CHAPTER VIII
Florence: Michael Angelo’s House: Baptistry of St. John: The Uffizi Gallery: The Tribune: A drive to the suburbs: Dante’s House: Dante’s Poems: The Gardens: Mrs. Browning’s description of Vallambrosa: Michael Angelo’s work: Galileo, his trial, etc.
As we had little time for visiting other places of interest, the day being now far advanced, we determined to give our minds and bodies a rest. So we entered a cafe for refreshment, we found them exceedingly clean and most obliging; we took what refreshment we needed, then went for a stroll on the streets to see the shops, and we found the city has some fine streets and shops of almost every kind. The city has a population of about 200,000. We were reminded frequently of some of the worthies of the city in sculpture or in painting. Michael Angelo, though not born in Florence, spent a great deal of his life here, and here some of his finest works were completed, and in Florence he died and was buried. At the corner of the Via Buonarotti stands the house in which he lived. It is now (like the house of the immortal Shakespeare) a museum given to the city.
“Farewell,” said Michael Angelo, on setting out for where he was to undertake the finishing of the great St. Peter’s, in Rome. “Farewell, I go to try to make thy sister, but I cannot hope to make thy equal.”
About the old Baptistry of St. John, to which, we are told, all the children of the city are taken to be christened, there are two bronze gates at which a famous workman was employed forty years. Michael Angelo declared “these gates were worthy to be the gates of Paradise.”
I believe there is a cast of these gates exhibited at the South Kensington Museum.
The Uffizi Gallery or museum or both, where I should think may be found the most wonderful collection of art to be found in the world. Even in Rome we had seen nothing to equal it. It contains over 13,000 paintings. Cameos and original designs without number. There are long corridors where statues of celebrated Tuscans fill the niches. There is sculptured marble, or painted canvas, of all imaginable beings in heaven or on earth. Emperors and kings, saintly Madonnas, angels, gods and goddesses, muses and nymphs; all may be found in this marvellous collection. And on the ceiling are frescoes setting forth the annals of Florence. In one of the halls stands a painting of Niobe with her sons and daughters clinging around her, victims of the cruel vengeance of Diana and Apollo. In another room are some angels surrounding a Madonna, making a lovely picture. There is a gallery in which are paintings of the painters of all nations, painted by themselves. Vandyck, with his clear blue eye, long hair and fair countenance; Raphael, looking sad and gentle and very sallow; Michael Angelo, simple yet sublime, he is in his dressing gown. We were simply surrounded and bewildered by the fascinating sights on every hand. There are cabinets also, containing rare gems, cameos and bronzes of all sizes and shapes. The Tribune also demands notice, as it contains vast masses of valuable treasures. One room is paved with the most costly marble. There are five masterpieces of antiquity. In the centre stands the Venus de Medicis, serene, pure, delicate, and perfectly lovely; another, the Dancing Fawn; another, “Apollino,” “The Wrestlers,” and the “Grinder.” There is also here, one of the finest and best of Raphael’s paintings, “The Glorious Madonna.” Two others by Titian. We soon became exhausted and weary, so we left the entrancing scenes for another day. To our hotel was but the work of ten minutes; safely housed. Table-de-hote dinner, to write up our diaries, to commend our lives and our loved ones to the care of our Heavenly Father, we slept. During the night there was a severe thunder storm, the lightning played round our hotel, lighting up the great square in front, but so far as we know, no damage was done. We rose in health, refreshed and ready for a good breakfast; this, the Italians know how to provide. Their coffee is the best I have ever tasted. Fish, eggs, cold meats and fruits in abundance. We made a fine breakfast, and after writing some letters and post cards we ventured out, this time for a drive to the suburbs. I soon found carriage and driver and made terms.
Before starting, however, I took a snapshot of my wife in the carriage, with the archway or part of the facade of the Duomo for background. We passed through the principal parts of the city, and our driver pointed out the house, still standing, where Dante, the greatest of all the great poets of Italy, was born. It is very near to the church of Santa Croce, a very old building, but in its vicinity lies the dust of some of Italy’s noblest sons. Near here in the year 1865, on the 5th day of May, a vast concourse of people assembled to see the unveiling of a statue of Dante. It is 19 feet in height, and it is mounted on a pedestal 23 feet in height. This was the six hundredth anniversary of the poet’s birthday. Dante was not buried here, but at Ravenna, where he died in exile away from the city he loved so much. In the “Sheep-fold of St. John” as he called it. His life was full of strange vicissitudes, apparently more of cloud and storm than of sunshine. His father was in the legal profession, and this, Dante adopted, and studied very successfully at several schools in Italy and Germany. At an early age he fell madly in love with one, Beatrice, but she married another man, and left him with a great sore in his heart. He was called to bear arms against Ariezo and Pisa, where he served with great assiduity. He afterwards married, but not happily, at the age of 28. He had a family, however, and his first-born being a girl, he called her Beatrice, after his first love. A civil war had been brewing for some time. Again Dante took the field, this time, unfortunately, on the weaker side, and a revolutionary government being formed, he, with other ringleaders who wished to resist the extreme pretensions of the Pope, were sentenced to be burned alive. He, however, managed to escape into Germany, where he wandered about from place to place, finding no settled residence, and desiring to return to his native city, but this was denied him. He died, as we have seen, in Ravenna. His daughter Beatrice was a nun in one of the convents, but to do some tardy justice to the noble bard, a sum of money was raised for her own special use. I can hardly leave this interesting subject without a passing reference to his poems, as are now principally read. The volume I refer to includes the “Inferno,” “The Purgatorio,” and “The Paradiso.” It is here surmised that Virgil and St. Bernard conduct Dante through these divisions of the universal world, to help him to write something that would show up the source of Italy’s ruin. The poem is a fine allegory, showing, as it does in the first part, a Panther, representing Florence or envy; a Lion, France or ambition; a She-Wolf, the Court of Rome or avarice; a Greyhound, Our Saviour or His vicegerent the Pope; Virgil, human wisdom; and Beatrice, heavenly wisdom. His representation of Hell as a dark valley, at the mouth of which is Limbo, and which are nine circles indicating nine different degrees of sin to be punished. The wise and good even are represented as lying in tears and sorrow, because they were not baptized. Purgatory is a step hill in the hemisphere opposite hell. Seven rounds have to be climbed before the seven stains of sin are washed away. At the top is the Garden of Eden. It is most interesting to follow Dante, as he ascends with his beloved Beatrice to Paradise, through the various heavens of the moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, the Sun, Jupiter, etc. The eighth heaven contains the triumph of Christ; and the Virgin Mary and Adam he makes to dwell there also. In the ninth heaven is a manifestation of the Divine Essence, viewed by three hierarchies of Angels. While these poems are allegorical, they are full of interest and show that Dante was greatly moved and influenced by “the things that are unseen which are eternal.” In his youthful days he paced the fields and groves of lovely Italy, writing sonnets to his beloved Beatrice. In his later years he had to eat the bread of bitterness, being an outcast from his friends and from the city he loved. The world, however, has been enriched by his poverty. A sight of the place where he was born has suggested to us this commentary. We left the place not without reflection upon the immutability of things that are earthly. From here our driver took us towards the lovely gardens across the river Arno, the gardens of Boboli; these are open to the public Thursday and Sunday. Approaching the bridge which spans this lovely river, we were struck with its massiveness as well as its beauty. It is called the Jewellers’ Bridge, as jewellers’ shops line the bridge on each side fully, except a very small break in the middle through which you get a very nice view of the river as it rolls along. A bridge further on is adorned with statues, and is considered the most beautiful of the seven that cross the Arno. When over the bridge the road is very steep; our driver left his box to give the horse the benefit. Now we seem getting into the suburbs, the road is lined with trees of all sorts; the acacia, the box, the walnut, the maple, the olive and many others, I do not think I could tell the names of them all. Up and up we went, in a semicircular fashion, until we gained the summit. When we had gone through the gate into the garden, the view was simply entrancing. Florence, with its towers and spires and domes, lay like a fine panorama at our feet, and the river gliding gently through the city. The villages in the distances nestling amidst luxuriant foliage of trees and plants. The gardens around us full of beauty, adorned with statuary, and a profusion of moss and creeper and colour of flowers, we may never see again. Just across the river, we could see the tower of Galileo, where the great astronomer nightly watched the stars, or
“Moon, whose orb
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views,
At evening from the top of Fiesole,
Or in Voldarno, to descry new lands,
Rivers or mountains, in his spotty globe.”
Farther out the Casine, or the Hyde Park of Florence, could be seen. Perhaps no better description can be given than by Mrs. Browning:
“You remember, down at Florence, our Casine,
Where the people on the fast days walk and drive,
And through the trees, long drawn in many a green way,
O’er roofing hum and murmur like a hive,
The river and the mountain look alive.
You remember the Piazzo there, the stand place
Of carriages abrim with Florence beauties,
Who lean and meet to music as the band plays,
Or smile and chat with some one who afoot is
Or on horseback, in observance of male duties.
’Tis so pretty in the afternoon of summer,
So many gracious faces brought together;
Call it rout, or call it concert, they have come here
In the floating of the fan and of the feather,
To reciprocate with beauty the fine weather.”
Along the valley of Vallambrosa, as you look across, pine forests, lawns and mountains combined, make a scene the fairest fair Italy can show. Milton, in his “Paradise Lost,” alludes to this valley, speaking of the fallen angels who
“Lay entranced,
Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks
In Vallambrosa’s, where oh! Etrurian shades
High over arched embower.”
This was one of the favourite walks of Dante, where he loved to wander and muse on his lovely Beatrice. The views from this elevation on all sides were very beautiful, and we left it with a feeling we could never again gaze on scenes so delightful.
Returning from these lovely scenes, in and from the Boboli Gardens, over the same bridge we turned to the left and passed the Mozzi Square, where is the Mozzi Palace. A very large building that has connected with it, we were told, a very fine picture gallery, but we had not time to visit it. We then came to the Necropolis of St. Miniato, a church considered to be one of the oldest on the continent. The Florentine Republic considered its splendid military position, and ordered Michael Angelo to fortify it. He therefore threw a strong rampart around it, with strong bastions which were provided with cannon. It is said that many Christian martyrs died for the faith and were buried in this church. The tower was greatly damaged by Charles V., but Michael Angelo saved it from utter ruin. Rev. D. M. Pratt says of Michael Angelo:
“A master mind before the marble stood,
Fresh quarried was it, rough and all unhewn,
To other eyes it seemed a shapeless stone;
To his, a stately form and beautiful.
Chisel in hand he wrought and what he saw
Came forth a statue, living and divine.
An artist stood and gazed on fallen man:
He to the soul, what to the marble rough
Was Angels, he saw and sinful man
A seraphs form. He wrought, and forth there came
Manhood divine—the lifeless took on life,
Oh! for the artist’s eye! In every man
God’s image dwells, and he who sees the Christ
Sees God in man restored, and with him seeks to bring
His thoughts to life in saving men.”
A poet has written:
“In Santa Croce’s holy precincts lie
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is
Even in itself an immortality.
Though there were nothing save the past, and this
The particles of those sublimities
Which have relapsed to chaos, here repose
Angelo’s Alfieris bones, and his
The starry Galileo with his woes;
Here Machiavelli’s earth returned to whence it rose.”
The tomb of Galileo calls for a passing remark, as he dared to contravert the old world notions of a central earth fixed in space, immovable with planets curling round it. The church had stood by the old theory for ages. If now they adopt Galileo’s theory, where is their infallibility. And so ignorant monks shut him up in prison and burnt his books in the public market place, and led out this great philosopher in mockery before a gaping crowd, with a wax taper in his hand and a halter round his neck, and demanded he should recant his opinions. Amidst the jeers of his friends and the awful threats of his enemies, he was induced to go through a certain form of recantation, in which he was required to declare “With a sincere heart and faith unfeigned, I abjure, curse and detest the said errors—I swear for the future never to say anything verbally, or in writing, which may cause to any further suspicion against me.” Rising from his knees he whispered: “But it does move for all that.”
CHAPTER IX
Appalling catastrophe in Italy: Messina: Savonarola, the enthusiastic preacher: His defiance of the Pope: His excommunication: His cell, etc.: His martyrdom: Raphael, his genius as a painter: Some of his works: The old Protestant Cemetery: Our leaving Florence: Journey to Bologna and on to Venice.
While I am here writing of the beauties of Italy, its fertile plains, its sunny skies, its lovely lakes, its great works of art and its still greater artists, a newsboy is calling out in the streets: “Appalling catastrophe in Italy.” An earthquake killing not thousands merely, but tens of thousands. What! is that fair land devastated, and death swept by such a calamity? Is it true that loveliness and danger lie so near together? What! is there no spot on earth where we may be absolutely free from danger? Here in lovely Messina and Reggio, I passed them on board the S.S. “Benares” about two years ago. The sun shone brilliantly on the scene, a lovelier it would be difficult to describe. On my left Messina, with its marble buildings glistening in the sun. Temples and towers, churches and barracks, all giving signs of strength and beauty to the fair city; on our right Reggio, which appeared to be a city of great beauty and prosperity. Mount Etna in the distance, slumbering for a time. Stromboli as we passed was alive hurling up stones, fire and smoke. Now the cities named are practically wiped out. The Daily News, of December 31st, 1908, says: “Yesterday, the total of the dead was calculated as from fifty thousand to seventy-five thousand. To-day it is two hundred thousand. This morning’s news helps us to form a clearer idea of the awful scene as it occurred. It was early morn just before daylight, and all the beautiful towns along the coast of these historic straits were still asleep. Death came suddenly and unawares. By five successive shocks, the cities were toppled down, and where they had stood great columns of dust were rising. Men, women and children, soldiers in barracks, the sick in hospital and prisoners in gaol were killed together as they slept. They died like ants in a blown up nest.” A survivor from Messina says: “The town is nothing but a dust heap, even the railway station is swallowed up, the railwaymen are nearly all killed.” Another says: “It is too horrible to describe.” The Pope has shown the greatest anxiety; has even asked permission at the Quirinal to transmit massages to the suffering and the bereaved. He also summoned to the Vatican the Director of the Bank of Rome and had with him some private conversation, and arranged for the sum of £40,000 to be sent at once. Our own King Edward sent to the King of Italy messages of condolence and sympathy. The navies and soldiers of England, France, Germany and others are giving assistance in extricating sufferers from the debris, and feeding the hungry, and erecting temporary shelters and generally doing all that can be done to mitigate the distress and grief and pain. Money is being sent liberally by all the Christian nations at least. So all feel as nations and as individuals that “One touch of sorrow makes the world akin.” It is at such a time that the brotherhood of nations asserts itself. All racial barriers are swept away in the face of such a terrible catastrophe. The latest news is that no less than 220,000 have perished, as many inland towns have suffered most severely. The cathedral and churches, with all their valuable works of art, have been totally destroyed. Scenes simply indescribable are enacted and too sad to relate. So we see the uncertainty of things that are on earth.
Notwithstanding the natural beauty of the surroundings, before we left the fair city of Florence, we must needs do a little shopping, and make some further investigations into the interests and associations of the place. The convent of San Marco is a place worth a visit, and is open on receipt of a small fee or gratuity. Here is the cell of Savonarola, in which he was confined before the martyrdom of flame. Here is a fine portrait of the man who dared to face even death in his defence of the truth. Here are some of his manuscripts, traced with his own pen. Here are his tunic, girdle and crucifix, and even a charred piece of wood from the scene of his martyrdom. Such sights fill the soul with thoughts of what men have endured to rescue the truth from Papal tyranny. Of Savonarola it may be said, he was a great reformer, a religious enthusiast, and a martyr. Born at Ferrara, in 1452, he early joined the religious order of Dominicans at Bologna. At first his career as a preacher was not marked by any unusual event, nor did he meet with great success, but on his appointment to the Duomo, crowds came to listen to his preaching, and indeed so eloquent did he become and so effective that, at times, his discourses were interrupted by the masses of the people sobbing and crying in their pews. He became so popular that the people pressed round him in the streets to kiss his garments. He went forth like a flaming herald of the cross in defiance of pope, cardinal or priest. It is stated that under his influence the morals of the city became purified. The children were specially cared for, as many as 8,000 at one time were banded together in a sort of republic, and were called “the children of Christ.” The Pope did his very best to suppress this holy work, but it was useless to try to stop so God inspired a man as Savonarola. When this was ineffectual, they said make him a Cardinal; give him a red hat, so make of him a friend. He answered from the pulpit of St. Mark’s: “I will have no other red hat than that of martyrdom, coloured with my own blood.” Then he was summoned to appear in Rome. This, however, he refused to do. Then came the ban of excommunication, but this brought with it no terrors. His answer to it is: “he who commands a thing contrary to the law of Christ, is himself excommunicated.” “I may have failed in many things, for I am a sinner, but I have not shunned to declare the Gospel of Jesus Christ. They threaten to burn me or fling me into the Arno, that gives me no concern.” Ultimately he was arrested and charged with impiety and sedition, of these, however, there was no proof shown, until a certain man named Ser Cocone presented a forged document, and our hero was condemned to be burned. And on May 23rd, 1498, this noble saint of God passed away. Three platforms were erected in front of the palace; Savonarola was taken up to the central one, clad in his priestly robes. Then piece by piece the Bishop removed his vestments in the presence of the multitude, and pronounced the degradation. “I separate thee from the church militant and from the church triumphant.” “Nay,” said the bold and daring saint, “from the church militant, if you please, but not from the church triumphant, that is more than you can do.” He then mounted the pile and gave utterance to the following sentence; “Oh! Florence, what hast thou done this day.” Soon there was nothing left but the ashes of Savonarola. His spirit leapt into the chariot of fire, and he was with the martyr throng before the Throne. By order of the Commune, his ashes were thrown into the river Arno, so that no relic could be found of the patriot and martyr.
We could hardly leave Florence without giving some reference to Raphael, one of our world’s greatest painters. Though not born in Florence, he spent a good deal of his life in the city. His education in the art was completed in Florence. He was born in the year 1483. Michael Angelo was to him an attraction and an inspiration. It is said that so fine was his genius, that in his time of tuition he could surpass his tutors. His most famous pictures are “Christ in the attitude of prayer on the Mount of Olives,” and “St. Michael and St. George,” which are now in the Louvre, at Paris. The Pope gave him a grand reception on his entering Rome; and, while there, he executed some very fine pieces for his Holiness, which so pleased him that he ordered Raphael to give him other proofs of his artistic skill. He then painted on the Vatican walls figures of “Poetry,” “Theology,” “Justice,” and “Philosophy”; also “The fall of Adam,” “Astronomy,” “Apollo,” and “Philosophy.” On another wall he painted “Fortitude,” “Prudence,” “Temperance”; and on another place “The Emperor Justinian delivering the Roman law,” “Peter’s deliverance from prison,” “Moses viewing the burning bush,” “Jacob’s dream,” etc. It is said he turned the Vatican into a picture gallery. His pictures are in many countries and in many cities. He died at the early age of thirty-seven, on the same date he was born, and his body was conveyed to the Pantheon, in Rome, where it now rests. It is said of him, he was most affable, kind, and generous to a fault. He had an open manly countenance which inspired all who met him. Florence, fair city, must be credited with the training and making of this bright gem of the painter’s art. Indeed, this city has given to the world some of the finest men of mind and soul the world has ever known. We felt proud to walk its streets and to know we were on ground that should be reverenced for the purity and greatness of the lives of the men we have referred to. We could not readily say good-bye, but time presses, and after a visit to the old Protestant Cemetery outside the Porta Pinta, which to Britishers is hallowed ground, as there are here the graves of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the poetess to whom we have already referred our readers; also “Theodore Parker,” and “Arthur Hugh Clough.” This “city of the dead” was closed in 1870, and a new cemetery has been opened for Protestants about a mile outside the city. To try to describe the beauties of all the suburbs of Florence would require an abler pen than mine. So we must close our account at the “Minerva,” take our last night’s repose and leave for Venice.
We rose early in order to have a full day of interest and experiences. We left this lovely place in the forenoon, and as our train was about to leave, a lady traveller who spoke good English boarded the train and entered our compartment. We soon became friendly and familiar. She spoke our language, she was of a kindred spirit, though not from England, she was of English stock and we soon discovered she came from Dunedin, New Zealand (Miss M. Himmel). She had visited Balmoral Castle in Scotland, and the Trossachs, Inverness, Glasgow and Edinburgh. Also Dublin in Ireland, The Giants’ Causeway, Bantry Bay and the lovely Lakes of Killarney. She spent three months in our great city of London, and visited every important church, museum, picture gallery, etc. Also Norway with its weird and awe-inspiring scenery. Rome with its telling old world stories in stone, marble and bronze. Naples, Milan, Venice, Florence, Frankfort-on-the-Rhine, Bingen, Berlin, and to Cologne. Then to Paris, the gay city of France, to see its Notre Dame, its fine Boulevards, etc. Two weeks’ sight seeing in Paris. Then to London and next Liverpool. Then for Dunedin, New Zealand and home. We found her well read and of wide experience, a lady both in manners, education, and by birth. We could exchange ideas and enjoy each others company as the train sped on towards Venice. The railway intersects a rich tract of land at the base of the Apennines. On our right the picturesque castle of Monte Mario, near which, we learned, at one time, the Florentine Republicans with their troops were defeated and taken prisoners by the troops of Cosino, in the year 1537. We soon found out our train was climbing, by the speed she made, up the great Etruscan Apennines we mount, now through a tunnel, then across a fine aqueduct. Again and again this occurred, while the sides of the vast mountain ranges, we noticed, were covered with trees—pines, poplars, chestnuts, olive, fig, mulberry, and others. The plains of Tuscany, which were now below us, are reputed to be the richest in Europe. Wheat is largely cultivated. Rice is also sown in considerable quantities, and is used by the peasant for food. The use of buffaloes as beasts for farm use are common. No less than 3,000 are in constant use on the farms and vineyards of Tuscany. We saw waggons drawn by six buffaloes frequently. The grapes of the neighbourhood, through which we were passing are said to be of an exceptional quality. As we passed villages on the slopes of the hills, we saw the natives in their simplicity of dress and manner, at work and at home. At every gate where there was a crossing of the railway there was a woman, mostly aged, with a horn to warn travellers of the approaching train. Reaching a wayside station our train stopped, and I noticed on the platform an Italian girl with a rude simple table or stall on which were large bunches of grapes, I presumed for sale, so I alighted from the train and seized two bunches about one pound each. As I could not speak to her in her language, I took some change from my pocket and offered her the cost, so she took what she wished. She took twenty centimes, that is the value of twopence, so cheap are grapes in Italy. At this station an Italian lady, and evidently two daughters, came into our compartment with a little fancy dog, which one of the daughters carefully nursed. They brought with them one or two large baskets. In a little while one of them took from a basket a very fine roast chicken, from which she began to feed the dog with the nicest pieces off the breast. When the animal was satisfied they spread napkins on their knees, and evidently enjoyed the rest of the fowl. Some rolls and butter and grapes for dessert, and also some bottles of wine were produced from the baskets. Later, as we needed refreshments, we had to be satisfied with a few sandwiches, but the ladies seeing we had no napkins, at once offered theirs, and, indeed, spread them over our knees, with the greatest delicacy and politeness. Then they offered us, and pressed us, though in a language we did not understand, to have grapes and wine with them. Their kindness and manner of giving expression to it touched us very much. They left us as we arrived at Bologna station, but our friend Miss Himmel, however, remained with us. We did not stay long enough to look over the town, but from its appearance it is a large and prosperous city, having a population of about 100,000. The cathedral is one of very great antiquity and importance. There are 130 Roman Catholic Churches and twenty monasteries in this city. There is a very fine Piazza or Square, called Victor Immanuel Square, in which is a fine bronze statue of Pope Gregory XIX. St. Petronio is the largest church in the town, in the Gothic style. Over the principal entrance is a bronze statue of Pope Julius II., with the keys and a sword in his hand, by Michael Angelo. We left Bologna after a short time of waiting, and were soon speeding through lovely and fertile tracts of country. The Adriatic on our right, not near enough to see, but the air seemed impregnated with its ozone. Our approach to Venice became apparent as we crossed the lagoons with a roar and a rattle, the numerous arches (miles of them) told us we were near the city.