[See [p. 235].
After leaving St. Zeno we visited the cathedral, a fine Gothic church not very unlike St. Anastasia, but much larger; St. Fermo Maggiore, a very interesting church containing a monument of the last branches of the Dante family; and Santa Maria in Organo, remarkable amongst other things for its choir stalls and the intarsia work in its sacristy.
It was getting towards evening when we found ourselves again at the old Roman Arena; and we mounted the steps of the latter in order to take one last look at the ancient city. The sun was setting behind the St. Gothard Alps, which glittered like silver, while nearer were the lesser mountains, spurs of the Alps, telling out dark blue; and gathered under our feet were the numberless red brick buildings, churches, towers, and old walls of Verona. It was a beautiful sight, and rendered doubly romantic by the solemn stillness. In these old Italian cities there is often a quiet and absolute silence, which is almost startling to our bustling ears—partly accounted for by the Italians, or North Italians, at any rate never descending to that vulgar rowdyism which the lower classes in our cities take so much delight in.
We got back to our hotel quite late in the evening, after one of the most pleasant days of the whole tour. Notwithstanding our fatigue, however, we could scarcely sleep, so great was our excitement at the idea that to-morrow we should be in Venice—that wonderful city which the older bachelor, at all events, was more anxious to see than any place in the world.
We were, however, to see Padua first, and as the train started early in the morning for that city, we had scarcely had enough sleep, when we were awakened by the femme de chambre, who informed us that the breakfast was ready.
The day on which we left Verona was broiling hot, and the two bachelors, being still tired, went soundly to sleep in the railway carriage. Now, this was a mistake, for Padua is not very far from Verona, and we had only just time to get into a comfortable sleep when we were awakened by the train stopping, and had to rush about the station to look after our luggage, which, after a great deal of trouble, we were able to leave with a porter for the few hours we had to see the city.
Immediately on leaving the station we were much worried by a tout, whom we found almost impossible to get rid of. This and our being awakened from our sleep threw us into a very bad temper, and caused us to express very qualified views as to each other’s intellects and characters. One of the bachelors declares that the other threw mud at him—but this must be only taken in a figurative sense; and one of them (we won’t say which) began to express views respecting the ancient buildings and monuments of Padua something in the style of Mark Twain.
As before stated, it was a broiling day, and we scarcely remember anything more delightful than the delicious coolness of the church of the Eremitani, the first we visited in Padua. This huge church would not be particularly remarkable if it were not for its fine frescoes adjoining the right transept. The best of these are by Andrea Mantegna, a great Paduan master of the end of the fifteenth century, celebrated for his “lifelike” work. But the interest attached to these frescoes sinks into insignificance when compared with those by Giotto in the Arena chapel close to the church of the Eremitani, the importance of which can scarcely be overrated.
Our girls may remember that, when speaking about the Brera Gallery, we mentioned the name of Giotto, and as this painter exercised such a great influence over art, it may not be out of place to take this opportunity of saying a few words about him.
Giotto di Bondoni, born in 1276, has been called the father of modern Italian art, a title given to him on account of the vast progress his pictures show over those of any of his predecessors or contemporaries. Let anyone compare the pictures of Giotto with those of Cimabue, his master, and the most famous representative of the earlier school, and they will see this. Note the bright colour and infinitely greater expression in the former; also the movement, and the less conventional attitudes of the figures. Giotto was also the first to introduce anything approaching to dramatic effect in the art of painting, for which and other reasons he made a reputation far greater than had yet been made in painting—so great, in fact, that it was not surpassed until the age of Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, and Michel Angelo, the great trio of Italian artists, who may be said to have perfected that style of painting of which Giotto was the first representative.