have been worked from a very early period. Their present output is
valued at £1,000 per annum.--From _The British Diplomatic and Consular
Report_, No. 570, 1901.]
CHIANTI AND THE IMPRUNETA
[Illustration]
CHIANTI AND THE IMPRUNETA
[Illustration]
We made our first home in Florence with our good friend Signora
V---- and her daughter. Our rooms were on the second _piano_, which
meant three flights of uncompromising stone stairs, but once at the
top our windows overlooked the piazza on one side, a pretty garden
on the other, and gave us plenty of sunshine; moreover, we had a
loggia, a very different matter from a balcony or gallery both in name
and character, and from which we got charming views of the distant
hills. Within was every creature comfort--not luxury, perhaps, but
cleanliness, order, refinement, and an excellent table with two
servants, merry-faced Dina and kindly Annunziatina, to serve and pet
us, to identify our wants and interests as their most pleasurable
duty, and teach us to say that Tuscan cookery and Tuscan servants, at
their best, cannot be equaled the world over. The relation between
the Italian family and servants is in many cases almost ideal: there
is complete understanding and freedom of speech; the mistress talks
and consults with the maid, and she, in turn, depends on her mistress
as on a mother, and yet neither forgets her place or dignity. As for
food, where will one find such sweet, tender vegetables, such crisp
salads, and macaroni served in a dozen different ways, each better
than the other? For the first month every dish brought to the table
was a mystery and delightful surprise. How could one have lived half
a century and never known _fritto misto_, or the changes that may be
rung on rice or corn meal? What a far different object the _pomidoro_
is in Tuscany from the tomato of commerce in Boston! Then, who ever
can measure the capacities of chestnuts? As for meats, if variety is
limited, certainly the methods of cooking are legion, and one never
seems cloyed with the Tuscan chicken; oil and cheese are delicious.
For tea Italians care nothing, and their coffee leaves much to be
desired; but who would drink either, or even the questionable water
of Val d'Arno, when pure wine may be had for the asking? Tuscan wine
certainly "needs no bush," but there are so many degrees, even of the
boasted Chianti, that only the wise may be sure of the best. At our
signora's we had the most delicious wine, both white and red, and, mark
you, without extra charge. "It is Chianti," she said, when we asked
its name. "But," we urged, "all the wine of Tuscany is Chianti, _non
è vero_?" "Quite the contrary," was her answer, "it is only produced
in a certain limited region on the hillsides of Chianti; we must take
you some day to our vineyard in the true Chianti hills, where this wine
was made." That happy day came in April, when the Tuscan spring was in
its fullest bloom. We took a steam tram at the Porta Romano, which, as
its name indicates, opens on the old Roman road to Siena, and at once
began our climb into the hill country. Three miles from the gate, where
the little rivers Ema and Greve join, we passed near the Certosa, more
like a fortress than a monastery, seated so imposingly on its lofty
hill; then our road led along the banks of the Greve till we reach
the village of the same name, which is the chief town of the Chianti
region. It was a beautiful ride, trending southeastward, and by many a
turn and loop, affording views of glens, valleys, and hills, grey stone
bridges, castles, villas, and churches. At Greve a carriage was waiting
for those who wished to ride; others preferred the steep, breezy walk
over the hills that separate Greve from Val di Pesa, from which we saw
Florence in her Val d'Arno, twenty miles away. All along the road were
ruins of ancient castles and piers of bridges, which once defined the
marches between Siena and Florence, held only by constant war-fare; but
now the crumbling towers keep watch and ward over peaceful olive groves
and unmolested vineyards.
[Illustration: _L. C. Dexter_
PONTE FALCIANO, CHIANTI]
[Illustration: _L. C. Dexter_
PONTE CAPELLO. ALONG THE RIVER GREVE, CHIANTI]
[Illustration: _M. S. Nixon_
VITIGLIANO, CHIANTI]
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
OLD WATCH-TOWER, CHIANTI]
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
PANZANO FROM A DISTANCE, CHIANTI]
[Illustration: _L. C. Dexter_
S. LEOLINO A FLACCIANO. PIEVE DI PANZANO, CHIANTI]
Morning wears on toward midday before we get a distant view of Panzano,
a warm, grey tangle of towers and red roofs, looking calm and friendly
enough in the sunshine, with groves and vineyards at its feet, but once
doubtless given over to the dread clamour of war. A little farther on
is the parish church, Pieve di S. Leolino, with its pleasant loggia and
weather-beaten bell-tower. Within are two Della Robbias, a ciborium,
and a tabernacle from the atelier, and not far away is the country
villa, of Count Viviani della Robbia, the present representative of the
illustrious family of artists.
[Illustration: _L. C. Dexter_
A VILLA IN PANZANO, CHIANTI]
Thus we approach the _podere_, or farm, in the very midst of the
Chianti district, and can easily understand the charm it has for our
host, and the reason he so often puts aside his books and walks over
the hills from Florence to this charming spot, which has for over a
century belonged in his family. "It is admirable land for the grape,"
we are told, "and the constituents of the soil most favourable for
producing the best wine in the world, if it were only properly enriched
and our methods of cultivation somewhat modernized; as it is, we must
send our wine in casks to the French, who turn it into Bordeaux, and
export it at very large prices." In spite of such obstacles, the fact
remains that Italy is the first wine-growing country in the world, but
ranks only third in wine exportation, although in the year 1902 she
exported wine in casks to the value of over seven million dollars. We
received a cordial welcome at our host's modest red villa, in and about
which was a stir of preparation--glimpses of cheery faces and savoury
odours escaping from the kitchen, all indicative of a _festa_. We were
urged to taste delicious home-made cordial, and to admire our host's
two treasures--the chair in which Garibaldi sat when he visited the
villa, and an interesting wine-jar, or amphora, of elegant shape, with
a decorated band and the Medici shield, bearing the seven _palle_, also
an inscription. We then walked about the _podere_, or farm, through
which runs the Roman road, and would have made advances to the noble
white Tuscan watch-dog had we not been warned of danger. We visited
the substantial grey stone house of the _contadino_, or farmer, hard
by the villa, where it has sheltered members of the same family for
generations; the grandmother, evidently mistress of the establishment,
a fine, dignified-looking woman, welcomed us courteously, and gratified
our curiosity by taking us over the house, which consisted of three
rooms; she displayed, with evident pride, the spacious bedroom, where,
probably, the whole family sleep; at all events, the bed alone would
accommodate half a dozen children put crossways, and there were piles
of blankets and linen, all spun and woven on the farm, furnishing
an inexhaustible provision for additional couches. In the kitchen
we saw the great kneading-trough for the _pane nero_ (brown bread),
and the domed brick oven where it is baked; and in the loggia, or
porch, stretched a long table with benches on either side, capable of
seating twenty-four persons, the present census of the household. The
house was clean and orderly, and suggested comfort and independence.
Connected with the house, at a lower level, are the stables, where the
handsome white oxen live, the ample hen-houses, and places for tools,
grain, hay, etc. While we were walking about the house and sheds a
peasant woman, distaff in hand and a basket on her arm, came down the
Roman road, and stopped to gaze with astonishment on the group of
_forestieri_, who, in their turn, gazed with interest into her good,
honest face, and begged to take a photograph.
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
THE OLD WINE JAR. CHIANTI]
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
A PEASANT OF THE CHIANTI]
The method of letting and working farms in Tuscany is novel and
peculiarly interesting to Americans, and we urged Signor G---- to
enlighten our ignorance somewhat on the subject. It seems that his
estates, like the majority in Tuscany, are let on the _mezzadria_ or
_metayerage_ system--words indicating the halving, or equal division,
of products between the proprietor and his farmer.[3] The proprietor's
land in Tuscany is almost invariably divided into _poderi_ (_i.e._,
small farms of about forty acres), and each farm is tilled by a single
family, who must live on the land in a comfortable house (_casa
colonica_), furnished by the proprietor, who also provides farming
tools, cattle, etc. The system is of ancient date and has come to stand
as an habitual form of contract, and in Tuscany has become legalized
by almost universal usage. The contract between proprietor and
_metayer_, or farmer, holds only from year to year, but is regularly
renewed, and, in most cases, the same family remains on the farm for
generations. Attached to the soil they cultivate, their interest is
one with that of the proprietor, and they consider themselves as much
owners of the land as the proprietor himself. So old is the system
that language has been influenced by it; dating back to feudal times,
the word _contadino_ meant "count's man," etc. There are various
understood conditions attached to the contract. The _contadino_ must
annually replant a certain number of shrubs and trees, keep roads and
watercourses in order, and at Easter, Michaelmas, and Christmas supply
the landlord with a fixed number of fowls and eggs. In his own house
the _contadino_, with the title of _capoccia_ (head), represents the
family in all its dealings with the outer world: assigns tasks, decides
when the vintage or harvest shall begin, apportions personal expenses,
and must be consulted before his children marry; also no member of
the family may marry without the consent of the proprietor, and he
may even require any member of the family to marry. By the father's
side stands the _massaia_, the wife, who superintends all housework,
governs the women, assigns tasks of weaving, spinning, and mending,
presides over the poultry-yard, raising of the silk-worm, etc. The
_mezzadria_ system, if not "the perfect social contract between the
owner and tiller of the soil," as some claim, seems to be, in Tuscany
at least, the solution of many vexed questions; it holds that labour
is an absolute equivalent for capital. The _metayer_, or _contadino_,
works directly for his own interests, and is generally in comfortable
circumstances, has a good house, excellent food and necessary
implements; he is usually shrewd, knows the capabilities of his farm,
is an excellent judge of an ox, and can drive a sharp bargain; he is
generally sober, self-respecting, and industrious; is seldom at a loss
for money on account of the diversity of his crops; he always has
something to sell; his calendar is about as follows, viz.: December to
March, the olive harvest; June, the cocoons; July, the wheat harvest;
September, the corn; October, the vintage. The obverse side of this
picture is his hide-bound devotion to antiquated methods, and lack of
educated intelligence; he knows nothing of the rotation of crops, the
chemistry of plants and soil, or of modern implements and conveniences;
he cuts his grain with a sickle and threshes it on the earth; the spade
is his favourite tool, and an old Tuscan proverb runs, "The spade has a
golden edge." As some one writes, Virgil's Georgics might practically
be used in Tuscany as a "handbook of agriculture." Finally, the Tuscan
farmer is satisfied with modest results; his average income for the
year from his oil, wine, grain, vegetables, cattle, silk-worms, and
straw plaiting is, approximately, three hundred dollars.
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
THE STATELY CYPRESS]
[Illustration: _M. S. Nixon_
A COUNTRY ROAD, CHIANTI]
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
PIAZZA OF THE IMPRUNETA]
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
A STREET IN IMPRUNETA]
The call to luncheon was certainly most welcome after our morning on
the hills and lesson on agriculture; as for those superior persons
who proclaim that the Italian lives principally on macaroni dried
on the sidewalk, black bread, garlic, and sour wine, we only wish
they might have shared our feast that day in the Chianti. There was
_broda_ (soup), macaroni with _pomidoro_ sauce, home-grown chickens
and fresh salad, _pane nero_, sweet and warm from the oven, with the
"best butter," and a delicious, fresh goat's milk cheese, served on a
flat basket of plaited green rushes, to say nothing of coffee and wine
without stint--some of the Chianti made twenty years before; and now
we know how the true Chianti ought to taste. It was a day never to be
forgotten; and dreading its coming to an end, we said our reluctant
good-bys to the hospitable family at Villa Rosso, and pursued our road
homeward in a leisurely and roundabout way, stopping now to visit some
wayside church, or tempted by charming country roads leading through
vineyards and lines of cypresses to some hill-crowning villa in the
distance. Finally we climbed the long hill clad with olive orchards to
Impruneta, where, if not too much entranced with the superb view, we
may remember is the famous shrine of La Madonna dell' Impruneta, one
of the most important pilgrimage churches in Tuscany. The black image
of the Madonna is said to have given its name to the village, but it is
more probable that it is derived from the grove of stone pines crowning
the hill, and is a corruption of La Pineta.[4] The tradition is that
this Madonna was wrought by St. Luke the Evangelist, and, having been
stolen from the church, it was sought in vain until a peasant, plowing
in the field, saw his oxen fall suddenly on their knees and refuse to
get up; search being made, the sacred image was found, and is said
to have uttered a cry when struck by the spade. Whatever its origin,
the Madonna is reverenced by the people, and Savonarola, we read, had
faith in its miraculous power. On occasions of danger it is carried in
solemn procession, but always closely veiled, and worshipped as the
"Hidden Mother." After all, it is not so much for the black Madonna
that our pilgrimage is made to Impruneta, but for the Chapel of the
Madonna, which enshrines her, and the one opposite, called the Chapel
of the Holy Cross, both adorned by Luca della Robbia, the head of his
family and the great master of glazed terra-cotta; the Crucifixion in
a chapel near the altar is also by his hand. The _predella_ of the
Tabernacle of the Holy Cross is one of Luca's most beautiful creations,
representing four buoyant, serious angels, ivory-tinted, against a pale
blue background. Both chapels are roofed with charming designs, and
about the top, as a cornice, runs a frieze of fruits and pine cones,
peculiarly appropriate to the Church of La Pineta. In the centre of
each frieze is a Madonna "clasping the Child in her arms, white on
a blue background," and that which indubitably belongs to Luca "is one
of his most human and tender conceptions both of Mother and Child," the
memory of which fitly crowns and hallows our happy day in the Chianti.
[Illustration:
_Alinari_ _Luca della Robbia_
PREDELLA TO TABERNACLE, CHAPEL OF THE HOLY CROSS, IMPRUNETA]
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 3: References _Consular Report on Commerce and Manufacture in
Italy_, vol. xlv. _The Nation_, No. 1105. E. S. Morgan, _Time_, vol.
xiv.]
[Footnote 4: See Cruttwell's _Luca and Andrea Della Robbia_, chapter
vii.]
CASTRUCCIO CASTRACANE LORD OF LUCCA
[Illustration: _Alinari_
STEMMA IN THE COURTYARD, PALAZZO CENAMI, LUCCA]
[Illustration]
CASTRUCCIO CASTRACANE LORD OF LUCCA
[Illustration]
One lucky day, as we were sauntering about Pistoja, some one said: "Let
us go to Serravalle, and get more in touch with that stirring fellow,
Castruccio Castracane, who seems to have filled this region with war's
alarum, and left his name, if not more substantial marks, in every town
in this part of Tuscany." We remember that he bribed Filippo Tedici
with ten thousand golden florins, and so got possession of Pistoja and
the traitor's daughter, Dialta, as his wife, and that their wedding
festivities took place in the Piazza della Sala, where the Mercato is
to-day; also, that when Castruccio once got within the walls he ruled
the city well.
Serravalle is a picturesque little town but three miles from Pistoja,
on the highway to Lucca--as pretty a walk as one could wish to take. It
is clustered on the top of a steep hill, and, if somewhat squalid in
these later days, its ancient loggia, church, and castle are fine in
colour and delightfully irregular and surprising in form. We climb up
to the twelfth-century church, which contains a valuable old painting,
then round the hill under an imposing loggia, and take our way up to
the _rocca_, or castle, which Castruccio built early in the fourteenth
century on a spur of the hill, an admirable place of defence, and
which answers to its name by closing the valley (_serra valle_). From
this vantage-point we have a good view of Pistoja on one side, on the
other lies the fertile valley of the Nievole, so often Castruccio's
battle-field. The grass is soft and green about the crumbling walls of
the old castle now, and clumps of silvery-leaved olive trees, swept
by Apennine breezes, brush gently against the old bastions and lofty
six-sided tower, which command an outlook over the entire valley. The
castle was evidently built out of ruins of earlier buildings, and
probably erected in some haste to stay the progress of a dangerous
enemy; but it must have been good, honest work to have lasted six
hundred years, and Castruccio must have had a genius for building
castles and fortresses, not only peculiarly adapted to his own needs
of defence, but in such a way as to hold their own down through the
centuries, and in their last ruinous state to challenge universal
admiration. At Sarzana the fortress he built and named Sarzanello is
very different from the one at Serravalle, but perhaps even finer,
and one can easily understand why Lorenzo, Il Magnifico, should wish
to possess it as a thing of beauty, even had it not been supremely
necessary to the northern defences of Florence on the Ligurian coast.
It is planted on the brow of a hill overlooking the sea, and is a
rather low, battlemented fortress of grey stone, its bastions, towers,
and ponderous arches all surrounded by a moat.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
APSE END AND CAMPANILE CHURCH OF S. ANDREA, SERRAVALLE]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
RUIN OF THE ROCCA OF CASTRUCCIO, SERRAVALLE]
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
OLIVE TREES]
From the heights of Serravalle, looking toward Lucca, we see
the mediæval bell-tower of Altopascio, and remember that one of
Castruccio's signal victories over the Florentines took place there
in 1323. The previous spring Castruccio had dashed into the lower Val
d'Arno, taken several towns, and menaced Florence herself. Clearly his
victorious career must be stopped; accordingly, Florence collected the
finest army she had ever put in the field, headed by the _carroccio_
and _martinella_, and marched to Pistoja, hoping to tempt Castruccio
out of the city; but having spent some days insulting the garrison
by games and races under the walls, the Florentines moved on toward
Lucca. This was Castruccio's chance; rapidly following the great army,
he surprised it at Altopascio, routed it completely, and then led
the _carroccio_, with many noble prisoners, in triumphal procession
through the gates of Lucca. A year later "he occupied Signa, pillaged
Prato, laid siege to Montemurlo, and wasted the greater part of the
Florentine _contado_."[5] But it would be impossible to follow
Castruccio Castracane through all his adventurous course, and
it is time to inquire what manner of man he was. Ruskin calls him
"the greatest captain of his age," an estimate probably made with
nice distinction, for though he must be reckoned among the Italian
_condottieri_, one of the "six sorts of despots," according to Mr.
Symonds' classification,[6] "raging in Italy during the fourteenth and
fifteenth centuries," he certainly differs essentially from tyrants
like the Sforzi of Milan, the Scali of Verona, the Baglioni of Perugia,
and others like them, who, springing from peasant or bourgeois ranks,
became powerful enough to found kingdoms, maintain splendid courts, and
follow their natural tastes for arts and the new learning. The Baglioni
patronized Perugino; Il Moro had his Leonardo da Vinci; Petrarch had
his seat of honour at Galeazzo Visconti's table, and the Malatesti
dukes of Urbino displayed a passionate zeal for philosophy and art,
while "the spell of science was stronger over them than the charms of
love." Castruccio was unlike these tyrants, in that we hear nothing
of his taste for books, or music, or art; indeed, by his ruthless
devastation of the environs of Florence, incalculable treasures,
representing early Italian art, were irretrievably lost; and though we
know that Castruccio had sons and other kinsmen, there was no successor
to the great "soldier of fortune who had raised himself to be Duke
of Lucca, Lord of Pisa, Pistoja, Volterra, and much of the Genoese
Riviera."[7] Castruccio may, perhaps, be compared with that "captain
of adventure," Il Medeghino, son of a certain Bernardo de' Medici,
not connected with the Medicean family of Florence, who delighted in
war for its own sake, and by cunning and skill became master of the
region about Lake Como, where he played the rôle of Marquis of
Musso and Count of Lecco, setting up his court and coining money with
his own name and devices. It was when he reached this dizzy point of
success that he arrogantly assumed the arms of the Florentine family
and swept the lake at the head of a squadron led by his flagship, from
which floated a red banner with the golden _palle_ of the Medici. When
Il Medeghino died the Senate of Milan put on mourning, and in the
cathedral we may see his splendid tomb, the work of Leone Lioni.[8] The
services of Castruccio Castracane to the Ghibelline or Emperor's party
in Italy were not recognized by such high honours. He led the simple,
hardy life of a soldier, died in the harness at the beginning of a
fresh campaign, and was buried at Lucca in the Church of S. Francesco,
used now as a military magazine.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
AN IRON LANTERN, PALAZZO BARONI, LUCCA]
[Illustration: _Alinari A. Verrocchio_
MONUMENT OF GENERAL BARTOLOMMEO COLLEONI CAMPO DI S. GIOVANNI E. PAOLO.
VENICE]
[Illustration: MOAT OF THE CASTLE SARZANELLO, SARZANA]
[Illustration: _Alinari_ _Donatello_
MONUMENT TO GENERAL GATTAMELATA, PADUA]
[Illustration: _Alinari_ _Paolo Uccello_
EQUESTRIAN STATUE OF JOHN HAWKWOOD
CATHEDRAL, FLORENCE]