From Cortona I proceeded to Arezzo, where there are the remains of an amphitheatre, but not of much consequence. The cathedral, and the church of the Pieve, interested me much more. The latter is a very singular building. The front has four stories of ornament, and the tower which arises from it at one angle, has five stories more, each of which has two double windows. The upper story of the front presents a range of thirty-three openings, and thirty-two little columns with fancy capitals; most of them are octangular, but some are cylindrical, and one is a statue, some of them have zigzag, and others spiral flutes. They stand on plinths of different sizes, and support a horizontal architrave. The next story is a series of twenty-five arches on twenty-four columns, very little, if at all, bigger than those above. There is equal or greater variety in their forms, for in addition to those above mentioned, we find one fasciculated shaft, and one covered with ascending leaves. Below this, is a range of thirteen larger arches, also on columns, with the same irregularity of shape; some standing on bases, with plinths, some without plinths, and some with neither. In this story there is a small wheel window. The lower range is of five arches only, of which the middle is the highest; there is a corbel over each spandril, which perhaps has supported a statue; and some unconnected, and irregularly disposed portions of ornament. You see from this account that the whole has amazingly the air of being made up of fragments, but it is difficult to imagine where such a multitude of different things in so small a scale could have been found. The Aretines say, that the building as it stands, was an ancient temple, which it certainly was not.
Internally, the vaulting is composed of a mixture of semicircular, and of very obtusely pointed arches, like some of that at the church of St. Mark at Venice, and probably it is nearly of the date of the front galleries of that edifice (about 1100). The nave is not vaulted. The back of the choir shows the beautiful effect sometimes produced by a range of small columns placed over a high wall, either plain, or slightly recessed. I would not engage that in many cases, this strong contrast should not be disagreeable, but I think it succeeds best when, as in this instance, the plan is circular.
The cathedral is a fine Gothic building; that is, fine as an edifice of the Italian Gothic, but not to be compared with the best examples of that style in France and England. It is very dark, but that darkness, the first time I visited it, set off to great advantage a side chapel of this form,
producing the effect of a Greek cross with shallow recesses; it was evening, but the candles at the altar were bright points, which could hardly yet be said to give any light; behind the altar there were crimson hangings, which hid the windows of the little recesses behind them, and the external daylight had no other effect than to give brilliancy to their colour. The only light diffused through the chapel proceeded from the upper part. The richness of the altar increased by the candles, and by the hangings; the light and elegant proportions of the chapel sufficiently illuminated, but not glaring; and its contrast with the gloomy magnificence of the cathedral, whose bounds were totally lost among the clustered columns, produced an effect quite magical. Seen by full daylight, however, the architecture of the chapel, of a mixed style, did not please me so well, and it then appeared too gaudily painted. Still the justness of its general proportions may claim for it the praise of an elegant building, though quite out of all acknowledged rules.
The cloisters of the convent at the Badia, consist of a range of arches supported on columns; and over these there is a range of small columns, very wide apart, supporting the roof. It is, I believe, an advantage that these supports are so far asunder, as they thereby assist the idea of lightness attributed to the roof. Where the slenderness and wide separation of the supports below can persuade the spectator that the parts above are very light, it is a beauty; one indeed not to be sought on every occasion, but admirable in its proper place. But where this persuasion is not accomplished, and the upper parts are manifestly heavy, the slenderness of the lower is a very great defect. Where columns stand over arches, it is absolutely necessary to have a considerable space over the latter; otherwise the effect is poor and meagre.
I left Arezzo on Tuesday, and slept at Monte Varco, travelling through a country of clay hills, singularly intersected by deep ravines. Where the soil is not held together by the roots of trees, broom, &c. the lower part of the bank seems to get washed away by the torrent at the bottom, and the earth falls, so as to leave perpendicular precipices, and broken and detached points. My vetturino was very unwilling to proceed so far, yet we got in by nine o’clock, which at this time of year is not late. In the morning he came to me with the tale of a man who had been murdered in the night, in going from here to Florence. I thought at first that he only wanted to alarm me, as a punishment for having urged him to go on in the dusk, the evening before, but I found afterwards that his tale was too true. A young man going alone in a sort of one horse chaise, from San Giovanni to Florence, in order to make some purchases there, for which he carried the money with him, was attacked, about one o’clock in the morning, by some robbers, who appear to have been aware of the circumstances. They broke his skull with the blow of some blunt instrument, and had taken the key, and inserted it in the lock of the box which contained the money, but something must have alarmed them, as they proceeded no farther. The horse returned home with his master, who lived a few hours afterwards, but unable to speak, and nearly insensible. We learned these particulars in passing through San Giovanni. The attack took place at a bridge close by a picture of the Madonna, as was judged by the blood found on that spot. We saw the bridge and the Madonna, but no blood; and I confess I do not understand the feelings of my driver, who kissed the little chapel with great emotion, and put some money into the box. If the poor fellow’s life had been saved I should have comprehended him better. We reached Florence about three o’clock that afternoon, and I dismissed my driver, whom I had found very civil and attentive, and I believe very honest, and now I shall dismiss my letter.
LETTER XXXIX.
MODENA—PARMA—MANTUA—FERRARA.
Ravenna, 5th August, 1817.
I have already given you an account of the buildings of Florence, and shall not repeat my criticisms, but rather confine myself to such subjects as were not suited to the time of year when I was there before. The Boboli gardens are very beautiful, rather for their external views than for their interior distribution. They present, I think, the very finest views of the country about Florence. My visits there in July were, as you will suppose, much more pleasant than they could have been in December. The Cascine, the dairy-farm of the grand duke, is also a very pleasant place; a mixture of grove, thicket, and meadow, extending along the banks of the Arno. Fiesole I had seen before, and I repeated my visit more leisurely on this occasion, but the scenery of Tuscany will bear no comparison with the finer parts of the Roman Apennines. The little hills, almost all of the same form, are everywhere covered with olive bushes rather than trees; and though perhaps the country about Florence is more productive, yet considered as scenery, it is inferior in richness, in magnificence, and in variety. With regard to Roman antiquities, the difference, or rather the contrast, is still greater. The remains of Tusculum are more considerable than all that is seen in the neighbourhood of Florence, and those form but a small portion of the objects of that nature about Frescati, which again is poor, compared with Tivoli, Palestrina, or Albano. Even their boasted Etruscan walls have by no means the singularity, or the character of antiquity, which we find in those of Latium. The appearance of the modern city, though certainly very fine, shrinks before the magnificence of Rome; and when you view the whitewash and macigno of the churches, you must not recall to mind the solidity of appearance, and the splendid display of marble, painting, and gilding, which adorns those of the ancient capital of Europe. Nothing holds its importance, except the collections of the Public Gallery, and of the Pitti palace. One of the charms of Rome seems to consist in its possessing a peculiar expression, from the greatest and most important particulars, even to the most trifling details. Everything there is striking and characteristic. The desolate Campagna; the large uninhabited tract within its walls; and even the large pale gray oxen, whose horns might almost match those of the Abyssinian cattle, all contribute to the general effect; and in spite of the surrounding desolation, there is probably no city in the world which presents so great a variety of picturesque scenery in its immediate neighbourhood as Rome; and then every spot belongs to history, and to a wonderful and interesting history with which we are all acquainted. We never feel the value of Rome so strongly as in returning to what we admired before.