlemen; five hundred
foot-soldiers, one hundred mounted men-at-arms; fifty body-servants in
livery of silk and silver, fifty huntsmen holding dogs in leash, fifty
with falcon on wrist, each bird valued at two hundred golden florins,
etc., etc. With all this pomp the train descended into the Val d'Arno,
proceeded to Florence, and were received at the Medici palace in Via
Larga, now the Cavour. When we reach Vaglia, again we struggle with
the temptation to turn aside for the delightful walk of five miles
to Bivigliano and find the Della Robbia Madonna and Saints (from the
atelier) at the parish church of St. Romola, thence a mile farther to
the foot of Monte Senario, 2,700 feet high, which overlooks us all the
way. But we hold to our course, and after a few miles and a stiff walk
of half an hour we mount to Pratolino, 1,512 feet, the highest point
we touch, lying just below Monte Senario, and commanding an extensive
view on every side. Near the village is the celebrated Villa of
Pratolino, built originally in 1570 by Duke Francesco de' Medici for
the reception of his wife, the beautiful and notorious Bianca Cappello.
It was surrounded by noble gardens and terraces, and because of its
superb situation became the favorite residence of the luxury-loving
Duchess. The property is now owned by the Prince Demidoff, but nothing
remains of the original villa except a colossal crouching figure,
personifying the Apennines, which is ascribed to John of Bologna.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Alessandro Allori_
PORTRAIT OF BIANCA CAPPELLO
UFFIZI, FLORENCE]
Our Mugello excursion is over; we are slipping through the Mugnone
and down into Val d'Arno. First Fiesole welcomes us; then the dear,
familiar towers of Florence, the fairest city in the world; only a
poet can convey the charm of this exquisite scene. "Few travellers can
forget," says Mr. Ruskin, "the peculiar landscape of this district of
the Apennines. As they ascend the hill which rises from Florence to
the lowest peak in the ridge of Fiesole they pass continually beneath
the walls of villas bright in perfect luxury and beside cypress hedges
inclosing fair terraced gardens, where masses of oleander and magnolia,
motionless as leaves in a picture, inlay alternately upon the blue sky
their branching lightness of pale-rose color and deep-green breadth of
shade, studded with walls of gleaming silver; and shining at intervals
through the framework of rich leaf and rubied flower the far-away
bends of the Arno beneath its slopes of olive, and the purple peaks of
the Carrara mountains tossing themselves against the western distance,
where the streak of motionless clouds hover over the Pisan sea."
[Illustration: UBALDINI]
[Illustration: VICCHIO]
PRATO:
A MEDIÆVAL JOURNEY
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Benozzo Gozzoli_
THE PROCESSION OF THE MAGI
CHAPEL OF THE RICCARDI PALACE, FLORENCE]
[Illustration]
PRATO: A MEDIÆVAL JOURNEY
[Illustration]
Thrice had we been in Florence and never seen Prato, only twelve miles
away. Many times had we noted in passing where the waters of her
little river, the Bisenzio, join the Arno, and wished to follow its
banks through the plain to the city whose fortunes and history are
so identified with those of Florence. There was no good reason for
not going to Prato; there are several ways of doing it--by diligence,
tram, or steam; and Murray declares that half a day will suffice to
see the town. So one hot day we took the plunge, boarded the tram,
first having provided a bountiful luncheon, for of course the inns
would be impossible. We can not recommend that tram ride. The line
passes through a flat, dusty country, the service is unpardonably slow
and tedious, and we were smothered in dust and very cross. But let us
hasten to say that the journey itself was our only disappointment; all
discomfort vanished with our arrival. We were charmed with our first
glimpse of the city, and found the Albergo Giardino so good that we
were obliged to apologize for bringing a luncheon and supplement it
generously from the hotel _menu_. Temper restored and at peace with
all the world, we set forth to prove Herr Baedeker's statement that
a visit to Prato is "indispensable to those who desire to acquaint
themselves thoroughly with the early Renaissance style of Florence;"
for which same thorough acquaintance we had allowed ourselves four
hours, forsooth! The Prato of to-day has, of course, its praiseworthy
modern enterprise and industries: the women are picturesquely busy at
every street corner with straw plaiting, there is a good trade in
woolen cloths, and the bright red caps (_calabarsi_), made here are
greatly demanded in the Levant; in side streets we come upon shops hung
with gleaming copper vessels of every sort and shape, and the sound
of the coppersmith's hammer rings out merrily on the clear air. It is
said that the people have a reputation for rudeness and turbulence,
but what can you expect from a town which, having made the good fight
for freedom, lost its independence and its identity in that of another
city, that was once captured by the redoubtable Castruccio, and, to
crown all disaster, was from 1512, for twenty-two years, made to suffer
all the atrocities that Spanish cruelty could devise? After all, the
City of the Meadow (_prato_) is in no sense a modern town; its ancient
walls are still intact; the castle, if fallen from its high estate as
a citadel, is still a delight to all the snap-shotting fraternity; and
if the streets are no longer gay with ruffling _bravos_ in their fine
attire, the ancient palaces of the Commune and Pretorio still hold
their own in point of noble architecture and as venerable centres of
justice and good government.
[Illustration: _M.M. Newell_
_Giov. Pisano_
THE CAMPANILE, PRATO]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Benozzo Gozzoli_
DETAIL OF THE PROCESSION OF THE MAGI
CHAPEL OF THE RICCARDI PALACE, FLORENCE]
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
ARCADES WHERE HANG THE COPPER AND WOOLEN GOODS]
Very different, indeed, must it have been in the fourteenth and
fifteenth centuries, when Prato was in the zenith of her wealth and
pride, when Donatello and Fra Lippo Lippi, Mino da Fiesole, and the
Pisani were busy there, and all the world was running to see their
work; crowned heads and critics, humble aspirants and cavalcades of
brilliantly attired Florentines were arriving daily to admire and
criticize the new art. The jaded tourist of to-day, if a true lover
of nature and history, thinks yearningly of the mediæval journeyings
over these roads; of the humble enthusiast making his way on foot,
and of gay trains of mounted nobles riding leisurely through these
regions of delight. Benozzo Gozzoli has shown us how it was done in
his noble fresco "Procession of the Magi," painted on the walls of
the Riccardi Palace to commemorate the visit of the Eastern Emperor,
John Palæologos, in 1439, who, according to an inscription in the
Duomo of Prato, made an excursion thither from Florence accompanied
by the illustrious Bessarion and a suite of six hundred cavaliers
magnificently appointed. The "three kings" in the fresco are
represented by the Emperor, the patriarch Joseph, and the young Lorenzo
de' Medici, who are surrounded by theologians and scribes, attended
by a train of cardinals, bishops, and nobles, with their servants and
horses, in splendid array. The painted scene is full of the vigour
and freshness of spring--of that spring when men awoke to the force
and meaning of human existence, "freedom of thought, beauty of the
world, and goodness of youth and strength and love and life." Those gay
young cavaliers prancing over the plain, exuberant with their new joy
in nature, colour, and splendour of dress, are equally keen in their
intellectual freshness; every man is a poet, Lorenzo de' Medici himself
the "most typical poet of his century," and their every verse rings
with the burden, "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may."
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
THE FORTRESS]
"I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day,
In a green garden in mid month of May.
Violets and lilies grew on every side
Mid the green grass, and young flowers wonderful,
Golden and white and red and azure-eyed;
Toward which I stretched my hands, eager to pull
Plenty to make my fair curls beautiful,
To crown my rippling curls with garlands gay.
I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day,
In a green garden in mid month of May."
[Illustration: _Alinari_
THE CATHEDRAL OF PRATO]
Like Benozzo Gozzoli's train, we would sweep gaily from the court of
the old Medicean palace into Via Larga, pass through the Piazza del
Duomo, invoking the protection of Santa Maria del Fiore, cross the
ample square of Santa Maria Novella, and so come to Porta al Prato,
leading out to the plain, blue at this time of the year with the small
Tuscan lily which gave Florence her device. Then, as now, we would
pass through a busy suburb, or _borgo_, clustering about the gate, and
take our way over the plain, thick set with little hamlets, vineyards,
and orchards, and having always at our right hand the fair Tuscan
hills, hung with blooming gardens and starred with shining villas.
There is many a shrine or church along the way well worth a brief
halt, and such a leisurely ride may easily include a short visit and
refreshment at many of the Medici villas in the vicinity--at Careggi,
finest of them all, first occupied by Cosimo, Pater Patriæ, rebuilt
by Michelozzo, and where Lorenzo would, at a later day, gather about
him the scholars, artists, and singers of that rich time; here also
tradition places that improbable scene between Savonarola and Lorenzo
at the time of his death. The grand old tower of Petraia next lifts
its crown above a bosky hillside; this villa, now the Royal Villa, was
the work of Brunelleschi, and may well be visited for the sake of its
noble gardens and rare trees--among them an oak four hundred years old.
It is said that Poggio a Caiano, somewhat farther on, was Lorenzo's
favorite villa; earlier it belonged to the notorious Pistojese family,
the Cancellieri, who boasted among their members eighteen knights
with golden spurs, and whose quarrels originated the widespread feuds
of the _Bianchi_ and _Neri_. Lorenzo loved the place, and called his
favorite architect, Giuliano Giamberti, whom he had fondly nicknamed
"San Gallo," to build his villa; the plain exterior is broken only by
a fine classic portico, while the pride of the villa is the great hall
with its beautiful barrel roof--a creation which Lorenzo had declared
San Gallo could never accomplish. Later this architect built the little
church of the Madonna delle Carceri[1] at Prato--"perhaps," says our
critic, "the gem of the Laurentian age of architecture," and certainly
"classical principles have never been employed with more sympathy and
more originality."
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
GARDEN BELONGING TO THE ROYAL VILLA OF PETRAIA]
[Illustration: _Alinari_ _Donatello_
EXTERNAL PULPIT, CATHEDRAL, PRATO]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
Andrea della Robbia, 1489
MADONNA AND CHILD, WITH SAINTS
LUNETTE OVER CENTRAL DOOR OF THE DUOMO, PRATO]
Thus filling a memorable day, we should come at eventide, as the
setting sun sifts its gold on olive-clad hills, to Prato on the
Bisenzio, where even an emperor might study with interest the
civilization of the West during the "age of the despots," and its
reawakening in learning and art. He would also enjoy the hospitality,
for which the city was noted when Florentine nobles made Prato their
frequent residence and enriched their palaces there with every form of
art and luxury, for which that time was celebrated. Prato, we find,
has her tradition honouring her above all other cities in the world,
and about which centres much of her importance in art. The story runs
something like this: When the Blessed Virgin disappeared from earth,
it seems that St. Thomas, father of skeptics, could not believe that
she had been caught up into heaven, as everybody knows who looks at
Italian paintings. The Virgin, to convince him, dropped from the clouds
her girdle (_cintola_), which St. Thomas faithfully cherished while
he lived. After his death the holy relic descended in course of time
to a Greek priest. All this happened in the Holy Land, to which, in
1096, journeyed a certain Michael of Prato, who, being an Italian, was
presumably a handsome man with a silver tongue, won the love of the
aforesaid Greek priest's daughter, who brought the _sacra cintola_ as
part of her dowry. Michael returned with his bride to Prato, where
they lived the rest of their lives, and treasured the precious relic
with the greatest reverence and care. Eventually it was transferred
to the cathedral, where it is kept in a chest sculptured by Giovanni
Pisano, and the keys thereof jealously guarded by the Bishop of the
Diocese and worshipful Syndic of the City of Prato. The people hold
the relic in the profoundest reverence; five times during the year it
is, with great ceremony, publicly exhibited, until about the tradition
has gathered a religious cult, to which many of the noblest works of
art in the Duomo directly refer. The Duomo alone stands for seven
centuries of art (though little remains of the earliest church, built
in the eighth century), and, like its noble campanile, is the work of
Giovanni Pisano. It is built of alternate bands of fine limestone and
the dark green serpentine from neighboring Monte Ferrato.[2] On the
northwest corner of the church is the external pulpit of Donatello,
"Prince of Humanists," supported by Michelozzo's bronze capital. The
pulpit is adorned with seven reliefs of dancing figures, "half-childish
and half-mythical," with musical instruments. From this pulpit, if
it chance to be May Day or Easter, we may witness the picturesque
ceremony of exhibiting the _sacra cintola_ to the devout people in
gala dress, kneeling in the piazza below. We enter the Duomo under
Andrea della Robbia's lunette of the Madonna and Child, attended by
St. Stephen and St. Laurence, the whole surrounded by a wreath of
cherubs' heads; this relief, among the many Della Robbias in various
churches and oratories of Prato, is the only one executed by Andrea's
hand, and is a beautiful and serious work in the master's late manner.
The interior of the church is in the form of a Latin cross, its roof
supported by columns of serpentine; at the left is the chapel of the
Sacra Cintola, surrounded by a fine bronze grille or screen, wrought by
Bruno di Ser Lapo at Lorenzo's order. It is a masterpiece of graceful
designs, circles, quatrefoils, wreaths, and acanthus leaves, among
which appear tiny figures of cherubs supporting the arms of Prato--a
shield powdered with the lilies of Anjou. Over the screen hang thirteen
silver lamps of antique form, kept ever alight before the altar, where
stands the charming Madonna by Giovanni Pisano and the sculptured ark
or chest containing the sacred girdle. On the walls is Angelo Gaddi's
painted story of the life and death of the Virgin and the gift of
her girdle to St. Thomas. The same subject, splendidly painted by
Ridolfo Ghirlandaio, hangs over the great west door. In the nave,
amid all this richness of colour, Mino da Fiesole's beautiful marble
pulpit shines out with its delicately sculptured reliefs, supported
on serpent-tailed sphinxes. Foremost, however, among the treasures of
the Duomo, are Fra Lippo Lippi's frescoes in the choir, considered
his most important work. Nothing, perhaps, puts one so fully in touch
with fifteenth-century men and art as the career of this vigorous and
prolific artist, a true son of the Renaissance, who, while he paints
sweet-faced Madonnas, dimpled children, and holy saints on monastery
walls, follows his own pleasures and trolls out his careless love
song:
"Who am I?
Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend
Three streets off--he's a certain ... how d'ye call--
Master--a ... Cosimo of the Medici,
In the house that caps the corner. * * *
* * * * *
"And I've been three weeks shut within my mew
A-painting for the great man, saints and saints
And saints again. * * *
* * * * *
"I painted a St. Laurence six months since
At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style."
_Song_
"Flower o' the broom,
Take away love and our earth is a tomb!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Braun, Clement et Cie._
_Botticelli_
LUCREZIA TORNABUONI, WIFE OF LORENZO IL MAGNIFICO
WEARING THE MARSYAS JEWEL OF THE MEDICI]
Our allotted "four hours" for Prato have come to an end, leaving many
beautiful things unseen; the pleasant cloisters of San Francesco, the
perfect Renaissance church of Santa Maria delle Carceri, and many
others, must be left to that indefinite "next time." We hasten to the
train, stopping only a moment at the shrine on the corner of Via S.
Margherita, which contains Filippino Lippi's Madonna, where we murmur
our thanks for a happy visit and make solemn vows to come soon again.
[Illustration: STEMMA, PRATO]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_A. della Robbia_
DETAIL OF FRIEZE
S. MARIA DELLE CARCERI, PRATO]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: E. Armstrong, M.A., _Lorenzo de' Medici_, p. 437. B.
Berenson, _The Study and Criticism of Italian Art_. Second series. "A
Word for Renaissance Churches."]