Cathedral Cities of Italy

by W. W. Collins

Immediately under the high altar in the crypt is the Confessio of S. Gennario. Its marble roof is supported by ten Ionic columns. The richly sculptured decoration of the chapel is very fine. The figure of Cardinal Caraffa, who built it, kneels beside the altar under which repose the saint's remains. One other thing of architectural note is the Archbishop's throne in the nave. This good specimen of Gothic work is upheld by most elaborately sculptured pillars, and arches with extremely beautiful tracery.

The most interesting part of Naples lies round the cathedral. Narrow streets, darkened by the clothes that hang from balcony and pole, form a maze which it is easy to wander into, but very difficult to escape from. Some of the finest of the old palaces stand in these dirty thoroughfares. One may pass them a dozen times and still be quite unaware of their existence. The moving crowd that throngs these narrow streets does not show any particular regard for the sightseer, and the careless Jehu who drives whither he will is absolutely unmindful of the pedestrian. So if you would explore old Naples you must look after yourself, and—as a caution too—look after your pockets. It is unwise to display a watch chain, or to carry anything that may be easily snatched from the hand. Remember you are in the midst of expert thieves and among the most heterogeneous race on the face of the globe, a race without the slightest idea of morals of any sort whatever. In the tortuous Via S. Biagio stands a thirteenth-century palace built by one of the Caraffa family, and since known as the Palazzo Santangelo. Some of the best objects in the Museum first found a home in this fine old house. Pope, Paul IV. and the great Neapolitan cardinal, Caraffa, were born in the Palazzo Caraffa in the same street. The central post-office is now housed in the Palazzo Gravina, built in the fifteenth century by one of the Orsini; and the great dwelling of the Monticelli is one of the best specimens of the domestic architecture of the same century.

Not far from the post-office is the church of S. Chiara. Despite the hideous scheme of decoration which has transformed an otherwise fine concert hall—for S. Chiara is more like one than a church—into a curiosity of bad taste, there is a great deal of interest within the fabric. Founded at the commencement of the fourteenth century by Robert the Wise, the church contains his monument and also others of the royal house of Anjou. The frescoes with which Giotto adorned the walls have long ago disappeared, and if it were not for the royal tombs S. Chiara would not be worth a visit. Behind the high altar, at the back of which stairs lead up to a platform enabling one to examine it, is the magnificent tomb of King Robert. The royal sarcophagus rests on Gothic pillars and is adorned by sculptures of the king and his children. His recumbent figure lies extended in the garb of a Franciscan, which Order he entered a few days before his death. Above this, under a canopy, is his figure seated on a throne and clad in royal robes. The beautiful Gothic canopy is supported by slender clustered columns, with five rows of saints in niches carried up to the base of the crocketed pinnacles that surround the canopy. Robert's son Charles, Duke of Calabria, and Mary of Valois, his second wife, lie in sarcophagi that are upheld by figures of angels. These two splendid tombs are to the south of the great king's. To the north are those of Mary, Empress of Constantinople, and of her third husband, Philip of Taranto. Two of her children, Agnese and Clementia, lie also near by; the former, who was married twice, espoused firstly one of the Scaligeri, or della Scala, of Verona. To the right of the high altar is a chapel adorned with fleur-de-lys, the burial place of the royal house of Bourbon. This little chapel and the tombs in it lose greatly in historical sentiment by their hideous and garish surroundings.

S. Domenico Maggiore, the curious exterior of which is illustrated, was originally a noble Gothic edifice. The restorer, unfortunately, has altered and added to this, and although the interior plan is much the same as when first erected, the terrible colours with which it is covered detract in no small measure from its very fine proportions. The sketch shows the exterior of the five-sided apse. The dull yellow tufa with which it is faced and the embattled cornice and buttresses give it a decidedly eastern appearance. S. Domenico may be entered by the door just visible on the left, to reach which one toils up a long flight of moss-grown steps. Push aside the heavy leather flap, and the noisy little piazza, with all Naples beyond, are immediately things of the remote past. You are in a beautiful little twelfth-century chapel. Its walls are lined with most interesting tomb slabs. Note the short figures on each. The Neapolitan is very low of stature, and these short figures, although the tombs are of the twelfth and two succeeding centuries, point to the surmise that the men of the south were never tall. From this chapel one enters the great church at the south transept. Immediately on our left is the sacristy. Here in the gallery which occupies one wall are forty-five burial chests, among which ten hold the remains of ten princes and princesses of the royal line of Aragon. Those which have been identified are Ferdinand I. and II., one of the Dukes of Montalto and his Duchess, and Cardinal Louis d'Aragona. Another contains the husband of the celebrated Vittoria Colonna, the Marquis of Pescara who defeated Francis I. at Pavia. There is something of interest to be found in every chapel in the church. In one of them is the crucifix which conversed with S. Thomas Aquinas while he was composing his Summa Theologiæ. The saint's cell may still be seen, and also the room in which he gave his addresses when lecturer in the university that was within the walls of the adjoining monastery. The high altar, raised well above the steps of the choir, is one of the most remarkable specimens of Florentine inlay in the country. It has the curious adjuncts of a recessed seat on either side, and two very fine marble candelabra.

These are but three of the three hundred churches Naples possesses. Climb the hill of the Mte Calvari crowned by the Castel Sant' Elmo and look out from the Belvedere in the suppressed Carthusian monastery of S. Martino. Try to count the towers, domes, and spires standing out from the carpet of roofs below. You will be fatigued before you have reached the second hundred. Perhaps the magnificent prospect over the blue bay, with Isola da Capri and the Punta Campanella in the distance, the Sorrentine peninsula and the wonderful shape of Vesuvius on the left, will distract your arithmetic. At any rate the counting of the churches is not worth the trouble when such a glorious view lies before one. Beyond the garden—the old monastic garden, how the monks must have revelled in it!—and beyond the roofs below, the Castel dell' Ovo juts out into the bay. To the left of it, shipping of all nationalities rides the water along the quays near the Arsenal and royal palace. The funnels of huge liners stand up amidst a forest of masts beyond the Immacolatella in a fine sweep to the Rione Margherita di Savoia. Coasting boats with sails like butterflies skim the water. Down in the harbour all is animation; but so far are we above it that not a sound breaks through the distant hum to enable us to distinguish any one particular note.

The cloisters of S. Martino are very beautiful. Sixteen white marble Doric columns form the arcade on each of the four sides. The cells of the departed monks are shut now and the holes through which their food was passed, bricked up. The walls are white; the classic well-head in the centre of the garden is white and so are its steps. The little burial ground in one corner of the court has a white marble balustrade on which are very realistic white marble skulls. Everything gleams white in this quiet court, and the deep blue of the southern sky intensifies it all. For a painter it is a rare study, but perhaps not so fine an one as I once saw years ago. It was in January, snow had fallen for two or three days—even Capri was covered—when with a friend I walked up to the Carthusian monastery of Camaldoli. We reached it just as the fall which had been going on all day ceased. A thick white carpet of fresh untrodden snow lay round us. The white monastery walls looked dull. We rang at the gate, a white garbed monk opened it. We were in a white courtyard surrounded by white walls, and a line of white monks moved slowly towards the chapel. Everything was white. But what a subtlety in the distinction of the colour! Only the sky was grey, and that such a beautiful pearly tone. I question if pigment even in a master's hand could have faithfully reproduced the scene.

Naples was very different in those days. S. Lucia existed then. Now the old harbour is filled up and modern hotels stand where frail wooden piers ran out into the water. From these spider-like structures oysters hung down in baskets fructifying in the outlet of the main sewer! S. Lucia was surpassingly picturesque and gay with the life of the lowest class, but—surpassingly odoriferous. Stalls lined the pavements. Fish of all sorts, cooling drinks, lemons, oranges, every description of fruit, were displayed in the shade of multi-coloured awnings. Lazzaroni lay stretched all day long on the sea wall, or slept on the foot-ways propped against the houses. Domestic toilettes performed out of doors in the street never excited remark. And the houses themselves, what a blaze of shifting colour when the wind stirred the sheets and clothing hung out to dry from a hundred balconies! All is changed. The sewage is carried out to sea right away at Cumæ. There are no more oysters at S. Lucia; there is no longer a S. Lucia, but with its disappearance Naples has lost its most unique attraction.

Away at the end of the Chiaia, past the celebrated Marine Aquarium, the hill of Posillipo rises above the little fishing harbour of Mergellina. A tram will carry you swiftly round the corner and along an uphill road from which you will obtain many delightful views. There is nothing on the Riviera to equal the position of some of the fine villas which line this road. Beautiful grounds run down to the sea. Exotic plants grow and flourish, sheltered from the bitter tramontana wind. Great pine trees rise solemnly above the tops of their Bay, such as is illustrated, lead one up the steep slopes. Wherever one wanders, it is always the blue sea that is below, and always the wonderful outline of the peninsula across the Bay in the distance or the graceful curves on the flanks of Mount Vesuvius, or, most beautiful of all, the lovely outline of the enchanting Isola da Capri.