The Palazzo Pitti, where the Great Duke resides, is on the opposite side of the Arno from the Gallery. It has been enlarged since it was purchased from the ruined family of Pitti. The furniture of this palace is rich and curious, particularly some tables of Florentine work, which are much admired. The most precious ornaments, however, are the paintings. The walls of what is called the Imperial Chamber, are painted in fresco, by various painters; the subjects are allegorical, and in honour of Lorenzo of Medicis, distinguished by the name of the Magnificent. There is more fancy than taste displayed in those paintings. The other principal rooms are distinguished by the names of Heathen Deities, as Jupiter, Apollo, Mars, Venus, and by paintings in fresco, mostly by Pietro da Cortona. In the last mentioned, the subjects are different from what is naturally expected from the name of the room, being representations of the triumphs of Virtue over Love, or some memorable instance of continency. As the Medici family have been more distinguished for the protection they afforded the arts, than for the virtues of continency or self-denial, it is probable, the subject, as well as the execution of these pieces, was left entirely to the painter.
I happened lately to be at this palace, with a person who is perfectly well acquainted with all the pictures of any merit in Florence. While he explained the peculiar excellencies of Pietro’s manner, a gentleman in company, who, although he does not pretend to the smallest skill in pictures, would rather remain ignorant for ever, than listen to the lectures of a connoisseur, walked on, by himself, into the other apartments, while I endeavoured to profit by my instructor’s knowledge. When the other gentleman returned, he said, “I know no more of painting than my pointer; but there is a picture in one of the other rooms, which I would rather have than all those you seem to admire so much; it is the portrait of a healthy, handsome, country woman, with her child in her arms. There is nothing interesting in the subject, to be sure, because none of us are personally acquainted with the woman. But I cannot help thinking the colours very natural. The young woman’s countenance is agreeable, and expressive of fondness and the joy of a mother over a first-born. The child is a robust, chubby-cheeked fellow; such as the son of a peasant should be.”
We followed him into the room, and the picture which pleased him so much, was the famous Madonna della Seggiola of Raphael. Our instructor immediately called out Viva! and pronounced him a man of genuine taste; because, without any previous knowledge or instruction, he had fixed his admiration on the finest picture in Florence. But this gentleman, as soon as he understood what the picture was, disclaimed all title to praise; “because,” said he, “although, when I considered that picture, simply as the representation of a blooming country wench hugging her child, I admired the art of the painter, and thought it one of the truest copies of nature I ever saw; yet, I confess, my admiration is much abated, now that you inform me his intention was to represent the Virgin Mary.” “Why so?” replied the Cicerone; “the Virgin Mary was not of higher rank. She was but a poor woman, living in a little village in Galilee.” “No rank in life,” said the other, “could give additional dignity to the person who had been told by an Angel from heaven, that she had found favour with God; that her Son should be called the Son of the Highest; and who, herself, was conscious of all the miraculous circumstances attending his conception and birth. In the countenance of such a woman, besides comeliness, and the usual affection of a mother, I looked for the most lively expression of admiration, gratitude, virgin modesty, and divine love. And when I am told, the picture is by the greatest painter that ever lived, I am disappointed in perceiving no traces of that kind in it.” What justice there is in this gentleman’s remarks, I leave it to better judges than I pretend to be, to determine.
After our diurnal visit to the Gallery, we often pass the rest of the forenoon in the gardens belonging to this palace. The vale of Arno; the gay hills that surround it; and other natural beauties to be viewed from thence, form an agreeable variety, even to eyes which have been feasting on the most exquisite beauties of art. The pleasure arising from both, however, diminishes by repetition; but may be again excited by the admiration of a new spectator, of whose taste and sensibility you have a good opinion. I experienced this on the arrival of Mr. F——r, a gentleman of sense, honour, and politeness, whose company gave fresh relish to our other enjoyments in this place. It is now some time since he left us; and I am not at all unhappy in the thoughts of proceeding, in a day or two, to Bologna, in our road to Milan.
LETTER LXXVII.
Milan.
For a post or two after leaving Florence, and about as much before you arrive at Bologna, the road is very agreeable; the rest of your journey between those two cities is over the sandy Apennines.