A little light is better than total darkness; especially in Italy, where the cleverness of the people prevents their ever becoming stupid. They must learn something; and a little good is better than all bad.
Many of the palaces of Venice still preserve their pictures, and shew, in their numbers and beauty, the wealth and taste of the families in old time. The Palazzo Manfrin contains, I think, the largest and most choice collection. It has some incomparable pictures by Giorgione, the contemporary, and rival, of Titian. He also was a pupil of Gian Bellini, but invented a style of his own, and first painted with that richness and grandeur of colouring which is the pride of the Venetian school. His pictures in the Palazzo Manfrin are wonderfully beautiful. The Deposition from the Cross, by Titian, is here: indeed, the collection is in every respect magnificent, and deserves many visits. In the Palazzo Mocenigo (which Lord Byron inhabited—there are two palaces Mocenigo: it is one of the most illustrious families of Venice), there is the design for the Paradiso of Tintoretto. In the Palazzo Pisani is an admirable picture by Paul Veronese—the Family of Darius at the feet of Alexander. It rises above his usual style of mere portraiture into the ideal. There is the true chivalrous expression in the mien and countenance of the youthful victor—the grandeur of habitual command, the dignity resulting from noble ambition; at the same time, you see that his very soul is touched by compassion for the fallen princesses, and the ingenuous shame which a generous mind feels on beholding those lately placed so high humiliate themselves before him, mantles in his face.
In the Barberigo Palace is the Maddalena Scapigliata of Titian. Her eyes, swollen and red, are raised to heaven, and her face is disfigured by much weeping. Her remorse, her vehemence of grief, differs wholly from the tender sorrow, chastened and supported by faith, of Correggio’s Magdalen. At first sight, the deformity of her features produced by violent weeping, is almost repulsive; but the picture gains on you; the real beauty of the countenance—a something of noble and soft, in spite of passionate sorrow and self-abasement—is perceptible through her tears.
We were taken to-day to see a modern picture painting for the Emperor. It is on a large scale—Foscari taking leave of his Father; his mother is fainting; the Doge, struggling with contending emotions, turns half away. The best figure is that of the son: the feebleness arising from physical suffering—veneration for his seemingly severe parent—grief, tenderness, and resignation—are well expressed in his kneeling figure and downcast face.
The Venetians are much interested at this moment by the restoration of the Pala of the high altar of St. Mark’s. It required an order to view it and the other precious objects preserved in the Treasury.
The Basilica of San Marco is the most singular among the edifices of Venice. Its strange Arab architecture denotes its great antiquity. The ancient chapel of St. Theodore (who, before the transfer of the body of St. Mark, was the patron saint of the city), built in 552, was incorporated in 828 in the ancient church of St. Mark, at the time when the bones of the Saint arrived. These edifices being consumed by fire, the foundations of the present were laid in 976, and completed in 1071; but even until the middle of the last century its internal decorations were not completed.
Every portion glistens with precious stones. Its walls are covered with pictures in Mosaic: its pavement, and the five hundred columns that adorn it, are composed of verde antique, jasper, porphyry, agate, and the most precious marbles. Usually, one cares little for such things; but here the barbaric magnificence—the Eastern aspect—the tombs of heroes it contains, and its association with the glories of the republic—combine to render the tribute of Mammon to Heaven interesting.
The high altar has two Pale: one covers the other. The internal one, a curiosity from its richness, has been taken down to be repaired. It is called the Pala d’oro, and is formed of enamel paintings on silver and gold, encrusted with a profusion of gems; it was executed at Constantinople by order of the Doge Piero Orseolo, under whose reign the Basilica was finished. It now forms the delight of Venice, and many noble ladies have contributed a quantity of gems, to replace those that have been lost. It is a curious specimen of the state of the arts in the middle ages, before it revived and received a soul from the great painters of Tuscany and Umbria. It is all glitter and richness, and a sort of barbaric elegance, without real taste.
The treasure of St. Mark once overflowed with wealth, in gems, pearls, and worked gold, chiefly transferred from Constantinople; these have all disappeared; the only objects that attract attention are an antique porphyry vase, with letters carved on it, such as are found in Persepolis—and a golden rose, one of those which it was the practice of the popes to present on certain occasions to catholic sovereigns. This had been presented to a doge of Venice; it was no meagre gift, being a very large bough, bearing many roses, all formed of the precious metal.
Each day we grow more familiar with this delightful city—favourite of Amphitrite and the Nereids; the little roots, generated by sympathy and enjoyment, begin to strike out, and I shall feel the violence of transplanting when forced to go. I look wistfully on some of the palaces, thinking that here I might find a pleasant, peaceful home; nor is the idea, though impracticable for me, wholly visionary. Several of the palaces, bereft of their old possessors, are used for public offices, or are let at a low rent. It is easy to obtain a house, whose marble staircase, lofty halls, and elegant architecture, surpass anything to be found in France or England. Several English gentlemen have taken apartments, and fitted them up with old furniture, and find themselves, at slight cost, surrounded by Venetian grandeur. No one can spend much money in Venice:—a gondola is a very inexpensive carriage; hiring one, as we do, costs four swanzikers a day—about four pounds a month, with a buona mano of half a swanziker a day to the gondolier, on going away.
Of course, if settled, you must build your own gondola; and to be respectable you must have two gondolieri in livery. The appearance of the boatmen dressed like footmen is, to my eye, the only inharmonious sight in Venice. These men used to be reserved only for the use of the gondola and carrying messages; but in these poorer days, they serve as domestics in the house; they are still, however, a race apart, thoroughly acquainted with every nook and corner of the city; intelligent, alert, zealous; ready (as we were told of old) to do any bad errand; but with such having nothing to do, we know nothing. We have two gondolas in our pay. One of the gondolieri is a favourite, Beppo, No. 303; the other, Marco, 307. We have no fault to find with either; and they join intelligence to exactness. At first, we would not engage Marco, because, accustomed to foreigners, he was proud of his scraps of bad French. We made a bargain with him that he should always speak Italian—Venetian we would not insist upon, for we should not understand him. I am almost sorry to know nothing of Venetian; it was the first dialect formed from Latin that was written. At the time when, in the other cities of Italy, the annals were drawn up in barbarous Latin, the Venetians made their records in their vernacular tongue, which remain to this day in multitudinous volumes in the Library of St. Mark. It has been averred that the first colonists from Padua brought this dialect of the Latin with them, and that it is a remnant of the vernacular of Roman Italy. Nine centuries later, the lingua Toscana could scarcely be said to exist; the language of Brunetto Latini, Dante’s master, being very scant and inefficient. I am told that Dante himself hesitated whether to write his “Divina Comedia” in Latin or Venetian, till fortunately he became aware that the talk of the common people of Tuscany possessed all the elements of expression; and he, collecting them with that life-giving power proper to genius, “created a language, in itself heroic and persuasive, out of a chaos of inharmonious barbarisms.”[17] There is, I believe, even at this day, greater scope for wit and airy grace in Venetian than in Tuscan.
The gondolieri often sing at their oars; nor are the verses of Tasso quite forgotten. One delicious calm moonlight evening, as we were walking on the Piazzetta, an old gondoliere challenged a younger one to alternate with him the stanzas of the “Gerusalemme.” I have often wished to hear them. It was a double pleasure that I did not do so by command, but in the true old Venetian way, two challenging each other voluntarily, and taking up alternate stanzas, till one can remember no more, and the other comes off conqueror. We are told that the air to which they sing is monotonous: so it is; yet well adapted to recitation. The antagonists stood on the Piazzetta, at the verge of the laguna, surrounded by other gondolieri—the whole scene lighted up by the moon. They chanted the favourite passage, the death of Clorinda. I could only follow the general sense, as they recite in Venetian; but the subject of the verse, high and heroic, the associations called up—the beauty of the spot—a sort of dignity in the gestures of the elder boatman, and nothing harsh, though it might be monotonous, in their chaunt—the whole thing gave me inexpressible pleasure—it was a Venetian scene, dressed in its best; and the imagination was wrapped in perfect enjoyment.
The weeks pass away, and we are soon, I am sorry to say, about to leave Venice. We have taken our sight-seeing quietly, and each day has had a novel pleasure. It is one of our amusements to visit the piazza of San Marco at two in the afternoon, when, on the striking of the hour on the great clock, the pigeons come down to be fed. These birds are sacred to Saint Mark, and it is penal to kill any. They lead a happy life, petted by all the citizens. Now and then they may be served up at the dinner of a poor man; but they are too many not to spare, without grudging, an individual or two for the good of their maintainers.
We have visited the arsenal, a monument of the glory and commerce of Venice; silent, empty, useless. One poor brig lies in the harbour; it served during the late war in the East; and the young officer, who kindly acted as cicerone, had captured a Turkish flag, which showed fresh among ancient Venetian trophies. It seemed only a pretty compliment when I told him, that it gave me more pleasure than all the curiosities he was showing us; but I spoke the simple truth. Anything that demonstrates the valour and spirit of the present race of Italians, is more satisfactory to behold, than all the cobwebbed glories of old times.
No good opera is going on here. The Fenice, the large theatre, is only open during carnival. The most popular amusement is the famiglia Vianesi, about half a dozen children, who sing the Barbiere di Seviglia and the Elisir d’Amore. It was very wonderful, but not pleasing. There is a young and pretty prima donna—a mezzo soprano—Gazzaniga, who takes the part of Romeo in the Montecchi e Capuletti, and sings it very nicely; and there is an amusing buffo.
A grand opera was got up at Padua during the visit of the Dotti, and even Taglioni was engaged. There was a talk of her coming to Venice, but it fell to the ground. However, after the learned had dispersed, the operatic company crossed the lagune, bringing the decorations of Robert le Diable. The Italians do not understand German music. They bring it out because it has been praised; but they do not like it; and alter it, and try to make it coincide with their taste, and spoil it completely.
The Emperor Ferdinand’s uncle, and the heir presumptive of the imperial crown, is come to spend a day here, and it is thought proper to mark his visit by a festival. The Piazza di San Marco has been illuminated—only with a mezza illuminazione, but still it was very beautiful; nor can anything be otherwise in the magnificent theatre of this stately square.
In addition they opened the opera-house of the Fenice, and lighted it up. An illuminara in one of the great opera-houses is almost a national event in an Italian town: I never witnessed one before, and now could understand the excitement that it occasions. The price of boxes was very high, some sixty swanzikers and more. Signor —— kindly brought me the keys of a very good box, opposite that occupied by the royal party. We went early; the whole house was full; the passages and corridors, all brilliantly lighted, were filled with the common people—admitted without paying. Nothing could be more animated, more gay. Our gondolier, one of whose offices this is, paid for us, and showed us the way to our box. When the door opened we were dazzled: it was like a scene in fairy land. Accustomed to our few wax candles, and the deforming, sombre light of gas, the innumerable lights that shed more than day over the whole house, produced an effect of brilliancy and elegance quite indescribable.
There had been much debating as to the opera, Gazzaniga wished to have the Montecchi e Capuletti, as she shone in the part of Romeo; but the primo buffo did not like to be excluded from singing before H. R. I. H. Accordingly, the opera of Chi dura Vince was fixed on, in which Gazzaniga had a prominent serio-comic part. The story of the play is similar to that of our Honeymoon; and the way in which she acted the angry, deluded bride was very amusing. This opera is by Ricci, and has a few agreeable airs in it—though nothing rising above mediocrity. The Archduke went away before the opera was over. Royal personages labour so very hard; and the Archduke was to leave Venice at four the following morning. He went in a steamer to view the sea-wall building at Malamocco, and thence is to proceed by steam to Trieste. Another steamer accompanied him; and the first people of Venice, and all strangers, were invited, as for a party of pleasure. I had a sort of fore-feeling I should not like it; for though I was assured the steamer would make the voyage in the lagune on this side Lido, I did not quite believe that to be possible. So it proved—the steamers took to the open sea, which was rather rough; and though plenty was provided to refresh and entertain the guests, very little was eaten.
We have taken flight, over plain, river, and mountain, and are arrived in the beautiful city of Italy—Firenze la Bella. We parted excellent friends with the host of l’Hôtel d’Italie, who had shown himself anxious to please, and fair in his dealings. A vetturino journey is always somewhat tedious, and the deep roads neighbouring the Po, having been damaged by rain and flood, our progress was more than usually slow. We were drawn by two admirable little horses, and their avaricious master taxed their strength to the utmost. He had demanded more from us, alleging the necessity of extra horses, but grudged the price asked, and went on merely with his own. The stinginess of this fellow had its reward in riches, for he told us he was called Il Miliorino. This it is that makes avarice an incurable vice. It can never be satiated, for it ever wants more; and it is seldom disappointed, for it gains its ends more passively than actively, and its success depends on self, not on others; but this it is also that renders it so despicable. “Tell him his soul lives in an alley,” said Ben Jonson, when Charles I. sent him a niggard gift. The souls of the avaricious live in the narrowest of all alleys; they are shut up in the dreariest solitary confinement, from which they have not the spirit to escape.
We contrived to peep at a few pictures. At Padua, we paid a hurried visit to one or two churches adorned by frescoes by some of the earlier masters, admirable for the artless gesture—the earnest, rapt expression—the power of shewing the soul breathing in the face. Every painter who aims at the ideal—at expressing the purer and higher emotions of the soul, ought to make a particular study of these early Christian paintings; they must not imitate them—true genius, indeed, cannot imitate. He can catch the light which the labours of his predecessors throw over his path; but he will proceed on one shaped out by himself. To imitate Perugino would be to write poetry in the obsolete language of Chaucer. Yet every English writer ought to be familiar with the pathos, sweetness, and delicate truth of one of our greatest poets.
I was sorry not to spend more time at Ferrara; and in particular not to revisit the galleries, and palaces, and churches of Bologna. To have seen these once was no excuse for not seeing them again; but I could not.
I cannot say why, but the impression left on my mind of the passage of the Appenines had been unfavourable, and I was agreeably surprised to find the scenery far more varied—richer in wood, and more picturesque than I expected. The mountain inns are all much improved since I last crossed. Evening closed as the valley in which Florence is situated opened before us; the descent is rapid, ending almost at the gate of the city itself. We traversed it at its greatest length, from the Porta San Gallo to Schneiderff’s Hotel, where very uncomfortable rooms were assigned to us.
This, and the expense of the hotel, made us eager to take apartments. I was instantly employed in the wearisome task of finding them. There are a great many, but still it was difficult to find such as we wanted. There were several numerous and handsome suites of rooms at a high price, and a great number of narrow and uncomfortable ones tolerably cheap. Neither suited us. We at last fixed on a second floor, on the Lungo l’Arno. The rooms are nearly all turned to the south, and look over the river: they are not large, but they are clean and neat. We are sure of the sun whenever he shines; which is a great desideratum, especially in an Italian winter, when the presence of sunshine often admits of an absence of fire. We have engaged our rooms for four months. It is very cold—as cold as it can be in England.
To cold has succeeded rain, with a few sunny days to break the dreariness of the season; but I believe you in England are enjoying fine weather, and, strange to say, we hear that in Rome and Naples the rain is still more continuous and chill. Walking is out of the question; and driving,——how I at once envy and despise the happy rich who have carriages, and who use them only to drive every afternoon in the Cascine—the Hyde Park of Florence. If I could, I would visit every spot mentioned in Florentine history—visit its towns of old renown; and ramble amid scenes familiar to Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarch, and Macchiavelli.
The fault of Florence is, that it is built in a basin, too entirely and too closely shut in by mountains, which collect the clouds, and render the air stagnant; so that it is hot in summer; and in winter, when there is snow on the Appenines, sharply cold. Now that there is no snow, the season being mild, we have the other alternative of rain and mist. Sometimes the Arno rises so high that it threatens a flood: on these occasions, it is watched and guarded like a wild beast, and every inch, as it rises, is proclaimed. I like to hear it, roaring and rushing in its course—
as Dante says of the Po; and any one witnessing the turbulence of these tideless Italian rivers when swollen by rains; who views their precipitate speed, and listens to their thunder, as the mountain torrents, named by the poet their pursuers, come dashing after, to augment their fury—whoso sees this, is conscious that in this passage Dante displays his peculiar and high power of putting a sentient soul into nature, and representing it to our minds by images suggested by a quick and poetic feeling of her vitality.
During the intervals between the rainy days, the mists hang as dense and low over the city as they used to rest over the valley of Dolgelly during last year’s wintry summer. But when the sun does shine, and when the smiles of Nature call me forth, I cross the Ponte alle Grazie—I leave the town by the gate of San Miniato, and ascend the steep hill to the platform before the little elegant church (San Miniato fuore delle mura) on which Michael Angelo delighted to fix his eyes, calling it “La bella villanella.” From the height, you command a view of the city, crowned by dome and tower, of the Appenine that slopes down to cradle it in its green lap; and of the Arno, that, having forced its way among the mountains, now hurries on towards the marine plain. This view, and the climate also of Florence, was injured not many years ago, when the forests, that clothed the mountain sides, were cut down, to be replaced by the olive—a more profitable growth. But the removal of the forests opened the gullies of the hills; took away the check formerly opposed to the violent tramontana; which collects its strength on the snowy peaks, and rushes down the bared sides with mightier power.
I look on those glorious hills, and turn to a map of Italy, and long to lose myself in their depths, and to visit every portion of Tuscany; every smaller town and secluded nook of which, is illustrious through historical association. It is my dream to set out some day on this ramble, and see places untrod by the usual tourist; but now I cannot.
However, we could not resist the temptation of visiting Vallombrosa. It is true this is not the season for excursions, autumn being too far advanced; but a fine day gave us promise, we hoped, for the same on the morrow: so we hired a vettura and set out.
The road skirts the river, and winds up the Valdarno, the slopes of whose inclosing hills are thickly studded with country seats. It was a showery day; but the sun shone at intervals, and brightened the stream and mountain sides. The road is new and good. At about one o’clock we reached a small town where a cattle fair was going on.[18] After some little delay, however, we got ponies and a guide, and proceeded. We now fell upon a true mountain path, winding up the hill beside a brawling torrent; the crags rose high above, and the branches of noble forest-trees were spread over our path—truly they were in the sear and yellow leaf; but the place was the more consonant with Milton’s verse—
As we climbed higher, a shower of sleet came on, and we arrived wet through at the Convent. No women are admitted within these sacred walls, but a forestiera is built adjoining for our accommodation.
The grassy plain, or platform, before the Convent is at the head of a huge gully or ravine, which slopes down towards the valley of the Arno. A mist hung over the scene; but in summer-time it must be—what it is named—Paradise.
Vallombrosa is situated on the verge of the mountainous region of the Casentino. This district is little known; it vies with Switzerland or the Tyrol in beauty; covered by forests, resonant with streams, the valleys that intervene are green and fertile. Cortona is its capital. Its nobility is of high antiquity, and the peasantry are attached to it with a sort of feudal sense of vassalage.
We arrived wet through. The lay-brother made a good fire, and asked us what refreshment we would have. We had already dined, so he brought us some excellent coffee, and a chasse of rosolio, such as is only to be found distilled by the Monks of this Convent.
The rain made the scene dreary; but it ceased at last, and we mounted our ponies. The sun broke out as we descended; and the sparkling torrent murmured softly as it danced along. I hailed it with delight, as one of—
Verses are these that might refresh a thirsty wanderer in a hot sandy desert. There is scarcely a spot in Tuscany, and those parts of the North of Italy, which he visited, that Dante has not described in poetry that brings the very spot before your eyes, adorned with graces missed by the prosaic eye, and yet which are exact and in perfect harmony with the scene.
There are three convents, Vallombrosa, Calmaldoli, and Laverna, situated in the depths of the district of the Casentino, of which visitors make the tour. Monks of old were wise to choose spots of extreme beauty, however solitary, for their life of seclusion, peace, and praise.
Florence contains a multitude of various paintings, which to describe, or even to classify, would demand a volume, and would require a knowledge of the art, the elements even of which I do not possess. I have not the remotest pretension to being a connoisseur; nor do I say, as some have done, “I do not know what is called good, but I know what pleases me”—giving it to be understood, by these words, that they have an untaught instinct, transcending culture of the student. I believe, in all matters of art, good taste results from natural powers joined to familiarity with the best productions. To read sublime poetry, to hear excellent music, to view the finest pictures, the most admirable statues, and harmonious and stately architecture, is the best school in which to learn to appreciate what approaches nearest to perfection in each.
M. Rio satisfactorily proves that the modern art of painting resulted from the piety of the age in which it had birth. The adoration of images—or, if that expression be too strong, the having recourse to images for the purpose of concentrating, vivifying, and exalting the faith of the worshippers—created a demand (to use a phrase of the day) for pictures on religious subjects. At first this was satisfied by paintings of the Byzantine school, to which custom gave sanctity. But when men of eminent piety, gifted with pictorial powers, turned their talents to representing bodily to the eye, the Saviour of the world, the chaste sinless mother of God, or saints, who through their faith form a portion of the hierarchy of heaven, and are admitted by the Judge to mediate for their fellow-creatures, they depicted all that their souls could conceive of sublime and holy in the face of man, seeking to present
It is with extreme delight that I have viewed some of the works of the elder Florentine painters, who excelled in pourtraying the human countenance lighted up by the nobler passions. Simplicity and innocence; rapt enthusiasm, or dignified repose, characterise their various productions. It has been remarked that Shakspeare’s personages speak the very words which we may imagine that our noble selves would say under the suggestions of certain passions, dispositions, and circumstances. So it may be said that every figure painted by these higher artists looks an individual chosen among our species for nobility of bearing and beauty of countenance, and that their attitude and look strictly belong to them. There is nothing theatrical nor affected, which is the Charybdis—nor anything constrained or inane, which may be termed the Scylla of the art.
Among the compositions eminent for the conjunction of the truth of nature and ideal beauty, is the fresco of Cosimo Rosselli, in the church of Saint Ambrosio. The subject is the translation of the miraculous chalice to the episcopal palace. It is replete with figures of various aspect, but all expressive of the sentiment of worship and admiration proper to the occasion. There is a group of women in particular, which, if such lived and assembled in the churches of Florence, show that personal beauty and graceful dignity then existed among the sex in a degree unparalleled elsewhere. But these evidently are not mere portraits; and the painter, though accustomed to associate with a race occupied by nobler thoughts and desires than now for the most part harbour in the brain and heart of women, yet idealised his actual experiences.
There is another picture of this age, which to see, is to feel the happiness which the soul receives from objects presented to the eye, that kindle and elevate the imagination. It represents the Adoration of the Magi, by Ghirlandajo, in the chapel of an hospital in the Piazza della Annunziata. There is one of the Kings standing on one side of the Virgin, which might (as the Apollo Belvidere is said to have done), create a passion in a woman’s heart. Where on earth find a man so full of majesty, gentleness, and feeling? There is a charming accessory to this picture. In the back-ground is represented the Murder of the Innocents, in all its terror; but immediately in the foreground, on each side of the Virgin, kneel two children—the souls of the Innocents who died for Christ, and are redeemed by him. The attitude of these babes, especially of one, has that inexpressible charm of innocence which words cannot convey, and which since the creation of man, the pencil has seldom been able to depict.
Led by the admiration which this picture excited, I visited every other in Florence by Ghirlandajo; they mostly bear the stamp of the power I have mentioned. Vasari, albeit of a different school, praises him highly, but chiefly for the naturalness and truth with which he pourtrayed the feelings; and speaks of the wonder excited by those effects, and the pleasure they produced in the beholders. Describing one of the paintings in a chapel of the Church of the Santa Trinità, at Florence, representing the Death of St. Francis, and the grief of the monks, he says, “there is one friar who kisses his hand; and it is not possible, in painting, better to pourtray the expression; and there is besides a bishop, with spectacles on, who is singing vespers, not hearing whom is the only testimony that it is a mere painting.”
Lanzi speaks of his perfection of outline, grace of attitude, truth of ideas, and of his facility and rare diligence. He was the master of Michael Angelo; and, it is said, envying the talents his pupil displayed, contrived that he should quit painting for sculpture. But this, I have no doubt, is a calumny. He is one of the most prolific among the early Florentine painters; but, among his many pictures, I liked none so well as the Adoration of the Magi I before mentioned, and the Life of St. Francis, in a chapel dedicated to this Saint, in the Church of the Santa Trinità.
The Beato Fra Angelico surpasses all his contemporaries in the celestial sweetness he infuses into the countenances of his saints and angels. We may believe ourselves regarding the blessed in the kingdom of heaven, as we look at these creations of a mind cradled in love, charity, and devotion. Fra Giovanni, of Fiesole, known as the blessed Fra Angelico, presents in his life the very type of a Christian ecclesiastic. He gave himself wholly up to piety and good works. His humility was such, that when Pope Nicholas V. desired to make him Archbishop of Florence, he represented to his Holiness that he did not feel himself formed to govern the many, and implored him to name another more worthy in his stead. “It appears, from this holy man,” says Vasari, “that the monks of his time did not desire to obtain those burthensome honours which they did not think that they could worthily fulfil, and were ready to yield them to others whom they judged more capable—as did this truly angelic father, who spent his life in the service of God, and in benefiting the world and his neighbour; and what more can be desired by man than by living holily to attain the kingdom of heaven, and acting worthily to acquire eternal fame on earth.” Fra Angelico was no lazy priest—besides his works elsewhere, Florence abounds with lovely images whose serene and blessed faces breathe the virtues of their author. The delicacy and softness for which he is remarkable never degenerates into insipidity. His pure taste made him conceive the highest beauty, his faith gave him a foretaste of beatitude, and he adorned with these attributes the beings whom alone he consented to represent, the saints and angels of Paradise.[20]
We had a curious scene in the sacristy of the church of Santa Maria Novella, whither we went to hunt for one of the works of this angelic artist; the reliquaries mentioned by M. Rio; consisting of two tablets painted with a series of miniatures, representing the Life of Jesus Christ; the Last Judgment, in which the beatitude of the elect appears in all its living ecstasy, and St. Thomas Aquinas and Albert the Great, surrounded by their disciples. For a long time the keys could not be found of the closet in which these reliquaries were deposited; and a most active hunt after them was made. At length they came to light, and the tablets were brought out. The Dominican, who took every pains to find them for us, had lately arrived from Rome, and had never seen them. His almost childish delight, as he regarded the inexpressible loveliness of these exquisite miniatures, was highly amusing. Whenever you have to do with an Italian, you do not encounter the doltish ignorance of an English clown, nor the dogged sullenness of a German. He takes pleasure in your pleasure, and interests himself in the objects which are exciting your interest, in a manner at once gratifying to us and honourable to himself.
Of a later age is Poccetti, unnamed by Vasari, because, when he wrote, he had not painted the pictures which render him one of the most admirable fresco painters in the world: Florence is full of his works, and every one may be visited with pleasure and profit, for he depicts Nature in her truth and yet in her elegance;—if that word denotes the power of displaying in the demeanour and attitude, and countenances of men, their souls defecated of every meaner quality—dignified through unaffected self-forgetfulness—animated by charity—beaming with faith.—One of his most renowned works is a series of frescos in the cloister of the convent of the Santissima Annunziata: they represent the conversion, holy life, and death, of seven Florentine gentlemen, who dedicated themselves to religion under the name of Servi di Maria. The aspect and bearing of these holy men mark them as gentlemen in the best sense of the word. Men, “generous, brave, and gentle;” and, in addition, animated by earnest benevolence towards their fellow-creatures, and lively faith towards the divinity. Perhaps, however, the most admirable of his works is the cupola of a chapel, belonging to the church and convent of Santa Maria degli Angioli. It is painted in fresco, and represents the Saints of the Old and New Testament; the more beautiful portion is the congregation of female saints—Saint Cecilia, the musician; Saint Clara, the nun; Saint Catherine, the bride of Christ, &c. The foreshortening is admirable, the spirit and grace of the attitudes worthy of the highest masters of the art.[21]
Such is the spirit that animates the earlier school of Florence. But as painting became more of an art, and grew to represent domestic scenes and portraits, artists broke from the confinement of mere religious subjects, or treated them in a mundane manner. Then it was that their imagination so degenerated, that they had recourse to portraits to represent Christ, the Virgin, and the Saints; some of them even fell so far from the ideal of sinless chastity, as to paint their mistresses and women of unworthy life; offering to the worship of the pious, the image of mere physical beauty, without the superior grandeur of moral excellence.
I must confess, that any rules (except the immutable laws of moral rectitude) that tend to limit the objects on which man is to exercise his faculty of the imagination, appear to me contrary to the scope of our creation. We are so far from being all born possessed of equal powers of mind, that since the world began there has been scarcely a hundred among us capable of the higher flights of the intellect. How few possess, in any degree, the capacity of becoming painters, and far fewer are those who are able to rise to an exalted order of art. We ought to know what the highest is,—that those who feel the power should endeavour to elevate themselves to it; but beauty may be found elsewhere, and must not be rejected. Bigotry is ever to be eschewed in all that pertains to man; to confine painters to one class of pictures, is to turn some who would be great, if allowed to originate subjects of a lower grade, into tame copyists, and humble, lifeless imitators of the thoughts of others. As well insist that all poets should write hymns and heroic poetry, as that painters should confine the pencil to the delineation of the conceptions of religious mysticism.
The genuine school of Christian idealism is, for the present, come to an end. And I confess, as far as I may be allowed to judge, that it strikes me that the Germans of the present day, who are endeavouring to revive it, fall into the same mistake as our sculptors, who employ themselves in imitating the ancients;—they are good copyists, but are never original. And what appears to prove this is, that the Germans are not content with endeavouring to reproduce that composed and severe expression which the earlier painters yet knew how to ally to vitality in its highest sense, but they return to the dry colouring and meagre composition, which is the chief defect of the infancy of painting.
Still, there can be no question that in poetry, music, or the plastic arts, the ideal must rank above the merely imitative. Those painters who can embody ideas conceived in their purest and most elevated contemplations, far removed from vulgar and trivial reality, are the greatest. Artists, however, are men formed by nature with the peculiar eye to see and represent form and colour; and it is not strange that the majority among them should turn to the study of these, and view in the perfection of representing the one or the other, the aim of their labours. Thus the study of nature succeeded to the ideal; art fell lower afterwards, and became the copyist of art; and ancient statues grew to be the models from which modern painters strove to gain inspiration, till the uniformity, stiffness, and even deformity thus produced, induced others, who perceived these faults and their cause, to have again recourse to nature.
But these remarks tend beyond the limits of my knowledge, or even powers of observation. I have mentioned pictures not much visited except by the curious, just to shew the way towards, not to guide you (for I cannot), in your search after pictorial excellence: nor will I long detain you in the more beaten road of the public galleries.
With slow steps my feet almost unwillingly first moved to the collection in the Reali Uffizi. As I entered the Tribune I felt a crowd of associations rise up around me, gifted with painful vitality. I was long lost in tears. But novelty seems all in all to us weak mortals; and when I revisited these rooms, these saddest ghosts were laid; the affliction calmed, and my mind was free to receive new impressions.
The Tribune is adorned with the selected chefs-d’œuvre of the best artists of every school, in addition to some of the finest ancient sculpture in the world. The matchless statue of the Queen of Beauty reigns over the whole—Venus, majestic in her bending softness, which once to see does not reveal its perfection. There is here one of the most beautiful of Raphael’s Madonnas—one of the eight which M. Rio mentions as among the chefs-d’œuvre that Raphael executed in the short interval of two years, during which he especially dedicated himself to multiplying representations of the Virgin, for whom from childhood he had felt an especial devotion.[22]
Here is the master-piece of Andrea del Sarto, a painter of very high, though not the highest, merit. He wants warmth of colouring, fire of expression, and variety of invention; while he has been named Andrea senza Errori, from the purity of his outlines, the graceful decorum of his personages, and the faultless completeness of every portion of his pictures.
Perfection in drawing, of which Michael Angelo was the great master, is the leading merit of the subsequent Florentine school. It has not the glowing colouring of the Venetian, nor possesses artists to compare with Raphael, Correggio, or Leonardo da Vinci. Michael Angelo was its most glorious example—a man whom I do not dare criticize; whom I will wait to mention till I have seen the Sistine Chapel, at Rome; to whose majestic powers of conception every connoisseur bears testimony, while still there is something of extravagant—something which is not absolute beauty—in most of his works at Florence. The glorious Medicean monuments,—