Every now and then a slippered figure, with white stockings down at heel, and black stuff petticoat wrapped carefully over its head, hurries by on some domestic errand, or a stray dog limps dejectedly in and out of the carriage wheels, in search of stray scraps of sausage or cheese, which might indeed well be there, since the drivers eat both, pretty well all day long. To close the picture, an Englishman in a tweed suit, staring contemplatively at the prospect from the doorway of the principal hotel, and wondering whether it was really worth while to travel half across Europe, in order to reach such a resting-place: wondering also whom he shall get to direct him to the Arena Chapel, for this is Padua, once most learned of universities, and now dullest of cities, and it is here that Giotto painted the Scrovegni Chapel from floor to ceiling.
After more or less contradictory directions and several fruitless attempts, I discovered the entrance to the enclosure wherein the chapel stands, and being by this time wet, tired, dirty, and considerably out of temper, immediately resolved to leave it to the next day to see the pictures, and returned to my hotel depressed in spirit, but trying to look forward to the morrow. All was unchanged in the square, save that the dog had departed, and the vetturini grown a trifle more noisy; so after a solitary dinner, wherein the landlord figured as sole attendant, and macaroni formed the principal dish, I turned into my room, and consoled myself with concocting an imaginary leader to the Times on the fallacy of believing that Italian weather was better than English, and so to bed.
Never was change more complete than that I woke to the next morning. A blazing sun, such as we see in July only, shone in the midst of a blue sky, and streamed brightly in upon the paved bedchamber, and a fresh little breeze rattled cheerfully to and fro the big window-shutters, and hinted at its being time to get up. A glance into the square revealed my vetturino friends cheerfully cracking their whips at imaginary flies, and, seated by the side of the fountain, a brown-skinned maiden in the whitest of linen and heaviest of earrings, was amicably partaking of a chunk of sausage, with the youngest of the party. The very dog had turned up again, and looked at least twice the size that he did yesterday, and was sitting at a respectful distance from the last-named couple, watching for scraps with cheerful confidence.
Now, if ever, it appeared to me was the time for a first favourable impression of a great artist, and so, hurrying through dressing and breakfast, I started for the chapel. Venting the content of my soul as I went along, in the solitary Italian phrase I was master of, I waved my hand to the young coachman, and said, ché bel' tempo. He looked down at his dark-eyed damsel; she was sitting on the step of the carriage by this time, and if ever a coachman agreed with any one, which is doubtful, that young fellow did with me; though I gathered his assent merely from his eloquent looks, for of what he said I have not the faintest conception.
So, like Æneas, with hope and fortune favouring me, I drew near to the great wooden gate which marks the entrance to the Arena. The large gates are immovable, but a little lattice door opens if you push it deftly at the right moment after having rung the bell, and on entering, you see a long garden, where currants and apple-trees, acacias and vines, almonds and poplars, are all mixed together in a confusion of greenery. At the end of the narrow gravel walk rises a house, not unlike an English suburban villa, much out of repair, in front of which two or three small children are tumbling about in perilous proximity to an old well, while at what should be the dining-room window, stands a girl twisting up her long, black hair, with the most perfect composure. Anything more delightfully unlike the usual aspect of a show place could hardly be imagined, and at first (not being able to see the chapel at all) I thought I had mistaken my direction for the third time, but there was the servant evidently getting ready to receive me, and, as I had undoubtedly rung the bell, I walked boldly up to the house.
PADUA.
From a drawing by the Author.
A few steps explained the matter. The chapel stands to the right of the house, at the edge of the orchard, and the servant was doing up her hair previous to bringing out the keys. The chapel outside is simply a barn-shaped building, with a gable roof, absolutely undecorated in any way whatever, unless a round-arched door, with the remains of a very small fresco above it, can be called decorative. The entrance is at the west end of the building, which is lighted from the south side only, by six long narrow windows. The gable roof hardly projects at all beyond the walls. The whole appearance of the chapel being somewhat like those box-like constructions drawn by children, to represent a house. If it be a proper criticism to call a thing ugly which has only been constructed for a certain purpose, and which has fulfilled that purpose fairly well for six hundred years, the Scrovegni Chapel may fairly be called by that name; but personally I must confess to a feeling of gratification at finding there was absolutely no attempt at architectural embellishment in the whole building, and many will probably share this feeling. Knowing that the interior was absolutely covered with frescoes, each of which was almost priceless, it seemed to me appropriate, both to the pictures, and the simplicity of style in the master who executed them, that their covering should be not sculptured marble or vaulted stone, but simply plain, honest building.
After all the chapel was hardly more to the frescoes than is the canvas to the picture, and it afforded a refreshing contrast to the way in which things are done nowadays, to remember that Enrico Scrovegni,[57] wishing to build a temple to the honour, and for the service of, the Virgin, thought it more necessary to give her the work of genius within her shrine, than to adorn its exterior with costly materials and sculptured ornament. Given that it was a choice between Giotto's frescoes and elaborate architectural design (and we may suppose that a plain citizen could not afford both), then we can look at this homely building with pleasure rather than repulsion, as we do at the rough coating of some precious stone. And if we do not grumble at the plainness of the building, still less will we do so at its position in the quaint garden-close, where flickering shadows from the bright leaves of the acacias dot the gravel path, and where from behind the chapel rises the humming of the custodian's bee-hives.[58]