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Title: The Medici Balls - Seven little journeys in Tuscany
Author: Sheldon, Anna R., Newell, M. Moyca
Language: English
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THE MEDICI BALLS
[Illustration:
BENOZZO GOZZOLI PINX ANDERSON PH.
Lorenzo de' Medici
]
The Medici Balls
SEVEN LITTLE JOURNEYS
IN TUSCANY
ANNA R. SHELDON
M. MOYCA NEWELL
_OVER ONE HUNDRED ILLUSTRATIONS_
CHARTERHOUSE PRESS
NEW YORK
1904
COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY
M. M. NEWELL
_ALL RIGHTS RESERVED_
SCHLUETER
PRINTING
COMPANY
NEW YORK
_To_
Frances Cecilia Newell
WE DEDICATE THIS BOOK
PREFATORY NOTE
[Illustration]
Why the Medici family assumed the well-known device of red balls on a
field of gold, is one of the vexed questions of heraldic history. Some
hold that as the saints, Cosmo and Damian, who appear so often in the
votive pictures of the Medici, were also patron saints of medicine
and surgery, and because the name of the family signifies physicians,
the balls may suggest pills (_palle_). Others think that a cluster of
balls, formerly the sign of money-lenders, was adopted as a device by
Giovanni de' Medici, founder of the greater branch of the illustrious
house, who as a banker attained great wealth and influence. As the
Medici identified themselves with the trading interests and government
of Florence, and were connected with several noble Florentine families,
their coat of arms became familiar throughout all that extensive
territory subject to Florence in the fifteenth century. With its varied
number of balls, or quartered with other arms, as charged with the
royal lily of France, or surmounted by the keys of St. Peter and a
pontiff's tiara, it greets the traveller at every turn, not only on
palaces and city gates, but on illuminated manuscripts and choir books,
on the covers of mediæval ledgers, and terra-cotta wine jars.
Thus the title of "Medici Balls" has been given to the following record
of seven little journeys in Tuscany by the authors, who in all their
travels, even in lanes and modest farm-houses, have found themselves
under the ægis of the powerful banker-princes of Florence. The shield,
bearing seven red balls on a field of gold, represents the arms of
Piero de' Medici, and the period when Medicean supremacy was at its
height; in the sequence of balls employed by the various members of
the family, it serves to connect the eight balls displayed on the arms
of Cosimo, Pater Patriæ, the munificent financier, with the six balls
of Lorenzo the Magnificent, in whom the glory and renown of the family
culminated.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE MUGELLO 3
PRATO: A MEDIÆVAL JOURNEY 45
CHIANTI AND THE IMPRUNETA 73
CASTRUCCIO CASTRACANE, LORD OF LUCCA 101
PISTOJA, "CITY OF CINO" 123
A SUNDAY AMONG THE HILLS OF BRANCOLI 163
BARGA AND THE VALLEY OF GARFAGNANA 199
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Lorenzo de' Medici. _Photogravure_ _Frontispiece_
From "Procession of the Magi," Riccardi Palace, Florence.
By Benozzo Gozzoli.
PAGE
Della Robbia Frieze 3
Badia a Settimo 4
Straw Plaiters, Mugnone Valley 7
A Loggia, Piero a Sieve 9
Palazzo Pubblico, Scarperia 11
The Main Street, Scarperia 13
Madonna and Child, Chapel of the Sacred Girdle, Duomo, Prato.
By Giovanni Pisano 15
Ancient Campanile della Pieve, Borgo San Lorenzo 20
Torraccia Romanelli, Borgo San Lorenzo 21
A Farm-house, Mugello 22
Ponte d'Elsa, Mugello 23
Hill of Vespignano, Mugello 24
Round Tower of Vespignano, Mugello 26
Joachim Returning to the Sheepfold, Arena Chapel, Padua.
By Giotto 29
From the Walls of Scarperia 31
A Country Road, Scarperia 32
Detail of Bronze Grille. Chapel of the Sacred Girdle, Prato 33
Portrait of Bianca Cappello, Uffizi, Florence.
By Alessandro Allori 37
Coats of Arms of the Ubaldini and Vichio 40
The Procession of the Magi, Riccardi Palace, Florence.
By Benozzo Gozzoli 43
Ornamental Band, Della Robbia 45
The Campanile, Prato. By Giovanni Pisano 46
Detail, Procession of the Magi, Riccardi Palace, Florence.
By Benozzo Gozzoli 47
Arcades "Where Hang the Copper and Woolen Goods," Prato 50
The Fortress, Prato 51
The Cathedral of Prato 53
Garden Belonging to Lorenzo's Favorite Villa, Poggio a Caiano 56
Erroneously entitled in the book as "Villa of Petraia."
External Pulpit, Cathedral, Prato. By Donatello 57
Madonna and Child, with Saints, Lunette Over Central Door,
Duomo, Prato. By Andrea Della Robbia 61
Lucrezia Tornabuoni, Wife of Lorenzo Il Magnifico. Wearing the
Marsyas Jewel of the Medici. By Botticelli 65
Coat of Arms of Prato 68
Detail of Frieze. S. Maria Delle Carceri, Prato.
By Andrea Della Robbia 69
The Piazza, Greve, Chianti 73
Ponte Falciano, Chianti 74
Ponte Capello, River Greve 75
Vitigliano, Chianti 76
Old Watch-Tower, Chianti 77
Panzano from a Distance, Chianti 78
S. Leolino a Flacciano, Pieve di Panzano, Chianti 79
A Villa in Panzano, Chianti 81
Old Wine Jar, Chianti 83
A Peasant of Chianti 85
The Stately Cypress 87
A Country Road, Chianti 89
Piazza, Impruneta 90
A Street, Impruneta 91
Predella to Tabernacle, Chapel of the Holy
Cross, Impruneta. By Luca della Robbia 93
Adoring Angels, Impruneta. By Luca della Robbia 95
Coat of Arms, Courtyard, Palazzo Cenami, Lucca 99
Della Robbia Ornament 101
Apse End and Campanile, San Andrea, Serravalle 103
The Rocca of Castruccio, Serravalle 104
Olive Trees 105
Iron Lantern, Palazzo Baroni, Lucca 107
Monument of General Bartolommeo Colleoni, Venice.
By A. Verrocchio 108
Moat of Castle Sarzanella, Sarzana 109
Monument of General Gattamelata, Padua. By Donatello 111
Statue of John Hawkwood, Cathedral, Florence.
By Paolo Uccello 112
Madonna and Child, with Two Saints, Castelfranco.
By Giorgione 115
Portrait of a Young Florentine, Royal Gallery, Berlin.
By Botticelli 116
Stemma of Serravalle 118
Medici Shield, Ospedale del Ceppo, Pistoja. Della Robbia 121
Viale dell'Arcadia, Pistoja 123
Shield of Pistoja, Supported by Bears 124
Piazza del Duomo, Pistoja 125
Coat of Arms, Pistoja. By Verrocchio 129
Bronze Candelabra, Duomo, Pistoja 132
Head of Filippo Tedici, Pistoja 133
Campanile, from Via Ripa del Sale, Pistoja 137
Loggia, Ospedale del Ceppo, Pistoja 141
Coat of Arms of Hospital, Pistoja. Della Robbia 145
Healing the Sick, Detail of Frieze, Ospedale del Ceppo,
Pistoja. By Giovanni della Robbia 149
Via Abbi Pazienza 152
Coronation of the Virgin, Ospedale del Ceppo, Pistoja.
By Benedetto Buglione 153
Adoration of the Magi, S. Andrea, Pistoja 155
Monument of Cardinal Forteguerra, S. Cecilia, Rome.
By Mino da Fiesole 157
Virgin and Child, with Saints, Cathedral, Lucca.
By Fra Bartolommeo 161
Bastions of San Colombo, Lucca 163
Old City Wall and Moat, Lucca 164
Tomb of Ilaria del Carretto, Cathedral, Lucca.
By Jacopo della Quercia 165
On the Ramparts, Lucca 168
San Frediano, Lucca 169
S. Frediano, from the Guinigi Tower, Lucca 171
A "Grey Tower" 173
Ponte a Moriano, Serchio River 175
An Old Stone Bridge 177
Bridge Over the Serchio 178
Church of Santa Maria e San Giorgio, Brancoli 179
San Lorenzo, Brancoli 181
Interior of Santa Maria e San Giorgio, Brancoli 183
Holy-water Stoup, Santa Maria e San Giorgio, Brancoli 186
Baptismal Font, Santa Maria e San Giorgio, Brancoli 187
Detail of Pulpit, Santa Maria e San Giorgio, Brancoli 189
Detail of Pulpit, Santa Maria e San Giorgio, Brancoli 190
Pulpit, Santa Maria e San Giorgio, Brancoli 191
Three Coats of Arms, Lucca 194
St. George and the Dragon, Brancoli. By Andrea and
Giovanni della Robbia 195
Sarzanella 199
Bridge at Vinchiana 200
"The Devil's Bridge," Borgo a Mozzano 201
Bagni di Lucca 203
Parish Church, Loppia 204
The Cathedral, Barga 205
Door of the Cathedral, Barga 208
Interior of the Cathedral, Barga 211
Pulpit in Cathedral, Barga 215
Adoration of the Magi, Pulpit, Cathedral, Barga 219
Tabernacle in Cathedral, Barga, Della Robbia School 223
Assumption of the Virgin, Church of the Capuchins, Barga.
By Giovanni della Robbia 227
"Violet-eyed Tuscan Oxen" 229
Trappings on Horse of Lorenzo de' Medici 230
THE MUGELLO
[Illustration]
THE MUGELLO
[Illustration]
Every year Italy is thronged with thousands of travellers who are
thoroughly familiar with the larger cities of Tuscany: Florence, Lucca,
Siena, and Leghorn are crowded with visitors, while Florence has
practically become the Italian home of English and American wanderers;
they not only fill hotels, pensions, and apartments, but occupy many of
the villas on neighbouring hillsides. Fiesole's terraces are converted
into tea-gardens, and resound with Anglo-Saxon chaffer for straw fans
and baskets. San Miniato, with its incomparable view of the city, also
caters to the universal cry for "the cup that cheers," which outrivals
in popularity the noble old Tuscan-Romanesque church hard by. Trim
Americans are met at every turn; Settignano, Bello-Sguardo, Marignano,
Badia a Settimo, and the rest, are frequent haunts; and the padrona
of the vine-covered terrace at Majano, where stone-cutters are wont
to sit about rude stone tables and drink their wine, has learned the
"afternoon tea" secret for the _gentili forestieri_, who walk out
from Florence to enjoy the charming view. Convenient tram lines run
to the more distant and choicest places, and whoever demands more
retired ways may board one of those nondescript vehicles, by courtesy
called "diligence," which are seen on every country road leading from
Florence, making their way through pretty valleys and hill towns.
The Tuscan diligence is an institution in its way, though not always
inviting in appearance; usually covered with dust, its brown canvas
curtains strapped down, excluding all air and views, and "full up"
to bursting with all sorts and conditions of humanity and luggage.
However, one is always sure of the most respectful and obliging driver,
smiling and kindly travelling companions, and no end of interesting
chat and story at the cost of a few centesimi. Thus the country distant
from the usual railway lines is every year becoming more and more
familiar and appreciated, although there are still many delightful
"untrodden ways" known but to the few, who are good pedestrians or
devoted lovers of nature and "dear country places." Follow up any of
the Tuscan rivers--through the Val d'Ema, Val di Pesa, Val d'Elsa, or
the valleys of the Mugnone, Sieve, Bisenzio, and Ombrone, every one an
affluent of the Arno--and you will find a pathway of delight, a real
progress through a world of exquisite colour, form, and fragrance. Yet
it is not easy to turn away from Florence and wander off in pastures
new; like a siren, she holds us in willing thraldom by the infinite
variety of charms so potent that all the world beyond her warm, grey
walls becomes vague and unreal.
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
BADIA A SETTIMO]
But suddenly, on a crisp spring morning, a quick turn from a narrow
street gives us a vision of the hills, olive-grey, brown, and
purple--hills with the Apennine heights beyond. The spell is broken,
our hearts burn for the "spring running," and, as in old Chaucer's
day, "Then longen folk to go on pilgrimage." We have the old poet's
authority that England's Spring came in April, but to us in Tuscany
this year she appeared by the middle of January, and has never for a
day turned her face, coming safely through the "ides of March," even
to the end of April in almost continuous sunshine and ever-increasing
bloom. Blackthorn, almond, and fruit trees, daisies and daffodils,
violets and roses, rival each other in bewildering loveliness wherever
the eye may turn; out of city gates the paths lie luringly open to
hillsides clad with ilex and magnolia, to hidden valleys, and the
snow-clad Apennines beyond Vallombrosa.
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
STRAW PLAITERS IN THE MUGNONE]
We yearn for unbroken space with no dome but the blue above, no tower
but the stately cypress; our resolution is quickly taken to climb
out of Val d'Arno, and slip over yonder delectable heights into the
Mugello. Diligence and tram are too slow for our patience; therefore,
at the easy hour of nine, on a clear, sunny morning, we leave the city
by the Florence and Faenza railway, run through the pretty valley of
the Mugnone, pass the stone-quarries close under the northern flank of
steep Fiesole, discover a world of beauty unknown to us before, dash in
and out of tunnels, catching flying glimpses of a broken countryside,
grey-walled towns, and bosky slopes; thus pushing northward for half a
dozen miles, where the line loops back toward the south, and gives us
once more, and from a greater height, the charming view of Fiesole's
northern slope. Now the railroad rises rapidly by well-built viaducts,
galleries, and tunnels to Vaglia, only nine miles from Florence, as
the crow flies, then passes swiftly over the ridge which separates the
valleys of the Arno and Mugnone from the Mugello region.
There are no more views of populous Fiesole; we are in a new world,
over which Mr. Ruskin feels justified in making lament. After expanding
with his customary word-painting upon the view from Fiesole over Val
d'Arno, he continues thus: "The traveller passes the Fiesolan ridge,
and all is changed. The country is on a sudden lonely. Here and there,
indeed, are scattered houses of a farm grouped gracefully upon the
hillsides; here and there the fragment of a tower upon a distant rock;
but neither gardens nor flowers nor glittering palaces exist." To us,
however, the scene is charming; the still distant valley spreads out
broad and fertile to the sun, well-watered by the Sieve and its many
tributaries, or _torrenti_, all of which hasten to lose themselves
later in the Arno, just within the western boundary of the Casentino.
Surrounding the happy valley rises a cordon of mountains belonging to
the Central Apennine range--among them Monte Giove, 3,255 feet above
sea-level, and Monte Morello, 3,065 feet. The latter peak is clearly
seen from Florence, and in its varied moods is regarded as a natural
weather bureau by the people, who are fond of repeating the old
saying, "Take your umbrella when Monte Morello puts on his cap."
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
A LOGGIA, PIERO A SIEVE]
Descending the narrow pass of Carza, the train reaches Piero a Sieve,
where we leave it to pursue its way through a most picturesque country,
over the mountains to Faenza, while we explore the quaint little
hamlet of Piero a Sieve, which clings by grey walls and terraces to the
side of a steep hill, crowning which are the massive fortifications
of San Martino. We climb to the fortress, take a snap-shot at one of
the loggias, where the group of ever-busy women in bright skirts and
kerchiefs would make a delightful picture in water-colour, have a look
at the parish church, with its so-called Della Robbia font, and then
proceed on our way to Scarperia, three miles to the northwest, which is
our destination.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
PALAZZO PUBBLICO, SCARPERIA]
After judicious bargaining at the station with drivers of a varied
assortment of country vehicles, we are cleverly packed into two small,
rattling, rather clumsy but very comfortable carts, one drawn by a
phenomenally brisk donkey, and away we bowl toward the towers of
Scarperia. Somehow the sunshine and exhilarating air incites us into
rebellion against Mr. Ruskin's opinion that the scene is "only a grey
extent of mountain ground, tufted irregularly with ilex and olive, a
scene not sublime, for its forms are subdued and low; not desolate, for
its valleys are full of sown fields and tended pastures; not rich nor
lovely, but sunburnt and sorrowful."
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
THE MAIN STREET, SCARPERIA]
For us a golden touch is laid on everything; we love the plain of
olive orchards and vineyards and peaceful fields; the large, white,
violet-eyed Tuscan oxen driven by kindly faced peasants; even the
donkey is a nonesuch, and we wax poetic over the greenest of green
patches of grain in vineyards, the rows of lopped elm-trees married
to the vines, which are festooned from trunk to trunk. Along the
way we meet the country doctor, riding madly in his cart drawn by
a quick-stepping pony. Another Dr. Antonio, we say, ready in case
of accident to invent and furnish us anything from bathing-machines
and coffee-pots, instruction in botany and art, to a serenade, or
making butter to accompany the good bread of Scarperia, unbaked loaves
of which we see carried into the town on a long board over a man's
shoulder.
But now we are rattling up the main street of Scarperia, the donkey
trying his best to get ahead, and it is high time to speak like a
guide-book, though no account we have found condescends to give the
population of the place, which is the way every well-regulated book
should begin. Murray's description is summed up in half a dozen lines,
as follows: "Scarperia was built in 1306 by the Commune of Florence to
curb the pride of the Ubaldini and other rebels of the Mugello. The
parish church has some fine cloisters. In the Palazzo Vecchio there are
interesting frescoes. There is a large industry of scissors." This is
all.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Giovanni Pisano_
MADONNA AND CHILD OF THE SACRED GIRDLE
DUOMO, PRATO]
We hasten to buy scissors, also the ubiquitous postal card, visit the
cloisters, which are really good, and then hang about the old Palazzo,
which would alone make the town interesting. Its tower, or campanile,
is remarkably fine, simpler and a thought more serious, perhaps, but
hardly less beautiful, than its more famous sister of the Palazzo
Vecchio, Florence; and the good people of Scarperia proudly declare
that it was at least designed by the same master hand--that of Arnolfo
di Cambio. It rises gracefully as a lily on its grey stalk, dominating
the clustering red roofs below and peering at us over the cloister
roof, as if to say, "We belonged together in those stirring mediæval
days when municipal life had two centres: the Palazzo Pubblico and the
Duomo--Civil Government and the Church." The façade of the old palace
is a mad eruption of various coats of arms, or _stemmi_, carved in
stone or formed in reliefs of glazed terra-cotta, and no less than
fourteen of these are products of the Della Robbia atelier, bearing
the devices of great families of Tuscany; and here, if we were wise
in heraldry, might the whole history of the Mugello be set forth as
it transpired in those adventurous days before its rebels had been
curbed! Prominent and oft-repeated among these _stemmi_ is the Medici
shield emblazoned with its balls, or pills, suggesting the traditional
origin of that famous house and proud device. The story runs that, when
Charlemagne made his historic descent upon Italy, among his followers
was a certain brave and noble knight named Avérard Medici, who, amid
the Apennines, encountered and challenged to mortal combat a mighty
giant called Mugello, who ruled with a high and cruel hand all this
portion of Italy. After a long and furious battle the giant was done
to death, and Avérard, as victor, took possession, not only of his
arms and personal goods, but all the lands under his sway--that is,
the territory bearing his name to this day. What is more, the six
dents on Avérard's golden buckler, which had been made by the furious
blows of Mugello's iron-spiked club, became the Medici device. There
is historical evidence that an early Medici settled in this region and
possessed great estates and castles, to which he very shrewdly retired
whenever his enemies in Florence became too troublesome. There is also
proof that while Cosimo, "father of his country," beautified Florence
with noble villas, palaces, and churches, he did not neglect the cradle
of his race, but built in the Mugello the two convents of the Bosco and
of St. Francis.
We enter the old palace through a stately atrium, or vestibule; the
walls are covered with coats of arms and faded frescoes, and beyond is
a pleasant little court open to the sky, but serving the municipality
to-day no further than as a chicken enclosure. Then we ascend the broad
stone stairway to the municipal offices; the faded frescoes of Our
Lady and saints in the anteroom are doubtless good, and deserve more
attention than we give them; but our eyes are enthralled by the superb
view from the window of the river-laced plain and encircling mountains.
After lunch at the modest _albergo_, where kindly faces and willing
service more than compensate for an indifferent cuisine, we set forth
for a long drive of exploration through the Mugello. Our carriage,
"the calash," is apparently an institution of Scarperia, and is such a
pleasant surprise that we heartily commend it to all fellow travellers.
It is a rather light, well-hung, smart-looking vehicle, something
between a victoria and landau in shape, with comfortable seats which
easily accommodate our party of five. It is drawn by a pair of glossy
chestnut roadsters unvexed by checking-straps or throat-chains, and
stepping off freely at a brisk, even trot, which they maintain steadily
during the entire drive of thirty miles. Our handsome young driver is
in keeping with his equipage--kind and skilful with his horses, and
courteous in answering our many questions. Thus we drive all the sunny
afternoon through the fertile and well-tilled valley, over the best of
roads, passing comfortable farm-houses, orchards, and vineyards, where
the peasants are busy trimming and tying the vines or turning the earth
with awkward, primitive spades. We cross and recross the river Sieve
over picturesque stone bridges half hidden by birches and elms.
[Illustration: ANCIENT CAMPANILE DELLA PIEVE BORGO S. LORENZO]
Our first halt is at Borgo San Lorenzo, chief town, or capital, of
the Mugello, situated on the Sieve, also on the direct railway line
to Faenza, and containing about three thousand inhabitants. While
lacking, one cannot tell why, the charm of Scarperia, the town has
its attractions, notably two noble and well-preserved gateways,
several towers, and many a cluster of rich-coloured, irregular roofs.
Especially interesting is the lofty Antico Campanile della Pieve--a
battered veteran keeping its time-honoured watch and ward over the
Sieve valley, its sides showing many a scar and patch, and its simple,
conical roof, like an old cap pulled low over its sleepless eyes.
[Illustration: TORRACCIA ROMANELLI, BORGO S. LORENZO]
We enter the town through the fifteenth century gateway, its battered
watch-tower speaking volumes of that olden time when Mugello's
rebels worked their stark will along these narrow thoroughfares. The
substantial, old Palazzo del Podestà, minus a tower, looks somewhat
meekly forth on its ancient square, or piazza, as it has done for
centuries. Its façade is hung thick with the shields of turbulent
lords, ten of whom called on the Della Robbia art to set forth their
emblems here, also to fashion glazed terra-cotta Madonnas for the
churches of St. Catherine and St. Stephen, hard by.
[Illustration: A FARM-HOUSE, MUGELLO]
[Illustration: PONTE D'ELSA, MUGELLO]
We can stop but a few moments at Borgo San Lorenzo, and soon
drive on, past a little shrine at the street corner and under the
battlemented tower called Torraccia Romanelli, to our country roads
once more. Outside the walls the country assumes a more broken and
hilly appearance, fewer cultivated fields, and more pasture where a
few sheep graze; irregular farm-houses of rough, grey stone, with
loggias and sloping roofs of red tiles, set amidst scattering trees,
many of them cypress, dark and rusty as an outworn mourning coat. The
accompanying picture shows a representative house of the country, and
we are told that this one had its little romance and love's young
dream. It is a wrinkled old woman you see trudging down the hillside
to fill her copper bucket at the stream; but in yonder corner loggia
is a sparkling-eyed young _contadina_, some pretty Tessa, who as she
spins her flax is thinking of a handsome and dashing young Florentine
who often finds his way to the farm-house, which belongs to his
uncle's country villa hard by. A bit farther on we reach the pretty
double-arched bridge Ponte d'Elsa, the very one, our driver says, where
Cimabue met the shepherd boy Giotto; and here too, nibbling the scanty
grass along the roadside, are surely the descendants of Giotto's sheep,
even the new-born lamb looking quite mediæval.
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
HILL OF VESPIGNANO, MUCELLO]
The hill of Vespignano, Giotto's birthplace, is much too steep for the
chestnuts and calash; moreover, we are only too glad of an excuse for
walking up the pretty path cut into the hillside, bordered by trees
hung with ivy, and leading to a serried rank of young cypresses, ranged
together like a black watch on the crest of the hill, as if to guard
the modest stone building, which tradition says is the very house where
the artist Giotto was born. Even for a shepherd's dwelling, the house
is small and uninteresting, which naturally flings a suspicion over
its verity; nevertheless, the spirit which actuates the preservation
of all historical sites and relics by the Italian government cannot
be too highly commended. The house is converted into a meagre museum,
and kept in good order on estates at present belonging to the Villa
Capriani-Cateni, the various buildings of which cover the crest of a
considerable height and possess a noble outlook into the near hills,
which are now taking on a hazy blue mystery in the afternoon light.
A large portion of the villa is of modern architecture, plain and
dignified, but the massive, square battlemented tower at one corner is
of quite an early date, perhaps the thirteenth century, while not far
away is the ruined prison-house of ruddy grey stones and brickwork,
with a picturesque round tower, presumably of a still earlier time, and
reminding one of the ancient towers still found in parts of Ireland.
The whole pile speaks eloquently of a long residence on this hilltop
of a people whose wants were few, their tastes stern and simple as
the mighty Apennines which encircled them. A fine-looking old man is
weaving an osier basket as he sits on the terrace in the shadow of the
old tower. He answers all our questions with quiet courtesy; but upon
our offering him a fee, as we have learned is generally expected, it is
gently but firmly declined, and we walk away somewhat abashed, thinking
of the varied influences which surrounded young Giotto amid such
pastoral scenes and such kindly, self-respecting people. He certainly
must have carried much of the experience and knowledge of his shepherd
life into his art.
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
ROUND TOWER, VESPIGNANO]
In the Arena Chapel, Padua, one of the finest of the frescoes is
that of Joachim returning to the sheepfold, where Giotto shows his
intimate knowledge of a shepherd's surroundings and animal forms, but
particularly of the characteristics of sheep, giving to each one an
individuality which only a close observer could have done. There is the
same quality in one of the sculptures on his tower in Florence, where
the puppy, with an absurd expression of anxious responsibility, is
guarding the sheep.
As the shadows lengthen and the mountains are gleaming in purple and
gold, we return to Scarperia for the night, and enjoy such sleep in the
clean, coarse, homespun linen on our beds, as only a day in the brisk
open air can give.
The morrow is Sunday, and the old Piazza, between church and palace,
is filled with the people coming and going to mass, and to chaffer
with the pedlar displaying his wares on a little cart, consisting of
a slender stock of kerchiefs, stuffs, bright toys, and various homely
utensils, which he cries as lustily as another Autolycus:
"Will you buy any tape,
Or lace for your cape,
My dainty duck, my dear-a?
Come, buy of me! come buy, come buy!"
Both men and women have good faces, with that kindly responsive and
patient expression characteristic of the Italian peasants; they are
interested in everything, particularly in the _forestieri_, who in
their turn enjoy the groups of women and children in gay kerchiefs
and gowns, making a pretty picture in the old grey square. We walk
through the narrow streets, sit on the city walls which still partially
surround the town, and look down on the pretty road overhung with
trees, where the trailing-footed, white oxen slowly come and go, placid
and restful.
[Illustration:
_Alinari_ _Giotto_
JOACHIM RETURNING TO THE SHEEPFOLD, ARENA CHAPEL, PADUA]
We follow the _contadini_ out of the old city gate on the road to
St. Agatha's Church, lying between vineyards where the young grain is
now pushing its green spears through the brown earth--for spring is
later here than in Val d'Arno--and olive orchards, where clouds of
silver-grey leaves quiver and shine in the light.
[Illustration:
_M. M. Newell._
FROM THE WALLS OF SCARPERIA]
[Illustration:
_M. M. Newell_
A COUNTRY ROAD, SCARPERIA]
[Illustration:
_Alinari_
DETAIL OF THE GRILLE
CHAPEL OF THE SACRED GIRDLE, CATHEDRAL, PRATO]
Taking another road, we saunter on a mile or so to the Villa Tolomei,
belonging to an old Tuscan family, whose arms are a gold band with
three green vine leaves on a blue field, and above a red label with
the three gold lilies of Anjou. The grounds are pleasant, though
somewhat neglected, but the prospect looking toward the mountains
is entrancing; and the walk back toward Scarperia gives us a continual
view of the fine campanile. By this time all the rebel blood of
the Mugello is burning in our veins, and we demand a drive back to
Florence; no railroads and tunnels for us if we must leave these "dear
country places." We long to push eastward, only three paltry miles
away, up to the very crests of the Apennines, where all the rivers
hasten joyfully to the Adriatic. But not to-day may we follow fancy's
lead eastward along curving Ronco's flowing stream, but again, with
chestnuts and calash, are constrained to hold our way along the river
bank, returning over the road to Piero a Sieve--was it only yesterday
that we first knew it?--and strike at once into the famous old highway
leading from Bologna to Florence, as it has done almost since the
beginning of the Christian era. What a thoroughfare it has been! What
mighty personages have trod this path with high hopes, burning spirits,
and breaking hearts!
"There is a joy in every spot made known in times of old,
New to the feet, although each tale a hundred times be told."
What hordes of barbarians and armies of haughty kings have swept this
way; what great pageants and devout pilgrimages! We remember that one
of Gian Galeazzo, Duke of Milan in 1471, when, accompanied by his
wife, Bona of Savoy, in accomplishment of a vow, he made a pilgrimage
to Florence in unparalleled splendour. There were twelve palanquins of
cloth of gold borne on the backs of mules over the Apennines, preceded
by fifty palfreys for the Duchess and her ladies when they preferred
the saddle; fifty horses for the Duke and his gentlemen; five hundred
foot-soldiers, one hundred mounted men-at-arms; fifty body-servants in
livery of silk and silver, fifty huntsmen holding dogs in leash, fifty
with falcon on wrist, each bird valued at two hundred golden florins,
etc., etc. With all this pomp the train descended into the Val d'Arno,
proceeded to Florence, and were received at the Medici palace in Via
Larga, now the Cavour. When we reach Vaglia, again we struggle with
the temptation to turn aside for the delightful walk of five miles
to Bivigliano and find the Della Robbia Madonna and Saints (from the
atelier) at the parish church of St. Romola, thence a mile farther to
the foot of Monte Senario, 2,700 feet high, which overlooks us all the
way. But we hold to our course, and after a few miles and a stiff walk
of half an hour we mount to Pratolino, 1,512 feet, the highest point
we touch, lying just below Monte Senario, and commanding an extensive
view on every side. Near the village is the celebrated Villa of
Pratolino, built originally in 1570 by Duke Francesco de' Medici for
the reception of his wife, the beautiful and notorious Bianca Cappello.
It was surrounded by noble gardens and terraces, and because of its
superb situation became the favorite residence of the luxury-loving
Duchess. The property is now owned by the Prince Demidoff, but nothing
remains of the original villa except a colossal crouching figure,
personifying the Apennines, which is ascribed to John of Bologna.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Alessandro Allori_
PORTRAIT OF BIANCA CAPPELLO
UFFIZI, FLORENCE]
Our Mugello excursion is over; we are slipping through the Mugnone
and down into Val d'Arno. First Fiesole welcomes us; then the dear,
familiar towers of Florence, the fairest city in the world; only a
poet can convey the charm of this exquisite scene. "Few travellers can
forget," says Mr. Ruskin, "the peculiar landscape of this district of
the Apennines. As they ascend the hill which rises from Florence to
the lowest peak in the ridge of Fiesole they pass continually beneath
the walls of villas bright in perfect luxury and beside cypress hedges
inclosing fair terraced gardens, where masses of oleander and magnolia,
motionless as leaves in a picture, inlay alternately upon the blue sky
their branching lightness of pale-rose color and deep-green breadth of
shade, studded with walls of gleaming silver; and shining at intervals
through the framework of rich leaf and rubied flower the far-away
bends of the Arno beneath its slopes of olive, and the purple peaks of
the Carrara mountains tossing themselves against the western distance,
where the streak of motionless clouds hover over the Pisan sea."
[Illustration: UBALDINI]
[Illustration: VICCHIO]
PRATO:
A MEDIÆVAL JOURNEY
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Benozzo Gozzoli_
THE PROCESSION OF THE MAGI
CHAPEL OF THE RICCARDI PALACE, FLORENCE]
[Illustration]
PRATO: A MEDIÆVAL JOURNEY
[Illustration]
Thrice had we been in Florence and never seen Prato, only twelve miles
away. Many times had we noted in passing where the waters of her
little river, the Bisenzio, join the Arno, and wished to follow its
banks through the plain to the city whose fortunes and history are
so identified with those of Florence. There was no good reason for
not going to Prato; there are several ways of doing it--by diligence,
tram, or steam; and Murray declares that half a day will suffice to
see the town. So one hot day we took the plunge, boarded the tram,
first having provided a bountiful luncheon, for of course the inns
would be impossible. We can not recommend that tram ride. The line
passes through a flat, dusty country, the service is unpardonably slow
and tedious, and we were smothered in dust and very cross. But let us
hasten to say that the journey itself was our only disappointment; all
discomfort vanished with our arrival. We were charmed with our first
glimpse of the city, and found the Albergo Giardino so good that we
were obliged to apologize for bringing a luncheon and supplement it
generously from the hotel _menu_. Temper restored and at peace with
all the world, we set forth to prove Herr Baedeker's statement that
a visit to Prato is "indispensable to those who desire to acquaint
themselves thoroughly with the early Renaissance style of Florence;"
for which same thorough acquaintance we had allowed ourselves four
hours, forsooth! The Prato of to-day has, of course, its praiseworthy
modern enterprise and industries: the women are picturesquely busy at
every street corner with straw plaiting, there is a good trade in
woolen cloths, and the bright red caps (_calabarsi_), made here are
greatly demanded in the Levant; in side streets we come upon shops hung
with gleaming copper vessels of every sort and shape, and the sound
of the coppersmith's hammer rings out merrily on the clear air. It is
said that the people have a reputation for rudeness and turbulence,
but what can you expect from a town which, having made the good fight
for freedom, lost its independence and its identity in that of another
city, that was once captured by the redoubtable Castruccio, and, to
crown all disaster, was from 1512, for twenty-two years, made to suffer
all the atrocities that Spanish cruelty could devise? After all, the
City of the Meadow (_prato_) is in no sense a modern town; its ancient
walls are still intact; the castle, if fallen from its high estate as
a citadel, is still a delight to all the snap-shotting fraternity; and
if the streets are no longer gay with ruffling _bravos_ in their fine
attire, the ancient palaces of the Commune and Pretorio still hold
their own in point of noble architecture and as venerable centres of
justice and good government.
[Illustration: _M.M. Newell_
_Giov. Pisano_
THE CAMPANILE, PRATO]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Benozzo Gozzoli_
DETAIL OF THE PROCESSION OF THE MAGI
CHAPEL OF THE RICCARDI PALACE, FLORENCE]
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
ARCADES WHERE HANG THE COPPER AND WOOLEN GOODS]
Very different, indeed, must it have been in the fourteenth and
fifteenth centuries, when Prato was in the zenith of her wealth and
pride, when Donatello and Fra Lippo Lippi, Mino da Fiesole, and the
Pisani were busy there, and all the world was running to see their
work; crowned heads and critics, humble aspirants and cavalcades of
brilliantly attired Florentines were arriving daily to admire and
criticize the new art. The jaded tourist of to-day, if a true lover
of nature and history, thinks yearningly of the mediæval journeyings
over these roads; of the humble enthusiast making his way on foot,
and of gay trains of mounted nobles riding leisurely through these
regions of delight. Benozzo Gozzoli has shown us how it was done in
his noble fresco "Procession of the Magi," painted on the walls of
the Riccardi Palace to commemorate the visit of the Eastern Emperor,
John Palæologos, in 1439, who, according to an inscription in the
Duomo of Prato, made an excursion thither from Florence accompanied
by the illustrious Bessarion and a suite of six hundred cavaliers
magnificently appointed. The "three kings" in the fresco are
represented by the Emperor, the patriarch Joseph, and the young Lorenzo
de' Medici, who are surrounded by theologians and scribes, attended
by a train of cardinals, bishops, and nobles, with their servants and
horses, in splendid array. The painted scene is full of the vigour
and freshness of spring--of that spring when men awoke to the force
and meaning of human existence, "freedom of thought, beauty of the
world, and goodness of youth and strength and love and life." Those gay
young cavaliers prancing over the plain, exuberant with their new joy
in nature, colour, and splendour of dress, are equally keen in their
intellectual freshness; every man is a poet, Lorenzo de' Medici himself
the "most typical poet of his century," and their every verse rings
with the burden, "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may."
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
THE FORTRESS]
"I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day,
In a green garden in mid month of May.
Violets and lilies grew on every side
Mid the green grass, and young flowers wonderful,
Golden and white and red and azure-eyed;
Toward which I stretched my hands, eager to pull
Plenty to make my fair curls beautiful,
To crown my rippling curls with garlands gay.
I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day,
In a green garden in mid month of May."
[Illustration: _Alinari_
THE CATHEDRAL OF PRATO]
Like Benozzo Gozzoli's train, we would sweep gaily from the court of
the old Medicean palace into Via Larga, pass through the Piazza del
Duomo, invoking the protection of Santa Maria del Fiore, cross the
ample square of Santa Maria Novella, and so come to Porta al Prato,
leading out to the plain, blue at this time of the year with the small
Tuscan lily which gave Florence her device. Then, as now, we would
pass through a busy suburb, or _borgo_, clustering about the gate, and
take our way over the plain, thick set with little hamlets, vineyards,
and orchards, and having always at our right hand the fair Tuscan
hills, hung with blooming gardens and starred with shining villas.
There is many a shrine or church along the way well worth a brief
halt, and such a leisurely ride may easily include a short visit and
refreshment at many of the Medici villas in the vicinity--at Careggi,
finest of them all, first occupied by Cosimo, Pater Patriæ, rebuilt
by Michelozzo, and where Lorenzo would, at a later day, gather about
him the scholars, artists, and singers of that rich time; here also
tradition places that improbable scene between Savonarola and Lorenzo
at the time of his death. The grand old tower of Petraia next lifts
its crown above a bosky hillside; this villa, now the Royal Villa, was
the work of Brunelleschi, and may well be visited for the sake of its
noble gardens and rare trees--among them an oak four hundred years old.
It is said that Poggio a Caiano, somewhat farther on, was Lorenzo's
favorite villa; earlier it belonged to the notorious Pistojese family,
the Cancellieri, who boasted among their members eighteen knights
with golden spurs, and whose quarrels originated the widespread feuds
of the _Bianchi_ and _Neri_. Lorenzo loved the place, and called his
favorite architect, Giuliano Giamberti, whom he had fondly nicknamed
"San Gallo," to build his villa; the plain exterior is broken only by
a fine classic portico, while the pride of the villa is the great hall
with its beautiful barrel roof--a creation which Lorenzo had declared
San Gallo could never accomplish. Later this architect built the little
church of the Madonna delle Carceri[1] at Prato--"perhaps," says our
critic, "the gem of the Laurentian age of architecture," and certainly
"classical principles have never been employed with more sympathy and
more originality."
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
GARDEN BELONGING TO THE ROYAL VILLA OF PETRAIA]
[Illustration: _Alinari_ _Donatello_
EXTERNAL PULPIT, CATHEDRAL, PRATO]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
Andrea della Robbia, 1489
MADONNA AND CHILD, WITH SAINTS
LUNETTE OVER CENTRAL DOOR OF THE DUOMO, PRATO]
Thus filling a memorable day, we should come at eventide, as the
setting sun sifts its gold on olive-clad hills, to Prato on the
Bisenzio, where even an emperor might study with interest the
civilization of the West during the "age of the despots," and its
reawakening in learning and art. He would also enjoy the hospitality,
for which the city was noted when Florentine nobles made Prato their
frequent residence and enriched their palaces there with every form of
art and luxury, for which that time was celebrated. Prato, we find,
has her tradition honouring her above all other cities in the world,
and about which centres much of her importance in art. The story runs
something like this: When the Blessed Virgin disappeared from earth,
it seems that St. Thomas, father of skeptics, could not believe that
she had been caught up into heaven, as everybody knows who looks at
Italian paintings. The Virgin, to convince him, dropped from the clouds
her girdle (_cintola_), which St. Thomas faithfully cherished while
he lived. After his death the holy relic descended in course of time
to a Greek priest. All this happened in the Holy Land, to which, in
1096, journeyed a certain Michael of Prato, who, being an Italian, was
presumably a handsome man with a silver tongue, won the love of the
aforesaid Greek priest's daughter, who brought the _sacra cintola_ as
part of her dowry. Michael returned with his bride to Prato, where
they lived the rest of their lives, and treasured the precious relic
with the greatest reverence and care. Eventually it was transferred
to the cathedral, where it is kept in a chest sculptured by Giovanni
Pisano, and the keys thereof jealously guarded by the Bishop of the
Diocese and worshipful Syndic of the City of Prato. The people hold
the relic in the profoundest reverence; five times during the year it
is, with great ceremony, publicly exhibited, until about the tradition
has gathered a religious cult, to which many of the noblest works of
art in the Duomo directly refer. The Duomo alone stands for seven
centuries of art (though little remains of the earliest church, built
in the eighth century), and, like its noble campanile, is the work of
Giovanni Pisano. It is built of alternate bands of fine limestone and
the dark green serpentine from neighboring Monte Ferrato.[2] On the
northwest corner of the church is the external pulpit of Donatello,
"Prince of Humanists," supported by Michelozzo's bronze capital. The
pulpit is adorned with seven reliefs of dancing figures, "half-childish
and half-mythical," with musical instruments. From this pulpit, if
it chance to be May Day or Easter, we may witness the picturesque
ceremony of exhibiting the _sacra cintola_ to the devout people in
gala dress, kneeling in the piazza below. We enter the Duomo under
Andrea della Robbia's lunette of the Madonna and Child, attended by
St. Stephen and St. Laurence, the whole surrounded by a wreath of
cherubs' heads; this relief, among the many Della Robbias in various
churches and oratories of Prato, is the only one executed by Andrea's
hand, and is a beautiful and serious work in the master's late manner.
The interior of the church is in the form of a Latin cross, its roof
supported by columns of serpentine; at the left is the chapel of the
Sacra Cintola, surrounded by a fine bronze grille or screen, wrought by
Bruno di Ser Lapo at Lorenzo's order. It is a masterpiece of graceful
designs, circles, quatrefoils, wreaths, and acanthus leaves, among
which appear tiny figures of cherubs supporting the arms of Prato--a
shield powdered with the lilies of Anjou. Over the screen hang thirteen
silver lamps of antique form, kept ever alight before the altar, where
stands the charming Madonna by Giovanni Pisano and the sculptured ark
or chest containing the sacred girdle. On the walls is Angelo Gaddi's
painted story of the life and death of the Virgin and the gift of
her girdle to St. Thomas. The same subject, splendidly painted by
Ridolfo Ghirlandaio, hangs over the great west door. In the nave,
amid all this richness of colour, Mino da Fiesole's beautiful marble
pulpit shines out with its delicately sculptured reliefs, supported
on serpent-tailed sphinxes. Foremost, however, among the treasures of
the Duomo, are Fra Lippo Lippi's frescoes in the choir, considered
his most important work. Nothing, perhaps, puts one so fully in touch
with fifteenth-century men and art as the career of this vigorous and
prolific artist, a true son of the Renaissance, who, while he paints
sweet-faced Madonnas, dimpled children, and holy saints on monastery
walls, follows his own pleasures and trolls out his careless love
song:
"Who am I?
Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend
Three streets off--he's a certain ... how d'ye call--
Master--a ... Cosimo of the Medici,
In the house that caps the corner. * * *
* * * * *
"And I've been three weeks shut within my mew
A-painting for the great man, saints and saints
And saints again. * * *
* * * * *
"I painted a St. Laurence six months since
At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style."
_Song_
"Flower o' the broom,
Take away love and our earth is a tomb!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Braun, Clement et Cie._
_Botticelli_
LUCREZIA TORNABUONI, WIFE OF LORENZO IL MAGNIFICO
WEARING THE MARSYAS JEWEL OF THE MEDICI]
Our allotted "four hours" for Prato have come to an end, leaving many
beautiful things unseen; the pleasant cloisters of San Francesco, the
perfect Renaissance church of Santa Maria delle Carceri, and many
others, must be left to that indefinite "next time." We hasten to the
train, stopping only a moment at the shrine on the corner of Via S.
Margherita, which contains Filippino Lippi's Madonna, where we murmur
our thanks for a happy visit and make solemn vows to come soon again.
[Illustration: STEMMA, PRATO]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_A. della Robbia_
DETAIL OF FRIEZE
S. MARIA DELLE CARCERI, PRATO]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: E. Armstrong, M.A., _Lorenzo de' Medici_, p. 437. B.
Berenson, _The Study and Criticism of Italian Art_. Second series. "A
Word for Renaissance Churches."]
[Footnote 2: The quarries of serpentine (verde di Prato) near Prato
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]
In physical strength and agility, in foxlike cunning and ready
audacity, and in his sense of honour and justice, Castruccio resembles
Bartolommeo Colleoni, of Bergamo, who trained under the greatest
_condottiere_ of his age, distinguished himself in many engagements
for the Visconti, and was finally elected general-in-chief of all
the Venetian forces by the Republic of St. Mark, and received his
truncheon of office from the hand of the Doge before the high altar
of San Marco. At Bergamo we see his chapel, built by Amadeo, as a
"monument of the warrior's puissance even in the grave." There also
is the equestrian statue in gilded wood voted by the town of Bergamo,
and, far more noteworthy, the beautiful tomb of his favorite daughter,
Medea. But the great general's rightful monument is in Venice, where
the "finest bronze equestrian statue in Italy, if we except the
Marcus Aurelius of the Capital," was reared in his honour. The second
great equestrian statue in Italy, strange to say, is also that of a
_condottiere_--Erasmo da Narni, better known as Gattamelata, a noble
work of Donatello, erected in the Piazza del Santo at Padua.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Giorgione_
MADONNA AND CHILD, WITH TWO SAINTS
PAROCHIAL CHURCH. CASTELFRANCO]
[Illustration: _Hanfstaengl_
_Botticelli_
PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG FLORENTINE ROYAL GALLERY, BERLIN]
It is impossible to compare Castruccio exactly with any other
free-lance of his time. There are _condottieri_ and _condottieri_;
the range is so wide and, defining lines so elastic that in the day
when individuality was more marked than in any other period of the
world's history, it is not strange to find in the same class such
widely differing characters as Francesco Sforza, called the "great
Condottiere," the brave and skillful but humane Carmagnuola, or the
youthful Matteo Costanzo, who, in full armour and bearing the standard
of the cross, figures as San Liberale in Giorgione's celebrated
Castelfranco Madonna and Child. Matteo died young, but had been trained
as _condottiere_ by his father, who gave Giorgione's Madonna to the
Church, as a votive offering in memory of his lamented son. There was
no bronze statue raised in Castruccio's honour, and no portrait of
him is mentioned, though it is said he appears in Benozzo Gozzoli's
Procession of the Magi in the Riccardi Palace, and in Orcagna's Triumph
of Death in the Campo Santo of Pisa. Of his personal appearance,
therefore, we are wholly ignorant, except for the tradition that he
had red hair. Nor are we much more certain of his youth and training.
Machiavelli's romantic account relates that he was a foundling, picked
up in her vineyard by the kindly Dianora Castracane, of Lucca, who
carried the infant home, and, calling her brother, a canon of San
Michele, with whom she shared her house, tried to determine the child's
future. After much discussion it was decided to give him the name of
Castracane and educate him for the Church; but, though quick to learn,
Castruccio had no taste or desire for the cloister; his one thought was
for athletic sports, adventure, and the noble art of war. Playing with
his fellows in the Piazza of San Michele, he attracted the attention of
a nobleman of Lucca, who, when Castruccio was eighteen, adopted him,
trained him to arms, and, upon his death, confided to him the care of
his estates and direction of his only son. His masters in war were the
most notable military leaders of the time, and "Machiavelli goes to the
length of saying that, as a general, he was not inferior to Philip of
Macedon, or Scipio."[9]
The more sober historians hold that Castruccio was a member of the
Interminelli family, who had been exiled in his youth, and gained
much military experience in England when serving under Edward I. All
accounts agree that he was a remarkable man, and one critic writes of
him thus: "Not only as a soldier but as a statesman he was undoubtedly
the foremost man in Italy, and it is not improbable that, had he lived,
he would have subjugated the whole peninsula."
[Illustration: STEMMA OF SERRAVALLE]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 5: Francis A. Hyett, B.A., _Florence_, p. 104.]
[Footnote 6: J. A. Symonds, _Age of Despots_, p. 87.]
[Footnote 7: Francis A. Hyett, B.A., _Florence_, p. 106.]
[Footnote 8: See Symonds' Essay in _Sketches and Studies_, vol. i., p.
173.]
[Footnote 9: Francis A. Hyett, B.A., _Florence_, p. 99.]
PISTOJA
THE "CITY OF CINO"
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Della Robbia_
MEDICI STEMMA
OSPEDALE DEL CEPPO, PISTOJA]
[Illustration]
PISTOJA, THE "CITY OF CINO"
[Illustration]
A spring day comes suddenly in Val d'Arno when the air is a thought
too warm and over-rich with languorous fragrance from myriad blossoms.
Then thirst grows imperious for the uplands, for Tuscan hillsides clad
with chestnut-trees overshadowing uncut grass, through which sweeps
an eager breeze caught from the snow-capped Apennines. On such a day
we recall Pistoja, once seen on our way southward from Bologna, and
ever since haunting our minds like a sweet vision. We had crossed the
watershed which defines the boundary between Emilia and Tuscany,
and were following, by many a curve and loop, the Reno's tortuous
course, when suddenly we sighted, perched loftily upon the spur of
the Apennines, a city's gleaming dome and towers; another turn, and
she was lost; again, from some hill-spanning gallery, or viaduct, we
snatched another entrancing glance, and so, by coy circlings down the
pass, we drew nearer and nearer until the train paused for a moment
without the gates of Pistoja, then carried us on to Florence, twenty
miles away. But we had treasured always in our mind the vision of
that city, with gleaming dome and towers, that keeps her watch at the
northern gate of Tuscany. Short as is the distance between Florence
and Pistoja, there is a marked change in the atmosphere, which acts
as a healthy tonic on the _dolce far niente_ of a Florentine spring.
We enter Pistoja through the Porta Carratica, or Fiorentino, still
emblazoned with the Medici shield, and find ourselves shortly in the
very centre of a pleasant, busy city, its clean, wind-swept streets
broad and well paved, the principal ones following the lines of the
first two mediæval walls, for Pistoja, like Florence, has had three
circles, the last of which, built in the fourteenth century, remains
almost intact. Along this wall are pleasant walks and a boulevard
called the Viale dell'Arcadia, planted with shade-trees and commanding
extensive views. If now your conscience stirs actively to "do" Pistoja
thoroughly, there's a stiff day's work before you. The list of churches
alone is formidable, not counting those which have been diverted from
original purposes. Nearly every church contains something worth seeing:
paintings and sculptures, three celebrated pulpits at least, tombs,
fonts, and Della Robbia reliefs; moreover, there are the libraries
and the famous hospital, or Ospedale del Ceppo--altogether an outlook
beyond words discouraging. It is better to stand about the Piazza del
Duomo, or Cathedral Square, perhaps the most representative one in
Tuscany, the centre for a thousand years of the social, civil, and
religious interests of the town. Here are the cathedral and Bishop's
palace, the Palazzo Pretorio, or Podestà, and the Palazzo Pubblico,
or, in other words, the Court House and City Hall, representing the
ancient warring powers of Church and State. Here they are on their
old battle-field, temporal power jealous of spiritual aggressions.
Even the weather-beaten Torre del Podestà is not wholly committed as a
campanile, but stands off a little from the cathedral, remembering that
it was once the city's watch-tower, its tocsin sounding alarm to Guelf
and Ghibelline, blacks and whites, and all invaders. The bishop was no
insignificant power when the Commune was struggling for independence.
He had his many feudal castles, armed retainers, and vassals; his court
dealt sternly with culprits, and his dungeons, under the palace yonder,
were more feared than those of the Podestà. Not that the City Fathers
were not proud of their powerful bishop and their noble cathedral,
dedicated to St. Zeno, and containing the silver altar of San Jacopo,
patron saint of the city, which drew crowds of pilgrims every year to
worship at the famous shrine. Not a few popes journeyed from Rome to
visit the bishop, and noble visitors of every land, from the Emperor
of the East to Bonaparte, had filled the square with their trains and
followers. But the commune of Pistoja, like many another, had a bitter
struggle to keep her footing, though she began well and very early;
her first municipal statutes, and good ones they were, too, being
framed in 1117, immediately after the death of "the great Countess"
Matilda. It was battle royal for many centuries; but now Church and
Commune live peacefully side by side, forgetful of the stormy past,
except when they turn over their priceless archives, preserved in the
chapter of the cathedral and the Palazzo Pubblico, where one may read
a thousand interesting and thrilling things concerning the history of
Pistoja, of the men who built churches and palaces, and called the
great artists of the Renaissance to come and fill them with paintings
and sculptures, wood-carving, and metal-work. And the city grew so
proud and magnificent that we read of sumptuary laws promulgated to
restrain extravagance of nobles and burghers in the matters of dress,
jewelry, food, and pomp at funerals. The law of 1439 forbade trimmings
of gold and silver brocade, long trains to ladies' dresses, the quality
of sleeve-linings, etc. Unluckily, many of the archives belonging to
the cathedral were destroyed in the fires of 1108 and 1202; hence the
endless discussions as to the city's origin and name. "Etruscan," says
one. "Far from it," says another; "I have found a Roman house, mosaic,
and coins a dozen feet under the pavement of the square, which must
have been the centre of the earliest city." As for its name, some
derive it from two Etruscan words, _pist_ (door) and _oros_ (mountain),
referring to the position of the city at the entrance of a mountain
pass; others get the name from _pistores_ (bakers), the early city
having been celebrated for its excellent ovens.
[Illustration: THE LITTLE BROWN BEARS AND THE SHIELD OF PISTOJA]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
PIAZZA DEL DUOMO, PISTOJA]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Verrocchio_
STEMMA OF PISTOJA
PALAZZO PUBBLICO. PISTOJA]
[Illustration: Alinari
BRONZE CANDELABRA (15TH CENTURY)]
The Pistoja of to-day is a prosperous and attractive city with good
buildings, fine markets, and many industries; she has been noted from
time immemorial for her skilled work in iron, bronze, and wood, and her
ancient metal-work has been found in Germany and Athens. In her bronze
foundries to-day she not only casts bells and small articles, but many
statues and groups created by Italian artists are cast in Pistoja. The
manufacture of carriages and fine organs is of great importance. The
district has four paper-mills, and of the eleven brass foundries in
the province five are situated at Pistoja, and many skilled workmen
are employed in wood-carving, artistic ironwork, etc. Her trade is
mainly in wine, oil, grain, _paste alimentare_, and cattle. The milk
and butter of Pistoja are considered the best in Tuscany. To appreciate
the varied productions and interests of the district of Pistoja you
must wander about the Piazza del Duomo on market-day when it is
filled with booths offering woolen, linen, and cotton stuffs, bright
kerchiefs, shawls, shoes, and "notions," displayed in picturesque
confusion and colour; a score of red, yellow, and green umbrellas in
one corner, or a line of _contadini_ overcoats of a warm brownish-red
colour, trimmed with tawny fur and lined with green, delight the eye
and are much in demand. Or walk through the Mercato, old as Pistoja
herself, where the ancient well indicates the very centre of the first
city. Here is certainly every object man can want, and the square
blooms daily with all kinds of fresh vegetables and flowers: there
are grains and food of every sort; in the season there are piles of
yellow cocoons on the pavement; bright-faced old women are roasting
chestnuts gathered on the mountain side; pretty baskets of fragrant
wild strawberries are proffered by some handsome young girl, and the
stall of some descendant of the old race of _pistores_ is hung with
rings of sweet, fresh _pane nero_ (brown bread), while various kinds
of cheese and the "best butter" await your choice. The markets for fish
and meat are in different parts of the city.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
HEAD OF THE TRAITOR, FILIPPO TEDICI
PALAZZO PUBBLICO. PISTOJA]
By this time the exhilarating, almost heady, mountain air has created
a ravenous appetite, and we clamour, above all else, for a taste of
the Mercato's tempting products served in appetizing dishes known
only to the true Italian chef. Our wishes may be easily gratified at
the Albergo Globo e Londra, in Piazza Cino, where cooking is good and
native wine excellent. If this luncheon could have been served in
a pleasant garden, the only proper banquet-hall for Italy, nothing
further could be desired; but it is only fair to warn the traveller
who means to sleep in Pistoja that the chambers of the Globo are by no
means tidy or attractive.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
THE CAMPANILE FROM VIA RIPA DEL SALE, PISTOJA]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
THE LOGGIA, OSPEDALE DEL CEPPO, PISTOJA]
Now for a stroll through the quaint old streets with curious and
suggestive names, and a peep into quiet courtyards of palaces deserted
by their noble owners, and given over to modest householders and humble
artisans. At the corner of Via Abbi Pazienza and the Via de' Rossi is
the great palace of the Rossi family, blazoned with many shields of
varied quarterings, and from the corner hangs one of the gruesome black
heads of the traitor Filippo Tedici, like that on the façade of the
Palazzo Pubblico. Many of the oldest streets of Pistoja lead from
the Piazza del Duomo, and their names suggest the life of an earlier
day: Via Orafi (jewelers) was once devoted to goldsmiths' shops and
studios; the Via Stracceria (rags) was so called because clothing
of all sizes, colours, and condition was hung to dry from windows
and other "coigns of vantage;" and the Via Can Bianco was named in
honour of a faithful white dog, whose barking warned his master of the
approach of an enemy. Near the east end of the cathedral we may leave
the square by the Via Ripa del Sale, a narrow street over-arched by a
gallery connecting the Palazzo Pubblico with the duomo, convenient for
the worshipful magistrates when they desired to hear mass. This street
leads us, with often a backward glance at the campanile, to the Via
Filippo Pacini, a broader thoroughfare following the line of the first
city wall, and in two minutes we stand in the little irregular square
of the Ospedale del Ceppo and before the famous Della Robbia frieze,
an experience which, to one of us at least, seems almost a miracle. So
many years Pistoja had been merely a dream city, a name--a curious,
unreal name--standing only for this little piazza, this loggia, and the
brilliant band of varied colour crossing its façade. Those imperfect
guide-books of our youth had merely mentioned as important, this
glazed terra-cotta frieze, wrought, it seemed to us, through some
magic by the members of one family only, the secret of which vanished
from the world forever upon the death, in 1529, of the last true Della
Robbia, the author of this frieze. Tradition added that the formula for
compounding the Della Robbia glaze was supposed to be hidden behind
one of the panels, one of which was afterward found broken, the robber
leaving no trace of the precious parchment. The panel, "Giving Drink
to the Thirsty," was repaired, but not like the others. We can see for
ourselves that it is only painted stucco and of later date. This was a
story to stir youthful imagination to the highest pitch: a mystery, a
secret, a theft--the very stuff that dreams are made of. Italy is full
of traditions; even the origin of this self-same hospital is a pretty
story, as told by a worthy canon of the cathedral, and who would wish
to question it? "The Church of Santa Maria del Ceppo (meaning a dry
root) was built near the little stream Brana about 1277, by the pious
Theodore and his wife Bandinella, who dedicated it to the Assumption,
and placed therein an alms-box for the benefit of the sick and poor.
This chest increased little by little, until it became the present
hospital. The _chiesetta_ (little church) was incorporated in the
large building." Time and the schools have taught us the meretricious
value of traditions, but even stripped of all glamour the Della
Robbia frieze is unique as an architectural feature, and peculiarly
appropriate to the building it adorns. It consists of seven panels,
representing the temporal works of mercy as performed by the good
brothers of the hospital; between them are figures representing the
Virtues: Faith, Hope, Charity, Prudence, and Justice; below appear
medallions of the arms of the city, of the hospital (the sprouting
root), and the Medici shield; also the Annunciation, Visitation, and
Assumption. Of all the panels, the "Sheltering of the Pilgrims," and
the "Healing of the Sick," are considered the finest; the figures of
the brothers in both have evidently been studied from life, especially
that of the physician. More beautiful, however, than any part of
the frieze is Benedetto Buglioni's "Coronation of the Virgin," a
lunette over the chapel door of excellent workmanship, and in simple
colours, white on blue, with crowns of pale yellow. In its modelling
and glaze, its seriousness and grace, it almost rivals Luca della
Robbia's masterpiece in Pistoja, "The Visitation," in the Church of St.
John the Evangelist. If there is a moment to spare we may well slip
round the corner for a peep at the Church and Convent of Santa Maria
delle Grazie, where a calm-faced sister--one of the good Bandinella's
descendants, wearing the pretty wimpled cap of white muslin, designed,
it is said, by some tasteful lady of the Medici family--will show us
their perfect little Renaissance church and its great treasure, the
Lorenzo di Credi Madonna, and also insist gently upon a visit to the
Miraculous Bed where once the Madonna reposed. They will further offer
to exhibit their store of fine vestments and robes, well worth looking
at; but if once we begin looking at churches and vestments there will
be no getting back to Florence for a week. But at least we must take
leave of our hosts, those stately shades of forceful men belonging to
Renaissance Pistoja, who worked and wrought in these streets, whose
prowess and policy, wit and learning, are so vivid in men's minds
to-day. Pistoja entered with characteristic zest into the spirit of the
Renaissance in all its varied aspects; she espoused the new learning,
her libraries were filled with Greek and Latin manuscripts; she was
famed for her able jurists and historians, her singers and poets were
welcome at the proudest courts of Italy. We read that Antonio da
Pistoja was invited by Lodovico il Moro to Milan, "in hope of refining
and polishing the rude Lombard diction," and that the charming and
learned Isabella d'Este, Marchesa of Mantua, wrote to her envoy:
"Find out Messer Tebaldeo (of Pistoja), and beg him to send twenty or
twenty-five sonnets, as well as two or three _capitoli_, which would
give us the greatest possible pleasure."
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Della Robbia School_
COAT OF ARMS OF THE HOSPITAL, PISTOJA]
No more typical family can be found, perhaps, than the Forteguerri of
Siena and Pistoja, which was noted for its brave and learned sons and
daughters, and beloved and honoured for devotion to their country,
for their benevolence, learning, and poetic genius. As early as 1179
we find a Forteguerra as consul of Pistoja; in the fifteenth century
Cardinal Forteguerra was not only conspicuous in the Church, but
a constant friend and benefactor to his native city, founding and
endowing a college and library. His grateful city erected a monument to
his memory in the Piazza del Duomo, and called Verrocchio to design and
carve a fitting tomb in the cathedral; but the work was not concluded
by the master's hand, nor in accordance with his clay model, which we
see to-day in the South Kensington Museum; and looking at the tomb,
evidently the work of many diverse hands, one can but wish that the
good Cardinal might have at Pistoja at least a replica of the one, by
Mino da Fiesole, in the Church of St. Cecilia, Rome. Besides Cardinal
Niccolò, there was more than one bishop, many jurists and historians
in the Forteguerri family, and no less than six poets. The fifteenth
Forteguerra, of the Pistoja branch, was another Niccolò (1674-1735),
a well-known and cultured church-man at the court of Pope Clement
XI, and author of a long, satirical poem, "The Ricciardetto," besides
verses called "_capitoli_," and various translations from the Latin.
This Niccolò was evidently conversant with Roman society, and a close
observer of men and politics; he shows himself, also, at the age of
fifty, a good lover, not only singing his lady's praise in verse, but
sending her frequent vivacious and friendly letters, half in jest,
but often dangerously near earnest affection; and the name of some
Arcadian maiden of his muse, some Daphne or Phyllis, thinly conceals
the identity of the noble young Roman lady, Marianna Cenci Bolognetti.
It appears that the women of the family Forteguerri were also brave
and talented; at least, we have a record of one of the Siena branch,
when in 1554 the city was besieged by the Spaniards and almost spent
with famine; when the best men of Siena were losing courage, "women
of gentle birth, leaders of society, worked at the defences, side
by side with artisans and common soldiers. All the Sienese ladies
divided themselves into three companies; the first was led by Signorina
Forteguerra, who wore a violet uniform, as did those who followed her;
... these three squadrons were composed of 3,000 ladies of the upper
and middle classes. They bore pikes and spades, panniers and hurdles;
as they went to their work on the fortifications, these brave women
sang a song composed by one of that numerous choir of poetesses who
sang the swan song of their own country." This Signorina Forteguerra is
the one whom the English diarist, Hoby, mentions. "Most of the women
of Siena," he says, "are well learned and write excellentlie well in
prose and verse: among whom Laodomia Forteguerra and Virginia Salvi did
excell for good wittes."
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Giovanni della Robbia (?)_
HEALING OF THE SICK
(DETAIL OF FRIEZE), OSPEDALE DEL CEPPO, PISTOJA]
Pistoja is called the "City of Cino" because of her famous lawyer-poet,
Guittoncino (always called by the fond diminutive "Cino"), of the
noble house of Sinibuldi, which had given Pistoja one bishop and many
gonfaloniers. Though belonging to the thirteenth century, his noble
character, his ability as a jurist, the pure and graceful style of his
"Comments on the Codices," his faultless letters and verse--above all,
his friendships and love story--have kept his memory fresh. He enjoys
even to-day a certain fame in Italy, and all the world is supposed to
know his charming sonnets, addressed to his friends, among whom were
Dante and Petrarch, and to the lady Selvaggia dei Vergiolesi. His
monument in the cathedral, erected by the Commune, is by Cellino di
Nese, and is the first of the "monuments of the professors," a class of
work characteristic of the coming period; it shows Cino lecturing on
law to his pupils, among whom are Baldus, commentator on Civil Law,
and the "idle Petrarch;" there appears also a draped female figure,
which may personify poetry, or Roman Law, or, as some will have it, the
fair lady of Cino's devotion, Selvaggia dei Vergiolesi; unsentimental
critics, however, are inclined to think that the figure is that of
the Madonna, and was once a part of a relief of the Annunciation.
Selvaggia's family was Ghibelline, and, banished from Pistoja in 1305,
retired to their strong castle, where the beautiful Selvaggia died at
the age of twenty, after which Cino became a wanderer in foreign lands:
he crossed the Alps and took up his abode in Paris, where he pursued
his studies for some time. Cino's letters to Selvaggia and to his
other friends, in which he sang his love and suffering, are exquisite
in their purity and elegance of diction, and place him among the great
makers of the Italian language. To Dante he wrote an ode condoling with
him upon the death of Beatrice in tender and musical lines. He died in
his native city of Pistoja at the age of sixty-six, upon which Petrarch
composed his celebrated lament, beginning:
"Weep, women, and may love weep with you;
Weep, lovers of all countries,
* * * * *
For our ever gentle Master, Cino,
Is now gone far from us."
* * * * *
[Illustration: VIA ABBI PAZIENZA]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Benedetto Buglioni_
CORONATION OF THE VIRGIN
OSPEDALE DEL CEPPO, PISTOJA]
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
_Alinari_ _Mino da Fiesole_
MONUMENT OF CARDINAL NICCOLÒ FORTEGUERRA
CHURCH OF S. CECILIA, ROME]
A SUNDAY AMONG THE HILLS OF BRANCOLI
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Fra Bartolommeo_
THE VIRGIN AND CHILD ENTHRONED, AND SAINTS
CATHEDRAL, LUCCA]
[Illustration]
A SUNDAY AMONG THE HILLS OF BRANCOLI
"O day most calm, most bright."
--HERBERT.
[Illustration]
On St. Patrick's Day in the morning we left Florence, had a full day's
sight-seeing in Pistoja, Groppoli, and Serravalle, and pushed on to
Lucca the same evening, arriving about seven o'clock.
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
THE OLD CITY WALL AND MOAT, LUCCA]
Acting on sound British advices, we drove at once to the Albergo
dell'Universo, a comfortable little inn occupying the first floor of
the old Palazzo Arnolfo, where we had our belated dinner, took our
ease before a cheerful open fire, and congratulated ourselves that at
last we were in Lucca--a hope long deferred.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Jacopo della Quercia_
TOMB OF ILARIA DEL CARRETTO, CATHEDRAL, LUCCA]
The morrow is crisp and brilliant; and, forgetful of our guide-book's
express advice, to crown and finish our Lucca visit with a walk on the
ramparts, we turn our backs on churches and priceless works of art
and hasten at once to the old city walls. How faithfully those mediæval
bricklayers did their work! Their walls, well preserved, still surround
the town, no longer bristling with engines of war, but planted thick
with shade-trees--elms, acacias, and limes--affording one of the most
beautiful promenades in Italy. Lifted well above the city streets, they
command extensive views on every side: here the broad, fertile plain,
stretching to the Arno; yonder, at the north, the chain of rugged
Apuans, two sharp peaks of which are now capped with glistening snow;
southward rise the heights of Monte Pisani, noted in Roman days, and
since, for its hot-springs. From thence comes the pure drinking-water
for Lucca, conveyed by an aqueduct built by the Duchess Marie Louise,
for which her grateful people erected a monument in her honour. As
it crosses the sunlit plain on its four hundred and fifty-nine grey
stone arches, we are reminded of the Roman Campagna, and remember that
Lucca, in the day of her greatest splendour, was a favorite summer
residence for the Romans, and that many traces still exist of their
occupation, particularly the massive arcades of an amphitheatre in the
present market-place. Standing on the old ramparts, on a rare spring
morning, ten chances to one you forget all the sights awaiting you
down there, in the "city of the Magnificent People and Commune of
Lucca"--its palaces, towers, and picture-galleries, its chapels and
churches, of which there are no less than seventy "to satisfy the wants
of 22,000 souls." The fame of San Frediano's seventh century church,
with its magnificent tower, its sculptured font and Madonna, has
reached us over sea. For years we have yearned to look on Jacopo della
Quercia's marble of that fair lady, Ilaria del Carretto, resting in
the transept of St. Martin's cathedral. We know there are paintings
by Fra Bartolommeo, palaces and libraries; but the fresh mountain air
has driven all these things from our desire; we only long for those
mountains delectable, those chestnut-crowned hills and distant grey
towers. We begin to ask why we should study the churches of Lucca, and
who is Matteo Civitali that he should keep us within the city walls?
We consult time-tables and guide-books; there's a tram, they tell us,
leading out of Porta Santa Maria in ten minutes, and if we catch it
we may ride six miles, and then ... perhaps a carriage may be found,
though it is early in the season. "But," importunes the handsome driver
of the cab waiting to take us to the tram, and who in some way has
divined our wants, "the _tramvia_ will not take the signore to the
hills, and surely there is no carriage at Ponte Moriano so early in the
year. _Ecco_, this _buon cavallo_ and your devoted Pepino, who will
take you all the way so comfortably!" Off comes the shabby hat with
inimitable native grace, and the bold, brown eyes are convincingly
eloquent. You can no more resist Pepino's reasoning than that rush of
mountain air on the ramparts. All preconceived plans are fast taking
flight; but Prudence keeps her head and demands with thrifty caution,
"How much, inclusive, there and back?" Then Pepino: "Oh, a mere
bagatelle, my _illustrissime_ signore, only twelve lire." Prudence,
scouting this declaration with lofty scorn inspired by a profound
knowledge of tariffs and coach-men from Paris to Palermo, exclaims:
"Preposterous! Ten francs it shall be, and not a centesimo more." "Ah,
signorina, the roads are very steep and it will take my whole morning,"
returns Pepino, beseechingly; but in vain he seeks for a sign of
relenting. His struggle is brief, and, with a deprecating flourish of
his small, shapely hands, he mounts the box, and the air with which he
says, "as you will have it, signorina," is that of a gracious conqueror
dictating terms to the vanquished; he cherishes no resentment, he has
no interest but ours. We never for a moment regret the tram. Pepino
knows every villa and grey tower, every path through the hills, every
bridge over the _torrenti_; he never intrudes his knowledge, and, above
all, he is kind to his horse.
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
ON THE RAMPARTS, LUCCA]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
S. FREDIANO, LUCCA
EAST END, WITH THE CAMPANILE (11TH AND 13TH CENTURY)]
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
SAN FREDIANO FROM THE GUINIGI TOWER, LUCCA]
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
A "GREY TOWER"]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
PONTE A MORIANO, WITH A VIEW OF THE SERCHIO RIVER]
"Yonder cross on the round, bare hill," he says, "is Brancoli," and
Brancoli is the hill of our desire. Our good road at first runs over
the plain following the east bank of the Serchio, principal river of
the province; it rises in a northernly valley among the Apuans and fed
by many a mountain stream or _torrente_, maintains a southeasterly
course almost to Lucca, which it avoids by a broad loop westward, and
then makes its way to the Mediterranean almost parallel with the Arno.
We pass clusters of farm-houses, well-cultivated fields and vineyards,
until in less than an hour we reach Ponte Moriano, which is little more
than a busy street of shops and dwellings, but has a good stone church
founded by San Frediano in five hundred and something. Its rather
tall, square tower, of good proportions and crenellated battlements,
is characteristic of all the church towers in this region. Here is
the terminus of the _tramvia_, and Pepino was right, there is no
appearance of a carriage; but his Italian for "I told you so," was kept
under his breath with true Lucchese courtesy.
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
AN OLD STONE BRIDGE]
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
BRIDGE OVER THE SERCHIO RIVER]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
PARISH CHURCH OF S. MARIA E S. GIORGIO (11TH CENTURY)
BRANCOLI]
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
SAN LORENZO, BRANCOLI]
A mile farther on is the little hamlet of San Giusto, situated at a
point where the Lima joins the Serchio. Here we leave the main road,
turn sharply to the right, and follow the windings of the little river,
which is crossed by the picturesque stone bridge of Vinchiana. An
old mill, half hidden by white birches, turns its moss-covered wheel
close under the steep river banks, overhung with a tangle of vines
and flowery shrubs. The road becoming rather steep, we now leave the
carriage and proceed on foot. What an entrancing walk it is! Always
ascending, we follow the turnings of the stream, now far below, and
glancing like a silver thread along the valley. We round the grey
shoulders of jutting cliffs, where clumps of white heather are in full
bloom and the "maidenly birches" are touched with the first tender
green; the air is intoxicating in its freshness, and the sky never
so blue. "_Ecco!_" calls Pepino. "_Ecco!_ San Ilario!" How has the
fellow guessed that we ought to study churches rather than maunder
about posies! The little church of cut stone, flanked by its good
tower, stands hard by the roadside, convenient and inviting to tired
feet and aching hearts, as many a pilgrim in the old days knew full
well. Its doors stand open wide, admitting floods of sunshine and
spring fragrance. We enter unbidden, to find the little temple quiet
and empty, all its pictures and sacred emblems covered, and all as
clean and fresh as if waiting in reverent silence the miracle of Easter
morning. We proudly boast the stern old Puritan blood running cool and
inviolate in our veins, but there's a silent appeal in these modest
temples and shrines of the elder faith that "must give us pause," and
silence the voice of criticism. Taking the road again, we still ascend
from one fold of the hill to another, whence we overlook the Serchio
pursuing its lazy course far below, the views becoming more and more
beautiful, until in half an hour we come upon the little stone church
of San Lorenzo, close by the road. Small as it is, San Lorenzo is as
complete in all its attributes, and as true to its architecture, as a
full-fledged duomo, even to the little apse. The sturdy tower, square
and shapely, small, round-arched windows and sides of warm, grey stone,
the red-tiled roof, flecked with patches of green moss, make a charming
picture, found in no country but Italy. This time the church is closed,
but there are keys hanging in the north door, perhaps entering the
sacristy, and we make bold to peep. It is a clean and cold room,
entirely separated from the church proper, and evidently serving at
present for a store-room, as a slender stock of various commodities
and a few bottles of wine attest. Meantime Pepino has made our wants
known at the near farm-house, and is returning, accompanied by a
handsome young girl with the keys to the proper church door, which she
opens, saluting us with respectful dignity, and, without questioning,
draws the curtain from the Della Robbia over the altar; for well she
knows that the _forestieri_ only come to see our "beautiful white San
Lorenzo." The statue is small and perfect, like everything about this
woodland _chiesetta_. The head is exquisitely modelled, all in white,
with the finish and the ivory-tinted glaze which belongs to Andrea
Della Robbia's best work, though the wise in such matters ascribe it to
one of his pupils.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
THE INTERIOR (11TH CENTURY), PARISH CHURCH OF S. MARIA
E S. GIORGIO, BRANCOLI]
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
HOLY-WATER STOUP, PARISH CHURCH OF S. MARIA E S. GIORGIO
BRANCOLI]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
HEXAGONAL BAPTISMAL FONT (13TH CENTURY), S. MARIA E S. GIORGIO
BRANCOLI]
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
DETAIL OF PULPIT, PARISH CHURCH OF S. MARIA
E S. GIORGIO, BRANCOLI]
Saying our _buon giorno_, and pressing a small fee into the reluctant
hand of the handsome _contadina_, we now turn from the carriage road
and begin a short but rather difficult climb up the steep hillside by
a roughly paved path, which leads us through chestnut woods to the
crest of the hill and the parish church of Santa Maria e San Giorgio,
belonging to the eighth century. We have seen it all the way from the
plain, perched on a commanding height, surrounded by its sombre guard
of stately cypresses. The tower is especially fine in its proportions
and built quite apart from the church, though only a foot or so from
its walls. Unusually tall, it has four orders of arched windows, and
is crowned with bifurcated, or "swallow-tail," battlements, indicative
of Ghibelline influence. The exterior of the church, built of squared
blocks of travertine, has a plain façade, broken only by shallow
pilasters and a round-headed doorway, with a bit of rude carving on
the cornice, perhaps representing the vine. The south side has two rows
of irregular windows, with remains of ornament, and an arched doorway,
over which is a singularly grotesque figure. Both doors are wide open,
the noonday sun lighting up vaulted aisles and the ancient timber roof
of the nave. We enter without let or hindrance and possess the church
for a good hour, uninterrupted even by a footstep on the road hard
by. The interior, which gives an impression of space and dignity, is
divided into nave and aisles by columns and piers with interesting
sculptured capitals. The choir is raised by four steps well above the
nave, the high altar, still higher, fills the apse, and over all is
a good timber roof, richly coloured by time. Near the west end in the
south aisle is a quaint and seemingly very ancient holy-water stoup,
carved with rude but expressive figures of men and animals attacked by
serpents. On the crown surmounting the principal head is inscribed
"_Raitus me fecit_," but having no date. Many of the capitals of the
pillars bear sculptures of rude symbolic figures, indicating early
Lombardic work. The fine hexagonal baptismal font is attributed to
the thirteenth century, but the carved heads and vine suggest an
earlier date. The same period is accorded to the very beautiful marble
pulpit standing at the entrance to the choir. It is square in shape,
supported by four columns, two of which rest on the backs of grotesque
Lombard lions struggling with savage beasts, symbolic of Divine power
overcoming evil; the capitals are boldly sculptured in foliage and
animal forms. On the front is a serious crowned figure holding the
Book, above it the eagle serving as lectern. On the corner toward
the altar a sculptured figure bends to support another reading-desk.
Altogether this pulpit may be reckoned among the most interesting ones
of Tuscany.
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
DETAIL OF PULPIT, PARISH CHURCH OF BRANCOLI]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
PULPIT (13TH CENTURY), S. MARIA E S. GIORGIO, BRANCOLI]
Finally, added to its many attractions, the church contains a fine
and unusual piece of Della Robbia terra-cotta, the work of Andrea
and his son Giovanni. Miss Cruttwell writes: "This romantic scene--I
had almost said painting, 'St. George Slaying the Dragon'--is one of
the best pictorial works." It is probably the only instance of an
attempt by Andrea to represent a horse, and it is undeniably stiff and
indifferently modelled. The princess in the background also is rather
heavy, but the grace and action of the youthful rider and the beauty
and radiance of his expression are remarkable. The frame, probably the
work of Giovanni, consists of garlands upheld by winged cherubs, with
graceful candelabra and medallions characteristic of the artist.
We left the church of Santa Maria e San Giorgio with regret, but with a
sense of complete satisfaction with our day among the hills and temples
of Brancoli.
"Sundaies the pillars are
On which heav'ns palace arched lies,
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities."
--HERBERT.
[Illustration: COATS OF ARMS OF LUCCA]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Andrea and Giov. della Robbia_
ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON, S. MARIA E S. GIORGIO BRANCOLI]
BARGA AND THE VALLEY OF GARFAGNANA
[Illustration]
BARGA AND THE VALLEY OF GARFAGNANA
[Illustration]
Brancoli's Hill commands a view of the Serchio River and its extensive
valley, called the Garfagnana, which lies between the Apennines,
defining the northern boundary of Tuscany, and the Alpi Apuane range,
which follows the direction of the coast, and contains several lofty
peaks, the highest rising over six thousand feet.
The principal town and capital of the Garfagnana region is Barga,
situated thirteen hundred feet above the sea, and containing, we had
learned, an interesting church and several pieces of the Della Robbia
terra-cotta. As the crow flies it is but a trifling distance over the
valley to Barga, but we were obliged to return the way we came and take
the main road at San Giusto; a small matter, for in twenty minutes we
had dropped down into the valley, passed again the pretty bridge of
Vinchiana, also crossed the one over the Serchio, and were speeding
along the river bank near the railroad which runs to Bagni di Lucca.
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
THE BRIDGE AT VINCHIANA]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
BORGO A MOZZANO, PONTE DELLA MADDALENA OVER THE SERCHIO, CALLED "THE
DEVIL'S BRIDGE"]
At Borgo a Mozzano we see the old bridge, Ponte della Maddalena,
oftener called the Devil's Bridge, because traditionally it was built
(1328) in one night by Castruccio Castracane, the "greatest war captain
of his time." It is a singular structure, very high and narrow, not
allowing a carriage of present date to cross, and supported on heavy
piers and five arches of irregular height, one of which carries
the bridge up, like a camel's hump, rendering it most curious and
picturesque. At Ponte a Serraglio is a distant view of Bagni di Lucca,
lying in the valley of the Lima.
[Illustration: BAGNI DI LUCCA--PANORAMA]
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
PARISH CHURCH, LOPPIA]
By this time we have crossed the river, and taken a narrower but
equally good highway, though belonging to the second class of
carriage roads, every turn of which brings to view new wooded valleys
and hilltops crowned with grey villages. In the distance, which is
greater than it seems in the clear, luminous atmosphere, we see
Ghivizziano's lofty towers, with her train of ruddy roofs and grey
walls sharply outlined against the sky. At Fornaci we part company with
the Serchio again, strike northward through one of the interesting
mountain valleys, and pass close to the ancient parish church of
Loppia, weather-beaten and neglected, but none the less a striking
landmark and noble monument of mediæval power. Loppia was the capital
of the Garfagnana until 1390, when, having been desolated by war and
its inhabitants reduced to fifty, its jurisdiction and the title of
its parish church were given to Barga, and even its one good picture
transferred to the new capital.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
THE CATHEDRAL OF BARGA]
The whole district is well watered by many mountain streams, affluents
of the Serchio, furnishing excellent water-power for various mills
scattered along their banks. The soil is generally productive, the
uplands covered with chestnut-trees and affording fair pasturage for
sheep, which are a source of considerable revenue. On the lower levels
we find the olive, maize (or _granturco_), a principal article of food,
and flax, also the mulberry-tree and silk-worm culture. The region is
fairly rich in minerals, stone and marble quarries, manganese, mercury,
etc. Here, also, is found the fine red jasper, veined or flecked with
white, which has been so effectively used in the Medici Chapel in
Florence. We are now quite close upon the walls of Barga, but the long
drive in the eager, exhilarating mountain air makes us quite willing to
take Pepino's advice and stop for lunch at the Posta, an unpretending
wayside inn, beautifully situated, with plain, comfortable rooms
commanding fine views, and where, as a recommendation, we were told a
Chicago gentleman had once spent seven weeks for his health. In the
words of another visitor, we read that "the soup is excellent, and so
is the wine;" also, there is trout when the streams are full. We found
everything as had been promised, and did ample justice to the excellent
food served by a pretty, smiling _contadina_, daughter of the house,
who was full of chat and little airs, her young head evidently quite
turned by her knowledge of the wandering _forestieri_.
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
MAIN DOOR OF THE CATHEDRAL, BARGA]
Hunger appeased and our modest account settled, we walk to the
nearest city gate, passing an ample bowling alley, bordered with
fine plane-trees. At the upper end is a raised, grassy platform of
considerable breadth, in the centre of which stands a fine cedar of
Lebanon. The platform is reached by two flights of steps cut into the
sod, and tradition has it that here Charlemagne stood and delivered
his laws and instructions to the conquered people gathered below. The
well-paved street winds and turns up the hill until it terminates
in the little plateau, or Piazza del Duomo. The city retains its
ancient walls and three old gates, and is still further defended
by two deep natural ravines, which render it altogether a striking
and typical mediæval town. We enter the gate just in time to see
a religious procession, consisting apparently of all the people in
town, most of the men in capes of green and white, led by three
important ecclesiastics in really splendid vestments; two copes were
of ivory-white damasked silk, evidently old, adorned with gold; the
third, of a peachy-purple tint, enriched also with designs in gold. We
join the procession, and wind slowly up the steep path, noting several
palaces of old-time importance, and one or two schools or institutions.
We see, also, erect and pretty young girls bearing copper pails of
water on their heads, lightly mounting the precipitous side streets,
and remember then that this mountain region is noted for the beauty of
its women. Arriving at the Piazza del Duomo, the procession enters the
Church of SS. Christopher and James, to say the prayers appropriate
to St. Joseph's day, while we enjoy the wide and beautiful prospect
over the Garfagnana valley, held at the north by the hill-town of
Fivizzano, surrounded by Castruccio's walls, its church door bearing
the Medici shield. On the left, Alpi Apuane, overlooking the charming
gulf of Spezia, Carrara, and Sarzana, where Castruccio Castracane
built his famous castle, and the only road to which now, as then, is
by the castled town of Fosdinovo. To the right are the loftiest peaks
of the Apennines: Rondinaio, Monte Prado, Abetone, and the rest,
owing "much of their grandeur to the precipitous slopes and fantastic
profiles of the calcareous rocks which enter into their composition."
The lofty and well-defended position of Barga, near the boundaries of
Lucca and Florence, gave it a certain military importance in the early
struggles for despotism. At present it is a busy centre of a large
district, quiet and orderly, its people marked by spirit, buoyancy of
temperament and good looks. To the outside world it is best known for
its church, several good Della Robbias, and its fine and beautiful
situation. The Church of SS. Christopher and James--is it a temple
or a citadel?--built of squared blocks of travertine, unusual and
irregular in shape, its watch-tower, or campanile, springing from
the main wall and guarding all the country round about, possesses no
dominant style of architecture, and wears such an appearance as ten
centuries of weather and vicissitudes may well give a church. The grand
old tower is fitting, as a human creation may ever hope to be, the
prospect it overlooks. Its massive sides are pierced by three orders
of double-arched windows, supported by columns and piers, and each
order defined by a string course, or corbel-table, of shallow arches,
which takes, perhaps, something from the height of the tower, but
emphasizes the solidity of its structure. Unlike most towers in this
region, it carries no battlements, but is finished by a low, plain
roof. The façade of the church is strikingly plain, broken only by a
single cornice, string course, and short pilasters. The main door alone
retains a hint of former grandeur in its foliated arch and sculptured
architrave, once guarded by two Lombardic lions, one of which has
fallen from its high estate. The front and side walls are pierced
irregularly with small windows of varied shape and size.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
INTERIOR OF THE CATHEDRAL OF BARGA]
The interior is plain, resembling an ancient basilica in form, and
divided into nave and aisles by piers supporting broad, semi-circular
arches, and over all a good, open-timbered roof. The tribune, or
choir, is raised above the nave by three steps, and separated from it
by a low marble screen or _parapetto_. An ancient-looking holy-water
stoup, carved with rude heads and designs, stands by a pillar on the
north side of the nave, but the great treasures of the church are
its choir-screen and pulpit. The screen consists of panels of pale
red marble delicately veined, set in frames, or borders, of white
Carrara, inlaid with black _smalto_, or enamel, in various designs and
symbolic geometrical figures. That part of the screen near the pulpit
is further enriched by a row of small, well-modelled heads, some of
which, evidently portraits, are encircled by crowns. The pulpit must
certainly be reckoned among the best ones in Tuscany; its author is
unknown, but it probably belongs to the thirteenth century, about the
time of the Pisani, possibly earlier. The richness of detail, dignity
and expression of the rather stiff figures, suggest the work of Guido
da Como.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
PULPIT (13th CENTURY)
IN THE CATHEDRAL OF BARGA]
The pulpit is rectangular, and supported on four marble columns, two of
which rest on the backs of lions, overcoming symbolic forms of evil.
Another rests on the shoulders of a man, perhaps the artist, and all
the capitals are elaborately sculptured in varying designs, one bearing
the forms of eagles and animals' heads.
On the panels of the pulpit are the sculptured scenes of the
Annunciation, the Nativity, and Adoration of the Magi, treated in
the usual manner. On the central plinth of the front appears a
crowned figure holding the Book of Good Tidings, and supported by the
appropriate symbolic animals; above this figure the eagle upholds a
lectern. The figures are carved in strong relief, and though the feet
and hands are stiff, the faces are serious and fairly modelled, and
the drapery well disposed. Heavy as the work is, we are conscious that
the artist, a man of the long ago past, was himself impressed by his
subject, and put into his realistic interpretation of it a profound
religious mysticism. The whole work is enriched by inlaying of black
marble, or _smalto_, with the white. Crowns, the lions' manes, and
coils of the writhing serpent are picked out with black, an early form
of decoration.
In the choir aisle is a beautiful tabernacle for the sacred oil, of
glazed terra-cotta, chiefly white on blue, the work of the Della Robbia
school or atelier. Though small, the work is composed of three perfect
parts. On the arched top is a charming group of infantile figures,
the Christ child standing upright on the Holy Chalice, one tiny hand
uplifted in blessing, the other holding the crown of thorns; on either
side is an adoring cherub, exquisitely modelled. Below this is the
cupboard, or ciborium, for the oil, guarded by two graceful angel
forms, and on each side an acolyte bearing a candelabrum. The whole
work rests on a table, or ledge, supported by two cornucopiæ of various
fruits in natural colors, and between them appears the head of a cherub
enfolded in double wings.
[Illustration: _Alinari_
ADORATION OF THE MAGI (13TH CENTURY)
PULPIT IN THE CATHEDRAL OF BARGA]
Well might this fortress-temple detain us longer, but there is scant
time to have a look at the other Della Robbias down in the heart of the
town, to which we are conducted by a courteous and handsome little man
of twelve, through the narrowest and steepest of byways, which threaten
at times to plunge us into doorways or ditches, until we reach the
Church of the Capuchins. This contains a Nativity, two good statues
of St. Andrew and St. Anthony, an Annunciation, St. Francis receiving
the Stigmata, and, finest of all, an Assumption of the Virgin, by
Giovanni Della Robbia. The reverent figures of four saints gaze upward
to Our Lady, seated within a mandorla of cherubs' heads and surrounded
by angels with musical instruments; the four trumpeters at the top are
most beautiful. In the predella are other flying angels with scrolls;
a wreath of exquisite heads surround the ciborium, and two kneeling
saints fill the corners. The whole work is framed with clusters of
various fruits in their natural colours.
Reluctantly we turn from rock-throned Barga, "Half church of God,
half castle 'gainst the Scot," and as we slip down into the valley
through purpling shadows shot with crimson and gold we marvel at
these people, who with one hand took their part fiercely in the cruel
wars of despotism and with the other adorned churches and shrines
with Della Robbia reliefs, representing a form of art so pure and
cool and tranquil and, above all, infused with the deepest religious
feeling. Then we suddenly remember that hereabouts is the region of
the Pistojese Apennines, the favoured home of the highest Tuscan
imagination, poetry and song, where the people--peasants, shepherds,
and mountaineers--are not only hardy, handsome, and industrious as a
class, but noted for gentleness and courtesy, love of home, and the
native elegance of their common speech. It is said that "the dialect
that most faithfully represents the pure Tuscan of Boccaccio's day is
that of peasants of the Pistojese Apennines. It is here, round about
San Marcello and Cutigliano, that the purest Tuscan is spoken--pure
in its language, pure in its accent; and it is here that Manzoni and
d'Azelio came--comparative foreigners both of them, the one a Lombard,
the other a Piedmontese--to acquire the pure language for those
romances which have delighted all Italy and all the world."[10]
It is in the Pistojese mountains that we hear those "charming folk
songs, in which traditions of true gentleness and elevated feeling are
so well exhibited, and account for the high romantic qualities of the
impassioned verse."[11]
Shepherds often improvise songs, called _rispetti_ and _stornelli_, as
they tend their flocks alone on the hills, and if their cadence chance
to catch the popular ear they are sown on a hundred hills and meadows
far and wide. Tigri records by name a little girl called Cherubina
who made _rispetti_ by the dozen as she watched her sheep, and
the poetry of Beatrice di Pian degli Ontani was famous through the
mountains of Pistoja.[12]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Della Robbia School_
TABERNACLE FOR SACRED OIL
CATHEDRAL, BARGA]
Miss Alexander, in her "Road Songs of Tuscany," has given an
appreciative and loving tribute to this pastoral singer, whom she
calls "one of the most wonderful women" she ever saw. The daughter of
a stone-mason who worked during the winter in the Maremma, Beatrice
became his companion and helper, carrying on her head stones for the
walls and bridges he was building. She had no education, never learning
the alphabet even, but possessed a remarkable memory, and could recite
long poems that she had heard.
_YOU ASK ME FOR A SONG_
"You ask me for a song, then be content,
With little grace, in all I sing or say;
And judge me kindly, for I never went
To school, and masters never came our way.
The only school where ever I did go
Was on the mountain, in the hail and snow.
And this, alas! was all they made me learn--
To go for wood, and dig when I return."
It was not till the day of her marriage that Beatrice discovered her
new power "to sing poetry born in her mind," and from that day she
never lost her remarkable power of improvisation, and the list of her
ballads is very long and varied in theme. She had a strong religious
nature, and addressed many of her songs to the Madonna. In her old age,
it is said, she knew in poetic form nearly all the New Testament and
much of the Old.
_GIVE ME LIGHT, LADY_
"Come to the window, lady, give me light!
A little light, that I may find my way
For darkness deep is on my path to-night,
Among the stones I fall or go astray.
I cross a troubled river, lady mine;
Deep is the water, and no light doth shine.
And darkness found me where the waves were high;
My feet have failed, so deep the waters lie!
So far was I from shore when darkness came!
And no one answers when I call thy name."
Her eldest son inherited her poetic gift, and often when working in
the fields mother and son would carry on a conversation in improvised
verse, Beatrice singing one _ottava_, Beppo answering with another.
Miss Alexander says that as a girl Beatrice was very handsome, with an
inspired face, charming smile, and sympathetic voice. She had great
physical strength and indomitable courage. She generally wore her
_contadina_ dress of scarlet bodice, blue kerchief, garnet necklace,
and gold earrings. On grand occasions she put on a white embroidered
veil, kerchief, and apron belonging to her wedding finery.
Beatrice lived over a hundred years, "much loved and honoured by her
neighbours and all who knew her," and many pleasant anecdotes are
told of her experiences and talent. A Boston lady told us that once,
when Madame Goldschmidt (better known as Jenny Lind, or the "Swedish
Nightingale,") was visiting friends in the Apennines, a meeting was
arranged between the two singers, both elderly women at the time. First
Beatrice, in her peasant dress, sang to the great prima-donna of the
North, improvising words and music suitable to the occasion. In return
Madame Goldschmidt, much gratified, sang one of the songs which has so
often moved her great audiences to rapturous applause.[13]
[Illustration: _Alinari_
_Giovanni della Robbia_
ASSUMPTION OF THE VIRGIN
CHURCH OF THE CAPUCHINS, BARGA]
[Illustration: _M. M. Newell_
"VIOLET-EYED TUSCAN OXEN"]
_THE DOVE_
"O dove with wings of silver, when you fly,
The feathers shine and glisten in my view.
And oh, how sweet your song is! Would that I
Could learn it.... Teach me, dove, to sing like you.
Your pleasant notes, and your sweet rhymes of love;
The sun goes down and lights the stars above.
Your pleasant notes, and your sweet rhymes of love;
The sun goes down and lights the snows above."
[Illustration: DETAIL OF TRAPPINGS ON THE HORSE OF LORENZO DE' MEDICI]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 10: M. Carmichael, _In Tuscany_, p. 102.]
[Footnote 11: J. A. Symonds, "Popular Songs in Tuscany," _Sketches and
Studies_, vol. ii.]
[Footnote 12: John Ruskin, ed., _Alexander's Road Songs of Tuscany_
(1884).]
[Footnote 13: Alessandro Chiappelli, _Una Pastora Poetessa, Beatrice di
Pian degli Ontani_ (Florence, 1902).]
INDEX
INDEX
PAGE
Abetone, 213
Afternoon tea, 4
Alexander, Miss, 225, 226
Altopascio, 106
Amadeo, sculptor, 114
Amphitheatre, Roman, Lucca, 167
Armstrong, E. (note), 59
Antonio da Pistoja, 144
Apuans, 167, 174, 199, 210
Arno, The, 5, 8, 40, 45, 167, 174
Arnolfo di Cambio, 17
Avèrard. _See_ Medici.
Azelio, d', 222
Badia a Settimo, 3
Baglioni, 110
Bagni di Lucca, 200, 203
Barga, 199-230
Bartolommeo, Fra, 171
Beatrice di Pian degli Ontani, 225, 226, 229, 230
Benedetto Buglione, 143
Benozzo, Gozzoli, 50, 52, 117
Berenson, B. (note), 59
Bergamo, 113, 114
Bessarion, 51
Bianca Cappello, 39
Bianchi e Neri, 56
Bivigliano, 36
Boccaccio, 222
Bonaparte, 128
Bona of Savoy, 36
Borgo San Lorenzo, 20
Borgo a Mozzano, 200
Brancoli, 163-194, 199
Brunelleschi, 55
Bruno di Ser Lapo, 64
Calash, 19, 25, 35
Cancellieri, 56
Careggi, 55
Carmagnuola, Francesco, 114
Carmichael, M. (note), 222
Carrara, 40, 210
Carroccio, 106
Carza, 9
Casentino, 8
Castelfranco Madonna, 117
Castracane, Castruccio, Lord of Lucca, 49,101-118, 203, 210
Castracane, Dianora, 117
Cellino di Nese, 151
Certosa, 79
Chapel of the Holy Cross, 92, 95
Chapel of the Madonna, 92, 95
Charlemagne, 17, 209
Cherubina, 222
Chianti, 73-95
Chiappelli, Alessandro, 230
Choir-Screen, Barga, 14
Churches:
of the Capuchins, 218, 221
of the Madonna Dell' Impruneta, 90, 95
Pieve S. Leolino, 80
S. S. Christopher and James, Barga, 210, 213, 214
San Francesco, Lucca, 113
San Francesco, Prato, 59, 67
San Frediano, Luca, 168
San Ilario, Brancoli, 181
San Lorenzo, Brancoli, 182
San Marco, Venice, 114
Santa Maria delle Carceri, Prato, 59, 67
Santa Maria e San Giorgio, Brancoli, 185, 194
St. Martin, Lucca, 171
Cimabue, 24
Cino. _See_ Sinibuldi.
Coats of Arms, 17, 21
Colleoni, Bartolommeo, 113
Colleoni, Medea, 114
Consular Reports (notes), 63, 84
Credi, Lorenzo di, 144
Cruttwell, Maud (note), 91, 193
Cutigliano, 222
Dante, 151, 155
Della Robbia 10, 17, 21, 36, 80, 127, 143, 185, 200, 213, 218, 221
Della Robbia, Andrea, 63, 185, 193
Della Robbia, Giovanni, 140-143,193, 194, 221
Della Robbia, Luca 92, 95
Della Robbia, Luca, The Visitation, 143
Della Robbia, Count Viviano, 81
Demidoff, Prince, 39
Diligence, Florentine, 5
Donatello, 49, 63, 114
Erasmo da Narni. _See_ Gattamelata.
Este, Isabella d', 144
Faenza Railway, 6, 9, 20
Fiesole, 3, 7, 8, 39
Fivizzano, 210
Folk songs, 222
Font, Brancoli, 193
Fornaci, 207
Forteguerra, Laodomia, 148, 151
Forteguerra, Niccolò, Cardinal, 147
Forteguerra, Niccolò, Poet, 147, 148
Fosdinovo, 210
Fra Bartolommeo, 171
Gaddi, Angelo, 64
Garfagnana, Valley of the, 199, 207, 210
Garibaldi, 82
Gattamelata, 114
Ghirlandaio, R., 64
Ghivizziano, 207
Gian Galeazzo, Duke of Milan, 35-36
Giorgione, 117
Giotto, 24, 25, 27
Giuliano Giamberti. _See_ San Gallo.
Goldschmidt, Madame, or Jenny Lind, 229, 230
Greve, 79, 80
Groppoli, 163
Guido da Como, 217
Herbert, George, 163, 194
Holy-water Stoup, Barga, 214
Holy-water Stoup, Brancoli, 190, 193, 214
Hotels:
Giardino, Prato, 46
Globo e Londra, Pistoja, 136
Posta, Barga, 208, 209
l'Universo, Lucca, 163
Hyett, F. A., 106 (note), 110, 118
Ilaria del Carretto (Tomb), 171
Impruneta, 90-95
Interminelli, The, 118
Jacopo della Quercia, 171
John of Bologna, 39
Joseph, Patriarch, 51
Leone Lioni, 113
Lima River, 177, 203
Lippi, Filipino, 67
Lippi, Fra Lippo, 49, 64-67
Lord of Lucca. _See_ Castruccio.
Lorenzo di Credi, 144
Loppia, 207
Lucca, 3, 101, 106, 113, 117, 163-172, 213
Machiavelli, 117, 118
Majano, 3, 4
Malatesta, Duke of Urbino, 110
Manzoni, 222
Marchese of Mantua. _See_ Este.
Marcus Aurelius, 114
Marie Louise, Duchess, 167
Martinella, 106
Matilda, the "Great Countess,", 128
Matteo Civitali, 172
Matteo Costanzo, 114
Medici Shield, 17, 18, 82, 124, 143, 210
Medici, Avérard, 17, 18
Medici, Bernardo de', 110
Medici, Cosimo, Pater Patræ, 18, 55
Medici, Duke Francesco de', 39
Medici, Lorenzo de', 51, 52, 55, 56, 59, 64, 105
Medeghino, Il, 110, 113
Mercato, Pistoja, 101, 135, 136
Metayerage System, or Mezzadria, 84-88
Michelozzo, 55, 63
Mino da Fiesole, 49, 64, 147
Montemurlo, 106
Monte Abetone, 213
Monte Giove, 8
Monte Ferrato, 63
Monte Morello, 8, 9
Monte Pisani, 167
Monte Prado, 213
Monte Rondinaio, 213
Monte Senario, 36
Morgan, E. S., 84
Mugello, 3-40
Mugnone, 5, 7, 8, 39
Nation, The (note), 84
Nievole, 102
Orcagna, "Triumph of Death,", 117
Ospedale del Ceppo, 127, 139, 141-142, 145
Padua, 114
Padua, Arena Chapel, 27
Palazzo Pubblico, Scarperia, 14, 17
Palazzo del Podestà, Borgo San Lorenzo, 21
Palazzo Vecchio, Florence, 14
Palæologos, Emperor John, 51
Panzano, 80
Perugino, 110
Petraia, Royal Villa, 55
Petrarch, 110, 151, 152, 155
Piero a Sieve, 9, 10, 35
Pisani, The, 49, 217
Pisano, Giovanni, 60, 63, 64
Pistojese Apennines, 221, 222
Pistoja, "City of Cino", 101, 102, 106, 123-155, 163
Podere (farm), 81
Poggio a Caiano, 55-56
Ponte d'Elsa, 24
Ponte della Maddalena, or Devil's Bridge, 200, 203
Ponte Moriano, 172, 174
Ponte a Serraglio, 203
Ponte Vinchiana, 177, 200
Prato, 45-67, 106
Pratolino, 36
Pratolino, Villa of, 39
Pulpit, Barga, 217
Pulpit, Brancoli, 189
Republic of S. Mark, 113
Riccardi Palace, 36, 51, 117
Ricciardetto, 148
Rispetti, 222
Ruskin, J., 8, 10, 39, 109, 225, (note)
Sacra Cintola, 60, 63, 64
Salvi, Virginia, 151
San Gallo, 59
San Giusto, 177, 200
San Jacopo, 128
San Marcello, 222
San Martino, 10
San Miniato, 3
San Zeno, 128
Sarzana, 105, 210
Sarzanella, 105
Savonarola, 55, 92
Scala family, 110
Scarperia, 10, 14, 17, 19, 20, 27, 35
Scissors, Manufacture of, 14
Serchio River, 174, 177, 182, 199, 200, 207
Serravalle, 101, 105, 106, 163
Sforzi, The, 110
Sforza, Francesco, 114
Sforza, Lodovico, Il Moro, 110, 144
Sieve River, 5, 8, 19, 20
Signa, 106
Sinibuldi, Guittoncino dei (Cino), 151-152, 155
Spezia, 210
Stemmi. _See_ Coats of Arms.
Stornelli, 222
Sumptuary Laws, 131
Symonds, J. A., 109, 113 (note), 222 (note)
Tabernacle, Barga, 218
Tebaldeo, Pistoja, 144
Tedici, Dialta, 101
Tedici, Filippo, 101, 136
Tigri, 222
"Time," Review, 84
Torraccia Romanelli, 22
Torre del Podestà, 128
Tuscan Cookery, 74, 75, 76, 77, 88, 135, 136, 209
Tuscan Harvests, 87
Tuscan Road Songs, 225
Tuscan Servants, 74, 75, 77
Tuscan Speech, 222
Tuscan Wine, 77, 78, 79, 82, 88, 135, 136, 209
Ubaldini, 14
Vaglia, 8, 36
Val d'Arno, 6, 8, 31, 36, 39, 77, 80, 106, 153
Vinci, Leonardo da, 110
Vergiolesi, Selvaggia dei, 151, 152, 155
Verrocchio, 147
Vespignano, 25
Villa Capriani-Cateni, 25
Villa Tolomei, 32
Vinchiana Bridge. _See_ Ponte.
Visconti, The, Dukes of Milan, 113
Visconti Galeazzo, 110
Visconti Gian Galeazzo, 35, 36
Visitation, 143
_See_ Della Robbia, Luca.
Wine Jar, 82
* * * * *
+------------------------------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber notes: |
| |
| P. 56. Illustration is probably 'GARDEN BELONGING TO LORENZO'S |
| P. 115. Illustration--Madonna and Child, with two Saints, |
| "Alinar'" changed to "Alinari". |
| VILLA POGGIO A CAIANO', not changed. |
| P. 233. 'Cancelliere' changed to 'Cancellieri'. |
| P. 237. 'Galleazzo' changed to 'Galeazzo'. |
| Fixed various punctuation . |
| |
| Underscore sourrinding text implies italics, as in _See_ |
+------------------------------------------------------------------+
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